14 THE MODERN DUNC4AD. 
 
 Hoarse Clio Rickman's* Sonnets bay the moon, 
 Clio, a poet, patriot, and buffoon. 
 Godwin f pursues his philosophic schemes, 
 And rapt in trance, Joanna Southcott j dreams; 
 
 * This man, whose person is perhaps, better known than his 
 writings, is a contributer of Odes and Sonnets to the Monthly Maga- 
 zines. He is an avowed admirer of the New French School of Phi- 
 losophy, and a staunch advocate for " The Rights of Man.'* He 
 parades the streets in a strange garb, to the no small entertainment 
 of the mob, who, like Clio, are in general great sticklers for freedom. 
 N. B. He has no passion for clean linen. 
 
 -j- William Godwin, the Philosopher. 
 
 X Joanna's prophecies are expounded by an illiterate fellow, 
 named Tozer. Some have named the pillory as a proper punish- 
 ment for this deluded woman ; — I say Bedlam — and the pillory for 
 Mr, Tozer. 
 
THE , MODERN DUNCIAD. |£ 
 
 Jeffrey turns Critic, but betrays his trust, 
 And hot-prest Little* breathes the soul of lust; 
 While chaste Minerva f kindly lends Tier aid 
 To calm the scruples of each wishful maid. 
 Lo, mad enthusiasts, would-be saints, stand forth ; 
 Sworn foes to godlike genius, private worth ; 
 With furious zeal attack e'en Shakspeare's fame f, 
 And hurl their poisonous darts at Garrick's name ; 
 
 *■ I was much surprized to find my Lord Ellenborough praising 
 Mr. Moore's poetry at a late trial. After this, let us hear no more 
 of indictments for publishing things " Contra bonos mores' 1 The 
 Attorney-General too, with his usual facetiousness, complimented 
 Mr. Twiss's poetical talents. — Mr. Horace Twiss a Poet! — " O name 
 it not in Gath !'* 
 
 f The Minerva Library in Leadenball-Street. 
 
 % The following Criticism is taken from the Third Volume of the 
 
'afru^ 
 
 University of California • Berkeley 
 


THE 
 
 MODERN DUNCIAD, 
 
 A SATIRE; 
 
 WITH 
 
 NOTES, BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL. 
 
 c Out with it, Dunciad ! let the secret pass, 
 c That secret to each fool, that he's an ass." 
 
 PorB. 
 
 * Soyez plutdt magon, si c'est votre talent, 
 
 " Ouvrier estime dans un art necessaire, 
 
 " Qu' ecrivain du commun, et po'ete vulgaire." 
 
 Boileau. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED FOR JOHN RODWELL, 46, NEW BOND STREET ', 
 AND EFFINGHAM WILSON, 88, CORNHILL. 
 
 1814. 
 
W Wilson, Printer, 4, Greville-Street, Hatton-Garden, London, 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 THE following Poem is written in imita- 
 tion of the first Satire of Persius : the pre- 
 sent subject being however of a more general 
 nature^ the author has in many places been 
 obliged to depart very widely from the 
 original. 
 
 ?45i44 
 
THE 
 
 MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 P. JH.OW anxious is the Bard, and yet how vain 
 His wishes : — 
 
 F. Cease this moralizing strain, 
 What mortal will peruse it ? 
 
 P. P'rhaps a few : — 
 F. Alas ! the town has something else to do, 
 Than read one line of all thou shalt indite, 
 While Byron, Wordsworth, Scott, and Croker 
 
 write. 
 Tis hard— but— 
 
 P. Spare thy pity, 'tis my lot ; 
 What some might think a grievance hurts ine not ; 
 
g' THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 The Bard by fashion dragg'd before the scene, 
 
 Nor wakes my envy* nor provokes my spleen ; 
 
 Let venal Scotchmen puff him to the town, 
 
 And herald hawkers cry him up and down, 
 
 IndifFrent still, I hear the loud acclaim, 
 
 Nor court that noisy strumpet, Common Fame. 
 
 Yes ! I can bear that envy, hate, and spite, 
 
 And cold contempt attend on all I write ; 
 
 That Moore's Epistles, Thurlow's splayfoot line, 
 
 And Barrett's * doggrel be preferr'd to mine ; 
 
 * Mr. Eaton Stannard Barrett, Student of the Inner Temple ; 
 
 A Clerk foredoom' d his father's soul to cross, 
 Who pens a stanza, when he should engross. 
 
 This gentleman is the author of a poem called " Woman," from 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. J 
 
 No threats can sway me, no opinions bend, 
 I care not ; — let them censure or commend. 
 Yet would I speak, but coward fear restrains 
 The rebel blood just rising in my veins ; 
 Sets my imagination at a stand, 
 And makes my pen drop harmless from my hand. 
 F. Why Truth, that arms the Stoic, ne'er can fail — 
 P. Then Fear for once give way, and Truth prevail. 
 When I behold in this weak driveling age, 
 Poole, Dibdin, Pocock, Hook, possess the stage ; 
 
 which might be extracted many passages that would tend to illustrate 
 the Bathos. 
 
 Mr. Barrett has lately obliged the town with " The Heroine," a 
 novel, which Mr. B. himself pronounces in his advertisement to be 
 superior in wit to Tristram Shandy, and in spirit and contrivance to 
 Don Quixote ! 
 
i THE MODERN DUNCIAR 
 
 Charm Gallery, Box, and Pit, a judging throng I 
 With Melo-drame, and Pantomime, and song; 
 See boxing f Y*****th in the lists appear, 
 And fHAWKE drive forth a flaming chariotteer; 
 See C****s ape all that Queensb'ry was before, 
 A palsied, amorous Strephon of fourscore. 
 Yes ! when I hear frail Misses, grey in years, 
 Scream their lascivious Odes, and rhyming Peers 
 In little Sonnets, tender, dull, and soft, 
 Outwhine the mawkish frippery of Lofft J ; 
 
 f Lord Y*****th and Lord Hawke, the one a Bruiser, the other 
 a Stage-Coachman ; both Noblemen, and both * * 
 Who justly boast 
 At least superior Jockey ship, and claim 
 The honours of the Turf as all their own. 
 
 t Mr. Capel Lofft, a Sonnet-Writer in the " Monthly Mirror."- 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 5 
 
 Then, then I boldly rise, and dare the worst — 
 F. Forbear this railing : — 
 
 P. I must speak, or burst. 
 There was a time when Churchill, bold and coarse, 
 Gave Wit its point, and Satire all its force ; 
 When Pope, immortal Sat'rist ! made his prey 
 The Herveys and the Gildons of the day ; 
 DraggM into light th* abandoned scribbling crew, 
 And boldly scourged them in the public view : 
 But now, so cheap is praise, there scarce remains 
 One fool to flatter in our courtly strains. 
 
 It is however but justice to allow this gentleman the merit of first 
 introducing to the public that delightful Poem, " The Farmer's 
 Boy." — His Introductory Preface, relative to Mr. Bloom field, is 
 highly interesting, and written with great taste and feeling. 
 
6 THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 Had they but hVd to witness present times, 
 What sins, what dulness, had provokM their rhymes ; 
 Satire unaw'd would then have dar'd to speak, 
 Till deep conviction glow'd on H^d***^ cheek; 
 And M*n*"**s, brainless blockhead ! stood confest 
 The public nuisance, and the public jest. 
 F. Once more forbear — thy proper medium know : — 
 Degraded names ! can Satire stoop so low ? 
 When H**d***t ambles in a courtier's guise, 
 All know the hoary pimp, and all despise. 
 Does credence wait on each preposterous tale ? 
 Who cares a jot when Agg f and \ M*n***s rail ? 
 
 f Mr. Thomas Agg was formerly a Bookseller at Bristol, where 
 he became a bankrupt ; since which, he has written a variety of 
 matter for a publication, now defunct, called, " Town Talk," and 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 7 
 
 They risk vexatious suits, as well they may, 
 Who have nor shame, nor wherewithal to pay. 
 Let them enjoy in secret, dirty souls, "j 
 
 Their miserable bread, and peck of coals ; V 
 
 'Twere cowardice to drag* them from their holes. J 
 
 continues writing under the assumed names of Humphrey Hedgehog, 
 and Jeremiah Juvenal. He has lately taken up the title of Peter 
 Pindar, and thus confounds his spurious trash with the productions 
 of Doctor Walcott. It is fit that the public should be made ac- 
 quainted with the deception; the original Peter is too often profane. 
 
 but never dull. 
 
 i 
 
 Mr. M*n***s was Editor of the " Satirist," and renowned for 
 throwing as much filth as any of his contemporary Libellers. In 
 person, he bears no small resemblance to the " Phantom Moore," 
 whom Pope describes, 
 
 Of such a bulk as no twelve bards could raise, 
 Twelve starveling bards of these degenerate days. 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 What can provoke thy Muse ? scarce thrice a year 
 * Matilda's woeful Madrigals appear ; 
 Lewis no more the tender maid affrights 
 With incantations, ravishments, and sprites : 
 
 * Rosa Matilda, as she poetically describes herself, is the daugh- 
 ter of the notorious Jew King ; she is a Lady of most versatile 
 talents, and writer of innumerable Odes, Elegies, and Sonnets, as 
 likewise of sundry volumes of <e Horrors," in the style of Mr. 
 Lewis's Monk. 
 
 The Author of " Tears of the Novel Writers," compliments Rosa's 
 poetical talents, but reproves her laxity of morals : both praise and 
 censure are conveyed in most lamentable rhymes. He says— 
 
 Though small the errors of a chosen few, 
 Those errors visible, my pen has drew. 
 
 He then proceeds to satirise Black Letter Boys, calls upon the 
 Muse of Invention, invokes the Goddess Fancy, and concludes — 
 quantum sufficit. 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 9 
 
 Crusca (to Gifford thanks !) is fairly fled, 
 And * Cottle's Epics sleep among the dead ; 
 E'en fWALCOTT's impious blasphemies are o'er, 
 And Andrews' Prologues are the vogue no more. 
 
 What can provoke thy Muse ? — the blinded school, 
 Whose greatest boast was that it err'd by rule, 
 
 * Alas ! that Mr. Amos Cottle should venture to compose bulky 
 Epics, being, as Falstaff says, " most heinously unprovided" with 
 the proper requisites ; save patience — " a goodly virtue !" Would 
 that he were able to impart it to his readers. 
 
 f The wit and humour of this writer can never atone for hU 
 scandalous disregard of all decency throughout his numerous works. 
 He appears never so much at his ease as when he is ridiculing the 
 Holy Scriptures ; a propensity denoting the utmost depravity of 
 heart. 
 
10 THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 That philosophic horde of fools and knaves 
 
 Has fall'n — nor Paine blasphemes, nor Priestley 
 
 raves : 
 Repenting bigots bow, and kiss the rod, 
 And prostrate nations own the name of God. 
 Reason, that dangerous pride of human kind, 
 For ever soaring, and for ever blind ; 
 Prone to distrust when tardy to discern, 
 Too weak to compass, yet too proud to learn ; 
 With shame reviews each ill-digested plan, 
 And turns with horror from " The Rights of Man." 
 
 What can provoke thy Muse ?— in srlence deep 
 Tooke rests — but not in everlasting sleep* : 
 
 * During the French Revolution, a Law passed, decreeing the 
 sleep of death to be eternal. To such philosophers let me reply in 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 1 1 
 
 Another scene awaits his trembling sight, 
 
 A gloom more awful, or a blaze more bright ! 
 
