University of Virginia Library

Mr. Horace Smith:—who was rather unceremoniously dished up in the last number of “Murray's Cookery Book.”

The novel-manufacturers are more abundant than any other kind of scribblers. Doubtless some of these works tend to benefit men and manners, but their influence is counteracted by the baneful lessons, and fashionable voluptuousness teeming in the far greater number. It is astonishing how universally they are read. There is scarcely a link-boy that cannot describe his favourite heroine, or a housemaid that cannot prate on her admired hero.—Assuredly, too, we may say of the ordinary fashionable novel—“Hic liber est conglutinatus ex tam multis libris, quot unus pinguis cocus, oves, boves, sues, grues, auseres, passeres, coquere, aut unus fumosus, calefactor centum magna hypocausta ex illis calefacere possit.” Epist. Obs. Vio.

Miss Léfanú is the author of multitudinous neatly-vamped novels, not at all deficient in those purifying graces and qualities usually found in those of the Minerva manufactory. Helme and Rouviere with unnumbered other hirelings, help to constitute Mr. Newman's crew. Apropos, the following circumstance, illustrative of Newman's literary distinctions, was told me by one, whose word I have no reason to doubt:—A novel, miserably written, and equally wretched in the orthographical department, the work of a courtezan, was offered to Newman. The person who took it, frankly related the particulars, and was about to express some other opinion, when Mr. N. very promptly interrupted, him by “No matter, Sir,—no matter, Sir,— we are used to these kind of things; you know my terms!!”

What would become of fashionable life, without novels!— There are many who spend their existence in devouring novels and scandal. Since writing the note above, a novel, called “Falkland,” auspice, Colburn,—has made its appearance: this work is a complete illustration of all that I have said on the baneful effect of indiscriminate novel reading. Put “Falkland” into the hands of any young person of common mind, and he will not fail to be intoxicated with the charms of adultery:—There is a most romantic scene in it: a naughty married lady and gentleman, commit a terrible faux pas under a tree.—We are told, too, that just at the awful moment, the thunders rolled—the rain-drops pattered—and then we have [OMITTED]

Novels can be crammed down the public, just in the same style as the Hamiltonian System, Kalydor, Blacking, Champagne, and other bottled wonders. In one respect, the novel-publishers have an advantage: they can attribute their “printed things,” to some magnificent, illustrious Nobody.—O, thou sublime genius, Nobody!— Thou hast been humbugging the world ever since the creation.

At this very hour, I see the papers are teeming with advertisements of forthcoming novels. Nobody should ask, “What's in a name?” since the reign of novels. The title is the best thing belonging to half of them. The Parson;—The Soldier;—The Sailor;—The Beau Monde;—The Black Monde;—The Blue Monde;—Flirtation;—Dissipation;—all sorts of Halls,—all kinds of De Somebodys'. Such are the fashionable titles.

Novels in the Press.

• PUBLICATION. By Henry Colburn, Esq.
• Catchpenny Hall. By the author of Vivian Grey.
• Gullibility. By the author of Almacks.
• Pickles. By the author of Tor Hill.
• Blue Devils. By the author of Frankenstein.
• Something. By the author of Nothing.
• De Puff, or, The Man of Dependence. By W. Jerdan, Esq.

London: Published by Henry Humbug, at Cozen-all-Corner.

“We understand, from good authority, that some of Mr. Humbug's novels for the season, will create no small stir.”

Vivian Grey, by Mr. D'Israeli, Jun. made some little noise, through the puffing talents of unequalled Colburn, and the fashionable nonsense its pages contained; such as a well-bred eaves-dropping lacquey might have collected:—the second part, exceeded in stupidity all the dross of the first.

Tremaine, certainly tended to a good purpose—it was quite freed from any impurities. But the feeble attempt at religious argument, instead of converting, only tended to heighten the jeering sophistry of the infidels. The remaining novels here introduced, are well-known, and, I hope, their writer's talents.

Pers. Sat. III.

Lest I may be mistaken, I beg leave to say, that the “cheap-bought brains,” refer to Mr. Newman's troop of scribblers,—not to himself.

Miss Wilson's works shewed her like a lady of some judgment, —with an admirable foresight she contrived to suit the taste of the higher circles. With regard to her crime, of publishing such a work I have nothing to say, for the present. Allowing that half of her volumes were a concoction of lies, what do the remainder of her revelations prove?

I was glad to see the “Quarterly,” really attempt to effect some good, by lashing the memoir-scribblers, reminiscent-furbishers, &c. —The impudence of these auto-biographists has surmounted all that their dearest associates could have anticipated: in a little time we may expect every amusive vagabond will favour the public with a record of his former delinquencies and eccentricities:—

The Sun's Darling.

Mr. Reynolds would not have injured his witty volumes, by omitting to relate his connection with the black-eyed lady. There was nothing at all singular in his keeping a mistress.

Keefe's Reminiscences were wretched, and paltry to a degree. It is a pity he should have burdened his valuable memory with such bagatelles.

Lady Craven is very fond of informing us of her youthful personal charms, and attractive attributes.

Poor Mr. Boaden!—poor Mr. Boaden!—is a most respectable gentleman:—But, he had some inveterate foe, who persuaded him he was an excellent delineative critic! His “Life of Kemble,” was little else but a transcription of common newspaper criticisms:—and as for his attempt at Mrs. Siddons!—no one can doubt, after reading this, what an extensive collection of play-bills is in the possession of James Boaden, Esq. How dearly celebrity is purchased! every body puts up his little pop-gun pen, and fires at it.

What a nuisance our tourists are become! Can't they be contented with reading their garbled anecdotes, sign-post records, tap-room adventures, &c. to their own beloved relations on their return? Why is the public eye to be for ever attracted to some high-flavoured advertisement—and the pocket of the unwise to be emptied by these conceited travellers? Nobody, now, can voyage a few hundred miles, to pay his respects to a grandmother, or “in obedience to the dictates of a revered father, by whose wishes a commonplace book was kept,”—without printing, on his return, an account of a journey across—the Lord knows where. The observations that many of these travellers insert, too, are in the highest degree ludicrously trifling.

