Y Works are advertis'd for fale, And cenfures fly as thick as hail; While my poor fcheme of publication Supplies the dearth of conversation.
What will the World fay?That's your cry. Who is the World? and what am I?
Once, but thank heaven, those days are o'er,
And perfecution reigns no more,
One man, one hardy man alone,
Ufurp'd the critic's vacant throne,
And thence with neither taste nor wit,
By powerful catcall from the pit,
Knock'd farce, and play, and actor down.
Who pafs'd the sentence then?-the Town.
So now each upftart puny elf
Talks of the world, and means himself.
Yet in the circle there are thofe
Who hurt e'en more than open foes:
Whofe friendship ferves the talking turn,
Juft fimmers to a kind concern,
And with a wond'rous foft expreffion
Expatiates upon indifcretion;
Flies from the Poems to the Man,
And gratifies the favourite plan
To pull down other's reputation,
And build their own on that foundation.
The scholar grave, of tafte difcerning,
Who lives on credit for his learning,
And has no better claim to wit
Than carping at what others writ,
With pitying kindness, friendly fear,
Whispers conjectures in your ear.
"I'm forry-and he's much to blame→→→
"He might have publish'd-but his name!
"The thing might please a few, no doubt,
"As handed privately about-
"It might amuse a friend or two,
"Some partial friend like me and you;
"But when it comes to prefs and print
"You'll find, I fear, but little in't,
"He ftands upon a dangerous brink
"Whe totters o'er the fea of ink,
"Where reputation runs aground,
"The author caft away, and drown'd.
"And then-'twas wilful and absurd,
"(So well approv'd, fo well preferr'd,)
"Abruptly thus a place to quit
"A place which most his genius hit,
"The theatre for Latin wit!
"With critics round him chafte and terfe,
"To give a plaudit to his verfe!"
Latin, I grant, fhews college breeding,
And fome school-common-place of reading.
But has in Moderns small pretenfion
To real wit or strong invention,
The excellence you critics praise
Hangs on a curious choice of phrafe;
Which pick'd and chofen here and there,
From profe or verse no matter where,
Jumbled together in a dish,
Like Spanish olio, fowl, flesh, fish,
You fet the claffic hodge-podge on
For pedant wits to feed upon.
Your wou'd-be Genii vainly feek
Fame for their Latin verfe, or Greek;
Who would for that be most admir'd
Which blockheads may, and have acquir'd.
A mere mechanical connection
Of favourite words, a bare collection
Of phrafes,-where the labour'd cento
Prefents you with a dull memento,
How Virgil, Horace, Ovid join,
And club together half a line.
These only ftrain their motly wits
In gathering patches, fhreds, and bits,
To wrap their barren fancies in,
And make a claffic Harlequin.
-Where I at once impower'd to fhew
My utmost vengeance on my foe,
To punish with extremeft rigour,
I could inflict no penance bigger
Then ufing him as learning's tool
To make him Ufher of a school
For, not to dwell upon the toil
Of working on a barren foil,
And lab'ring with inceffant pains.
To cultivate a blockhead's brains.
The duties there but ill befit
The love of letters, arts, or wit
For whofoe'er, though flightly, fips,
Their grateful favour with his lips,
Will find it leave a fmatch behind,
Shall fink fo deeply in his mind,
It never thence can be cras'd-
But, rifing up, you call it Tafle,
'Twere foolish for a drudge to chufe
A gutto which he cannot use.
Better difcard the idle whim,
What's He to Tafte? or Tafe to Him?
For me, it hurts me to the foul
To brook confinement or controul:
Still to be pinion'd down to teach
The fyntax and the parts of fpeech;
Or, what perhaps is drudging worse,
The links, and joints, the rules of verfe;
To deal out authors by retail,
Like penny pots of Oxford ale;
-Oh! 'Tis a fervice irkfome more
Than tugging at the flavish oar,
Yet fuch his talk, a difmal truth,
Who watches o'er the bent of youth;
And while, a paltry ftipend earning,
He fows the richeft feeds of learning,
And tills their minds with proper care,
And fees them their due produce bear;
No joys, alas! his toil beguile
His own lies fallow all the while.
