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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;
Macpherson 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,

*The Rev. Dr. Dodd, who was executed for forgery.

† Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern, under the title of 'The School of Shakspeare.' He was a well-known writer, of prodigious versatility, and some talent. Dr. Johnson observed of him, 'He is one of the many who have made themselves public, without making themselves known.'

James Macpherson, Esq., who from the mere force of his style, wrote down the first poet of all antiquity.

§ William Lauder, who, by interpolating certain passages from the Adamus Exul of Grotius, with translations from Paradise Lost, endeavored to fix on Milton a charge of plagiarism from the modern Latin poets. Dr. Douglas detected and exposed this imposture, and extorted from the author a confession and apology.

Archibald Bower, a Scottish Jesuit, and author of a History of the Popes from St. Peter to Lambertini. Dr. Douglas convicted Bower of gross imposture, and totally destroyed the credit of

his history.

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 hea
The man had his failings, a dupe to his art.
Like an ill-judging beauty, his colors he spread,
And beplaster'd 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 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 tack.
Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came,
And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame;
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!

you

raised,

How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that
While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were be-praised!
But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies,

To act as an angel and mix with the skies:

* Mr. Hugh Kelley, originally a staymaker, afterwards a news

paper editor and dramatist, and latterly a barrister.

† Mr. William Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle.

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 Kelleys 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 you my mind,
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 talked of their Raphaels, Corregios, and

stuff,

He shifted his trumpet,* and only took snuff.

*Sir Joshua Reynolds was so deaf as to be under the necessity of using an ear-trumpet in company.

POSTSCRIPT.

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 flattery, a stranger to fear;
Who scatter'd around wit and humor at will;
Whose daily bon 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 liberal 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 Woodfall‡ confess'd 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,

*Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays. † Mr. Whitefoord was so notorious a punster, that Dr. Goldsmith used to say it was impossible to keep him company, without being infected with the itch of punning.

Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser.

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 humor, I had almost said wit;
This debt to thy memory I cannot refuse,

'Thou best-humor'd man with the worst-humor'd Muse.'

THE

DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION.

A TALE.

SECLUDED from domestic strife,
Jack Book-worm led a college life;
A fellowship at twenty-five

Made him the happiest man alive;

He drank his glass, and cracked his joke,
And freshmen wonder'd as he spoke.

Such pleasures, unalloy'd with care,
Could any accident impair?

Could Cupid's shaft at length transfix
Our swain, arrived at thirty-six?

Oh, had the archer ne'er come down

To ravage in a country town!

Or Flavia been content to stop

* Mr. Whitefoord had frequently indulged the town with hu morous pieces under those titles in the Public Advertiser.

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