Scribbleomania :: :: University of Virginia Library

Well mounted I come from the stream of Parnass,
My palfrey a long-ear'd and well-curried ass;
While arm'd with a quill, and the dear ebon juice,
Precedes me with ink-horn the sage waddling goose,
Whose quacking you'll own is the very repeater
Of my famous Muse when engaged upon metre.

Yet, soft! shall I dare, a presumptuous elf,
Thus claim all the quills of a goose to myself?
Forbid it, Ma'am Candour, its quackings belong
To crowds that like me claim the Bays for the Song;
Since furor scribendi now rages so wide,
That rhymsters may waddle with geese side by side:
But in proof of the prowess my wit can infuse,
And stamp myself truly a son of the Muse,
Though loudly the Bards all against me may halloo,
I rank with the Nine a true chip of Apollo;
And my name when you hear it must make a great splash,
I'm christ'n'd Sir Noodle O'Scribblecumdash.
Some writers there are, who possessing no fame,
Would snatch from my temples the Laurel I claim;
Who dare, without reading, all subjects critique,
Whether Metre or Prose, Hebrew, Latin, or Greek;
But vers'd in all topics I'm fram'd for my station,
The Giant Reviewer of England's great Nation!

My noddle with erudite lore arm'd quite thorough,
Defying Reviewers of fam'd Edinborough;
Who, staunch as their itch, send each Author to pot,
That cannot proclaim he's by birth a true Scot.
With feelings more candid I 'gin my career,
And judge, without prejudice, peasant and peer;

The fine vellum, wire-wove, broad margin, hotpressed,
With Bulmer and Ballantine's types choicely dress'd;
Not plates with vignettes can my acumen blind,
And make me commend where I cannot trace mind:
So if Smithfield's Long Lane e'er should pathos produce,
I'd praise whity-brown, and consign to a use
Which here can't be mention'd the hot-press'd that bore
Of title and fortune the dull leaden lore.
I envy no talent in poor or in great,
I laud or condemn void of spleen or of hate;
For genius I search, truly fir'd in the cause,
And merit, when found, shall ensure my applause;
While upstarts, that dare load the press with their trash,
Shall taste of Sir Noodle O'Scribble the lash.

And faith there's of Authors so many found tripping,
Where one merits praise, ninety-nine deserve whipping;

So each back of offender my weapon assails
Will doubtless exclaim, 'tis a cat with nine tails;
But if idiots will arrogate Wisdom's array,
They deserve to be laugh'd at as donkeys that bray:
Thus having spoke plain to each genius and doodle,
They know what they have to expect from Sir Noodle,
Who now ends his comment with counsel that's trite,
Let men learn to read ere they venture to write.
Since man in his nature cannot control wit,
Poeta, says Ovid, is born and Non fit.

As the grand Mart that issues most trash that appals
Is close to the Temple of Pray'r, fam'd Saint Paul's;

Lo! I on the gold ball aloft take my stand,
To view all the scribbling tribe of our land;
And as I my comments thus chaunt from above,
I scorn Folly's anger, revere Wisdom's love;
With Swift I must cry, may it e'er be my fate,
By fools to be hated as Folly I hate.

Good Lord, from this summit what tribes meet my view!
Of asses, how many! of wise men, how few!
The friend of Religion by dulness inspir'd;
The Methodist Ranter with blasphemy fir'd;
The Moralist tame on the virtues he handles;
The Politic Wight penning trash to light candles;
Historian with mind just obscur'd in a mist,
As dense as his brother dull Topographist.
Next Surgeons and Doctors prescribe horrid lotion;
The Satyrist puts gaping feeling in motion;
Biographer comes to assume leaden station,
And wretched pretenders to new Education;

With whom Commentators may well assume place,
And grave Antiquarians, a maniac race.
Next follow the Poets; my stars, what a number!
Romancers and Novelists, Folly's true lumber;
The stay at-home writers of Travels and Tours,
Of snug chimney corners renown'd connoisseurs;
While Dramaists vapid alike join the band,
And Musical Doctors that dance hand in hand.
To these let us add the poor drudge, Pamphleteer,
Periodical Writers that sot over beer,
The Scribes Miscellaneous, but mere hodge-podge rakers,
Great Lexicographers and Catalogue-makers:
In fine, the amalgama serves as a mark,
To point out the tenants of Noah's great ark;
Since by all that is holy, with beast and with bird
You'll find as good company I'll pledge my word.
The Greeks and the Romans had Poets we know,
Who felt of Apollo the exquisite glow;

An Homer, with Hesiod and Pindar, combine
The soul-thrilling flights of a Fancy divine;
While Horace and Virgil, with Ovid, proclaim
The genius that blazon'd the old Roman name:
But of Data more recent, our England has shown
That talent adorn'd once Britannia's bright zone.
For imag'ry Spenser ranks first 'midst the band;
A Shakespeare and Milton illumin'd the land;

As satirist, Butler unique is enroll'd;
In Dryden, the Poet sublime we behold:
To these join a Thomson, and high-finish'd Pope;
In science, give Bacon, Locke, Newton full scope;
For style chaste and easy, note Addison, Steele,
With Goldsmith, whose pathos makes ev'ry breast feel;
While to these might be added an host worthy praise,
Deserving the loudest applause from my lays.

