ADVERTISEMENT.
[i]IT is a juſt image given us by Mr. Congreve of the ſituation of an author, where he mentions a POET ambitious of praiſe, and a CRITIC picking his pocket. It is, indeed, almoſt im⯑poſſible for any man to diſtinguiſh himſelf in the literary world, without having a gang of theſe people ſwarming about him; though he has at the ſame time this conſolation, that all ſuch petty larceny attempts are a mark of his fame; and the unpro⯑voked abuſe of ill-deſigning perſons is, in its own nature, invo⯑luntary praiſe.
The author of the following trifle has had his ſhare of this kind of trouble ever ſince his name has been heard of: he has boaſted, upon a former occaſion, of the honour a certain reverend writer did him by his calumny; but, as if that was not ſuffi⯑cient, his name is now adorned with a PARSON CHURCHILL. This laſt perſon's hand he has felt in his pocket twice in a very ſhort time: in the Roſciad it was but a dip, and away; but as if [ii]this aſtoniſhing genius, who has lately amazed mankind, had improved in his trade, in his Apology he has attempted to make an intire rummage. Whether he has taken any thing out of the preſent writer's pocket, is a point not very certain; ſo that the loſs, however, cannot be very great.
But it may be aſked, Can the Reverend Mr. Churchill, Curate of St. John's, Weſtminſter, be conſidered as Mr. Murphy's lite⯑rary pickpocket, when he boldly owns his name, and ſhews himſelf to the public?—In anſwer to this, it ſhould be conſi⯑dered, that theſe people have various ways of doing their buſi⯑neſs. Some of them ſneak in alleys, and little lurking holes, and, as a gentleman paſſes by, they make a ſnatch at his pocket; and ſhould they prove ſo unfortunate as to give an alarm, and meet with a ſhort turn, "Pray remember the poor—for the love of—" Others of them go more daringly to work—‘Bob, do you ſee that gentleman yonder?—ſhall I DO him?’—‘Ay! ay! cries Bob, do him by all means.’— ‘So I will—Link your honour—light your honour acroſs the ſtreet—my name is CHARLEY DUNGHILL—I ply here every night, your honour—’ Then on he runs, twirling his link almoſt in your face;—gives you an unlucky ſplaſh, and, in your ſudden confuſion, makes a ſnap at your handkerchief: his friends admire his dexterity; he is proclaimed abroad for a notable clever fellow; you are told he is a bruiſer into the bargain, and handles an OAK-STICK won⯑derfully! [iii]This will be acknowledged to be the caſe among the pilferers in our common ſtreets; and among their brethren of the quill the conduct is ſo ſimilar, that the writer of the ſubſequent Ode cannot conſider the REVEREND CHARLES CHURCHILL in any other light than that of a CRITIC PICKING HIS POCKET; and as he is well informed that Mr. John Fielding has attained many points, highly ſerviceable to ſociety, by quick notice and ſudden purſuit among the nimble-fingered race, who infeſt this metropolis, he is in hopes that the ſame means will operate equally in the literary world. For this purpoſe, he now thinks proper to celebrate the egregious endowments of this New Adventurer; deſiring it may be remembered, that this is the firſt notice he has given of him: for, notwithſtanding the inſinuations of Mr. Churchill and his friends, be it hereby known, that Mr. Murphy never wrote, or cauſed to be written, directly or indirectly, a ſingle line in the Critical Review. In juſtice, however, to the public, and him⯑ſelf, he thinks it now incumbent on him to give the beſt de⯑ſcription he can of the man who has, at two different times, made an attempt upon him. Should this furious Drawcanſir, after this, think proper to proceed in his deſign, Mr. Murphy, in conſideration of his being unbeneficed, and reflecting how hard the preſent dearneſs of proviſions, and the late Tax upon PORTER, muſt bear upon the Reverend Bard, moſt heartily gives his conſent to be abuſed by him "Body, Soul, and Muſe," as often as thirſt or [iv]hunger ſhall prompt his genius: and ſhould he be told hereafter, that the author of unpoetic libels is not hurt in his preferment, but that "to one biſhop, Churchill ſeems a wit," he promiſes him to repine leſs at his ſucceſs, though provoked, than Mr. Churchill and his little faction ſeem, unprovoked, to have done at Mr. Murphy's.
Lincoln's-Inn, 11th June, 1761.
P. S. To ſome particular ideas and modes of expreſſion, which will be found in the following lines, the author perſuades himſelf, that they who are acquainted with the ſtile and colouring of Mr. Dryden in the Mac Flecknoe, and Mr. Pope in the Dunciad, will take no exception, unleſs they ſhould chuſe to criticiſe the too manifeſt inferiority of his genius.
ODE TO THE NAIADS OF FLEET-DITCH.
[5]I.
YE nut-brown Naiads of that ſable flood,
To which auxiliar ſewers their homage pay,
And little rills, meand'ring o'er the mud,
Wind from a thouſand urinals their way,
To ſwell his courſe, what time the king of dykes
Into the ſilver Thames impetuous ſtrikes;
Each weed, that on the margin grows,
Drinks life and ſtench as on he flows:
[6] Now the rich ſtream of Nuſance, foul and ſtrong,
With kennel-drains confederated, pours along;
O'er filth, and Cloacina's yellow reign;
Now, ſwelling o'er his banks amain,
See him devolve, in ſullen pride,
Dead cats and dogs, and drunken bards, down headlong with the tide.
