upon this, arraign the critic, and plainly prove the verses to be all the author's own. So at it they are, all four together by the ears; the friends at the critic, the critic at the players, the players at the author, and the author at the players again. It is impossible to determine how this many-sided contest will end, or which party to adhere to. The town, without siding with any, views the combat in suspense, like the fabled hero of antiquity, who beheld the earth-born brothers give and receive mutual wounds, and fall by indiscriminate destruction.

This is, in some measure, the state of the present dispute; but the combatants here differ in one respect from the champions of the fable. Every new wound only gives vigour for another blow; though they appear to strike, they are in fact mutually swelling themselves into consideration, and thus advertising each other away into fame. "To-day," says one, ❝my name shall be in the gazette, the next day my rival's; people will naturally enquire about us; thus we shall at least make a noise in the streets, though we have got nothing to sell." I have read of a dispute of a similar nature, which was managed here about twenty years ago. Hildebrand Jacob, (1) as I think he was called, and Charles scratch one another, like Scotch pedlars." Lloyd disclaimed the poem, by an advertisement in the newspapers, and when it was owned by Churchill, he thus generously acknowledged his own inferiority:

["For me who labour with poetic sin,
Who often woo the muse I cannot win,
Whom pleasure first a willing poet made,
And folly spoilt, by taking up the trade,
Pleas'd, I beheld superior genius shine,
Nor, ting'd with envy, wish that genius mine;
To Churchill's muse can bow with decent awe,
Admire his mode, nor make that mode my law.
Both may perhaps have various powers to please,
Be his the strength of numbers, mine the ease."]

(1) [Jacob was the author of "The Fatal Constancy," a tragedy, and of "The Nest of Plays," consisting of three comedies. He was descended from Sir John Jacob of Bromley, and in 1740 succeeded to the title of baronet. He was a very extraordinary character. As a general scholar, he was exceeded by few; in his knowledge of the Hebrew language he scarcely

Johnson, (1) were poets, both at that time possessed of great reputation; for Johnson had written eleven plays, acted with great success; and Jacob, though he had written but five, had five times thanked the town for their unmerited applause. They soon became mutually enamoured of each other's talents: they wrote, they felt, they challenged the town for each other. Johnson assured the public, that no poet alive had the easy simplicity of Jacob, and Jacob exhibited Johnson as a master-piece in the pathetic. Their mutual praise was not without effect: the town saw their plays, were in raptures-read, and without censuring them, forgot them. So formidable an union, however, was soon opposed by Tibbald.(2) Tibbald asserted that the tragedies of the one had faults, and the comedies of the other substituted wit for vivacity the combined champions flew at him like tigers, arraigned the censurer's judgment, and impeached his sin

:

had an equal. In the earlier part of his life, one custom which he constantly followed was very remarkable. As soon as the fine weather set in, his man was ordered to pack up a few things in a portmanteau, and with these his master and himself set off, without knowing whither they were going. When it drew towards evening, they enquired at the first village they saw, whether the great man in it was a lover of books, and had a fine library. If in the affirmative, Sir Hildebrand sent his compliments, that he was come to see him; and there he used to stay till time or curiosity induced him to move elsewhere. In this manner he had very early passed through the greatest part of England, without scarcely ever sleeping at an inn. He died in November, 1790, in his seventy-sixth year, and was buried at St. Anne's, Soho.-See Nichols's Lit. Anec. vol. ii. p. 61.]

(1) [Charles Johnson was born in 1679. His first play was acted in 1702, and his latest is dated in 1733. He died in 1748. He figures in the Dunciad, and is thus described, in a piece called 'The Characters of the Times :' 'Charles Johnson, famous for writing a play every year, and being at Butler's Coffee-house every day. He had probably thriven better in his vocation, had he been a small matter leaner; he may be justly called a martyr to obesity, and be said to have fallen a victim to the rotundity of his parts."See Biog. Dram. vol p. 401.]

(2) [Lewis Theobald, one of the heroes of the Dunciad. He was the author of several plays and translations, and concerned in a paper called 'The Censor.' He died in 1744.]

cerity. It was a long time a dispute among the learned, which was in fact the greatest man, Jacob, Johnson, or Tibbald; they had all written for the stage with great success, their names were seen in almost every paper, and their works in every coffee-house. However, in the hottest of the dispute, a fourth combatant made his appearance, and swept away the three combatants, tragedy, comedy, and all, into undistinguished ruin.

