An Epifile to Dr. Shebbeare: To which is added, an Ode to Sir Fletcher Norton, in 'Imitation of Horace, Ode VIII. Book IV. By Malcolm Macgreggor, of Knightsbridge, Efq; Author of the Heroic Epifle to Sir Wm. Chambers, &c. 4to.

Almon.

1s. 6d.

If this Epiftle was really written by the author of the celebrated Heroic Epiftle to Sir Wm. Chambers (and we have no internal or external proof to the contrary), we can but join iffue, with the writer, in lamenting the many recent examples of modern poets rhiming themfelves down. Not that we think it yet quite fo bad with 'Squire Macgreggor as he humouroufly affects to defcribe. Obferving, by the way, however, that there is many a truth fpoke in jeft, we fhall fubmit the cafe, as fet forth in the exordium of the prefent epistle, to our readers.

" for a thousand tongues! and every tongue
Like Johnfon's, arm'd with words of fix feet long,
In multitudinous vociferation

To panegyricize this glorious nation,
Whofe liberty refults from her taxation.
O, for that paffive, penfionary spirit,
That by its prostitution proves its merit!
That refts on RIGHT DIVINE, all regal claims,
And gives to George, whate'er it gave to James:
Then should my Tory numbers, old Shebbeare,
Tickle the tatter'd fragment of thy car!

Then all that once was virtuous, wife, or brave,
That quell'd a tyrant, that abhorr'd a flave,
Then Sydney's, Ruffel's patriot fame should fall,
Befinear'd with mire, like black Dalrymple's gall,
Then, like thy profe, fhould my felonious verfe
Tear each immortal plume from Naffau's hearse,
That modern monarchs, in that plumage gay,
Might ftare and ftrut, the peacocks of a day.
But I, like Anfty, feel myfelf unfit

To run, with hollow fpeed, two heats of wit.
He, at first starting, won both fame and money,
The betts ran high on Bladud's Ciceronè;

Since diftanc'd quite, like a gall'd jade he winces,

And lashes unknown priefts, and praifes well-known princes.
So I, when first I tun'd th' heroic lay,

Gain'd Pownall's praife, as well as Almon's pay.
In me the nation plac'd its tuneful hope,
Its fecond Churchill, or at leaft its Pope:
Proudly I prick'd along, Sir William's fquire,
Bade kings recite my ftrains, and queens admire;
Chafte maids of honour prais'd my stout endeavour,
Sir Thomas fwore "The fellow was damn'd clever."

}

But

But popularity, alas! has wings,
And flits as foon from poets as from kings.
My pompous Poftfcript found itself difdain'd
As much as Milton's Paradife Regain'd-
And when I dar'd the Patent Snuffers handle,
To trim, with Pinchy's aid, Old England's candle,
The lyric mufe, fo lame was her condition,
Could hardly hop beyond a third edition.
Yes, 'tis a general truth, and ftrange as true,
(Kenrick shall prove it in his next Review)
That no one bard, in these degenerate days,
Can write two works deferving equal praife."

As this humourous epiftolizer feems modeftly to fubmit his judgement (as every author ought) to the LONDON Reviewers, and to depend on the fanction of our editor in confirmation of his affertions, we mutt frankly confefs there is but too much truth in his obfervation. We fhall not, however, tax either the critical acumen or logical fubtlety of Dr. Kenrick, to adduce the formal proof of it. If Mr. Macgreggor is willing to abide by the evidence of facts, and be judged by his own example, the proof is apparent; he ftands felf-condemned: the prefent epiftle being by no means equal, either in wit, humour, or fatire, to his former epiftle, addreffed to Sir Win. Chambers. And yet we do not, therefore, deduce fo general a conclufion as doth our author. We do not fay, he may not hereafter produce another of equal merit; fo fhall not purfue his hint of a philofophical enquiry into the cause of his present failure;

"Whether the matter of which minds are made
Be grown of late, mephitic, and decay'd,
Or wants phlogifton, I forbear to fay,

The problem's more in Doctor Priestley's way."

