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.

And my wife, little

a pasty? it shall, and it must:
Kitty, is famous for crust.

Here, porter! . . . this venison with me to Mile-end;
No stirring, I beg my dear friend! my dear friend !"
Then, snatching his hat, he brush'd 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 dislik'd 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 the door in my own hackney-coach.

Now the vexation begins. Johnson and Burke can't come: the one is at Thrale's, the other at the House of Commons. "Never mind," says the host; "I've provided capital substitutes:

"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 author like you.

The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge;

Some think he writes Cinna . . . he owns to Panurge."

The dinner is served, but there is no pasty; there is fried liver-and-bacon at the top, tripe at the bottom; spinach at the sides, with "pudding made hot." Now, Goldsmith can't eat bacon or tripe; but more offensive to him is the talk of the Jew scribe, who "likes these here dinners so pretty and small." Still, the pasty, with Kitty's famous crust, is promised; the Scot has kept "a corner for thot ;" indeed, so have they all, when in comes the maid, with the terrible news from the baker

And so it fell out, that the negligent sloven,

Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven.

NORTHCOTE'S RECOLLECTIONS OF GOLDSMITH. In 1772, Northcote became Reynolds's pupil, and he remembered none of the Leicester-square visitors of the time so vividly as Goldsmith. He had expressed great eagerness

to see him. Soon afterwards he came to dine; and "this is Dr. Goldsmith," said Sir Joshua, "pray why did you wish to see him ?" Confused with the suddenness of this question, which was put with designed abruptness, the youth could only stammer out, "because he is a notable man;" whereupon (the word in its ordinary sense seeming oddly misapplied) both Goldsmith and Reynolds burst out laughing, and the latter protested that in future his friend should always be the notable man. Northcote explains that he meant to say, he was a man of note, or eminence; and adds that he was very unaffected and good-natured, but seemed totally ignorant of the art of painting, and, indeed, often confessed as much with great gaiety. Nevertheless, he used at Burke's table to plunge into art discussions with Barry, when the latter returned from abroad the year following this; and would punish Barry's dislike of Sir Joshua, manifested even so early, by disputing the sabtlest dogmas with that irritable genius. With Burke himself, Northcote says, he overheard him sharply disputing one day in Sir Joshua's painting-room about the character of the king; when, so grateful was he for some recent patronage of his comedy, (it was a few months after the present date,) and so outrageous and unsparing was Burke's antimonarchical invective, that, unable any longer to endure it, he took up his hat, and left the room.

Another argument which Northcote overheard at Sir Joshua's dinner-table, was between Johnson and Goldsmith; when the latter put Venice Preserved next to Shakspeare for its merit as an acting play, and was loudly contradicted by the other. "Pooh!" roared Johnson, "there are not forty decent lines in the whole of it. What stuff are these ?" And then, he quoted as prose, Pierre's scornful reproach to the womanish Jaffier: "What feminine tales hast thou been listening to, of unair'd shirts, catarrhs, and toothache, got by thin-soled shoes ?" To which the unconvinced disputant sturdily replied, "True! to be sure! That is very like Shakspeare.'

Northcote also remembered a new poem coming out that was sent to Reynolds, who had instructed his servant Ralph to bring it in after dinner; when presently Goldsmith laid hold of it, fell into a rage with it before he had read a dozen lines, and exclaiming "What wretched stuff is here! what cursed nonsense that is!"-kept all the while marking the passages with his thumb-nail as if he would cut them in

pieces. "Nay, nay," said Sir Joshua, snatching the volume, "don't do so, you shall not spoil my book, neither." These are but a few of Northcote's recollections.

AN OLD SUPPER-HOUSE IN SOHO.

The last century, when people read and thought less of indigestion and its causes than in the present age, was the age of supper, perhaps the most social meal of the whole day. This was the time for night-taverns, where, regardless of sleepless nights, folks supped off "rumps and kidneys," and stewed cheese. To enjoy such homely fare, and, at the same time, to enjoy each other's society, Goldsmith delighted to have Johnson to himself, and to sup at a quiet tavern in Soho. This was the once famous Jack's (since Walker's) in Dean-street, kept by a singer of Garrick's company (Jack Roberts), and patronized by Garrick and his friends; " which," says Mr. Forster, "in all but the life that departed from it when they departed, to this day exists unchanged; quite unvexed by disturbance or improvement; haunted by the ghosts of the guests that are gone, but not much visited by guests that live; a venerable relic of the still life of Goldsmith's age, possessed by an owner who is venerable as itself, and whose memory, faithful to the spot, now lives together with the shades that inhabit them."

