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A wild delirium round th' assembly flies; Unusual lustre shoots from Emma's eyes, Luxurious Arno drivels as he stands,
And Anna frisks, and Laura claps her hands.
And are not now the author's ashes blest?
Is praise an evil? Is there to be found
P. With 'Squire Jerningham descend To pastry cooks and moths," and there an end!" And cry," For heaven's sweet sake, no more, no O thou, who deign'st this homely scene to share, more !" Thou know'st, when chance (though this indeed be
"But why, (thou say'st,) why am I learn'd, why fraught
With all the priest and all the sage have taught,
And broke thy rest for THIS, for THIS alone?
F. And is it nothing, then, to hear our name
The sober verdict found by taste and sense :
* At this late hour-I learn from Della Crusca's lamentations, that he is declined into the vale of years; that the women say to him, as they formerly said to Anacreon, yepwr ei, and that Love, about two years since,
"Tore his name from his bright page,
+ Recounts the wayward fate, &c.-In the INTERVIEW, see the British Album, the lover, finding his mistress inexorable, comforts himself, and justifies her, by boasting how well he can play the fool. And never did Don Quixote exhibit half so many extravagant tricks in the Sierra Morena, for the beaux yeux of his dulcinea, as our distracted amoroso threatens to perform for the no less beautiful ones of Anna Matilda.
"Yes, I will prove that I deserve my fate,
Was born for anguish, and was formed for hate;
With random gleams of wit has graced my lays, Thou know'st too well how I have relish'd
Not mine the soul which pants not after fame :-
I haunt the sacred fount, athirst, to prove
And yet, my friend-though still, at praise bestow'd,
Mine eye has glisten'd, and my cheek has glow'd,
Yet, when I prostitute the lyre to gain
And tear the strings indignant from my hand!
Thou know'st, when chance, &c.-To see how a Cruscan can blunder! Mr. Parsons thus politely comments on this unfortunate hemistich:
"Thou lowest of the imitating race,
Thou imp of satire, and thou foul disgrace;
Who callest each coarse phrase a lucky hit," &c. Alas! no: But this is of a piece with his qui-pro-quo on the preface of the Mæviad-where, on my saying that I had laid the poem aside for two years, he exultingly exclaims, "Soh! it was two years in hand, then!"
Mr. Parsons is highly celebrated, I am told, for his skill in driving a bargain: it is to be presumed that he does it with his spectacles on.-But, indeed, he began with a blunder :-if he had read my motto carefully, he must have seen that I never taxed him with keeping a bull for his own milking: no; it was the infatuated man who looked for sense in Mr. Parsons' skull that was charged with this solecism in economics. And yet the bare belief of it produced the metamorphosis which I have already noticed, and which his friends have not yet ceased to deplore.
+ Morton's catchword. WONDERFUL is the profundity of the bathos! I thought that O'Keefe had reached the bottom of it; but, as uncle Bowling says, I thought a d-n'd lie; for Holcroft, Reynolds, and Morton have sunk beneath him. They have happily found
In the lowest deep a lower still,
and persevere in exploring it with an egulation which does them honour.
And Holcroft's Shug-lane cant,* and Merry's Moor- That e'en the guilty at their sufferings smile, fields whine ?t
Skill'd in one useful science, at the least,
The great man comes and spreads a sumptuous
Then, when his guests behold the prize at stake,
My friends, he cries, what think the galleries, pray,
But you, ye St. Johns, cursed with one poor head,
*And Holcroft's Shug-lane cant. This is a poor stupid wretch, to whom infidelity and disloyalty have given a momentary notoriety, which has imposed upon the oscitancy of the managers, and opened the theatre to two or three of his grovelling and senseless productions.
And bless the lancet, though they bleed the
If tragedy, th' impassion'd numbers flow,
With such a liquid lapse, that they betray
Sunk in acrostics, riddles, roundelays,
Happy the soil, where bards like mushrooms
And ask no culture but what Byshe supplies!
Some love the verse that like Maria's flows,
* E'en Bertie, &c.-For Bertie, (Greathead, I think they call him,) see the Mæviad.
+ Where airy lays, &c.
