wear them; because he had a protuberant wen just under his poll, he wore a wig that did not cover above half his head. His eyes were protruded like the eyes of the lobster, who wears them at the end of his feelers, and yet there was room between one of these and his nose for another wen, that added nothing to his beauty; yet I heard this good man very innocently remark, when Gibbon published his history, that he "wondered any body so ugly could write a book."

"Such was the exterior of a man, who was the charm of the circle, and gave a zest to every company he came into; his pleasantry was of a sort poculiar to himself; it harmonized with every thing; it was like the bread to our dinner; you did not perhaps make it the whole, or principal part of your meal, but it was an admirable and wholesome auxiliary to your other viands. Soame Jenyns told you no long stories, engrossed not much of your attention, and was not angry with those that did; his thoughts were original, and were apt to have a very whimsical affinity to the paradox in them: he wrote verses upon dancing, and prose upon the origin of evil, yet he was a very indifferent metaphysician and a worse dancer ill nature and personality, with the single exception of his lines upon Johnson, I never heard fall from his lips; these lines I have forgotten, though I believe I was the first person to whom he recited them; they were very bad, but he had been told that Johnson Tidiculed his metaphysicks, and some of us had just them

:

been making extemporary epitaphs upon each other; though his wit was harmless, yet the general cast of it was ironical; there was a terseness in his repartee that had a play of words as well as of thought; as, when speaking of the difference between laying out money upon land, or purchasing into the funds, he said, 'One was principal without interest, and the other interest without principal.' Certain it is, he had a brevity of expression, that never hung upon the ear, and you felt the point in the very moment that he made the push."

THE 'SQUIRE AND THE PARSON,

AN ECLOGUE.

Written on the Conclusion of the Peace, 1748.

By his hall chimney, where in rusty grate
Green faggots wept their own untimely fate,
In elbow-chair the pensive 'Squire reclined,
Revolving debts and taxes in his mind :
A pipe just fill'd, upon a table near,

Lay by the London-Evening, stain'd with beer

With half a Bible, on whose remnants torn
Each parish round was annually forsworn,
The gate now claps, as evening just grew dark,
Tray starts, and with a growl prepares to bark;
But soon discerning with sagacious nose
The well-known savour of the Parson's toes,
Lays down his head and sinks in soft repose.
The Doctor entering, to the tankard ran,
Took a good hearty pull, and thus began:

PARSON.

Why sitt'st thou thus forlorn and dull, my friend,
Now war's rapacious reign is at an end?
Hark, how the distant bells inspire delight!
See bonfires spangle o'er the vale of night!

SQUIRE.

What's peace, alas! in foreign parts to me?
At home, nor peace, nor plenty can I see,
Joyless I hear drums, bells, and fiddles sound,
'Tis all the same-Four shillings in the pound.
My wheels, though old, are clogg'd with a new

tax;

My oaks, though young, must groan beneath the

axe;

My barns are half unthatch'd, untyled my house; Lost by this fatal sickness all my cows:

See, there's the bill my late damn'd law-suit cost! Long as the land contended for and lost :

Ev'n Ormond's head I can frequent no more,
So short my pocket is, so long the score;
At shops all round I owe for fifty things -
This comes of fetching Hanoverian kings.

PARSON.

I must confess the times are bad indeed:
No wonder, when we scarce believe our creed;
When purblind reason's deem'd the surest guide,
And heaven-born faith at her tribunal try'd ;
When all Church-power is thought to make men

slaves,

Saints, Martyrs, Fathers, all call'd fools and knaves.

'SQUIRE.

Come, preach no more, but drink, and hold your

tongue:

I'm for the Church, but think the parson's

wrong.

PARSON.

See then! free-thinking now so rank is grown, It spreads infection through each country town; Deistick scoffs fly round at rural boards,

'Squires, and their tenants too, profane as lords, Vent impious jokes on every sacred thing

'SQUIRE.

Come, drink;

PARSON.

Here's to you then; to church and king

'SQUIRE.

Here's Church and king; I hate the glass should stand,

Though one takes tythes, and t'other taxes land.

PARSON.

Heaven with new plagues will scourge this sinful nation,

Unless we soon repeal the Toleration,

And to the Church restore the Convocation.