If not, the possessor of tunable skill
And thus the preacher often gains
His labour only for his pains;
Unfetter'd, unjingled, may take which he will;
Any plan, to which freedom and judgment impel-As (if you doubt it) may appear
All the bus'ness he knows, is to execute well.
ST. PHILIP NERI AND THE YOUTH.
Sr. Philip Neri, as old readings say,
From ev'ry Sunday in the year.
For how indeed can one expect
The best discourse should take effect,
Unless the maker thinks it worth
Some care and pains to set it forth?
What! does he think the pains he took
Met a young stranger in Rome's streets one day; To write it fairly in a book,
And, being ever courteously inclin'd
To give young folks a sober turn of mind,
He fell into discourse with him; and thus
The dialogue they held comes down to us.
St. Tell me what brings you, gentle youth, to
Rome?
Y. To make myself a scholar, sir, I come.
St. And, when you are one, what do you intend?
Y. To be a priest, I hope, sir, in the end.
St. Suppose it so-what have you next in view?
Y. That I may get to be a canon too.
St. Well; and how then?
Y. Why then, for aught I
[know,
I may be made a bishop.
What then?
Y. Why, cardinal's a high degree-
And yet my lot it possibly may be.
St. Suppose it was-what then?
Will do the bus'ness? not a bit-
It must be spoke as well as writ.
What is a sermon, good or bad,
If a man reads it like a lad?
To hear some people, when they preach,
How they run o'er all parts of speech,
And neither raise a word, nor sink,
Our learned bishops, one would think,
Had taken school-boys from the rod,
To make ambassadors of God.
So perfect is the Christian scheme,
He that from thence shall take his theme,
And time to have it understood,
His sermon cannot but be good:
If he will needs be preaching stuff,
No time indeed is short enough;
E'en let him read it like a letter,
The sooner it is done, the better.
But for a man that has a head,
Like yours or mine, I'd like to have said,
Y. Why, who can say A just remark, a proper phrase;
That can upon occasion raise
But I've a chance for being pope one day?
St. Well, having worn the mitre, and red hat,
And triple crown, what follows after that?
Y. Nay, there is nothing further, to be sure,
Upon this Earth, that wishing can procure:
When I've enjoy'd a dignity so high,
As long as God shall please, then-I must die.
St. What! must you die? fond youth! and at
But wish and hope, and may be all the rest!
Take my advice-whatever may betide,
For that which must be, first of all provide;
Then think of that which may be; and indeed,
When well prepar'd, who knows what may suc-
ceed?
But you may be, as you are pleas'd to hope,
Priest, canon, bishop, cardinal, and pope.
ADVICE TO THE REV. MESSRS. H
AND H TO PREACH SLOW.
BRETHREN, this comes to let you know
That I would have you to preach slow;
To give the words of a discourse
Their proper time, and life, and force;
To urge what you think fit to say,
In a sedate, pathetic way;
Grave and delib'rate, as 't is fit
To comment upon holy writ.
Many a good sermon gives distaste,
By being spoke in too much haste;
Which, had it been pronounc'd with leisure,
Would have been listen'd to with pleasure:
For such a one to run along,
Tumbling his accents o'er his tongue,
Shows only that a man, at once,
May be a scholar and a dunce.
In point of sermons, 't is confest,
Our English clergy make the best:
But this appears, we must confess,
Not from the pulpit, but the press:
They manage, with disjointed skill,
The matter well, the manner ill;
And, what seems paradox at first,
They make the best, and preach the worst.
Would they but speak as well as write,
Both excellencies would unite,
The outward action being taught,
To show the strength of inward thought:
Now, to do this, our short-hand school
Lays down this plain and general rule,
"Take time enough"-all other graces
Will soon fill up their proper places.
TO THE SAME,
ON PREACHING EXTEMPORE.
THE hint I gave, some time ago,
Brethren, about your preaching slow,
You took, it seems; and thereupon
Could make two sermons out of one:
Now this regard to former lines,
Paid so successfully, inclines
To send advice the second part:
Try if you cannot preach by heart-
Be not alarm'd, as if regard
To this would prove so very hard;
The first admonishment you fear'd
Would so turn out, 'till it appear'd
That custom, only, made to seem
So difficult in your esteem,
What, upon trial, now procures
Your hearers ease, and also yours.