Without fuppofing the effect fo general, there are moral, as well as phyfical caufes, by which fuch particular phænomena may be accounted for. In the firft place, there is nothing more fatal to modern geniuses than the flattering fuccefs of first productions. It intoxicates the brain, fires the head with conceit, fills the heart with pride, and lulls the little wit, a man has, into a lethargy, in which he wakes only by fits and ftarts from dreaming of his own importance. According to the proverb," He that once a good name gets"-It is a little homely, fo let it pafs: but certainly our author had not his former wits about him, when he defcended to fuch fcurrility as difgraces the epiftle before us. It is true that he may plead his fubject, the example of the writer he addreffes, and stand up for the propriety of treating every man in his own way. And this fuggefts another reafon for the poet's not having out-done

his ufual out-doings: the want of a proper fubject; that of his Epiftle to Sir Wm. Chambers being a moft happy one, and as happily handled. A new and lucky fubject has fet up, and a bad one caft down, more poets than people are aware of. What was his pompous Poftfcript that it should not be treated like Paradife Regained? Were they not both but fecond parts of the fame tune. And though he was pert enough on poor Pinchy and his candle-fnuffer; was fuch a pitiful implement worth handling, or the booby inventor to be called in to fnuff the expiring wick of English liberty? It is no wonder the Lyric Mufe fhould hop, under fuch fardels, through no more than three editions. By the way, however, the poet or his printer muft fib a little: if we believe the public papers, the lame duck has limped to a fifth, under all her difadvantages. But to the point: we charge this celebrated Epiftolizer, whofe ftrains, he tells us, even kings recite and queens admire, with having defcended in the present inftance to downright scurrility. Let the reader judge.

"Enough of fouls, unless we waste a line,
Shebbeare! to pay a compliment to thine:
Which forg'd, of old, of ftrong Hibernian brass,
Shines through the Paris plaifter of thy face,
And bronzes it, fecure from fhame, or sense,
To the flat glare of finish'd impudence.

Wretch that from Slander's filth art ever gleaning,
Spite without fpirit, malice without meaning:
The fame abufive, base, abandon'd thing,
When pilloried, or penfion'd by a King.

Old as thou art, methinks, 'twere fage advice,
That N--th fhould call thee off from hunting Price.
Some younger blood-hound of his bawling pack
Might forer gall his prefbyterian back.

Thy toothlefs jaws fhould free thee from the fight;
Thou canft but mumble, when thou mean'ft to bite."

Does the reader find, in the above lines, any thing of that pleafant ironical turn of wit and fatire, for which the Heroic Epiftle was fo much admired? Nay, is it any thing better than the abufe, it abufes ?-The whole piece, however, is not fo bad as the above; although it is more out of regard to the celebrity of the writer than to the merit of the verses, that we quote any more of them. To gratify the curiofity of our readers, founded on that celebrity, we add to the exordium the conclufion.

"Come, then, Shebbeare! and hear thy bard deliver
Unpaid-for praifes to thy penfion-giver.

Hear me, like T--k-r, iwear," to help me, mufe!"
I write not for preferment's golden views.