"Was it the shuttle of the morn
That hung upon the cobweb'd thorn
Thy airy lay? Or did it rise,
Will future ages believe that this facetious triumvirate should think nothing more to be necessary to the construction of a play, than an eternal repetition of some contemptible vulgarity, such as "That's your sort!" "Hey, damme !" "What's to pay ?" "Keep moving!" &c. 799 They will; for they will have blockheads of their own, who will found their claims to celebrity on similar follies. What, however, they will never credit is, that these dri--Album, vol. ii. vellings of idiotism, these catchwords, should actually preserve their respective authors from being hooted off the stage. No, they will not believe that an English audience could be so besotted, so brutified, as to receive such senseless exclamations with bursts of laughter, with peals of applause. I cannot believe it myself, though I have witnessed it. Haud credo-if I may reverse the good father's position-haud credo, quia possibile est. + Merry's Moorfields whine.-In a most wretched rhapsody of incomprehensible nonsense, addressed by this gentleman to Mrs. Robinson, which she, in her valuable poems, (page 100,) calls a charming composition, abounding in lines of exquisite beauty, is the following rant:
Conjure up demons from the main,
Till the Creator blush to see
How horrible his world can be:
MIT YENDA. This is Mr. Tim, alias Mr. Timothy Adney, a most pertinacious gentleman, who makes a conspicuous figure in the daily papers under the ingenious signature above cited; it being, as the reader already sees, his own name read backward. "Gentle dulness ever loves a joke!"
Of his prodigious labours I have nothing by me but the following stanza, taken from what he calls his Poor Man:
Reward the bounty of your generous hand,
"Good morrow, my worthy masters and mistresses all, and a merry Christmas to you!"
I have been guilty of a misnomer. Mr. Adney has politely informed me, since the above was written, that his Christian name is not Timothy, but Thomas. The anagram in question, therefore, must be MOT YENDA, omit. ting the H, euphonia gratia. I am happy in an opportunity of doing justice to so correct a gentleman, and I pray
The reader, perhaps, wonders what dreadful event gave
§ TONY PASQUIN.-I have too much respect for my reader, to affront him with any specimens of this man's poetry, at once licentious and dull beyond example: at the same time I cannot resist the temptation of presenting him with the following stanzas, written by a friend of mine, and sufficiently illustrative of the character in question:
Others, like Kemble, on black-letter pore,
Has bless'd them with "The Boke of gode Advice,"
There Fezzan's thrum-capp'd tribes, Turks, Chris-
Accommodate, ye gods! their feet with shoes;
And can we, when such mope-eyed dolts are And call for Mandeville, to ease my head.
By thoughtless fashion on the throne of taste-
Lo! Beaufoy tells of Afric's barren sand,
TO ANTHONY PASQUIN, ESQ.
O for the good old times! WHEN all was new,
Thou, like that statue, art devoid of brains? "But thou mistakest: for know, though Pasquin's head Is not THIS sad?
Be full as hard, and near as thick as thine,
Many a keen gibe, and many a sportive line.
It has been represented to me, that I should do well to avoid all mention of this man, from a consideration, that one so lost to every sense of decency and shame was a fitter object for the beadle than the muse. This has induced me to lay aside a second castigation which I had prepared for him, though I do not think it expedient to omit what I had formerly written.
Here on the rack of satire let him lie,
Fit garbage for the hell-hound infamy.
F. "Tis pitiful, heaven knows 'Tis wondrous pitiful." E'en take the prose; But for the poetry-O, that, my friend,
I still aspire-nay, smile not-to defend.
You praise our sires, but, though they wrote with
Their rhymes were vicious, and their diction coarse
P. Pshaw; I have it here.
of water, to the long ascent of the broad rock of Gerdobas, (p. 289,) from whose inflexible barrenness little is to be got-from this scene, I say, of gladsome contrast to the inveterate mountains of Gegogib, &c.
One word more. I am told that there are men so weak For Weston'st self could find no semblance here : as to deprecate this miserable object's abuse, and so vain, so despicably vain, as to tolerate his praise-for such I have nothing but pity;-though the fate of Hastings, see the "Pin-basket to the Children of Thespis," holds out a dreadful lesson to the latter:-but should there be a man or a woman, however high in rank, base enough to purchase the venal pen of this miscreant for the sake of traducing innocence and virtue, then I was about to threaten, but 'tis not necessary: the profligate cowards who employ Anthony can know no severer punishment than the support of a man whose acquaintance is infamy, and whose touch is poison.