Do but consider how the case
Now stands in fact, in every place,
All Christendom almost, around,
Except on our reformed ground:
The greatest part, untaught to brook
A preacher's reading from a book,
Would scarce advance within his reach,
Or, then, acknowledge him to preach.
Long after preaching first began,
How unconceiv'd a reading plan!
The rise of which, whatever date
May be assign'd to it, is late:
From all antiquity remote
The manuscriptal reading rote:
No need, no reason prompted, then,
The pulpit to consult the pen.
However well prepar'd before,
By pond'ring, or by writing o'er
What he should say, still it was said
By him that preach'd; it was not read:
Could ancient memory, theo, better
Forbear the poring o'er the letter,
Brethren, than yours? if you'll but try,
That fact I'll venture to deny.
Moderas, of late, give proofs enoo
(Too many, as it seems to you)
That matters of religious kind,
Stor❜d up within the thoughtful mind,
With any care and caction stor'd,
Sufficient utterance afford,
To tell an audience what they think,
Without the help of pen and ink.
How apt to think too, is the throng,
A preacher short, a reader long!
Claiming, itself, to be the book
That should attract a pastor's look:
If you lament a careless age
Averse to hear the pulpit page,
Speak from within, not from without,
And heart to heart will turn about.
Try it; and if you can't succeed,
'T will then be right for you to read;
Altho' the heart, if that's your choice,
Must still accompany the voice;
And tho' you should succeed, and take
The hint, you must not merely make
Preaching extempore the view,
But ex æternitate too.
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Their sermons, ere the learned learnt to read,
Another spirit, and another life,
Shut the church doors against all party strife:
Since then, how often heard, from sacred rostrums,
The lifeless din of Whig and Tory nostrums!
'Tis wrong, sir Peter, I insist upon 't;
To common sense 't is plainly an affront:
The parson leaves the Christian in the lurch,
Whene'er he brings his politics to church;
His cant, on either side, if be ca is preaching,
The man's wrong-headed, and his brains want
bleaching.
Recall the time from conquering William's reign,
And guess the fruits of such a preaching vein:
How oft its nonscose must have veer'd about,
Just as the politics were in, or out:
The pulpit govern'd by no gospel data,
But new success still mending old errata.
Were 1 a king (God bless me) I should hate
My chaplains meddling with affairs of state;
Nor would my subjects, I should think, be fond,
Whenever theirs the Bible went beyond.
How well, methinks, we both should live together,
If these good folks would keep within their tether!
MOSES, to whom, by a peculiar grace,
God spake (the Hebrew phrase is) face to face,
Call'd by an heav'nly voice, the rabbius say,
Ascended to a mountain's top one day;
Where, in some points perplex'd, his mind was
And doubts, conceraing Providence, appeas'd.
During the colloquy divine, say they,
The prophet was commanded to survey,
And mark what happen'd on the plain below:
There he perceiv'd a fine, clear spring to flow,
Just at the mountain's foot; to which, anon,
A soldier, on his road, came riding on;
Who, taking notice of the fountain, stopt,
Alighted, drank, and, in remounting, dropt
A purse of gold; but as the precious load
Fell unsuspected, he pursu'd his road:
Scarce had he gone, when a young lad came by,
And, as the purse lay just before his eye,
He took it up; and, finding its content,
Secur'd the treasure; and away he went:
ON CLERGYMEN PREACHING POLITICS. Soon after him, a poor, infirm old man,
With age, and travel, weary quite, and wan,
Came to the spring, to quench his thirst, and
And then sat down, to rest him, on the bank:
There while he sat, the soldier, on his track,
Missing his gold, return'd directly back;
Light off his horse, began to swear, and curse,
And ask'd the poor old fellow for his purse:
He solemnly protested, o'er and o'er,
With hands and eyes uplifted, to implore
Heav'ns attestation to the truth, that he
Nor purse, nor gold, had ever chanc'd to see:
But all in vain; the man believ'd him not,
And drew his sword, and stab'd him on the spot.
Moses, with horrour and amazement seiz'd,
Fell on his face-the voice divine was pleas'd
To give the prophet's anxious mind relief,
And thus prevent expostulating grief-
"Be not surpris'd; nor ask how such a deed
The world's just Judge could suffer to succeed:
The child has caus'd the passion, it is true,
That made the soldier run the old man thro';
But know one fact, tho' never yet found out,
And judge how that would banish ev'ry doubt-
This same old man, thro' passion once as wild,
Murder'd the father of that very child."