"Yet ftill he's in the road, you say,
"Of learning."-Why, perhaps he may,
But turns like horfes in a mill,
Nor getting on, nor standing still:
For little way his learning reaches,
Who reads no more than what he teaches.
"Yet you can send advent'rous youth, "In fearch of letters, tafte, and truth, "Who ride the highway road to knowledge "Through the plain turnpikes of a college," True Like way-pofts, we ferve to fhew The road which travellers fhould go;
Who jog along in eafy pace,
Secure of coming to the place,
Yet find, return whene'er they will,
The Poft, and its direction ftill:
Which ftands an ufeful unthank'd guide,
To many a pallenger befide.
"Tis hard to carve for others meat,
And not have time one's felf to eat.
Though, be it always understood,
Our appetites are full as good.
"But there have been, and proofs appear, "Who bore this load from year to year; "Whofe claim to letters, parts and wit, "The world has ne'er difputed yet. "Whether the flowing mirth prevail
In Wesley's fong, or humorous tale; "Or happier Bourne's expreflion please "With graceful turns of claffic eafe; "Or Oxford's well-read poet fings "Pathetic to the ear of kings: "Thefe have indulg'd the mufes' flight, "Nor loft their time or credit by't; "Nor fuffer'd fancy's dreams to prey "On the due bufinefs of the day. "Verfe was to them a recreation "Us'd by way of relaxation."
Your inftances are fair and true, And genius I refpect with you.
I envy none their honest praise;
I feek to blaft no scholar's bays:
Still let the graceful foliage fpread
Its generous honours round their head,
Bleft, if the Mufes' hand entwine
A fprig at least to circle mine!
Come,-I admit, you tax me right.
Prudence, 'tis true, was out of fight,
And
you may whisper all you meet,
The man was vague and indifcreet.
Yet tell me, while you cenfure me,
Are you from error found and free?
Say, does your breaft no bias hide,
Whofe influence draws the mind afide?
All have their hobby-horse, you see,
From Triftram down to you and me.
Ambition, fplendour, may be thine;
Eafe, indolence, perhaps, are mine.
Though prudence, and our nature's pride
May with our weakneffes to hide,
And fet their hedges up before'em,
Some Sprouts will branch, and ftraggle o'er 'em.
Strive, fight against her how you will,
Nature will be the mistress ftill,
And though you crub with double rein,
She'll run away with us again.
But let a man of parts be wrong,
'Tis triumph to the leaden throng.
The fools fhall cackle out reproof,
The very afs fhall raise his hoof;
And he who holds in his poffeffion,
The fingle virtue of difcretion,
Who knows no overflow of spirit,
Whofe want of paffions is his merit,
Whom wit and tafte and judgment flies,
Shall shake his noddle, and feem wife.
ADDRESSED то BONNEL THORNTON, ESQ
dear Thornton, its perfection draws,
From no obfervance of mechanic laws:
No fettled maxims of a fav'rite ftage,
No rules deliver'd down from age to age,
Let players nicely mark them as they will,
Can e'er entail hereditary skill.
If, 'mongst the humble hearers of the pit,
Some curious vet'ran critic chance to fit,
Is he pleas'd more because 'twas acted fo
By Booth and Cibber thirty years ago!
The mind recals an object held more dear,
And hates the copy, that it comes fso near.
Why lov'd he Wilks's air, Booth's nervous tone?
In them 'twas natural, 'twas all their own.
A Garrick's genius muft our wonder raise.
But gives his mimic no reflected praise.
Thrice happy Genius, whofe unrival'd name,
Shall live for ever in the voice of Fame'
'Tis thine to lead with more than magic skill,
The train of captive paffions at thy will ;
To bid the bursting tear fpontaneous flow
In the fweet sense of sympathetic woe:
Through ev'ry vein I feel a chilnefs creep,
When horrors fuch as thine have murder'd fleep;
And at the old man's look and frantic ftare
'Tis Lear alarms me, for I fee him there.
