And all his utmost wishes mean,
Is, though he's laugh'd at, to be seen;
Such (for when Flatt'ry's soothing strain
Had robb'd the Muse of her disdain,
And found a method to persuade
Her art to soften ev'ry shade,
Justice enrag'd, the pencil snatch'd
From her degenerate hand, and scratch'd
Out ev'ry trace; then, quick as thought,
From life this striking likeness caught)
In mind, in manners, and in mien,
Such White came, and such was seen
In the World's eye; but (strange to tell!)
Misled by Fancy's magic spell,
Deceiv'd, not dreaming of deceit,
Cheated, but happy in the cheat,
Was more than human in his own.
O bow, bow all at Fancy's throne,
Whose pow'r could make so vile an elf
With patience bear that thing, himself.

But, mistress of each art to please,
Creative Fancy, what are these,
These pageants of a trifler's pen,
To what thy power effected then?
Familiar with the human mind,
As swift and subtle as the wind,
Which we all feel, yet no one knows
Or whence it comes, or where it goes,
Fancy at once in ev'ry part
Possess'd the eye, the head, the heart,
And in a thousand forms array'd,
A thousand various gambols play'd.

Here, in a face which well might ask
The privilege to wear a mask
In spite of law, and Justice teach
For public good t' excuse the breach,
Within the furrow of a wrinkle

Twixt eyes, which could not shine but twinkle,
Like continels i' th' starry way,
Who wait for the return of day,
Almost burnt out, and seem to keep
Their watch, like soldiers, in their sleep,
Or like those lamps which, by the pow'r,
Of law, must burn from hour to hour,
(Else they, without redemption, fall
Lader the terrours of that hall,
Which, once notorious for a hop,
Is now become a justice-shop}
Which are so manag'd, to go out

Just when the time comes round about,`
Which yet through emulation strive
To keep their dying light alive,
And (not uncommon, as we find,
Amongst the children of mankind)

As they grow weaker, would seem stronger,
And burn a little, little longer;
Fancy, betwix such eyes enshrin'd,
No brush to daub, no mil to grind,
Thrice wav'd her wand around, whose force
Chang'd in an instant Nature's course,
And, hardly credible in rhyme,
Not only stopp'd, but call'd back Time.
The face of ev'ry wrinkle clear'd,
Smooth as the floating stream appear'd,
Down the neck ringlets spread their same,
The neck admiring whence they came;
On the arch'd brow the Graces play'd;
On the full bosom Cupid laid;
Suns, from their proper orbits sent,
Became for eyes a supplement;

Teeth, white as ever teeth were seen
Deliver'd from the hand of Green 5,
Started, in regular array,

Like train-bands on a grand field-day,
Into the gums, which would have fled,
But, wond'ring, turn'd from white to red,
Quite alter'd was the whole machine,
And lady
- was fifteen.
Here she made lordly temples rise
Before the pious Dashwood's eyes,
Temples which built aloft in air,
May serve for show, if not for pray'r;
In solemn form herself, before,
Array'd like Faith, the Bible bore.
There, over Melcomb's feather'd head,
Who, quite a man of gingerbread,
Savour'd in talk, in dress, and phyz,
More of another world than this,
To a dwarf Muse a giant Page,
The last grave fop of the last age,
In a superb and feather'd hearse,
Bescutcheon'd and betagg'd with verse,
Which, to beholders from afar,
Appear'd like a triumphal car,
She rode, in a cast rainbow clad;
There, throwing off the hallow'd plaid,
Naked, as when (in those drear cells

Where, self-bless'd, self-curs'd Madness dwells)
Pleasure, on whom, in Laughter's shape,
Frenzy had perfected a rape,

First brought her forth, before her time,
Wild witness of her shame and crime,
Driving before an idol band

Of driv'ling Stuarts, hand in hand,
Some, who to curse mankind, had wore
A crown they ne'er must think of more,
Others, whose baby brows were grac'd
With paper crowns, and tots of paste,
She jigg'd, and playing on the flute
Spread raptures o'er the soul of Bute.