Such once were the Suns that shone forth in our sphere;
Reverse now the scene, and let moderns appear.
Too pompous to study, thro' thick and thro' thin
They dash on, the bright wreathe of verdure to win;
Disdaining, at all times, to think or reflect;
Too proud to re-read, to re-write, or correct:
As if, when composing, perfection was in 'em,
And Phœbus himself was determin'd to win 'em.
In fine, the press teems with such trash in each quarter,
One would think all the world quaff'd Parnassus's water;

I mean dirty puddle, not oozing from fountain,
But slush from the ditch that's in rear of the mountain.
For as it is said, when true glory impels,
The loud tongue of Fame ev'ry noble deed tells;

But that when, vice versa, the act's only base,
She blows second trump from a contrary place:
So Poets, who taste of the pure limpid stream,
Are warm'd by the radiance of Phœbus's beam;
While rhymsters, divested of merit, must drink
Of liquid quite stagnant, that laves ditches brink.
Thus, to prove of the former how scant is the list,
While of those lastly mentioned how many exist,
Was the cause why this greatest of writers 'mongst men,
Sir Noodle O'Scribblecumdash, took the pen;
Whose erudite notes to my care Fate consign'd,
A pocket-book fill'd with wit, learning, and mind:—
But perhaps 'twere as well, with a trifling digression,
To state of this relic how I got possession.
As I long aim'd to rank Apollonian nibbler,
And thus share the fate of each quill-driving scribbler,
I dwell in back garret just six stories high,
While opposite lattice, in lieu of the sky,
A huge stack of chimneys obscures the day's light,
And Sol's poorest blaze never gladdens my sight:

From this you may guess I am not over wealthy;
However, my abstinence keeps me quite healthy:
For if once in the week I procure boil'd or roast,
O'er his Turtle no Citizen louder can boast.
As for wine or strong spirits to make Fancy free,
The chandler's shop beer is Nepenthe to me:
In short, with Tub-cynic I well may compare,
Though he enjoy'd more, for he saw the Sun's glare.
I've said once a week it perchance proves my lot
To regale upon roast meat, or boil'd from the pot;
But when no such banquet my longing eye sees,
I rank Epicurus o'er Gloucester's thin cheese,
Which by penny's worth I from the chandler's shop bear,
Since hunger's a sauce, sir, that beggars compare.
So it chanc'd as I sped on this errand one day,
Of paper a pile on the counter there lay,
Which by weight had been purchas'd, brown sugar to fold,
Tea, soap, butter, cheese, starch, blue, dip or choice mould:

Thus, waiting my turn to be serv'd, I conn'd o'er,
Of paper consign'd to such use, the old store;
When, dusty, at length from the heap forth I took
Sir Noodle's choice labours, that blazon this book;
Which the vender of sundries, to science quite blind,
For Two-pence, mine All, to my hand straight consign'd.
Thus, Copyright mine, let the Trade frown, I scoff it;
The Publishers, d—n 'em, shall not filch the profit;
Since, gluttons for pelf, they will never knock under;
A phalanx of Harpies, intent upon plunder;
Just deaf to the wailings of genius and merit,
As mentally 'reft of one germ of true spirit:
A race which no venom can too much bespatter;
Whose deeds deserve lash of the most poignant satire:
Mere jugglers, subjecting the toils of the press,
To issue forth nonsense in fine wire-wove dress.

For let them but once, as they wish—feel their way,
Obscenity, falsehood, and trash they'll display.
Style—Genius, mere nothings:—since Dryden sublime
Might starve with his pathos, while fashion's dull rhyme
Is palm'd forth, and thus public feeling debas'd;
Since publishers heed neither judgment nor taste,
Two requisites hackney'd—not worthy a thought
Of moderns;—with far diff'rent acumen fraught.
To booksellers thus, and the press, we all owe
Of science profound the complete overthrow;
But such as lack proofs, soon as conn'd are my pages,
Will find asses rank on a par with the sages;
So affirms wise Sir Noodle; and who dares deny him?
If such recreant now lives, I as champion defy him.