Journal of a Voyage from my lodgings in Holborn, to Blackfriar's Bridge. March 20th, 3 o'clock, P. M. Left my street door in a very warm cloak, felt the wind blow bleakly on my nose; a poor woman curtsied, with “God bless your honour:”—regretted my inability, and passed on. The faces of the passengers appeared tinged with blue, and the ladies began to think the breezes very rude with their dresses. On my arrival at the top of Chancery Lane, found a dismal mixture of coaches and carts;—recommend all future travellers to go by the Southampton Buildings. Met some half hundred counsellors in Chancery Lane, all appeared remarkably hungry. The arch leading into the Court, is a very old one;—was unable to discover any remarkable inscription on it. An unfortunate accident occurred opposite this arch;—A huge farmer, consisting of several tuns of blood, upset a poor woman's basket of eggs—observed that the yolks were yellow, and of a conglomerative nature;—must not omit to add—a crowd assembled. Ere I reached the bottom of this lane, saw Mrs. Coutts in her carriage—Lord Lauderdale doing the delightful by her side— thought the lady much improved in the bon point. I nearly left my shoes behind me, in crossing the road:—recommend all future travellers to wear wellingtons. St. Dunstan's iron-crusted clock-strikers were about to commence operations,—stood to observe them. While in the act of gazing upwards, the point of a passenger's umbrella nearly travelled through the narrow confines of my ribs: on my exclaiming,—the fellow grunted, “What he stand staring there for?” Mem. Recommend all future travellers not to stand still in the streets. The shops in Fleet Street, I found tolerably decent. Another accident occurred, as I passed along here:— A rustic booby introduced his elbow into a large pane of glass,— just saw the master of the shop gripe his shirt collar, and then passed. At the top of Bridge Street, three children were run over. (London, a terrible place for running over.) Arrived at Blackfriar's Bridge by half-past three, having performed my journey in a half-hour. Mem. On looking behind me, perceived no silk handkerchief was hanging from my pocket,—and, that I was sadly splashed:—recommend all travellers to take a coach, instead of walking.”—I am sure this portion of my journal ought to be duly read, and liberally quoted by the public press,—although there be no “accompanying engravings, by the first-rate artists.”

For inexhaustible facetiousness, and all species of never-failing “fun,” Mr. P. Egan merits more encomia than my humble pen can dictate. The above is but a small part of the “meed of his large honours.”

Having, in a former note, alluded to the critics, I have little to remark here. No one can possibly more respect the province of legitimate criticism, than myself; but I ask any unbiassed observer, if the generality of modern critics do not come under the description I have given?

We ought scarcely to be surprised at the venalism and malignancy displayed by the minor reviews, when the “Quarterly,” the leading journal of England, sets so glorious an example of party petulance and malevolent sophistry. I do not so much dislike its principles, as the manner in which they are introduced, and made to tyrannize over all other considerations. It is disgraceful to the literature of this country, when the leading critics are so degraded.

Mr. Buckingham's cause made Murray and his regiment to “cut a poor figure.” Here was proof substantial, that any pert piece of aristocratic impudence, colleagued with the “Quarterly,” may be permitted to enjoy all the rascalities of anonymous criticism, under the protection of its venal pages! Oh! John Absolute!—oh!

A review in the “Quarterly,” is, for the most part, a medium for political discussion. The title of the book is frequently placed at the head of a review, merely for consistency's sake: probably a casual line will advert to the book!

Pope.

Mr. Southey is as influential as Lockhart himself, over the conduct of the “Quarterly.” He generally obtains £50, and sometimes more, for his own articles,—a distinction, as far as regards the style, perhaps not undeserved. Query, Would it not be quite as well, if Mr. Southey would occasionally forget to recommend his own merits when he is reviewing?

The above lines respecting Mr. Gifford were written before his death. I see no necessity to remove them, after it. I admired his talents, but never envied the goodness of his heart; and few will disagree with me, I believe, for my present allusion to him. He was as sullen, morose, and malignantly inclined, as he was caustic and powerful with his pen.

It is dangerous to say which is most the victim of self-conceit—Milman or Southey: perhaps Milman is the more envious of the two, and by far the less talented.

Coleridge and Barrow:—buth those worthy masters of the quill are among the “Quarterly” troop: there are, besides, some hundred occasional recruits;—but “let them pass.”

I have dwelt somewhat fully on the subject of Bowles and the Quarterly; it was too important a subject to be passed over in silence, exhibiting, as it does, a perspicuous specimen of party virulence, and critical degeneracy, scarcely matched for perversion and falsity. Mr. Bowles has been the “persecuted,” rather than the persecutor. Even to this day, he is censured by the lip-gabble of frothy Aristarchians, as the “rancorous persecutor of Pope's moral character!” After all, we must come to this conclusion, —that man's character is worth but little, that will not endure investigation.

The criticism here alluded to, appeared in the LXIVth No. of the “Quarterly,” in the year 1825. It was avowedly a review on Roscoe's edition of Pope; however, the reader, on perusing it, found little relative to Roscoe, but a mass of cowardly vituperations, and infamous attacks on the Rev. L. Bowles, for his former edition of Pope. With regard to the critical contest respecting “nature and art,” it is allowed by all, excepting Roscoe's “bottle-holders,” that Bowles beat Byron, Campbell, and other antagonists, fairly and honourably out of the field. I wish to confine my brief observations to the treatment Mr. Bowles received from the Quarterly reviewer. To many, I am aware that my lines concerning Pope may appear illiberal;—but why should they? It is impossible, utterly so, that any malignancy can affect me here: they are introduced, to prove that, had Mr. Bowles been originally desirous of holding up Pope to the light of infamy,— as regards his sensualism,—Pope himself could have supplied him with ample proofs. He has denominated himself, the “most unthinking rake alive:” and how often do his published letters allude to his illicit connections and indulged obscenities? “But,” say the “Pope-pollution” defenders, “what right had Mr. Bowles to rake up the delinquencies of Pope? Why should he attempt to blacken his fame? Why anxiously introduce the man's faults? Why were his notes ‘a wasp's nest,’ and he himself ‘a bush-fighter?”