Big with vast hopes, some mighty plan,
Which wrought the busy soul of man
To her full bent, the civil law,
Fit rode to keep a world in awe,
Bound o'er his brows, fair to behold,
As Jewish frontlets were of old,
The famous charter of our land,
Defac'd, and mangled in his hand;
As one whom deepest thoughts employ,
But deepest thoughts of truest joy,
Serious and slow he strode, he stalk'd,
Before him troops of heroes walk d,
Whom best he lov'd, of heroes crown'd,
By Tories guarded all around,
Dull solemn pleasure in his face,
He saw the honours of his race,
He saw their lineal glories rise,

And touch'd, or scem'd to touch the skies.
Not the most distant mark of fear,
No sign of are, or scaffold near,

Not one curs'd thought, to cross his will,
Of such a place as Tower Hill.

Curse on this Muse, a flippant jade,
A shrew, like ev'ry other maid
Who turns the corner of nineteen,
Devour'd with peevishness and spleen.
Her tongue (for as, when bound for life,
The husband suffers for the wife,

5 An eminent dentist at this period.

So if in any works of rhyme
Perchance there blunders out a crime,
Poor culprit bards must always rue it,
Although 'tis plain the Muses do it)
Sooner or later cannot fail

To send me headlong to a gaol.
Whate'er my theme (our themes we choose
In modern days without a Muse,
Just as a father will provide
To join a bridegroom and a bride,
As if, though they must be the play'rs,
The game was wholly his, not theirs}
Whate'er my theme, the Muse, who still
Owns no direction but her will,
Flies off, and, ere I could expect,
By ways oblique and indirect,
At once quite over head and ears,
In fatal politics appears.

Time was, and, if I aught discern
Of fate, that time shall soon return,
When decent and demure at least,
As grave and dull as any priest,
I could see Vice in robes array'd,
Could see the game of Folly play'd
Successfully in Fortune's school,
Without exclaiming rogue or fool;
Time was, when nothing loth or proud,
I lacquied, with the fawning crowd,
Scoundrels in office, and would bow
To ciphers great in place; but now
Upright I stand, as if wise Fate,
To compliment a shatter'd state,
Had me, like Atlas, hither sent
To shoulder up the firmament,
And if I stoop'd, with gen'ral crack

The Heavens would tumble from my back;
Time was, when rank and situation
Secur'd the great ones of the nation
From all control; Satire and Law
Kept only little knaves in awe;
But now, decorum lost, I stand,
Bemus'd, a pencil in my hand,
And, dead to ev'ry sense of shame,
Careless of safety and of fame,

The names of scoundrels minute down,
And libel more than half the town.

How can a statesman be secure
In all his villanies, if poor
And dirty authors thus shall dare
To lay his rotten bosom bare?
Muses shall pass away their time
In dressing out the poet's rhyme
With bills and ribbands, and array

Each line in harmless taste, though gay.
When the hot burning fit is on,
They should regale their restless son
With something to allay his rage,
Some cool Castalian beverage,

Or some such draught (though they, 'tis plain,
Taking the Muses name in vain,
Know nothing of their real court,
And only fable from report)

As makes a Whitehead's Ode go down,
Or slakes the feverette of Brown:
But who would in his senses think
Of Muses giving gall to drink,
Or that their folly should afford
To raving poets gun or sword?
Poets were ne'er design'd by Fate
To meddle with affairs of state,

Nor should (if we may speak our thought
Truly as men of honour ought)
Sound policy their rage admit,

To launch the thunderbolts of Wit
About those heads, which, when they 're shot,
Can't tell if 'twas by Wit, or not.

These things well known, what devil in spite
Can have seduc'd me thus to write
Out of that road, which must have led
To riches, without heart or head,
Into that road, which, had I more
Than ever poet had before,

Of wit and virtue, in disgrace
Would keep me still, and out of place,
Which, if some judge (you 'll understand
One famous, famous through the land
For making law) should stand my friend,
At last may in a pill'ry end,
And all this, I myself admit,

Without one cause to lead to it.

