MORE WONDERS!

AN HEROIC EPISTLE

ΤΟ

M. G. LEWIS, Esa. M. P.

"The times have been,

That when the brains were out the man would die,
And there an end; but now they rise again,
With twenty mortal murders on their crowns,
To push us from our stools."

SHAKSPEARE.

PRESCRIPT EXTRAORDINARY.

NEITHER personal animosity, nor envious pride, dictated the following epistle. It is a defence of poetical property in general, against arbitrary invasion; and more than this, it is a tribute due to degraded virtue, and the violated decency of national taste. I shall soon expect to see the tremendous History of Raw-head and Bloody-bones in print; accompanied by an instantaneous profusion of Tales of Terror, in imitation of so dreadful an original. Indeed the agri somnia of Horace (that is, the extravagances of a sick imagination) could never be more properly applied than to those unnatural labours which present us with nothing but skeletons and distortions: and lead us to believe the universe itself, which we inhabit, to be no other than a great charnel-house, crowded with

apparitions, hobgoblins, and spectres; nay, human nature on the whole, as a mere

"Monstrum horrendum, informe, ingens, cui lumen ademptum."

King James the First, of facetious though not of very glorious memory, was wont to profess (in his majesty's Counter blast to Tobacco,) "that were he to invite the devil to a dinner, he should have three dishes; first a pig, second a poll of ling and mustard, and third a pipe of tobacco for digesture." With as much solemn sincerity I avow, that were I to treat the same illustrious personage with a suitable evening's entertainment, I would either accompany his infernal highness to the representation of a new spectacle, or regale him with the perusal of a modern romance. Never did knightcrrantry require the inimitable ridicule of Cervantes in Spain, more than this preposterous infatuation does the burlesque gravity of some able writer in England at this moment. It is a subject rich with materials for the exercise of real humour. Though I have endeavoured to touch on these absurdities slightly, my main object was to decry the unjust practice of imposing an olio of well-known performances on the public, under the sanction of a celebrated (or, if you please, a notorious) name; and therefore I could not dwell so minutely as the topic might admit or deserve. In fact, this same topic, to borrow a curious expression from one of Dryden's plays, "Like an ample shield,

Has room for all, and verge enough for more."

If my verses have any attraction, I expect to be attacked by frequent swarms of the insects whom I have endeavoured to sweep away: if not, they may suggest the idea of prosecuting my design, to some more accomplished literary combatant. In either case, as they may be useful some way, I am indifferent in which way it may For the romantic erudition, and black-letter research, of Mr. Lewis, I entertain the most profound respect and veneration to which they can aspire. I do not in the least doubt their existence

be.

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and extent: I only condemn their perversion and influenc. “In some low scribbler, or in me," their baneful effects, being less diffusive, would be consequently less prejudicial; but

"If an M. P. once own the happy lines,

"How the wit brightens, how the sense refines !"

I am assured he will acknowledge the veracity of this assertion himself, and judge of my motive accordingly.

MORE WONDERS!

YET once more, O thou muse whose bold dispatch
Could raise an Iliad from a bruising-match,*

Bid Gifford, Ward, and Wolcot, Belcher, shine,
And crowd with coxcombs thy encumber'd line!
Once more, if haply so sublime a flight
Has not thine eagle-wing unfeather'd quite,
Lift thy sonorous voice distinctly clear,
To hail the wonders of this wond'rous year;
And though awhile forgot thy epic lore,
With slacken'd pinion in epistle soar.

Peace to all pedants! Not to thee I sing
Whose praises through each echoing college ring ;+
Great living lexicon, whose heathen Greek

Might rouse the angry shade of sir John Checke ;+

Alluding to the Battle of the Bards, which the reader will find

at the beginning of the second volume.

The author of the Pursuits of Literature.

Milton's sonnets: Sonnet XI.

Or wake old Homer in paternal pain,
To view his favour'd Phrygia lost again.
Peace to all play'rs! I hope no more to hear
The sense of Shakspeare vibrate on my ear;
So come not furious in this darkling age,
When few effulgent stars adorn the stage,
Rudely to quench their ineffectual light,
And shroud the theatre in central night.

Peace to all poets of the piddling school;
By chance who dazzle, or who err by rule;
Who by affected point presume to please,
Of genuine wit the dark antipodes ;

Who for sweet babes their brain-abortions pass,
And make the winged horse a sluggish ass!
A reptile race: if e'er I madly stain
My meanest page with such an ideot strain,
May that too serve, like their unheeded stuff,
To wrap up nails, and pennyworths of snuff.
Peace to all patrons! I no longer feed
With pearls poetic that sharp-snouted breed ;
My lord no longer does his gift proclaim,
While sneering servants wait to mark my shame;
No more the porter, of unvarying face,
With courteous insolence denies his grace:

For while great bards may pun and shine in state,

Poor bards, God help the while! must watch the gate.

Yet seldom they such sacred rapture feel
As lends a flavour to the well-earn'd meal,
Who gain for study, temperance, and health,
The bitter blessing of unbounded wealth.
Peace to all novelists: a milky tribe

Who ne'er descend coarse nature to describe;
But throng each hour," so modest of demaine*,
With perfect characters to master Lane!
I who, with happiest sleight of tuneful heed,
Ne'er shook soft warblings from the Doric rced;
I who, no simple tenant of the shade,
Ne'er saw a shepherd but in masquerade;
I who thy garden view with doating eyes,
Great Bedford,+ fairest sure beneath the skies;
I who full often pipe my am'rous lay

To nymphs who lamb-like through Old Bond-street stray;

Whose sylvan scenes nigh placid Smithfield grow,
Whose past'rals come from Paternoster-row,
Whose rural walk gay Tothill-fields supply;
I reck not such fine trumpery-not I.

Peace to all censors; if, of peace possest,
Their cruel eulogy will let me rest!

Spenser.

† Covent-garden.