Full Title: A Fragment which Dropped from the Pocket of a Certain Lord, On Thursday, the 23d April, 1789, on his way to St. Paul’s with the Grand Procession. With Notes by the Finder. London: Printed or W. Priest, in Holborn; and sold by the booksellers in Piccadilly, the Strand, Fleet Street, and Pater-Noster-Row, 1789.
Oh, ill-star’d wight! misguided pamphleteer!
Dull as the vapid taste of mawkish beer;
Whose brains, though tortur’d oft, will never raise
The mead of solid pence, or empty praise;
So strain’d and twisted to each varying hour,
Alas! no wonder that the dregs are sour.
In these lines we think we can discover the irascible J. H—ne T–ke, a man no less distinguished for the accommodating versatility of his political zeal, than the inumberable quantity of pamphlets, letters, election squibs, &c. &c. &c. which his prolific head has given birth to. But as it often happens, the quickest births are not the most perfect, so many of his productions have come into the world in so mangled and undigested a state, that in compliment to his nartural parts, it is but charity to suppose a brain over-heated with chimaeras of promised greatness, has engendered such a motley breed. It has been the misfortune of this weather-beaten politician, that other people cannot see his services with his own eyes, and he has laboured long in the beaten track of plitical controversy without the solacing encouragement of pension or place to inflame his zeal, or shapren the natural virulence of his temper. He has, however, received the negative encouragement of not having yet stood in the pillory, an exaltation to which he has both a claim and a right, (two words which have made a great deal of noise lately,) and which, by the grace of God, no doubt, he will soon come into the possession of; we would advise him however, to make haste, as otherwise the Printers of some of our Morning Papers will be before hand with him, who mean there to enjoy the full “Liberty of the Press.” Till that happy day arrives, like the Camelion, he must change his colour, to meet each rising sun, and like that animal too, must feed on air, or what is as bad, the unsubstantial diet of a Minister’s promises, which wet the stomach without appeasing its yearnings. How must we admire then the charitable dispositon of our author in taking notice of this neglected wight, who barks like a dog at midnight, when every body is asleep.
Useless thy works, for head or tail the same;
The first they’ll deaden, and the last enflame.
With what delicacy does our poet touch upon the consequences of his lucubrations! How modestly does he insinuate, that a blister applied a posteriori, would have the same effect. By many families (it is said) they are used as tinder, and never is a house-maid so happy as when she can lay her hands upon any part of them, in her morning excursions, for fire paper. It has been shrewdly suggested, that the new-invented matches which light of themselves in the middle (in this resembling something else) are partly composed of one of these combustible performances. They were one of the Jack-the-Painter’s chief ingredients in setting fire to Portsmouth Dock-Yard, and serve universally for touch-paper to crackers, &c. &c. &c. In short, their uses are as inumberable as their quantity, and it must be matter of pleasing reflection to their author to find amidst all his disappointmets, that his works, by taking a turn which he could never foresee, have become almost inestimable.
Yet, notwithstanding the great advantages which acrue from his literary labours, the danger which threatens those unaquainted with their inflammatory qualities, by making use of them a posteriori, induces us to join with our author in recommending the following recipe for the oveflowing of his bile, as we would not wish that any of our friends should experience the fate of Hercules, and suffer durance in a poisoned shirt. We therefore, (without a fee) prescribe the following regimen:
Then feed awhile on vegetable food,
To clear thy juices, and correct the blood,
Nor think it hard,
Virtue like thine should be its own reward. . . .