An epistle to Dr. Shebbeare: to which is added an ode to Sir Fletcher Norton, in imitation of Horace, Ode VIII. Book IV. By Malcolm MacGreggor, of Knightsbridge, Esq. ...

Table of contents

- [titlepage]

- ADVERTISEMENT.

- AN EPISTLE TO DR. SHEBBEARE.

- [ode]

- Q. HORATII FLACCI, CARMEN VIII. LIB. IV.

- HORACE, ODE VIII. BOOK IV. IMITATED.

- Just Published,

AN EPISTLE TO DR. SHEBBEARE: TO WHICH IS ADDED AN ODE TO SIR FLETCHER NORTON, IN IMITATION OF HORACE, ODE VIII. BOOK IV.

By MALCOLM MACGREGGOR, of Knightsbridge, Esq. Author of the Heroic Epistle to Sir Wm. Chambers, &c.

LONDON: PRINTED FOR J. ALMON, OPPOSITE BURLINGTON-HOUSE, PICCADILLY.

MDCCLXXVII.

[Price One Shilling and Six-pence.]

ADVERTISEMENT.

THOUGH I look upon this Poem, in point of elevation of diction and sublimity of sentiment, to be as highly heroical, as my Epistle to Sir William Chambers, yet I have not thought proper to add that epithet to it on the title-page. I am willing to wish that first production of my muse may preserve the distinction which it now possesses, of being called The Heroic Epistle, par excellence. Besides this consideration, the different ranks of the two persons, to whom these two works are addressed, require a difference to be made in this matter; and it would be unpardonable in me not to discriminate between a Comptroller of his Majesty's Works, and the Hackney Scribbler of a Newspaper; between a Placeman and a Pensioner, a Knight of the Polar Star, and a broken Apothecary.

AN EPISTLE TO DR. SHEBBEARE.

O For a thousand tongues! and every tongue

Like Johnson's, arm'd with words of six feet long,

In multitudinous vociferation

To panegyricize this glorious nation,

Whose liberty results from her taxation.[1]

O, for that passive, pensionary spirit,

That by its prostitution proves its merit!

That rests on RIGHT DIVINE, all regal claims,

And gives to George, what•'er it gave to James:

Then should my Tory numbers, old Shebbeare,

Tickle the tatter'd fragment of thy ear!

Then all that once was virtuous, wise, or brave,

That quell'd a tyrant, that abhorr'd a slave,

Then Sydney's, Russel's patriot fame should fall,

Besmear'd with mire, like black Dalrymple's gall,

Then, like thy prose, should my felonious verse

Tear each immortal plume from Nassau's hearse,

That modern monarchs, in that plumage gay,

Might stare and strut, the peacocks of a day.

But I, like Ansty, feel myself unfit

To run, with hollow speed, two heats of wit.[2]

He, at first starting, won both fame and money,

The betts ran high on Bladud's Ciceronè;

Since distanc'd quite, like a gall'd jade he winces,

And lashes unknown priests, and praises well-known princes.

So I, when first I tun'd th' heroic lay,

Gain'd Pownall's praise, as well as Almon's pay.

In me the nation plac'd its tuneful hope,

Its second Churchill, or at least its Pope:

Proudly I prick'd along, Sir William's squire,

Bade kings recite my strains and queens admire;

Chaste maids of honour prais'd my stout endeavour,

Sir Thomas swore "The fellow was damn'd clever."[3]

But popularity, alas! has wings,

And flits as soon from poets as from kings.

My pompous Posiscript found itself disdain'd

As much as Milton's Paradise regain'd—

And when I dar'd the Patent Snuffers handle,

To trim, with Pinchy's aid, Old England's candle,

The lyric muse, so lame was her condition,

Could hardly hop beyond a third edition.

Yes, 'tis a general truth, and strange as true,

(Kenrick shall prove it in his next Review)

That no one bard, in these degenerate days,

Can write two works deserving equal praise.

Whether the matter of which minds are made

Be grown of late mephitic and decay'd,

Or wants phlogiston, I forbear to say,

The problem's more in Doctor Priestley's way.

