and a tailor's goose; the mount of Parnassus and his master's shopboard; the lyre of Apollo and the musical jingle of a brace of thimbles. Full of poetical ideas, he had absconded from his service, with the laudable intention of living by his talents: he tortured his imagination in the various departments of ode, elegy, pastoral, heroics, the tender and the terrific; and at last had the good fortune to be employed for the purpose of composing love ditties, &c. &c. in which way he contrived to get a poor and precarious living. As I happened to become acquainted with this strange character, our intimacy soon increased to a very strong friendship; we stormed in heroics, and whined in elegies, so that our joint productions might be said to defy criticism. Receiving continual reproaches, for my inattention to those doctrines which my preceptors would have inculcated, and led away with the thought of becoming both popular and wealthy by prosecuting my poetical talent, I suffered myself to be persuaded by Pegasus Highfly, alias Jemmy Stitchem, secretly to quit the village, and travel to London, as the only mart for literature, where my merit would undoubtedly meet with encouragement and regard.

As it was late when my companion and myself arrived at the great metropolis, we hired an apartment in a blind alley, free from noise and confusion, save the occasional warblings of some tuneful children of Apollo, who stretched their melodious throats to delight the worthy inhabitants. Being much fatigued with our journey, we retired to rest and slept soundly. Having risen betimes, we began to consider what steps we should take for our future subsistence. Pegasus proposed that we should immediately repair to old Titlepage, the bookseller, and present the letter of recommendation which Scriblerus, the parish clerk, had given us to this I agreed, and we sallied forth on our intended errand.

After a thousand perplexing inquiries and awkward blunders, we arrived at the house, and were fortunate enough to find the old gentleman at home. Pegasus presented the billet, which Titlepage carefully perused. He then viewed us with great attention, and working up his muscles to an appearance of important gravity, asked us if we understood the art of confounding. I answered in the affirmative, and he began to give us some instructions. By the art of confounding, said he, I mean jumbling words together, clipping sentences, and continually running out of the sense (if there be any); this style is particularly useful in the composition of political subjects, and the proper arrangement of foreign affairs; it keeps the mind in continual suspense, with out ever gratifying the curiosity. By a ready invention, I mean writing accounts of robberies, murders, marriages, deaths, births, libels, &c. &c. There is a young member who has desired

me

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me to get him a parliamentary speech; you may try your hand at it; I must have it this evening, as he wants to second the motion. We were now interrupted by the entrance of a fellow whom Titlepage saluted by the name of Toby. This Toby, it seems, was Titlepage's Mercury, and appeared to be an incongruous mixture of simplicity and low cunning. What news, Toby?' exclaimed the bookseller. Why really, master, very little,' replied the fellow, only a few murders, or so.'-' Which I hope you have beautified with your own luxurious imagination;-any deaths?' Only two-Churchwarden Pinch, of a parish-feast, and a poor woman who was starved in the workhouse.' 'Away with the doctors,' say I; since poor Doctor Slaughter was poisoned with his own pills, we have nothing worth mentioning-here are twenty marriages,-rich work for the clergy! Eighteen births,-wonderful thriving times! Then here's an Ode to Sleep, and Confusions of Fancy.' Effusions, blockhead,' roared Titlepage; what, does Timothy Somnus write still? poor fellow! if he had stuck nore to principal and interest, he might not have been without a shirt, starving in a wretched garret: but he was one of your high sort, too proud for drudgery, and has now got little else to support him but his pride.' This reflection was not lost upon me and my companion; when Titlepage, willing to initiate us in our new occupation, introduced us to some of his authors. This gentleman,' cried the bookseller, pulling forward a ragged fellow, is Mr. Sable, my writer of meditations, who lives in a blind alley at the bottom of Chick Lane. This, Mr. Crambo, my heroic poet, residing in a back garret that looks into Petty France. These, Mr. Bungle, my translator, and Mr. Blunder, my note maker, two friendly gentlemen, who sleep together in a flock bed at Cow-cross. This, Mr. Sylvan, who writes me pastorals at his apartments in Shoreditch. These gentlemen (introducing three more) are my authors of essays, political pamphlets, and libels; they live together at the Hole in the Wall. This is Mr. Simple, my Pindaric-ode maker, who sings in a cockloft, near the Fleet. This, Mr. Lampoon, my biographer, living with Mr. Shudder, my romance and moral-tale writer, in Duck Lane. And lastly,' introducing a dirty, miserable wretch, with no shirt, half-a-pair of smallclothes, and a coat without sleeves, this is Mr. Aristarchus, junior, critic, epigrammatist, and sonnetteer, who lives at the Farthing-Pie House, in St. Giles's. My companion and myself bowed respectfully to all, but kept a proper distance from the sonnet-writer, whose exterior was so far from prepossessing; for, beside a most villanous countenance, he had apparently employed so much of his time in minding other people's business, that he had totally forgotten all which related to himself. Titlepage now began to open a scheme, to libel a certain public

