At this late* hour, such prurient ears as these? Reason is ill refuted by Is praise an evil? Is th P. With To pastry cooks and m Art forced, at length, to check the idiot roar, And cry, "For heaven's sweet sake, no more, no O thou, who deign'st th more !" Thou know'st, when ch "But why, (thou say'st,) why am I learn'd, why fraught With all the priest and all the sage have taught, head, 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 : Damn'd *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, yɛpwv ɛt, and that Love, about two years since, "Tore his name from his bright page, And gave it to approaching age." 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 beaur 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; rare)* With random gleams o praise. Not mine the soul whi Yet, when I prostitute And tear the strings in *Thou know'st, wher Cruscan can blunder! 1 ments on this unfortunat "Thou lowest of the Thou imp of satire, Who callest each c Alas! no: But this is o the preface of the Mævi had laid the poem aside claims, "Soh! it was tw Mr. Parsons is highly skill in driving a bargain it with his spectacles on blunder :-if he had read have seen that I never ta his own milking: no; i looked for sense in Mr. I with this solecism in ecor of it produced the metam noticed, and which his 1 deplore. † Morton's catchword. of the bathos! I though bottom of it; but, as un d-n'd lie; for Holcroft, R beneath him. They hav In the lowest and persevere in explori does them honour. t: man comes and spreads a sumptuous If tragedy, th' impassion'd numbers now, en his guests behold the prize at stake, and hunger only are awake, 3, he cries, what think the galleries, pray, the boxes, of my last new play? ly-tell me all ;-come, be sincere ; you know, is music to my ear. k alas, they cannot. But shall I ? eive no bribe? who dare not lie ? "That worse was never writ before, will be, till-thou shalt write once more." be" two-headed Janus!" though inclined, sh stork can peck at him behind; y mouth, no lolling tongue can fear, risk twinkling of an ass's ear: ye St. Johns, cursed with one poor head, at mockeries have not ye to dread! >w our guests.—The critics, sir! they cry> yours the critics may defy : indeed, they say, "Your varied rhymes, he boast and envy of the times, page, song, sonnet, what you will, indless genius and unrivall'd skill. nedy be yours, the searching strain ich sweet pleasure with corrective pain, olcroft's Shug-lane cant. This is a poor stupid whom infidelity and disloyalty have given a ry notoriety, which has imposed upon the oscihe managers, and opened the theatre to two or is grovelling and senseless productions. cure ages believe that this facetious triumvirate ink nothing more to be necessary to the conof a play, than an eternal repetition of some ible vulgarity, such as "That's your sort!" mme!" "What's to pay ?""Keep moving !" &c. ; for they will have blockheads of their own, ound their claims to celebrity on similar follies. wever, they will never credit is, that these driof idiotism, these catchwords, should actually heir respective authors from being hooted off No, they will not believe that an English auuld be so besotted, so brutified, as to receive seless exclamations with bursts of laughter, of applause. I cannot believe it myself, though Enessed it. Haud credo-if I may reverse the er's position-haud credo, quia possibile est. y's Moorfields whine.-In a most wretched of incomprehensible nonsense, addressed by eman to Mrs. Robinson, which she, in her valuns, (page 100,) calls a charming composition, g in lines of exquisite beauty, is the following Conjure up demons from the main, Storms upon storms indignant heap, Bid ocean howl, and nature weep, Till the Creator blush to see How horrible his world can be: While I will glory to blaspheme, And make the joys of hell my theme." der, perhaps, wonders what dreadful event gave These fearful imprecations. As far as I can colthe poem, it was the momentary refusal of the Mrs Robinson-to inc 2. eyes! Surely, it is In all the sad variety of wo, With such a liquid lapse, that they betray Sunk in acrostics, riddles, roundelays, Happy the soil, where bards like mushrooms rise, And ask no culture but what Byshe supplies! Happier the bards, who, write whate'er they will, Find gentle readers to admire them still! Some love the verse that like Maria's flows, No rubs to stagger, and no sense to pose; Which read, and read, you raise your eyes in doubt, And gravely wonder-what it is about. These fancy" BELL'S POETICS" only sweet, And intercept his hawkers in the street; There, smoking hot, inhale MIT YENDA'st strains, And the rank fame of TONY PASQUIN'S brains. * 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 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, Your head each night in comfort shall be laid, "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, omitting the H, euphoniæ gratia. I am happy in an opportunity of doing justice to so correct a gentleman, and I pray him to continue his valuable lucubrations. TONY PASQUIN.