My voice was heard again, though not so loud;
My page, though nameless, never disavow'd;
And now at once I tear the veil away :-
Cheer on the pack! the quarry stands at bay,
Unscared by all the din of Melbourne House,
By Lambe's resentment, or by Holland's spouse,
By Jeffrey's harmless pistol, Hallam's rage,
Edina's brawny sons and brimstone page.
Our men in buckram shall have blows enough,
And feel they too are 'penetrable stuff :'
And though I hope not hence unscathed to go,
Who conquers me shall find a stubborn foe.
The time hath been, when no harsh sound
would fall

From lips that now may seem imbued with gall;
Nor fools nor follies tempt me to despise
The meanest thing that crawl'd beneath my eyes;

But now, so callous grown, so changed since
youth,

I've learn'd to think, and sternly speak the truth;
Learn'd to deride the critic's starch decree,
And break him on the wheel he meant for me;
To spurn the rod a scribbler bids me kiss,
Nor care if courts and crowds applaud or hiss:
Nay more, though all my rival rhymesters frown,
I too can hunt a poetaster down;
And, arm'd in proof, the gauntlet cast at once
To Scotch marauder, and to southern dunce.
Thus much I've dared; if my incondite lay
Hath wrong'd these righteous times, let others
say;

This, let the world, which knows not how to spare,
Yet rarely blames unjustly, now declare.

1

POSTSCRIPT TO THE SECOND EDITION.

I HAVE been informed, since the present edition went to the press, that my trusty and wellbeloved cousins, the Edinburgh Reviewers, are preparing a most vehement critique on my poor, gentle, unresisting Muse, whom they have already so bedeviled with their ungodly ribaldry:

'Tantæne animis cœlestibus iræ:'

I suppose I must say of Jeffrey as Sir Andrew Aguecheek saith, An' I had known he was so cunning of fence, I had seen him d-d ere I had fought him.' What a pity it is that I shall be beyond the Bosphorus before the next number has passed the Tweed! But I yet hope to light my pipe with it in Persia.

My Northern friends have accused me, with justice, of personality towards their great literary anthropophagus, Jeffrey; but what else was to be done with him and his dirty pack, who feed by lying and slandering,' and slake their thirst by evil speaking? I have adduced facts already well known, and of Jeffrey's mind I have stated my free opinion; nor has he hence sustained any injury-what scavenger was ever soiled by being pelted with mud? It may be said that I quit England because I have censured there' persons of honour and wit about town;' but I am coming back again, and their vengeance will keep hot till my return. Those who know me can testify that my motives for leaving England are very different from fears, literary or personal; those who do not, may one day be convinced. Since the publication of this thing. my name has not been concealed: I have been mostly in London, ready to answer for my transgressions, and in daily expectation of sundry cartels; but, alas!' the age of chivalry is over,' or, in the vulgar tongue, there is no spirit now-a-days.

There is a youth yclept Hewson Clarke (subaudi Esquire), a sizer of Emanuel College, and I believe a denizen of Berwick-upon-Tweed, whom I have introduced in these pages to much better company than he has been accustomed to meet; he is, notwithstanding, a very sad dog, and for no reason that I can discover, except a personal quarrel with a bear, kept by me at Cambridge to sit for a fellowship, and whom the jealousy of his Trinity contemporaries prevented from success, has been abusing me, and, what is worse, the defenceless, innocent above mentioned, in the Satirist, for one year and some months. I am utterly unconscious of having given him any provocation; indeed, I am guiltless of having heard his name till coupled with the Satirist. He has therefore no reason to complain, and I dare say that, like Sir Fretful Plagiary, he is rather pleased than otherwise. I have now mentioned all who have done me the honour to notice me and mine, that is, my bear and my book, except the Editor of the Satirist, who, it seems, is a gentleman-God wot! I wish he could impart a little of his gentility to his subordinate scribblers. I hear that Mr Jerningham is about to take up the cudgels for his Mæcenas, Lord Carlisle. I hope not he was one of the few who, in the very short intercourse I had with him, treated me with kindness when a boy; and whatever he may say or do, pour on, I will endure.' I have nothing further to add, save a general note of thanksgiving to readers. purchasers, and publishers; and, in the words of Scott, I wish

To all and each a fair good night,
And rosy dreams and Slumbers light.

