letters,
Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters;
Howe'er from this time I shall ne'er see your graces,
As I hope to be saved! without thinking on asses."
Edinburgh, 1753.

ΕΡΙΤΑΡΗ ON EDWARD PURDON.*
HERE lies poor NED PURDON, from misery freed,
Who long was a bookseller's hack;
He led such a damnable life in this world,
I don't think he'll wish to come back.

AN ELEGY

RETALIATION;

A POEM.

[Dr. Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dined at the St. James's Coffee-house. One day it was proposed to write epitaphs on him. His country, dialect, and person, furnished subjects of witticism. He was called on for Retaliation, and at their next meeting produced the following poem.]

Or old, when Scarron his companions invited, Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united;

If our landlord supplies us with beef, and with fish, Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish;

Our Deant shall be venison, just fresh from the plains;

ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE. Our Burket shall be tongue, with the garnish of

Our Cumberland's sweet-bread its place shall obtain,

The needy seldom pass'd her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor, -
Who left a pledge behind.

She strove the neighbourhood to please
With manners wondrous winning;
And never follow'd wicked ways,-
Unless when she was sinning

At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size;
She never slumber'd in her pew, -
But when she shut her eyes.

Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has follow'd her,-
When she has walk'd before.

But now her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all;

The doctors found, when she was dead,

Her last disorder mortal.

Let us lament, in sorrow sore,

And Douglas** is pudding, substantial and plain;
Our Garrick'stt a sallad; for in him we see
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree:
To make out the dinner, full certain I am,
That Ridge is anchovy, and Reynoldsss is lamb;
That Hickey'still 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.

The master of the St. James's Coffee-house, where the doctor, and the friends he has characterized in this poem, occasionally dined.

1 Doctor Bernard, dean of Derry, in Ireland.
The Right Hon. Edmund Burke.

§ Mr. William Burke, late secretary to General Conway, and member for Bedwin.

Mr. Richard Burke, collector of Granada.

Mr. Richard Cumberland, author of "The West Indian." "Fashionable Lover," "The Brothers," and various other productions.

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 'ein.
Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was
such,

We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much;
Who, born for the universe, narrow'd 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, unemploy'd or in place, sir,
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.

Here lies honest William, § 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, || whose fate I must
sigh at;

Alas, that such frolic should now 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,

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 dizen'd her out,
Or rather like tragedy giving a rout.

His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd
Of virtues and feeling, 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:

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 him who can,
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man;
As an actor, confest 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 beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red.
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting;

That we wish'd him full ten times a-day at old 'Twas only that when he was off, he was acting
Nick;

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

Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts,
The Terence of England, the mender of hearts;

• Doctor Bernard.

† The Right Hon. Edmund Burke.

Mr. T. Townshend, member for Whitchurch.
Mr. William Burke.

1 Mr. Richard Burke; (vide page 161.) This gentleman having slightly fractured one of his arms and legs at different times, the doctor had rallied him on those accidents, as a kind of retributive justice for breaking his jests upon other people.

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 :
He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack,
For he knew when he pleased he could whistle

them back.

*The Rev. Dr. Dodd.

† Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern, under the title of "The School of Shakspeare."

James Macpherson, Esq. who lately, from the mere force of his style, wrote down the first poet of all antiquity.

Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came,
And the puff of a dunce, he mistook it for fame;
Till his relish, grown callous almost to disease,
Who pepper'd 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, and Woodfallst 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-Roscius'd, and you were be-
praised!

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 Shakspeare receive him with praise and with
love,

And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above.‡

Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant
creature,

And slander itself must allow him good nature;
He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd 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.

*Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of False Delicacy, Word to the Wise, Clementina, School for Wives, etc. etc.

† Mr. William Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle. The following poems by Mr. Garrick, may in some measure account for the severity exercised by Dr. Goldsmith in respect to that gentleman.

