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36
1
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS
VOL. IV.
1

OF

!
G. P. PUTNAM & COMPANY, 10 PARK PLACE.
1851
teni L. Barbour
he quest
abour
6-9-27
CONTENTS
OF THE
FOURTH VOLUME.
POEMS.
PAOS
21
45
63
THE TRAVELLER; OR A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY,
THE HERMIT ; A BALLAD,
THE DESERTED Village,
The Haunch of Venison ; a PoeticaL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE,
The CartIVITY; AN ORATORIO. (Now printed from the original MS.
in Goldsmith's bandwriting,]
RETALIATION,
85
93
.
111
MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.
124
ib.
The Clown's Reply,
Prologue, written and spoken by the Poet Laberius, a Roman Knight,
whom Cæsar forced upon the stage. Preserved by Macrobius,
The Logicians Refuted. In Imitation of Dean Swift,
Epigram on a Beautiful Youth, struck blind by Lightning,
Stanzas on the taking of Quebec, and death of General Wolfe,
126
129
ib.
.
vi
CONTENTY,
PAGB
66
130
ib.
132
133
135
ih.
136
1:10
112
143
145
146
1419
Stanzas. Weeping, murmuring, complaining,"
The Gift. To Iris,
An Elegy on the Glory of her Sex, Mrs. Mary Blaize,
Description of an Author's Bed-chamber,
Song. • O Memory! thou fond deceiver !"
Song. “ The Wretch condemn’d with Life to part,"
The Double Transformation. A Tale,
A New Simile. In the inanırer of Swifi,
Stanzas on Woman,
Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog,
Epitaph on Edward Purdon,
Epilogue to the Comedy of “ The Sister,"
Verses, in Reply to an Invitation to Dinner at Sir George Baker's.
(Vow first printed,]
Epitaph on Dr. Parnell,
Epilogue to the Comedy of “ The Good-Natured Man,"
Prologue to ibe Tragedy of “ Zobeide,
An Epilogue, intended for Mrs. Bulkley,
Threnodia Augustalis ; sacred to the Memory of lier Royal Highness,
the Princess Dowager of Wales,
Letter, in Prose and Verse, to Mrs. Bunbury. (Now firrt printed.]
Epilogue to the Comedy of “She Stoops to conquer;, or the Mistakes
of a Night,"
Epilogue to the Comedy of She Stoops to Conquer;" intended to be
spoken by Mrs. Bulbley and Miss Carey,
Song. “Ah me! when shall I marry me?"
Epilogue ; spoken by Mr. Lee Lewes, in the Character of Harlequin,
at his benefit,
150
ib.
152
153
156
166
.
170
66
172
176
177
DRAMAS.
Tue Goop-NATURED MAN.
A COMEDY,
189
THE MISTAKES OF
A Nigut.
A
Sue Sroops CONQU'ER; OR
COMEDY,
271
SCENE FROM THE GRUMELER ; A FARCE. (Now first printed,]
357
CONTENTS.
vii
CRITICISM RELATING TO POETRY AND THE BELLES.
LETTRES.
(now FIRST COLLECTED.]
PAGB
1. Burke on the Sublime and Beautiful,
365
11. Professor Mallet on the Mythology and Poetry of the Celtes, 376
III. Thornton and Colman's Connoisseur,
382
iv. Wilkie's Epigoniad,
384
v. Home's Tragedy of Douglas, .
400
vi. Cardinal de Polignac's Anti-Lucretius,
407
vii. Gray's Odes,
412
vii. Wise's Inquiries concerning the First Inhabitants, Language,
Religion, Learning, and Letters of Europe, .
419
ix. Bayly's Introduction to Languages, Literary and Philosophical, 429
x. Burton's Greek Tragedies,
432
xi. Cicero's Tusculan Disputations,
436
XII. Massey's Translation of Ovid's Fasti, .
442
xi. Marriott's Female Conduct; an Essay on the Art of Pleasing.
To be practised by the Fair Sex, before and after Marriage, 451
xiv. Barrett's Translation of Ovid's Epistles,
455
*v. Church's edition of Spenser's Faerie Queen,
467
XVI. Langhorne's Death of Adonis, from the Greek of Bion,
472
XVII. Ward on Oratory,
478
XVIII. Murphy's Orphan of China,
481
xix. Dr. Young's Conjectures on Original Composition ; in a Letter
to the Author of Sir Charles Grandison,
490
xx. Thyer's Genuine Remains, in Prose and Verse, of Samuel Butler, 494
xxi The Twentieth Epistle of Horace to his Book modernized, by
the Author of Female Conduct, .
514
XXII. Dunkin's Epistle to Lord Chesterfield,
518
XXII. Goguet on the Origin and Progress of Laws, Arts, and Sciences, · 523
POEMS.