He knows of spirit the material whole,

For Priestley has the cure of Sh-lb—e's soul.[4]

Enough of souls, unless we waste a line,

Shebbeare! to pay a compliment to thine:

Which forg'd, of old, of strong Hibernian brass,

Shines through the Paris plaister of thy face,

And bronzes it, secure from shame, or sense,

To the flat glare of finish'd impudence.

Wretch! that from Slander's filth art ever gleaning,

Spite without spirit, malice without meaning:

The same abusive, base, abandon'd thing,

When pilloried, or pension'd by a King.

Old as thou art, methinks, 'twere sage advice,

That N—th should call thee off from hunting Price.

Some younger blood-hound of his bawling pack

Might sorer gall his presbyterian back.

Thy toothless jaws should free thee from the fight;

Thou canst but mumble, when thou mean'st to bite.

Say, then, to give a requiem to thy toils,

What if my muse array'd her in thy spoils?

And took the field for thee, thro' pure good-nature;

Courts prais'd by thee, are curs'd beyond her satire.[5]

Yet, when she pleases, she can deal in praise:

Exempli gratia, hear her fluent lays

Extol the present, the propitious hour,

When Europe, trembling at Britannia's power,

Bids all her princes, with pacific care,

Keep neutral distance, while she wings the war

Cross the Atlantic vast; in dread array,

Herself to vanquish in America.

Where soon, we trust, the brother chiefs shall see

The Congress pledge them in a cup of tea,

Toast peace and plenty to their mother nation,

Give three huzzas to George and to taxation,

And beg, to make their loyal hearts the lighter,

He'd send them o'er Dean T—k-r, with a mitre.

In Fancy's eye, I ken them from afar

Circled with feather wreaths, unstain'd by tar:

In place of laurels, these shall bind their brow,

Fame, honour, virtue, all are feathers now.

Ev'n beauty's self, unfeather'd, if we spy,

Is hideous to our Macaroni eye.

Foolish the bard, who, in such flimsy times,

Would load with satire or with sense his rhymes:

No, let my numbers flutter light in air,

As careless as the silken Goffimer.

Or should I, playful, lift the muse's scourge,

Thy cocks should lend their tails, my Cocking G—,

To make the rod. So fear not thou the song;

To whip a post, I ne'er will waste a thong.

Were I inclin'd to punish courtly tools,

I'd lash the knaves before I slapt the fools▪

Gigantic vice should on my ordeal burn,

Long ere it came to thy poor pigmy turn.

But sure 'tis best, whate'er rash Whigs may say,

To sleep within a whole skin, while one may;

For Whigs are mighty prone to run stark mad,

If credence in A—hb—ps may be had.

Therefore I'll keep within discretion's rule,

And turn true Tory of the M—d school.

So shall I 'scape that creature's tyger paw,

Which some call Liberty, and some call Law:[6]

Whose whale-like mouth is of that savage shape,

Whene'er his long-rob'd shewman bids him gape,

With tusks so strong, with grinders so tremendous,

And such a length of gullet, Heaven defend us!

That should you peep into the red-raw track,

'Twould make your cold flesh creep upon you back.

A maw like that, what mortal may withstand?

'Twould swallow all the poets in the land.

Come, then, Shebbeare! and hear thy bard deliver

Unpaid-for praises to thy pension-giver.

Hear me, like T—k-r, swear, "so help me, muse!"

I write not for preferment's golden views.

But hold—'tis on thy province to intrude:

I would be loyal, but would not be rude.

To thee, my veteran, I his fame consign;

Take thou St. James's, be St. Stephen's mine.

Hail, genial hotbed! whose prolific soil

So well repays all North's perennial toil,[7]

Whence he can raise, if want or whim inclines,

A crop of votes, as plentiful as pines.

Wet-nurse of tavern-waiters and Nabobs,

That empties first, and after fills their fobs:

(As Pringle, to procure a sane secretion,

Purges the primae viae of repletion.)

