The Race By Mercurius Spur, Esq [i.e. Cuthbert Shaw]. With notes. By Faustinus Scriblerus. The second edition. With large Additions and Alterations |
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 | The Race |  |
ADDRESS TO THE CRITICS.
The sov'reign arbiters of monthly wit,
Who gnatling-like your stings around dispense,
And feed on excrements of sickly sense;
Ye gentle critics, whom by fancy led,
My Pegasus has kick'd upon the head,
Who, zealous to decry th'injurious strain,
While common sense has bled at ev'ry vein,
Bewilder'd wander on, with ideot-Pride,
Without or Wit or Grammar for your guide,
Behold! again I blot th'invenom'd page,
Come, whet your tiny stings, exhaust your rage:
Let blust'ring K*n***k draw his raven's quill;
My claims to genius let each dunce disown,
And damn all strains more favour'd than their own.
No longer sporting on the rural green,
Rampant breaks forth; now flies the peaceful plains,
And bounds, impetuous, heedless of the reins,
O'er earth's vast surface, madly scours along,
Nor spares a critic gaping in the throng:
Truth rides behind, and prompts the wild career,
And truth, my Guardian, what have I to fear?
Whom yet I love far dearer than the muse,
Teach me myself in ev'ry sense to know,
Proof 'gainst th'injurious shafts of friend or foe.
When smooth tongu'd flatterers my ears assail,
May my firm soul disdain the fulsome tale;
And ah! from pride thy votive bard defend,
Tho' C**n**y smile, or C---d commend:
Unmov'd by squibs from all the scribling throng,
Whom thou proclaim'st the refuse of my song;
Still may I safe between the danger steer,
Of Scylla-flatt'ry, and Charybdis-fear.
Those foes to Genius' (should'st thou grant my claim!)
Those wrecks alike of reason and of fame.
In Justification of the author's severity, the reader is desired to attend to the Critical Review on the first edition of this Poem, where he will find comprised in a very narrow compass, a most wonderful variety of nonsense, both literal and metaphorical; where the Race is ingeniously discovered to be an imitation of Pope's Dunciad—Now the only circumstance, which has the least reference to that poem, is the hero's tumbling into a bog, which is, (as it is there acknowledged) an exact imitation of a passage in Homer', and was designed at the same time as a stroke of raillery on one of the instances where that immortal bard has nodded—This, the set of Gentlemen had not eyes to see, and are therefore excuseable. Dr. South reply'd to a gentleman who remonstrated to him from his bishop, that his sermons were too witty, “Pray present my humble duty to his lordship, and let him consider, if God Almighty had made him a wit he could not help it” these gentlemen certainly can't help their having neither genius nor literature; but blockheads may help commencing critics. F. SCRIBLERUS.
Perhaps some half-witted critic may pertly enquire, why should truth ride behind, rather than before? soft and fairly: certainly every man has a right to ride foremost on his own Pegasus.
THE RACE.
Who ne'er paid court at flatt'ry's fulsome shrine,
A youth enlighten with thy keenest fires,
Who dares proclaim whate'er the muse inspires.
By squint-ey'd prejudice, or love inclin'd,
No partial ties shall here enslave the mind:
Tho' fancy sport in fiction's pleasing guise,
Truth still conspicuous through the veil shall rise;
No bribe or stratagem shall here take place,
Tho' (strange to tell!)—the subject is a Race.
Where pimps are P***s' companions, whores their toasts,
Who best can hedge a bett, or cog a dye.
Nor like the Race, by ancient Homer told,
No spears for prizes, and no cups of gold:
A poets' Race, I sing—a poets' prize
Who gold and fighting equally despise.
Fame sent her heralds to proclaim her will.
“Since late her vot'ries in abusive lays
“Had madly wrangled for the wreath of bays;
“To quell at once this foul tumultuous heat,
“The day was fix'd whereon each bard should meet.
“Already had she mark'd the destin'd ground,
“Where from the goal her eager sons should bound,
“There, by the hope of future glory fed,
“Prove by their heels the prowess of the head;
“And he, who fleetest ran, and first to fame,
“The chaplet and the victory should claim.
And every scribler thought the wreath his own.
No corporal defect can now retard
The one legg'd, short legg'd, or consumptive bard;
Convinc'd that legs or lungs could make no odds
'Twixt man and man, where goddesses or gods
Presided judges; sure to have decreed
To dullness crutches, and to merit speed.
Booksellers, printers, and their devils came.
First Becket and De Hondt came hand in hand,
And next came Nourse and Millar from the Strand;
Here Woodfall—There the keen-ey'd Scott appears,
And Say (oh! wonderful!) with both his ears.
Morley the meagre, with Moran the fat
And Flexney with a favour in his hat.
To curse the cruel walls that held 'em in.