THE
TRAVELLER;
OR,
A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY,
A POEM.
.
CRITICAL REMARKS.
13
6
[“ The Traveller” was published in December 1764, and was
the earliest production to which Goldsmith prefixed his name.
As Dr. Johnson was the first to introduce it to the good opinion
of the public, in a manner which could not fail to draw attention,
it will not be uninteresting to look back at what he then said,
and observe how perfectly all judges of poetry have concurred in
his opinion :-
“ The author has, in an elegant dedication to his brother, a country clergy-
man, given the design of his poem. Without espousing the cause of any
party, I have attempted to moderate the rage of all. I have endeavored to
show that there may be equal happiness in other states, though differently
governed from our own ; that each state has a peculiar principle of happiness,
and that this principle in each state, and in our own in particular, may be
carried to a mischievous excess.' That he may illustrate and enforce this
important position, the author places himself on a summit of the Alps, and
turning his eyes around in all directions, upon the different regions that lie
before him, compares not merely their situation and policy, but those social
and domestic manners which, afier a very few deductions, make the sum total
of huinan life.
• Ev'n now where Alpine solitudes ascend,
I sit me down a pensive hour 10 spend;
And, plac'd on high above the storm's career,
Look downward where an hundred realms appear ;
Lakes, forests, cities, plains, extending wide,
The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride.
When thus Creation's charms around combine,
Amidst the store should thankless pride repine ?
Say, should the philosophic mind disdain
That good which makes each huinbler bosom vain?
Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can,
These little things are great to little man;
And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind
Exults in all the good of all mankind.'
“ The author already appears by his numbers to be a versifier, and by his
scenery to be a poet ; it therefore only remains that his sentiments discover
him to be a just estimator of comparative happiness. The goods of life are
either given by nature or procured by ourselves. Nature has distributed her
gifts in very different proportions, yet all her children are content ; but the
acquisitions of art are such as terminate in good or evil. its they are dif-
ferently regulated or combined.
CRITICAL REMARKS.
<
• Nature, a mother kind alike to all,
Still grants her bliss at Labor's earnest call ;
With food as well the peasant is supplied
On Ida's cliffs as Arno's shelvy side ;
And though the rocky crested summits frown,
These rocks, by custom, turn to beds of down.
From Art more various are the blessings sent ;
Wealth, commerce, honor, liberty, content.
Yet these each other's power so strong contest,
That either seems destructive of the rest.
Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment fails,
And honor sinks where commerce lung prevails.
Hence every state to one lov'd blessing prone,
Conforms and models life to that alone.'
“ This is the position which he conducts through Italy, Switzerland,
France, Holland, and England ; and which he endeavors to confirm by
remarking the manners of tsery country. Having censured the degeneracy
of the modern Italians, he proceeds thus :-
• My soul, iurn from them; turn we to survey
Where rougher climes a nobler race display,
Where the bleak Swiss their storiny mansion tread,
And force a churlish soil for scanty bread;
No product here the barren lills afford,
But man and steel, the soldier and his sword;
No vernal blooms their torpii rocks array,
But winter lingering chills the lap of May :
No Zephyr fondiy sue's the wountain's breast,
But meteois glare, and stormy glooms invest'
“ But having found that the rural life of a Swiss has its evils as well as
comforts, he turns to l'rance :-
• To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign,
I turn; and France display: her bright domain.
Gay, spriglıly land of mirth and social case,
Plead with thyself, whom all the world can please.
So blest a lite these thoughtless realis display,
Thus idle busy rolls their world away:
Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear,
For honor forins the social temple here.
Ilovor, that praise which real merit grins,
Or een imaginary worth obtains,
Dere passes current; paid froin hand to hand,
In shifts in Splendid tral, round the land;
(RITICAL REMARKS.
15
From courts to camps, to cottages it strays,
And all are taught an avarice of praise ;
They please, are pleas'd, they give to get esteem,
Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem.
Yet France has its evils-
• For praise, too dearly lov'd, or warmly sought,
Enfeebles all internal strength of thought ;
And the weak soul, within itself unblest,
Leans for all pleasure on another's breast.
Hence ostentation here, with tawdry arl,
Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart;
Here vanity assumes her pert grimace,
And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace ;
Ilere beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer,
To boast one splendid banquet once a year;
The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws,
Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause.'
• Ha ng thus passed through Holland, he arrives at England-
• Stern o'er cach bosom Reason holds her state,
With daring aims irregularly great ;
Pride in their port, defiance in their eye,
I see the lords of human kind pass by ;
Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band,
By forms unfashion'd fresh from Nature's hand.'
