II.

All is not Truth ('tis said) that travellers tell— So much the better for this man of news; For hence the country round, that know him well, Will, if he prints some lies, his lies excuse. Earthquakes, and battles, shipwrecks, myriads slain— If false or true—alike to him are gain.

But if this motley tribe say nothing new, Then many a lazy, longing look is cast To watch the weary post-boy travelling through, On horse's rump his budget buckled fast; With letters, safe in leathern prison pent, And, wet from press, full many a packet sent.

Not Argus with his fifty pair of eyes Look'd sharper for his prey than honest Type Explores each package, of alluring size, Prepar'd to seize them with a nimble gripe, Did not the post-boy watch his goods, and swear That village Type shall only have his share.

Ask you what matter fills his various page? A mere farrago 'tis, of mingled things; Whate'er is done on Madam Terra's stage He to the knowledge of his townsmen brings: One while, he tells of monarchs run away; And now, of witches drown'd in Buzzard's bay.

Some miracles he makes, and some he steals; Half Nature's works are giants in his eyes: Much, very much, in wonderment he deals,— New-Hampshire apples grown to pumpkin size, Pumpkins almost as large as country inns, And ladies bearing, each,—three lovely twins.

He, births and deaths with cold indifference views; A paragraph from him is all they claim: And here the rural squire, amongst the news Sees the fair record of some lordling's fame; All that was good, minutely brought to light, All that was ill,—conceal'd from vulgar sight!