RETALIATION

Of old, when Scarròn12his companions invited,Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united;If our landlord supplies us with beef, and with fish,Let each guest bring himself—and he brings the best dish;Our Dean13shall be venison, just fresh from the plains;Our Burke14shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains;Our Will15shall be wild-fowl, of excellent flavour;And Dick16with his pepper shall heighten their savour;Our Cumberland’s17sweet-bread its place shall obtain;And Douglas18is pudding, substantial and plain;Our Garrick’s19a salad, for in him we seeOil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree;To make out the dinner, full certain I amThat Ridge20is anchovy, and Reynolds21is lamb;That Hickey’s22a capon, and, by the same rule,Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool.At a dinner so various, at such a repast,Who’d not be a glutton, and stick to the last?Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I’m able,Till all my companions sink under the table;Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head,Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead.Here lies the good Dean, re-united to earth,Who mix’d reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth;If he had any faults, he has left us indoubt—At least, in six weeks I could not find them out;Yet some have declar’d, and it can’t be denied them,That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide them.Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such,We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much;Who, born for the universe, narrow’d his mind,And to party gave up what was meant for mankind.Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throatTo persuade Tommy Townshend23to lend him a vote;Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining:Though equal to all things, for all things unfit:Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit;For a patriot too cool; for a drudge disobedient;And too fond of theright, to pursue theexpedient.In short, ’twas his fate, unemploy’d, or in place, sir,To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint,While the owner ne’er knew half the good that was in ’t;The pupil of impulse, it forc’d him along,His conduct still right, with his argument wrong;Still aiming at honour, yet fearing toroam—The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home;Would you ask for his merits? alas! he had none;What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own.Here lies honest Richard,24whose fate I must sigh at;Alas! that such frolic should now be so quiet!What spirits were his! what wit and what whim!Now breaking a jest—and now breaking a limb;Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball;Now teasing and vexing—yet laughing at all!In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,That we wish’d him full ten times a day at Old Nick;But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein,As often we wish’d to have Dick back again.Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts,The Terence of England, the mender of hearts;A flattering painter, who made it his careTo draw men as they ought to be, not as they are.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 crowdOf virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud;And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone,Adopting his portraits, are pleas’d with their own.Say, where has our poet this malady caught?Or wherefore his characters thus without fault?Say, was it that mainly directing his viewTo 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 Douglas25retires from his toils to relax,The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks:Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quackingdivines—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 Dodds26shall be pious, our Kenricks27shalllecture—Macpherson28write bombast, and call it astyle—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 me, 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;’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 pleas’d 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;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 ourmind—If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind.Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys,29and Woodfalls30so grave,What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave!How did Grub Street re-echo the shouts that you rais’d,While he was be-Roscius’d, and you were be-prais’d!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 Shakspere 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 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 everypart—His pencil our faces, his manners our heart:To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering,When they judg’d without skill, he was still hard of hearing;When they talk’d of their Raphaels, Coreggios, and stuff,He shifted his trumpet,31and only took snuff.

Here lies the good Dean, re-united to earth,Who mix’d reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth;If he had any faults, he has left us indoubt—At least, in six weeks I could not find them out;Yet some have declar’d, and it can’t be denied them,That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide them.

Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such,We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much;Who, born for the universe, narrow’d his mind,And to party gave up what was meant for mankind.Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throatTo persuade Tommy Townshend23to lend him a vote;Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining:Though equal to all things, for all things unfit:Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit;For a patriot too cool; for a drudge disobedient;And too fond of theright, to pursue theexpedient.In short, ’twas his fate, unemploy’d, or in place, sir,To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.

Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint,While the owner ne’er knew half the good that was in ’t;The pupil of impulse, it forc’d him along,His conduct still right, with his argument wrong;Still aiming at honour, yet fearing toroam—The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home;Would you ask for his merits? alas! he had none;What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own.

Here lies honest Richard,24whose fate I must sigh at;Alas! that such frolic should now be so quiet!What spirits were his! what wit and what whim!Now breaking a jest—and now breaking a limb;Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball;Now teasing and vexing—yet laughing at all!In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,That we wish’d him full ten times a day at Old Nick;But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein,As often we wish’d to have Dick back again.

Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts,The Terence of England, the mender of hearts;A flattering painter, who made it his careTo draw men as they ought to be, not as they are.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 crowdOf virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud;And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone,Adopting his portraits, are pleas’d with their own.Say, where has our poet this malady caught?Or wherefore his characters thus without fault?Say, was it that mainly directing his viewTo 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 Douglas25retires from his toils to relax,The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks:Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quackingdivines—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 Dodds26shall be pious, our Kenricks27shalllecture—Macpherson28write bombast, and call it astyle—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 me, 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;’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 pleas’d 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;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 ourmind—If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind.Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys,29and Woodfalls30so grave,What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave!How did Grub Street re-echo the shouts that you rais’d,While he was be-Roscius’d, and you were be-prais’d!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 Shakspere 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 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 everypart—His pencil our faces, his manners our heart:To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering,When they judg’d without skill, he was still hard of hearing;When they talk’d of their Raphaels, Coreggios, and stuff,He shifted his trumpet,31and only took snuff.

POSTSCRIPT

Here Whitefoord32reclines, and deny it who can,Though he merrily liv’d, he is now agraveman:Rare compound of oddity, frolic, andfun—Who relish’d a joke, and rejoic’d in a pun;Whose temper was generous, open,sincere—A stranger to flattery, a stranger to fear;Who scatter’d around wit and humour at will;Whose dailybon motshalf 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 mindShould so long be to newspaper essays confin’d;Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar,Yet content “if the table he set in aroar;”—Whose talents to fill any station were fit,Yet happy if Woodfall33confess’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,And copious libations bestow on his shrine;Then strew all around it—you can do noless—Cross-readings,Ship-news, andMistakes of the Press.34Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for thy sake I admitThat a Scot may have humour, I had almost said wit:This debt to thy memory I cannotrefuse—“Thou best-humour’d man, with the worst-humour’d muse.”

What pity, alas! that so liberal a mindShould so long be to newspaper essays confin’d;Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar,Yet content “if the table he set in aroar;”—Whose talents to fill any station were fit,Yet happy if Woodfall33confess’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,And copious libations bestow on his shrine;Then strew all around it—you can do noless—Cross-readings,Ship-news, andMistakes of the Press.34

Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for thy sake I admitThat a Scot may have humour, I had almost said wit:This debt to thy memory I cannotrefuse—“Thou best-humour’d man, with the worst-humour’d muse.”

FOOTNOTES:12Paul Scarròn, a popular French writer, who died in 1660.13Dr. Barnard, Dean of Derry, in Ireland.14Edmund Burke.15Mr. William Burke, secretary to General Conway.16Mr. Richard Burke.17Richard Cumberland, author of “The West Indian,” and other dramatic pieces.18Dr. Douglas, Canon of Windsor, and Bishop of Salisbury.19David Garrick, the actor.20An Irish barrister.21Sir Joshua Reynolds.22An eminent attorney.23Thomas Townshend, Member for Whitchurch, afterwards Lord Sydney.24Richard Burke had broken a leg, about seven years before this poem was written.25Douglas had vindicated Milton from the insolence of Lauder, ingeniously refuted the cavils of Hume, and exposed Bower.26The Rev. Dr. Dodd.27Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures, under the title of “The School of Shakspere.”28James Macpherson, the translator of Ossian.29Hugh Kelly, author of “False Delicacy,” “School for Wives,” &c.30Mr. W. Woodfall, printer of theMorning Chronicle.31Sir Joshua Reynolds used an ear-trumpet in company.32Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays. He was so fond of punning, that Goldsmith used to say it was impossible to be in his company without being infected with the disorder.33Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of thePublic Advertiser.34Mr. Whitefoord contributed papers on these subjects to thePublic Advertiser.

12Paul Scarròn, a popular French writer, who died in 1660.

13Dr. Barnard, Dean of Derry, in Ireland.

14Edmund Burke.

15Mr. William Burke, secretary to General Conway.

16Mr. Richard Burke.

17Richard Cumberland, author of “The West Indian,” and other dramatic pieces.

18Dr. Douglas, Canon of Windsor, and Bishop of Salisbury.

19David Garrick, the actor.

20An Irish barrister.

21Sir Joshua Reynolds.

22An eminent attorney.

23Thomas Townshend, Member for Whitchurch, afterwards Lord Sydney.

24Richard Burke had broken a leg, about seven years before this poem was written.

25Douglas had vindicated Milton from the insolence of Lauder, ingeniously refuted the cavils of Hume, and exposed Bower.

26The Rev. Dr. Dodd.

27Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures, under the title of “The School of Shakspere.”

28James Macpherson, the translator of Ossian.

29Hugh Kelly, author of “False Delicacy,” “School for Wives,” &c.

30Mr. W. Woodfall, printer of theMorning Chronicle.

31Sir Joshua Reynolds used an ear-trumpet in company.

32Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays. He was so fond of punning, that Goldsmith used to say it was impossible to be in his company without being infected with the disorder.

33Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of thePublic Advertiser.

34Mr. Whitefoord contributed papers on these subjects to thePublic Advertiser.

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