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thus dare, en masse, a legion of individuals in many respects gifted with far superior talents to those of the person who has devoted his labours to the completion of this Herculean undertaking.

As I do not pretend to arrogate to myself perfectibility in a literary sense, I have, no doubt, in some instances, been guilty of error; and whensoever such failing may appear to the disparagement of mental worth, I must certainly take shame to myself for a most unpardonable want of discernment; but, on the other hand, if it shall be found that I have committed to paper the language of approval, where a contrary stricture was required, I can only assert, that a lack of acumen upon my part will be amply compensated for when it is remembered, that

'Praise undeserved is satire in disguise.'

Every walk of literature possesses its determined advocates; but there is no branch springing from

vii

the main stock which has so many ramifications, and is consequently attended by such a host of admirers, as the class of writers denominated poets; therefore, when once a son of the Muse has enchanted with the strain of his lyre, the entrancing charm, like that of the basilisk, inebriates the senses of the reader, and from that moment he conceives it impossible that any mediocre performance can depreciate the sublimity of the scribe: it is an absolute assurance of the validity of this statement which first impelled the writer to attempt the subject matter of the ensuing pages, which are only offered as a corrective dose to curb that mental effervescence which, running wild from the track of sober judgment, receives, with indiscriminate plaudit, the flights of legitimate talent, and the bastard ebullitions of rant and bathos.

As I have been sufficiently explicit in the progress of my pages, it would be superfluous to descant further upon this topic; a long preface to a reader is like a monotonous and undeviating

route to the traveller, who, anxious to arrive at the termination of his journey, beholds the object constantly in vista without seeming to approximate towards the desired goal. In order, therefore, to escape this charge, which is too frequently, and with justice alleged against the sons and daughters of literature, I shall, though arrogantly, conclude by stating, that

Good wine needs no bouche.

Scribbleomania.

INTRODUCTORY LINES.

I

Tros, Tyriusve mihi nullo discrimine agetur.

Virgil.

pay no attention to persons; all shall be treated by me without distinction.

WELL mounted I come from the stream of Parnass,
My palfrey a long-ear'd and well-curried ass;
While arm'd with a quill, and the dear ebon juice,
Precedes me with ink-horn the sage waddling goose,
Whose quacking you'll own is the very repeater
Of my famous Muse when engaged upon metre.

B

Yet, soft! shall I dare, a presumptuous elf,
Thus claim all the quills of a goose to myself?
Forbid it, Ma'am Candour, its quackings belong

To crowds that like me claim the Bays for the
Song;

Since furor scribendi now rages so wide,

That rhymsters may waddle with geese side by

side:

But in proof of the prowess my wit can infuse,
And stamp myself truly a son of the Muse,

Though loudly the Bards all against me may halloo,

I rank with the Nine a true chip of Apollo; And my name when you hear it must make a great splash,

I'm christ'n'd Sir Noodle O'Scribblecumdash.

Some writers there are, who possessing no fame, Would snatch from my temples the Laurel I claim; Who dare, without reading, all subjects critique, Whether Metre or Prose, Hebrew, Latin, or Greek; But vers'd in all topics I'm fram'd for my station, The Giant Reviewer of England's great Nation!

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