What scale of metaphor shall Fancy raise,

To climb the heights of thy stupendous praise?

Thrice has the sun commenc'd his annual ride,

Since full of years and praise, thy mother died.

'Twas then I saw thee, with exulting eyes,

A second phoenix, from her ashes rise;

Mark'd all the graces of thy loyal crest,

Sweet with the perfume of its parent nest.

Rare chick! How worthy of all court caresses,

How soft, how echo-like, it chirp'd addresses.

Proceed, I cry'd, thy full-fledg'd plumes unfold,

Each true-blue feather shall be tipt with gold;

Ordain'd thy race of future fame to run,

To do, whate'er thy mother left undone.

In all her smooth, obsequious paths proceed,

For, know, poor Opposition wants a head.

With horn and hound her truant schoolboys roam,

And for a fox-chace quit St. Stephen's dome,

Forgetful of their grandfire Nimrod's plan,

"A mighty hunter, but his prey was man."

The rest, at crouded Almacks, nightly bett,

To stretch their own beyond the nation's debt.

Vote then secure; the needful millions raise,

That fill the privy-purse with means and ways.

And do it quickly too, to shew your breeding,

The weazel Scots are hungry, and want feeding.

Nor need ye wait for that more plenteous season,

When mad America is brought to reason.

Obsequious Ireland, at her sister's claim,

(Sister or step-dame, call her either name)

Shall pour profusely her Pactolian tide,

Nor leave her native patriots unsupply'd. [8]

Earl N—t sung, while yet but simple Clare,

That wretched Ireland had no gold to spare.

How couldst thou, simple Clare! that isle abuse,

Which prompts and pays thy linsey-woolsey muse?

Mistaken peer! Her treasures near can cease,

Did she not long pay Viry for our peace?

Say, did she not, till rang the royal knell,

Irradiate vestal Majesty at Zell?[9]

Sure then she might afford, to my poor thinking,

One golden tumbler, for Queen Charlotte's drinking.

I care not, if her hinds on fens and rocks,

Ne'er roast one shoulder of their fatted flocks,

Shall Irish binds to mutton make pretensions?

Be theirs potatoes, and be ours their pensions.

If they refuse, great North, by me advis'd,

Enact, that each potatoe be excis'd.

Ah! hadst thou, North, adopted this sage plan,

And scorn'd to tax each British serving-man,

Thy friend Macgreggor, when he came to town,

(As poets should do) in his chaise and one,

Had seen his foot-boy Sawney, once his pride,

On stunt Scotch poney trotting by his side,

With frock of fustian, and with cape of red,

Nor grudg'd the guinea tax'd upon his head.

But tush, I heed not—for my country's good

I'll pay it—it will purchase Yankee blood—[10]

And well I ween, for this heroic lay,

Almon will give me wherewithal to pay.

Tax then, ye greedy ministers, your fill:

No matter, if with ignorance or skill.

Be ours to pay, and that's an easy task,

In these blest times to have is but to ask.

Ye know, whate'er is from the public prest,

Will sevenfold sink into your private chest.

For he, the nursing father, that receives,

Full freely tho' he takes, as freely gives.

So when great Cox, at his mechanic call,

Bids orient pearls from golden dragons fall,

Each little dragonet, with brazen grin,

Gapes for the precious prize, and gulps it in.

Yet when we peep behind the magic scene,

One master-wheel directs the whole machine:

The self-same pearls, in nice gradation, all

Around one common centre, rise and fall.[11]

Thus may our state-museum long surprise;

And what is sunk by votes in bribes arise;

Till mock'd and jaded with the puppet-play,

Old England's genius turns with scorn away,

Ascends his sacred bark, the sails unfurl'd,

And steers his state to the wide western world:

High on the helm majestic Freedom stands,

In act of cold contempt she waves her hands.

Take, slaves, she cries, the realms that I disown,

Renounce your birth-right, and destroy my throne.

FINIS.

ODE TO SIR FLETCHER NORTON, IN IMITATION OF HORACE, ODE VIII. BOOK IV.