Of many pleasant suppers this was the scene; and here Goldsmith would seem to have perpetrated very ancient sallies of wit, to half-grumbling, half-laughing accompaniment from Johnson. "Sir," said the sage one night, as they supped off rumps and kidneys, "these rumps are pretty little things; but then a man must eat a great many of them before he fills his belly." "Ay, but how many of them," asked Goldsmith, innocently, "would reach to the moon ?" "To the moon?" laughed Johnson.-"Aye, Goldy, I fear that exceeds your calculation." "Not at all, sir," says Goldsmith, “I think I could tell." Pray, sir," then says the other, "let us hear." 'Why," and here Goldsmith instinctively, no doubt, got as far from Johnson as he could, “ one, if it were long enough." "Well, sir, I have deserved it," growled the philosopher. "I should not have provoked so foolish an answer by so foolish a question." [This piece of ancient fun is certainly three and a half centuries old; for then it was included by Wynkyn de Worde, in the Demaundes Joyous, where it was emprinted as follows: " Demaunde. How many calues

tayles behoueth to reche frome the erthe to the skye? ¶ No more but one if it be longe ynough." These early printers must have been droll old souls.]

ASSEMBLIES IN GOLDSMITH'S TIME.

Goldsmith indulged himself now and then in very oddlyassorted assemblages at his chambers after dinner, which (in allusion to the fashionable ball-rooms of the day) he called his little Cornelys.* More rarely, at meetings which became afterwards more famous, the titled people who jostled against writers and critics at Shelburne House in Berkeley-square, might be seen wondering and smiling at the simple-looking Irishman who had written the Deserted Village. There were Mrs. Vesey's parties, too, more choice and select than Mrs. Montagu's, her friend and imitator; and at both we have traces of Goldsmith: "your wild genius," as Mrs. Vesey's statelier friend, Mrs. Carter, calls him. These blue-stocking routs seem to have been dull enough-these much-talkedabout reunions; though sometimes enlivened by Mrs. Vesey's forgetfulness of her own name, and at all times sparkling with Mrs. Montagu's diamonds and bows. Mrs. Thrale's were better, and though the lively little lady made a favourite jest of Goldsmith, he passed happy days with Johnson, both at Southwark and Streatham.-Abridged from Forster's Life.

GOLDSMITH CHASTISES A PUBLISHER.

The success of She Stoops to Conquer provoked a number of carpings and cavillings from jealous hack authors. Among these attacks was a gross letter addressed to the Doctor, in

*Mrs. Teresa Cornelys, whom Walpole called "the Heidigger of the age," lived in Carlisle House, Soho-square, (so called of the Earls of Carlisle, whose house it was), on the east side, corner of Sutton-street. Here, from 1763 to 1772, was given a series of balls, concerts, and masquerades unparalleled in the annals of public fashion. The present RomanCatholic chapel in Sutton-street was Mrs. Cornelys's banqueting-room, connected with the house by " a Chinese bridge," and the adjoining gateway was the entrance for sedan-chairs. The premises were taken down in 1803 or 1804. An account of Mrs. Cornelys's entertainments has been privately printed by Mr. T. Mackinlay. Mrs. Cornelys was a German by birth, and by profession a public singer. Her improvidence reduced her to a vendor of asses' milk in Knightsbridge; but she sank still lower, and died in the Fleet prison, in 1797.

I

the London Packet, in which he was not only personally abused as well as his pieces, but the name of Miss Horneck most unwarrantably introduced: the allusion to his "grotesque" person, to his studious attempts to adorn it; and, above all, to his being an unsuccessful admirer of the lovely H-k (the Jessamy Bride), struck rudely upon the most sensitive part of his highly sensitive nature. He was in a high state of excitement and indignation, and accompanied by his friend, who is said to have been a Captain Higgins of the Marines, he repaired to Paternoster-row, to the shop of Evans, the publisher, whom he supposed to be the editor of the paper. Evans was summoned by his shopman from an adjoining room; Goldsmith announced his name. "I have called," added he, "in consequence of a scurrilous attack made upon me, and an unwarrantable liberty taken with the name of a young lady. As for myself, I care little; but her name must not be sported with."

Evans professed utter ignorance of the matter, and said he would speak to the editor. He stooped to examine a file of the paper, in search of the offensive article; whereupon Goldsmith's friend gave him a signal: and the cane was vigorously applied to the back of the stooping publisher. The latter rallied in an instant, and, being a stout, high-blooded Welshman, returned the blows with interest. A lamp hanging overhead was broken, and sent down a shower of oil upon the combatants; but the battle raged with unceasing fury. The shopman ran off for a constable; but Dr. Kenrick, who happened to be in the adjacent room, sallied forth, interfered between the combatants, and put an end to the affray. He conducted Goldsmith to a coach, in battered and tattered plight, and accompanied him home, soothing him with much mock commiseration, though he was generally suspected, and on good grounds, to be the author of the libel.

Evans immediately instituted a suit against Goldsmith for an assault, but was ultimately prevailed upon to compromise the matter, the poet contributing fifty pounds to the Welsh charity. He subsequently published a vindication of his conduct, which Dr. Johnson condemned as a foolish thing well done," adding that Goldsmith's success had probably led him to think everything that concerned him must be of importance to the public.