The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] :: :: University of Virginia Library

Peter prettily and poetically proclaimeth the pernicious Effects of Flattery—he solemnly addresseth Doctor Porteus, as of the celebrated School of Warburton; loading the Doctor with appropriate and complimentary Epithets— Though Peter acknowledgeth the Bishop's overmatch for the Devil and Sin, he denieth his Powers over Taste—shrewdly hinteth that a wise Father may have a foolish Son—proveth the Bishop's Want of critical Acumen, by his hyperbolical Praises of Miss Hannah More, a Rhime-and-Prose Gentlewoman, born at Bristol —Peter, having narrowly searched Miss Hannah, and tried Miss Hannah by his own Touchstone, discovereth the metallic Nature of Miss Hannah's Genius—Peter solemnly protesteth that he cannot wade twice through Miss Hannah's Works, deeming them, as Dr. Johnson would have expressed himself, Pages of puerile Vanity and intellectual Imbecility.

Soft is the voice of Flatt'ry! sweet her song!
Ah, much too sweet for man, vain man, I fear!
Her oil of fool, too fluent, glides along,
And winding, drops with death, into his ear.

440

O Porteus, of the Warburtonian school,
Meek, modest, generous, diffident, and humble,
'Tis said that sometimes sages play the fool;
But when they stumble, with a vengeance stumble:

Though form'd to brighten all the human race,
Rare flint and steel, illumining the dark;
Though, like an egg, so full of faith, and grace,
Like thy great Prototype of Pryor Park;

Though bravely furious for the fight, to tame
Old Nick, and eke his dirty mother Sin,
With every sort of weapon one can name,
Ev'n from the thundering cannon to a pin;

Yet, Porteus, though a giant with thy blows,
That Sin's and Satan's hides with glory baste,
A dwarf art thou, in fields of verse and prose—
A very pigmy in the realms of taste.

What tho' thou rhime hast made, it does not follow,
The critic's laurel must thy temples shade;
A man may be descended from Apollo,
And yet a novice in the critic trade.

Nay, man may scarce be equal to a pun;
Yet sprung from Phœbus, but without his art:
Less fit to guide the chariot of the sun,
Than that more humble vehicle, a cart.

With sighs I tell thee of Miss Hannah More,
A mighty genius, in thy charge display'd!
Know, I have search'd the damsel o'er and o'er,
And only find Miss Hannah, a good maid.

Oft by my touchstone have I tried the lass,
And see no shining mark of gold appear;
No, nor one beam of silver; some small brass,
And lead and glittering mundic, in thine ear.

441

A sorry critic, thou, in prose and metre,
Or thou hadst judg'd her pow'r a scanty rill;
Which, if thou wilt believe the word of Peter,
Crawls at the bottom of th' Aonian hill.

Twice can't I read her labours for my blood,
So simply mawkish, so sublimely sad!
I own Miss Hannah's life is very good,
But then her verse and prose are very bad.

No muse e'er touch'd Miss Hannah's lips with fire;
No fountain hers of bright imagination:
So little doth a genuine muse inspire,
That genius will not own her a relation.

Miss Hannah's graces dazzle not the view—
No bonfire she—no sun's meridian blaze:—
A rush-light 'midst th' illuminating few:
A farthing rush-light, with its winking rays.

Miss Hannah has no eagle-wing to flee,
Whom thus thine adulation can befool:
Alas! a poor ephemeron is she!
A humming native of a Bristol pool.

The late Bishop Warburton, of lamb-like memory.