ON THE AUTHOR'S COAT OF ARMS.
THE hedge-hog for his arms, I would suppose,
Some sire of ours, beloved kinsfolk, chose,
With aim to hint instruction wise, and good,
To us descendants of his Byrom blood;
I would infer, if you be of this mind,
The very lesson, that our sire design'd.
He had observ'd that Nature gave a sense,
To ev'ry creature, of its own defence;
Down from the lion, with his tearing jaws,
To the poor cat, that scratches with her paws;
All show'd their force, when put upon the proof,
Wherein it lay, teeth, talons, horn, or hoof.
Pleas'd with the porcupine, whose native art
Is said to distance danger by his dart;
To rout his foes, before they come too near,
From ev'ry hurt of close encounter clear-
This, had not one thing bated of its price,
Had been our worthy ancestor's device.
A foe to none; but ev'ry body's friend;
And loath, although offended, to offend;
He sought to find an instance, if it could,
By any creature's art, be understood,
That might betoken safety, when attack'd;
Yet where all hurt should be a foe's own act.
At last the hedge-hog came into his thought,
And gave the perfect emblem that he sought:
This little creature, all offence aside,
Rolls up itself in its own prickly hide,
When danger comes; and they that will abuse
Do it themselves, if their own hurt ensues.
Methinks I hear the venerable sage"Children! descendants all thro' ev'ry age! Learn, from the prudent urchin in your arms, How to secure yourselves from worldly harms: Give no offence;-to you if others will, Firmly wrapt up within yourselves, be still.
"This animal is giv'n for outward sign Of inward, true security divine:
Sharp, on your minds, let pointed virtues grow, That, without injuring, resist a foe;
Surround with these an honest, harmless heart, And he, that dwells in it, will take your part.
"Whatever ills your christian peace molest, Turn to the source of grace, within your breast: There lies your safety-O that all my kin May ever seek it-where 't is found within! That soul no ills can ever long annoy, Which makes its God the centre of its joy."
INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN AT THE BREAKING UP OF THE FREE GRAMMAR-SCHOOL IN MANCHESTER, IN THE YEAR 1748, WHEN LAUDER'S CHARGE OF PLAGIARISM UPON MILTON ENGAGED THE PUBLIC ATTENTION.
THE MASTER'S SPEECH.
OUR worthy founder, gentlemen, this day,
Orders the youth an hour's poetic play:
Me, on its annual return, to choose
One single subject for their various Muse:
That you may see how Fancy will create
Her diff'rent image in each youngster's pate.
Now, since our Milton, a renowned name,
Had been attack'd for stealing into fame;
I told 'em-" Lads, now be upon your guard;
Exert yourselves, and save your famous bard:
He's call'd à plagiary-'t is your's to show
The vain reproach, and silence Milton's foe.
"The point," said I, "at which ye now take
aim,
Remember, as ye rhyme, is Milton's fame;
Fame as a poet only, as attack't
For plund'ring verses-ne'er contest the fact;
Defend your bard, tho' granted; and confine
To three times six, at most, your eager line.",
Then lend a fav'ring ear, whilst they rehearse
Short, and almost extemporary verse:
A thought work'd up, that came into the mind, With rhymes the first, and fittest, they could find. Such was their task-the boys have done their best; Take what you like, sirs,-and excuse the rest.
MILTON pursu❜d, in numbers more sublime,
Things unattempted yet in prose, or rhyme:
'Tis said, the bard did but pretend to soar,
For such, and such-attempted them before,
'Tis now an age ago since Milton writ;
The rest-are sunk into Oblivion's pit:
A critic diving to their wrecks, perhaps,
Has, now and then, bro't up some loosen'd scraps.
We'll not dispute the value of them nowBut, say one thing which critics must allow; Which all the nations round us will confess Milton alone-attempted with success.
"Immortal Shades," said he, "if aught be
To my attempts-'t is owing all to you:"
Then took the laurels, fresh'ning from his hand,
And crown'd the temples of the sacred band.
Others, in crowds, stood muttering behind, "Who is the guest?-He looks as he were blind
O! this is Milton, to be sure-the man
That stole, from others, all his rhymeless plan;
"From those conceited gentlemen, perchance,
That rush to hail him with such complaisance;
Ay-that's the reason of this fawning fuss;
I like him not-he never stole from us."