For instance now-this book-the GHOST-
Methinks I hear some Critic Post
Remark most gravely-" The first word
Which we about the GHOST have beard."
Peace, my good sir-not quite so fast-
What is the first, may be the last,
Which is a point, all must agree,
Cannot depend on you or me.
Fanny, no ghost of common mould,
Is not by forms to be control'd;
To keep her state, and show her skill,
She never comes but when she will.
I wrote and wrote (perhaps you doubt,
And shrewdly, what I wrote about,
Believe me, much to my disgrace,
I too am in the self-same case)
But still I wrote, till Fanny came
Impatient, nor could any shame
On me with equal justice fall,
If she had never come at all.
An underling, I could not stir
Without the cue thrown out by her,
Nor from the subject aid receive
Until she came, and gave me leave.
So that (ye sons of Erudition
Mark, this is but a supposition,
Nor would I to so wise a nation
Suggest it as a revelation)

If henceforth dully turning o'er
Page after page, ye read no more
Of Fanny, who, in sea or air,
May be departed God knows where,
Rail at jilt Fortune, but agree

No censure can be laid on me,

For sure (the cause let Mansfield try)
Fanny is in the fault, not I.

But to return-and this I hold,
A secret worth its weight in gold
To those who write, as I write now,

Not to mind where they go, or how,

Through ditch, through bog, o'er hedge and stile;
Make it but worth the reader's while,
And keep a passage fair and plain
Always to bring him back again.
Through dirt, who scruples to approach,
At Pleasure's call, to take a coach?
But we should think the man a clown
Who in the dirt should set us down.

But to return-if Wit, who ne'er
The shackles of restraint could bear,

In wayward humour should refuse
Her timely succour to the Muse,
And to no rules and orders tied,
Roughly deny to be her guide,
She must repounce Decorum's plan,
And get back when, and how she can;
As parsons, who, without pretext,
As soon as mention'd, quit their text,
And, to promote sleep's genial pow'r,
Grope in the dark for half an hour,
Give no more reason (for we know
Reason is vulgar, mean and low)
Why they come back (should it befall
That ever they come back at all)
Into the road, to end the rout,

Than they can give why they went out.
But to return-this book--the GHOST-
A mere amusement at the most,
A trifle, fit to wear away
The horrours of a rainy day,

A slight shot silk, for summer wear,
Just as our modern statesmen are,
If rigid honesty permit

That I for once purloin the wit
Of him, who, were we all to steal,
Is much. too rich the theft to feel.

Yet in this book, where Ease should join
With Mirth to sugar ev'ry line,
Where it should all be mere chit-chat,
Lively, good-humour'd, and all that,
Where honest Satire, in disgrace,

Should not so much as show her face,
The shrew, o'erleaping all due bounds,
Breaks into Laughter's sacred grounds,
And, in contempt, plays o'er her tricks
In science, trade, and politics.

But why should the distemper'd scold
Attempt to blacken men enroll'd

In Power's dread book, whose mighty skill
Can twist an empire to their will;
Whose voice is Fate, and on their tongue
Law, liberty, and life are hung;
Whom, on inquiry, Truth shall find
With Stuarts link'd, time out of mind
Superior to their country's laws,
Defenders of a tyrant's cause;

Men, who the same dama'd maxims hold
Darkly, which they avow'd of old;
Who, though by diffrent means, pursue
The end which they had first in view,
And, force found vain, now play their part
With much less honour, much more art?
Why, at the corners of the streets,
To ev'ry patriot drudge she meets,
Known or unknown, with furious cry
Should she wild clamours vent; or why,
The minds of groundlings to inflame,
A Dashwood, Bute, and Wyndham namę?
Why, having not to our surprise
The fear of death before her eyes,
Bearing, and that but now and then,
No other weapon but her pen,
Should she an argument afford,
For blood, to men who wear a sword;
Men, who can nicely trim and pare
A point of honour to a hair,
(Honour-a word of nice import,
A pretty trinket in a court,

Which my lord quite in rapture feels
Dangling and rattling with his seals-
VOL XIV.