 The veil is rent, the Sceptic's hateful name 
 
 Stands justly branded with contempt and shame ; 
 
 The Christian Banner is again unfurPd, 
 
 And Truth once more illumes a falling world. 
 
 the sublime language of Tully : " Quod si in hoc erro, quod amnios 
 hominum immortales esse credam, libenter error ; nee mihi hunc 
 errorem, quo detector dum vivo, extwqueri volo : sin mortuus, ut 
 quidam minuti philosophi censent, nihil sentiam; non vereor, ne 
 hunc err or em meum mortui philosophi irideant." 
 
 As I am upon this subject, I cannot help noticing the many at- 
 tempts that have of late been made to revive a spirit of infidelity in 
 our own country, by the re-publication of " Ecce Homo," " The 
 Age of Reason," and other blasphemous productions. I am a true 
 friend to the liberty of the press, but when that liberty degenerates 
 into open licentiousness, it is for the strong arm of the law to 
 remedy the evil. 
 
12 THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 P. All this is true — but still enough remains, 
 Enough in conscience to provoke my strains. 
 See Thelwall*, void of decency and sense, 
 Erect, God wot ! a school for eloquence ; 
 The newest style of rhetoric to teach, 
 And full-grown gentlemen their parts of speech; 
 While from his tub, Gale Jones f, Sedition's sprite, 
 Nonsense with sense confounds, and wrong with right ; 
 
 * Mr. Thelwall continues u tuning his voice, and balancing his 
 hands" at his house in Lincoln's Inn Fields: " preacher at once, 
 and Zany of the age." 
 
 •f This miserable object was formerly the Hero of a Forum, 
 where a parcel of " Mendici, Mimi, Balatrones," used to assemble 
 to discuss the measures of government. It was a ludicrous sight to 
 behold the Westminster Electors shaking hands with him the day he 
 was liberated from Newgate. The Westminster Electors !—" If I 
 
THB MODERN DUNCIAD. 13 
 
 Rants, bounces, capers, a fantastic show ! 
 To scare the shilling orators below. 
 Prolific Pasquin plies th* eternal quill, 
 Fitzgerald rhymes, and Cobbett proses still ; 
 
 am not ashamed of my company, I am a soused Garnet ! There was 
 but a shirt and a half in the whole regiment." 
 
 So they have been at their old work again ! u Unloading the gib- 
 bets." Jack Cade and his mob were nothing to Alderman **** 
 and the Westminster Electors. This man's impudence is past all 
 belief; witness his false assertions respecting the Prince Regent 
 and his daughter, to the Co vent-Garden rabble. " He has no chil- 
 dren !" at least I should hope so, for the credit of the parental cha- 
 racter. It is a fact that savages chuse the most disgusting images 
 for their idols : the ludicrous physiognomy of Alderman **** is 
 well calculated to keep the gentlefolks in good humour. His very 
 countenance is the first act of a farce. 
 
14 THE MODERN DUNC4AD. 
 
 Hoarse Clio Rickman's* Sonnets bay the moon, 
 Clio, a poet, patriot, and buftbon. 
 Godwin f pursues his philosophic schemes, 
 And rapt in trance, Joanna Southcott j dreams; 
 
 * This man, whose person is perhaps, better known than his 
 writings, is a contributer of Odes and Sonnets to the Monthly Maga- 
 zines. He is an avowed admirer of the New French School of Phi- 
 losophy, and a staunch advocate for " The Rights of Man.'* He 
 parades the streets in a strange garb, to the no small entertainment 
 of the mob, who, like Clio, are in general great sticklers for freedom. 
 N. B. He has no passion for clean linen. 
 
 f William Godwin, the Philosopher. 
 
 X Joanna's prophecies are expounded by an illiterate fellow, 
 named Tozer. Some have named the pillory as a proper punish- 
 ment for this deluded woman ; — I say Bedlam— and the pillory for 
 Mr, Tozer. 
 
THE , MODERN DUNCIAD. 15 
 
 Jeffrey turns Critic, but betrays his trust, 
 And hot-prest Little* breathes the soul of lust; 
 While chaste Minerva! kindly lends Tier aid 
 To calm the scruples of each wishful maid. 
 Lo, mad enthusiasts, would-be saints, stand forth ; 
 Sworn foes to godlike genius, private worth ; 
 With furious zeal attack e'en Shakspeare's fame f , 
 And hurl their poisonous darts at Garrick's name ; 
 
 *• I was much surprized to find ray Lord Ellenborough praising 
 Mr. Moore's poetry at a late trial. After this, let us hear no more 
 of indictments for publishing things " Contra bonos mores." The 
 Attorney-General too, with his usual facetiousness, complimented 
 Mr. Twiss's poetical talents. — Mr. Horace Twiss a Poet! — " O name 
 it not in Gath !" 
 
 f The Minerva Library in Leadenhall-Street. 
 
 % The following Criticism is taken from the Third Volume of tbr 
 
16 THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 And while they talk of truth, of candour rave, 
 Insult the dead, and violate the grave. 
 
 Eclectic Review, Part I. page 76.— Art. Twiss's " Verbal Index 
 of Shakspeare. " He (i. e. Shakspeare) has been called, and justly 
 too, the poet of nature ; a slight acquaintance with the religion of 
 the Bible, will shew, however, that it is of human nature in its worst 
 shape, deformed by the basest passions, and agitated by the most 
 vicious propensities, that the poet became the priest ; and the in- 
 cense offered at the altar of his goddess still continues to spread its 
 poisonous fumes over the hearts of his countrymen, till the memory 
 of his works is extinct. Thousands of unhappy spirits, and thousands 
 yet to increase the number, will everlastingly look back with un- 
 utterable anguish on the nights and days in which the plays of 
 Shakspeare ministered to their guilty delights." — And again — " what 
 Christian can pass through the most venerable pile of sacred archi- 
 tecture which our metropolis can boast, without having his best 
 feelings insulted by observing within a few yards of the spot from 
 which prayers and praises are daily offered to the Most High, the 
 absurd and impious Epitaph upon the tablet raised to one of the 
 miserable retailers of his impurities ? Our readers, who are ac- 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. \7 
 
 In Magazines vile anecdotes appear, 
 
 And deal out dirty scandal through the year ; 
 
 For desp'rate libellers, when duns assail, 
 
 Dare lawsuits, whips, the pillory, and the jail. 
 
 This Hewson Clarke"* can tell, misguided youth, 
 
 What demon lur'd him from the path of truth, 
 
 quainted with London, will discover that it is the inscription upon 
 David Garrick, in Westminster Abbey, to which we refer." 
 
 To the ravings of these illiterate field-preachers, I shall only oppose 
 one short sentence, written by Doctor Samuel Johnson : " The 
 stream of time, which is continually washing the dissoluble fabrics of 
 other poets, passes without injury the adamant of Shakspeare !" 
 
 * Now stop your noses readers all, and some, 
 For here's a tun of midnight work to come ! 
 The " pertinacious, and never-enough quoted," Mr. Hewson 
 Clarke, of whose birth and parentage I know nothing, but with whose 
 talents and pursuits I am somewhat better acquainted, was educated 
 
18 THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 With low ambition filPd his canker'd mind, 
 To entertain the basest of mankind ? 
 
 at Cambridge. According to his own statement (for Mr. Clarke has 
 favoured the public with a biographical account of himself in the 
 Third Number of the " Scourge," written, it would seem, by a third 
 person, but in reality penned by himself), he is the author of nume- 
 rous and successful writings, chiefly anonymous. But what these 
 numerous and successful writings consist of, it were impossible to 
 say, except indeed I name a lamentable production in rhyme, called, 
 " The Art of Pleasing;" and a principal part of the ribaldry and 
 scurrility which have appeared in the Satirist, Scourge, and Theatrical 
 Inquisitor. But hear we what Mr. Clarke himself says, " Every 
 one of his (mind of Mr. Clarke's) productions has been composed in 
 haste, and sent to the press without revision: (so I should guess) his 
 Sonnets (I had forgotten them) have not been ushered into the world 
 after undergoing the ordeal of private criticism, nor his Essays (still 
 born) assisted in their circulation by the officiousness of honourable 
 friends, and the puffs of dependant Critics." — It is to be lamented 
 that a person like Mr. Clarke, who has had the advantage of a liberal 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. ]Q 
 
 Oh ! may he late for all his sins atone, 
 And while he gains their ears, preserve his own*. 
 Then ask no more — yet if a doubt remain, 
 Why thus to Satire I devote my strain ; 
 
 education, should have so far degraded himself as to associate with 
 a herd of pestilent scribblers for the propagation of scandal. Of 
 Mr. Clarke's private character I know nothing, I speak only of his 
 literary one, which is sufficiently notorious to call for censure. Let 
 him remember that the profession of a libeller is a dangerous one : 
 
 What street, what lane but knows 
 
 His purgings, pumpings, blankettings, and blows ? 
 
 And therefore take the advice of honest Stephano — " While thou 
 liv'st, keep a good tongue in thy head." 
 
 * Warburton says, " Scribblers have not the common senso of 
 other vermin, who commonly abstain from mischief when they see 
 any of their kind gibbetted, or nailed up as terrible examples." 
 
20 THE MODERN DUNC1AD. 
 
 With this reply be satisfied at once, 
 
 While Bowles * exists, can satire want a dunce ? 
 
 * The Rev. William Lisle Bowles, u a Parson much bemus'd in 
 beer." — It would be a work of no small labor to wade through the 
 various productions of this reverend bard. Odes, Epics, and Sonnets 
 innumerable, " pass in long review." Let the following extracts 
 suffice. — A Poem, called " Time's Holiday," affords a beautiful 
 specimen of rural simplicity : 
 
 " Golden lads and lasses gay, 
 
 Now is life's sweet holiday ; 
 
 Time shall lay by his scythe for you, 
 
 And Joy the valley with fresh violets strew." 
 
 Next comes a description of Loutherbourg's scene in France, 
 where Mr. Bowles endeavours to be witty : 
 
 " And sure none ever saw a landscape shine, 
 Basking in beams of such a sun as thine, 
 But felt a fervid dew upon his phiz, 
 And panting cry'd, " Ok, Lord, how hot it is !** 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 21 
 
 Bowles who hath cherish'd as a costly pearl, 
 The horse-play, dull obscenity of Curl ; 
 Th* accumulated trash of Smedley's page, 
 For why ? — to vent on Pope his puny rage. 
 
 We have then u skiey blue" " bluet/ fading hills** and a large 
 mass of verse, 'yclept, "The Sylph of Summer, or Air," being 
 part of a projected Poem on the Elements. All this might be passed 
 over ; but why take up his pen against Pope ? Could he suppose 
 that he was rendering a service to literature, by defaming one of its 
 brightest ornaments ? But enough of Mr. Bowles and his works : 
 we may forgive a blockhead f* that little dares and little means ; M 
 but not one that dares much, and means nothing. 
 
 i( More last words of Mr. Baxter !" — Mr. Bowles has lately pub- 
 lished a poem, called M The Missionary," corpus sine pectore ! full 
 of his usual affected prettiness of style. I have heard of one John 
 Taylor, the water Poet ; Mr. B. may be christened the milk and 
 water Poet. 
 
22 THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 Oh, shame to genius, to himself, to all ! 
 
 Let him, a courtly priest, supinely drawl 
 
 His tedious, vapid, stif£ unmeaning prose, 
 
 While princes yawn, and lords-in-waiting dose, 
 
 But ne'er profane with dark and jealous sneer, 
 
 The strain to virtue and the muses dear. 
 
 Is it not hard, (my friend) nay doubly hard, 
 
 A sorry Critic, and more sorry Bard, 
 
 Whose jaded Pegasus 'yclept difine, 
 
 Cries out for quarter at the fourteenth line ; 
 
 Should for base lucre, (oh, how vilely won !) 
 