-I have too much respect for my reader, to affront him with any specimens of this man's P The Boke of gode Advice,' Perplex'd with terms And can we, when such mope-eyed dolts are And call for Mandevi placed By thoughtless fashion on the throne of taste- Lo! Beaufoy* tells of Afric's barren sand, TO ANTHONY PASQUIN, ESQ. "Why dost thou tack, most simple Anthony, Thou, like that statue, art devoid of brains? O for the good old t And every hour broug Our sires in unaffecteOf streams of amber, a Full of their theme, t And the plain tale wa Now all is changed! Less to display our su Whate'er we paint-E Heavens, how we sw Words of gigantic bul In rattling triads the E While points with po And the whole work "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. John Williams, or Tom Fool, will do as well." It has been represented to me, that I should do well to Here on the rack of satire let him lie, Fit garbage for the hell-hound infamy. "Tis wondrous pitiful. Their rhymes were vic "A voice seraphic gra These lines, perhaps, of water, to the long ascer (p. 289,) from whose infle got-from this scene, I s inveterate mountains of C One word more. I am told that there are men so weak For Weston'st self cou 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 critic, 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 "In the long course of veller is scarcely sensibl meager brushwood slight sterility, and diminish the Hasten, &c.-This an taken from the "Laurel c great author most justly See p. 167. † Weston.-This inde long employed in attacki in the Gentleman's Maga Gildon, all the impudenc rance of Curl and his ass What the views of the bi ing cap in hand, and com of the temple, for nearly ack venom at the dust of Pope. ccursed!-O memorable long, force in virtue or in song, ard! accept the grateful strain. e humblest of the tuneful train, ng heart, yet trembling hand, repay = pensive, many a sprightly lay! varied verse, from age to age, simple, and delight the sage; er'd Weston, and his loathsome rhymes, nose of all succeeding times! Inspired by genius, and inform'd by selisë; And dulness, gentle pair, for aye allied; F. So let it be; and yet, methinks, my friend, But where, (for these, you seem to say, Your fate already I foresee. My lord, as of the high, heroic lay,) the soft, the tender strains, which call oist eye, bow'd head, and lengthen'd v1? Canst thou, Matilda, urge my fate, e mourn thee? yes, and mourn too late! Fere decree! my maddening brain = ponderous agony sustain; rush, from vale to mountain run, With cold respect, will freeze you from his board; 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 my mind's thick gloom obscure the Mr. Bell, an admirable judge of these matters, calls a I know not. He cannot surely be weak Suppose that an obscure scribbler like this rzes to bring against our great poet, which vigilant malevolence of the Westons of the Or if ever, from the "natural goodness of his cherished so laudable a supposition, he ought it may cost him) to forego it: when, after ths' preparation, nothing is produced but an cusation taken from the most common edition ciad! very mellifluous one; easy, artless, and unaffected." Softly steals the bird of night, Ruthless winds deny thee rest: Shelter'd from th' inclement sky." en suggested to me, that this nightman of liteThe story of this poor owl, who was at one and the same Ens to reprint as much as can be collected of of the Dunciad.-If it be so, the dirty work of time at sea and on land, silent and noisy, sheltered and Pope may be previously necessary; and pre-exposed, is continued through a few more of these "melli If must own, that he has shown uncommon thou, Matilda, &c. vide Album, vol. ii.-Maay then, I'll never trust a madman again." It few minutes since, that Mr. Merry died for the ura Maria; and now is he about to do the same the love of Anna Matilda? he ladies may say to such a swain, I know not; inly he is too prone to run wild, die, &c. &c. wed, is the combustible nature of this gentleman, kes fire at every female signature in the papers; member, that when Olaudo Equiano, who, for a not ill-featured, tried his hand at a soft sonnet, mistake subscribed it Olauda, Mr. Merry fell so 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 grew 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! "O, bless'd with all the lovely lapse of song, That bathes with purest balm the soften'd breast, P. Come then, around their works a circle And near it plant the dragons of the law, Or bribed the hawkers for a day's renown. EARS! the alluring signature o time with a melancholy flight of an earwig, the some other event of equ His last work was an H ing!) which, I take for mouse that broke her h great consequence, he v tion as long as the poe prologiseth. "On a tame mouse, whi its life, constantly fed at its approaching de dropped out of its hea IT DIED." "This feeling mous "By sympathy dep Mr. T. Vaughan has a of this matchless Επιτα ed upon one Baviad (wh to be a man) with such st of diction, that it would to give it in any words "Well said, Baviad th Mr. T. Vaughan, as you the alluring signature o a very proper subject 1 suppose for a moment, this gentleman never d occasion, in whatever h the identica! Baviad, in abuse of him, immediate Thou think'st, perhaps, this wayward fancy strange; of that nightman of lit So think thou still yet would not I exchange The secret humour of this simple hit share, And heaven and earth hang trembling on a hair: Weston? And like hi what you say or write, d "Swell like a filt "The ayes have it. versed in your favourit are in the first, with you emphatic lines: "Into themselves h And act, at home, And to whose name sh thor's? Let not the read ity to proceed from Pers "The truth and the fact having a small change blundered them, with his He is not much more ha ing WESTON "the night a gentleman does not kn hard to expect him to k Edwin or not, our egregi Mr. T. Vaughan. |