University of Virginia Library

EPILOGUE TO THE SECOND EDITION

Criticisms, and the Guide's Conversation with three Ladies of Piety, Learning, and Discretion.

Guide.]
O spare me, good Madam, it goes to my heart
With my sweet methodistical letter to part.
Away with your paste! 'tis exceedingly hard
Thus to torture and cramp an unfortunate bard:
How my Muse will be shock'd, when she's just taking flight,
To find that her pinions are fasten'd so tight!

First Lady.]
Why you know, beyond reason, and decency too,
Beyond all respect to religion that's due,
Your dirty satirical work you pursue.
I very well know whom you meant to affront
In the pictures of Prudence, and Tabitha Runt.—

Guide.]
Indeed my good ladies, religion and virtue
Are things that I never design'd any hurt to.
All poets and painters, as Horace agrees,
May copy from nature what figures they please;
Nor blame the poor poet, or painter, if you
In verse or on canvas your likeness should view.
I hope you don't think I would write a lampoon;
I'd be hang'd at the foot of Parnassus as soon.

Second Lady.]
Prithee don't talk to me of your Horace and Flaccus,
When you come like an impudent wretch to attack us.
What's Parnassus to you? Take away but your rhyme,
And the strains of the bell-man are full as sublime.

Third Lady.]
Dost think that such stuff as thou writ'st upon Tabby,
Will procure thee a busto in Westminster-Abbey?

Guide.]

A LETTER

To Miss Jenny W---d---r, at Bath; from Lady Eliz. M---d---ss, her Friend in the Country;

A young Lady of neither Fashion, Taste, nor Spirit.

The Conversation continued.—The Ladies' Receipt for a Novel.—The Ghost of Mr. Quin.

Guide.]
Now I hope that this letter from young Lady Betty,
Will be reckon'd exceedingly decent and pretty:
That you, my good ladies, who ne'er could endure
A hymn so ineffably vile and impure,
My indelicate Muse will no longer bewail,
Since a sweet little moral is pinn'd to her tail:
If not, as so kindly I'm tutor'd by you,
Pray tell a poor poet what's proper to do.

First Lady.]
Why if thou must write, thou hadst better compose
Some novels, or elegant letters in prose.
Take a subject that's grave, with a moral that's good,
Throw in all the temptations that virtue withstood,
In epistles like Pamela's chaste and devout—
A book that my family's never without.—

Second Lady.]
O! pray let your hero be handsome and young,
Taste, wit, and fine sentiment, flow from his tongue,
His delicate feelings be sure to improve
With passion, with tender soft rapture and love.

Third Lady.]
Add some incidents too, which I like above measure,
Such as those which I've heard are esteem'd as a treasure
In a book that's intitled—The Woman of Pleasure.
Mix well, and you'll find 'twill a novel produce
Fit for modest young ladies—so keep it for use.

Guide.]
Damnation— (aside.)
Well, ladies, I'll do what I can,
And ye'll bind it, I hope, with your Duty of Man.
Guide mutters.]
—Take a subject that's grave, with a moral that's good!
Thus musing, I wander'd in splenetic mood
Where the languid old Cam rolls his willowy flood.
When lo! beneath the poplar's glimm'ring shade,
Along the stream where trembling oziers play'd,
What time the bat low-flitting skims the ground,
When beetles buz, when gnats are felt around,
And hoarser frogs their am'rous descant sound.
Sweet scenes! that heavenly contemplation give,
And oft in musical description live!
When now the moon's refulgent rays begin
O'er twilight groves to spread their mantle thin,
Sudden arose the awful form of Quin:
A form that bigger than the life appear'd,
And head like Patagonian hero rear'd.
Aghast I stood! when lo! with mild command
And looks of courtesy, he wav'd his hand,
Me to th' embow'ring grove's dark path convey'd,
And thus began the venerable Shade:
“Forth from Elysium's blest abodes I come,
“Regions of joy, where Fate has fix'd my doom:
“Look on my face—I well remember thine:
“Thou knew'st me too, when erst in life's decline
“At Bath I dwelt—there late repos'd mine age,
“And unrepining left this mortal stage:
“Yet do those scenes, once conscious of delight,
“Rejoice my social ghost! there oft by night
“I hold my way:
“And from the mullet, and the sav'ry jole,
“Catch fragrant fumes, that still regale my soul:
“Sweet Bath, which thou these dreary banks along
“Oft makes the subject of thy wayward song.”—