 Complete what Ralph and Dennis left undone ? 
 
 Thus urg'd, thus prompted by the warm desire 
 
 To vindicate the genius I admire ; 
 
 To add at least my humble meed of praise, 
 
 To names rever'd in Britain's brighter days ; 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 23 
 
 To strip the poet of his false sublime, 
 
 (Then Bowles, the Lord have mercy on thy rhyme ! ) 
 
 And shew that Critics may at times appear 
 
 In praise too cold, in censure too severe ; 
 
 I take the pen — when folly met his eye, 
 
 Democritus would laugh — and so must I*. 
 
 Now to begin — nor distant need we roam, 
 Kind fate hath sent us fools enough at home ; 
 Our modern poets, bounteous in th* extreme, 
 Rhyme on, and make waste paper by the ream. 
 Five thousand lines compos'd — a modest stint ! 
 Next Westall must design, and Bulmer print ; 
 
 * IMITATION. 
 The Queen of Midas slept, and so may I. 
 
 Pope. 
 
24? THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 Then bound with care, and hot-press* d ev'ry sheet, 
 The wonder-working quarto shines complete. 
 Forth comes the promised work in all its pride, 
 The author simpers, and the wits decide ; 
 Is the verse smooth ? O, then 'tis called divine ! 
 And loud-approving Coxcombs cry, " D — dfint f /" 
 Behold a gaping crowd that never tire ! 
 See Busby f, worthy son of such a sire, 
 
 * IMITATION. 
 Lost in amaze at language so divine, 
 The audience hiccup, and exclaim, " d — d fine !" 
 
 Gifford. 
 
 f Mr. George Frederick Busby, son of the renowned Doctor of 
 that name ; notorious for publicly reading his father's translation of 
 Lucretius to the nobility and gentry, and exposing himself upon a 
 well-known occasion at Drury Lane Theatre. It was my intention 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 2.5 
 
 (For truth must own, when all is said and done, 
 The father's pertness centres in the son :) 
 Straining with all his might 'gainst mood and tense, 
 To make the Doctor's fustian sound like sense. 
 He views the audience with theatric stare, 
 His hands with equal motion saw the air ; 
 His voice in dulcet cadence taught to float, 
 Seems the shrill pipings of an eunuch's throat : 
 
 to have selected a variety of passages from the Doctor's translation, 
 to give the reader some idea of this young gentleman's modesty in 
 undertaking the task of recitation : but as the work has scarcely 
 ever reached beyond the circle of Doctor Busby's subscribers, I shall 
 not drag/rom its merited oblivion the language of a Brothel. 
 
 It has been announced that Master George is about to inflict upon 
 the public a translation of the " Thebaid of Statius." — Will no good 
 Christian dissuade this young man from an attempt that must render 
 him doubly ridiculous in the eyes of the world ? 
 
§6 THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 Assembled thus, our sapient nobles sit 
 To hear how Busby, not Lucretius, writ. 
 If now and then a sentiment exprest 
 In language more indecent than the rest, 
 Strike the attentive ear ; — with fond regard, 
 A hundred hands are raisM to clap the bard : 
 The Marchioness adores the charming man, 
 F** Z »***** T i eers ^ an d J*r**y flirts her fan ; 
 While doating H**d***t, tickled to the core, 
 Starts up entranc'd, and ambles at threescore. 
 
 , Vain Scribbler ! and is this, this all thy aim, 
 Art thou content with transitory fame ; 
 Fame, that shall haunt thee living, d — n thee dead ? 
 Thus dost thou feed their ears, thus art thou fed * ? 
 
 * The two following Imitations of Horace, written by a friend, 
 are not here inapplicable. 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 27 
 
 But what avails, if faithless to my trust 
 I hide (you cry) my talent in the dust ? 
 
 ODE XIX, BOOK II. 
 
 TO DOCTOR B****T. 
 
 I saw (nor disbelieve my strain,) 
 High, in a box at Drury-Lane, 
 
 In consequential trim, 
 A little pert translating prig, 
 Extend his hands, and shake his wig, 
 
 Most ludicrously grim. 
 
 With gestures strange, and accent loud, 
 He lectur'd to the gaping crowd, 
 
 About the Drama's laws ; 
 While now and then, in noisy fit, 
 Some long-ear'd brethren in the pit, 
 Who thought the Doctor still a wit, 
 
 Stood up and roar'd applause. 
 
28 THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 Why am I learn'd ? Why Stop this vaunting tone ! 
 
 Is learning nothing then, till fairly known ? 
 
 In Tain he spoke — the gallery gods, 
 From their celestial high abodes, 
 
 Sent forth a dismal yell ; 
 Nor louder scream, nor hoarser cough 
 Were heard, when Pluto gallop'd off 
 
 With Proserpine to hell. 
 
 I hear, in varied cadence still, 
 The frequent hiss, the whistle shrill, 
 
 The loud discordant bray ; 
 I see the spouting pedant stand 
 Unmov'd, — his prologue in his hand, 
 
 Amid the wild affray. 
 
 Hail, B***y, hail ! eccentric Wight ! 
 The feats of that tumultuous night 
 
 Unfading laurels yield ; 
 When boldly thou withstood'st the brunt, 
 A coat of mail, thy brazen front, 
 And impudence thy shield. 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 29 
 
 But still (you straight rejoin) how sweet the sound 
 To hear the murmur of applause go round, — 
 
 Lucretius calls thee from the shades, 
 In hollow voice he thus upbraids — 
 
 (Excuse the taunting gibe,) 
 " How durst thou murder my sublime, 
 Thou wicked son of prose and rhyme ! 
 
 And bid the town subscribe ? 
 
 u Think'st thou my philosophic muse, 
 To teach the lessons of the stews 
 
 Was e'er design'd by fate, 
 To charm the ears of modern jilts, 
 Or, Caitiff! plac'd by thee on stilts 
 
 To strut in empty state ? 
 
 " Recite no more — vain blockhead, hush ! 
 I swear F**z******t's self would blush, 
 
 And Venus, Cyprian Queen, 
 With all her gay Cytherean Maids, 
 Clarke, J****y, H******t, rampant jades ! 
 
 To hear the strain obscene. 
 
30 THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 f f That's he," (the finger pointed all the while) 
 w Renown'd for wit and elegance of style ; 
 
 <( By nature form'd for low debate, 
 To rhyme, to fiddle, and to prate, 
 
 Impertinence thy crest ; 
 O ! surely thou wert born to shine 
 A petit-mmtre of the Nine, 
 
 Apollo's scorn and jest. 
 
 " Since 'twas ordain'd by angry fate 
 
 That thou should'st e'er my works translate, 
 
 (With common sense at strife :) 
 What now remains to blast my fame, 
 And load with infamy my name, 
 
 But Bowles to write my life ? 
 
 " If thou would'st wound me deeper still, 
 Let Thomas Tegg, with desp'rate quill, 
 
 Arch rogue ! supply the Notes ; 
 And Master Gsorge, thy hopeful son, 
 The flatt'rer play, (as thou hast done,) 
 
 And dedicate to Coates." 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 31 
 
 " Whom Critic Mawman f puffs, whose senseless 
 
 whine 
 u Boeotian BucHANf quotes, and calls divine." 
 
 ODE XV, BOOK IV. 
 
 TO THE PRINCE REGENT. 
 
 With martial heat I seiz'd the lyre 
 To sing of wars and conflicts dire, 
 
 And valiant heroes slain ; 
 When PH03BUS whisper'd with a frown — 
 " O ne'er, to please a foolish town, 
 
 Attempt the battle-strain. 
 
 * Brother Mawman the bookseller, and Brother Salte the linen- 
 draper, published a few years since " A Tour to the Lakes of Cum- 
 berland." Brother Mawman is suspected of dabbling in the 
 " Critical Review." 
 
 f It seems that the Earl of Buchan received Doctor Busby's 
 proposals " with a refined frankness." 
 
32 THE MODERN DUNCIAL>. 
 
 Stark metre-mad, the lovesick Edwin sends 
 Of jingling splayfoot verse, some odds and ends 
 
 " To fill the soul with fond alarms, 
 To sing the pow'r of beauty's charms, 
 
 The joys of love and wine, 
 Shall better far thy muse become, 
 Than trumpet, pistol, sword, and drum ; 
 For not a strain can Croker thrum, 
 
 To match one ode of thine. 
 
 u Let other bards in martial verse 
 The deeds of Wellington rehearse : — 
 
 In numbers light and gay, 
 Po thou, my friend, Horatius Flaccus, 
 Record the victories of Bacchus, 
 A chief, who, if he once attack us, 
 
 Is sure to win the day. 
 
 " Thy Prince demands his meed of praise, 
 Attend — and thou shalt gain the bays, 
 
 (The hungry poet's pray'r,) 
 For which harmonious Cibber burn'd, 
 Which haughty Gray indignant spurn'd, 
 
 And Dryden blush'd to wear." 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 3,J 
 
 To driv'lling Urban, in whose Magazine 
 
 TV inveterate sons of dulness vent their spleen : 
 
 Obedient then, I strike the lyre, 
 Come, Busby, and my song inspire, 
 
 And all ye rhyming host ! 
 Come, chaste Matilda ! thou whote rause, 
 In any sudden dearth of news, 
 
 Adorns the Morning Post. 
 
 I never touch'd the tuneful string 
 To laud the virtues of a king, 
 
 Or what is more — create 'em : 
 With lighter food my friends I treat, 
 A pun, a tale, a quaint conceit, 
 
 Or Scand-alum Magnatum* 
 
 Then please your Highness, tell my muse 
 What sort of character you chuse, 
 
 Wise, tender, or heroic ? 
 A Chief, invincible in arms— 
 A Lover, fond of beauty's charms — 
 
 A Statesman, or a Stoic ? 
 
34* THE MODERN DUNCIAD, 
 
 Proud of the gift so graciously bestow'd, 
 
 He prints the thing which Edwin calls an Ode ; 
 
 To do what many bards have done, 
 Suppose I blend them all in one ! 
 
 With compliments in plenty ; 
 And paint you am'rous, wise, and brave, 
 Chaste, philosophical, and grave, 
 
 And call you one and twenty. 
 
 Hail, mighty prince ! illustrious youth ! 
 O listen to the voice of truth, 
 
 A voice to monarchs strange : 
 Thy bright example mends our taste, 
 Our wives are true, our daughters chaste, 
 Bear witness, many a slender waist 
 
 From Charing-Cross to 'Change ! 
 
 Augustan days are come, we hope, 
 For Doctor Busby rivals Pope, 
 
 And Milton keeps the rear; 
 Laborious Scott the laurel gains, 
 Sir Richard lives in Southey's strain?, 
 And Spencer's muse, where fancy reigns, 
 
 rs distanc'd by a Peer. 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 35 
 
 How Laura smiles ! What less can Laura do ? 
 It gives, her beauties that she never knew. 
 
 See Jameson, Pocock, Hook, agree, 
 And Arnold, (no small blockhead he), 
 
 The Drama's rights to seize ; 
 See op'ras, farces, all the rage, 
 And Kemble banish'd from the stage, 
 For how can genius charm an age, 
 
 Which Shakspeare fails to please ? 
 
 Britannia ! bless thy lucky star, 
 That gives thee Garrow for the bar, 
 
 And Lancaster to teach ; 
 R**E for a ministerial tool, 
 Intrepid Castlereagh to rule, 
 
 And Huntingdon to preach. 
 
 My mind, as in a glass, surveys 
 , The glories of thy future days, 
 To me alone displayed ; 
 Ye years your happy circles run ! 
 Enough — the weighty task is done, 
 And Phoebus is obey*d. 
 
