SIR BON TON. Plus fellis, quam mellis habet.-MART. IR Hal and Lady Sneer were heard PUNCTUM SALIENS. EPITAPH. ERE lies the Devil-ask no other name. HER Well-but you mean Lord ? Hufh! we mean the fame. PARAPHRASE OF AN EPIGRAM FROM MARTIAL. "Omnia, Caftor, emis-fic fiet, ut omnia vendas.” [From the General Evening Poft.] WITH 7ITH careless Tom a weighty purse. He neither refts by day nor night, Till he's contriv'd to make it light, By purchafing an hundred things, Canes, nicknacks, baubles, watches, rings.. Thus Thus Tom, to buy and fell, went on, SONNET ON THE DEATH OF MR. WARTON, SENT TO THE REV, SAY, fhall thy Mufe o'er the fallen hero's bier Swell the loud Pæan of harmonious praife, Which to her fav'rite fon the forrowing pays, Unftrung her useless lyre, and mute her lays ?But, hark! a strain divine now ftrikes mine ear: The facred bard his independent fame Shall from his own immortal verfe receive! But wreaths of endlefs bloom fhall Warton claim, CRANIOGNOMY. DIALOGUE ILLUSTRATIVE, BY LUCIAN, JUN. BOOKSELLER defcends by a Flight of Stairs, and HAT the devil has been the matter? There was WH fuch a noife below stairs, while I was at breakfast, that I found it impoffible to get through the first page of Dick Dry's laft political pamphlet. Hey-day! how came the upper tier of vols thrown from the fhelves, and the lower rows in fuch confufion? Have we had the Stockwell Ghoft here? Or have the French and English authors declared war against each other? If fo, in fpite of the Definitive, we shall have another battle of the books. Shopman, Shopman. The carpenters, Sir, repairing the next houfe, have fhook them down. I am fure that ponderous Locke on Human Understanding has almoft cracked my skull, Bookf. Then yours is not an Egyptian cranium, as my worthy friend the Magiftrate obferves. Mercy on us! What a noife thefe fellows make! What a duft they raife! One ought to have the eyes of little Eagle, the great Critic, to be able to tell one author from another. Shopm. They have fo totally displaced the books, that Homer now lies under Virgil. Bookf. Gad, that's the fituation in which fome of the Commentators feem to have wished to place him! What are thofe vols at bottom? I fuppofe treatises on the Bathos. Shopm. No, Sir! They are Defcartes and Gaffendi. Book. This is like Topfy-turvy, the poem that came out yesterday. I thought they would havemounted to their kindred ftars. Why, you blockhead, you are mingling Novels and Sermons, Pious Tracts and Plays, Politics and Philofophy, Morality and. Medicine, together, like the contents of a Magazine. Shopm. Thefe folio vols of controverfy have fo lacerated the Practice of Piety and Whole Duty of Man, that they will want binding. Books. So they will, as furely as if they had taken the pills of Dr. Laxative. Send to the fellows, and bid them ftop. Put the fhelves in order; lay the papers on the counter. I expect the Loungers directly.. Enter an AUTHOR. Author. Good morning, my little Decimo Sexto: Any news? Blefs me! Why, your fhop's as dufty as the Knightsbridge road in fummer. I fee every author in it through the medium of a fog. Bookf. That's becaufe you are a great Critic. However, my books have been a little deranged this morn ing. Abundance of works, which I thought nothing could have stirred, an accident has fet flying about my ears. I have been pelted with my own ftock. Author. Then you have felt that there is fome weight in learning. Books. Oh Lord! I have known that a great while 1 have fold many hundred reams of it by the pound. Author. None of my works have been wafted? Books. No! I'll be fworn they have all been properly ufed. Author. Yes! I think, while I have corrected, I have improved the age. Book. You know the Critics said, that you should have been improved in the fame way. Author. Spiteful dogs! I'll be revenged of them and their works. Books. Then you mean to praise the latter, I prefume. Author. Praife their works! Yes! a likely matter! If I do, it shall be as I do Mr. Laudanum's draughts, for their narcotic properties. Why, the last pamphlet you fent me was as dull as the Blagdon controversy, which I have yawned through with greater difficulty than I once did the folio about the Brownifts and Muggletonians. Books. One of our Chriftian Observers was observing, that that contained fome pretty writing. I think, from the turn literature has lately taken, we are likely to fee all the wit and humour of the Scotifts and Thomifts, and a hundred other of those weighty authors, whofe works, or, as they are more emphatically ftyled, whofe labours, have frequently preffed the British prefs, revived. May the tree of knowledge,. which has produced fruit fo large and pleasantly acrimonious, flourish, say I! Author. I do not know what fruit your metaphorica tree has produced: all I can fay is, that it has had leaves in abundance; but we are as ftupid as if we had taken a nap under its fhade. I wonder where all your diurnal vifitors are this morning? Oh! I think I spy one. Book. What! that little fellow on the other fide of the way? Author. The fame. Books. He's a bit of a wit; he generally paffes my fhop a dozen times every day, and calls it travelling in the Dilly*. Author. Good! But I think you have a customer at laft. Book. What! that queer fellow that croffes the way, his pockets ftuffed with papers like the poftman's letter-bags? I'll be hanged if he's not an Author! Smoke his great coat. Author. Pardon me, it seems to have been pretty well smoked already. Bookf. Step into the back fhop; you'll there find abundance of amufement; there's all the new works; and if you have any objection to their quality, I am fure, when you confider the price of paper, you'll praise the liberality of the proprietors with respect toquantity. Enter a fecond AUTHOR. 2d Author. A good morning, dear Sir. I prefume you are Mr. Decimo Sexto? Book. I am, Sir. [Bowing 2d Author. It's fortunate I have met with you, Sir, as I wanted to take your opinion with respect to a work which is, as I may fay, a maiden effufion. Books. Which you want married to the Prefs, put into fheets, &c. 2d Author. Though jocular, Mr. Decimo Sexto, * Query, Piccadilly? you |