The Village and The Newspaper | Page 8

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 prose.
First, from each brother's hoard a part they draw,?A mutual theft that never feared a law;?Whate'er they gain, to each man's portion fall,?And read it once, you read it through them all:?For this their runners ramble day and night,?To drag each lurking deed to open light;?For daily bread the dirty trade they ply,?Coin their fresh tales, and live upon the lie:?Like bees for honey, forth for news they spring,-?Industrious creatures! ever on the wing;?Home to their several cells they bear the store,?Cull'd of all kinds,