36 THE MODERN DUNCIAD, 
 
 'Tis so pathetic ! who unmov'd can read ? 
 Melissa faintly whispers, " Sad indeed f 
 In ecstacies Lucretia dies away, 
 And Edwin grows immortal — for a day ! 
 
 And is not now the author truly blest, 
 By Critics flattered, by the fair caressed ? 
 Shall not his praise by future bards be sung, 
 When envious death has stopp'd his tuneful tongue 
 
 F. By trade a censor, and resolv'd to sneer, 
 You drive the jest too far ; 'tis too severe 
 To brand a blockhead in your angry strains, 
 For what he cannot help — his want of brains ! 
 
 P. Be answer'd thus — his itching after fame, 
 His bold obtrusive vanity I blame; 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 37 
 
 Not the true dulness that inspires his lays, 
 But the false pride that makes him covet praise. 
 F. Then censure all mankind, for who is free ? 
 
 The flame that warms their bosoms dwells with thee. 
 
 The soldier to attain it travels far, 
 
 The smirking lawyer courts it at the bar ; 
 
 Th 5 intrepid seaman wins it at his post, 
 
 The man of virtue when he shuns it most ; 
 
 The anxious poet claims it as his due, 
 
 And (pr'ythee speak with candour) so do you. 
 
 P. Thus candid, I reply — if now and then 
 Success attend the labours of my pen, 
 If those who buy my works, and those who read, 
 Applaud — and that's a rarity indeed ! 
 
38 THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 Fm not so proud, so squeamishly severe, 
 But honest Fame is pleasing to mine ear. 
 But that I write for that short-livM renown 
 Which Fashion gives the votaries of the town, 
 I cannot grant — for mark ! the gift divine 
 Was Darwin's once, and Busby may be thine. 
 
 Athirst for Fame, whieh Magazines, Reviews, 
 Too coy, deny the labours of his muse ; 
 My Lord (what will riot vanity afford ?) 
 Invites a host of Critics to his board ; 
 Some creeping, slip-shod hirelings of the day, 
 Whom Urban treats with H double pots and pay." 
 " My friends," he cries, " speak freely, tell me plain. 
 What say the public to my epic strain ?" 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 39 
 
 Will they speak truth, too poor to be sincere ? 
 
 But I may surely whisper in thine ear, 
 
 I who abhor a bribe;— then this — thy rhymes 
 
 In dulness rival past and present times ; 
 
 So lame — the weary audience think they see 
 
 Old Settle's doggrel new reviv'd by thee; 
 
 So bad — that worse will ne'er be seen again 
 
 Unless thou should'st resume thy scribbling vein. 
 
 From such pursuits 'twould turn thy trifling mind, 
 Hadst thou but, Janus-like, a face behind ; 
 To mark the lolling tongue, the side-long leer, 
 The pointed finger, the contemptuous sneer, 
 And all the silent mock'ries of the town 
 That ridicule thy title to renown : 
 
40 TH & MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 But thou must feast on flattery all thy days, 
 And be the dupe of ev'ry blockhead's praise*. 
 
 * Doctor Busby is very profuse of his compliments to those 
 authors who subscribed to his translation of Lucretius ; we have 
 names " unknown to Phoebus" enumerated for a whole page together. 
 Lord Thurlow's " Hermilda in Palestine" is said to have afforded 
 much pleasure to the lovers of fine poetry ; and Major James has a 
 long paragraph dedicated to his poetical talents. Next to the cele- 
 brated Martinus Scriblerus, Doctor Busby is undoubtedly the most 
 profound explorer of the Bathos ; take the following as a specimen — 
 
 " From her this first, this sovereign rule I bring, 
 All Nature's substances from substance spring, 
 The gods from nothing ne'er made any thing." 
 
 But the most wonderful effort of all, is the Doctor'3 account of 
 " Atoms." — " These, (i. e. the atoms), moving from all eternity 
 through immeasurable space ; meeting, concussing, rebounding, 
 combining, amassing, according to their smooth, round, angular, 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 41 
 
 For mark their judgment, hear their quaint reply — 
 — When genius rears its head shall slander die ? 
 A brother's fame what brother bard endures ? 
 Thus envy follows merit great as yours. 
 You try the epic strain — in colours true 
 A second Homer rises forth to view ! 
 All hearts you captivate, all tastes you hit, 
 With Hammond's tenderness, and Prior's wit. — 
 Thus while the hungry sycophants applaud, 
 Who struts, who swells, who scribbles like My Lord ? 
 
 and jagged figures, have produced all the compound bodies of the 
 universe, animate and inanimate. The more clearly and compactly 
 they lie, the more the body they form approximates to perfect 
 solidity ; as the coalition is less intimate, it will be more vacuous 
 and rare," &c. &c. — Very new and very learned. Who is this after ? 
 Johnson, I suppose — and a long while after him too. 
 
42 THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 And soon he rises in a feverish dream 
 A first-rate poet — in his own esteem. 
 Thurlow* (alas ! will Thurlow never tire ?) 
 New points his dulness, and new strings his lyre ; 
 That lyre which rang the praises in our ears 
 Of u godlike" princes, and " transcendant" peers; 
 And rashly gave (the oddest whim on earth) 
 To Spencer f talents, and to Holland worth ; 
 
 * Were Lord Thurlow's talents equal to his industry, he would 
 be the greatest poet that ever lived : but what he lacks in quality, 
 he makes up in quantity. 
 
 f Lord Spencer is a most amiable and munificent nobleman.— 
 I think the epithet applied to his Lordship's talents is "super-human." 
 Lord Thurlow should be cautious of drawing ridicule upon his friends 
 by such indiscriminate praise. 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 43 
 
 With quick dispatch his teeming brain unloads, 
 Then issue forth Acrostics, Sonnets, Odes ; 
 Loud empty bombast, flights of false sublime, 
 Not prose indeed — but tortured prose in rhyme. 
 F. Shall Blood Patrician no distinction claim ? 
 Dwell there no virtues in a noble name ? 
 Is Title nothing ? Wealth ? Pray learn for once 
 One grain of prudence : — 
 
 P. To respect a Dunce ! 
 Bow, flatter, dedicate, and bend the knee, 
 A mean dependant — this advice to me ? 
 No, let me rather in affected drawl, 
 Write hymns with Collyer *, idiot tales with Ball f ; 
 
 * The following verses are extracted from a book of hymns, writ- 
 ten by Doctor Collyer ; 
 
44 THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 Turn Commentator grave, and pore content, 
 To find a meaning where there's nothing meant ; 
 
 *' Leaning on thy dear faithful breast 
 
 May I resign my breath ; 
 And in thy soft embraces lose 
 
 The bitterness of death. 
 
 " In the shelter of thy side, 
 
 Wounded by the cruel spear, 
 From impending wrath / hide, 
 
 Wrath which cannot reach me here. 
 
 " From thy head, thy hands, thy feet, 
 
 Flows the purifying flood ; 
 See ! / plunge, — I rise to meet 
 
 Justice reconciled by blood." 
 
 Had the first verse been addressed to his Anna, his Delia, or his 
 Laura Maria, it would not have been so much out of character. But 
 what have we in the sequel ? The Doctor hiding himself in the 
 shelter of his Saviour's side, and plunging into his blood ! Can any 
 thing be more indecent than such expressions ? 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 45 
 
 Than shield from censure undeserving strains, 
 Because, forsooth, they spring from noble brains. 
 Not fools alone, as mad examples strike ; 
 This metromania reigns in all alike : 
 Both wit and dunce the restless muse inspires 
 With equal rage, though not with equal fires ; 
 Not Byron stands acquitted of the crime, 
 A promise made in prose, he breaks in rhyme. 
 
 f " The Idiot Boy ; a Spanish Tale of Pity" written by Mr. 
 Edward Ball, and 'pitiful enough in all conscience ; take the follow- 
 ing as a sample : — 
 
 " O Lady, all the valley sigh 
 
 For such an helpless spirit fled, 
 Who can restrain the humid eye ? 
 
 Know Clara's Idiot Boy is dead." 
 
 ffarmony, Metre, and Grammar / 
 
46 THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 Hark ! Printers' Devils say, or seem to say, — 
 " No rest have we, Fitzgerald *, night or day ; 
 For thee, vain man, a weary watch we keep, 
 Nor sleep enjoy — although thy readers sleep. 
 Does Southey pause, or paper-staining Scott 
 One moment's respite grant, a page to blot ; 
 Thy hobbling Pegasus, a sorry hack, 
 Still faintly drawls to keep us on the rack. 
 Should e'er the fates condemn thee for thy crimes, 
 (For thou to Sense art traitor in thy rhymes), 
 For paper wasted, ink so idly spilt, 
 Yet kindly bid thee chuse what death thou wilt ; 
 
 * Mr. Fitzgerald is a very loyal, voluminous, and dull writer ; he 
 is likewise not very delicate in his expressions towards Buonaparte ; 
 loading him with much poetical abuse. 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 47 
 
 Think, think on Clarence ; he fa bold design !) 
 Resolv'd to perish by his favourite wine ; 
 Thy volumes round thy neck to make thee sink, 
 O ! let 'em drown thee in thy favourite ink !" 
 
 Where old Blackfriars pours her sable sons, 
 A mingled tribe of Critics, Bards, and Duns, 
 Dwelt Phillips, an industrious plodding Wight, 
 And by the king's good favour dubb'd a Knight ; 
 A bookseller was he, and sooth to say, 
 Not Nichols had more authors in his pay. 
 At Verse and Prose so ready were the host, 
 'Twas emulation which should scribble most; 
 And Pratt himself would undertake an ode, 
 In one short ramble on the Hampstead Jload. 
 
48 THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 But high above the rest, distinguish^ far, 
 As Bard and Tourist, shone the mighty Carr ! 
 Of scribes the chief! and once upon a time 
 The undisputed lord of prose and rhyme. 
 Histories he wrote, and etchings he would draw 
 Of towns and cities — which he never saw : — 
 And traveled daily o'er much foreign land, 
 (More wond'rous still!) — in Bridge-Street or the 
 Strand*.— 
 
 * " O day and night but this is wond'rous strange V 
 exclaims some astonished reader, who is unacquainted with the mys- 
 teries of Sir Richard's manufactory ; but his wonder will cease when 
 he is informed that Sir John Carr is one of those gentlemen who per- 
 form their travels up four pair of stairs. It was not until the ap- 
 pearance of u My Pocket Book" that the public were completely 
 let into the secret of Sir John's Art of Bookmaking. 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 49 
 
 And hence arose, with all his boasted care, 
 Some odd mistakes, which made the reader stare. 
 Thus German dames were beauteous to the sight, 
 The French profoundly grave, the Dutch polite; 
 The Scotch sincere, and Ireland's jovial sons 
 Too dull by half to relish jokes and puns *. 
 Bid Critics sneer at some unlucky guess f 
 Sir John's own bulls were — errors of the press : 
 
 * The Irish are by nature punsters : the following may serve as a 
 specimen of an Irish pun, or blunder. 
 
 Sajs Johnny to Paddy, <( this river I'd cross, 
 
 But where to take water I'm quite at a loss." 
 
 w Take water /" cries Pad, " why I'm all in a shiver ! 
 
 You fool, arCt there water enough in the river ?" 
 
50 THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 And lest upon his back the rod should fall, 
 
 The printers' devils were to blame for all. 
 
 But soon Sir Richard found, (sagacious elf), 
 
 The Knight lov'd money, and his works the shelf; 
 
 Whereat Sir Richard, of his bargain sick, 
 
 And heartily repenting of the trick, 
 
 Consign' d the quartos to a different fate, 
 
 And eas'd his counter of their ponderous weight ; 
 
 To pastry-cooks dispersed them sheet by sheet, 
 
 By which Sir John was read in ev'ry street; 
 
 Propitiation just, by all confest, 
 
 For martyred truth, " and history made a jest f." 
 