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, warm'd in the baking,
Turn'd 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 the head, and set fire to the tail:

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!
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, t 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 relish'd a joke, and rejoiced in a pun;
Whose temper was generous, open, sincere;
A stranger to flatt'ry, a stranger to fear;
Who scatter'd around wit and humour at will;
Whose daily bons mots half a column might 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 in a roar;"
Whose talents to fill any station were fit,
Yet happy if Woodfalls 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, ship-news, and mistakes of the
press.ll

Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for thy sake I ad- There mangroves spread, and larger than I've seen

mit

That a Scot may have humour, I had almost said

wit.

'This debt to thy mem'ry I can not refuse,
"Thou best humour'd man with the worst hu-
mour'd Muse."

'em

[Stage. And apples, bitter apples strew the ground: [Tasting them. The inhabitants are cannibals, I fear: I heard a hissing-there are serpents here! INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN THE COMEDY OF O, there the people are best keep my distance: SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.*

SONG:

Ан me! when shall I marry me?

Lovers are plenty; but fail to relieve me. He, fond youth, that could carry me, Offers to love, but means to deceive me. But I will rally, and combat the ruiner:

Not a look, nor a smile shall my passion discover. She that gives all to the false one pursuing her, Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover.

PROLOGUE TO ZOBEIDE;

A TRAGEDY:

WRITTEN BY JOSEPH CRADDOCK, ESQ. ACTED AT THE
THEATRE-ROYAL, COVENT GARDEN, MDCCLXXII.
SPOKEN EY MR. QUICK.

In these bold times, when Learning's sons explore
The distant climates, and the savage shore;
When wise astronomers to India steer,
And quit for Venus many a brighter here;
While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling,
Forsake the fair, and patiently-go simpling;
Our bard into the general spirit enters,
And fits his little frigate for adventures.
With Scythian stores, and trinkets deeply laden,
He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading
Yet ere he lands he's order'd me before,
To make an observation on the shore.

Our captain, gentle natives! craves assistance;
Our ship's well stored-in yonder creek we've laid
her,

His honour is no mercenary trader.
This is his first adventure, lend him aid,
And we may chance to drive a thriving trade.
His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from

far,

Equally fit for gallantry and war.
What, no reply to promises so ample?
I'd best step back-and order up a sample.

EPILOGUE,

SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWES, IN THE CHARACTER OF
HARLEQUIN, AT HIS BENEFIT

HOLD! Prompter, hold! a word before your non

sense:

I'd speak a word or two, to ease my conscience.
My pride forbids it ever should be said,
My heels eclipsed the honours of my head;
That I found humour in a piebald vest,
Or ever thought that jumping was a jest.

(Takes off his mask.

Whence, and what art thou, visionary birth?
Nature disowns, and reason scorns thy mirth;
In thy black aspect every passion sleeps,
The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps.

Where are we driven? our reckoning sure is lost! How hast thou fill'd the scene with all thy brood

SIR-I send you a small production of the late Dr. Goldsmith, which has never been published, and which might perhaps have been totally lost, had I not secured it. He intended

Of fools pursuing, and of foole pursued!
Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses,
Whose only plot it is to break our noses;
Whilst from below the trap-door demons rise,
And from above the dangling deities;
And shall I mix in this unhallow'd crew?
May rosin'd lightning blast me if I do!

it as a song in the character of Miss Hardcastle, in his admi- No-I will act, I'll vindicate the stage: sable comedy of "She Stoops to Conquer," but it was left out, Shakspeare himself shall feel my tragic rage. as Mrs. Bulkley, who played the part, did not sing. He sung Off! off! vile trappings! a new passion reigns! it himself in private companies very agreeably. The tune is a pretty Irish air, called "The Humours of Balamagairy," to The madd'ning monarch revels in my veins. which, he told me, he found it very difficult to adapt words; Oh! for a Richard's voice to catch the theme: but he has succeeded very happily in these few lines. As I Give me another horse! bind up my wounds!.