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There's a pasty."-—“A pasty!” repeated the Jew;

I don't care if I keep a corner for't too."
“ What the de'il, mon, a pasty!” re-echoed the Scot;
* Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that."
“ We'll all keep a corner,” the lady cried out;
“ We'll all keep a corner," was echoed about.
While thus we resolved, and the pasty delayed,
With looks that quite petrified, entered the maid :
A visage so sad, and so pale with affright,
Waked Priam in drawing his curtains by night.
But we quickly found out--for who could mistake her?-
That she came with some terrible news from the baker :
And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven
Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven.
Sad Philomel thus-but let similes drop-
And now that I think on't, the story may stop.
To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour misplaced,
To send such good verses to one of your taste;
You've got an odd something--a kind of discerning,
A relish, a taste-sickened over by learning;
At least, it's your temper, as very well known,
That you think very slightly of all that's your own:
So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss,
You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this.

RETALIATION: A POEM,

(1774.)

Of old, when Scarron his companions invited,
Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united ;
If our landlord 1 supplies us with beef and with fish,
Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish :
Our Dean? shall be venison, just fresh from the plains ;
Our Burke3 shall be tongue with the garnish of brains ;
Our Will4 shall be wild fowl, of excellent flavour,
And Dick 5 with his pepper shall heighten the savour ;
Our Cumberland’s6 sweet-bread its place shall obtain,

And Douglas? is pudding, substantial and plain ; (1) The master of the St. James's coffee-house, where the Doctor,and the friends he has characterised in his poem, occasionally dined.

(2) Doctor Barnard, Dean of Derry and afterwards Bishop of Limerick. (3) The Right Hon. Edmund Burke.

Mr. William Burke, late secretary to General Conway, member for Bedivin, and a relative of Edmund Burke.

(5) Mr. Richard Burke, a barrister, and younger brother of the great statesman. (6) Mr. Richard Cumberland, the dramatist.

(7) Dr. Douglas, canon of Windsor, an ingenious Scotch gentleman, who was made Bishop of Carlisle, and afterwards Bishop of Salisbury.

Our Garrick's? a salad, for in him we see
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree ;
To make out the dinner, full certain I am,
· That Ridge 2 is anchovy, and Reynolds 3 is lamb,
That Hickey's + a capon, and, by the same rule,
Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool.
At a dinner so various, at such a repast,
Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last ?
Here, waiter, more wine ! let me sit while I'm able,
Till all my companions sink under the table ;
Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head,
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead.

Here lies the good Dean,5 re-united to earth,
Who mixed reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth :
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt ;
At least, in six weeks I could not find 'em out ;
Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied 'em,
That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em.

Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such,
We scarcely can praise it or blame it too much ;
Who, born for the universe, narrowed his mind,
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind;
Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat
To persuade Tommy Townshend ? to lend him a vote;
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,
And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining ;
Though equal to all things, for all things unfit;
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit,
For a patriot too cool, for a drudge disobedient,
And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient.
In short, 'twas his fate, unemployed, or in place, sir,
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.

Here lies honest William, 8 whose heart was a mint,
While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in't ;
The pupil of impulse, it forced him along,
His conduct still right, with his argument wrong;
Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam,
The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home ;
Would you ask for his merits ?-alas ! he had none :
What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own.

Here lies honest Richard,whase fate I must sigh at ;
Alas, that such frolic should 110w be so quiet !
What spirits were his ! what wit and what whim !
Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb;
Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball,
Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all !
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,
That we wished him full ten times a day at Old Nick ;

(1) David Garrick. (2) Counsellor John Ridge, a gentleman belonging to the Irish bar.

Sir Joshua Reynolds. (4) An eminent Irish attorney. (5) See note 2, p. 594. (6 See note 3, P. 594. (7) Mr. T. Townshend, M.P. for Whitchurch, afterwards Lord Sydney: (8) See note 4. P. 594. Mr. Richard Burke, see page 594.

At different times he fractured both an arm and a leg.

But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein,
As often we wished to have Dick back again.

Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts,
The Terence of England, the mender of hearts;
A flattering painter, who made it his care
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are.
His gallants are all faultless, his women divine,
And comedy wonders at being so fine ;
Like a tragedy-queen he has dizened her out,
Or rather like tragedy giving a rout.
His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd
Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud ;
And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone,
Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own.
Say, where has our poet this malady caught?
Or wherefore his characters thus without fault?
Say, was it that vainly directing his view
To find out men's virtues, and finding them few,
Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf,
He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself ?

Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax,
The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks :
Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines,
Come and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines :
When satire and censure encircled his throne,
I feared for your safety, I feared for my own;
But now he is gone, and we want a detector,
Our Dodds shall be pious, our Kenricks2 shall lecture,
Macphersc. write bombast, and call it a style,
Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile ;
New Lauders and Bowers 4 the Tweed shall cross over,
No countryman living their tricks to discover;
Detection her taper shall quench to a spark,
And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark.

Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can;
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man.
As an actor, confessed without rival to shine :
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line :
Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart,
The man had his failings, a dupe to his art.
Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread,
And beplastered with rouge his own natural red.
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting ;
'Twas only that, when he was off, he was acting.
With no reason on earth to go out of his way,
He turned and he varied full ten times a day :
Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick
If they were not his own by finessing and trick :

(i) The Rev. Dr. Dodd, hanged for forgery in 1777

(2) Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern, under the title of “The School of Shake speare, "and one of Goldsmith's bitterest foes.

(3) James Macpherson, Esq. Goldsmith is alluding to his translation of Homer. (4) William Lauder and Archibald Bower, Scotch writers.

He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack,
For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back.
Of praise a mere glutton, he swallowed what came;
And the puff of a dunce, he mistook it for fame;
Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease,
Who peppered the highest, was surest to please.
But let us be candid, and speak out our mind :
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind.
Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, 1 and Woodfalls2 so grave,
What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave !
How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you raised,
While he was be-Rosciused, and you were bepraised.
But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies,
To act as an angel and mix with the skies :
Those poets who owe their best fame to his skill
Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will;
Old Shakespeare receive him with praise and with love,
And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above.3

Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt, pleasant creature,
And slander itself must allow him good nature ;
He cherished his friend, and he relished a bumper ;
Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper.
Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser :
I answer, No, no; for he always was wiser.
Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat?
His very worst foe can't accuse him of that.
Perhaps he confided in men as they go,

And so was too foolishly honest? Ah no!
(1) Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of “False Delicacy,” “Word to the Wise," "Clementina,”

"" School for Wives," &c. &c.

(2) Mr. William Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle. (3) The following poems, composed in humorous revenge by Garrick, are found in Davies's “Life of Carrick."

JUPITER AND MERCURY: A Fable.
HERE Hermes, says Jove, who with nectar was mellow,
Go, fetch me some clay; I will make an odd fellow !
Right and wrong shall be jumbled,-much gold and some dross;
Without cause be he pleased, without cause be he cross;
Be sure, as I work, to throw in contradictions,
A great love of truth, yet a mind turn'd to fictions !
Now mix these ingredients, which, warmed in the baking,
Turned to learning and gaming, religion and raking.
With the love of a wench, let his writings be chaste;
Tip his tongue with strange matter, his pen with fine taste;
That the rake and the poet o'er all may prevail,
Set fire to his head, and set fire to his tail:
For the joy of each sex, on the world I'll bestow it,
This scholar, rake, Christian, dupe, gamester, and poet;
Though a mixture so odd, he shall merit great fame,
And among brother mortals-be GOLDSMITH his name.
When on earth this strange meteor no more shall appear,
You, Hermes, shall fetch him—to make us sport here.
On Dr. Goldsmith's Characteristical Cookery.

A JEU D'ESPRIT.
ARE these the choice dishes the Doctor has sent us?
Is this the great poet whose works so content us?
This Goldsmith's fine feast, who has written fine books?
Heaven sends us good meat, but the Devil sends cooks.

Then what was his failing ? come tell it, and burn ye.
He was—could he help it ?-a special attorney.

Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind,
He has not left a wiser or better behind.
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand ;
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland :
Still born to improve us in every part,
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart.
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering :
When they judged without skill, he was still hard of hearing;
When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios, and stuff,
He shifted his trumpet,' and only took snuff.

POSTSCRIPT. [After the fourth edition of this Poem was printed, the publisher received the following epitaph on Mr. Whitefoord, 2 from a friend of the late Doctor Goldsmith.]

Here Whitefoord reclines, and, deny it who can,
Though he merrily lived, he is now a grave man.
Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun!
Who relished a joke, and rejoiced in a pun;
Whose temper was generous, open, sincere ;
A stranger to flattery, a stranger to fear;
Who scattered around wit and humour at will ;
Whose daily bon mots half a column miglit fill ;
A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free;
A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he.

What pity, alas ! that so liberal a mind
Should so long be to newspaper essays confined !
Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar,
Yet content“ if the table he set on a roar;
Whose talents to fill any station were fit,
Yet happy if Woodfall3 confess’d him a wit.
Ye newspaper witlings ! ye pert scribbling folks !
Who copied his squibs, and re-echoed his jokes ;
Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come,
Still follow your master, and visit his tomb :
To deck it, bring with you festoons of the vine,
And copious libations bestow on his shrine ;
Then strew all around it (you can do no less)
Cross-readings, 4 ship-news, and mistakes of the press.

Merry Whitefoord, farewell ! for thy sake I admit
That a Scot may have humour, -I had almost said wit :
This debt to thy memory I cannot refuse,
Thou best humoured man with the worst humoured Muse.”

(1) Sir Joshua Reynolds was so deaf, as to be under the necessity of using an ear-trumpet in company.

(2) Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays. He was so notorious a punster, that Doctor Goldsmith used to say it was impossible to keep his company without being infected with the itch of punning.

(3) Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser, and the Woodfall of Junius.

(4) Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with humorous pieces under those titles in the Public Advertiser.

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