The Newspaper

E quibus, hi vacuas implent sermonibus aures:Hi narrata ferunt alio; mensuraque fictiCrescit, et auditis aliquid novus adjicit auctor:Illic Credulitas, illic temerarius Error,Vanaque Laetitia est, consternatique Timores,Seditioque repens, dubioque auctore Susurri.OVID, Metamorphoses

This not a Time favourable to Poetical Composition: and why--Newspapers enemies to Literature, and their general Influence--TheirNumbers--The Sunday Monitor--Their general Character--Their Effectupon Individuals--upon Society--in the Country--The VillageFreeholder--What Kind of Composition a Newspaper is; and theAmusement it affords--Of what Parts it is chiefly composed--Articlesof Intelligence: Advertisements: The Stage: Quacks: Puffing--TheCorrespondents to a Newspaper, political and poetical--Advice to thelatter--Conclusion.

A time like this, a busy, bustling time,Suits ill with writers, very ill with rhyme:Unheard we sing, when party-rage runs strong,And mightier madness checks the flowing song:Or, should we force the peaceful Muse to wieldHer feeble arms amid the furious field,Where party-pens a wordy war maintain,Poor is her anger, and her friendship vain;And oft the foes who feel her sting, combine,Till serious vengeance pays an idle line:For party-poets are like wasps, who dartDeath to themselves, and to their foes but smart.Hard then our fate: if general themes we choose,Neglect awaits the song, and chills the Muse;Or should we sing the subject of the day,To-morrow's wonder puffs our praise away.More blest the bards of that poetic time,When all found readers who could find a rhyme;Green grew the bays on every teeming head,And Cibber was enthroned, and Settle read.Sing, drooping Muse, the cause of thy decline;Why reign no more the once-triumphant Nine?Alas! new charms the wavering many gain,And rival sheets the reader's eye detain;A daily swarm, that banish every Muse,Come flying forth, and mortals call them NEWS:For these, unread, the noblest volumes lie;For these, in sheets unsoil'd, the Muses die;Unbought, unblest, the virgin copies waitIn vain for fame, and sink, unseen, to fate.Since, then, the Town forsakes us for our foes,The smoothest numbers for the harshest prose;Let us, with generous scorn, the taste deride,And sing our rivals with a rival's pride.Ye gentle poets, who so oft complainThat foul neglect is all your labours gain;That pity only checks your growing spiteTo erring man, and prompts you still to write;That your choice works on humble stalls are laid,Or vainly grace the windows of the trade;Be ye my friends, if friendship e'er can warmThose rival bosoms whom the Muses charm;Think of the common cause wherein we go,Like gallant Greeks against the Trojan foe;Nor let one peevish chief his leader blame,Till, crown'd with conquest, we regain our fame;And let us join our forces to subdueThis bold assuming but successful crew.I sing of NEWS, and all those vapid sheetsThe rattling hawker vends through gaping streets;Whate'er their name, whate'er the time they fly,Damp from the press, to charm the reader's eye:For soon as Morning dawns with roseate hue,The HERALD of the morn arises too;POST after POST succeeds, and, all day long,GAZETTES and LEDGERS swarm, a noisy throng.When evening comes, she comes with all her train;Of LEDGERS, CHRONICLES, and POSTS again.Like bats, appearing when the sun goes down,From holes obscure and corners of the town.Of all these triflers, all like these, I write;Oh! like my subject could my song delight,The crowd at Lloyd's one poet's name should raise,And all the Alley echo to his praise.In shoals the hours their constant numbers bring,Like insects waking to th' advancing spring;Which take their rise from grubs obscene that lieIn shallow pools, or thence ascend the sky:Such are these base ephemeras, so bornTo die before the next revolving morn.Yet thus they differ: insect-tribes are lostIn the first visit of a winters frost;While these remain, a base but constant breed,Whose swarming sons their short-lived sires succeed;No changing season makes their number less,Nor Sunday shines a sabbath on the press!Then lo! the sainted MONITOR is born,Whose pious face some sacred texts adorn:As artful sinners cloak the secret sin,To veil with seeming grace the guile within;So moral Essays on his front appear,But all is carnal business in the rear;The