Honour-a word, which all the Nine
Would be much puzzled to define-
Honour-a word which torture mocks,
And might confound a thousaud Lockes-
Which (for I leave to wiser heads,
Who fields of death prefer to beds
Of down, to find out, if they can,
What honour is, on their wild plan)
Is not, to take it in their way,
And this we sure may dare to say
Without incurring an offence,
Courage, law, honesty, or sense);
Men, who all spirit, life and soul,
Neat butchers of a button-hole,
Having more skill, believe it true
That they must have more courage too;
Men, who without a place or name,
Their fortunes speechless as their fame,
Would by the sword new fortunes carve,
And rather die in fight than starve ?
At coronations, a vast field

Which food of ev'ry kind might yield,
Of good sound food, at once most fit
For purposes of health and wit,
Could not ambitious Satire rest,
Content with what she might digest?
Could she not feast on things of course,
A champion, or a champion's horse?
A champion's horse-No, better say,
Though better figur'd on that day—
A horse, which might appear to us,
Who deal in rhyme, a Pegasus;
A rider, who, when once got on,
Might pass for a Bellerophon,
Dropt on a sudden from the skies,
To catch and fix our wond'ring eyes,
To witch, with wand instead of whip,
The world with noble horsemanship,
To twist and twine, both horse and man,
On such a well-concerted plan,
That Centaur-like, when all was done,
We scarce could think they were not one?
Could she not to our itching cars

Bring the new names of new-coin'd peers,
Who walk'd, nobility forgot,

With shoulders fitter for a knot

Than robes of honour; for whose sake
Heralds in form were forc'd to make,
To make, because they could not find,
Great predecers to their mind?
Could she not (though 'tis doubtful since
Whether he plumber is, or prince)
Tell of a simple knight's advance
To be a doughty peer of France;
Tell how he did a dukedom gain,
And Robinson was Aquitain";
Tell how her city-chiefs, disgrac'd,
Were at an empty table plac'd?
A gross neglect, which, whilst they live,
They can't forget, and wont forgive;
A gross neglect of all those rights
Which march with city appetites;
Of all those canons, which we find
By gluttony, time out of mind,
Establish'd; which they ever hold
Dearer than any thing but gold:

• At the coronation, sir Thomas Robinson walked as the representative of the duke of Aquitain.

Y

Thanks to my stars-I now see shore-
Of courtiers, and of courts no more-
Thus stumbling on my city friends,
Blind Chance my guide, my purpose bends
In line direct, and shall pursue
The point which I had first in view,
Nor more shall with the reader sport,
Till I have seen him safe in port.
Hush'd be each fear-no more I bear
Through the wide regions of the air
The reader terrified, no more
Wild Ocean's horrid paths explore..
Be the plain track from henceforth mine-
Cross-roads to Allen 7 I resign--
Allen, the honour of this nation,
Allen, himself a corporation,
Allen, of late notorious grown
For writings none, or all his own,
Allen, the first of letter'd men,
Since the good bishop holds his pen,
And at his elbow takes his stand

To mend his head, and guide his hand.
But hold-once more digression hence-
Let us return to common sense;
The car of Phoebus I discharge,
My carriage now a lord-mayor's barge.

Suppose we now-we may suppose
In verse, what would be sin in prose-
The sky with darkness overspread,
And ev'ry star retir'd to bed;
The gew-gaw robes of Pomp and Pride
In some dark corner thrown aside;
Great lords and ladies giving way
To what they seem to scorn by day,
The real feelings of the heart,
And Nature taking place of Art;
Desire triumphant through the night,
And Beauty panting with delight;
Chastity, woman's fairest crown,
Till the return of morn laid down,
Then to be worn again as bright
As if not sullied in the night;
Dull Ceremony, business o'er,
Dreaming in form at Cottrell's door;
Precaution trudging all about
To see the candles safely out,
Bearing a mighty master-key,
Habited like Economy,

Stamping each lock with triple seals,
Mean Av'rice creeping at her heels.
Suppose we too, like sheep in pen,
The mayor and court of aldermen
Within their barge, which through the deep,
The rowers more than half asleep,
Mov'd slow, as over-charg'd with state;
Thames groan'd beneath the mighty weight,
And felt that bawble heavier far
Than a whole fleet of men of war.