But

But hold-'tis on thy province to intrude:
I would be loyal, but would not be rude.
To thee, my veteran, I his fame confign;
Take thou St. James's, be St. Stephen's mine.
Hail, genial hotbed! whofe prolific foil
So well repays all North's perennial toil,
Whence he can raise, if want or whim inclines,
A crop of votes, as plentiful as pines.
Wet-nurse of tavern-waiters and Nabobs,
That empties first, and after fills their fobs:
(As Pringle, to procure a fane fecretion,
Purges the prime via of repletion.)
What fcale of metaphor fhall Fancy raife,
To climb the heights of thy ftupendous praise?
Thrice has the fun commenc'd his annual ride,
Since, full of years and praise, thy mother died.
'Twas then I faw thee, with exulting eyes,
A fecond phoenix, from her ashes rife;
Mark'd all the graces of thy loyal creft,
Sweet with the perfume of its parent nest.
Rare chick! How worthy of all court careffes,
How foft, how echo-like, it chirp'd addreffes.
Proceed, I cry'd, thy full-fledg'd plumes unfold,
Each true-blue feather fhall be tipt with gold;
Ordain'd thy race of future fame to run,
To do, whate'er thy mother left undone.
In all her smooth, obfequious paths proceed,
For, know, poor Oppofition wants a head.
With horn and hound her truant schoolboys roam,
And for a fox-chace quit St. Stephen's dome,
Forgetful of their grandfire Nimrod's plan,
"A mighty hunter, but his prey was man."
The reft, at crouded Almack's, nightly bett,
To stretch their own beyond the nation's debt.
Vote then fecure; the needful millions raise,
That fill the privy-purfe with means and ways.
And do it quickly too, to fhew your breeding,
The weazel Scots are hungry, and want feeding.
Nor need ye wait for that more plenteous feafon,
When mad America is brought to reason.
Obfequious Ireland, at her fifter's claim,
(Sifter or step-dame, call her either name)
Shall pour profufely her Pactolian tide,
Nor leave her native patriots unfupply'd.

Earl N----t fung, while yet but fimple Clare,
That wretched Ireland had no gold to fpare.
How couldst thou, fimple Clare! that ifle abuse,
Which prompts and pays thy linfey-woolfey mufe?
Mistaken peer! Her treasures ne'er can cease,
Did the not long pay Viry for our peace?

Say,

མ

Say, did the not, till rang the royal knell,
Irradiate veftal Majefty at Zell?

Sure then he might afford, to my poor thinking,
One golden tumbler, for Queen Charlotte's drinking.
I care not, if her hinds on tens and rocks
Ne'er roast one shoulder of their fatted flocks,
Shall Irish hinds to mutton make pretenfions?
Be theirs potatoes, and be ours their penfions.
If they refufe, great North, by me advis'd,
Enact, that each potatoe be excis'd.

Ah! hadft thou, North, adopted this fage plan,
And scorn'd to tax each British serving-man,
Thy friend Macgreggor, when he came to town,
(As poets fhould do) in his chaife and one,
Had feen his foot-boy Sawney, once his pride,
On ftunt Scotch poney trotting by his fide,
With frock of fuftian, and with cape of red,
Nor grudg'd the guinea tax'd upon his head.
But tufh, I heed not-for my country's good
I'll pay it-it will purchase Yankee blood-
And well I ween, for this heroic lay,
Almon will give me wherewithal to pay.
Tax then, ye greedy minifters, your fill:
No matter, if with ignorance or skill.
Be ours to pay, and that's an easy task,
In these bleft times to have is but to alk.
Ye know, whate'er is from the public preft,
Will fevenfold fink into your private cheft.
For he, the nurfing father, that receives,
Full freely though he takes, as freely gives.
So when great Cox, at his mechanic call,
Bids orient pearls from golden dragons fall,
Each little dragonct, with brazen grin,
Gapes for the precious prize, and guips it in.
Yet when we peep behind the magic scene,
One mafter wheel directs the whole machine:
The felf-fame pearls, in nice gradation, all
Around one common centre, rife and fail.
Taus may our flate mufeum long furprise;
And what is funk by votes in bribes arife;
Till mock'd and jaded with the puppet-play,
Old England's genius turns with fcorn away,
Afcends his facred bark, the fails unfurl'd,
And steers his state to the wide western world:
High on the helm majestic Freedom stands,
In act of cold contempt fhe waves her hands.
Take, flaves, fhe cries, the realms that I difown,
Renounce your birth-right, and destroy my throne."

4

We hope Mr. Macgreggor will not follow the example of the Rev. Mr. Mason, and profecute us for literary piracy; as

We