But, is Mr. Bowles, I reply, is he actually guilty of all this?—or was it the “Quarterly” sneaking “bush-fighting” critic, that, secure in his hire and obscurity, penned his malicious libel against one of the best of men? Let any reader, unprejudiced by the common drawing-room cant of those who have never examined—let such, I say, read over Bowles's Life of Pope, and he will in vain look for any malice, or purposed detraction. Of course, Mr. Bowles, as a biographer, had a faithful task to perform; as a clergyman, a gentleman, and a scholar,—a duty to attend to. How he has done this, will be seen by referring to the “Life;”—I repeat it—for, the quotations from Bowles's Pope, as exhibited in the Quarterly Review, are either mis-quoted, or wilfully twisted, to supply the livid enmity of the reviewer with matter for censure.

“Who brought into the blaze of light Pope's most disgusting impurities?—His defenders! Who caused the obscene imitation of Horace, of which I had not said one word in my “Life of Pope,” to be brought into such infamous publicity?—Pope's defenders! Who forced out the specimens—some of which were too scandalous to be printed, even in self-defence; who forced out these specimens of his indecency to married and unmarried women?—His defenders! Who dragged all his frailties most glaringly into light?—His late stupid—his besotted —his hypocritical—and his blind defenders!!!”—Bowles' Lessons in Criticism, in Answer to Roscoe's Letter on Pope, &c.

One passage from Bowles's Life of Pope, I will produce:—

“Whatever might have been his defects, he (Pope) could not be said to have many bad qualities, who never lost a friend; and whom Arbuthnot, Gay, Bathurst, Lyttleton, Fortescue, and Murray, esteemed and loved through life.” —Life of Pope, vol. I.

What can any reader think, after reading the above passage, and many others, breathing the sentiments of a most amiable heart,—of the reviewer, who attempted to brand the character of Bowles, with detestable imputations?—and dared, in the face of truth, honour, and all that should be sacred to the observance of the critic and man, to accuse him with “the filth of his fancy?” &c. I explain the reason of this most dastardly attack of conspired “bush-fighters,” by reverting to Roscoe, whose well-deserved smarts Croker wished to heal, by slandering Bowles!! Of such conduct, no honest bosom can entertain but one feeling. For the virtues, the genius, and the urbanity of Mr. Bowles, I have the greatest veneration; and this, I hope, will sufficiently apologise for the introduction of so long a note.

For Mr. Jeffrey's new-found ancestor, vide Byron's English Bards and Scotch Reviewers:—The principles of the Edinburgh Review continue as vile as ever, though it no longer exhibits that talent which formerly distinguished it.

Criticus, assuetus urere, secare, inclementa omnis generis libros tractare, apices, syllabas, voces, dictiones conjodere et stylo exigere, non continebit iste ab integro statu crudeles ungues?

The lines relative to this gentleman, which appeared in the first edition of the “Age Reviewed,” procured the author a more roaring burst of “damnation,” (a salvation) than had been thundered round the country for many years: however, the writer can assure him, that he neither did, nor does, owe him the least personal ill-will, though he could not refrain from laughing at a few of his foibles. No doubt he did quite right to visit the author—the “unlucky scribbler,” the “coxcomb,” the “beast,” the “fellow,” the “poor leper all over sores,” the “bilious creature,” the “lad in his teens,” the “lad of some abilities,” (how encouraging!) &c. &c. &c.—with his hottest vengeance. But the fiery ordeal is past, and criticism has done its worst!

Doubtless, the reader must remember, that while all the rest of the world were pouring forth their homage to the genius of Byron, the Literary Gazette was making itself stupidly singular, by cavilling and pecking at his Lordship, in all manner of ways. In this respect, partial injustice has been done to Jerdan; the “Plagiarisms” (as they were called,) of Lord Byron,” were grubbed up by Alaric Watts, to whose envious despotism, Jerdan had, for awhile delivered the critical reins. Alaric Watts was never much esteemed before this;—after this mean attempt, the littleness of his soul was too apparent to escape universal censure.

That greedy Roman Pontiff, Sixtus IV. established inquisitors of the press; without whose licence, no work was printed.

The Liberty of the Press, is, doubtless, one of our greatest national blessings; but it is now daily perverted to the most debasing feelings. Would that the editors of our papers

How admirably Dr. Goldsmith's opinions apply to the existing state of the press.—“Of late, the press has turned from defending public interest, to making inroads upon private life;— from combating the strong, to overwhelming the feeble. No condition is now too obscure for its abuse; and the protector is become the tyrant of the people. In this manner, the freedom of the press is beginning to sow the seeds of its own dissolution; the great must oppose it from principle; and the weak from fear; till at last, every rank of mankind shall be found to give up its benefits, content with security from its insults.”

It is rather paradoxical, that the paper chiefly intended for the higher classes, should most abound in obscene witticisms, abortive puns, generally half libellous, and wholly disgusting. The John Bull seems to become more filthy in its allusions, in proportion to its decrease in talent.

“Ecce iterum Crispinus.”—Of course the Examiner, conducted by Mr. Hunt, is here alluded to. I cannot conceive a more despicable meanness of soul, than the editor of this rancorous sheet of printed blasphemies frequently evinces. He seems delighted in ridiculing every trait of mind that is venerable:—in spitting his poisonous spite not only at the most virtuous characters, but at every thing holy, and which tends to improve mankind. It is amusing to hear such demagogues as Hunt, Cobbett, Carlile and Co. talk of the bigotry and intemperance of the more respectable parties in politics! Who are such bitter slanderers, such cavilling dastards, as the greater part of the Democrats? Why should Mr. Hunt throw out his profane insinuations, and insert the beastly surmises of French philosophy, in his paper? Are the columns of a public paper the proper conveyers of indiscriminate blasphemy?—The injury would be less likely to subvert the welfare of mankind, if its circulation could be confined to those who are capable of detecting the sophistries of pretended patriots, and feeling proper disgust for their propagators:—but this is not the case. The ignorant read, as well as the informed; and thus, many are imbued with infidelity, while religious scoffers are increased. The cant of “freedom,” “toleration,” and other captivating words, coming from such men as Hunt, is as nauseous as it is hypocritical. We may say of him, and his ribaldrous gang,—“cum præsentibus copiis perditorum, et minis, et nefario fœdere, servitute oppressam civitatem tenerent—Libertatis signum posuerunt magis ad ludibrium impudentiæ, quam ad simultationem religionis! —Cicero.