In rage around his shop poor Owen flies,
Damning the Chevalier, who clos'd his eyes;
“Oh! could he see, this day, the glorious strife,
He'd grope contented all his future life.”
To Pater-noster-row the tidings reach
And forth came Johnny Coote and Dryden Leach:
Associates in each cause alike they share,
Be it to print a primmer or Voltaire;
Thus leagu'd, how sweet the friendly pence to earn,
Like gentle Rosencraus and Guildenstern.
But Leach, where Churchill came, still cautious fled,
Skulk'd thro' the croud and trembled for his head.
Yet aping all the dignity of man,
He perch'd on horseback, that he might be seen;
And vow'd with worshipful grimace and din ,
He'd back the peerless bard of Lincoln's Inn.
Appear'd the goddess; while on either side
Stood Vice and Virtue—harbingers of fame,
This stamps a good, and that an evil name.
On flow'rs thick scatter'd o'er the mossy ground
The nymphs of Helicon reclin'd around;
Here, while each candidate his claim preferr'd,
In silent state the goddess sat and heard.
A horrid ditch appear'd—known by the name
Of Black Oblivion's Gulph. In former days
Here perish'd many a poet and his lays.
Reviewers Critical and Monthly stood
In terrible array, who dreadful frown,
And arm'd with clubs, here knock poor authors down.
Merit, alas! with them is no pretence,
In vain the pleas of poesy or sense;
All levell'd here; tho' some triumphant rise,
Shake off the dirt, and seek their native skies.
But strange! to dullness they deny the crown,
And damn ev'n works as stupid as their own!
Oh! be this rage for massacre withstood,
Nor thus imbrue your hands in brother's blood!
Stood the Thersites of the critic Race,
Tremendous Hamilton! Of giant-strength,
With Crabtree-staff full twice two yards in length.
Near John o'Groat's thatch'd Cot its parent stood,
Alone for many a mile—itself a wood;
Till Archy spy'd it, yet unform'd and wild,
And robb'd the mother of her tallest child:
Ill-omen'd Birds beheld with dire affright
Their roost despoil'd, and sicken'd at the sight;
In vain,—he frown'd; the birds in terror fled;
Perch'd on their thistles droop'd the mournful band:
Archy stalk'd off, the crab-tree in his hand.
From Glascow, Edinburgh and Aberdeen,
A troop of Lairds with scraps of Latin hung,
Who came to teach John Bull his mother tongue.
Poor John! who must not judge whate'er he read,
But wait for sentence from these sons of Tweed.
Whispers—“How dar'st thou, Novice, persevere
With headlong fury, to destruction prone,
“ Rouse sacred dulness yawning on her throne!
“Thus madly bold, dread'st not the Harpy's claw?
“Thou, scarce a morsel for so vast a maw!
“Soon shalt thou mourn thy ill-starr'd numbers curst.”
She scorns their malice, let 'em do their worst.
Where Phœbus casts not an auspicious eye,
The sick'ning numbers of themselves must die;
The candid few will justify its worth:
Still as it flows encreasing in its course,
Till like a river, with resistless force
Rapid rolls down the torrent of applause;
Then, struck with fear, each puny wretch withdraws,
Meanly disclaims the paths he lately trod,
Belies himself and humbly licks the rod.
The poverty of poets is a well known adage; or to speak more poetically, their contempt of riches. They also seem providentially in all ages, to have possessed the most pacific tempers: no doubt, lest their lives should be endangered, whose labors are so conducive to the amusement of society. Horace confesses himself a coward.
Relictâ non benè parmulâ &c.But the moderns are not quite so ingenuous. Swift
The discerning reader will at once be sensible of the necessity of this proviso; otherwise it is to be supposed, a poet with a wooden leg, or any bodily infirmity, would never have started.
Mr. Say's boldness in inserting any thing wrote in opposition even to ministerial measures, will render the meaning of this line sufficiently obvious to the intelligent reader.
Alluding to the custom of tenants wearing ribbons in their hats when the squire's horse wins the plate; Mr. Flexney, our hero's publisher, does the same, from a strong presumption of his author's success. Williams
These two Gentlemen, at the time this poem was first published, were imprisoned for Publications that were deemed libellous.
From a circumstance which Mr. Leach has the best reason to remember (as we hold feeling the most perfect of all the senses) the author must allow Mr. Churchill an exception to the general rule of poets being cowards, who for the most part, are fonder of laying on their blows with a pen than a cudgel; though we must confess 'tis a very cruel alternative, where a printer must either submit to have his head broke, or run the hazard of losing his ears.
The reader is not to suppose Mr. Vaillant made faces, but only that he assumed the proper air and countenance of a worshipful magistrate.
