Here, porter-this venison with me to Mile End;
No stirring, I beg-my dear friend-my dear friend!"

Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, And "nobody with me at sea but myself,”

Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty,
Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison-pasty
Were things that I never disliked in my life,

Though clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife;
So next day, in due splendour to make my approach,
I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach.

When come to the place where we all were to dine (A chair-lumber'd closet just twelve feet by nine), My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb With tidings that Johnson and Burke could not come ; "For I knew it," he cried, " both eternally fail, The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale : But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party, With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty. The one is a Scotchman, and the other a Jew, They're both of them merry, and authors like you ; The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge: Some think he writes Cinna-he owns to Panurge." While thus he described them by trade and by name, They enter'd, and dinner was served as they came.

At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen; At the bottom was tripe, in a swinging tureen;

At the sides there were spinach, and pudding made hot;
In the middle, a place where the pasty* was not.
Now, my lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion,
And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian;
So there I sat stuck, like a horse in a pound,
While the bacon and liver went merrily round:

But what vex'd me most was that damn'd Scottish rogue, With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his brogue. *The first edition reads venison for pasty.

And, "Madam," quoth he, "may this bit be my poison, A prettier dinner I never set eyes on ;

Pray, a slice of your liver, though may I be curst, But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst." "The tripe," quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek, “I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week: I like these here dinners so pretty and smallBut your friend there, the Doctor, eats nothing at all." "Oh, oh!" quoth my friend, "he'll come on in a trice, He's keeping a corner for something that's nice: 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 delay'd, With looks that quite petrified, enter'd 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, sicken'd 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.

Dr. Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dined at the St. James's Coffeehouse. 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. At the former of these meetings, as we learn from Cumberland, the party consisted of Dr. Barnard, Dean of Derry, Dr. Douglas, Johnson, Garrick, Goldsmith, Edmund and Richard Burke, Hickey, and Cumberland, with two or three others. One of the company having suggested the idea of writing extempore epitaphs upon the parties present, Garrick wrote off-hand some very humorous verses on Goldsmith, who was the first in jest, as he proved to be in reality, that they consigned to the grave. The dean also gave him an epitaph, and Sir Joshua Reynolds illuminated the dean's verses with a sketch of his bust, in pen and ink, inimitably caricatured. Neither Johnson nor Burke wrote anything, and Cumberland's verses were entirely complimentary. Goldsmith, it seems, felt somewhat sore at the jests of which he had been made the subject; and it was for the purpose of restoring his good-humour that his companions insisted upon his retaliating.

Fold, 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 Dean* shall be venison, just fresh from the plains ;
Our Burket shall be tongue, with the garnish of brains;
Our Will shall be wild-fowl, of excellent flavour—
And Dick & with his pepper shall heighten their savour :

* Dr. Thomas Barnard, Dean of Derry, in Ireland, afterwards Bishop of Limerick : he died in 1806.

+ Edmund Burke, the eminent statesman, orator, and writer.

William Burke, a kinsman of Edmund's, member for Bedwin.

§ Richard Burke, younger brother of Edmund; he died Recorder of Bristol, in 1794.

Our Cumberland's sweetbread its place shall obtain ;
And Douglas † is pudding, substantial and plain;
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 is anchovy, and Reynolds || 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, reunited to earth,

Who mix'd 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 them 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, 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,

* Richard Cumberland, a dramatic writer.

+ John Douglas, Canon of Windsor, afterwards Bishop of Salisbury. David Garrick, the actor; he died in 1779.

§ John Ridge, a member of the Irish bar.

Sir Joshua Reynolds, the painter; he died in 1792.

Thomas Hickey, an eminent attorney; he died in 1794** Mr. T. Townshend, member for Whitchurch.