The classics afford a most spacious field for literary humbug. A glance at the multiform editions teeming weekly from the press, will confirm the censure here exhibited against them. Texts on texts, notes on notes, added to the mass of “Variæ Lectiones,” now render a small author exorbitantly large and expensive. It would be some consolation after all this, if the author's text were rendered pure, and elucidated; the contrary, however, happens. Every fresh editor has fresh conjectures, and long useless notes. The reader, who attempts to take what are conceitedly denominated the “emendations,” for his assistant guides, will frequently find it more difficult to understand an author with, than without them.

The long protracted controversies about metrical regulations, &c. &c. &c. are carried to a laughable extent. You will often find four or five long columns in small print, which compose a note for one poor little word! When the reader has waded through this cumbrous heap of flighty suggestions, he comes, probably, to some such important conclusion as this:—viz. that, Whereas it is the opinion of a former editor, that a certain stroke denoting an accent, should point to the left, it is the opinion of the present editor, that it should point to the right! Vossius' barber used to comb his head in Iambics;— it is a pity the Oxford barbers do not emulate him with some of the Collegians.

Bloomfield wrote against the Delphin Classics, to which Valpy replied, under the signature of “Aristarchus.”

Strictly speaking, the crime of filling thick classical octavoes with wearisome notes, ought not to be attributed to Priestly; he is the publisher, through whose industrious ardour they are introduced to the world.

I am aware that to praise such characters as are here mentioned, is somewhat superfluous: however, it is very agreeable to avert occasionally from the list of literary sinners, to men of an exalted character.

When we refer to the pages of the old dramatists, we are at once struck with the vast difference between forced artificial flippancy, and sterling genius. In these we find no worn out common place,—no straining at camels—no everlasting itch for puns and clap-traps. As to the alleged indecency to be found here, let it be remembered that a century and a half back, morality, in words, was not so refined as it now is. In my opinion, the double intendres and obscene inuendos so abounding in the modern dramatic hodge-podges, are far more detrimental to moral purity, than the partial coarseness occasionally intruding itself, in the old plays.

Byron.

The same delicate age that has deemed it necessary to purge Shakspeare, has introduced the tales of Marmontel for childrens' perusal!

In common with my fellow countrymen, I admire the high talents of Mr. Charles Kemble, as a performer. But is it not to be regretted, that this gentleman, as a manager, can permit his patronage to be exhausted by a set of untalented parasites, who furbish their miserable monotonies into scenes, concoct some stale jokes, and then, by the aid of a frothing, half-witty dialogue and the scene-painter's daubs, produce what is called “a new play.” It is too true to be contradicted—that without an immense deal of interest, with the whole Thespian Conspiracy, a new play, however talented, cannot be brought forward. It is owing to this disgraceful conduct in stage management, that we have so many paltry dramatists, and so few writers of genius.

Master Roscius Grossmith; to whom Mr. Charles Kemble was pleased, some time since, to extend his most gracious patronage.

Many a slighted man of genius may now sympathize with poor Ben Johnson in his “Ode to Himself.”

Mr. Pool's Paul Pry must have exceeded his wildest hopes by its eminent success. Without doubt, this must be attributed to the droll phiz of Mr. Liston; for the Comedy itself, does not rise above the grin-supported trash of the day.

The allusion to the unfortunate Vauxhall game of football that took place between Messrs. Elliston and Poole, will not be considered inappropriate by all who have seen the symmetrical curve of Paul Pry's back;—and who has not, in some shape?

It must be any thing but gratifying to Sir Walter Scott, when Pocock so be-devils his beautiful novels into spurious dramatical representations. The truth is, the present play-scribblers that bray round the two Patent Houses, have only one object in view— money-catching.—it little affects them, how the public is gulled, provided their mummeries can have a week's run, and they retire with the remuneration!

To save the trouble of separate notes, let me observe at once, that Plànchè, Soane, Mac Farren, Beazely, Peake, Pocock, Milner, Moncrief, and a half thousand more “ejusdem generis” compose the Thespian crew of play-furbishers for the various houses. Ball has dramatised some of Southey's sleepy epics, and written the “Three Hunchbacks,” and unnumbered similar monstrosities.

Mr. Beazely, being anxious to out-do all his competitors in originality, very ingeniously contrived to introduce a midnight sun in the “Spirit of Avenel,” which most of the cocknies exceedingly admired.

There is nothing, perhaps, more easy than to write properly for the English theatre. I am amazed, that none are apprenticed to the trade. The author, when well acquainted with the value of thunder and lightning; when versed in all the mystery of scene-shifting and trap-doors; when skilled in the proper periods to introduce a wire walker or a waterfall; when instructed in every actor's peculiar talent, and capable of adopting his speeches to his supposed excellence;—when thus instructed, knows all that can give a modern audience pleasure.

If Goldsmith were alive now, he would not be amazed that “none are apprenticed to the trade.” As to trash being all that is capable of giving a modern audience pleasure,—this, I presume, is a little disputable. We must consider the managers, the origin of our dramatic degradation; they permit their stupid hirelings to foist their plays on the public: and thus the public taste becomes more corrupted each season.

According to the sectarians, every actor must of necessity be damned; and every spectator, in all probability, is to partake of his damnation! The pharasaic hypocrisy of such canters, is disgustingly irreligious. Their religion, truly, is far from complex; it is divided into two duties,—to damn every body else, and to bless themselves. Such charitable creatures will find no difficulty in subscribing to many of Tertullian's anathemas against the poor players: in one part of his Works, (De Spectaculis,) he remarks, “sic Tragædos Diabolus cothurnis extulit, quia nemo potest adjicere cubitum ad staturam suam. Mendacem facere vult Christum; “The devil mounts the actors on their buskins, in order to make Christ a liar; who has said, that no man can add one cubit to his stature!!” This is something like Rowland Hill, who frequently cries out, “This is God's house; yonder, [alluding to the Surrey Theatre,] is the Devil's house!”

There is no reason why the profession of a performer should not be of the greatest respectability; properly speaking, it requires a gentleman to be one. John Kemble, did more, perhaps, than any of his order, to advance not only the dignity of the stage, but that of its professors. Would that many others in the present day, would condescend to imitate him!

