The Village and The Newspaper | Page 8

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 licence 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 headaches, 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