Nor yet confin'd to tragic walks alone,
The comic Muse too claims thee for her own.
With each delightful requifite to please,
Tafte, Spirit, Judgment, Elegance, and Ease,
Familiar nature forms thy only rule,
From Ranger's rake to Drugger's vacant fool.
With power's fo pliant, and fo various bleft,
That what we fee the laft, we like the beft.
Not idly pleas'd, at judgment's dear expence,
But burst outrageous with the laugh of sense.
Perfection's top, with weary toil and pain,
Tis genius only that can hope to gain.
The Play'r's profeffion (though I hate the phrafe,
'Tis fo mechanic in these modern days)
Lies not in trick, or attitude, or start,
Nature's true knowledge is the only art,
The strong-felt paffion bolts into his face,
The mind untouch'd, what is it but grimace!
To this one standard make your just appeal,
Here lies the golden fecret; learn to FEEL.
Or fool, or monarch, happy, or distrest,
No actor pleases that is not poffefs'd.
Once on the stage, in Rome's declining days,
When Chriftians were the fubject of their plays,
E'er perfecution dropp'd her iron rod,
And men still wag'd an impious war with God,
An actor flourish'd of no vulgar fame,
Nature's disciple, and Geneft his name.
A noble object for his skill he chofe,
A martyr dying 'midft infulting foes.
Refign'd with patience to religion's laws,
Yet braving monarchs in his Saviour's caufe.
Fill'd with th' idea of the facred part,
He felt a zeal beyond the reach of art,
While look and voice, and gefture, all exprest
A kindred ardour in the player's breast;
Till as the flame through all his bosom ran,
He loft the actor and commenc'd the Man;
Profeft the faith; his pagan gods denied,
And what he acted then, he after died.
The player's province they but vainly try,
Who Want these pow'rs, Deportment, Voice,
Eye.
The Critic Sight 'tis only Grace can please,
No figure charms us if it has not Eafe.
There are, who think the ftature all in all,
Nor like the hero, if he is not tall.
The feeling fenfe all other want supplies,
I rate no actor's merit from his fize.
Superior height requires fuperior grace,
And what's a giant with a vacant face?
Theatric monarchs, in their tragic gait,
Affect to mark the folemn pace of state.
One foot put forward in pofition strong,
The other, like its vaffal, dragg'd along.
So grave each motion, fo exact and flow,
Like wooden monarchs at a puppet show.
The mien delights us that has native grace,
But affectation ill fupplies its place.
Unfkilful actors, like your mimic apes, Will writhe their bodies in a thousand shapes ;
However foreign from the poet's art,
No tragic hero but admires a start.
What though unfeeling of the nervous line,
Who but allows his attitude is fine?
While a whole minute equipois'd he stands,
Till praise difmifs him with her echoing hands!
Refolv'd, though nature hate the tedious pause,
By perfeverance to extort applause.
When Romeo forrowing at his Juliet's doom,
With eager madness bursts the canvas tomb,
The fudden whirl, ftretch'd leg, and lifted staff,
Which please the vulgar; make the critic laugh.
To paint the paflion's force, and mark it well
The proper action nature's felf will tell;
No pleafing pow'rs diftortions e'er exprefs,
And nicer judgment always loaths excess.
In fock or bufkin, who o'erleaps the bounds,
Difgufts our reafon, and the tafte confounds,
Of all the evils which the stage moleft,
I hate your fool who overacts his jeft;
Who murders what the poet finely writ,
And, like a bungler, haggles all his wit,
With fhrug, and grin, and gefture out of place,
And writes a foolish comment with his face.
Old Johnfon once, though Cibber's perter vein *
But meanly groupes him with a num'rous train,
With fteady face, and fober hum'rous mien,
Fill'd the ftrong outlines of the comic scene;
What was writ down, with decent utt'rance spoke
Betray'd no fymptom of the confcious joke;
The very man in look, in voice, in air,
And though upon the stage, appear'd no Play'r.
The word and action fhould conjointly fuit,
But acting words is labour too minute.
Grimace will ever lead the judgment wrong;
While fober humour marks th' impreffion strong.