HINTS FROM HORACE:

BEING AN ALLUSION IN ENGLISH VERSE TO THE EPISTLE

POETICA, AND INTENDED AS A SEQUEL TO ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS.'

-Ergo fungar vice cotis, acutum
Reddere quæ ferrum valet, exsors ipsa secandi.'
HOR. De Arte Poet.

'Rhymes are difficult things-they are stubborn things, sir.'
FIELDING'S Amelia,

+ 'Where pure description held the place of sense.'-Pope. I desire to know.

This shall the author choose, or that reject,
Precise in style, and cautious to select ;
Nor slight applause will candid pens afford
To him who furnishes a wanting word.
Then fear not, if 'tis needful, to produce
Some term unknown, or obsolete in use,
(As Pitt has furnish'd us a word or two,'
Which lexicographers declined to do ;)
So you indeed, with care,-(but be content
To take this license rarely)-may invent.
New words find credit in these latter days,
If neatly grafted on a Gallic phrase.
What Chaucer, Spenser did, we scarce refuse
To Dryden's or to Pope's maturer muse.
If you can add a little, say why not,

As well as William Pitt, and Walter Scott?

Since they, by force of rhyme and force of lungs,
Enrich'd our island's ill-united tongues;
'Tis then-and shall be-lawful to present
Reform in writing, as in parliament.

As forests shed their foliage by degrees,
So fade expressions which in season please;
And we and ours, alas! are due to fate,
And works and words but dwindle to a date.
Though as a monarch nods, and commerce calls,
Impetuous rivers stagnate in canals; [sustain
Though swamps subdued, and marshes drain'd,
The heavy ploughshare and the yellow grain,
And rising ports along the busy shore
Protect the vessel from old Ocean's roar,
All, all, must perish; but, surviving last,
The love of letters half preserves the past.
True, some decay, yet not a few revive; †
Though those shall sink, which now appear
thrive,

As custom arbitrates, whose shifting sway
Our life and language must alike obey.

Or lose one point, because they wrote in verse.
But so Thalia pleases to appear,

Poor virgin! damn'd some twenty times a year!
Whate'er the scene, let this advice have
weight:-

:

Adapt your language to your hero's state.
At times Melpomene forgets to groan,
Nor unregarded will the act pass by
And brisk Thalia takes a serious tone;
Where angry Townly lifts his voice on high.
Again our Shakspeare limits verse to kings,
When common prose will serve for common
And lively Hal resigns heroic ire, [things;
To 'hollowing Hotspur' and the sceptred sire. †

'Tis not enough, ye bards, with all your art,
To polish poems; they must touch the heart:
Where'er the scene be laid, whate'er the song,
Still let it bear the hearer's soul along;
Command your audience or to smile or weep,
Whiche'er may please you--anything but sleep.
The poet claims our tears; but, by his leave,
Before I shed them, let me see him grieve.

If banish'd Romeo feign'd nor sigh nor tear,
Lull'd by his languor, I should sleep or sneer.
to Sad words, no doubt, become a serious face,
And men look angry in the proper place.
At double meanings folks seem wondrous sly,
And sentiment prescribes a pensive eye;
For nature form'd at first the inward man,
And actors copy nature-when they can.
She bids the beating heart with rapture bound.
Raised to the stars, or levell'd with the ground;
And for expression's aid, 'tis said, or sung,
She gave our mind's interpreter-the tongue,
Who, worn with use, of late would fain dispense
(At least in theatres) with common sense;

The immortal wars which gods and angels
wage,

Are they not shown in Milton's sacred page?
His strain will teach what numbers best belong
To themes celestial told in epic song.

The slow, sad stanza will correctly paint
The lover's anguish or the friend's complaint.
But which deserves the laurel-rhyme or blank?erwhelm with sound the boxes, gallery, pit,

Which holds on Helicon the higher rank?
Let squabbling critics by themselves dispute
This point, as puzzling as a Chancery suit.
Satiric rhyme first sprang from selfish spleen.
You doubt-see Dryden, Pope, St Patrick's
dean.

