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.

Is. 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 spoke in jeft, we fhall fubmit the cafe, as fe forth in the exordium of the prefent epiftle, to our

readers.

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

To panegyricize this glorious nation,
Whose liberty results from her taxation.
O, for that paffive, penfionary fpirit,
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 fhould my Tory numbers, old Shebbeare,
Tickle the tatter'd fragment of thy ear!
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,
Befmear'd with mire, like black Dalrymple's gall,
Then, like thy profe, fhould my felonious verfe
Tear each immortal plume from Naffau's hearfe,
That modern monarchs, in that plumage gay,
Might stare and ftrut, the peacocks of a day.
But I, like Anfty, feel myfelf unfit
To run, with hollow speed, two heats of wit.
He, at first starting, won both fame and money,
The betts ran high on Bladud's Cicerone;
Since diftanc'd quite, like a gall'd jade he winces,

And lashes unknown priefts, and praises 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;
Chaite maids of honour prais'd my ftout 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 itfelf 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 fhall prove it in his next Review)
That no one bard, in thefe degenerate days,
Can write two works deferving equal praise."

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 muft frankly confefs there is but too much truth in his observation. 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 telf-condemned: the prefent epiftle being by no means equal, either in wit, humour, or fatire, to his former epiftie, addreffed to Sir Wm. 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 caufe of his prefent 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 foriner 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 ftand 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

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his

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 fhould 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, laine duck has limped to a fifth, under all her difadvantages. But to the point: we charge this celebrated Epiftolizer, whose ftrains, he tells us, even kings recite and queens admire, with having defcended in the present inftance to downright fcurrility. 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 strong Hibernian brass,
Shines through the Paris plaister of thy face,
And bronzes it, fecure from fhame, or fenfe,
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, bafe, 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 canst but mumble, when thou mean'it to bite."

the

Does the reader find, in the above lines, any thing of that pleasant ironical turn of wit and fatire, for which the Heroic Epiftle was fo much admired? Nay, is it any thing better than the abuse, it abuses?-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, fwear," fo 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 prima via of repletion.)
What scale of metaphor fhall Fancy raife,
To climb the heights of thy ftupendous praife?
Thrice has the fun commenc'd his annual ride,
Since, full of years and praife, thy mother died.
'Twas then I faw thee, with exulting eyes,
A fecond phoenix, from her afhes rife;
Mark'd all the graces of thy loyal crest,
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 fmooth, 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 feason,
When mad America is brought to reason.
Oblequious 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 Nt fung, while yet but fimple Clare,
That wretched Ireland had no gold to fpare.
How couldft thou, fimple Clare! that ifle abuse,
Which prompts and pays thy liniey-woolfey mufe?
Miftaken peer! Her treafures ne'er can ceafe,
Did the not long pay Viry for our peace?

Say,

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

Sure then she might afford, to my poor thinking,
One golden tumbler, for Queen Charlotte's drinking.
I care not, if her hinds on fens 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.

one,

Ah! hadft thou, North, adopted this fage plan,
And fcorn'd to tax each British ferving-man,
Thy friend Macgregor, when he came to town,
(As poets fhould do) in his chaife and
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 tush, I heed not-for my country's good
I'll pay it it will purchafe 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 thefe bleft times to have is but to afk.
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 dragonet, with brazen grin,
Gapes for the precious prize, and gulps it in.
Yet when we peep behind the magic fcene,
One mafter-wheel directs the whole machine:
The felf-fame pearls, in nice gradation, all
Around one common centre, rife and fall.
Thus may our ftate-mufeum long surprise;
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 ftate 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."

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