No inglorious expression, as some may imagine; witness the din of war—the din of arms, &c. therefore proper to be employed in any character of consequence.
The learned reader will not be surprized at this genealogy of the crabtree stick belonging to so illustrious a character as the Printer of the Critical Review—It is common, and Homer has often done the same, in regard to his Hero's swords and spears, &c.
This alludes to a part of their criticism upon the Race above-mentioned, wherein they observe “the author has attacked booksellers, printers, and even Reviewers—oh! Presumption! attack Reviewers! a set of gentlemen too! we acknowledge the justice of this remark and submit to the lash.
Every ingenuous mind must conceive the utmost contempt for modern criticism, by looking back on the treatment of the late Mr. Churchill, where we find the very critics, who, at his first appearance in public, would scarce allow him the least pretensions to genius, disavowing their former proceedings, and meanly courting his friendship. See the Critical Review about that period.
And thus preffer'd his suit—‘If due reward,
‘Goddess ador'd, to merit thou assign,
‘Whose verse so smooth, whose claim so just as mine;
‘To thee my cause I trust; Oh lend me wings,
‘Shew wit and sack to be consistent things,
‘And that he rhymes the best who rhymes for Kings.”
A**st***g appear'd to lay his lawful claim,
The sweet œconomy of health and love.
But when he saw what spleen each bosom fir'd,
Forth from the field he modestly retired.
Next Hill stood forth a darling child of fame;
But, as to Justice, Fame herself must bow,
The poets' bays shall never deck his brow:
Else, who, like Hill, can save a sickly age,
Like him arrest the hand of death with sage ?
But this the ancients never knew, or sure
They ne'er had died while sage remain'd a cure.
Oh, matchless Hill! if aught the muse foresee
Of things conceal'd in dark futurity,
Hence dire disease and pain shall be no more;
'Tis thine to save whole nations from his maw,
By some new Tincture of a Barley-straw.
He bow'd and spoke—“Oh goddess heav'nly fair,
‘To thy own Hill now shew a mother's care,
‘If I go unrewarded hence away,
‘What bard will court thee on a future day?
‘Who toils like me thy temple to unlock,
‘By Moral Essays, Rhime, and Water-dock?
‘With perseverance who like me could write
‘Inspector on Inspector, night by night,
‘Supplying still with unexhausted head,
‘Till every reader slumber'd as he read.
‘No longer then my lawful claim delay.”
She smil'd—Hill simper'd, and went pleas'd away.
‘May sure with justice claim the first regard.
‘A double merit's surely his, that's wont
‘To make the fiddle, and then play upon't;
‘Behold the work on which I build my fame!
‘Search every tragic scene of Greece and Rome,
‘From ancient Sophocles to modern Hume;
‘Examine well the conduct, diction, plan,
‘And match, then match Cleone, if you can.
‘A father wretched—husband wretched more—.
‘A harmless baby welt'ring in its gore;
‘Such dire distress as ne'er was seen before!
‘Such sad complaints and tears, and heart-felt throes,
‘Sorrows so wet and dry, such mighty woes,
‘Too big, for utt'rance e'en in tragic ohs!”
Historian, critic, bard, and novellist?
‘To reach thy temple, honour'd Fame, he cry'd,
‘Where, where's an avenue I have not tryed?
‘But since the glorious present of to-day
‘Is meant to grace alone the poet's lay,
‘My claim I wave to ev'ry art beside
‘And rest my plea upon the Regicide.
[OMITTED]
‘But if, to crown the labors of my muse
‘Thou, inauspicious, should'st the wreath refuse,
‘Whoe'er attempts it in this scribbling Age,
‘Shall feel the Scottish pow'rs of Critic rage;
‘Thus spurn'd, thus disappointed of my aim,
‘I'll stand a bugbear in the road to Fame;
‘Each future minion's infant hopes undo,
‘And blast the budding honors of his brow.”
Grimly he shook his scientific wig.
Behind came Hamilton, his trusty squire.
A while he paus'd, revolving the disgrace,
And gath'ring all the horrors of his face;
Then rais'd his head, and turning to the croud,
Burst into bellowings, terrible and loud.
‘Hear my resolve, and first by G--- I swear—
‘By Smollet, and his gods; whoe'er shall dare
‘Sous'd in the bottom of the ditch shall lie,
‘And know, the world no other shall confess
‘Whilst I have crabtree, life, or letter-press.”
Scar'd at the menace, authors fearful grew,
Poor Virtue trembled, and e'en Vice look'd blue.
A glorious patriot, an inglorious bard,
Yet erring, shot far wide of Freedom's mark,
And rais'd a flame, in putting out a spark:
Near to the throne, with silent step he came,
To whisper in her ear his filthy claim;
But (ruin to his hopes!) behind stood near,
With fix'd attention and a greedy ear,
A sneaking Priest, who heard, and to the croud.