 * IMITATION. 
 " Truth sacrifiz'd, and History made a jest." 
 
 Gifford. 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. $\ 
 
 Some love a jingling rhyme with all their heart, 
 
 Where love and nonsense bear an equal part ; 
 
 Like Rosa's sonnets, in themselves a host, 
 
 Rosa, the Sappho of the Morning Post ; 
 
 Or Hafiz' Madrigals, but rarely seen, 
 
 A heap of sounding words which nothing mean. 
 
 Some authors love in epic strains to soar, 
 
 And swell to be what Homer was before ; 
 
 Thus Aspern's day, and Talavera's fight, 
 
 Have made some scribblers in their own despight 
 
 Others, the dupes of an infectious rage, 
 
 Ransack the dulness of a former age ; 
 
 For rare, moth-eaten parchments search the land, 
 
 And poring much, but little understand. 
 
52 THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 There mote you spy the pedant deep y-read, 
 In useless heaps of learned lumber dead, 
 Damning all modern wit as dull, absurd, 
 Since the bright days of Caxton and De Word. 
 
 How oft some new-fledg'd Bardling on the wing, 
 Essays a puny flight, and tries to sing, 
 Whose trifling muse by folly nurtured long, 
 Ne'er soar'd above a rebus or a song. 
 On frozen banks the purple violets rise, 
 And roses bloom beneath December skies ; 
 For contrarieties in place and time 
 Our poets think allowable in rhyme*. 
 
 * Mr. W. Taylor, author of " Parnassian Wild Shrubs," begin 
 his volume as follows— 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 53 
 
 To doggrel verse, where sense is never found, 
 {An easy task) we give the charm of sound : 
 Thus, — " With percussive palm the door assails*, 
 " Now scrapes the gritty wall with bleeding nails, 
 * Now running round, help! help! with shrill alarms, 
 u Help ! help ! help ! help ! and writhes hev frantic arms. 
 " O live, my joy, my solace ! sobs she wild ; 
 w Why do you gaze on me, my heavenly child ? 
 
 Ever pleasing ! ever new / 
 Never tiresome to the view ! 
 Novelty ! of varied hue, 
 Much I love to gaze on you, 
 Thou who ever art the same. 
 
 * See " Woman," a Poem, written by the profound Mr. Eaton 
 Stannard Barrett. 
 
54 THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 " She sees not, hears not ! Speak, in mercy move ! 
 " Here, here is milk — awake, my love, my love 1 !" 
 F. All this is sorry trash, and well may claim 
 The rod of satire — hear a nobler name : — 
 — " Of man's first disobedience." — 
 
 P. Stop, I pray ; 
 Nor with our wou'd-be poets of the day 
 Name One, who, hateful prejudice apart, 
 Has reach'd the glorious summit of his art! 
 Let modern poetasters rhyme their fill, 
 To charm an hour we've Pope and Milton still ; 
 And solitude shall never fail to please, 
 While it can boast companions such as these. 
 Hence all ye little baids ! — 
 
 F. Restrain thy gall, 
 Does modern merit claim no praise at all ? 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 55 
 
 Shall not applause attend on South ey's strain ? 
 Must Byron, Scott, and Rogers sing in vain ? 
 P. Think not to such, applause I would deny, 
 Or view their beauties with a jaundic'd eye ; 
 I mark each nobler effort of the lyre, 
 I feel a poet's warmth, and must admire. 
 But when you speak of that poor bauble, fame ; — 
 How few deserve it ! Yet what numbers claim. 
 
 To Southey, well-combin'd, at once belong 
 Truth, grandeur, force, variety of song ; 
 All that exalted genius can inspire, 
 A poet's rashness, with a poet's fire. 
 But still his faults (this candour must allow 
 Spite of the courtly laurel on his brow) 
 Would mar the force of many a modern rhyme, 
 And quite obscure a genius less sublime. 
 
56 THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 Whene'er I read (nor think me too severe) 
 Aught childish in his works that grates my ear*, 
 I turn to " Madoc's" grand, sublimer lays, 
 And hate the line that speaks in his dispraise. 
 F. To Scott you'll grant some portion of renown ; 
 The man has pleas'd — • 
 
 P. Aye, surfeited the town, — 
 How versatile his talents ! full of whim : — 
 Bard, courtier, critic, all combined in him ; 
 
 * Mr. Southey has written much unmeaning bombast, not to say 
 downright absurdity, since his appointment to the Laureatship ; who 
 can read with patience his congratulatory Odes, beginning with 
 " Conqueror, deliverer, friend of human-kind ;" " Frederick the 
 well-belov'd," and " Prince of the mighty Isle." — Virgil's fame 
 rests upon one Epic Poem ; Mr. Southey has already written three 
 times that number ; yet after all, I fear Virgil will be reckoned the 
 greater poet. 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 57 
 
 And much I wish that he had spar'd his pains 
 
 To edit Swift, and mangle Dryden's strains. 
 
 Stifled with praise — and such, as I can say, 
 
 I never gain'd, and hope I never may ; 
 
 His careless muse neglects a nobler aim, 
 
 And looks not to posterity for fame. 
 
 Some deep romantic scene, where mouldering time 
 
 Has marked each tow'r and battlement sublime ; 
 
 Where barbarous mirth, revenge, and feudal rage 
 
 Shew the rude manners of a former age ; 
 
 Romances, by tradition only known, 
 
 He paints with life and vigour all his own. 
 
 The town is pleasM when Byron * will rehearse, 
 And finds a thousand beauties in his verse ; 
 
 * Lord Byron, like Mr. Scott, has raised a host of imitators ; 
 
58 THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 So fiVd his fame — that write whatever he will, 
 The patient public must admire it still ; 
 Yes, — though bereft of half his force and fire, 
 They still must read, — and, dozing, must admire ; 
 While you and I, who stick to common sense, 
 To genius, taste, and wit, have no pretence. 
 
 " Safie, an Eastern Tale," by J. H. Reynolds, after Lord B's man- 
 ner, opens with this rhapsody : 
 
 " Oh ! peace had long rested in Assad's haram, 
 Till the clang of arms, the war's alarum, 
 Had scar'd the meek-ey'd damsel from 
 Her fair abode, her smiling home. 
 Happiest Assad ! then wast thou sharing 
 
 The smiles of a maiden fair and free, 
 
 As e'er whisper'd love is melody ; 
 Ever fulfilling, and ever declaring, 
 She kiss'd thee hence, when the steed was mounted," &c. &c. 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 59 
 
 Throughout the whole we toil to understand ; 
 Where'er we tread— 'tis strange, 'tis foreign land ; 
 Nay, half the thoughts and language of the strain 
 Require a glossary to make them plain. 
 Beauties there are, which candour bids me own, 
 Atone for these — for more than these atone : — 
 Beauties — which e'en the coldest must admire — 
 Quick, high- wrought passion — true poetic fire — 
 Bold, energetic language — thoughts sublime — 
 And all the artful cadences of rhyme. 
 
 Nor less, for sterling genius, I admire 
 Rogers' pure style^ and Campbell's noble fire; 
 Montgomery's* strain to taste and feeling true, 
 That speaks the poet and the Christian too. 
 
 * Mr. Montgomery's poems are distinguished for piety, tcnder- 
 
60 THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 Blest be the man with all that fame can give, 
 Who burst the negro's chain, and bade him live ; 
 Blest be the bard with glory's brightest meed, 
 Whose glowing verse immortalized the deed. 
 Far as th' Atlantic rolls his rapid stream, 
 A race shall hail the poet and bis theme ; 
 And waft the sound to Guinea's distant shore, 
 That tells her children they are slaves no more. 
 
 ness, and high poetical painting ; his " World before the Flood," 
 making allowance for some few inequalities, is a noble production ; 
 the Death of Adam and Eve, in the Fourth Canto, is above all 
 praise. Let Mr. Montgomery continue to be guided by his own 
 good taste ; posterity will at least do him justice, and his works will 
 ;be read and esteemed when those of his more successful contempo- 
 raries are no longer remembered. 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. (j 1 
 
 The praise we justly give to truth divine, 
 
 Who can withhold from Crabbe's* unerring line ? 
 
 * Mr. Crabbe is in reality a bard of the old school ; displaying 
 an odd mixture of energy, and coarseness ; of sublimity, and ludicrous 
 punning ; of polished versification, and careless metre. I quote 
 the following passage for the sake of its oddity. It might pass 
 for an excellent caricature imitation of Mr. Crabbe's general style. 
 
 " Us'd to spare meals, dispos'd in manner pure, 
 Her father's kitchen she could ill endure ; 
 Where by the steaming beef he hungry sat, 
 And laid at once a pound upon his plate ; 
 The swelling fat in lumps conglomorate laid, 
 And fancy's sickness seiz'd the loathing maid : 
 But when the men beside their station took, 
 The maidens with them, and with these the Cook; 
 When one huge wooden bowl before them stood, 
 Fill'd with huge balls of farinaceous food ; 
 With bacon, mass saline, where never lean 
 Beneath the brown and bristly rind was seen : 
 
62 THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 A bard by no pedantic rules confin'd, 
 
 A rigid painter of the human mind. 
 
 And long as nature in her simplest guise, 
 
 Or virtuous sensibility we prize, 
 
 Of well-earned fame no poet shall enjoy 
 
 A juster tribute than " the Farmer's Boy*." 
 
 When the coarse cloth she saw, with many a stain, 
 Soil'd by rude hinds, who cut and come again— 
 She could not breathe ; but, with a heavy sigh, 
 Rein'd the fair neck, and shut th' offended eye ; 
 She minc'd the sanguine flesh mfrustrums fine, 
 And wonder'd much to see the creatures dine." 
 
 This is a description of a Farmer's Dinner, penned {< Con amore.*' 
 
 * " The Farmer's Boy," by Robert Bloomfield ; one of the most 
 beautiful Rural Poems in the English language* 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 63 
 
 Hail to departed worth ! o'er Cowper's* bier 
 Let genius pause, — and drop her holiest tear : 
 
 * I never think upon Cowper but with the strongest emotions of 
 pity and admiration ; and I can never bring myself to believe that 
 the awful malady under which he laboured, arose (as has been too 
 often hinted,) from a sense of his having once " lived without God 
 in the world: 1 * — 
 
 " True piety is cheerful as the dayc- 
 are his own words: let us not therefore suppose that his religion 
 was tinctured with melancholy, or that any former indiscretions 
 could have caused those dreadful moments of despair which stand 
 recorded in his life. It was an evil inflicted by the band of the 
 Almighty. 
 
 I cannot close this note without making some slight mention of 
 one, whose memory must be dear to all true lovers of genius and 
 virtue ; one, whose extensive learning, amiable manners, and high 
 attainments, have done honour to his country, and to mankind. — 
 The late Richard Cumberland—" Magnum et venerabiU nomen /" 
 As a poet, his reputation \% firmly established by hi& " Calvary," 
 
64 THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 To White's* cold turf a weeping pilgrim turn, 
 And crown with bays her Grahame's f hallow'd urn : 
 'Twas their's to shun the poet's flowery way, 
 Of them religion ask'd a nobler lay ; 
 And well their lives it's sacred influence caught, 
 And justified the precepts which they taught. 
 
 and many other pieces of sterling merit : his " Observer" bears 
 ample testimony of his abilities, as a scholar, a critic, and an es- 
 sayist ; while his " West Indian," " Wheel of Fortune," anc 
 " Fashionable Lover," hold the foremost rank in modern comedy 
 I would recommend for general perusal a small work written b) 
 him, and published since his death, called " A few Plain Reasons 
 why we should believe in Christ." 
 