There is no need to cross the Tweed in order to prove the illiberality of the reviewers of literature, as the metropolis of England teems every month with specimens of the grossest injustice, couched under assurances of the most scrupulous disinterestedness on the part of the editors, who are biassed by public opinion; not to lay any stress upon private pique, which has too frequently instigated their proceedings. One instance, however, the writer has to record, as coming directly under his cognizance, of a literary character, who, while in the practice of affixing his name to the title-page of his productions, was uniformly handled in the most illiberal manner; whereas, no sooner had he adopted the expedient of annexing a false signature, than several of these conscientious censors of literature, who would not have allowed this author the smallest share of praise had his name been rendered public, were themselves the most conspicuous in blazoning forth his productions, as being characterised by every requisite that could render them worthy the patronage of the public.

Notwithstanding the correctness of the above assertion, it is hoped that no young bard will despair of arriving at the summit of Parnassus, be his dawning effusions what they may, when it is remembered that the great Jonathan Swift made his debut in the literary world by one of the most wretched odes that could disgrace the votaries of Grub-street: for the truth of which assertion let the following extracts stand recorded.

“The first of plants, after the thunder-storm and rain,
And thence, with joyful, nimble wing,
Flew dutifully back again.”
“Who by that, vainly talks of baffling death,
And hopes to lessen life by a transfusion of breath?”

Again,

“And seem almost transform'd to water, flame, and air,
So well you answer all phenomenas there.”

If any thing, however, could contribute to the disgrace of writing such a poem, it is the folly of having addressed it, with a very silly introductory letter, to the writers of the Athenian Oracle; a set of people whose conceit in offering to answer all questions, ignorance in giving solutions, and credulity in listening to the grossest falsehoods, is rendered conspicuous throughout the work in question. At the period when the above mentioned ode was written, Swift had attained the age of twentyfour.

The following quotation, from a modern author, is inserted, as peculiarly applicable to the above line:

“To ye, all Authors' known propellers,
I tune my lays, renown'd Booksellers!
Ye, from whose spacious shops doth issue
Of printed nonsense ev'ry tissue;
'Tis you yield foreigners' oblations,
By patronizing dull Translations;
With eagerness strive to ensure
The marv'llous Travel—vapid Tour:
Nor let me here discountenance
The choicest food, yclep'd Romance;
Or Novel, which the damsel fetters,
So it be not compos'd in letters:
These are your glories, volume venders,
My literary trash defenders,
So calculated to dissect,
And knock down stable intellect;
Wherefore ye give as much delight
As those who print, and such as write.
In consequence of which, dear asses,
I see no difference in your classes;
But hold, downright, that you all three
Are rank'd of Zany's company.”

Difficile est satiram non scribere.

Juvenal.

Such is the situation of things, that it is difficult to avoid writing satire.

With all due deference to Sir Noodle's perspicuity, I conceive that he has not done justice to the republic of letters in Great Britain, by placing Spenser as the leading star in our literary hemisphere. Though the phraseology be uncouth, nevertheless everything is due to the lucubrations of venerable Chaucer. The sweetness of Lord Surry, who infused the tenderness of Petrarch throughout his sonnets, must always confer honour upon the age when his effusions met publicity. Nor be the name of Sir Thomas More forgotten, who, for energy and perspicuousness of style, is not inferior to any subsequent writer whatsoever; and whose great abilities are summed up in the following words by Burnet, in his Specimens of English Prose Writers, vol. i. p. 394.

“Sir Thomas More is justly regarded as one of the chief revivers of classical literature in England. He both wrote and spoke Latin with almost the correctness and fluency of an ancient Roman; and with all his theological errors, he taught that erudition which civilized his country. He is scarcely less conspicuous as an improver of his native tongue. His language is more studied, more appropriate and correct, is more the phraseology of a man of learning and sense, than any specimen which preceded him. From his proficiency in the Greek and Latin, he was enabled to transfuse into his vernacular dialect many of the excellencies which characterise those admirable languages; and his style abounds with inversions and other peculiarities of classical diction. His English works were considered as standards of style, as low down as the reign of James the first.”

But if you'd have me now expose
Th' ingredients which a work compose,
And all the hodge-podge designate
Which modern scribes amalgamate,
For grand induction they must boast,
Sheer impudence to rule the roast;
They should have flippant readings—tantum;
Of anecdotes and tales a quantum;
Just know each famous name classic,
Their study being all on tick:
They must aloud have publish'd banns
To tenets wedded of Germans;
Philosophy just fram'd to quell
Satan, and make of Heav'n an Hell:
These, with a flow of words high sounding,
Descriptions every where abounding,
A vain attempt at being witty,
A flim-flam Tale to call forth pity,
A spice of sentiment and moral,
To 'lure church-goers as with coral,
To heav'n some few apostrophes
That men may think they're oft on
Then add fine paper, choice engravings:
Of studious fools they thus lull cravings;
And when perus'd, the leaves can't fail
To do kind office for the tail.”

The above term is peculiar to many gentlemen of the Trade who possess no feeling for any one but themselves, having the most rooted predeliction for the old adage, that charity begins at home.