Q. HORATII FLACCI, CARMEN VIII. LIB. IV.

DONAREM pateras,a grataque commodus,

Censorine, meis aera sodalibus:

Donarem tripodas, praemia fortium

Graiorum: neque tu pessima munerum,

Ferres, divite me scilicet artium,

Q•as aut b Parrhasius protulit, aut Scopas;

Hic saxo, liquidis ille coloribus

Solers c nunc hominem ponere, nunc deum.

Sed d non haec mihi vis; nec e tibi talium

Res est aut animus deliciarum egens.

Gaudes carminibus: f carmina possumus

Donare, g & pretium dicere muneri.

Non h incisa notis marmora publicis,

Per i quae spiritus & vita redit bonis

Post mortem ducibus:k non celeres fugae,

Rejectaeque retrorsum Annibalis minae,

Non incendia Carthaginis impiae,

Ejus, qui domitâ nomen ab Africâ

Lucratus rediit, clarius indicant[12]

Laudes, quam Calabrae l Pierides: neque

Si chartae sileant quod benè feceris

Mercedem tuleris.

Quid foret Iliae

Mavortisquempuer, si taciturnitas

Obstaret meritis invida Romuli?

Ereptum o flygius fluctibus Aeacum

Virtus, & favor, & n lingua potentium

Vatum divitibus consecrat insulis.

Dignum laude virum Musa p vetat mori,

CaeloqMusa beat. Sic r Jovis interest

Optatis epulis impiger Hercules:

ClarumsTyndaridae sidus ab infimis

Quassast eripiunt aequoribus rates:

Ornatus viridi tempora pampino

Liberuvota bonos ducit ad exitus.

FINIS.

HORACE, ODE VIII. BOOK IV. IMITATED.

MUSE! were we rich in land, or stocks,

We'd send Sir Fletcher a a gold box;

Who lately, to the world's surprize,

Advis'd his Sovereign to be wise.

The zeal of cits shou'd ne'er surpass us,

We'd make him speaker of Parnassus.

Or could I boast the mimic eye

Of b Townshend, or of Bunbury,

Whose art can catch, in comic guise,

"The manners living as they rise,"

And find it the same easy thing

To c hit a Jollux or a king;

I'd hangings weave, in fancy's loom,

For Lady Norton's dressing room. [13]

But d arts like these I don't pursue,

Nor e does Sir Fletcher heed virtù.

Enough for me in these hard times,

When ev'ry thing is tax'd but rhymes,

To f tag a few of these together:

Tho' I am quite uncertain, whether

My verse will much rejoice the knight,

As g great a store as I set by't.

For verse, (I'd have Sir Fletcher know it)

When written by a genuine poet,

Has more of meaning and intent,

Than h modern acts of Parliament.

'Tis i fit and right, when heroes die,

The nation should a tomb supply;

Yet, not the votes of both the houses,

Without th' assistance of the muses,

Can give that permanence of fame

That heroes from their country claim.

And tell me pray, to our good King,

What fame our present broils can bring,

Ev'n k should the Howes (which some folks doubt)

Put Washington to total rout,

Unless his treasurer in an ode,

Exalt the victor to a god.

A man, I know, may get a pension

Without the muse's intervention?

Yet what are pensions to the praise

Wrapt up in l Caledonian lays?

Say, Johnson! where had been m Fingal,

But for Macpherson's great assistance?

The chieftain had been nought at all,

A non-existing non-existence.

Mac, like a n poet stout and good,

First o plung'd, then pluck'd him from oblivion's flood,

And bad him bluster at his ease,

Among the fruitful Hebrides.

A p common poet can revive

The man who once had been alive:

But Mac revives, by magic power,

The man who never liv'd before. [14]

Such hocus-pocus tricks, I own,

Belong to Gallic bards alone.

My q muse would think her power enough,

Could she make some folks fever-proof;

Dub them immortal from their birth,

And give them all their heaven on earth,

Then r Doctor K—, that broad divine,

With lords and dukes should ever dine;

Post, prate, and preach, for years on years,

And puff himself in Gazetteers.

