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A precious Cargo, smuggled § to our shores
With fripperies, fans, pricked Wines, and painted
Whores.

than in light is the melancholy privilege of which they boast, in the language, but not in the spirit of Euryalus, “Est hic est animus lucis contemptor." I shall sum up the character of these men in the words of Jortin, "A total ignorance," says he, "of the learned languages, an acquaintance with modern Books, and translations of old ones; some knowledge of mo. dern languages, a smattering in Natural Philosophy, Poetical taste, vivacity of expression, with a large stock of Impiety; these constitute a Voltaire, or a modern Genius of the first Rank; fit to be patronized by Princes, and caressed by Nobles. Whilst learned men have leave to go and chuse on what tree they will please to hang themselves."

From all that I have observed in the Officers of the French Army, and my opportunities here have been frequent, I am inclined to think the bulk of them are Deists. But, as I before hinted, there is some excuse to be offered for them. Necessarily, from their active habits as Soldiers, unacquainted with the pages of antiquity, from which they might have learned the inestimable obligations which Society owes to this Religion, and perfect strangers to the purer ages of primitive Christianity; they come to the examination of it, with minds unfortunately prejudiced against it, by all they have seen, heard, and read. From their earliest impressions they are instructed to form their ideas of it, not from the "College of Fishermen,” as Lord Chatham observed, but from the "College of Cardinals." "Esse aliquos Manes et subterranea regna

Nec Pueri credunt."

If they entertain any doubts, the volumes of Voltaire or Frederic, or Volney, are at hand to dismiss them. But as Professor Porson observed on another occasion, these are the

Nor hope to win those wanton eyes, that burn,
Or weep, or languish, o'er insidious Sterne.
He knows to loose the fine-spun chains, that tie
The hidden soul of sobbing Sympathy;

He can its chords, and secret strings untwist,
Serene-'mid sighs--a whining Apat hist!
Well-versed with smooth, yet deep designing art,
To trace that labyrinth,-a Woman's heart;
Its close meandring mazes he defies,

Secure in silken clue of flimsy flatteries;
Then bribes its virtues to betray their trust,
And lights, at Love's pure shrine, the torch of Lust.
With tongue to pity tuned, and heart of steel,
Too full of sounding sentiment, to feel,
He could unmoved a starving Mother * pass,
his sorrows o'er a dying Ass!

To

pour

Go First-born of my Muse, and with thee take The Martyr's Courage, when he meets the stake; Thee, shall some mumping Critic † steal-for pelf, + Then strive to make thee hideous, as himself;

Authors which I had hoped would be read and admired in this country, when Butler, Leland, Newton, and Paley are forgotten! -But not till then.

§ "Advectus Romam quo pruna et coctona vento."

* "I know," says Horace Walpole, "from indubitable authority, that Sterne's Mother, who kept a School, having run in debt on account of an extravagant daughter, would have rotted in jail, if the parents of her Scholars had not raised a subscription for her."

If my Readers revert to some lines in the introductory

Shall change thy Voice, thy Tone, and in their stead, Shall make thee talk his gibberish-for bread;

part of the Poem, they will perceive that I entertain a high respect for legitimate criticism. I kneel at its tribunal, and seek no appeal from its decisions. So far from depreciating the art, I wish to see it more honoured than it is. It is a noble and a useful art; and the Office of the true Critic is an high and important Office. But it so happens, that no two things are more distinct than Criticism, and those Traders who now-adays style themselves Critics; it is certainly possible to cherish a very profound respect for the former; and at the same time to think but meanly of the latter; just as a man may venerate the laws of his country, without being obliged to transfer that veneration to every country Petifogger. Neither are the Remarks I have made, the ebullitions of private pique, or the effect of any disappointment in authorship; as the Critics have never yet had occasion to write a single line for or against me. But of this I am persuaded; that it is not authors, but critics, who disgrace their own art, by making a Trade of it; That they lower themselves by becoming the tools of Establishments, Sects, Parties, and Prejudices, is so notorious, that there is not a Man of them, except those gentlemen who write in Mr. Cumberland's Review, who is not ashamed to put his name to his own performances. For every thing anonymous, and for anonymous Criticism in particular, I ever shall avow the most insuperable contempt. But (say the Critics) Truth is Truth, and not the more or the less so, for having a name attached to it; and if our remaks are not founded on Truth, they must fall. Admitted. But unfortunately the public are not generally in possession of the Works you criticize; many know of their publication, only through you; and many more are waiting the decision of your impartial tribunal, before they venture to purchase. Now, it

Thy piteous cries, thy tortures, tears, and pains, Shall but promote this pilfering Vagrant's gains;

so happens, that no Book is so good, but that some weak and defective passages may be found in it; as for instance, Milton's Puns on Gunpowder, in his battle of the Angels. If the Book is to be cried down, these passages are of course advanced, enlarged upon, and made the most conspicuous. But there is no Book so bad, but that some favourable passages may be found in it; if the Book is to be extolled, these are of course adduced as the specimens. Now Critics would be ashamed of this juggling and chicanery, this cup and ball Criticism, if it were the universal practice to sign their Names.

Again-I do affirm that what is said about a Book is not of so much consequence, as by whom it is said. This single circumstance makes all the difference; and if known, would often convert what was censure, into praise; and what was praise, into censure. For instance, it might come out that some private enemy of the Author had said i), or that the Author had said it himself. Or that a Sectarian had been reviewing a Doctor of Divinity, or a Doctor of Divinity a Sectarian; or that the remarks came from one whose eyes were not blinded by partiality, or by prejudice, but by ignorance. Or it might appear that one Author who had written badly upon a subject, had been reviewing another, who had written better upon the same; or that the Criticisms of Mr. A. had been inserted, because his necessities obliged him to drudge for a Publisher, at a guinea per sheet less than Mr. B. These, and a thousand other things, are necessary to be known, but which anonymous criticism prevents our knowing; before we permit our judgment to be guided by the Critics, with respect to those Authors, with whom we have no acquaintance, but through the introduction of their remarks and observations. I request my Readers to reflect a little on the above positions.

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By worse than Gipsey*-hands disguised, defiled, I shall not know again my kidnapped Child.

But to return to my anonymous Friends. Mr. A, B, C, or D, educated nobody knows where, and qualified for his office, nobody knows how, scribbles a little essay, containing his private opinion of the merits, or demerits of some unfortunate Author. Now it is obvious that this little essay, value about three half pence, and written by an obscure individual, as for instance, myself, would produce no effect at all upon the public opinion, or public taste. It might circulate to the amount of one or two hundred copies, in that little circle or atmosphere of notoriety which every man, more or less, concentrates around himself. But the Author of this little essay procures its insertion in some Review, the Editors of which perceive it has a little vivacity, and that it contains nothing that runs counter to those principles on which their publication is conducted. Now mark the mighty change; stitched up with some other similar attempts; ornamented with covers of blue Paper, and dignified with the Royal Title of We, and the Critics, our metamorphosed little three-half-penny Essay becomes at once the organ that regulates the taste and opinion of a vast reading and reflecting population; and opens, or shuts the purses of thousands of his Majesty's Subjects, who voluntarily submit to a Capitation Tax in this shape, who, in any other form would resist it to the uttermost. When we consider the effect produced by these publ cations, and the flimsy materials of which most of them are composed, can we help exclaiming, “An quidquam stultius quam quos singulos contemnas, eos aliquid putare esse universos ?" "Can any thing be more ridiculous, than to think that those are of consequence when united, whom as Individuals we despise ?"

That there are some Gentlemen of very respectable talents,

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