The generality of our writers wait until a new walk is pointed out to them by some leading genius; when it immediately becomes so hackneyed and beaten, that an author of credit is almost ashamed to appear in it among such bad company. No sooner does one man of parts succeed in any particular mode of writing, but he is followed by a thousand dunces. A good elegy makes the little scribblers direct their whole bent to subjects of grief; and, for a whole winter, the press groans with melancholy. One novel of reputation fills all the garrets of Grub-street with reams of histories and adventures, where volume is spun out after volume, without the least wit, humour, or incident. In a word, as Bayes obviated all objections to his nonsense by saying "it was new," if a modern writer was asked why he chose any particular manner of writing, he might reply, "because it is the fashion."

True genius will not give into such idle extravagant flights of imagination as Bayes; it will not turn funerals into banquets, or introduce armies in disguise; but still it will not confine itself to the narrow track of imitation. I cannot help thinking, that it is more owing to this servile spirit in the authors of the present times, than to their want of abilities, that we cannot now boast a set of eminent writers: and it is worthy observation, that, whenever any age has been distinguished by a great number of excellent authors, they have most of them cultivated different branches of poetry from each other. This was the case in the age of Augustus, as appears from the works of Virgil, Horace, Ovid, &c. And to come down as late as possible, this is evident from our last famous set of authors, who flourished in the beginning of this century. We admire Swift, Pope, Gay, Bolingbroke, Addison, &c. but we admire each for his particular beauties separate and distinguished from the rest.

These loose thoughts were thrown together merely to introduce the following little poem, which I think deserves the attention of the public. It was written by a very ingenious gentleman, as a letter to a friend, who was about to publish a volume of miscellanies; and contains all that original spirit which it so elegantly recommends.

Το ***

SINCE now, all scruples cast away,
Your works are rising into day,
Forgive, though I presume to send
This honest counsel of a friend.

Let not your verse, as verse now goes,
Be a strange kind of measur'd prose;
Nor let your prose, which sure is worse,
Want nought but measure to be verse.

Write from your own imagination,
Nor curb your muse by imitation:
For copies shew, howe'er exprest,
A barren genius at the best.

But imitation's all the mode.............
Yet where one hits, ten miss the road.

The mimic bard with pleasure sees
Mat. Prior's unaffected ease;
Assumes his style, affects a story,
Sets every circumstance before ye,

The day, the hour, the name, the dwelling,
And "mars a curious tale in telling ;"
Observes how easy Prior flows,

Then runs his numbers down to prose.

Others have sought the filthy stews,
To find a dirty slip-shod muse.

Their groping genius, while it rakes
The bogs, the common-sew'rs, and jakes,
Ordure and filth in rhyme exposes,
Disgustful to our eyes and noses;

With many a.......dash that must offend us,
And much

*Hiatus non deflendus.

O Swift! how woulds't thou blush to see,
Such are the bards who copy thee?

This, Milton for his plan will chuse,
Wherein resembling Milton's muse;
Milton, like thunder, rolls along
In all the majesty of song:

While his low mimics meanly creep,
Not quite awake, nor quite asleep :
Or, if their thunder chance to roll,
'Tis thunder of the mustard-bowl.
The stiff expression, phrases strange,
The epithet's preposterous change,
Forc'd numbers, rough and unpolite,
Such as the judging ear affright,
Stop in mid, verse. Ye mimics vile!
Is't thus ye copy Milton's style?
His faults religiously ye trace,
But borrow not a single grace.
How few, say whence can it proceed?
Who copy Milton, e'er succeed!
But all their labours are in vain ;

And wherefore so? The reason's plain.

Take it for granted, 'tis by those

Milton's the model mostly chose,

Who can't write verse, and won't write prose.

Others, who aim at fancy, chuse

To woo the gentle Spenser's muse.

This poet fixes for his theme

An allegory, or a dream;

Fiction and truth together joins

Through a long waste of flimzy lines;

Fondly believes his fancy glows,
And image upon image grows;

Thinks his strong muse takes wond'rous flights
Whene'er she sings of peerless wights,
Of dens, of palfreys, spells and knights:
'Till allegory (Spenser's veil
T'instruct and please in moral tale)
With him's no veil the truth to shroud,
But one impenetrable cloud.

Others, more daring, fix their hope

On rivalling the fame of Pope.

Satyr's the word, against the times..........
These catch the cadence of his rhymes,

And borne from earth by Pope's strong wings,
Their muse aspires, and boldly flings
Her dirt up in the face of kings
In these the spleen of Pope we find;
But where the greatness of his mind?
His numbers are their whole pretence,
Mere strangers to his manly sense.

Some few, the fav'rites of the muse,
Whom with her kindest eye she views;
Round whom Apollo's brightest rays
Shine forth with undiminish'd blaze;
Some few, my friend, have sweetly trod
In imitation's dangerous road.
Long as Tobacco's mild perfume
Shall scent each happy curate's room;
Oft as in elbow chair he smokes,

*

And quaffs his ale, and cracks his jokes;
So long, O Brown, shall last thy praise,
Crown'd with Tobacco-leaf for bays;
And whosoe'er thy verse shall see,
Shall fill another pipe to thee.

* Isaac Hawkins Brown, Esq; author of a piece called The Pipe of Tobacco, a most excellent imitation of six different

authors.

No. LXVIII. THURSDAY, MAY 15.

......Nunc et campus, et areæ,

Lenesque sub noctem susurri

Composita repetantur hora.

HOR.

Now Venus in Vaux-Hall her altar rears.
While fiddles drown the music of the spheres:
Now girls hum out their loves to ev'ry tree,
Young jockey is the lad, the lad for me."

THE various seasons of the year produce not a greater alteration in the face of nature, than in the polite manner of passing our time. The diversions of winter and summer are as different as the dog-days and those of Christmas; nor do I know any genteel amusement, except gaming, that prevails during the whole year. As the long days are now coming on, the theatrical gentry, who contributed to dissipate the gloom of our winter evenings, begin to divide themselves into strolling companies; and are packing up their tragedy wardrobes, together with a sufficient quantity of thunder and lightning, for the delight and amazement of the country. In the mean time, the several public gardens near this metropolis are trimming their trees, levelling their walks, and burnishing their lamps, for our reception. At Vauxhall the artificial ruins are repaired; the cascade is made to spout with several additional streams of block-tin; and they have touched up all the pictures, which were damaged last season by the fingering of those curious Connoisseurs, who could not be satisfied without feeling whether the figures were alive. The magazine at Cuper's, I am told is furnished with an extraordinary supply of gun-powder, to be shot off in squibs and sky-rockets, or whirled away in blazing suns and Catharine wheels: and it is not to be doubted, in case