And hurl their pois'nous darts at Garrick's name ; can pass through the most venerable pile of sacred architecture 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 acquainted with London, will discover that it is the inscription upon David Garrick, in Westminster Abbey, to which we refer." * "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, according to his own statement, (for Mr. Clarke has favoured the public with his autobiography in the third number of the " Scourge," written, it would seem, by a third person, but in reality penned by himself;) is the author of numerous and successful writings, chiefly anonymous. But of what these numerous and successful writings consist, it were impossible to say, except I name To entertain the basest of mankind? O! may he late for all his sins atone, And while he gains their ears, preserve his own!* Behold yon gorgeous Sign that swings in air, (A well-known refuge for the sons of Care,) There meet a piebald race, who cautious creep From garrets high, or in night cellars sleep; The courtier bland, the opposition churl, To taste the sweets of politics and purl. " a lamentable production in rhyme, called "The art of Pleasing," and the principal part of the scurrility that has appeared in the Satirist, Scourge, and Theatrical Inquisitor. 'Every one of his (Mr. Clarke's) productions has been composed in haste, and sent to the press without revision; his sonnets have not been ushered into the world after undergoing the ordeal of private criticism, nor his Essays assisted in their circulation by the officiousness of honourable friends, and the puffs of dependant critics." Let Mr. Clarke remember that the trade of a libeller is a dangerous one: "What street, what lane, but knows His purgings, pumpings, blankettings, and blows?" and take the advice of honest Stephano,-" While thou liv'st, keep a good tongue in thy head." * Warburton says, "Scribblers have not the common sense of other vermin, who commonly abstain from mischief when they see any of their kind gibbeted, or nailed up as terrible examples." There needy scribes, whose trade is to abusé, And there the Atheist's nightly thunders roll, Hail, happy days! when all shall equal be, And man and master shall alike go free; This land, created by the Spencean charm, The people's birthright, and the nation's farm! When those who toil, and those who labor not, Blest intercourse! partake one common lot; When nature's nymphs enjoy true past'ral lives; Glad, teeming mothers all-though none are wives! * A nonsensical Letter-writer in the "Times" newspaper, when Doctor Slop was Lord of the ascendant. Bright era! that shall banish all our fears, And anarchy, dire fiend! shall revel there. Shall rise from hell's dark caves with furious joy, And breathe again his spirit to destroy. Then ask no more—yet if a doubt remain, Why thus to Satire I devote my strain; With this reply be satisfied at once, While Bowles + exists, can Satire want a Dunce? Bowles who hath cherish'd as a costly pearl, * Doctor Johnson hearing the question asked where the cruel fanatic John Knox was buried, exclaimed, "I hope in a cross-road!" + It would be a work of no small labour and little profit, to wade through the various productions of the Rev. William Lisle Bowles. Odes, Epics, and Sonnets innumerable, "pass in long review." 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, The horse-play, dull obscenity of Curll; Cries out for quarter at the fourteenth line, where Mr. Bowles, in making an attempt to be witty, is only profane : "And sure none ever saw a landscape shine, And panting cried, "Oh Lord, how hot it is!" We have " skiey blue," "bluey fading hills," and "The Sylph of Summer, or Air," being part of a projected poem on the Elements. All this might be forgiven; but why take up his pen against Pope? what service could he render literature, by defaming one of its brightest ornaments?... But enough of Mr. Bowles. We may excuse a dunce "that little dares and little means;" but not one that dares much and means nothing. Mr. Bowles has lately published a poem called "The Missionary," (Corpus sine pectore!) full of his usual affectation, and prettiness... We read of one John Taylor, the Water-Poet; Mr. Bowles may be christened the " 'sky-blue," or Milk and Water Poet. |