fresh-coin'd lie, the secret whisper'd last,And all the gleanings of the six days past.With these retired through half the Sabbath-day,The London lounger yawns his hours away:Not so, my little flock! your preacher fly,Nor waste the time no worldly wealth can buy;But let the decent maid and sober clownPray for these idlers of the sinful town:This day, at least, on nobler themes bestow,Nor give to WOODFALL, or the world below.But, Sunday past, what numbers flourish then,What wondrous labours of the press and pen;Diurnal most, some thrice each week affords,Some only once,--O avarice of words!When thousand starving minds such manna seek,To drop the precious food but once a week.Endless it were to sing the powers of all,Their names, their numbers; how they rise and fall:Like baneful herbs the gazer's eye they seize,Rush to the head, and poison where they please:Like idle flies, a busy, buzzing train,They drop their maggots in the trifler's brain:That genia soil receives the fruitful store,And there they grow, and breed a thousand more.Now be their arts display'd, how first they chooseA cause and party, as the bard his Muse;Inspired by these, with clamorous zeal they cry,And through the town their dreams and omens fly;So the Sibylline leaves were blown about,Disjointed scraps of fate involved in doubt;So idle dreams, the journals of the night,Are right and wrong by turns, and mingle wrong with right.-Some champions for the rights that prop the crown,Some sturdy patriots, sworn to pull them down;Some neutral powers, with secret forces fraught,Wishing for war, but willing to be bought:While some to every side and party go,Shift every friend, and join with every foe;Like sturdy rogues in privateers, they strikeThis side and that, the foes of both alike;A traitor-crew, who thrive in troubled times,Fear'd for their force, and courted for their crimes.Chief to the prosperous side the numbers sail,Fickle and false, they veer with every gale;As birds that migrate from a freezing shoreIn search of warmer climes, come skimming o'er,Some bold adventurers first prepare to tryThe doubtful sunshine of the distant sky;But soon the growing Summer's certain sunWins more and more, till all at last are won:So, on the early prospect of disgrace,Fly in vast troops this apprehensive race;Instinctive tribes! their failing food they dread,And buy, with timely change, their future bread.Such are our guides; how many a peaceful head,Born to be still, have they to wrangling led!How many an honest zealot stol'n from trade,And factious tools of pious pastors made!With clews like these they thread the maze of state,These oracles explore, to learn our fate;Pleased with the guides who can so well deceive,Who cannot lie so fast as they believe.Oft lend I, loth, to some sage friend an ear,(For we who will not speak are doom'd to hear);While he, bewilder'd, tells his anxious thought,Infectious fear from tainted scribblers caught,Or idiot hope; for each his mind assails,As LLOYD'S court-light or STOCKDALE'S gloom prevails.Yet stand I patient while but one declaims,Or gives dull comments on the speech he maims:But oh! ye Muses, keep your votary's feetFrom tavern-haunts where politicians meet;Where rector, doctor, and attorney pause,First on each parish, then each public cause:Indited roads, and rates that still increase;The murmuring poor, who will not fast in peace;Election zeal and friendship, since declined;A tax commuted, or a tithe in kind;The Dutch and Germans kindling into strife;Dull port and poachers vile; the serious ills of life.Here comes the neighbouring Justice, pleased to guideHis little club, and in the chair preside.In private business his commands prevail,On public themes his reasoning turns the scale;Assenting silence soothes his happy ear,And, in or out, his party triumphs here.Nor here th' infectious rage for party stops,But flits along from palaces to shops;Our weekly journals o'er the land abound,And spread their plague and influenzas round;The village, too, the peaceful, pleasant plain,Breeds the Whig farmer and the Tory swain;Brookes' and St Alban's boasts not, but, instead,Stares the Red Ram, and swings the Rodney's Head:-Hither, with all a patriot's care, comes heWho owns the little hut that makes him free;Whose yearly forty shillings buy the smileOf mightier men, and never waste the while;Who