CRIME in a poet, sirs, to steal a thought? No, that 't is not; if it be good for aught: 'Tis lawful theft; 't is laudable to boot; 'T is want of genius if he does not do 't: The fool admires-the man of sense alone
LAUDER,-thy authors Dutch, and German
There is no need to disinter, man:
To search the mould'ring anecdote,
For source of all that Milton wrote:
We'll own-from these, and many more,
The bard enrich'd his ample store.
Phoebus himself could not escape
The tricks of this poetic ape;
For, to complete his daring vole',
From his enliven'd wheels he stole,
Prometheus-like, the solar ray,
That animated all his clay.
Prometheus-like, then chain him down;
Prey on his vitals of renown;
With critic talons, and with beak,
Upon his fame thy vengeance wreak:
It grows again at ev'ry hour,
Fast as the vulture can devour.
Lights on a happy thought-and makes it all his MILTONUM, vir, O facinus nefarium!
A CRITIC, once, to a Miltonian, made
Of Milton's plagiarisms a long parade;
To prove his work not owing to his genius,
But to Adamus Exul, and Masenius;
That he had stol'n the greater part, by much,
Both of his plan, and matter, from the Dutch:
His Abdiel, his fine characters, he took, And heav'nly scenes, from such and such a book; His hellish too the same; from such a one He stole his Pandemonium,-and so onTill Milton's friend cri'd out, at last, quite giddy, "Poh! hold thy tongue-he stole the Devil, did he?"
WHEN Oxford saw, in her Radclivian dome, Greek skill, and Roman rival'd here at home; Wond'ring she stood; 'till one judicious spark Address'd the crowd, and made this sage remark
"The most unlicens'd plagiary—this GibbsNothing in all his pile, but what he cribs.
"The ground he builds upon is not his ownI know the quarry whence he had his stoneThe forest too where all his timber grow'dThe forge wherein his fused metals flow'dIn short, survey the edifice entire, 'Tis all a borrow'd work, from base to spire."
Thus, with our epic architect, he deals,
Who says that Milton in his poem steals:
Steals, if he will-but, without licence? no;
Pedlars in verse, unmeaningly, do so:
Him Phoebus licens'd; and the Muses Nine
Help'd the rare thief to raise up-a design.
Exagitavit tanquam plagiarium: Miramur, hanc qui protulisset thesin, Quid esse, Momus, crederet poesin. Num, quæso, vult ut, hâc obstetricante, Dicendum sit quod nemo dixit ante?
O admirandam hominis versuti Calliditatem, quâ volebat uti! Dixisset ipse, nimium securus, Quod nemo dicet præsens, aut futurus, Dum felis ungues persequentur murem, Miltonum, scilicet, fuisse furem.
Exulent ergo, (ejus ex effatis) Quicunque nomen usurparint vatis; Nullum vocemus, prorsus, ad examen Eorum sensum, vim, aut modulamen; Furantur omnes-habeamus verum Poetam, exhine, unicum Lauderum!
A DIALOGUE ON CONTENTMENT. J. WHAT ills, dear Phebe, would it not prevent, To learn this one short lesson-" be content!" No very hard prescription, in effect, This same content; and yet, thro' its neglect, What mighty evils do we human elves, As Prior calls us, bring upon ourselves! Evils that Nature never meant us for, The vacuums, that she really does abhor: Of all the ways of judging things amiss, No instance shows our weakness more than this, That men on Earth won't set their hearts at rest, When God in Heaven does all things for the best: What strauge, absurd perverseness!
P. Hold, good brother. Don't put yourself, I pray, in such a pother; 'T is a fine thing to be content; why, true; 'T is just, and right, we know, as well as you; And yet, to be so, after all this rout, Sometimes has puzzled you yourself, I doubt.
'From the French word vol, signifying theft.
Folks in the vigour of their health, and strength,
May rail at discontent, in words at length;
Who yet, when disappointed of their wishes,
Will put you off with surly humphs, and pishes;
"Let's be content and easy;"--gen'ral stuff!