* Lo! Beaufoy, &c.-"The feet are accommodated with shoes, and the head is protected by a-woollen night-cap." -AFRICAN ASSOCIATION, p. 139.
"From this scene of gladsome contrast, i. e. from the mountain of Zilau, (p. 288,) whose rugged sides are marked with scanty spots of brushwood, and enriched with stores
1 Shoes. By your leave, master crític, here is a small oversight in your
quotation. The gentleman does not say their feet are accommodated with
shoes, but with slippers. For the rest, accommodate, as I learn, is a
scholar-like word, and a word of exceeding great propriety. "Accommo date! it comes from accomodo: that is, when a man's feet are, as they say, 'accommodated, or when they are-being whereby they may be thought to be accommodated: which is an excellent thing "-Printer's Devil.
"In the long course of a seven days' passage, the traveller is scarcely sensible that a few spots of thin and meager brushwood slightly interrupt the vast expanse of sterility, and diminish the amplitude of desolation !!!"
* Hasten, &c. This and the following quotation are taken from the "Laurel of Liberty," a work on which the great author most justly rests his claim to immortality. See p. 167.
+ Weston. This indefatigable gentleman has been
long employed in attacking the moral character of Pope in the Gentleman's Magazine, with all the virulence of Gildon, all the impudence of Smedley, and all the ignorance of Curl and his associates.
What the views of the bland Sylvanus may be, in standing cap in hand, and complacently holding open the door of the temple, for nearly two years, to this "execrable"
1 Such is the epithet applied to Pope by the "virtuous indignation” of this "amiable" traducer of worth and genius!
Weston, who slunk from truth's imperious light,
Lo! here- Canst thou, Matilda, urge my fate,
Heavens! if our ancient vigour were not fled,
F. So let it be; and yet, methinks, my friend,
P. Enough. Thank heaven! my error now I see,
*Of the talents of this spes altera Roma, this second hope of the age, the following stanzas will afford a sufficient specimen. They are taken from a ballad which the Mr. Bell, an admirable judge of these matters, calls a very mellifluous one; easy, artless, and unaffected." "Gently o'er the rising billows
Erostratus, I know not. He cannot surely be weak enough to suppose that an obscure scribbler like this has any charges to bring against our great poet, which escaped the vigilant malevolence of the Westons of the Dunciad. Or if ever, from the "natural goodness of his beart," he cherished so laudable a supposition, he ought (whatever it may cost him) to forego it: when, after twenty months' preparation, nothing is produced but an exploded accusation taken from the most common edition of the Dunciad!
Softly steals the bird of night,
Ruthless winds deny thee rest :
Shelter'd from th' inclement sky,"
The story of this poor owl, who was at one and the same time at sea and on land, silent and noisy, sheltered and
It has been suggested to me, that this nightman of literature designs to reprint as much as can be collected of the heroes of the Dunciad.-If it be so, the dirty work of traducing Pope may be previously necessary; and pre-exposed, is continued through a few more of these "mellijudice itself must own, that he has shown uncommon penetration in the selection of the blind and outrageous mercenary now so laboriously employed in it.
Whatever be the design, the proceedings are by no means inconsistent with the plan of a work which may not unaptly be styled the charnel-house of reputation, and which, from the days of Lauder to the present, has delighted to aspers? every thing venerable among us-which accused Swift of lust, and Addison of drunkenness! which insulted the ashes of Toup while they were yet warm, and gibbeted poor Henderson alive: which affect ed to idolize the great and good Howard, while idolatry was painful to him: and the moment he fell, gloriously fell, in the exercise of the most sublime virtue, attempted to stigmatize him as a brute and a monster!
*Canst thou, Matilda, &c. vide Album, vol. ii.-Matilda! "Nay then, I'll never trust a madman again." It was but a few minutes since, that Mr. Merry died for the love of Laura Maria; and now is he about to do the same thing for the love of Anna Matilda?