feels his freehold's worth, and looks elate,A little prop and pillar of the state.Here he delights the weekly news to con,And mingle comments as he blunders on;To swallow all their varying authors teach,To spell a title, and confound a speech:Till with a muddled mind he quits the news,And claims his nation's licence to abuse;Then joins the cry, "That all the courtly raceAre venal candidates for power and place;"Yet feels some joy, amid the general vice,That his own vote will bring its wonted price.These are the ills the teeming Press supplies,The pois'nous springs from learning's fountain rise;Not there the wise alone their entrance find,Imparting useful light to mortals blind;But, blind themselves, these erring guides hold outAlluring lights to lead us far about;Screen'd by such means, here Scandal whets her quill,Here Slander shoots unseen, whene'er she will;Here Fraud and Falsehood labour to deceive,And Folly aids them both, impatient to believe.Such, sons of Britain! are the guides ye trust;So wise their counsel, their reports so just!-Yet, though we cannot call their morals pure,Their judgment nice, or their decisions sure;Merit they have to mightier works unknown,A style, a manner, and a fate their own.We, who for longer fame with labour strive,Are pain'd to keep our sickly works alive;Studious we toil, with patient care refine,Nor let our love protect one languid line.Severe ourselves, at last our works appear,When, ah! we find our readers more severe;For, after all our care and pains, how fewAcquire applause, or keep it if they do!Not so these sheets, ordain'd to happier fate,Praised through their day, and but that day their date;Their careless authors only strive to joinAs many words as make an even line;As many lines as fill a row complete;As many rows as furnish up a sheet:From side to side, with ready types they run,The measure's ended, and the work is done;Oh, born with ease, how envied and how blest!Your fate to-day and your to-morrow's rest,To you all readers turn, and they can lookPleased on a paper, who abhor a book;Those who ne'er deign'd their Bible to peruse,Would think it hard to be denied their News;Sinners and saints, the wisest with the weak,Here mingle tastes, and one amusement seek;This, like the public inn, provides a treat,Where each promiscuous guest sits down to eat;And such this mental food, as we may callSomething to all men, and to some men all.Next, in what rare production shall we traceSuch various subjects in so small a space?As the first ship upon the waters boreIncongruous kinds who never met before;Or as some curious virtuoso joinsIn one small room, moths, minerals, and coins,Birds, beasts, and fishes; nor refuses placeTo serpents, toads, and all the reptile race;So here compress'd within a single sheet,Great things and small, the mean and mighty meet.'Tis this which makes all Europe's business known,Yet here a private man may place his own:And, where he reads of Lords and Commons, heMay tell their honours that he sells rappee.Add next th' amusement which the motley pageAffords to either sex and every age:Lo! where it comes before the cheerful fire,-Damps from the press in smoky curls aspire(As from the earth the sun exhales the dew),Ere we can read the wonders that ensue:Then eager every eye surveys the partThat brings its favourite subject to the heart;Grave politicians look for facts alone,And gravely add conjectures of their own:The sprightly nymph, who never broke her restFor tottering crowns or mighty lands oppress'd,Finds broils and battles, but neglects them allFor songs and suits, a birth-day, or a ball:The keen warm man o'erlooks each idle taleFor "Monies wanted," and "Estates on Sale;"While some with equal minds to all attend,Pleased with each part, and grieved to find an end.So charm the news; but we who, far from town,Wait till the postman brings the packet down,Once in the week, a vacant day behold,And stay for tidings, till they're three days old:That day arrives; no welcome post appears,But the dull morn a sullen aspect wears:We meet, but ah! without our wonted smile,To talk of headaches, and complain of bile;Sullen we ponder o'er a dull repast,Nor feast the body while the mind must fast.A master passion is the love of news,Not music so commands, nor so the Muse:Give poets claret, they grow idle soon;Feed the musician and