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!