Sandwich for aye, should shine the star,

Propitious to our naval war;

Caulk all our vessels' t leaky sides,

And in the docks work double ties.

While Stormont, u grac'd with ribband green,

Keeps France from mixing in the riot,

Till w Britain's lion vents his spleen,

And tears his rebel whelps in quiet.

THE END.

Just Published,

- AN Heroic Epistle to Sir William Chambers, Knt. comptroller-general of his Majesty's works, and author of a late Dissertation on Oriental Gardening; enriched with explanatory notes, chiefly extracted from that performance. 13th edit. Price 1s.

- An Heroic Postscript to the Public, occasioned by their favourable reception of the Heroic Epistle to Sir William Chambers. 8th edit. Price 1s.

- Ode to Mr. Pinchbeck, upon his newly invented Patent Candle-snuffers. 5th edit. Price 6d.

▪ The above three by the same author. Printed for J. AL•OX, opposite Burlington-house, Piccadilly. Of whom may be had,

- The new Paradise of dainty Devices; consisting of original poems. 2s. 6d.

- A familiar Epistle from C. Anstey, Esq. to C▪ W. Bampfylde, Esq Translated, and addressed to the ladies. 2d Edit. Price 1s.

- Genius of Britain. An ode. 1s.

- America. An ode. 6d.

- Lord Ch—m's Prophecy. An ode. Addressed to General Gage. 1s.

- Kien Long. A Chinese Eclogue. 1s.

- The Advertiser. A Poem. 1s.

- The Optimist. 1s.

- Macarony Fables. 3d Edit. 2s. 6d.

- Lyric Consultations. By the fame. 3s.

- Ode on Sir W. Brown's Legacy. 6d.

- La Fête Champêtre. 1s.

- Verses to—, with a new Year's Gift. 1s.

▪ All the above printed in Quarto.

- Sappho. A poetic Rhapsody. Inscribed to the 〈◊〉 Ba•roness of Bath-Easton (Printed in the same size as the Bath-Easton poems.) Price 1s.

- The new Foundling Hospital for Wit. Being a collection of Fugitive Pieces, in verse and prose, many of which were not before printed. In six volumes, (each volume ornamented with a curious frontispiece) price 18s. bound, and 15s. sewed.

- Several were written by

- Sir C. Hanbury Williams,

- The Duke of Wharton,

- Earl of Chesterfield,

- —Delawar,

- —Bath,

- —Hardwicke,

- —Carliste,

- —Chatham,

- Lord Viscount Clare,

- Lord Lyttelton,

- —Harvey,

- —Capel,

- Lady M. W. Montague,

- Lady Irwin,

- Miss Carter,

- Hon. C. Yorke,

- —H. Walpole,

- Right hon. C. Townshend,

- Sir J. Mawbey,

- T. Potter,

- Soame Jenyns,

- Dr. King,

- Dr. Armstrong,

- Dr. Akenside,

- C. Anstey,

- T. Edwards,

- C. Churchill,

- W. Shenstone,

- Mr. Gray,

- J. Thompson,

- J. S. Hall,

- J. Wilkes,

- D. Garrick,

- S. Johnson.

- B. Thornton,

- G. Colman,

- R. Lloyd,

- R. Bentley,

- C. Morris, Esqrs.

- And other eminent persons; with some pieces of Milton, Waller, Pope, Congreve, &c. not in their works.

The following are printed in the same size and manner as the New Foundling for Wit, and being collections of Fugitive Pieces upon the same plan, may be had bound uniform with that work, price 1l. 10s. or separate, at the prices undermentioned.

- The Fugitive Miscellany; being a collection of such Fugitive Pieces, in prose and verse, as are not in any other collection; with many pieces never before published. By several Noblemen and Gentlemen. In two volumes, price 5s. sewed, or 6s. bound.