Blab'd, with most grievous zeal, the tale aloud.
The peaceful Nine, whom nothing less could vex,
Flew on the vile assassin of the sex,
And scratch'd the front intended for the bays.
His rigid morals stamp'd upon his face,
While strong conceptions struggle in his brain
(For even wit is brought to bed with pain)
To view him, porters with their loads would rest,
And babes cling frighted to the nurse's breast.
With looks convuls'd, he roars in pompous strain,
And, like an angry lion, shakes his mane.
The Nine, with terror struck, who ne'er had seen
Aught human with so horrible a mien,
Debating, whether they should stay or run—
Virtue steps forth, and claims him for her son.
With gentle speech she warns him now to yield,
Nor stain his glories in the doubtful field;
Since Fame resolv'd his various pleas to crown,
Tho' forc'd his present claim to disavow,
Had long reserv'd a chaplet for his brow.
He bows; obeys—for Time shall first expire,
E'er Johnson stay, when Virtue bids retire.
‘To whom I still prefer my daily pray'r;
‘For whose dear sake I've scratch'd my drowsy head,
‘And robb'd alike the living and the dead;
‘Stranger to fear, have plung'd thro' thick and thin,
‘And Fleet-ditch Virgins dragg'd to Lincolns-Inn;
‘Smile on my hopes, thy favor let me share,
‘And shew mankind Hibernia boasts thy care.’
A poet, rais'd from mortar, brick and stones;
‘Goddess, he cries, reject his pitch-patch work,
‘ He was a butter-seller's boy at Cork;
‘On me bestow the prize, on me, who came
‘From my dear country in pursuit of fame:
‘For thus advis'd Mæcenas, (best of men)
“Jones, drop the trowel, and assume the pen;
“Come, seek with me, fair Albion's happier isle;
“There shall the theatres increase thy store,
“And Essex bleed to make thy purse run o'er.”
‘Thus have I fondly left the mason's care
‘To build imaginary tow'rs i'th' air;
‘Then, since my golden hopes have prov'd a cheat,
‘ Oh give him Fame, whom Fate forbids to eat,
‘This, this at least to me forlorn supply,
I'll live contented on a farthing pye.
Arrayed in brogues and Caledonian plaid,
Surrounded by his countrymen, while loud
The British Homer, rang thro' all the croud,
His bonnet doff'd, and thus preferr'd his pray'r.
‘Give me to seize this long contested prize;
‘In Epic lines I shine, the king of verse;
‘From torn and tatter'd scraps of ancient Erse,
‘'Tis mine a perfect pile to raise, for all
‘Must own the wond'rous structure of Fingal!’
No less a miracle, than if a Turk
A Mosque should raise up of mosaic work.
The ear to tickle, and to sooth the heart;
Who, with a goose-quill, like a magic rod,
Transforms a Scottish peer into a God.
Oh! matchless Mallet, by one stroke to clear,
One lucky stroke, four hundred pounds a year!
Long round a court poor Gay dependant hung,
(And yet most trimly has the poet sung)
Twice six revolving years vain-hoping past.
And unrewarded went away at last.
And thus advises, wisely, tho' in vain.
“Who pelf despising, seeks for vain applause,
“Thy will how stubborn, and thy wit how small
“To think a muse can ever thrive on Gall!
“Then timely throw thy venom'd shafts aside,
“Chuse out some fool blown up with pow'r and pride—
“Be flattery thy arrow, this thy Butt,
“And praise the Devil for his cloven foot.”
Who scorn to flatter, and detest a bribe?
[OMITTED]
Like Milton murder'd in an Eunuch's song,
With honesty no malice e'er cou'd shame,
With prejudices hunger ne'er could tame,
With judgment sometimes warp'd, but oft refin'd,
Next Cleland came—the champion of mankind!
Who views, contented with his little state,
Wealth squander'd by the partial hand of fate.
And, whilst dull rogues the joys of life partake,
Lives, a great patriot—on a mutton steak!
Half-wit, half-fool, half-critic and half-mad;
Seizing, like Shirley, on the poet's lyre,
With all the rage, but not one spark of fire;
Eager for slaughter, and resolv'd to tear
From others' brows that wreath he must not wear,
Next Kenrick came; all-furious, and replete
With brandy, malice, pertness and conceit.
Unskill'd in classic lore, thro' envy blind
To all that's beauteous, learned or refin'd,
For faults alone behold the savage prowl,
With reason's offal glut his rav'ning soul,
Pleas'd with his prey its inmost blood he drinks,
And mumbles, paws, and turns it—till it stinks.
Then bluntly thus—‘Will Kenrick is my name.
‘Who are these minions crouding to thy fane?
