THE HAUNCH OF VENISON.

A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE.

THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter
Never ranged in a forest, or smoked in a platter;
The haunch was a picture for painters to study,
The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy;

Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regretting
To spoil such a delicate picture by eating;

I had thoughts in my chambers to place it in view,
To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtù;
As in some Irish houses, where things are so so,
One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show:
But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in,
They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in.
But hold-let me pause-don't I hear you pronounce
This tale of the bacon a damnable bounce?
Well, suppose it a bounce-sure a poet may try,
By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly.

But, my lord, it's no bounce: I protest in my turn
It's a truth--and your lordship may ask Mr. Byrne.
To go on with my tale: as I gazed on the haunch,
I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch;
So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest,
To paint it, or eat it, just as he liked best.

Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose;
'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's:
But in parting with these I was puzzled again,

With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when.
There's Howard, and Coley, and H-rth, and Hiff,

I think they love venison-I know they love beef.
There's my countryman Higgins-oh! let him alone,
For making a blunder, or picking a bone.

But hang it !--to poets who seldom can eat
Your very good mutton's a very good treat;
Such dainties to them their health it might hurt,

It's like sending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt.

While thus I debated, in reverie centred,

An acquaintance, a friend as he called himself, entered;
An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he,

And he smiled as he looked at the venison and me.
"What have we got here?--Why this is good eating!
Your own I suppose-or is it in waiting?"

Why, whose should it be?" cried I with a flounce;

I get these things often"-but that was a bounce:
"Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation,
Are pleased to be kind – but I hate ostentation."

"If that be the case then," cried he, very gay,
"I'm glad I have taken this house in my way.

To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me;
No words-I insist on't-precisely at three;

We'll have Johnson, and Burke; all the wits will be there;
My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my Lord Clare.

And now that I think on't, as I am a sinner!

We wanted this venison to make out the dinner.
What say you-a pasty? It shall, and it must,
And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust.
Here, porter! this venison with me to Mile-end;
No stirring-I beg-my dear friend-my dear friend!"
Thus, snatching his hat, he brushed off like the wind,
And the porter and eatables followed behind.

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 clogged 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-lumbered closet just twelve feet by nine),
My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb
With tidings that Johnson and Burke would 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, 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 describ'd them by trade and by name,
They entered, 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 was 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 d
With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his brogue,
And, "Madam," quoth he, " may this bit be my poison,
A prettier dinner I never set eyes on;

-d Scottish rogue,

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 small;
But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all."
"O! ho!" quoth my friend, "he'll come on in a trice;
He's keeping a corner for something that's nice:

QQ

!

594

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 landlord1 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 Burke shall be tongue with the garnish of brains;
Our Will shall be wild fowl, of excellent flavour,
And Dick with his pepper shall heighten the savour;
Our Cumberland's 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 charac in his poem, occasionally dined.

(2) Doctor Barnard, Dean of Derry and afterwards Bishop of Limerick.

(3) The Right Hon. Edmund Burke.

(4) Mr. William Burke, late secretary to General Conway, member for Bedwin, and a relat 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 Bish Carlisle, and afterwards Bishop of Salisbury.

1

Our Garrick's 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 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," 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.

8

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,

That we wished him full ten times a day at Old Nick;

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
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 Dodds1 shall be pious, our Kenricks shall lecture,
Macpherson3 write bombast, and call it a style,

Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile ;
New Lauders and Bowers 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 :

(1) 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 S speare," and one of Goldsmith's bitterest foes.

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