- A Companion for a leisure Hour; being also a collection of Fugitive Pieces, in no other collection; chiefly 〈◊〉 in prose and verse. One volume, 2s. 6d. sewed, or 3s. bound.

- An Asylum for Fugitives. Volume the First. 3s. sewed, and 3s. 6d. bound. Published in numbers every three months. The first number of the second volume of the Asylum was published on the first of June, 1777, price 1s. and the second number is preparing for the press.

- {inverted ⁂} The New Foundling Hospital for Wit, &c. being completed, it has been desired to continue the plan of collecting such fugitive pieces of merit, as are either circulated in MS. or occasionally printed in the temporary publications of the day, under the title of The Asylum. Though this work may be called a continuation of the former, being printed in the same size and manner; yet the publication being more frequent, affords a greater variety, and therefore it is hoped, will prove as agreeable to the public.

- Those gentlemen who wish to see any of their pieces preserved it this collection, may be assuted, that their favours will, at all times, be most gratefully received.

Notes

1

Ver. 2. Words of six feet long.] Sesquipedalia verba. HOR.

↵

2

Ver. 11. Tickle the tatter'd fragment.] Churchill, in alluding to this capital anecdote in our Doctor's life, says, in his poem called The Author,

The whole intent

Of that parade, was fame, not punishment.

Intimating that his ears received no detriment in the pillory. My line intimates, that they did. However, if my intimation be false, it is easily refuted: the Doctor has only to expose his ears again to the public, and the real fact will be flagrant.

↵

3

Ver. 23. Bladud's Ciceronè.] Anglice, Bath Guide.

Ver. 25. Lashes unknown priests.] Without a note posterity will never understand this line. Two or three years ago this gentleman found himself libelled in a newspaper; and on suspecting a certain clergyman to be the author, he wrote a first canto of a poem, called The Priest Dissected, in which he prepared all chirurgical matters previous to the operation. In the mean time the parson proved an alibi, and saved his bacon. To this first and unique canto the author prefixed a something in which he exculpated himself from being the author of the Heroic Epistle, which it seems had been laid to his charge during the time the clan of Macgreggors continued without a name, and which, as the world well knows, was the only reason which prevented me from claiming the merit of that production. It is to this something, that the latter part of the line alludes. For in it he had told the public, that his Majesty had ten children, which it knew very well before. Hence the epithet well-known.

Ver. 33. Sir Thomas.] The Petronius of the present age needs not the addition of a sirname to make the world certain who is meant by this appellative.

↵

4

Ver. 51. The cure of Sh-lb—e's soul.] It is not here insinuated, that the soul in question wants curing. The word cure is here put for care, in the sense in which ecclesiastical lawyers use cura animarum.

↵

5

Ver. 63. From hunting Price.] See a series of wretched letters, written by Shebbeare, in the Public Advertiser, and other papers.

↵

6

Ver. 97. My cocking G—.] A great cock-fighter, and little senator, who, in the last Parliament, called the Heroic Postscript a libel.

Ver. 111. Which some call Liberty.] With courtiers and churchmen the terms are synonimous. See a late Sermon.

↵

7

Ver. 122. Like T—k-r swear.] The reverend Dean took a solemn oath in one of his late pamphlets, that he would not be a bishop.

↵

8

Ver. 155. A mighty hunter.] A line of Mr. Pope's. If our younger senators would take the hint, and now and then hunt a minister instead of a fox, they might perhaps find some fun in it.

Ver. 161. The weasel Scots.] It is not I, but Shakespeare, that gives my countrymen this epithet. See Hen. V. act 1. scene 2.

For once the eagle England being in prey,

To her unguarded nest the weazel Scot

Comes sneaking, and so sucks her princely eggs, &c.