Her proper traits the fixt attention hit,
And bring me closer to the poet's wit;
With her delighted o'er each scene I go,
Well-pleas'd, and not asham'd of being fo.
But let the generous actor still forbear
To copy features with a Mimic's care!
'Tis a poor skill which every fool can reach,
A vile ftage-cuftom, honour'd in the breach.
Worfe as more clofe, the dinfigenuous art
But fhews the wanton looseness of the heart.
When I behold a wretch, of talents mean,
and Drag private foibles on the public fcene,
Forfaking nature's fair and open road
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To mark fome whim, fome strange peculiar mode,
Fir'd with difguft I loath his fervile plan,
Defpife the mimic, and abhor the man.
Go to the lame, to hofpitals repair,
And hunt for humour in distortions there!
Fill up the measure of the motley whim
With thrug, wink, fnuffle, and convulfive limb
Then fhame at once, to please a trifling age,
Good fenfe good manners, virtue, and the stage!
"Tis not enough the voice be found and clear,
'Tis modulation that must charm the ear.
When defperate heroines grieve with tedious moan,
And whine their forrows in a fee-faw tone,
The fame foft found of unimpaffioned woes
Can only make the yawning hearers doze.
The voice all modes of paffion can express,
That marks the proper word with proper strest
See Cibber's Applogy, 8vo, 1750.
But none emphatic can the actor call,
Who lays an equal emphasis on all.
Some o'er the tongue the labour'd measures roll
Slow and delib'rate as the parting toll,
Point ev'ry ftop, mark ev'ry pause so strong,
Their words, like ftage-proceffions ftalk along,
All affectation but creates difguft,
And e'en in fpeaking we may feem too just.
Nor proper, Thornton, can those sounds appear
Which bring not numbers to thy nicer ear;
In vain from them the pleafing measure flows,
Whose recitation runs it all to profe;
Repeating what the poet fets not down,
The verb disjointing from its friendly noun,
While paufe, and break, and repetition join
To make a difcord in each tuneful line.
Some placid natures fill th' allotted scene
With lifeless drone, infipid and ferene;
While others thunder ev'ry couplet o'er,
And almost crack your ears with rant and roar,
More nature oft and finer ftrokes are shown,
In the low whisper than tempeftuous tone.
And Hamlet's hollow voice and fixt amaze,
More powerful terror to the mind conveys,
Than he, who, fwol'n with big impetuous rage,
Bullies the bulky phantom off the stage.
He, who in earnest studies o'er his part,
Will find true nature cling about his heart.
The modes of grief are not included all
In the white handkerchief and mournful drawl;
A fingle look more marks th' internal woe,
Than all the windings of the lengthen'd Oh.
Up to the face the quick fenfation flies,
And darts its meaning from the speaking Eyes;
Love, transport, madness, anger, fcorn, despair,
And all the paffions, all the foul is there.
In vain Ophelia gives her flowrets round,
And with her straws fantastic ftrews the ground,
In vain now fings, now heaves the desp'rate figh,
3f phrenzy fit not in the troubled eye.
In Cibber's look commanding forrows speak,
And call the tear faft trick'ling down my cheek.
There is a fault which stirs the critic's rage;
A want of due attention on the stage.
I have feen actors, and admir'd ones too,
Whose tongues wound up fet forward from their
In their own speech who whine, or roar away,
Yet feem unmov'd at what the rest may fay;
Whose eyes and thoughts on diffrent objects roam,
Until the prompter's voice recal them home.
Diveft yourself of hearers, if you can,
And strive to speak, and be the very man,
Why should the well-bred actor wish to know
Who fits above to-night, or who below?
So, 'mid th' harmonious tones of grief or rage,
Italian fquallers oft difgrace the ftage;
When, with a fimp'ring leer, and bow profound,
The fqueaking Cyrus greets the boxes round;
Or proud Mandane, of imperial race,
Familiar drops a curt'fie to her grace.