‘Poets! 'Pshaw! scriblers, impotent and vain;
‘The chaplet's mine—I claim it, who inherit
‘ Dennis's rage, and Milbourne's glorious spirit.’
A face so brazen and so pert a mein,
Calmly reply'd, ‘Vain-boaster, go thy way,
‘And prove more furious and more dull than they.’
As shew'd him confident and self approv'd.
Poor injur'd, honour'd Pope! the bard on thee
Has clapp'd a rusty lock without a key:
Thus when enraptur'd we attempt to rove
Thro' all the sweets of thy Pierian grove,
The gate alas! is strongly barr'd; and all
That taste the sweets must climb the rugged wall.
‘One boon, oh! grant me, and the day's my own!
‘When the shrill trumpet calls the rival train
‘To scour with nimble feet the dusty plain,
‘Let not the dread professor Lowth appear
‘To freeze thy vot'ry's shiv'ring soul with fear,
‘And drown me in a deluge of his wit.’
And pleas'd to think his carcass was so thin,
So moulded for the Race, while self-dubb'd worth
Beam'd from his eyes, he hem'd—and thus held forth:
‘Goddess, your slave—'tis true I draw the quill,
‘ Sometimes thro' anger, not to shew my skill,
‘Yet all must own, spite of the Bear's report,
‘There's obvious merit in my keen Retort;
‘Tho' Flexney (oh! his ignorance confound!)
‘Sells its contents to Grocers by the pound,
‘And, deaf to genius, and its pleas to fame,
‘Puts it to purposes—unfit to name.
‘Then since no profit from the muse I draw,
‘You can't refuse me praise, and so your ta---!”
To see such foplings skip around her fane?
That scorn'd to wear the smooth address of art,
Strongly mark'd out that firm unconquer'd soul,
Which nought on earth could biass or controul.
He bow'd—when all sneer at his want of grace ,
And uncouth form, ill-suited to the Race;
Whilst he contemptuous smil'd on all around,
And thus addrest her in a voice profound.
‘I come by just decrees to stand or fall.
‘When first the daring bard aspires to sing,
‘To check the sallies of his infant wing,
‘Critics not only try (your pardon, Fame,
‘To you a stranger is the Critic's name)
‘Would damp his vigour, and retard his flight.
‘Critics, oh Fame! are things compos'd between
‘The two ingredients, Ignorance and Spleen;
‘Who, like the Daw, wou'd infamously tear
‘The shining plumes they see another wear,
‘That thus unfeather'd by these wretched elves,
‘All may appear as naked as themselves.
‘With fools and knaves eternal war to wage,
‘By fears or partial feelings unsubdu'd,
‘To hurl defiance at so vast a croud;
‘To stand the teizing of their little spleen,
‘So oft to clear the witling-crouded scene;
‘From vice and folly tear the foul disguise,
‘And crush at once the Hydras as they rise.
‘Yet on I will—unaw'd by slavish fears,
‘Till gain'd the glorious point, or lost my ears.
With him whose humble muse delights in Shrubs,
And commentator Fawkes—let Woty tell,
Alone who sees, how much he can excel,
Clear as the skies upon a misty day;
Bard, Critic, and Divine—with upturn'd eyes
Dejected Virtue to the goddess cries,
“What ways and means for raising the supplies!”
Fawkes claim'd the right, from having ta'en degrees;
‘Combin'd, dear Woty, sure we ne'er can fail,
‘I'll speak—do thou hold up the cassock's tail.”
He hem'd—then haw'd—then bow'd, and thus began;
‘Oh! Fame propitious view the friendly plan:
‘See Law on Gospel, cast a social look,
‘And Moses side with Lyttleton and Coke:
‘Let not a partnership unknown before
‘In vain for favor and the bays implore;
‘But guide thy vot'ry's feet across the plain,
‘While gentle Woty bears the sable train;
‘And crown'd with conquest, amply to reward
‘So mean an office in so great a bard,
‘Six days in seven I'll the wreath resign,
‘Only on Sundays be its honors mine.
His Sing-Song-Muse, by vast success enhanc'd;
Who, when fair Wright, destroying reason's fence,
Inveigles our applause in spite of sense,
With Syren-voice our juster rage confounds,
And cloaths sweet nonsense in delusive sounds,
Pertly commends the judgment of the town,
And arrogates the merit as his own;
Talks of his taste! how well each air was hit!
While Printers and their Devils praise his wit;
And wrap'd in warm surtout of self-conceit
Defies the critic's cold, and poet's heat.
‘Goddess, I wonder at the pride of man;
‘Fellows, whose accents never yet have hung
‘On skilful Beard's or Brent's harmonious tongue,
‘Dare here approach, who chatter like a parrot,
‘ But hardly know a sheep's-head from a carrot.