II.
Yes, nymphs, ye black-ey'd daughters of Fleet-ditch,
When Midnight in her mantle, black as pitch,
Led forth her ſhadowy train,
On Parnaſſus' high domain,
The Muſe hath heard your piteous cry,
Hath heard ye pierce the vaulted ſky,
And, like ten thouſand grinding ſcizzars ſhrill,
Your ſcreams her ears with diſcord harſh did fill;
While you perform'd, thro' all the mire,
The orgies of your ſooty quire;
Then ſitting on the ſwampy bank,
With ſable ooze your treſſes dank,
Dirt ſtill inſpiring all your throng,
From ev'ry breaſt burſt forth the miſerable ſong.
[7]III.
"Perdition, quick perdition, ſeize
"The caitiff, the pernicious man
"Who firſt the citizens to pleaſe
"Of a new bridge devis'd the plan!
"No longer our much-lov'd domain
"In dear ſtagnation ſhall remain;
"No more the mud-nymphs here ſhall keep
"Their lazy courts; no more ſhall ſleep
"In puddle here; but o'er the bed
"Where gentle SMEDLEY plunged his head;
"Where fam'd OLDMIXON, awful ſire!
"Souc'd in, and wallow'd in the mire;
"Where all our fav'rites lov'd to ſink
"Inhaling vigour from the ſtink;
"This bed, the ſcene of all our joys
"In evil hour you bridge deſtroys!
"May quick perdition ſeize the man
"Who big with ruin form'd the plan!
IV.
Theſe were the notes that reach'd the Muſe's ears;
The Muſes mark'd your unmelodious
* tears.
[8] Then ſaw ye headlong down the ſteep
Explore the bottom of the deep,
Plung'd into endleſs night;
Ev'n now in ev'ry cell beneath
Where toads obſcene and adders breathe,
Conceal'd from human ſight!
The virgins of poetic eye
Can your diſaſtrous ſtate deſcry;
Can ſee from your dripping hair
The faded honours rend away,
Each feature fell with dire diſmay,
And all your ſlattern boſoms bare.
V.
Your ſcreams too pierc'd the watchman's ſoul,
Soho! he cried, and couch'd his quiv'ring pole!
Ah! Naiads, cureleſs is your woe,
Then let your ſorrows flow;
Yes rant, and rave, and yell, and hiſs,
The more you cry, the leſs you'll—:
Yes, o'er your heads a ſtreet ſhall riſe
Through which fair Albion, with ſurprize,
Shall ſee rough Induſtry with eye intent,
Adown his cheek, while wholeſome dew-drops roll,
Urge eager on, on ſchemes of riches bent,
And lay his burden at the wiſh'd-for goal.
[9] Thither Pomona her firſt fruits ſhall ſend,
The gifts of Golden CERES that way bend;
Well-loaded Commerce o'er your heads ſhall bound,
And with the gilded carr th' ecchoing pavement ſhall reſound.
VI.
Ah! deem not, burghers of the dyke!
That to inſult ye all forlorn
My willing hand the lyre doth ſtrike;
Alas! you have full cauſe to mourn!
To you no more ſhall much-lov'd SHIRLEY come,
No more reveal the honours of his bum:
No more you'll ſee him drunk with gin,
No more admire his ghaſtly grin;
With him no longer now you'll flirt,
And fling the mud, and fling the dirt:
No more, alas! you'll bruiſe the toad,
For him its venom to unload,
And fill him with rank poiſon to the brim;
But now he'll look both impotent and grim;
His eyes ſunk hollow in their pit,
And nothing from his mouth to ſpit.
[10]VII.
Where ſhall your CHURCHILL, in that diſmal hour,
When ſtopt are all your ſewers, and all your pow'r,
Where ſhall he wander? Not thy warbling fount
Aonian Aganippe; not thy ſhades
Laurell'd Parnaſſus; nor thy ſacred mount
Thrice-honour'd Pindus; not the tuneful maids
That with ſweet airs bid Iſis banks reſound,
Or, knit in dance, where Camus winds along,
With the young Graces, o'er th' enamell'd ground,
Move to ſome meaſure of immortal ſong;
Not theſe could ever charm, not theſe detain
His ſteps unhallow'd from your drear domain;
Your dripping arches, where the lazy flood
Juſt oozes thro', and ſtagnates into mud,
He ſtill preferr'd;
There oft was heard
To your delighted ears to read his page,
His modern Atalantis of the Stage;
How wanton LUCY ſpreads her charms,
And claſps her fav'rite in her arms;
He told of wounds obſcene, and am'rous ſcars,
In the ſoft conflict gain'd of Venus' wars;
[11] Of the ſweet thefts, and kind deceits,
The falſhoods, perjuries, and cheats,
Of ev'ry actreſs and her crony
Through the whole DRAMATIS PERSONAE;
Through your vaſt courts, while all your ſtrumpet brood
Heard the lewd loves with wanton glee,
And teſtify'd their joy in frantic mood,
From ha! ha! ha!—to he! he! he!