↵

9

Ver. 168. Earl N—t sung.] The intellect not only of posterity, but of the present reader, must here again be enlightened by a note: for this song was sung above two years ago, and is consequently forgotten. Yet if the reader will please to recollect how easily I brought to life Sir William Chambers's prose dissertation which had been dead half that time, he will, I hope, give me credit for being able to recover this dead poem from oblivion also. It was sent to her Majesty on her birth-day, with a present of Irish grogram; and the newspaper of the day said (but I know not how truly) that the Queen was graciously pleased to thank the noble author for both his pieces of stuff: The poet's exordium seemed to have been taken from that very Ode in Horace which I have also attempted to imitate in this pamphlet. It began by assuring her Majesty, that Ireland was too poor to present her with a piece of gold plate.

Could poor Iërne gifts afford,

Worthy the consort of her lord,

Of purest gold a sculpter'd frame

Just emblem of her zeal should flame.

This supposed poverty of his native country struck me at the time as a mere gratis-dictum. I have therefore, from verse 180 to verse 186 of this epistle, endeavoured to refute it, for the honour of Ireland.

↵

10

Ver. 178.] I care not, &c.] Alluding to these lines in the same poem:

Where starving hinds from fens and rocks,

View pastures rich with herds and flocks.

And only view—forbid to taste, &c.

And in a note on the passage, he tells us that these hinds never eat animal food; but says not one word about potatoes, that most nutritious of all aliments, which is surely very disingenuous.

↵

11

Ver. 211. Around one common centre.] I was let into this secret by my late patron, Sir William Chambers; who, as Mr. Cox's automata were very much in the Chinese taste, was very curious to discover their mechanism. I must do the Knight the justice to own that some of my best things are borrowed from him.

↵

12

Ver. 11. Guades carminibus.] The imitator found himself obliged to deviate in this place a little further from his original, than perhaps the strict critic will tolerate. But as he was not quite so certain of Sir Fletcher's fondness for poetry, as Horace seems to have been about the taste of Cenformus, he thought it best to express himself with a modest diffidence on that subject.

↵

13

Line 12. A Jollux.] A phrase used by the bon ton for a fat parson. See a set of excellent Caricatures published by Bretherton, in New Bond-Street.

↵

14

Ver. 37. Unless his treasurer.] The late promotion of a poet to the treasurership of the houshold, must necessarily give to all true votaries of the muses (as it does to me) great delectation. 'Tis whispered, by some people in the secret, that the very pacific cast of the Laureat's birth-day ode, occasioned the noble bard's exaltation; as it was thought expedient to have another poetical placeman in readiness to celebrate the final overthrow of the American rebels. Nay, it is assured, that a reversionary grant of the office of laureat has in this instance been superadded to the treasurership, yet with the defalcation of the annual butt of sack, which the Lord Steward calculates will be a considerable saving to the nation.

↵

Information about this book

Title statement

An epistle to Dr. Shebbeare: to which is added an ode to Sir Fletcher Norton, in imitation of Horace, Ode VIII. Book IV. By Malcolm MacGreggor, of Knightsbridge, Esq. ...

Mason, William, 1725-1797.

Publication

Distributor

University of Oxford Text Archive
Oxford University Computing Services
13 Banbury Road
Oxford
OX2 6NN
ota@oucs.ox.ac.uk

ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/3925

ID [isbn10]

110600924X

ID [isbn13]

9781106009241

ID [TCP]

K035773.000

ID [BIBNO]

CW3310412225

ID [ECLL]

0131303800

Availability

Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License

Source

— An epistle to Dr. Shebbeare: to which is added an ode to Sir Fletcher Norton, in imitation of Horace, Ode VIII. Book IV. By Malcolm MacGreggor, of Knightsbridge, Esq. ..., Mason, William, 1725-1797.. 27,[1]p. ; 4⁰. London :: printed for J. Almon,. 1777.. [Malcolm MacGreggor = William Mason.] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [Adams, 77-71a] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT32839.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).]

Creation

Created by converting TCP files to TEI P5 using tcp2p5.xsl, TEI @ Oxford.

Editorial practices

This electronic text file was keyed from page images and partially proofread for accuracy. Character capture and encoding have been done following the guidelines of the ECCO Text Creation Partnership, which correspond roughly to the recommendations found in Level 4 of the TEI in Libraries Guidelines. Digital page images are linked to the text file.