‘Whose tasteless lines ne'er grac'd a royal stage
‘Nor charm'd a tuneful crotchet-loving age!
‘And let these sons of Dullness lag behind,
‘Whilst hoity toity, whisky frisky, I
‘On ballad-wings spring forth to victory.’
And damns thy labours to eternal night.
Brands that success which boasts no just pretence
To genius, judgment, wit or common sense;
But, who for taste shall dare prescribe the laws,
Or stop the torrent of the mob's applause?
And thus harrangu'd the Goddess on his worth.
‘'Tis mine oh! Fame, full fraught with attic lore,
‘Long-lost pronunciation to restore,
‘Of letters to reform each vile abuse,
‘And bring the Grecian kappa into use.
‘Restor'd its ancient sound of Kikero.
‘The superfluities of E and L:
‘T'unveil the long conceal'd recess of truth.
‘And teach betimes to bend the pliant youth;
‘To point the means of proper recreation
‘And prove no whetter equals emulation:
‘In song didactic as I move, to draw
‘The proper rules for study and for Taw;
‘In taste for sacred writings to refine us,
‘And shew the odds 'twixt Daniel and Longinus;
‘To criticize, instruct, and prove in metre
‘Tully's a perfect blockhead to St. Peter:
‘Deign then, O Fame, to satisfy my lore,
‘Who've wrote as mortal man ne'er wrote before,
‘And nobly soar'd beyond the reach of sense.”
Renown'd for all the various pow'rs of song:
Sweet as the Thracian's, whose melodious woe
Mov'd the stern tyrant of the shades below;
Or that, by which the faithless Syren charms,
And woos the sailor shipwreck'd in her arms:
Soft as the notes which Phœbus did employ
To raise the glories of ill-fated Troy;
Or those which banish'd Reason could recal,
And bring the Devil cap'ring out of Saul.
Lo! he adventures for the poet's Bays!
But falls like Fortune, on the heads of fools:
Dull Dogmas thunder'd from the pedant's mouth,
No more shall tire the ear-belabour'd youth;
Since bards now spring without the pains of lashing,
Like Arne and Duck, from sidling and from thrashing.
‘The cause, why I thy candidate appear.”
‘ Four smother'd brats I doom'd to endless night;
‘Abashed, lest any thing less fair should prove
‘Unworthy Arne, and thy maternal love.
‘But here behold a babe, to whom belong
‘The double gifts of eloquence and song;
‘Who, not like other infants born or bred,
‘Sprung forth, like Pallas, from its daddy's head.
‘On me then, Fame, oh! let thy favours fall,
‘And shew that Tommy Arne outwits 'em all.
A wanton poet, and a solemn priest;
By turns thro' life, each character we mark,
A priest by day, a poet in the dark:
Yet each at will the Proteus can forsake,
Now politician, now commences rake,
Nay worse—(if fame say true) panders for love,
And acts the Merc'ry to a lustful Jove.
Whilst his sage precepts cool each am'rous breast;
Now strips the priest's disguise, awakes desire,
Tells the lewd tale, and fans the dying fire:
All poz'd, despair his character to paint,
And wonder how the dev'l they lost the saint!
A score at least, of self-sufficient worth,
Each claims the chaplet, or protests his wrong,
A prologue this had wrote, and that a song;
Forth from the crowd a general hissing flies,
To see such triflers arrogate the prize,
But fully bent this day the Goddess came,
To hear with patience every coxcomb's claim.
Popes, Shakespears, Johnsons—in their own conceit,
With hopes elate advance, and ardor keen,
Whom not one muse had ever heard or seen;
Who still write on, tho' hooted and disgrac'd,
And damn the public for their want of taste.
Nations confess; and potentates obey,
His own defects who boldly dares to scan,
Just to himself?—Ev'n now, whilst I incline
To paint the vot'ries kneeling at thy shrine,
Whilst others follies freely I impart,
Thy pow'r resistless flutters round my heart,
Prompts me this common weakness to disclose,
( Myself the very coxcomb I expose.)
And, ah! too partial to my lays and me!
My kind—yet cruel friends—soon shall you see
The Culprit-Muse, whose idle sportive vein
No views can bias, and no fears restrain,
(Thus female-thieves, tho' threaten'd with disgrace
Must still be fing'ring dear forbidden Lace)
Dragg'd without mercy to that awful bar
Where Spleen with Genius holds eternal war,
And there, her final ruin to fulfil,
Condemn'd by Butchers, pre-resolv'd to kill;
Ev'n for a Syllable the wretch shall bleed,
And 'spite of all the friendship you can shew,
Be made a public spectacle of woe.
But hold, tho' sentenc'd—manners; and be mute—
Derrick appears to move his kingly suit.
