ST. CRISPIN'S DAY. we now had here ESTMORELAND. Oh that That fears his fellowship to die with us. My cousin Westmoreland? To do our country loss; and The fewer men, the greater share of honor. more. By Jove! I am not covetous for gold, Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered. No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from Eng- And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, land: God's peace! I would not lose so great an honor From this day to the ending of the world, As one man more, methinks, would share For he to-day that sheds his blood with me from me Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile, For the best hope I have. Oh, do not wish This day shall gentle his condition; one more! And gentlemen in England now abed Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through Shall think themselves accursed they were my host, That he which hath no stomach to this fight, not here, RETALIATION.1 A POEM. S the cause of writing the following printed poem called Retaliation" has not yet been fully explained, a person concerned in the business begs leave to give the following just and minute account of the whole affair. At a meeting of a company of gentlemen who were well known to each other, and diverting themselves, among many other things, with the peculiar - oddities of Dr. Goldsmith, who never would allow a superior in any art, from writing poetry down to dancing a hornpipe, the doctor with great eagerness insisted upon trying his epigrammatic powers with Mr. Garrick, and each of them was to write the other's epitaph. Mr. Garrick immediately said that his epitaph was finished, and spoke the following distich extempore: "Here lies NOLLY Goldsmith, for shortness called Noll, Who wrote like an angel, but talked like poor Poll." Goldsmith, upon the company's laughing very heartily, grew very thoughtful, and either would not or could not write anything at that time. However, he went to work, and some weeks after produced the following printed poem 1 Printed for G. Kearsly, at No. 46 in Fleet Street, A. D. 1774. 4to. called "Retaliation," which has been much admired and gone through several editions. The public in general have been mistaken in imagining that this poem was written in anger by the doctor: it was just the contrary. The whole on all sides was done with the greatest good humor, and the poems in manuscript were written by several of the gentlemen on purpose to provoke the doctor to an answer, which came forth at last with great credit to him in "Retaliation." D. GARRICK [MS.].3 Or old, when Scarron his companions in vited, Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united; If our landlords supplies us with beef and with fish, Let each guest bring himself-and he brings the best dish. For this highly interesting account (now first printed, or even referred to, by any biographer or editor of Goldsmith) I am indebted to my friend Mr. George Daniel of Islington, who allowed me to transcribe it from the original in Garrick's own handwriting discovered among the Garrick papers, and evidently designed as a preface to a collected edition of the poems which grew out of Goldsmith's trying his epigrammatic powers with Garrick. I may observe also that Garrick's epitaph or distich on Goldsmith is (through this very paper) for the first time printed as it was spoken by its author. "Retaliation" was the last work of Goldsmith and a posthumous publication, appearing for the first time on the 18th of April, 1774. PETER CUNNINGHAM. Paul Scarron, a popular French writer of burlesque. Died 1660. 5 The landlord of the St. James's coffee-house. Our Dean' shall be venison, just fresh from Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my the plains; head, Our Burke2 shall be tongue with the garnish Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the of brains: dead. Our Will shall be wild-fowl of excellent flavor, Here lies the good Dean," reunited to earth, And Dick with his pepper shall heighten the Who mixed reason with pleasure and wisdom with mirth : savor; Our Cumberland's sweet-bread its place If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt— shall obtain, At least, in six weeks I could not find 'em out; And Douglas is pudding substantial and Yet some have declared-and it can't be de Here, waiter, more wine! Let me sit while To persuade Tommy Townshend13 to lend him I'm able, a vote; Till all my companions sink under the ta- Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on |