 Henry Kirke White, who died at Cambridge. 
 
 f The late Rev. James Grahame, author of " The Sabbath/ 1 
 ; British Georgics," &c.&c. an excellent poet, and most amiable man, 
 
THE MODERN DtNCIAD. 65 
 
 Religion, meek, benevolent, refinM, 
 
 Breathes universal love to all mankind ; 
 
 And acting on this principle alone, 
 
 Weeps for another's sorrows as her own. 
 
 Soft is her voice, and humble are her ways ; 
 
 Warm is her heart, and fervent is her praise ; 
 
 Fair deeds of virtue all her hours employ, 
 
 She chides with meekness, and forgives with joy : 
 
 Happy the soul that feels the ray divine, 
 
 (A ray, which sainted Porteus* beam/d in thine), 
 
 With conscious pleasure she reviews the past, 
 
 And confident in faith, awaits her last. 
 
 * The late Bishop of London — a Prelate of great learning, mode- 
 ration, and Christian piety. ^ 
 
66 THE MODERN DTJNCIAD, 
 
 F. Why this is praise ! — ■ 
 
 P. Not greater than is due : — 
 
 I can withhold applause, and give it too ; 
 
 Above deceit, I scorn all venal ways ; 
 
 I freely censure, and I freely praise. 
 
 If D****y call me ranc'rous, decent Knight ! 
 
 When he grows wiser, Til grow more polite ? 
 
 'Till then I laugh at ceremony's rules, 
 
 And still include him in my list of fools. 
 F. Why name you him ? 
 
 P. To bring before the town 
 
 A courtly coxcomb, though he wears a gown : 
 
 A Parson too ! — No matter — let it pass — 
 
 Let that too be forgotten — like his farce*. 
 
 * This man, among other things, is the author of a Farce, called 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. (}J 
 
 A Journalist — and such a one heav'n knows ! — 
 I will not, reader, to offend thy nose, 
 Rake up the dunghill of his filthy prose. 
 Yet he can flatter with an awkward grace ; 
 Like some old dowager who chalks her face, 
 He daubs so coarsely to display the saint, 
 That the grey sinner stares beneath the paint. 
 
 <( At Home," in which Mr. Coates is personally ridiculed upon the 
 stage, under the title of " Romeo Rantall.'* Now Mr. Coates, like 
 Parson D****y, is certainly no very consistent character ; but his 
 fooleries are perfectly harmless. Quere — Which is the most con- 
 temptible, a Clerical Flatterer, or a Theatrical Buffoon ? 
 
 Mr. D****y is Editor and Proprietor of " The Morning Herald," 
 a paper notorious for the grossest flatteries paid the Prince Regent, 
 and the foulest calumnies upon his illustrious Consort ; it would be 
 impossible to believe (were it not already a public fact,) that any 
 person, wearing the habit of a Clergyman, could be concerned in a 
 Journal, displaying such a combination of ribaldry and falsehood. 
 
68 THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 Let Scott* revile my writings to the town, 
 As well I guess he would for half-a-crown ; 
 Let Agg, inventive genius ! shew his skill, • 
 And darkly stab me with his grey-goose quill ; 
 Let Manners, just escaped from durance vile, 
 Abuse, defame me in his Grub-Street style, 
 In some catch-penny pamphlet, penned complete, 
 Conceived, begotten, born within the Fleet: 
 u Pour on, I will endure !" — with scorn I view 
 The worst that dulness and her sons can do, 
 So fortune save my character and lays 
 From D****y's hireling, prostituted praise. 
 
 * One John Scolt, a small Critic, and Editor of the " Champion," 
 Sunday-newspaper. 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 69 
 
 When Pasquin*, arm'd with libels, stalks by night, 
 Lest prowling bailiffs intercept his flight ; 
 Pasquin, dull rogue ! who twenty years has made 
 His pamphlets turn a profitable trade ; 
 How ****** dreads the vengeance of his muse, 
 And ***** who has no character to lose, 
 Quakes in his dark retreat ; while you and I 
 With upright confidence his rage defy. 
 
 * Anthony Pasquin, Esq. alias Doctor John Williams : for some 
 account of this personage, I refer the reader to Mr. Gilford's 
 " Baviad," wherein his character, moral and literary, is very amply 
 delineated. Anthony, who has so long " stared tremendous," has 
 now completely sunk into oblivion, together with his pamphlets and 
 criticisms. It is said (how truly I know not,) that the Doctor has a 
 yearly benefit at the Haymarket Theatre, under the name of " The 
 JVidow Fairbur." — No bad device for one who considers any name 
 better than his own. 
 
70 THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 Unhappy Pasquin ! in thy latter days 
 Few fear thy wrath, none barter for thy praise ; 
 But all thy pointless darts, at random thrown, 
 Hurt no one's name, but only d — n thine owni 
 
 Stands Scotland where it did ? alas ! no more — 
 Since truant J*****y f flies his native shore : 
 
 f The criticisms of this man in the Edinburgh Review are no- 
 torious for their vulgarity and profaneness : he is now, it is said, 
 gone to America, leaving the superintendance of his Journal to the 
 Honourable Mr. Lambe, the Rev. Sydney Smith, and others. How 
 far the predictions of these brutal Scotchmen have been verified, 
 present times will shew : Montgomery is still read and admired, and 
 their friend Buonaparte (O spem fallacem !) may be said to be 
 " down among the dead men." — - 
 
 It is curious to read the recantation made by the Edinburgh Re- 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 71 
 
 For who among her sons, to speed their gains, 
 (Her sons more fam'd for brimstone than for brains) 
 Like him retrac'd the path which Kenrick trod, 
 Traduc'd his country and blasphemed his God ? 
 Mourn, Caledonia ! let thy rocks reply ; 
 Nor Lambe, nor Sydney can his loss supply : 
 Sydney has too much lead— and simple Lambe 
 Retains the will, but wants' the pow'r to damn; 
 Too dull, alas ! to satisfy a pique, 
 His heart is willing, but his brain is weak ; 
 
 viewers after the failure of all their prophecies. Indeed their 
 situation is truly pitiable ; disappointed in their hopes, laughed at 
 by the public, and what is still worse — no longer popular ; let them 
 turn their minds to some worthier employment, and endeavour 
 to get their bread honestly. 
 
72 THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 Nor Holland's Spouse*, nor Holland's mantling bowl 
 Can rouse from torpor his benighted soul. 
 Illustrious Holland ! doomed by angry fate 
 To rack the muses, and reform the state ; 
 Consistent Peer ! unstained with courtly crimes, 
 Save some few venial f spots, and doggrel rhymes; 
 His J*****y lost, — shall haply mount the throne, 
 And execrate all dulness — but his own. 
 F. Some play or farce that gallery, box, and pit 
 Applaud for solid sense and sterling wit, 
 Name ; — 
 
 * Lord Byron says, — " My Lady skims the cream of each cri- 
 tique," in the Edinburgh Review: — nay more — 
 
 " Breathes o'er each page — (what, in the name of wonder ?) 
 her -purity of soul.'* 
 
 •J* This word has found a very familiar application of late days. 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 73 
 
 P. Why, methinks no puzzling task were this : 
 The " Bee Hive/' « Sleeping Beauty," " Hit or 
 
 Miss*." 
 Such scenes as Pocock, Skeffington produce, 
 And rivaled but by Punch and Mother Goose. 
 Our modern playwrights, unambitious elves, 
 Trust to the actor more than to themselves ; 
 Some strange peculiarity they hit, 
 A shrug and wink, well managM, pass for wit ; 
 And Liston's idiot stare, and Oxb'ry's bray, 
 Have sav'd (with shame I speak it) many a play. , 
 
 * Three very, popular pieces of absurdity. " The Sleeping 
 Beauty" is the production of Mr. Skeffington ; the " Bee Hive," 
 and " Hit or Miss," are from the pen of Mr. James Pocock. Mr. 
 Mathews gave the oaths in the latter piece to admiration ; and 
 u Prime, bang-up /" superseded the former polite phrases of " Push 
 o?i } keep moving' ! Damme, that's your sort /" 
 
74 THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 Would you to rapture raise the vulgar throng, 
 Let Mathews play the fool, and sing his song : 
 A thousand tongues shall roar at Fawcett's croak, 
 And Munden's jaws pass current for a joke. 
 F. Why slumbers Sheridan* in this dull age ? 
 Why thus a willing truant from the stage, 
 
 * Who does not lament that this great man should pass the re- 
 maining portion of his days in pursuits wholly inconsistent with his 
 talents and rank in life ? Of all the distinguished characters of the 
 present age, I cannot name one who, in my estimation, has had (and 
 I grieve to say, neglected) so many opportunities of rendering him- 
 self nobly popular. But while I lament that he has not done more, 
 let me not forget to acknowledge what he has done. If these lines 
 should ever be fortunate enough to meet his eye, he will see that 
 my admonition is dictated by the high respect that I entertain for 
 his talents : it is not for the brilliant wit and the enlightened states- 
 man to exclaim — 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 75 
 
 Views he unmov'd the sickly taste that draws 
 Dishonest fame, and panders for applause ? 
 Why not revive the times that once have been, 
 When wit and humour grac'd the comic scene ; 
 And folly, dragg'd before the public view, 
 Blush'd to behold her image drawn so true? 
 P. Would wit and humour please the swinish crowd, 
 WhileDiBDiN, Poole*, and Reynolds croaksoloud? 
 
 " Mihi sit pi'opositum in taberna mori ; 
 Vinum sit appositum morientis ori ; 
 Ut dicant, cum verier int angelorum chori, 
 Deus sit propitius huic Potatori." 
 Let him attend — and the name of Sheridan may still be the admi- 
 ration of posterity. 
 
 * .Mr. John Poole, author of " Hamlet Travestie," and the dra- 
 matic pieces of " Intrigue" and " The Hole in the Wall." 
 
76 THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 How would the boxes storm, the galleries rage, 
 To see their favourites banish'd from the stage ; 
 And call aloud, ere sense could be restored, 
 For Laurent's grin, and Ridgway's magic sword ? 
 Heav'ns ! could such scenes engage the public mind, 
 Did virtue, truth,. or sense, remain behind ? 
 In vain we boast of Shakspeare's mighty pow'r, 
 For music now must charm the vacant hour ; 
 Otway, no more we drop a tear with thee, 
 For song and dance are all we hear and see ; 
 Except when Kemble*, to delight the few, 
 Restores immortal Shakspeare to our view. 
 
 * Let me not be called hyperbolical when I assert that Mr. Kenible 
 is equal to any tragic actor, ancient or modern. He is both a 
 scholar and a gentleman, and consequently no favourite with the 
 w groundlings." Some call him pedantic — I uphold that he is das^ 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 77 
 
 F. Say who's to blame ? 
 
 P. The sottish town, that pays 
 The fool with laughter, — not the bard with praise ; 
 That looks for, in distortion and grimace, 
 Nature's soft ease, and wit's enchanting grace. 
 'Tis not enough that the rude gallery folks 
 Admire thy genius, and applaud thy jokes ; 
 
 aical. For a specimen of his astonishing powers, I might advert to 
 almost every great character in tragedy ; but I will confine myself 
 to one in which the immortal Garrick so much excelled — King 
 Lear : here Mr. Kemble not only rose above himself, but above 
 every other actor in my remembrance. The manuer in which he 
 gave the curse upon Goneril, in the First Act, was too heart-rending 
 for the human feelings ; the whole audience rose — it was a moment 
 of enthusiasm, such as conception can hardly reach, and language 
 never adequately describe — 
 
 u I can't find words, and pity those that can !" 
 