To fuit the dress demands the actor's art, Yet there are thofe who over-drefs the part. To fome prefcriptive right give settled things, Black wigs to murd'rers, feather'd hats to kings. But Michael Caffio might be drunk enough, Though all his features were not grim'd with fnuff,
Why should Pol Peachum fhine in fatin cloathes?
Why ev'ry devil dance in fcarlet hofe?
But in ftage-cuftoms what offends me most
Is the flip-door, and flowly-rifing ghoft.
Tell me, nor count the question too fevere,
Why need the difmal powder'd forms appear?
When chilling horrors fhake th' affrighted king,
And guilt torments him with her fcorpion fting;
When keeneft feelings at his bofom pull,
And fancy tells him that the feat is full;
Why need the ghoft ufurp the monarch's
To frighten children with his mealy face?*
The king alone should form the phantom there,
And talk and tremble at the vacant chair.
If Belvidera her lov'd lofs deplore, Why for twin spectres bursts the yawning floor? When with diforder'd starts, and horrid cries, She paints the murder'd forms before her eyes, And still purfues them with a frantic ftare, 'Tis pregnant madness brings the visions there. More instant horror would enfore the scene, If all her shudd'rings were at shapes unseen. Poet and Actor thus, with blended skill, Mould all our paffions to their inftant will; 'Tis thus, when feeling Garrick treads the ftag, (The speaking comment of his Shakespear's page) Oft as I drink the words with greedy ears,
I fhake with horror, or diffolve with tears.
O, ne'er may folly feize the throne of taste,
Nor dulnefs lay the realms of genius waste !
No bouncing crackers ape the thund'rer's fire,
No tumbler float upon the bending wire!
More natural uses to the ftage belong,
Than tumblers, monsters, pantomime, or fong
For other purpose was that spot defign'd:
To purge the paffions, and reform the mind,
To give to nature all the force of art,
And while it charms the ear to mend the heart,
Thornton, to thee, I dare with truth commend,
The decent stage as virtue's natural friend.
Though oft debas'd with fcenes profane and loose,
No reafon weighs against its proper ufe.
Though the lewd prieft his facred function fhame,
Religion's perfect law is still the fame.
Shall they, who trace the paffions from their rife,
Shew fcorn her features, her own image vice?
Who teach the mind its proper force to scan,
And hold the faithful mirror up to man,
Shall their profeffion e'er provoke difdain
Who ftand the foremost in the moral train,
Who lend reflection all the grace of art,
And strike the precept home upon the heart?
Yet, hapless Artist! though thy skill can raife
The bursting peal of universal praise,
Though at thy beck Applaufe delighted stands,
And lifts, Briareus' like, her hundred hands,
Know, Fame awards thee but a partial breath!
Not all thy talents brave the ftroke of death.
Poets to ages yet unborn appeal,
And latest times th' Eternal Nature feel.
Though blended here the praise of bard and play's.
While more than half becomes the Actor's fhare,
Relentless death untwifts the mingled fame,
And finks the player in the poet's name.
The pliant muscles of the various face,
The mien that gave each fentence Arength and
The tuneful voice, the eye that spoke the mind, Are gone, nor leave a fingle trace behind.
Quid tibi cum Cirrhâ? quid cum Permessidos undâ ? Romanum propius divitiifque Forum eft.
Others there are, who, indolent and vain,
Contemn the science, they can ne'er attain:
Who write, and read, but all by fits and starts,
And varnish folly with the name of Parts ¿
Truft all to genius, for they fcorn to pore,
Till e'en that little Genius is no more.
Knowledge in Law care only can attain,
Where honour's purchas'd at the price of pain.
If, loit'ring, up th' ascent you cease to climb,
No ftarts of Labour can redeem the time.
Industrious study wins by flow degrees,
True fons of Coke can ne'er be fons at eafe.
There are, whom Love of Poetry has fmit
Who, blind to intereft, arrant dupes to wit,
Have wander'd devious in the pleafing road,
With attic flowers and Claffic wreaths beftrew'd
Wedded to verfe, embrac'd the Mufe for life,
And ta'en, like modern bucks, their whores to wife.