Sleep o'er each well-known faithful bead
With lib'ral hand his poppies shed,

Each head, by Dullness render'd fit

Sleep and his empire to admit.

Through the whole passage not a word,
Not one faint, weak, half sound was heard;
Sleep had prevail'd to overwhelm
The steersman nodding o'er the helm;

7 Ralph Allen, esq. of Prior Park, near Bath, the correspondent of Pope, of whom Allworthy in Tom Jones is said to have been the representative.

The rowers, without force or skill,
Left the dull barge to drive at will;
The sluggish oars suspended hung,
And even Beardmore held his tongue.
Commerce, regardful of a freight
On which depended half her state,
Stepp'd to the helm, with ready hand
She safely clear'd that bank of sand,
Where, stranded, our west-country fleet
Delay and danger often meet;
Till Neptune, anxious for the trade,
Comes in full tides, and brings them aid.
Next (for the Muses can survey
Objects by night as well as day,
Nothing prevents their taking aim,
Darkness and light to them the same)
They past that building, which of old
Queen-mothers was design'd to hold;
At present a mere lodging-pen,
A palace turn'd into a den,

To barracks turn'd, and soldiers tread
Where dowagers have laid their head.
Why should we mention Surrey Street,
Where ev'ry week grave judges meet,
All fitted out with hum and ha,
In proper form to drawl out law,
To see all causes duly tried

"Twixt knaves who drive, and fools who ride?
Why at the Temple should we stay?
What of the Temple dare we say?

A dangerous ground we tread on there,
And words perhaps may actions bear,
Where, as the brethren of the seas
For fares, the lawyers ply for fees.
What of that Bridge, most wisely made
To serve the purposes of trade,
In the great mart of all this nation,
By stopping up the navigation,
And to that sand-bank adding weight,
Which is already much too great?—
What of that Bridge, which, void of sense,
But well supplied with impudence,
Englishmen, knowing not the guild,
Thought they might have a claim to build,
Till Paterson, as white as milk,
As smooth as oil, as soft as silk,
In solemn manner had decreed,
That on the other side the Tweed,
Art, born and bred, and fully grown,
Was with one Mylne 9, a man unknown,
But grace, preferment, and renown
Deserving, just arriv'd in town;
One Mylne, an artist perfect quite,
Both in his own and country's right,
As fit to make a bridge, as he,
With glorious Patovinity,

To build inscriptions worthy found
To lie for ever under ground.

Much more, worth observation too,
Was this a season to pursue

The theme, our Muse might tell in rhyme;
The will she hath, but not the time;
For swift as shaft from Indian bow,
(And when a goddess comes, we know,

8 An attorney and common-council-man, supposed to have afforded some assistance at times to The Monitor.

9 The architect of Blackfriars' Bridge.

Surpassing Nature acts prevail,

And boats want neither oar nor sail) The vessel past, and reach'd the shore So quick, that Thought was scarce before. Suppose we now our city-court Safely deliver'd at the port, And, of their state regardless quite, Landed, like smuggled goods, by night; The solemn magistrate laid down, The dignity of robe and gown With ev'ry other ensign gone, Suppose the woollen night-cap on: The flesh-brush us'd with decent state To make the spirits circulate, (A form, which, to the senses true, The liq'rish chaplain uses too, Though, something to improve the plan, He takes the maid instead of man) Swath'd, and with flannel cover'd o'er To show the vigour of threescore, The vigour of threescore and ten Above the proof of younger men, Suppose the mighty Dullman led Betwixt two slaves, and put to bed; Suppose the moment he lies down, No miracle in this great town, The drone as fast asleep as he Must in the course of Nature be, Who, truth for our foundation take, is never half awake.

