VERSES ADDRESSED TO THE AUTHOR How books mend the manners; and now so abound, Where rudeness and ignorance lately were found. But plain truth, for itself, it must still be confest, Is the faithfulest advocate-therefore the best: So I rise from the feast with a satisfied mind, That the same every taste, and each temper, may find. Still to drop all comparison, mental's the fare, That needs only good taste to invite us to share ; Entertainment and knowledge, the objects in view; Then receive, as the donor, the praise that is due.

Bury St Edmund's.

C. H-S.

THE LIFE

OF

JAMES LACKINGTON.

BOOKSELLER.

LETTER I.

"Others with wishful eyes on glory look,
When they have got their picture, toward a book,
Or pompous title, like a gaudy sign

Meant to betray dull sots to wretched wine.
If at his title L had dropt his quill,

Lmight have passed for a great genius still:
But L- alas! (excuse him if you can)
Is now a scribbler, who was once a man.'

DEAR FRIEND,

YOUNG'S Love of Fame.

You have often requested me to devote what few leisure moments I could spare, in minuting down some of the principal occurrences of my life, with a view, sooner or later, of exhibiting the account to the public eye; who, as you were pleased to say, could not but be somewhat curious to learn some well authenticated particulars of a man, well known to have risen from an obscure origin to a degree of notice, and to a participation of the favour of the

public, in a particular line of business, I may without vanity say, hitherto unprecedented. This will appear more conspicuous, if you consider that I was not only poor, but laboured under every other disadvantage; being a stranger in London, and without friends, &c.

Ever willing to pay a becoming deference to the judgment of a person of your acknowledged merits, and whom I have the felicity of numbering among my firmest friends, yet being less anxious to appear as an adventurer among the numerous tribe of authors, than to continue a considerable vender of the produce of their labours, I have continually delayed complying with your kind wishes. By the bye, does the publication of a catalogue of books entitle the_compiler to the name of author? If it does, many booksellers have long had a claim to that distinction, by the annual publication of their catalogues, and myself, as author of a very voluminous one every six months. The reason for my asking this question is, I last year observed that a certain bookseller published his first catalogue with this introduction :-" As this is the first catalogue ever the author made, and is done in great haste, he hopes inaccuracies will be treated with lenity."

But to return from this digression. I should pronably have still delayed compiling my narrative, if the editors of a certain periodical publication, who monthly labour to be witty, had not deemed me of sufficient consequence to introduce into their work what they are pleased to call a portrait of me! And though it was by them intended as a caricatura, yet I am persuaded that it will appear to those who best know me as a daubing more characteristic of the heavy brush of a manufacturer of signs, than the delicate pencil of a true portrait-painter; and on that ao count I should most certainly have considered it as unworthy notice, had they not daubed me with false features. This at once determined my wavering resolution, and I am now fully resolved to minute

down such particulars of my passage through life, as, though not adorned with an elegance of style, will, I assure you, possess what to you, I flatter myself, will be a greater recommendation, viz. a strict adherence to truth.

"To pomp or pathos I make no pretence,

But range in the broad path of common sense,
Nor ever burrow in the dark sublime."

And though no doubt you will meet with some occurrences in which you may find cause for censure, yet I hope others will present themselves which your candour will induce you to commend.

"Disdain not then these trifles to attend
Nor fear to blame, nor study to commend."
LORD HERVEY.

Should you be able to afford the whole a patient perusal, and think the account meriting the public eye; I shall cheerfully submit to your decision, convinced that you will not,

"With mean complacence e'er betray your trust,
Nor be so civil as to prove uhjust."

John Dunton, a brother bibliopole, long since exhibited a whole volume of dulness, which he called his "Life and. Errors." The latter term I believe might be a very proper appendage to the title-page of the innumerable lives which have been, and which will be published: for what man will dare to say of himself, his life has not been loaded with errors? That mine has been such I readily acknowledge; and should this narrative be published, many perhaps may deem that act another (possibly the greatest) error. To those I shall only observe, that "to err is human, to forgive divine."

As an additional stimulus, I can assure you as an absolute fact, that several gentlemen have at different periods (one very lately) intimated to me their intentions of engaging in the task, if I any longer deelined it.

Of my first-mentioned kind biographers I shall take my leave, with à couplet, many years since written by an eminent poet, and not inapplicable to the pre

sent case.

"Let B-charge low Grub street on my quill,
And write whate'er he please, except my Will."

And of you, for the present, after informing you my next shall contain à faithful account of particulars relative to the early part of my life, with assuring you that I am,

Dear friend, your ever obliged.

LETTER II.

"Why should my birth keep down my mounting spirit?
Are not all creatures subject unto time;

To time, who doth abuse the world,
And fills it full of hotch-podge bastardy?
There's legions now of beggars on the earth,
That their original did spring from kings;
And many monarchs now, whose fathers were
The riff-raff of their age; for time and fortune
Wears out a noble train to beggary;

And from the dunghill millions do advance
To state; and mark, in this admiring world
This is the course, which in the name of fate
Is seen as often as it whirls about;

The river Thames that by our door doth 1 un,
His first beginning is but small and shallow,
Yet keeping on his course grows to a sea.'
SHAKESPEAR's Cromwell.

DEAR FRIEND,

In my last I hinted that I should confine myself to a plain narrative of facts, unembellished with the meretricious aid of lofty figures, or representations of things which never had existence, but in the brain