THE NEWSPAPER.

THE NEWSPAPER .

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE EDWARD LORD THURLOW , LORD HIGH CHANCELLOR OF GREAT BRITAIN ; ONE OF HIS MAJESTY'S MOST HONOURABLE PRIVY COUNCIL , ETC. ETC.

This not a Time favourable to poetical Composition : and why — Newspapers enemies to Literature , and their general Influence — Their Numbers — The Sunday Monitor — Their general Character — Their Effect upon Individuals — upon Society — in the Country — The Village Freeholder — What Kind of Composition a Newspaper is ; and the Amusement it affords — Of what Parts it is chiefly composed — Articles of Intelligence : Advertisements : The Stage : Quacks : Puffing — The Correspondents to a Newspaper , political and poetical — Advice to the latter — Conclusion .

THE NEWSPAPER . È quibus , hi vacuas implent sermonibus aures : Hi narrata ferunt alio : mensuraque ficti Crescit , et auditis aliquid novus adjicit auctor : Illic Credulitas , illic temerarius Error , Vanaque Lætitia est , consternatique Timores , Seditioque repens , dubioque auctore Susurri . Ovid . Metamorph . , lib. xii . 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 wield Her 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 dart Death 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 wait In 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 complain That foul neglect is all your labours gain ; That pity only checks your growing spite To 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 warm Those 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 subdue This bold assuming but successful crew . I sing of News , and all those vapid sheets The 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 lie In shallow pools , or thence ascend the sky : Such are these base ephemeras , so born To die before the next revolving morn . Yet thus they differ : insect-tribes are lost In the first visit of a winter's 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 clown Pray 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 genial soil receives the fruitful store , And there they grow , and breed a thousand more . Now be their arts display'd , how first they choose A 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 strike This 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 shore , In search of warmer climes , come skimming o'er , Some bold adventurers first prepare to try The doubtful sunshine of the distant sky ; But soon the growing Summer's certain sun Wins 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 feet From 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 guide His 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 he Who owns the little hut that makes him free ; Whose yearly forty shillings buy the smile Of 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 license to abuse ; Then joins the cry , " That all the courtly race " Are 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 out Alluring 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 few Acquire 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 join As 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 look Pleased 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 call Something to all men , and to some men all . Next , in what rare production shall we trace Such various subjects in so small a space ? As the first ship upon the waters bore Incongruous kinds who never met before ; Or as some curious virtuoso joins , In one small room , moths , minerals , and coins , Birds , beasts , and fishes ; nor refuses place To 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 , he May tell their honours that he sells rappee . Add next th' amusement which the motley page Affords 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 part , That 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 rest . For tottering crowns , or mighty lands oppress'd , Finds broils and battles , but neglects them all For songs and suits , a birth-day , or a ball : The keen warm man o'erlooks each idle tale For " 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 headachs , 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 compose These rival sheets of politics and prose . First , from each brother's hoard a part they draw , A mutual theft that never fear'd 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 ven'trous deed . Should some fair frail-one drive her prancing pair Where 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 tries His 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 pills Have 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 soil Requires some pause , some intervals from toil ; And they at least a certain ease obtain From Katterfelto's skill , and Graham's glowing strain . I too must aid , and pay to see my name Hung 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 gave 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 see The mimic passion with their own agree ; To steal a few enchanted hours away From self , and drop the curtain on the day . But who can steal from self that wretched wight , Whose 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 wheel Can feel like him , or have such pangs to feel . Nor end they here : next day he reads his fall In 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 space Is 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 , batter'd beaux , whose locks are turn'd 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 must her sons condemn : For they , degenerate ! join the venal throng , And puff a lazy Pegasus along : More guilty these , by Nature less design'd For 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 door Paints " 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 find A puffing poet to his honour blind : Who slily drops quotations all about Packet 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 appear Wooing the printer for admission here ; Whose generous souls can condescend to pray For leave to throw their precious time away . Oh! cruel Woodfall ! when a patriot draws His 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 heart He 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 known To 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 score Scroll'd on the bar-board , swinging with the door ; Where , tippling punch , grave Cato's self you'll see , And Amor Patriæ 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 eye Disdainful 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 snare Hid 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' enlighten'd 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 sires Bequeath you 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 pair Forget 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 .