Far be it from me, to attempt the slightest palliation of Kean's conduct in private life. As a man of genius, I honour him: and, whatever may be his moral character, the country at least looked remarkably silly in driving their best tragedian away, while a wanton female received the most fulsome applause. And what must Kean himself think of our national morality, when after a lapse of a few months, the man that was so violently hooted from his country, was received with greater applause than ever? Was not his crime the same when he returned as when he went? However, the cocknies shewed themselves religious by—“forgiving as they would hope to be forgiven.”

Immoral as the actors may be, “there are as mad abandoned” spectators too. A respectable tragedian, with a handsome figure and fine talking eyes, is sure to be besieged by billet-doux, plumes, pocket handkerchiefs, &c. &c. from admiring ladies; aye, and these very often of the first rank! It is well known in the city famed for ugly women, that a Bath tragedian, (now on the London boards,) so bewitched an ardent dame of title in the lower boxes, that she was pleased to desire his presence at her apartments the next day. But, alas! “sape decipimur specie recti;” the broad glare of delight considerably diminished the gentleman's charms;—the lady felt disappointed—smiled—and burdened his hand with a few sovereigns—and then “all was still!”—

Juv. VI.

There are those, I am convinced, who may consider a FEW lines scattered through this poem, too strongly expressed. But how, in the name of all the satirists before me, is detestable licentiousness to be lashed, if not with delineative epithets and expressions? “Don't mention it at all,” replies Mr. Purity,— “modern ears will be disgusted.” I wish, from my heart, there was no necessity, Mr. Purity; but really, sorry as I should be, to profane the delicate sanctity of any reader's ear, like your's, Mr. Purity,—I should be still more sorry to gloss over patronized vice, with soft, unexpressive allusions. There is (with all possible deference to those of a contrary opinion) an immense difference between strong language, introduced out of mere wantonness, and that which is used for the sake of severe censure:—the same, as Hume observes, there is “between a naked Indian, and a common prostitute.” —See Preface to this Poem.

The lady's piece of horsemanship, performed on the back of her high-descended suitor, was indeed a rare instance of Thespian purity. Would it not be as well for many other similarly situated ladies to imitate her conduct?

Juv. VI. 366.

Juv. III.

Juv. III.

For ample illustrations, vide those highly patronised Memoirs of an illustrious Cyprian.

“Sure I am of noble kind, for I find myself possessed of ally their qualities; love dogs, dice, and drabs,—scorn wit in stuff clothes, have beat my shoemaker, cuckolded my apothecary, and undone my tailor.” —Marston.

The classical reader will not be offended with the following beautiful quotation, from Tacitus' Dialogue on the Causes of Corrupt Eloquence. Speaking of the manner in which infants were formerly nursed and educated, he says,—“Jam primum, suus cuique filius, ex casta parente natus, non in cella emtæ nutricis, sed gremio ac sinu matris, educabatur; cujus præcipua laus erat tueri domum et inservire liberis ------ [OMITTED] [OMITTED] At nunc natus infans delegatur Græculæ alicui ancillæ, cui adjungitur unus aut alter, ex omnibus servis, plerumque vilissimus, nec cuiquam serio ministerio accommodatus.”

—Byron.

Of all the nauseous features of modern times, the venality of mothers in disposing of their daughters, is, perhaps, the most unnatural. Wherever this venalism exists, to the exclusion of every other amiable consideration, it is certainly truly disgraceful:—but how shall we deprecate?—what language employ—when a crafty remnant of three-score, seeks to support the remainder of her depraved life by sacrificing a blooming young creature of twenty, to a dotard of sixty! And yet, reader, you must be aware, that this is no “rara avis.” Go to the balls, the parties; go to Almacks, (if you may;) go to all the haunts for well-dressed impudence; and you will realize a view of what is here mentioned. Horace asks us, if we should not laugh at a painting that displayed a beautiful woman with a fish's tail: what, if we were—but!—I really cannot proceed any further for modesty's sake; that is, for the reader's.

Cyril Tourneur.

I hope L. E. L. will pardon me for poaching on her ground— “Necessitas non habet legem.”

No one will deny the application of the quotation to the present subject. It certainly is rather unaccountable, that there should be so great a distinction made between the crime of an immorality in the woman and the man: and still more surprising, that the female judges should generally visit the whole of their contempt on the seduced, while they pardon, or half approve, the guiltiness of the seducer. This feature in modern morality, appears to me, nothing else but a compound of hypocrisy and injustice.

Gaming, even with the male sex, is vicious and unnatural, but how much more so, with the female? The fashion for female gambling is daily increasing; in fact, what vice is retrograding? The Guardian makes an admirable remark on gambling women, “Could we look into the mind of a female gamester, we should see it full of nothing but trumps and mattadores. Her slumbers are haunted with kings, queens, and knaves. The day lies heavy upon her till the play season returns; when, for half-a-dozen hours together, all her faculties are employed in shuffling, cutting, dealing, and sorting out a pack of cards, and no ideas to be discovered in a soul which calls itself rational, excepting little square figures of painted and spotted paper!”

Byron.

Juv. VIII.

There must be of course, with all well-bred people, a fashion in every thing, and every place:—their daughters and their sideboards —their shoes and their servants—their snuff-boxes and their Prayer books—their parsons and their church, must be distinguished by something “fashionable.” It is chiefly to the influence of a mania for “fashion,” that we must attribute that laxity of principle in religious matters among the “gentles” of the land. They— I must desist, or shall be canting.

Since religion is now reduced to a matter of mere opinion, as a thing of course, or not of course; as a political, not a divine obligation, it is deemed the part of a bigot to ridicule any sect that differs from his own. And yet, I presume, there are certain matters which depend on no particular sect for decision; matters which appeal to the common sense of mankind. For instance, will any man, living in this country of refinement and general intelligence, be unchristian-like in laughing at the debasing forgeries and crazy tales, which the Ranters, &c. occasionally circulate? Is he to believe, that the holy, invisible, uncreated Director of the Universe, strikes men dead for laughing at a deranged preacher, and similar petty variations in conduct? Is he to believe, that the Almighty would roll his thunder because a Methodist parson came half-an-hour too late for the performance of his duty? My firm belief is, that some of these sectarians assist the advances of infidelity, by presuming to debase the Deity to the puny cavils of puny men; and with impudent resignation, consigning some hundreds to hell every Sunday morning.