Your happy people are content enough;
If you would reason to the purpose, show,
How they who are unhappy may be so;
How they who are in sickness, want, or pain,
May get their health, estate, and ease again:
How they-
J. Nay, Phebe, don't go on so fast;
Your just rebuke now suits yourself at last;
Methinks you wander widely from the fact
'Tis not how you, or I, or others act,
That we are talking of, but how we shou❜d-
A rule, tho' ill observ'd, may still be good:
Nor did I say that a contented will
Wou'd hinder all, but many sorts of ill:
This it will do; and, give me leave to say,
Much lessen such as it can't take away;
You said yourself, 't was just, I think you did-
P. Yes, yes; I don't deny it-
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P. Monstrous? why monstrous? let that word be barr'd,
And I shan't stick to say, I think it hard,
And very hard, nay, I could almost add,
That, in some cases, 't is not to be had-
J. Not to be had! content! it costs us nought;
'T is purchas'd only with a little thought;
We need not fetch it from a distant clime,
It may be found at home, at any time;
Our very cares contribute to its growth,
It knows no check, but voluntary sloth;
None but ourselves can rob us of its fruit;
It finds, whene'er we use it, fresh recruit;
The more we gather, still the more it thrives,
Fresh as our hopes, and lasting as our lives:
Not to be had is wrong;-but I forgot,
You did not say quite absolutely not,
But could almost have said so; the almost,
Perhaps, was meant against a florid boast
Of such content as, when a trial came
Severe enough, would hardly own its name-
P. Perhaps it was, and now your fire is spent, You can reflect, I find, that this content, Which you are fond of celebrating so, May, now and then, be difficult to show, So difficult that
J. Hold a bit-or ten To one the chance, that I shall fire again; 'Tis just and right, you own, as well as me; Now, for my part, I rather choose to see The easiness of what is just and right, Which makes it more encouraging to sight, Than scarecrow hardships, that almost declare Content an un-come-at-able affair; And, consequently, tempt one to distrust, For difficulties, what is right and just: Thus I object to hardship; if you please, Show for what reason you object to ease
P. Why, for this reason-tho' it should be true, That what is just and right, is easy too, Such ease is nothing of a talking kind, But of right will, that likes to be resign'd, And cherishes a grace which, with regard To the unpractis'd, may sometimes be hard: You treat content as if it were a weed, Of neither cost, nor culture; when indeed, It is as fine a flower as can be found Within the mind's best cultivated ground; Where, like a seed, it must have light and air To help its growth, according to the care That owners take, whose philosophic skill Will much depend upon the weather still; [bad Good should not make them careless, nor should Discourage
J. Right, provided it be had,
I'll not dispute; but own, what you have said
Has hit the nail, directly, on the head:
Easy or hard, all pains, within our pow'r,
Are well bestow'd on such a charming flow'r.
As Tom the porter went up Ludgate-hill,
A swinging show'r oblig'd him to stand still;
So, in the right-hand passage thro' the gate,
He pitch'd his burthen down, just by the grate,
From whence the doleful accent sounds away,
"Pity-the poor and hungry-debtors-pray."
To the same garrison, from Paul's Church-
yard,
An half-drown'd soldier ran to mount the guard:
Now Tom, it seems, the Ludgateer, and he
Were old acquaintance, formerly, all three;
And as the coast was clear, by cloudy weather,
They quickly fell into discourse together.
'T was in December, when the Highland clans
Had got to Derbyshire from Preston Pans;
And struck all London with a general panic-
But mark the force of principles Britannic.
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The soldier told 'em fresh the city news,
Just piping hot from stockjobbers, and Jews;
Of French fleets landing, and of Dutch neutrality;
Of jealousies at court amongst the quality;
Of Swarston-bridge, that never was pull'd down;
Of all the rebels in full march to town;
And of a hundred things beside, that made
Lord may'r himself, and aldermen afraid;
Painting with many an oath the case in view,
And ask'd the porter-what he thought to do?
"Do?" says he, gravely-"what I did before;
What I have done these thirty years, and more;
Carry, as I am like to do, my pack,
Glad to maintain my belly by my back;
If that but hold, I care not; for my part,
Come as come will, 't shall never break my heart;
I don't see folks that fight about their thrones,
Mind either soldiers' flesh, or porters' bones;
Whoe'er gets better, when the battle's fought,
Thy pay nor mine will be advanc'd a groat-
-But to the purpose-now we are met here, I'll join, if t' will, for one full mug of beer."
The soldier, touch'd a little with surprise To see his friend's indifference, replies"What you say, Tom, I own is very good, But our religion!" (and he d-n'd his blood)
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