7S THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 That clapping theatres the benches shake 
 Less for thy merit, than contention's sake ; 
 Bold in thyself, uphold the Drama's laws ; 
 Nor basely pander for a mob's applause. 
 To win, employ the graces of thy style, 
 Not the loud laugh, but the approving smile ; 
 To Hook and Dimond leave the noisy crew, 
 Content to number the judicious few ; 
 Nor let thy wit, like bards of little worth, 
 Offend our reason, to provoke our mirth. 
 
 Once 'twas the fashion, in an earlier day, 
 
 For two, at least one plot to form a play ; 
 
 But our sage authors frugally dispense 
 
 With plots; nay, more — with nature, wit, and sense; 
 
 Through five long acts their weary audience lull, 
 
 Most cold and tasteless, most perversely dull. 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 79 
 
 For me, no blind disciple of the schools 
 That laugh and cry by Aristotle's rules ; 
 I loathe the fool whose humour lies in trick, 
 While sentimental trumpery makes me sick ; 
 And " Ohs !" and " Ahs !" and " Dammes !" mo- 
 dern wit — 
 Can please me never, though they please the pit. 
 Yet not a Cynic, nor devoured by spleen, 
 I needs must smile if Colman grace the scene ; 
 Let humour broad, with polish'd wit combine, 
 No faculties more risible than mine : 
 But shall I laugh because some antic droll 
 Squints in my face ? — I cannot for my soul ! 
 In times like these, when ev'ry forward dunce 
 Starts up, good lord ! a Dramatist at. once, 
 
80 THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 Could Jonson rise — how vain were his essay. 
 Some modem wit would bear the palm away : 
 Yes ! though perforce we hail a Jonson dead, 
 A living Jonson p'rhaps might beg his bread. 
 
 You blame my taste, if careless midst the roar, 
 When noble critics hiccup out " Encore !" 
 As Catalani*, charming queen of sounds, 
 Sings a bravura — for a hundred pounds; 
 
 * Monsieur Vallabrique lately made the modest demand oijivt 
 hundred guineas per night for Madame Catalani to sing at a con- 
 cert! The presumption of this illiterate Frenchman is past all 
 belief. Our nobility would do well not to encourage these foreign 
 vagabonds ; who, if admitted to the smallest share of familiarity, 
 forget they are mere buffoons, and never fail to return it with the 
 most disgusting impertinence. 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. $1 
 
 Or blythe Deshayes all life and spirit swims 
 Through the gay dance, and twirls his pliant limbs, 
 I sit unmovM, a cold phlegmatic guest, 
 Nor cry " Encore !" and " Bravo !" like the rest. . 
 Form'd in a coarser mould, untaught by art, 
 I love the plainer language of the heart ; 
 No far-fetch'd song that strains the lab'ring throat, 
 No squeaking eunuch's soft Italian note ; 
 No attitude obscene 'gainst nature's plan, 
 Which more bespeaks the monkey than the man. 
 Merit stand by — for lo ! with servile leer 
 Some warbling Signior, elbow'd by a peer ; 
 A willing slave, now banter'd, now caress'd, 
 Kick'd, laugh'd at, worshipp'd — as my lord thinks 
 best! 
 
82 THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 Advances forth, obligingly polite, 
 To charm his friends — for fifty pounds per night. 
 'Tis foreign all — no native talent here 
 With artless, simple notes delights the ear ; 
 But sounds that least of harmony partake, 
 Much lengthened quaver, and affected shake ; 
 A heterogeneous mass — God help the while ! 
 Which p'rhaps the cognoscenti christen " style." 
 Thus fooPd — and thus instructed by the tribe, 
 Their follies with their pleasures we imbibe ; 
 Till by degrees we grow, like them, debased $ 
 Corrupt in morals, as depraved in taste. 
 This shameful truth let slighted genius tell, — 
 In vain in arts Britannia's sons excel, 
 Since Britain proves, through prejudice alone, 
 A friend to ev'ry genius, but her own. 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 83 
 
 How Bulness smil'd on that auspicious morn, 
 When rising with a huge portentous yawn, 
 She saw enthroned her favourite Arnold sit 
 In Drury's fane the arbiter of wit. 
 " My son," the joyful mother cry'd, and then 
 Into his trembling fingers thrust a pen, 
 " Something thou shalt produce — no matter what — 
 An old romance supplies thee with a plot ; 
 Then steal or borrow, to cajole the folks, 
 Tom D'Urfey's Madrigals, and Miller's* jokes : 
 All these together in confusion thrown, 
 Well sprinkled with some nonsense of thine own, 
 
 * Mr. Joseph Miller, the famous jester - y whose book of puns has 
 been of infinite service to our modern Farce-writers ; and to none 
 more so than Mr. Samuel Arnold. 
 
84 THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 And some odd scraps, by Colman thrown away. 
 Will (Holt* can answer for it) make a play. 
 Longmay'st thou live to prove the scourge of sense, 
 And nurture folly at a large expence ! 
 To catch each novelty, however absurd ; 
 And raise all hell, as Faustus gives the word. 
 Though Polito, to make the people stare, 
 Erect his annual booth at Smithfield Fair ; 
 
 * Mr. Holt wrote a Comedy, called " The Land we live in," 
 which was very properly hooted from the stage. This gentleman 
 suffered a severe castigation from the pen of Jew Brandon, in a pre- 
 face to his Opera of " Kais." It seems that Mr. Holt had attacked 
 Mr. Brandon's piece, " The Idol which Nebuchadnezzar the King 
 bad set up." — As the offence was committed six years ago, I hope 
 the parties are by this time reconciled : 
 
 u Blockheads with reason wicked wits abhor, 
 But fool with fool is barb'rous civil war." 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 8.0 
 
 Where lions roar with wide distended jaws, 
 
 And grinning serpents hiss with vast applause ; 
 
 How vain are all his efforts to out-do ! — 
 
 — Old Drury's stage shall boast its monsters too. 
 
 But if, with equal emulation fiVd, 
 
 Thy rival Harris hath each monster hir'd, 
 
 (A genuine son, a kindred spirit he, 
 
 And second in my lore to none, but thee ;) 
 
 Let Raymond take some fierce Rhinoceros* shape, 
 
 And Oxb'ry be transformed into an Ape ; 
 
 Next let thy talents find their proper use, 
 
 Do thou, as best becomes thee, play the Goose; 
 
 Then all shall own, while they admire the cast, 
 
 Thou'st found thy fittest character at last. 
 
 See how my children in one cause unite, 
 
 Lo, Larpent reads ! while Hooke and Reynolds write ; 
 
Q§ THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 Dull Brinsley sleeps, and should he wake again, 
 I fear some revolution in our reign ; 
 But Kotzebue's bombast, fearing to expire, 
 Stole the last spark of his immortal fire. 
 
 To drain our wealth what numbers cross the main, 
 Fiddlers from France, and mountebanks from Spain ; 
 From Italy a host of warbling slaves, 
 From Holland grave mynheers, egregious knaves : 
 There Indian jugglers ply their trade for hire, 
 And here a Prussian lady swallows fire ; , 
 While rushing crowds assemble far and near, 
 What to behold .? — a Cossack and his spear ! 
 When Polito might gratify their view 
 With sights as ugly, and as human too. 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 87 
 
 But most to thee, O Germany ! we owe 
 Our choicest stock of rarities below ; 
 Counts, gamesters*, princes, jostling side by side, 
 Thy low-born offal, and thy high-dutch pride, 
 All who for wit or want their country leave, 
 Kind, we invite, and grateful, we receive : 
 Thus cramm'd — imposed on, much beyond our due, 
 'Tis hard methinks to send us poets too ! 
 Our taste is German — and our wives will say, 
 How pure the doctrine of a German play ! 
 
 * A German Count and a gamester are nearly synonimous terms : 
 even many of the highest of the nobility resort to play, to improve their 
 narrow fortunes. The celebrated George Selwyn, being haughtily 
 commanded by some petty elector to quit his kingdom in three days, 
 replied, " Please your highness I will look upon your dominions in 
 half an hour.''* 
 
88 THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 Where vice appears so innocently dress'd, 
 
 We almost fancy cuekoldom a jest*; 
 
 For the frail nymph so well her crime defends, 
 
 The couple weep, embrace, and soon are friends f ! 
 
 * As in the cases of the present lady H**l***, lady P#g**, and 
 other illustrious courtezans, who appear at dr — g r — ms — 
 
 " Where never wh**e approaches, 
 
 Unless they ride in their own coaches." 
 
 f Literally the case : a passage from Doctor Young's Tragedy of 
 the " Revenge" is not here inapplicable. — Zanga, addressing Alonzo 
 concerning his wife's supposed infidelity, remarks — 
 
 " If you forgive, the world will call you good; 
 If you forget, the world will call you wise ; 
 If yoU receive her to your grace again, 
 The world will call you very, very kind,*' 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 89 
 
 Nor stop we here — strange farragos succeed, 
 (" Oh, horrible ! most horrible indeed !") 
 Undaunted Ireland** dares the mighty test, 
 Although, in raising spirits and the rest, y 
 
 Lewis without a rival stands confest. 
 Though, sprites appear obedient at his. will, 
 Ghosts are but ghosts ; and demons, demons still ; 
 Alike in matter, and in form the same : — 
 Hobgoblins differ only— in the name : 
 Yet Lewis trembles lest his fame be won, 
 And Mistress Radcliffe fears herself outdone. 
 
 * Mr. Ireland has written a great number of romances, full of the 
 most ridiculous diablerie ; in one of them is the merry incident of ■ 
 " a.little red woman" being yearly whipped round the abbey cloisters 
 by the devil ! 
 
90 THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 But these are harmless, satire must confess, 
 To the loose novels of Minerva's Press; 
 Such melting tales as Meeke and Rosa tell ; 
 For pious Lane, who knows his readers well, 
 Can suit all palates with their different food, 
 Love for the hoyden, morals for the prude. 
 Behold prepar'd, with quills already drawn, 
 TV industrious train who scribble night and morn; 
 Five pounds per volume ! their enormous bribe : — 
 Enough methinks to tempt a hungry scribe. 
 First Lady Morgan*, Amazonian Fair! 
 (Ye gods ! what will not Lady Morgan dare ?) 
 
 * Lady Morgan, late Miss Owenson; a most indefatigable 
 caterer for the Minerva Library. 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 91 
 
 With four octavo volumes shocks the sight ; 
 For who can read as fast as she can write ? 
 Next fair Llewellyn *, modestly indeed, 
 Would have us name her works, as well as read ; 
 Which to perform, in language just and brief, 
 Let " bawdry 9 be inscribed on every leaf. 
 Matilda toils the promis'd boon to win, 
 And Ann of Swansea wades through thick and thin; 
 While Bridget Bluemantle's eternal scrawl 
 Makes truly more waste-paper than them all. 
 Would you with blushes tinge the virgin cheek, 
 Read "Midnight Weddings!" penned by Mrs. 
 Meeke: 
 
 * a Read, and give it a Name," a Novel, in four volumes, by 
 Mrs. Llewellyn. 
 
92 THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 Soft amorous stories by Honoria Scott*, 
 Of ravishments, seductions, and what not : 
 Or Gunning's tales, for Gunning, to my taste, 
 Is sprightly, witty, any thing— but chaste : 
 Or " Rival Princes," anger's latest spark, 
 Pride of them all, and worthy Mrs. Clarke. 
 