character,

character, and asked the advice of his authors. Mr. Sylvan offered to compose some pastorals, and declare him to be the author. The biographer thought it would be better to write his life; while Aristarchus Junior tendered his services as critic, epigrammatist, and sonnetteer. The cockloft swain said, that a Pindaric ode would prove still more effectual. Mr. Shudder offered to make him hero of a romance. Mr. Sable asserted that nothing could be better than to ascribe to him his last meditation. The translator swore, that his paraphrase on the Psalms would not only cut him off in this world but in that which is to come. The heroic poet promised to do his business, while Mr. Blunder declared he was ready to write notes to them all. Titlepage thanked them for their offers, and desired to know what they had brought him. The biographer produced the beginning of a man's life, before the doctors had put an end to it. Aristarchus read a dull epigram; Mr. Sylvan pulled out a pastoral, value three farthings; the romance-writer threw down a bundle of horrors; Mr. Simple offered the three first lines of a Pindaric ode; the translator produced poor Virgil, half crucified; the authors of essays, libels, and political pamphlets brought several specimens in their way; but the writer of meditations, and the maker of notes, brought nothing but a few rags, and empty stomachs. 'What degenerate times are these,' cried the critic see how true merit is permitted to languish in obscurity.' 'Aye, aye,' cried the heroic poet, 'whenever I look at my own poverty, I console myself that old Homer suffered as much before me.' And would Gray have worn so good a coat, if he had wanted friends,' cried the ode-maker; 'but I hate comparisons.' Virgil had a patron,' remarked the pastoral-writer, but I scorn to be my own trumpeter.' 'Alas,' cried Mr. Bungle, there is a sad difference between the Augustan age and the present one, or Horace might have starved in a garret like his translator.'

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These gentry had no sooner departed, than Titlepage burst into a loud laugh, and asked me, how I liked his authors? I replied, and with justice too, that they were very lean. Aye,' cried he, 'I a obliged to keep them so; when they get into high-feeding, they grow idle and impertinent.

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Now, I had often heard of the misery of poets, but no imagination could ever have conceived the wretched and squalid spectacles that these authors presented. Hunger, filth, and nakedness had completely disguised the votaries of the Nine; and I could not help thinking, that if the muses offered no better encouragement to a young beginner, I would quit their service while I had clothes to my back.

I shall perhaps find an opportunity of entering into some further particulars of my poetical adventures. GE DN-L.

THE SPECULATOR.-No. VIII.

BY CLEMENT CLEARSIGHT.

Let it be remembered, that to bestow good names on bad things is to give them a passport in the world under a delusive disguise. KNOX.

TRUTH and error are so very opposite, that were our reason

always vigorous, our minds free from the bias of prejudice, and our passions under due controul, the transparent veil which conceals the latter would be insufficient, either to hide her from our view, or to make her wear the semblance of truth. The delusions of sophistry, however, mislead persons of weak minds, who, in some measure, deserve our pity, as they are frequently inclined to embrace truth, but, dazzled by the imposing exterior of this impostor, are in the end left to lament their credulous imbecility.

The present age is remarkable for nothing more than a method of refining and softening away those vices, which, if displayed in plain terms, would excite the abhorrence and disgust of the truly virtuous mind: we are accustomed to hear persons described as gay, dashing, and fashionable, terms calculated to attract the notice of the ignorant and inexperienced, and to excite that sort of admiration which is produced in the mind by the appearance of spirit and enterprise. The extreme tenderness, indeed, with which we see these characters treated, would lead us to suppose they were like china-ware, which, from its brittle quality, is in danger of being destroyed if left in the hands of the careless and awkward; or, to imagine that the persons, who are so cautious in their opinions of others, were very conscientious christians, and solicitous to observe the maxim, judge not that ye be not judged;' this is, however, I fear, by no means the cause of their apparent caution: those of whom they are so anxious to avoid speaking evil are perhaps in a high sphere of life, or on some other account of equal consequence, are to be treated with caution; their good-nature, politeness, or some other showy quality is overvalued and much dwelt upon, and is made the substitute for virtues which should be regarded as indispensable, or the apology for vices which are the source of misery to thousands.

But' (says one of the modern liberal-minded philosophers) 'you are bound to put the fairest construction on those actions which may be of a doubtful complexion.' Granted; I would willingly not even think evil of any one; but if a man is known to be a drunkard, debauchee, adulterer, gamester, am I to represent him as on the whole a passable character? and to varnish over his ill qualities by that gross absurdity, not seldom, however, practised,. of saying, he has a good heart?' No: let all who are the friends

CEN. CHRON. VOL. III. NO. XI.

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friends of virtue fear not to call vice by her proper name; let them not dread the epithet of illiberal because they draw a line of demarcation between good and evil. It is for want of this proper conduct, that we are elbowed by characters who ought to hide their heads, and a mixture of the vicious and the innocent takes place in modern society, highly detrimental to the latter, and from which the former is not likely to profit.

Emilia, the daughter of an officer, was left at very tender age to the care of her aunt, a woman of a weak mind, easily biassed by considerations of present advantage, and peculiarly ambitious of being noticed by persons in a sphere of life superior to her own. She had a great esteem for character, so far as it conduces to this object, and was careful to make the fairest report of every one whose good will she might at any time wish to secure ;-under the influence of such a woman, Emilia was not likely to be warned against improper acquaintance. If, in giving her opinion to her aunt of any person who had paid her attention, she objected to him as being a man of libertine notions, or devoid of principle, she was generally silenced by being told, that she was too young and inexperienced to judge accurately; that though he might allow himself liberties with the women, no man had a greater claim to esteem for his goodness of heart, and benevolence, and that such trifles were no blemish in a man of fashion.

A baronet of large fortune professed himself her admirer, and although her aunt had heard of his profligate manners, she so far lulled to sleep her niece's suspicions, as eventually exposed her to his designs; he deceived her, as he had done others, by a fictitious marriage, and she became a prey to the deceptive artifices of a practised villain, who made no scruple to attack and destroy the virtue and peace of mind of the fairest work of creation.

MARCELLUS;

OR, THE OLD COBBLER OF THE COTTAGE.

From the French of Madame de Montolieu.*

IT Twas Sunday, and on every side was heard the silver sound of bells, summoning to the scattered churches the inhabitants of the neighbouring villages. In all the paths, were groups of men, women, youth, and children, walking at quick paces toward this or that rustic fane. All were dressed in their best clothes; the mothers and grandmothers in their wedding-gowns, kept from year to year

* Authoress of that exquisite production, Caroline de Litchfeld.