As a body of men, there are none so highly respectable, so learned, and so virtuous, as the ministers of the Church of England: I look to our National Church Establishment, as the chief bulwark of our country's safety, in these days of infidelity, and blasphemous canters:—But my veneration for some good, is no reason why I should not censure the needless evil connected with it. Therefore, the pious need not be offended with me, for censuring such as disgrace their hallowed office.

I have ever considered Irving, notwithstanding his powers of eloquence, as a finished specimen of puritanic insolence, softened down by the pure principles he professes. The story of his watch, and conceit, and the Society for the Conversion of the Jews, must, of course, be in the recollection of every reader. His auditors are now, comparatively, but a few:—

This will, I imagine, be deemed perfect profanity by some,— to speak lightly of Rowland Hill. They may say as they please, but the best of his congregation cannot respect the purity and the benevolence of his character, more than myself; and yet, withal, I cannot but consider his frequent and irreverent eccentricities, as detrimental to the cause of religion. Let it not be forgotten, that there are strangers who hear him each Sunday, as well as those who are acquainted with his manner:—with many of these, the poet's line is reversed:—

I could instance many examples to prove this, but verbum sat, &c.

Many will think that I have polluted my pages, by introducing the two creatures above;—and, in truth, with some justice: however, they do not figure in a very splendid way there. Talk of our country being bigoted!—why, if Englishmen had half the right spirit in them, they would drive such fellows as Carlile (how the name smells!) and Taylor (the Reverend!!!) from the country. What man, with any decent feeling in him, can pass by Carlile's accursed window, nor feel disgusted at his wallowing beastliness and blasphemy?

As for Taylor, he confessed to his own brother, at Fulham, that he turned blasphemous, merely to gain notoriety! A pretty reverend this. We may apply Juvenal's line to each:—

Of course, the reader is aware that Taylor was driven from his College.

While almost every village and every snuff box is complimented by the offering of a poem, it really is rather singular that London has not been celebrated by some poet worthy of his subject. What humble lines I have penned are merely en passant. There are so many celebrated haunts—so many magnificent edifices—and such delightful associations, that there would be ample materials for a splendid poem. The remainder of this poem is more or less connected with London, its manners, morals, &c. &c.

There is no man of any taste or fancy, that can pass over Waterloo Bridge amid the glittering light of a cloudless sun, without pausing to admire:—I know I never could; and therefore, reader, don't think my few tributary lines produced by an unfelt admiration of the scene.

Need I refer to Washington Irving's Sketch where the associate grandeur of the Abbey is inimitably pictured by the pen of him who felt it?

When we for awhile consider this mighty city in all its relations— the population it maintains—the talent it supports—and the vices it encourages, we no longer wonder at the wonderful historic accounts of Rome in her olden pride. London seems to have been no mean place so far back as Nero's time; for Tacitus represents it:—Cognomento quidem colonæ non insigne, sed copiæ negotiatorum et commeatum maxime celebre. An. Lib. xiv. 33

The ordinary scenes in London streets, are quite a comedy to an observing man. There is this great apparent difference between the street walkers of London, and those in unimportant towns;— the former are all engaged in the pursuit of an object; the latter, for the most part, are ready “to whistle for want of thought.”

In my perambulations, when I have casually met a few rustic gazers, seemingly as much frightened as children in the dark, that droll part of Tristram Shandy has occurred to my memory—“I would appoint able judges at every corner of my Metropolis, who should take cognizance of every fool's business who came there; and if upon a fair and candid hearing, it appeared not of weight sufficient to leave his own home, and come up to London, bag and baggage, and children and farmers' sons, &c. &c. at his backside, they should be all sent back from constable to constable, like vagrants, as they were, to the place of their legal settlements.”

Dr. (so he calls himself) Eady, with sundry other despicable quacks, pollute the streets by hiring minions to thrust into the stranger's hands their obscene mementos. What is this but teaching the young to run into vice by continually reminding them and forcing on their notice, a ready cure? For shame,—nasty Eady!—you ought to be pounded for this in your own mortar, if you have one.

Mr. Gilchrist—stop I believe he calls himself a doctor, too— Dr. Gilchrist—I beg pardon—is professor of Tumbling and Twisting at the Gymnastic Institutes. His regulations are quite Spartan-like; forcing husbands from their wives by five o'clock in the winter mornings! I suppose the doctor has no wife of his own, or he would learn better manners. Apropos; How is the Ladies' Tumbling Asylum getting on?—It must certainly be very amusing to observe the ladies at these active feats; there is an innocent simplicity in the thought of it. I hope there is a sort of Mrs. Dr. Gilchrist to attend on the petticoat department! I wonder what females will learn next: if the men turn fools to support other fools, women are sure to follow them—out of sheer sympathy, no doubt. I wish (and so do many others) mammas would teach some of their fine-shaped little misses the way to mend stockings, and to decide on boiled potatoes.

The Living Skeleton attracted more notice and patronage, than any disgusting show had done for a long time: it was so suitable to the delicacy of English taste! It is to be regretted, however, that France has so poor an opinion of us English, to think we require to see her skeletons. There is for ever some filthy, immodest sight imported here from her shores. Thus, in addition to all her beggars, singers, teachers, and bankrupt jacobites, we are favoured with naked skeletons, and wax Venuses, and every thing else that is calculated to corrupt the mind, through the medium of the eye. I am sure, that if we consider the French indelicate, they must consider us crazy.

What a lamentable sight it is, to find in every street, some half-naked wretch, whining his miserable complaint; or else some famished mother with a baby clinging to her bosom, and two or three shoeless children at her side! There are, certainly, many impositions among beggars; but it is impossible that even half can be impostors. Whatever be the cause of such extensive beggary among the poorer classes, it is evident, that the country is still in a starving state; thousands of its most useful class are daily starving.

Pers. Sat.

Amid all the appeals to a British heart, perhaps that of the sailor, speaks the loudest. Deception is soon discovered here; and when none exists, who can fail to regret the seeming ingratitude of the country, in allowing a grey-locked, weather-beaten mariner, to beg for food, and recal his services by a painted ship?

