"Your servant, Sir," says surly _Quin_, "Sir, I am yours," replies _Macklin_, "Why, you're the very _Jew_ you play, Your face performs the task well." "And you are _Sir John Brute_, they say, And an accomplished _Maskwell_." Says _Rich_, who heard the sneering elves, And knew their horrid hearts; "Acting too much your very selves, You overdo your parts."[A] [A] The censure contained in these poor lines is eminently unjust. _Macklin_ is known to have been an anxious and affectionate parent, and _Quin_ a benevolent and liberal friend. [61] On what account I know not, but he had then forborn painting for more than a year. [62] See hereafter, p. 81. [63] In the Beauties of all the Magazines, 1773, p. 440, is a droll "Epistle from _Jacob Henriques_, born anno Domini, &c. to Messieurs _Hogarth_ and _Churchill_ greeting." [64] For this the Satirist unmercifully apologizes in the conclusion of his poem, which may be seen in the Catalogue, under the year 1763, in a note on N° 2. [65] As much of this paper as relates to our artist is here subjoined: "The humourous Mr. _Hogarth_, the _supposed_ author of the _Analysis of Beauty_, has at last entered the list of politicians, and given us a print of _The Times. Words are man's province_, says _Pope_; but they are not Mr. _Hogarth's_ province. He somewhere mentions his being indebted to a friend for a third part of the _wording_: that is his phrase. We all titter the instant he takes up a _pen_, but we tremble when we see the _pencil_ in his hand. I will do him the justice to say, that he possesses the rare talent of gibbetting in colours, and that in most of his works he has been a very good moral satirist. His forte is there, and he should have kept it. When he has at any time deviated from _his own peculiar walk_, he has never failed to make himself perfectly ridiculous. I need only make my appeal to any one of his _historical_ or _portrait_ pieces, which are now considered as almost beneath all criticism. The favourite _Sigismunda_, the labour of so many years, the boasted effort of his art, was not _human_. If the figure had a resemblance of any thing ever on earth, or had the least pretence to meaning or expression, it was what he had seen, or perhaps made, in real life, his own wife in an agony of passion; but of what passion no connoisseur could guess. All his friends remember what tiresome discourses were held by him day after day about the transcendent merit of it, and how the great names of _Raphael, Vandyke,_ and others, were made to yield the palm of beauty, grace, expression, &c. to him, for this long laboured, yet still, _uninteresting_, single figure. The value he himself set on this, as well as on some other of his works, almost exceeds belief; yet from politeness or fear, or some other motives, he has actually been paid the most astonishing sums, as the price, not of his merit, but of his unbounded vanity.