‘(A master of the ceremonies I)
‘Since re-inthron'd at Bath I now appear,
‘This day appoint me to that station here;
‘In nicest order, I'll conduct the whole,
‘All riot and indecency controul,
‘For know, this pigmy frame contains a mighty soul.’
‘'Twas I first gave the strumpet's list to fame,
‘Their age, size, qualities, if brown or fair,
‘Whose breath was sweetest, whose the brightest hair,
‘Display'd each various dimple, smile and frown,
‘Pimp-Generalissimo to all the town!
‘Thus each may chuse the maid of partial hue;
‘Know to whose bed he has the best pretensions,
‘And buy the Venus of his own dimensions.
‘Songs, prologues, and meand'ring odes are mine;
‘Such Jeu d'Esprit, as best becomes a king,
‘And gentle epigrams—without a sting;
‘The fam'd Domitian still before my eyes,
‘Who ne'er for pastime, murder'd aught but flies;
‘Nay—let my muse boast gentler sport than he,
‘Since fly or gnat was never hurt by me,
‘By me, tho' seated in monarchial state,
‘And, spite of Harrington, whose will is fate.’
And smil'd contempt on printer's boys below.
“'Tis time the business of the day were done,
“Enjoy what thou demand'st—up yonder tree
“Climb expeditious, that the croud may see
“And quell the tumult of the rabble rout.
“Amid the various claimants for the bays,
“One fav'rite bard escapes my notice—say,
“My dear Melpomene, on such a day,
“Why is not thy beloved Shenstone here?”
The muse was silent—sobb'd—and drop'd a tear.
Proclaims the hour of starting is at hand.
Now, round the goal the various heroes press,
While hope and fear alternately possess
Each anxious breast! in order here they rise,
And panting stand impatient for the prize:
Scarce can they wait till Derrick takes his place,
And waves the flag, as signal for the Race.
With Descaizeau slow-pacing in the rear!
Mason and Thompson, Ogilvy and Hayes,
And he whose hand has pluck'd a sprig of bays,
But now too late their various pow'rs to prove,
Some future day may fair occasion yield
To weigh their sev'ral merits in the field:
For see! the bards, with expectation rife,
Stand stript, and ready for the glorious strife;
And monarch Derrick would attempt in vain
Their furious ardor longer to restrain.
And shake with clatt'ring feet the powder'd ground,
Equal in flight there two dispute the race
With envious strife, and measure pace for pace.
Straight all is uproar and tumultuous din;
This tumbles down, another breaks his shin;
That swears his puffing neighbour stinks of Gin.
While loud, To Order, Derrick calls in vain.
Stuck fast in mire here some desponding lay,
And, grinning, yield the glories of the day.
For, maugre all primeval bards have sung,
Steep is the road to Fame, and clogg'd with dung.
Vain hope! for fate the wish'd-for boon denies;
Arriv'd, where scavengers, the night before,
Had left their gleanings from the common shore,
With head retorted, as he fearful spy'd
The giant Churchill thund'ring at his side,
Sudden he tript and piteous to tell!
Prone in the filth the hapless poet fell.
‘He must give out, thus sous'd in dung and mire.”
‘Spite of the t***d, he'll rise and run again.’
While, sputt'ring dirt, and scrabbling from the ground,
‘Cease, fools, your mirth, nor sneer at my disgrace;
‘This cursed bog, not Churchill, won the race;
‘And sure, who such disasters can foresee,
‘Must be a greater Conjuror than me.”
Up to the gulph his jaded rivals crawl;
Here some the watchful harpies on the shore
Plunge in—ah! destin'd to return no more—
While others wond'ring, view them as they sink,
And scar'd, stand quiv'ring on the dreadful brink.
Turns from his rueful foe, and stares around;
No bard he views behind—but all have past
Him, heedless of their flight, and now the last.
Stung at the thought with double force he springs,
Rage gives him strength, and emulation wings:
The ground regain'd—‘Stand clear (he sternly said)
‘Who bars my passage, horror on his head.’—
Why heard'st thou not the menace, e'er too late!
Fir'd with disdain, he spurn'd the witling's breech,
And headlong hurl'd him in Oblivion's ditch;
Then instant bounding high with all his main,
O'erleap'd its utmost bounds, and scour'd along the plain.
Spite bit her nails, and Dulness scratch'd her head.
The gulph once past, no obstacle remains,
Smooth is the path, 'midst flow'r-enamel'd plains;
Unrival'd now, with joyful speed he flies,
Performs the destin'd race, and claims the prize.
Fame gives the chaplet, while the tuneful Nine
Th'acknowledg'd victor hail in notes divine.
Hill call'd the goddess Whore, and Jones a Bitch;
Each curs'd the partial judgment of the day,
And, greatly disappointed, sneak'd away.