Those who have accustomed themselves to picture London from the interesting description given of it, in Boswell's Johnson, &c. &c. will be grievously disappointed on their arrival there:—and this will be particularly the case with the young, who consider it as a field that is certain to yield an abundant harvest. The truth is, since Johnson's time, venalism has been continually increasing; not only among the less cultivated classes of society, but among the literary and scientific. In these days of refinement, too, authorship is considered as the commonest attainment: as authors increase, so suspicion, coldness, envy, and malice, increase also. We shall look in vain for that social spirit, that philanthropic intercourse, which were kept up among literary men, in the days of Johnson.—

“Many are called, but few are chosen.” Many a young heart might have been spared its succeeding anguish, had it reflected on this. I speak from known facts, in alluding to the many young men of struggling talent, who have come to London, and “slumbered in their pride.” It is here for the first month, when, unregarded and unknown, we may feel the true force of Byron's beautiful lines.—

Childe Harold, Canto II.

Of course, since many of the papers and journals are chiefly supported by slanders, puns, insinuations, and heaps of well-digested falsehoods, the general authors, or quack literati, have had tolerable good employment. Little real talent is required to qualify one of these minions. Recklessness, must be the chief ingredient.—

Pers. IV.

Juv. XIV.

How eminently applicable these lines are to the present universal systematic quackery! Each wall, each window, and each paper, continually presents us with some new attempt at specious extortion. Among quacks, the medicinal ones are very conspicuous. It is very probable, that through the means of increasing quack doctors, the overplus of the poor population will in time be removed. I will freely give this bright idea to Malthus, and if he choose to write a treatise from my valuable suggestion, I here promise faithfully, that he shall not be prosecuted for piracy!

“Why should I care what they do to me when I am dead!” is a very common and plausive exclamation. I do not pretend to very fine feelings, and yet I shrink from the idea of being disinterred, and mercilessly carved up to exercise the knives of pert young students at St. Bartholomew's. With our friends, this feeling of horror at their disinterment, acts, perhaps, with still greater force. We do not like the idea of an old retreat being destroyed; how, in the name of humanity, can we approve of their sentiments, who tell us, that the dead ought to be anatomised for the cause of science? Heaven knows, we have quite enough of surgeons. Besides, if corpse-stealing were permitted, it would open a path for further delinquencies, and tend to harden every sympathy that honours our nature. Abernethy will sneer at this.—

Πινδ.

Byron.

Law and roguery are now almost synonymous. There are by far too many lawyers, for all of them to be honest. The profession of a lawyer, if honourably discharged, is certainly of the highest importance; but, if this were more generally the case, lawyers would be less numerous. Some time since, the papers mentioned, that a troop of puppyish clerks were actually attending the sessions and assizes, and presumingly cozening all the town with the exercised authority of a lawyer!! “O tempora! O mores!”

Tell me, what has made thee so melancholy?

Why, going to law.

Why, will that make a man melancholy?

Yes, to look long upon ink and black buckram:—I went me to law in anno quadragessimo secundo, and I waded out of it in anno sexagessimo tertio.

May it be possible such men should breathe To vex the term so much?

'Tis food to some my lord! There are old men at present that are so poisoned with the affection of law-words, (having had many suits canvassed) that their common talk is nothing but Barbary Latin;—they cannot so much as pray but in law, that their sins may be removed with a writ of error, and their souls fetched up to heaven with a sasararæ (certiorari.)

Chancery Lane.

The French are impudently immodest, the English craftily so;— the former will tell you, that though their visible actions may appear indecorous, they are stoics at heart:—the latter are seldom outwardly so, while (ut Galli dicunt) they are more lascivious in secret. It may be natal prejudice,—but on the whole, I think the English far less licentious as a nation, than the French; though it is very perceivable that we are waning into their criminal customs, “Omnia gallicè.”

In a place so vast and populous as London, select society is scarcely to be expected:—at places of public amusement, this is totally out of the case. Of course, a humble man's penny-piece is just as useful as a peer's;—let him shake his gold, and all the doors of the Assembly Rooms will spring open, like the cave door in the “Forty Thieves.”

The lower boxes at Drury Lane, Covent Garden, &c. present a most incongruous medley of gentilities, and vulgarities. The cocknies seem quite adverse to distinctions, and the managers think it quite beneath them to care whether a new-coated tinker, or a peer, occupy the stage-box. Oh! Liberty!—Thrice blessed goddess, Liberty,—alias Impudence!

Since the macadamization of the London roads, it is very evident that filth has abundantly increased there. Many, are literally canals of floating filth during the winter season.—What sort of apology does this street-destroyer mean to offer? It would be but fair, if he were compelled to un-macadamize every road that he has ruined.

Forde's Chaste and Noble.

Military exquisites are daily coming into fashion; but these things are to be met with principally in London and Brighton;—in the latter place they flutter along the Steyne, and in and out the libraries as tenderly gaudy as any butterfly in the meadow.

Juv. XVI.

Byron.

The acquirement of groom accomplishments by noblemen—their pre-eminent skillfulness in deciding on the symmetry of a prize-fighter's muscles—and their anatomical precision in respect to cocks' spurs and bull dogs' teeth, are all in the highest degree, classical, being derived from the ancient Roman customs.

See a number of the London Magazine, where Mr. Hunt, with his customary chasteness of feeling, advocates our using women as tools for sensuality.

Byron.

Bath, as every-body knows, is a little town in Somersetshire,— first brought into notice by the medicinal effect of its waters, on some pigs. Since this period of pig-renown, it has gradually risen into airy repute, until it has become the very centre of fashion, folly, and flirtation. Without slandering this touchy place, we may say, that from December to May, each year, there are assembled here enough ideots to stock every other city in the kingdom. Do you wish to swagger?—Go to Bath. Do you wish to play the jackass, and set the town a braying?—Go to Bath. Do you wish to be humbugged?—Go to Bath. Is your daughter eligible for a husband?—Dance her off to Bath:—in short, this Bath may become the arena for anything you please. Also, if you are fond of lingering on those pure times of Adam-and-Eve-like simplicity, you may be gratified by observing ladies and gentlemen swimming about together in the hot bath, with the most innocent sang froid.

Gifford, I imagine, had Bath in his eye, when he said—

The Bath Assembly Rooms; first brought into repute, by the unrivalled fooleries of the Bath Sage—Beaux Nash.