 I pass in silence, authors not a few ; 
 Cervantes HoGGf, and all the Grub-Street crew : 
 Alas ! more worthy of contempt than rage, 
 Their worthless names would but defile my page : 
 
 * " Amatory Tales of Spain, France, Switzerland, and the Me- 
 diterranean ;" by Honoria Scott. 
 
 * Mr. Cervantes Hogg, author of the " Rising Sun," and the 
 M Barouche Driver and his Wife ;" most despicable catch-penny trash, 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. <J3 
 
 The muse shall never gibbet them on high, 
 Obscurely as they liv'd, why let them die. 
 F. 'Tis pitiful — but why indulge your spleen ? 
 Will all this useless railing mend the scene ? 
 Your satire is too pointed, too severe, 
 And little suited to the public ear. 
 Holland, who now and then, to serve his ends, 
 Invites some score of literary friends, 
 Will meet you at his table with an air 
 That plainly tells you have no bus'ness there. 
 " Ye gods '."he cries, " shall I, who think sublime 
 Matilda's motley hash of prose and rhyme, 
 By one, who begs a dinner at my door, 
 Be school' d — and play e Sir Oracle' no more?" 
 — Thus banish'd from his presence in disgrace, 
 Methinks starvation stares you in the face. 
 
94 THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 P. I guess you well — henceforth no verse of mine 
 Shall question Rose's* title to " divine*" 
 No more in critic gall Fll dip my quill, 
 Let Feist f and Croker scribble what they will ; 
 
 * Mr. William Stewart Rose composed a bulky quarto, called 
 f( Partenopex of Blois. — A very few extracts will give the reader 
 some idea of Mr. Rose's felicity in writing what Ben Jonson calls 
 " no language at all'* 
 
 " With that 'twas wrought of fayery so dight** 
 u Melior in sooth it was, the sov'reign fay> 
 The wardress of that keep and garden gay, 
 She on the bed her dainty limbs down laid" 
 
 f An attorney's clerk, and a maker of verses. A droll story is 
 told of Mr. Feist : he employed a printer to print his poems, sent 
 for a dozen copies for himself, but entirely forgot to pay the expence 
 of the publication. — 
 
 " Wits have short memories, and dunces none." 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 95 
 
 Let dying 1 Strephons void their monthly stuff, 
 
 " And d— d be he that first cries, ' Hold, enough V " 
 
 F. Wisely resolv'd — since this contention ends, 
 
 All Grub-street and the court shall prove your friends ; 
 Brisk maids of honour quit their fond amours, 
 And Little's am'rous page, to doat on yours. 
 
 P. Yet Duyden never fear'd with manly rage 
 To lash the full-grown vices of the age ; 
 But spurning what he thought dishonest fame, 
 Call'd ev'ry rogue and blockhead by his name ; 
 Thus Shadweli/s dulness, SHAFTSBURY'sbaser crimes 
 Are handed down to all succeeding times. 
 Pope (who retains pre-eminence, in spite 
 Of all that Weston*, all that Bowles could write) 
 
 * This miserable grub was employed some years ago to defame 
 Pope in the Gentleman's Magazine. 
 
96 THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 To conquer vice the surest method found, 
 He aim'd with care to give the deeper wound ; 
 And counting titles, wealth, inferior things, 
 To Virtue gave what he deny'd to Kings. 
 
 And shall the muse*, freebom, to none a slave ; 
 Unbrib'd, unbought, by any fool or knave, 
 A votary oft at freedom's holy shrine, 
 Check the just warmth of her satiric line ? 
 
 * ODE. 
 
 Of all the slaves by fate accurst, 
 Sure a Dependant is the worst, 
 
 The dupe of every whim ; 
 The negro chained on. Afric's shore, — 
 The meanest wretch that tugs the oar, 
 
 Is blest, compar'd to him, 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 97 
 
 Free let it flow while truth directs its course, 
 Strong in its tide, resistless in its force ; 
 
 Heav'n guard me from the ills of life ! 
 Six froward imps, a scolding wife, 
 
 A coxcomb's vain parade ; 
 A doctor's bill, a pleader's bawl, 
 A larder lean — but most of all 
 
 From Flattery's fawning trade. 
 
 See Appius, curst with mighty gains, 
 
 How great his pride ! how small his brains \ 
 
 How haughty, cold, and stern ! 
 Behold him at a levee wait— 
 The sycophant, a tool of state, 
 
 Must bow and cringe in turn. 
 
 Sprung from the lowest dregs of earth, 
 He boasts no high patrician birth, 
 
 No great illustrious name ; 
 A supple droll, ordain'd for sport, 
 He serves to play the fool at court, 
 
 Where C***er does the same. 
 
98 THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 And shame the hoary pimp, the courtly tool, 
 The bold-facM villain, and the harmless fool. 
 
 Though fortune give me such a share 
 Of wealth, that leaves me none to spare ; 
 
 A happier fate is mine : 
 Since providence hath largely sent 
 A richer portion in Content, 
 
 And why should I repine ? 
 
 For know, my friend, of human bliss 
 The whole economy is this — 
 
 (Experience speaks it true :) 
 If little be our worldly part, 
 To sit resign'd — and learn the art 
 
 To make that little do. 
 
 Here seated in my calm retreat, 
 My milk is pure, my fruits are sweet, 
 
 Wash'd by the early dews ; 
 How fresh the breeze ! how clear the sky ! 
 My faithful handmaids ever nigh, 
 
 Contentment and the muse. 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 99 
 
 Shall Britain, spot of heavVs peculiar care, 
 Her sons so warlike and her nymphs so fair, 
 
 My house, a crib — built firm and strong, 
 My garden, half an acre long, 
 
 Well planted o'er with flowers ; 
 And then of books a precious store, 
 Of ancient and of modern lore, 
 
 To charm the lonely hours. 
 
 Thanks to the gods for what they send ! 
 A cheerful glass to treat a friend, 
 
 Of liquor old and rare ; 
 O'er which, borne high on fancy's wing, 
 We drink our country and our king, 
 
 Or toast some fav'rite fair. 
 
 And what I hold my greatest pride, 
 A partner, in affliction tried, 
 
 O'er life's tempestuous sea ; 
 Kind, patient, affable, sincere, 
 To all who know her virtues, dear— 
 
 But doubly dear to me. 
 
100 THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 Whose envied fame is borne on every breeze, 
 As waves her flag majestic o'er the seas ; 
 Shall Britain see her liberties despis'd, 
 Once jealously maintain'd, and dearly priz'd, 
 And silently behold her court outblaze 
 The rank obscenity of Charles's days ? 
 
 Thanks to the gods for what they give ! 
 Thus independent let me live ; 
 
 Thus independent die ; 
 Steal from the world — not quite unknown- 
 And may some monumental stone 
 
 Point where my ashes lie. 
 
 Enough, that o'er their father's bier 
 My children drop the filial tear, 
 
 By fond affection shed ; 
 And (grateful to the poet's mind; 
 The humble works I leave behind, 
 
 Embalm my memory dead. 
 
THE MOi)E*ttf btfNClAD. 101 
 
 Shall vice make virtue crouch beneath her feet, 
 And grey seduction prowl from street to street ; 
 And sins too black and horrible to name, 
 In her unhappy land be thought no shame ? 
 Shall Scripture, blessed fount of truth divine, 
 Which made by holy faith the Saviour mine, 
 And taught me through this dark sojourn to see 
 Altho' a wanderer, he died for me ; 
 By daring infidels and fools at best, 
 Be boldly cah°d a bubble and a jest* ? 
 
 * Such has been the final opinion of those who have rested on the 
 broken reed of abstruse speculation. We may admire the splendid 
 talents of the Atheist, the subtilty of his arguments, and the elo- 
 quence of his language ; but how shall our admiration sink into 
 contempt, to behold those very acquirements with which God has 
 endowed him, most traitorously employed in subverting the noblest 
 
10S TtlE MODERN* dunciad. 
 
 And O ! to make her infamy complete, 
 Shall truth and justice quit the judgment-seat, 
 
 truths of his revelation, and rendering his omnipotence a matter of 
 doubt to his creatures ? The life of the Atheist may be dazzling, 
 but his death is dark and gloomy ; he is never so happy as when 
 endeavouring to convince the world of the truth of his arguments, 
 which, in solitude, he finds it difficult to reconcile to his own con- 
 science. In crowds, he is the gay trilling man of the world ; in se- 
 clusion, the dark, discontented misanthrope 4 : in health, death is the 
 subject of his sport ; in sickness, he comes armed in all his terrors. 
 The sun shines in the firmament, but his glories are not for him ; 
 the seasons return, but their fruits wither in his sight ; time is lost 
 in idle speculations, and eternity shall be spent in bewailing his error. 
 The disciples of Voltaire can receive little consolation from his death. 
 " I wished," said M. Tronchin, hi? physician, " that the converts 
 of that celebrated writer had been witnesses of his last moments." — 
 " I die, abandoned by God and man 1" was the awful exclamation 
 of that mistaken philosopher. 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 103 
 
 And law, her strong defence in former times, 
 Uphold the guilty, and defend their crimes ? 
 Shall sins like these, which loud for vengeance call, 
 And urge a tottering nation to its fall, 
 Unbridled reign, and satire's voice be dumb ? 
 Nor warn a guilty land of wrath to come ? 
 I will— 
 
 F. Fine words ! lash blockheads to the bone, 
 
 But leave, my friend, pray leave the Great alone; 
 
 The sons of dulness, they were made for sport, 
 
 But spare, for prudence sake, O spare the Court ! 
 
 My Lord, whose frown keeps modest truth in awe, 
 
 Array'd in all the terrors of the law, 
 
 Suspends his legal vengeance. 
 
 P. Let it fall ;— 
 
 One smile from virtue makes amends for all ; 
 
104 THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 A Jeffer^' rage can ne'er my terrors raise, 
 T scorn his censure as I hate his praise. 
 
 Thou (if a voice, still true to virtue's cause, 
 Dare give neglected honesty applause), 
 Who, free from private pique, from party zeal, 
 Canst like a poet write, a patriot feel, 
 Accept my verse ; relax thy brow awhile, 
 Nor scorn my labours for their homely style. 
 If now and then a happier line appear, 
 And sound with sweeter music in thine ear ; 
 A brighter thought, in which thou seest combin'd 
 Sound judgment, fertile fancy, strength of mind ; 
 Such as may justly claim thy meed of praise, 
 And call to mind the bards of former days ; 
 
THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 105 
 
 'Tis all I hope — but far from me be those 
 Who flatter Grenville's* rhyme, or DiBDiN'sprose; 
 Phlegmatic judges, who unmov'd can sit, 
 And Arnold's ribaldry mistake for wit ; 
 O'erDiMOND'sf puling scenes lament and sigh, 
 With Skeffington, or Godwin j laugh and cry ; 
 And O ! (what wonders we may live to see) 
 Think Coleridge, mighty Shakspeare, rivals thee ! 
 
 * Lord George Grenville, author of M Portugal," a Poem. 
 
 f Mr Dimond is author of " The Hunter of the Alps," " Adriau 
 and Orrilla," " The Foundling of the Forest," and several other 
 pieces in the German style. 
 
 X Mr. Godwin wrote a ludicrous Tragedy, called " Faulkner," 
 which was d — d at Drury Lane Theatre. 
 
106 THE MODERN DUNCIAD. 
 
 Let such dull loungers (if they rise so soon) 
 
 At dry rehearsals spend their time till noon ; 
 
 To billiards stroll, or half asleep peruse 
 
 The vague abortions of Fitzgeuald's muse ; 
 
 Then at Albina's rout complete the yawn, 
 
 With her blue-stocking friends, and gape till morn. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 W, Wilson, Printer, 4, Greville-Street, Hatton-Garden, London. 
 
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