VIII.
Not ev'n the ſolemn bell that tolls,
The ſignal of departed ſouls,
And bodies waiting fun'ral rite,
With-held him from his dear delight,
Tho' the pale corſe, from ev'ry ſable ſhroud,
Call'd for the laſt ſad obſequies aloud!
"Inter us, Doctor, by the Pow'rs above,
"Nor grudge malignant to our clay-cold limbs,
"One particle of earth;—ſo lightly fall
"Whate'er the Critical Review indites;
"Whate'er the MIMIC, in his pleaſant vein,
"Conceives of clumſy Curates;—ſo may Flexney,
"For each dull work, afford thee half a crown;
"And in St. Giles's none be happier thought
"Than thy unclaſſic Muſe:—though now in haſte,
[12] "Yet tarry, Doctor, in mere pity, tarry;
"The duſt thrice thrown, you then may wing your flight."
He wings his flight, all-heedleſs of their prayer;
No dirge he mutters o'er the tomb;
But wages war with ev'ry nameleſs play'r,
Irrev'rend war!—but now his doom
With yours impends;—what ſhall he do?
With tears, and ſighs, and groans he'll rue
Your empire's fall—no more he'll ſit
In foremoſt row before the aſtoniſh'd pit,
In brawn OLDMIXON'S rival as in wit;
And grin diſlike,
And kiſs the ſpike;
And twiſt his mouth, and wreath his head awry,
The arch abſurd quick glancing from his eye,
And giggle,
And wriggle,
And fiddle,
And piddle,
And piddle-paddle,
And fiddle-faddle,
And ſhew with pious leer, and double chin,
That arrogance and goſpel dwell within,
[13]IX.
Ah! Parodiſſa! Ironiſſa too!
Soft Simperilla! mild, but never true,
Envyna pale! Waggilla once a maid,
But now call'd in to each lewd ſcribbler's aid,
Oh! all, ye mud-nymphs! Ah! the hours are fled
When at his well-known voice your ev'ry head
Above the filth you rais'd, and at the ſight
Of the dear Bard with frantic cries
Of hideous joy the realms of light
You pierc'd, then headlong from the ſkies
(As Arethuſa her ſon ſprung from Gods)
You led him flound'ring to your drear abodes.
From hollow cells he heard the adders hiſs,
As firſt he enter'd on this world of p—.
No water there from limpid ſources ſprings,
To chafe his head no nymph the towel brings.
Far other rites your ſiſterhood employ,
Far other orgies of obſcener joy.
With ordure freſh his body one anoints,
And wakes new vigour in his languid joints;
Another ſtradling o'er his head, with grace
Lets fly the briny torrent in his face;
[14] The briny torrent down his temples ran;
He breath'd Fleet-ditch, and ſtunk above a man.
Then rowl'd his eyes, and ſtar'd tremendous wit;
Though to mere mortals but a prieſt b—.
Then bow'd his uncouth form and ſmil'd,
And with ſoft prate the hours beguil'd;
With wonder ey'd the ſecret ſtore
Of Inf'rence ſly, and quaint conceit
Like embryos on the ſwampy floor
Waiting from him their birth to meet.
He ſaw where eſſays againſt each good play,
And much of libel upon merit lay;
'Gainſt Gray and Maſon much pert flimſy ode,
Of yellow-tinctur'd ROSCIAD many a load;
Much Gazetteer, much Craftſman ſtruck his view,
Much of himſelf, and much of Shirley too!
He ſaw where ſcandal's ſtreams ariſe,
And wind their urinary courſe along
From Grubſtreet bards; the fount of lies!
Scanty at firſt, but ſwelling ſtrong
From tributary urns;
Joy o'er his viſage burns,
As a view around he takes
Of Criticiſm's dull ſtagnate lakes;
[15] As Defamation pours and ſtinks along,
As Inuendo's rills creep ſoftly by,
As Irony its bottom to the eye
Betrays all foul! and Malice, deep and ſtrong,
Now flows amain with tide profound,
Now ſhallow grown juſt murmurs o'er the ground.
X.
Joy fills his ſoul; joy ſheds a mellower grace
O'er the brown horrors of his walnut face;
Of ev'ry ſtream he quaffs deep drafts immenſe,
And drinks oblivion of all truth and ſenſe;
Intoxicates his brains, until in fuming rills
At Flexney's door he all again diſtils.
But ah! ye Naiads, now your reign is o'er,
And now your Unborn Bard no more
To your beloved haunts ſhall go,
And woo his loves impure in grots of mud below;
No more ſeek inſpiration at your ſhrine,
But all alone, unheard, unknown he'll pine!
Mirth ſhall no more reviſit thoſe dim eyes,
Unleſs he hear when patient Merit ſighs;
[16] But Merit ſtill ſhall hold her ſteady flight,
Though Malice all her deadlieſt ſhafts ſhould aim;
Though clouds oft interpoſe ſhall riſe to light,
And ſoar on wings, which her own hands have form'd, to Fame.
FINIS.