Women that dare attempt any thing,—and what they attempt, they care not how they accomplish: without premeditation,—rash in asking,—desperate in working,—impatient in suffering,—extreme in desiring,—slaves unto appetite,—mistresses in dissembling,—only constant in inconstancy,—only perfect in counterfeiting;—their words are feigned,—their eyes forged,—their sighs dissembled,—their looks counterfeit,—their hair false,—their given hopes deceitful,— their very breath artificial. Their blood is their only god; bad clothes, and old age, are the only devils they tremble at. —Marston.

A glorious picture this, of a belle or slut of the nineteenth century!

When religion begins to be disregarded, we may clearly foresee the woeful consequences. He who mixes much in general society, (particularly in Town) will perceive a looseness of religious principle gradually introducing itself into every rank. Nothing is more common than the exclamation—“What a miserable gloomy Sabbath our's is!—how differently 'tis spent in France.” Differently!—God grant, that it may forever be spent differently.

Of course, in proportion as infidelity propagates, religious controversies must increase. It would be some consolation, if the discussion of intricate points in theology, were confined to those whom previous study and attainments had properly qualified;—but, alas! it is far otherwise. Beardless striplings, supplied with a few fine sophisms from Hume and Bayle, are become the readiest cavillers at what their wiser ancestors revered; while flippant young misses, with contemptuous pertness glowing on their noses, begin to denounce St. Paul, and question St. Peter. Sure, our's is a learned age—if nothing else!

Goldsmith.

It would be utterly impossible (for many reasons) to notice all the dens of iniquity in the metropolis: general satire is, therefore, the most appropriate in those subjects, where the sinners are too plentiful, or the vices too extensive, to allow of separate notices. However, I have separately introduced three or four of the most noted haunts, whose genteel enticements render them the more dangerous. I regret, I have not the No. of the Lit. Gaz. in which Mr. Jerdan shows up this wine monger and his brotherhood with critical elegance. How such a learned, polished, and arrogant brood as the Londoners, can suffer themselves to be complacently humbugged by the villainous trickeries of the Argyle conspiracy, is indeed “prodigious!”

A friend, to whom the proof sheet has been submitted, tells me, I've blundered a little in appealing to the Mayor—as his jurisdiction does not extend beyond the City. I'm very sorry—uncommonly sorry, for this. I am quite sure, that if Mayor Brown is not bound to look into the Argyle den, some one with similar pretensions, ought to do so.

In crying up the villainy of seducers, I am touching on a most hacknied subject,—one that enables many editors to wear new hats, and that supports the existence of many a gasping journal. But, in taking a view of the vices of the age, it would have been an omission not to have adverted to it. Let me add, that London has vastly improved in the seduction way, lately—as also in elopements—crim. cons.—and all other exquisite “signs of the times.”

The only reason the managers can adduce for providing a saloon for harlots, &c. is, that they bring a fuller house:—a very plausible one, truly! So vice is thus to be patronised for the benefit of managers' pockets, at the expence of corrupted minds! It is here that an evil arises from visiting the play house. Many take their first lesson in sensuality in these saloons, where all conspires to allure and pollute.

The club-house bilks are some of the most dangerous characters that infest the metropolitan sphere. Gentlemen in appearance, their suavity serves but to pander for their villainy; while they are continually on the alert to “pluck” the unwary possessors of wealth, whom the club-house cant denominates “freshmen.”

Probably, Cumberland had the club-houses, hells, &c. in his view, when he says, “It is well for gamesters, that they are so numerous as to make a society of themselves, for it would be a strange abuse of terms to rank these among society at large, whose profession it is to prey upon all who compose it. Strictly speaking, it will bear a doubt if a gamester has any other title to be called a man, except under the distinction of Hobbes, and upon claim to the charter of homo hominis lupus. As a human wolf, I grant he has a right to his wolfish prerogatives.”

Mr. Luttrel has written a little satirical rhapsody on “Crockford House,” or I should have paid my respects to the Fishmonger. As it is, I can only wish him and similar wretches who purvey for the ruin of their fellow creatures, all the blessings derived from the bounty of their infernal master.

This noble personage and his illustrious comrades, struggled with very creditable constancy, to wipe away the blots from their “insulted honour;” but suspicion could not but discover the “dirty creature at its work again.”

Alluding to a late exposure.

This gentleman is rather of an anomalous nature. He has immortalized himself in the curses of all donkey drivers, by proposing his Humanity Act; and yet, he is quite a fighting Fitzgerald in duelling. I am aware, however, that donkies are far more serviceable than many members of Parliament; and, as for the horse, what a compliment a great classic poet has paid to its noble nature;—“αγαλματης υπερπλουτου χλιδης,” (Æschylus Promoth. Vinct.) Perhaps Mr. Professor of Humanity never shoots at any but such as are beneath the value of a good horse or donkey—if so, with my best wishes for your success, “macte virtute,” delicate Dick.

All these “great ladies” alluded to, are of the highest importance in that conclave of ideotic beldames who decide upon “who shall,” and “who shall not.” Willis is the quill man, alias, secretary, alias, card-dispenser-general for the Almack's troop. Lady Foley, (so report said,) presented the world with a sleepy novel respecting sundry high-born fools, &c. connected with this haunt, some time since.—I beg your ladyship's pardon, but, was there not a leetle too much midwifery in it? “I guess”—to quote Matthews, “that ‘Almacks’ was written by your ladyship's maid, instead of by your ladyship's self;—am I ‘quite correct,’ my lady?”

Properly—Eau de Cologne.

People prate a great deal about local associations abroad—but, surely London ought, at times, to kindle up associations as sublime and delightful as those excited by the moss and marble of decayed Rome. The lines above, are, I believe, the only ones approaching to egotism, throughout this poem:—however, of whatever nature they may be, they are the offspring of feelings excited by the scene. There are few sights, in my opinion, more commandingly beautiful than the appearance of many of the London Squares, &c. when slumbering beneath the mellow spread of midnight moonshine. Every thing around is calm, pensive, and imposing; and now is the hour for—

I suppose this will seem rather too sentimental for some of my readers, but, “quot homines, tot sententiæ”—trite but true.

A house on fire and a bankruptcy are two very common occurrences in the Metropolis. I have often witnessed what I have attempted to describe above,—a sight that never failed to appear awful in my eyes.