What the ladies may say to such a swain, I know not; but certainly he is too prone to run wild, die, &c. &c. Such, indeed, is the combustible nature of this gentleman, that he takes fire at every female signature in the and I remember, that when Olaudo Equiano, who, for a papers; olack, is not ill-featured, tried his hand at a soft sonnet, and by mistake subscribed it Olauda, Mr. Merry fell so desperately in love with him, and "yelled out such syllables of dolour" in consequence of it, that the pitiful-hearted negro was frightened at the mischief he had done, and transmitted in all haste the following correction to the editor-For Olaud A, please to read Olaud0, the black "MAN."
fluous" stanzas, which the reader, I doubt not, will readily forgive me for omitting; more especially if he reads the ORACLE, a paper honoured-as the grateful editor very properly has it-by the effusions of this "artless" gentle
man above all others.
N.B. On Doking again, I find the owl to be a nightingale!-N'importe.
It was said of Theophilus Cibber, (I think by Goldsmith,) that as he grew older, he grow never the better. Much the same (mutatis mutandis) may be said of the gentlemen of the Baviad. After an interval of two years, I find the "mellifluous" ARNO celebrating Mrs. Robinson's novel in strains like these.
"For the Oracle.
SONNET TO MRS. ROBINSON,
Upon reading her VANCENZA.
"What never-ceasing music! From the throne
To every murmuring breeze of passing wind!
Yes, Andrews' doggrel, Greathead's idiot line,
And LEEDS at length enjoy his fool in peace.
P. Come then, around their works a circle
And near it plant the dragons of the law,
F. O yet forbear.
Thou think'st, perhaps, this wayward fancy strange;
And heaven and earth hang trembling on a hair:
Who Anna's bedlam rant for sense can take,
* Edwin's mewlings, &c.-We come now to a character of high respect, the profound Mr. T. Vaughan, who, under the alluring signature of Edwin, favours us from time to time with a melancholy poem on the death of a bug, the flight of an earwig, the miscarriage of a cockchaffer, or some other event of equal importance.
His last work was an Emiraptov, (blessings on his learning!) which, I take for granted, means an epitaph, on a mouse that broke her heart: and, as it was a matter of great consequence, he very properly made the introduction as long as the poem itself. Hear how gravely he prologiseth.
"On a tame mouse, which belonged to a lady who saved its life, constantly fed it, and even wept, (poor lady !) at its approaching death. The mouse's eyes actually dropped out of its head (poor mouse!) THE DAY BEFORE IT DIED."
"This feeling mouse, whose heart was warm'd
Because her mistress dropt a tear,
"By sympathy deprived of light,
She one day darkness tried;
The debt with interest pay-
Mr. T. Vaughan has asserted that he is not the author of this matchless Extractor with such spirit, and retorted upon one Baviad (whom the learned gentleman takes to be a man) with such strength of argument and elegance of diction, that it would wrong both him and the reader to give it in any words but his own.
"Well said, Baviad the correct!-And so the PROFOUND Mr. T. Vaughan, as you politely style him, writes under the alluring signature of Edwin, does he? and therefore a very proper subject for your satiric malignity!-But suppose for a moment, as the truth and the fact is, that this gentleman never did use that signature upon any occasion, in whatever he may have written: Do not you, the identica! Baviad, in that case, for your unprovoked abuse of him, immediately fall under your own character of that nightman of literature you so liberally assign Weston? And like him, too, if there is any truth in what you say or write, do you not
"Swell like a filthy toad with secret spite ?? "The ayes have it. And should you not be as well versed in your favourite author's fourth satire, as you are in the first, with your leave, I will quote from it two emphatic lines:
"Into themselves how few, how few descend,
And act, at home, the free, impartial friend!
"Oracle, 12th Jan." And to whose name should they be tacked, but the author's? Let not the reader, however, imagine the absurdity to proceed from Persius, or his ingenious translator. "The truth and the fact is," that our learned brother, having a small change to make in the last two lines, blundered them, with his usual acuteness, into nonsense, He is not much more happy when he accuses me of call ing WESTON "the nightman of literature."-But when a gentleman does not know what he writes, it is a little hard to expect him to know what he reads. After all, Edwin or not, our egregious friend is still the PROFOUND Mr. T. Vaughan.