he's out of tune;But the sick mind, of this disease possess'd,Flies from all cure, and sickens when at rest.Now sing, my Muse, what various parts composeThese rival sheets of politics and prose.First, from each brother's hoard a part they draw,A mutual theft that never feared a law;Whate'er they gain, to each man's portion fall,And read it once, you read it through them all:For this their runners ramble day and night,To drag each lurking deed to open light;For daily bread the dirty trade they ply,Coin their fresh tales, and live upon the lie:Like bees for honey, forth for news they spring,-Industrious creatures! ever on the wing;Home to their several cells they bear the store,Cull'd of all kinds, then roam abroad for more.No anxious virgin flies to "fair Tweed-side;"No injured husband mourns his faithless bride;No duel dooms the fiery youth to bleed;But through the town transpires each vent'rous deed.Should some fair frail one drive her prancing pairWhere rival peers contend to please the fair;When, with new force, she aids her conquering eyes,And beauty decks, with all that beauty buys:Quickly we learn whose heart her influence feels,Whose acres melt before her glowing wheels.To these a thousand idle themes succeed,Deeds of all kinds, and comments to each deed.Here stocks, the state barometers, we view,That rise or fall by causes known to few;Promotion's ladder who goes up or down;Who wed, or who seduced, amuse the town;What new-born heir has made his father blest;What heir exults, his father now at rest;That ample list the Tyburn-herald gives,And each known knave, who still for Tyburn lives.So grows the work, and now the printer triesHis powers no more, but leans on his allies.When lo! the advertising tribe succeed,Pay to be read, yet find but few will read;And chief th' illustrious race, whose drops and pillsHave patent powers to vanquish human ills:These, with their cures, a constant aid remain,To bless the pale composer's fertile brain;Fertile it is, but still the noblest soilRequires some pause, some intervals from toil;And they at least a certain ease obtainFrom Katterfelto's skill, and Graham's glowing strain.I too must aid, and pay to see my nameHung in these dirty avenues to fame;Nor pay in vain, if aught the Muse has seen,And sung, could make these avenues more clean;Could stop one slander ere it found its way,And give to public scorn its helpless prey.By the same aid, the Stage invites her friends,And kindly tells the banquet she intends;Thither from real life the many run,With Siddons weep, or laugh with Abingdon;Pleased in fictitious joy or grief, to seeThe mimic passion with their own agree;To steal a few enchanted hours awayFrom self, and drop the curtain on the day.But who can steal from self that wretched wightWhose darling work is tried some fatal night?Most wretched man! when, bane to every bliss,He hears the serpent-critic's rising hiss;Then groans succeed; nor traitors on the wheelCan feel like him, or have such pangs to feel.Nor end they here: next day he reads his fallIn every paper; critics are they all:He sees his branded name with wild affright,And hears again the cat-calls of the night.Such help the STAGE affords: a larger spaceIs fill'd by PUFFS and all the puffing race.Physic had once alone the lofty style,The well-known boast, that ceased to raise a smile:Now all the province of that tribe invade,And we abound in quacks of every trade.The simple barber, once an honest name,Cervantes founded, Fielding raised his fame:Barber no more--a gay perfumer comes,On whose soft cheek his own cosmetic blooms;Here he appears, each simple mind to move,And advertises beauty, grace, and love."Come, faded belles, who would your youth renew,And learn the wonders of Olympian dew;Restore the roses that begin to faint,Nor think celestial washes vulgar paint;Your former features, airs, and arts assume,Circassian virtues, with Circassian bloom.Come, battered beaux, whose locks are turned to gray,And crop Discretion's lying badge away;Read where they vend these smart engaging things,These flaxen frontlets with elastic springs;No female eye the fair deception sees,Not Nature's self so natural as these."Such are their arts, but not confined to them,The muse impartial most her sons condemn:For they, degenerate! join the venal throng,And puff a lazy Pegasus along:More guilty these, by Nature less design'dFor little arts that suit the vulgar kind.That barbers' boys, who would to trade advance,Wish us to call them smart Friseurs from France:That he who builds a chop-house, on his doorPaints "The true old original Blue Boar!"