do you think, my dear,” interrupts the wife, “of a nice pretty bit of ox-cheek, piping hot, and dressed with a little of my own sauce.”—­“The very thing,” replies he, “it will eat best with some smart bottled beer:  but be sure to let’s have the sauce his grace was so fond of.  I hate your immense loads of meat, that is country all over; extreme disgusting to those who are in the least acquainted with high life.”

By this time my curiosity began to abate, and my appetite to increase; the company of fools may at first make us smile, but at last never fails of rendering us melancholy; I therefore pretended to recollect a prior engagement, and after having shown my respect to the house, according to the fashion of the English, by giving the old servant a piece of money at the door, I took my leave; Mr. Tibbs assuring me that dinner, if I stayed, would be ready at least in less than two hours.

CHARLES CHURCHILL.

(1731-1764.)

XLIV.  THE JOURNEY.

Churchill devoted himself principally to satirical attacks upon actors and the stage as a whole.  His Rosciad created quite a panic among the disciples of Thespis, even the mighty Garrick courting this terrible censor morum.  His own morals were but indifferent.

  Some of my friends (for friends I must suppose
  All, who, not daring to appear my foes,
  Feign great good-will, and not more full of spite
  Than full of craft, under false colours fight)
  Some of my friends (so lavishly I print)
  As more in sorrow than in anger, hint
  (Tho’ that indeed will scarce admit a doubt)
  That I shall run my stock of genius out,
  My no great stock, and, publishing so fast,
  Must needs become a bankrupt at the last. 
    Recover’d from the vanity of youth,
  I feel, alas! this melancholy truth,
  Thanks to each cordial, each advising friend,
  And am, if not too late, resolv’d to mend,
  Resolv’d to give some respite to my pen,
  Apply myself once more to books and men,
  View what is present, what is past review,
  And my old stock exhausted, lay in new. 
  For twice six moons (let winds, turn’d porters, bear
  This oath to Heav’n), for twice six moons, I swear,
  No Muse shall tempt me with her siren lay,
  Nor draw me from Improvement’s thorny way;
  Verse I abjure, nor will forgive that friend,
  Who in my hearing shall a rhyme commend. 
    It cannot be—­Whether I will, or no,
  Such as they are, my thoughts in measure flow. 
  Convinc’d, determin’d, I in prose begin,
  But ere I write one sentence, verse creeps in,
  And taints me thro’ and thro’:  by this good light,
  In verse I talk by day, I dream by night;
  If now and then I curse, my curses chime,
  Nor can I pray, unless I pray in rhyme,
  E’en now I err, in spite of common-sense,