Where'er the Mufe ufurps defpotic sway,
TOW Chrift-church left, and fixt at Lincoln's All other ftudies muft of force give way,
Th'important ftudies of the Law begin.
Now groan the shelves beneath th`unusual charge
Of Records, Statutes, and Reports at large.
Each Claffic author feeks his peaceful nook,
And modeft Virgil yields his place to Coke.
No more, ye Bards, for vain precedence hope,
But even Jacob take the lead of Pope!
While the pil'd fhelves fink down on one another,
And each huge folio has its cumb'rous brother,
While arm'd with thefe, the Student views with awe
His rooms become the magazine of law,
Say whence fo few fucceed? where thousands aim,
So few e'er reach the promis'd goal of fame?
Say, why Cæcilius quits a gainful trade
For regimentals, fword, and fmart cockade ?
Or Sextus why his first profeffion leaves
For narrower band, plain shirt, and pudding fleeves?
The depth of law afks ftudy, thought, and care?
Shall we feek thefe in rich Alonzo's heir?
Such diligence, alas! is feldom found
In the brifk heir to forty thousand pound.
Wealth, that excufes folly, floth creates,
Few, who can spend, e'er learn to get eftates,
What is to him dry cafe, or dull report,
Who ftudies fashions at the Inns of Court;
And proves that thing of emptinefs and show,
That mongrel, half form'd thing, a Temple-Beau?
Obferve him daily faunt'ring up and eɔwn,
In purple flippers, and in filken gown;
Laft night's debauch, his morning conversation;
The coming, all his evening preparation.
By law let others toil to gain renown!
Florio's a gentleman, a man o'th' town.
He nor courts clients, or the law regarding.
Hurries from Nando's down to Covent-Garden:
Yet he's a Scholar ;-mark him in the Pit
With critic catcall found the ftops of wit!
Supreme at George's he harangues the throng,
Cenfor of ftile from tragedy to fong:
Him ev'ry witling views with fecret awe,
Deep in the Drama, fhallow in the Law.
In the preface to Colman's profe that gentleman claims the prefent performance, and fays that it was given to the Author to fill up a volume of poems published by fubfcription.
Int'reft in vain puts in her prudent claim,
Nonfuited by the pow'rful plea of fame:
As well you might weigh lead against a feather,
As ever jumble wit and law together.
On Littleton Coke gravely thus remarks,
(Remember this, ye rhyming Temple sparks !
In all our author's tenures, be it noted, "This is the fourth time any verfe was quoted." Which, 'gainst the Mufe and verfe, may well im ply
What lawers call à noli profequi.
Quit then, dear George, O quit the barren field,
Which neither profit nor reward can yield!
What tho' the fprightly feene, well acted, draws,
From unpack'd Englishmen unbrib'd applause,
Some monthly Grub, fome Dennis of the age,
In print cries fhame on the degen'rate stage*.
If haply Churchill strive with generous aim,
To fan the fparks of genius to a flame;
If all NASK'D, UNKNOWING, AND UNKNOWN,
By noting thy defert, he proves his own;
Envy fhall ftraight to Hamilton's repair,
And vent her spleen, and gall, and venom there,
Thee, and thy works, and all our friends decry,
And boldly print and publish a rank lie,
Swear your own hand the flatt'ring likeness drew,
Swear your own breath fame's partial trumpet blew.
Well I remember oft your friends have faid,
(Friends, whom the fureft maxims ever led)
Turn parfon, Colman, that's the way to thrive :
Your parfons are the happiest men alive.
Judges, there are but twelve, and never more
But Stalls untold, and Bishops, twenty-four,
Of pride and claret, floth and ven'fon full,
Yon prelate mark, right reverend and dull!
He ne'er, good man, need penfive vigils koep
To preach his audience once a week to fleep;
• See the very curious and VERY SIMILAR criticifms on the comedy of the Jealous Wife, in the two Reviews, together with the most malicious and infolent attack on the writer, and the author of this Collection in the Critical Review for March; an injury poorly repaired by a lame apology in the Review for the fucceeding month, containing fresh infults on one of the injured parties.
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