-These are the arts by which a thousand live,Where Truth may smile, and Justice may forgive:-But when, amidst this rabble rout, we findA puffing poet to his honour blind;Who slily drops quotations all aboutPacket or post, and points their merit out;Who advertises what reviewers say,With sham editions every second day;Who dares not trust his praises out of sight,But hurries into fame with all his might;Although the verse some transient praise obtains,Contempt is all the anxious poet gains.Now Puffs exhausted, Advertisements past,Their Correspondents stand exposed at last;These are a numerous tribe, to fame unknown,Who for the public good forego their own;Who volunteers in paper-war engage,With double portion of their party's rage:Such are the Bruti, Decii, who appearWooing the printer for admission here;Whose generous souls can condescend to prayFor leave to throw their precious time away.Oh! cruel WOODFALL! when a patriot drawsHis gray-goose quill in his dear country's cause,To vex and maul a ministerial race,Can thy stern soul refuse the champion place?Alas! thou know'st not with what anxious heartHe longs his best-loved labours to impart;How he has sent them to thy brethren round,And still the same unkind reception found:At length indignant will he damn the state,Turn to his trade, and leave us to our fate.These Roman souls, like Rome's great sons, are knownTo live in cells on labours of their own.Thus Milo, could we see the noble chief,Feeds, for his country's good, on legs of beef:Camillus copies deeds for sordid pay,Yet fights the public battles twice a-day:E'en now the godlike Brutus views his scoreScroll'd on the bar-board, swinging with the door:Where, tippling punch, grave Cato's self you'll see,And Amor Patriae vending smuggled tea.Last in these ranks, and least, their art's disgrace,Neglected stand the Muses' meanest race;Scribblers who court contempt, whose verse the eyeDisdainful views, and glances swiftly by:This Poet's Corner is the place they choose,A fatal nursery for an infant Muse;Unlike that Corner where true Poets lie,These cannot live, and they shall never die;Hapless the lad whose mind such dreams invade,And win to verse the talents due to trade.Curb then, O youth! these raptures as they rise,Keep down the evil spirit and be wise;Follow your calling, think the Muses foes,Nor lean upon the pestle and compose.I know your day-dreams, and I know the snareHid in your flow'ry path, and cry "Beware!"Thoughtless of ill, and to the future blind,A sudden couplet rushes on your mind;Here you may nameless print your idle rhymes,And read your first-born work a thousand times;Th'infection spreads, your couplet grows apace,Stanzas to Delia's dog or Celia's face:You take a name; Philander's odes are seen,Printed, and praised, in every magazine:Diarian sages greet their brother sage,And your dark pages please th' enlightened age.-Alas! what years you thus consume in vain,Ruled by this wretched bias of the brain!Go! to your desks and counters all return;Your sonnets scatter, your acrostics burn;Trade, and be rich; or, should your careful siresBequeath your wealth, indulge the nobler fires;Should love of fame your youthful heart betray,Pursue fair fame, but in a glorious way,Nor in the idle scenes of Fancy's painting stray.Of all the good that mortal men pursue,The Muse has least to give, and gives to few;Like some coquettish fair, she leads us on,With smiles and hopes, till youth and peace are gone.Then, wed for life, the restless wrangling pairForget how constant one, and one how fair:Meanwhile Ambition, like a blooming bride,Brings power and wealth to grace her lover's side;And though she smiles not with such flattering charms,The brave will sooner win her to their arms.Then wed to her, if Virtue tie the bands,Go spread your country's fame in hostile lands;Her court, her senate, or her arms adorn,And let her foes lament that you were born:Or weigh her laws, their ancient rights defend,Though hosts oppose, be theirs and Reason's friend;Arm'd with strong powers, in their defence engage,And rise the THURLOW of the future age.