* Mr Pitt was liberal in his additions to our parliamentary
tongue; as may be seen in many publications, particularly the
Edinburgh Review.
+ Old ballads, old plays, and old women's stories, are at
present in as much request as old wine or new speeches. In
fact, this is the millennium of black letter; thanks to our He
bers, Webers, and Scotts !

Mac Flecknoe,' the Dunciad,' and all Swift's lampooning ballads. Whatever their other works may be, these originated in personal feelings, and angry retort on unworthy rivals; and though the ability of these satires elevates the poetical, their poignancy detracts from the personal character of the

writers.

And raise a laugh with anything-but wit.

To skilful writers it will much import, Whence spring their scenes, from common life

or court;

་

Whether they seek applause by smile or tear,
To draw a 'Lying Valet,' or a ' Lear,'
A sage, or rakish youngster wild from school,
A wandering 'Peregrine,' or plain John Bull -*
All persons please when nature's voice prevalis,
Scottish or Irish, born in Wilts or Wales.

Or follow common fame, or forge a plot ;
Who cares if mimic heroes lived or not?

With all the vulgar applause and critical abhorrence puns, they have Aristotle on their side; who permits thera orators, and gives them consequence by a grave disquisiti

And in his car I'll hollow, Mortimer - Henry V.

One precept serves to regulate the scene :-
Make it appear as if it might have been.

If some Drawcansir you aspire to draw,
Present him raving, and above all law:
If female furies in your scheme are plann'd,
Macbeth's fierce dame is ready to your hand;
For tears and treachery, for good and evil,
Constance, King Richard, Hamlet, and the
But if a new design you dare essay,
And freely wander from the beaten way,
True to your characters, till all be past,
Preserve consistency from first to last.

[Devil!

Tis hard to venture where our betters fail,
Or lend fresh interest to a twice-told tale ;*
And yet, perchance, 'tis wiser to prefer
A hackney'd plot, than choose a new, and err;
Yet
copy not too closely, but record, [word;
More justly, thought for thought than word for
Nor trace your prototype through narrow ways,
But only follow where he merits praise.

For you, young bard! whom luckless fate may
To tremble on the nod of all who read, [lead
Ere your first score of cantos time unrolls,
Beware for God's sake, don't begin
Bowles ! +

like

Difficile est proprie communia dicere: tuque." Mde Dacier, Mde de Sévigné, Boileau, and others, have left their dispute on the meaning of this passage in a tract considerably knger than the poem of Horace. It is printed at the close of the eleventh volume of Madame de Sévigné's Letters edited by Grouvelle, Paris, 1806. Presuming that all who can constree may venture an opinion on such subjects, particularly as So many who can not have taken the same liberty, I should have held my farthing candle' as awkwardly as another, had ot my respect for the wits of Louis the Fourteenth's Augustan siècle induced me to subjoin these illustrious authorities.

Boileau: Il est difficile de traiter des sujets qui sont à la portée de tout le monde d'une manière qui vous les rende propres, ce qui s'appelle s'approprier un sujet par le tour gua y donne. 2ndly, Batteux: Mais il est bien difficile de dener des traits propres et individuels aux êtres purement sables 3rdly, Dacier: 'Il est difficile de traiter convenable

Mde

Awake a louder and a loftier strain,'

And pray, what follows from his boiling brain?—
He sinks to Southey's level in a trice,
Whose epic mountains never fail in mice!
Not so of yore awoke your mighty sire
The temper'd warblings of his master-lyre;
Soft as the gentler breathing of the lute,
'Of man's first disobedience and the fruit'
He speaks, but, as his subject swells along,
Earth, Heaven, and Hades echo with the song.
Still to the midst of things he hastens on,
As if we witness'd all already done;
Leaves on his path whatever seems too mean
To raise the subject, or adorn the scene;
Gives, as each page improves upon the sight,
Not smoke from brightness, but from darkness
-light;

And truth and fiction with such art compounds,
We know not where to fix their several bounds.