This gentleman has obliged the public with two poetical pieces, the one entitled, The OEconomy of Love, the other Health—in which he has displayed great abilities, both in sentiment and diction.
'Tis impossible to express the obligations of the public to the author of this discovery. We learn that the ancients had indeed the art of restoring youth, by cutting the party to pieces, and boiling them in a kettle—but certainly the horror of so dismal a process (could the art be revived) might deter a person of a moderate share of courage, from receiving the benefit of it. But Dr. Hill has removed the scruples of the most timorous, and has promised all the good effects of so dreadful an experiment, in a discovery both simple and palatable.
A favourite expression of Dr. Hill's in all his advertisements, is ‘the ancients knew this—the Greeks knew this, &c. &c.
Als the reader may perhaps ascertain within himself the future success of Dr. Hill, from the smile of the goddess, he is desired to suspend his judgment, and consider that there are smiles of contempt as well as of approbation.
In perusing the above piece, the readers may observe the different effects of grief here mentioned, where one character complains of being drowned in tears, and another that he cannot shed any.
A Tragedy written by Dr. S. and printed by subscription, but never acted. See Companion to the Playhouse, Vol. I.
The reader is to suppose that these asterisks must certainly mean something of the utmost consequence—It is exactly of the same kind with the blank page in Tristram Shandy.
As pale is an epithet that characterises the fear of mortals, the author has made use of the Poetica Licentia, in making a goddess turn blue.
A poet enamour'd of obvious similies, would certainly have compared this action for the honor of the sex, to an outrage often committed by the female mobility, from a motive still more interesting—but our author has declined the comparison, out of respect to the virgin-delicacy of the Muses, and the reader will furthermore observe, that their fingers rove no lower than his forehead.
It is a mortification to which the professed patrons of merit must ever be liable, to have their benevolence abused, and their hopes deceived—but great souls have no limits, or rather disdain any; which is well exprest by Voltaire.
Meme au moins virtueux ne les refusez pas,
Ne vous informez pas de leur reconnoissance,
Il est grand, il est beau de faire des ingrats.
There is indeed an air of originality, which, to a literary virtuoso, renders Fingal worthy of notice. But I am afraid the North-Britons cannot easily be acquitted of national partiality; who, instead of a bonnet and thistle, which would have been no incompetent reward, have insisted on his right to a crown of laurel.
Dennis and Milbourne, two things called Critics, damn'd to immortality for being the persecutors of Dryden and Pope.
Alluding to the Essay on Satire prefixed to the 2d. vol. of Pope's works, which the reader of no discernment might mistake for the production of that immortal genius, unless he is lucky enough to stumble upon the title page. It has often been a matter of astonishment, how it came there? as there is no such privilege in Mr. Pope's will, bequeathed to the editor, together with the property of his works.
Facit Indignatio Versus. Let no one pretend to say that even anger has not its good effects, since we owe the immortal works both of a Juvenal and a Vaughan, to their being roused by a spirit of resentment.
A name by which the late Mr. Churchill was distinguished, on account, as we suppose, of the rough manner in which he handled the gentle bards who were so unlucky as to come within reach of his poetical paws.
Not spiritual grace, but grace in making a bow; or if the reader must be let into the secret, this may refer to the cavils of the critics in general against the unharmoniousness of his numbers.
Mr. Churchill, as a scholar, is here supposed well acquainted with that general maxim in oratory, Loquere ore rotundo, which is here rendered a voice profound.
Mr. Elphinston intends shortly to lay before the public his reasons for giving C always the sound of the Grecian Καππα, which will certainly give a softness and dignity to the expression of many other words in our language, as well as this instanced by the author.
Joint as we stand, unsevered shall we ly.
ibid.
A very ingenuous declaration it must be acknowledged, and I dare venture to pronounce our author the first who ever made it, and in all probability the last who ever will—The antients all run into the contrary extreme: See Horace, Virgil, Ovid, Lucan, &c. &c.
Lest some malevolent critic, reviewing critic, or critical reader, (as all readers, now-a-days, are critics) should tax the author with plagiarism, he thinks it prudent to enter his caveat, by declaring he had that famous line of Virgil in his eye,
Quadrupetante putrem sonitu quatit ungula campum,with this difference, that his animals have four feet, and these but two.
Many of our readers cannot but remember, in a late literary quarrel, how the authors attacked one another for frequenting brothels, smoaking, and dram-drinking; to which this circumstance alludes.
The very same misfortune happens to Oilean Ajax, in the Iliad, who also makes a speech to the same effect:
A mortal I, a goddess was my foe!
She urg'd her fav'rite on the rapid way;
And Pallas, not Ulysses, won the day.
A noble precedent, and sufficient for authorizing so low an incident in this poem.
| The Race | |