Guide.]
O spare me, blest spirit—

Ghost.]
Quit thy vain fears; I come not to accuse
The motley labours of thy mirthful Muse,
For well I ween, if rightly understood,
Thy themes are pleasant, and thy moral good.
Oft have I read the laughter-moving phrase,
And splayfoot measures of thy Simkin's lays,
Nor aught indecent or obscene I find,
That virtue wounds, or taints the virgin's mind:
Beware of that—O! why should I describe
What ills await the caitiff scribbling tribe?
First see the mob who novels lewd dispense,
The bane of virtue, modesty, and sense:
Next that infernal crew, detractors base,
Who pen lampoons; true satire's foul disgrace:
Nor less the punishment in realms below
For those who praise unmerited bestow,
Those pimps in science, who, with dulness bold,
The sacred Muses prostitute for gold:
Those too whom zeal to pious wrath inclines,
Pedantic, proud, polemical divines:
Bad critics last, whom Rhadamanth severe
Chastises first, then condescends to hear:
All, all, in fiery Phlegethon must stay,
Till gall, and ink, and dirt, of scribbling day,
In purifying flames are purg'd away.—

Guide.]
O trust me, blest spirit, I ne'er would offend
One innocent virgin, one virtuous friend:
From nature alone are my characters drawn,
From little Bob Jerom to bishops in lawn:
Sir Boreas Blubber, and such stupid faces,
Are at London, at Bath, and at all public places;
And if to Newmarket I chance to repair,
'Tis odds but I see Captain Cormorant there:
But he who his cash on physicians bestows,
Meets a light little doctor wherever he goes.

Ghost.]
'Tis true, such insects as thy tale has shown
Breathe not the atmosphere of Bath alone,
Tho' there, in gaiety's meridian ray,
Vain fools, like flies, their gaudy wings display;
Awhile they flutter, but, their sunshine past,
Their fate, like Simkin, they lament at last.
Worse ills succeed; oft Superstition's gloom
Shed's baneful influence o'er their youthful bloom—
Such Heav'n avert from fair Britannia's plains,
To realms where bigotry and slavery reigns!
No more of that.—But say, thou tim'rous bard,
Claim not the Wines of Bath thy just regard?
Where oft, I ween, the brewer's cauldron flows
With elder's mawkish juice and puck'ring sloes,
Cyder aud hot geneva they combine,
Then call the fatal composition Wine.
By Cerberus I swear, not those vile crews,
Who vend their pois'nous med'cines by the news,
For means of death, air, earth, and seas explore,
Have sent such numbers to the Stygian shore:
Shun thou such base potations; oft I've thought
My span was short'ned by the noxious draught.—
But soft, my friend!—is this the soil, the clime,
That teaches Granta's tuneful sons to rhime?
On me unsavoury vapours seem to fix,
Worse than Cocytus or the pools of Styx;
Inspir'd by fogs of this slow-winding Cam,
O say, does --- presume thy strains to damn?
Heed not that miscreant's tongue; pursue thy ways
Regardless of his censure or his praise.

Guide.]
But if any old lady, knight, priest, or physician,
Should condemn me for printing a second edition,
If good Madam Squintum my work should abuse,
May I venture to give her a smack of my Muse?

Ghost.]
By all manner of means: if thou find'st that the case,
Tho' she cant, whine, and pray, never mind her grimace,
Take the mask from her d—mn'd hypocritical face.

Guide.]
To the Ghost.