If

If you would please the public, deign to hear
What soothes the many-headed monster's ear:
your heart triumph when the hands of all
Applaud in thunder at the curtain's fall,
Deserve those plaudits-study nature's page,
And sketch the striking traits of every age;
While varying man and varying years unfold
Life's little tale, so oft, so vainly told;
Observe his simple childhood's dawning days,
His pranks, his prate, his playmates, and his
plays;

Till time at length the mannish tyro weans,
And prurient vice outstrips his tardy teens!

Behold him Freshman! forced no more to
groan

O'er Virgil's devilish verses and his own;
Prayers are too tedious, lectures too abstruse,
He flies from Tavell's frown to Fordham's
Mews;'

་

(Unlucky Tavell! doom'd to daily cares + By pugilistic pupils, and by bears ;)

mant ces caractères que tout le monde peut inventer.' de Sévigné's opinion and translation, consisting of some thirty pages, I onit, particularly as M. Grouvelle observes, La chose est bien remarquable, aucune de ces diverses interpret-injuring Mr Townsend's future prospects. Mr Cumberland tas ne parait etre la véritable. But, by way of comfort, seems, fifty years afterwards, 'Le lumineux Dumarsais sade his appearance, to set Horace on his legs again, 'dissiper tous les nuages, et concilier tous les dissentimens; and some ty years hence, somebody, still more luminous, will doubtless sup and demolish Dumarsais and his system on this weighty afar, as if he were no better than Ptolemy and Tycho, or his Comments of no more consequence than astronomical calculations on the present comet. I am happy to say, 'la longueur de la dissertation of M. D. prevents M. G. from saying any re on the matter. A better poet that Boileau, and at least as good a scholar as Sévigné, has said,

'A little learning is a dangerous thing.' And by this comparison of comments, it may be perceived be a good deal may be rendered as perilous to the pro

prietors.

(whose talents I shall not depreciate by the humble tribute of my praise) and Mr Townsend must not suppose me actuated by unworthy motives in this suggestion. I wish the author all the success he can wish himself, and shall be truly happy to see epic poetry weighed up from the bathos where it lies sunken with Southey, Cottle, Cowley (Mrs or Abraham), Ogilvy, Wilkie, Pye, and all the 'dull of past and present days.' Even if he is not a Milton, he may be better than Blackmore; if not a Homer, an Antimachus. I should deem myself presumptuous, as a young man, in offering advice, were it not addressed to one still younger. Mr Townsend has the greatest difficulties to encounter: but in conquering them he will find employment; in having conquered them, his reward. I know too well the scribbler's scoff, the critic's contumely; and I am afraid time will teach Mr Townsend to know them better. Those who succeed, and those who do not, must bear this alike, and it is hard to say which have most of it. I trust that Mr Townsend's share will be from envy; he will soon know mankind well enough not to attribute this expression to malice.

About two years ago a young man named Townsend was announced by Mr Cumberland, in a review (since deceased), as being engaged in an epic poem to be entitled 'Armageddon.' Harvey, the circulator of the circulation of the blood, The plan and specimen promise much; but I hope neither to used to fling away Virgil in his ecstasy of admiration and say, of end Mr Townsend, nor his friends, by recommending to his 'the book had a devil." Now, such a character as I am copyacation the Enes of Horace to which these rhymes allude. ing would probably fling it away also, but rather wish that the Mr Townsend succeeds in his undertaking, as there is reason devil had the book; not from dislike to the poet, but a wellto hope, how each will the world be indebted to Mr Cumber- founded horror of hexameters. Indeed, the public school lant for bringing him before the public! But, till that event-penance of Long and Short' is enough to beget an antipathy ful day arrives, it may be doubted whether the premature dis- to poetry for the residue of a man's life, and, perhaps, so far May of his plan (sublime as the ideas confessedly are) has may be an advantage.

Bat-by raising expectations too high, or diminishing curiosity, Infandum, regina, jubes renovare dolorem. I dare say by developing his argument,-rather incurred the hazard of Mr Tavell (to whom I mean no affront) will understand ine;