From this time they seemed consigned into the hands of criticism; scarcely a day passed in which they were not arraigned as detested writers. The critics, those enemies of Dryden and Pope, were their enemies. So Jacob and Johnson, instead of mending by criticism, called it envy; and, because Dryden and Pope were censured, they compared themselves to Dryden and Pope.

But to return. The weapon chiefly used in the present controversy is epigram; and certainly never was a keener made use of. They have discovered surprising sharpness on both sides. The first that came out upon this occasion was a kind of new composition in this way, and might more properly be called an epigrammatic thesis, than an epigram. It consists, first, of an argument in prose; next follows a motto from Roscommon; then comes the epigram; and lastly, notes serving to explain the epigram. But you shall have it with all its decorations.

An EPIGRAM.

Addressed to the Gentlemen reflected on in the Rosciad,' a Poem,
by the Author.

Worry'd with debts and past all hopes of bail,

His pen he prostitutes, t' avoid a gaol.-RoscoM.

"Let not the hungry Bavius' angry stroke

(1) Charity.

Awake resentment, or your rage provoke ;
But, pitying his distress, let virtue(1) shine,
And, giving each your bounty, (2) let him dine;

(2) Settled at one shilling, the price of the poem.

manner.

For, thus retain'd, as learned counsel can,
Each case, however bad, he'll new japan:
And, by a quick transition, plainly shew
'Twas no defect of your's, but pocket low,
That caus'd his putrid kennel to o'erflow."

The last lines are certainly executed in a very masterly It is of that species of argumentation, called the perplexing. It effectually flings the antagonist into a mist; there is no answering it: the laugh is raised against him, while he is endeavouring to find out the jest. At once he shews, that the author has a kennel, and that this kennel is putrid, and that this putrid kennel overflows. But why does it overflow? It overflows, because the author happens to have low pockets!

There was also another new attempt in this way; a prosaic epigram which came out upon this occasion. This is so full of matter, that a critic might split it into fifteen epigrams, each properly fitted with its sting. You shall see it.

To G. C. and R. L.(1)

" "Twas you, or I, or he, or all together,

'Twas one, both, three of them, they know not whether:

This I believe, between us great or small,

You, I, he, wrote it not-'twas Churchill's all."

There, there is a perplex! I could have wished, to make it quite perfect, the author, as in the case before, had added notes. Almost every word admits a scholium, and a long one too. I, YOU, HE! Suppose a stranger should ask, "and who are you?" Here are three obscure persons spoken of, that may in a short time be utterly forgotten. Their names should have consequently been mentioned in notes at the bottom. But, when the reader comes to the words great" and "small," the maze is inextricable. Here the stranger may dive for a mystery, without ever reaching the

66

(1) [George Colman and Robert Lloyd.]

bottom. Let him know, then, that "small" is a word purely introduced to make good rhyme, and "great" was a very proper word to keep "small" company.

Yet, by being thus a spectator of others' dangers, I must own I begin to tremble in this literary contest for my own. I begin to fear that my challenge to Doctor Rock was unadvised, and has procured me more antagonists than I had at first expected. I have received private letters from several of the literati here, that fill my soul with apprehension. I may safely aver, that "I never gave any creature in this good city offence," except only my rival Doctor Rock; yet, by the letters I every day receive, and by some I have seen printed, I am arraigned at one time as being a dull fellow, at another as being pert; I am here petulant, there I am heavy. By the head of my ancestors, they treat me with more inhumanity than a flying fish. If I dive and run my nose to the bottom, there a devouring shark is ready to swallow me up; if I skim the surface, a pack of dolphins are at my tail to snap me; but when I take wing and attempt to escape them by flight, I become a prey to every ravenous bird that winnows the bosom of the deep. Adieu.

LETTER CXIV.

AGAINST THE MARRIAGE ACT. A FABLE. (1)

To the Same.

The formalities, delays, and disappointments, that precede a treaty of marriage here, are usually as numerous as those previous to a treaty of peace. The laws of this country are finely calculated to promote all commerce, but the commerce

(1) [Reprinted in the volume of Essays, 1765.]