When up,

There let him sleep, whilst we survey
The preparations for the day,
That day, on which was to be shown
Court-pride by city-pride outdone.

The jealous mother sends away,
As only fit for childish play,
That daughter, who, to gall her pride,
Shoots up too forward by her side.

The wretch, of God and man accurs'd,
Of all Hell's instruments the worst,
Draws forth his pawns, and for the day
Struts in some spendthrift's vain array;
Around his awkward doxy shine
The treasures of Golconda's mine;
Each neighbour, with a jealous glare,
Beholds her folly publish'd there.

Garments, well-sav'd (an anecdote Which we can prove, or would not quote) Garments well-sav'd, which first were made, When tailors, to promote their trade, Against the Picts in arms arose,

And drove them out, or made them clothes;
Garments, immortal, without end,
Like names and titles, which descend
Successively from sire to son;
Garments, unless some work is done
Of note, not suffer'd to appear
'Bove once at most in ev'ry year,
Were now, in solemn form, laid bare
To take the benefit of air,
And, ere they came to be employ'd
On this solemnity, to void

That scent, which Russia's leather gave
From vile and impious moth to save.

Each head was busy, and each heart
In preparation bore a part.
Running together all about,
The servants put each other out,
Till the grave master had decreed,
The more haste, ever the worse speed;

Miss, with her little eyes half-clos'd,
Over a smuggled toilet dos'd;
The waiting-maid, whom story notes
A very Scrub in petticoats,
Hir'd for one work, but doing all,
In slumbers lean'd against the wall:
Milliners, summon'd from afar,
Arriv'd in shoals at Temple Bar,
Strictly commanded to import
Cart-loads of foppery from court;
With labour'd visible design

Art strove to be superbly fine;

Nature, more pleasing, though more wild,
Taught otherwise her darling child,
And cried, with spirited disdain,
elegant and plain.

Be H

Lo! from the chambers of the East,
A welcome prelude to the feast,
In saffron-colour'd robe array'd,
High in a car by Vulcan made,
Who work'd for Jove himself, each steed
High mettled, of celestial breed,
Pawing and pacing all the way,
Aurora brought the wish'd-for day,
And held her empire, till outrun
By that brave jolly groom the Sun.

The trumpet-hark!-it speaks-it swells

The loud full harmony-it tells

The time at hand, when Dullman, led

By form, his citizens must head,

And march those troops, which at his call
Were now assembled, to Guild Hall,
On matters of importance great
To court and city, church and state.

From end to end the sound makes way,
All hear the signal and obey;
But Dullman, who, his charge forgot,
By Morpheus fetter'd, heard it not;
Nor could, so sound he slept and fast,
Hear any trumpet, but the last.

Crape, ever true and trusty known,
Stole from the maid's bed to his own,
Then in the spirituals of pride,
Planted himself at Dullman's side.

Thrice did the ever-faithful slave,

With voice which might have reach'd the grave, And broke Death's adamantine chain,

On Dullman call, but call'd in vain ;

Thrice with an arm, which might have made
The Theban boxer curse his trade,

The drone he shook, who rear'd the head,

And thrice fell backward on his bed.

What could be done? Where force hath fail'd,
Policy often hath prevail'd;

And what, an inference most plain,
Had been, Crape thought might be again.

Under his pillow (still in mind

The proverb kept, Fast bind, fast find)
Each blessed night the keys were laid,
Which Crape to draw away assay'd.

What not the pow'r of voice or arm

Could do, this did, and broke the charm;
Quick started he with stupid stare,
For all his little soul was there.

Behold him, taken up, rubb'd down,
In elbow-chair, and morning-gown;

Behold him, in his latter bloom,

Stripp'd, wash'd, and sprinkled with perfume; Behold him bending with the weight

Of robes and trumpery of state;