Short of it's aim, and impotent to wound,
The feeble fhaft falls hurtlefs to the ground.

YET DICK perfevered, and seemed to triumph o'er the filence of the adverfe parties, who held in ineffable contempt the author who establishes his own fuccefs, on that felf-approbation which is derived from vanity alone, as Horace expreffes it,

Gaudent fcribentes, et se venerantur:

From felf each fcribbler adoration draws,
And gathers incenfe from his own applause.

WHAT especially gives disgust to ill-natured writings, is, that they convey an idea of the author's felf-fufficiency, and fuppofed fuperiority, which few are willing to confefs without retalliation. Hence it is, that we perceive general fatirifts are univerfally detefted and defpifed, as vermin who breed in the wounds of fociety, or hypocrites, who infinuate their own purity, by afperfing and defiling the rest of mankind.

'Tis an old maxim in the fchools,
That vanity's the food of fools;
Yet now and then your men of wit
Will condefcend to take a bit.

SWIFT.

THE rapid fale of a publication will fome-times-induce the author to believe every pur

chafer

chafer becomes a deponent in favour of his caufe, or an admirer of his virtues and learning, when in fact the avidity with which people read ludicrous works, whether in profe or of metrical compofition, only arifes, as Puff fays in the Critic-because they ought not to read them.

"And each fworn fool, I fwear, has his fworn brother."

THESE remarks, though prematurely given, may serve as the criterion of most of our heroe's bafty productions-but not of his ferious ones.

THE R-y-1 Regifter, Nocturnal Revels, the Bevy of Beauties, Sketches from Nature, the Abbey of Kilkhampton, the Diabo-lady, Modern Characters from Shakespeare, and from the Beggar's Opera; the Tête à Tête, the Cabinet, the Hackney Coach, and fuch-like ftrictures on the conduct and foibles of individuals, are more acceptable to the bulk of common readers than the works of Gibbon, Hume, Robertfon, Moore, Dalrymple, Wraxhall, Burney, Beattie, and the many other learned and ingenious authors of our time. One would imagine from the univerfal tafte for detraction and malevolent cenfure, that we were all bred up in the "School for Scandal."

But, train'd to ill, and harden'd in its crimes,
The pen, relentlefs, kills through future times.

Of the many effays, political and fatirical, which the prefs, and bookfeller's fhelves now groan under, few of them are directed by any other motive than party-fpirit, or affaffination of character, and, excepting Anticipation by the lively pen of Mr. T-1, and the Abbey of Kilkhampton by Mr. F-, none of them have literary merit; yet thefe wafps of folly and diffipapation, fancy themselves borne, like blazing ftars among the clouds, to the admiration of the ing multitude:

And up

he rifes like a vapour, Supported high on wings of paper;

He finging flies, and flying fings,

While from below all Grub-freet rings.

gaz

SWIFT.

BUT, to have done with the London dealers in fcandal, we must return to the narrative of DICK MERRY-FELLOW, who, we pronounce, was as happy at the knack of writing lampoons, advertisements extraordinary, fneers, hand-bills, farcafms, allarms, fongs, fquibs, and electioneering rattles, as any of the fhort-lived heroes of attic abode,

"Who deal out libels-wholefale and retail."

The

The following SONG,

Wrote by DICK MERRY-FELLOW about the year 1754, is the most perfect copy of it we are able to procure.

To you, fair LADIES of the field!

We SPORTSMEN now indite ;

To you our morning pleasures yield,
And think of you at night:

Tho' bares and foxes run a-pace,
'Tis beauty gives the fineft chace.

II.

The morning rose, and with a fog,
Inclos'd the heath all round;
So thick we scarce could fee a dog,

Ten yards upon the ground:

Yet we to ELDEN took our way,

True SPORTSMEN never mind the day.

III.

Like VENUS (if she was so fair
As antient poets feign,
With coral lip and golden hair,

Juft rifing from the main)

We faw the lovely BELL appear,

Nor miss'd the fun when fhe was near.

IV.

At ELDEN, on a trail we hit,

And foon the hare we found,

E 2

When

When up the ftarted from a pit,

And stretch'd along the ground:

Hark forward! all the SPORTSMEN cry'd,
Hark forward! hills and dales reply'd.

V.

Quite cross the country, and away
She fled in open view;

Our HUNTSMAN was the first to say,

"She ran not but she flew :"

Whilft BILLY GRIGSON rode and swore,
" 'Twas old MOTHER ROGERS gone before."

VI.

With pleasure GREENE the chace purfu'd,
Nor wifh'd for mufic then;

But often as the hare he view'd,

In raptures he began :

"Tell me, ye gods! if any founds

"Be half fo fweet as t' hear the hounds."

VII.

Thus for an hour, all in full cry,

We nimbly tript along ;

Nor thought that MADAM was to die,

Nor we to have a SONG:

Says SLAPP," though now fhe runs so fast, "Brave boys! we'll put her down at last."

VIII.

Kind fate indulg'd an hour more,

And back fhe turn'd again;

Such fport fure ne'er was seen before,

But all her turns were vain :

For