Dr. Goldsmith and fome of his friends at the St. James's Coffee-house. p. 219.
His gallants are all faultless, his women divine,
And Comedy wonders at being so fine;
Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd 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 fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own:
But now he is gone, and we want a detector,
Our Dodds' 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 him who can,-
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man;
As an actor confess'd 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 beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red.
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting;
"I was only that when he was off he was acting:
With no reason on earth to go out of his way,
He turn'd 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:
He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack,
For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back.
Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came,
And the puff of a dunce, he mistook it for fame;
• Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern, under the title of "The School of Shakspeare." 3 James Macpherson, Esq., who lately, from the mere force of his style, wrote down the first poet of all antiquity.
Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease,
Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please.
But let us be candid, and speak out our mind,
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind.
Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys,' and Woodfalls' so grave,
What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave!
How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you raised,
While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were bepraised!
But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies,
To act as an angel and mix with the skies:
Those poets who owe their best fame to his skill
Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will;
Old Shakspeare receive him with praise and with love,
And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above.
Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant creature,
And slander itself must allow him good-nature;
He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper;
Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper!
Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser?
I answer, No, no, for he always was wiser.
Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat?
His very worst foe can't accuse him of that.
Perhaps he confided in men as they go,
And so was too foolishly honest? Ah, no!
Then what was his failing ? come, tell it, and burn ye!
He was could he help it ?-a special attorney.
Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell
He has not left a wiser or better behind;
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand;
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland;
Still born to improve us in every part,
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart;
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering,
When they judged without skill, he was still hard of hearing:
When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff,
He shifted his trumpet,3 and only took snuff.
Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of "False Delicacy," "Word to the Wise," "Clementina," Wires," &c., &c.
Mr. William Woodfall, printer of the "Morning Chronicle."
Sir Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf, as to be under the necessity of using an ear-trumpet in company.
[After the fourth edition of this poem was printed, the publisher received the following epitaph on Mr. Whitefoord,' from a friend of the late Dr. Goldsmith.]
HERE Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can,
Though he merrily lived, he is now a grave' man:
Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun ;
Who relish'd a joke, and rejoiced in a pun;
Whose temper was generous, open, sincere ;
A stranger to flatt'ry, a stranger to fear;
Who scatter'd around wit and humour at will;
Whose daily bons mots half a column might fill:
A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free;
A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he.
What pity, alas! that so lib'ral a mind
Should so long be to newspaper essays confined!
Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar,
Yet content "if the table he set in a roar ;'
Whose talents to fill any station were fit,
Yet happy if Woodfall3 confessed him a wit.
Ye newspaper witlings! ye pert scribbling folks!
Who copied his squibs and re-echoed his jokes ;
Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come,
Still follow your master, and visit his tomb :
To deck it, bring with you festoons of the vine,
And copious libations bestow on his shrine;
Then strew all around it (you can do no less)
Cross-readings, Ship-news, and Mistakes of the Press. *
Merry Whitefoord, farewell; for thy sake I admit
That a Scot may have humour: I had almost said wit—
This debt to thy mem'ry I cannot refuse,
"Thou best-humour'd man with the worst-humour'd Muse."
Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays.
2 Mr. Whitefoord was so notorious a punster, that Dr. Goldsmith used to say it was impossible to keep his company without being infected with the itch of punning.
3 Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the "Public Advertiser."
Mr. Whitefoord had frequently indulged the town with humorous pieces, under those titles, in the "Public Advertiser."
INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN THE COMEDY OF "SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER."
Ан me! when shall I marry me?
Lovers are plenty, but fail to relieve me.
He, fond youth, that could carry me,
Offers to love, but means to deceive me.
But I will rally, and combat the ruiner:
Not a look, nor a smile shall my passion discover.
She that gives all to the false one pursuing her,
Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover.
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