With the inconveniences that harass the sons of freedom, this extract
shall be concluded -
That independence Britons prize too high,
Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie;
The self-dependent lordlings stand alone,
All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown;
Here by the bonds of nature feebly held,
Minds combat ininds, repelling and repellid;
Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar,
Represt ambition struggles round her shore.
Nor this the worst As Nature's ties decay,
As duty, love, and honor fail to sway,
Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law,
Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe.
Hence all obedience bows to those alone,
And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown;
Till time may come, when suipt of all her charms,
The land of opholars, and the nurse of arms :
16
CRITICAL REMARKS.
66
Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame,
Where kings have toil'd, and poets wrote for fame,
One sink of level avarice shall lie,
And scholars, soldiers, kings, un honor'd die.'
“Such is the poem on which we now congratulate the public, as on a
production to which, since the death of Pope, it will not be easy to find any
thing equal”—Critical Review, Dec. 1764.
Goldsmith's poetry,” says Mr. Campbell,“ enjoys a calm and steady
popularity. It inspires us, indeed, with no admiration of daring design or
of fertile invention ; but it presents, within its narrow limits, a distinct and
umbroken view of poetical delightfulness. Ilis descriptious and sentiments
have the pure zest of nature. lle is refined without false delicacy, and correct
without insipidity. Perhaps there is an intellectual composure in his manner,
which may, in some passages, be said to approach to the reserved and prosaic;
but he unbends from this graver strain of reflection to tenderness, and even to
playfulness, with an ease and grace almost exclusively his own ; and connects
extensive views of the happiness and interests of society, with pictures of life
that touch the heart by their familiarity. Ilis language is certainly simple,
though it is not cast in a rugged or careless mould. lle is no disciple of the
gaunt and famished school of simplicity. Deliberately as he wrote, he cannot
be accused of wanting natural and idiomatic expres-jon. He uses the orna-
ments which must always distinguish trup poetry from prose ; and when he
adopts colloquial plainness, it is with the ntmost care and skill, to avoid a vulgar
humility. There is more of this sustained simplicity, of this cha-te economny
and choice of worus, in Col1-mith, than in any modern port, or perhaps than
would be attainable or desirable as a standard for every writer of rhymne. But
let us not imagine that the screne graers of this port were not admirably
adapted to his sulijarts. This poetry is not that of inprtons, but of contemplative
sensibility; of a spirit breathing its regrets and recollections, in a tone that
has no dissovaner with the calm of philosophical reflection. He betrays so
little effort to make us ri-ionary by the usual and pulpable fictions of his art;
he keeps apparently so close to rralities, and draws certain conclusions,
respecting the radieal interests of man, so bolilly and deciderlly, that we pray
him a compliment, not always extended to the tuneful tribu', -that of judging
his sentiments by their strict and logical interpretation. In this judring him
by the test of liis philosophical spirit, I am not prepared to say that lie is in
purely impartial theorist. He advanco's general positions, rrspecting the liap-
piness of society, founded on limited vions of unh, and under the bias of local
feelings. Ile contemplates only one side of the que-tion. It must be always
thus in poetry Let the mind be ever so tranquilly di-posed 10 radlertion,
yet if it retnins pierci al sonlatiull, will embraer only those speculative
opinions that tall in with the toile of the imagination." ---Vjecimens of British
Poets, vol. vi p. 361.)
TO THE
REV. HENRY GOLDSMITH.
Dear Sir,
I am sensible that the friendship between us can acquire
no new force from the ceremonies of a Dedication; and per-
haps it demands an excuse thus to prefix your name to my
attempts, which you decline giving with your own.
But as a
part of this poem was formerly written to you from Switzer-
land, the whole can now, with propriety, be only inscribed to
you. It will also throw a light upon many parts of it, when
the reader understands that it is addressed to a man, who, de-
spising fame and fortune, has retired early to happiness and
obscurity, with an income of forty pounds a year.
I now perceive, my dear brother, the wisdom of your
humble choice. You have entered upon a sacred office, where
the harvest is great and the laborers are but few; while
you
have left the field of ambition, where the laborers are many
and the harvest not worth carrying away. But of all kinds
of ambition, what from the refinement of the times, from
different systems of criticism, and from the divisions of party,
that which pursues poetical fame is the wildest.*
* [“ But of all kinds of ambition, as things are now circumstanced, per-
haps that which pursues poetical fame is the wildest. What from the increased
18
DEDICATION.
Poctry makes a principal amusement among unpolished
nations; but in a country verging to the extremes of refine-
ment, painting and music come in for a share. As these offer
the feeble mind a less laborious entertainment, they at first
rival poetry, and at length supplant her; they engross all
that favor once shown to her, and, though but younger sisters,
seize upon the elder's birthright.
Yet, however this art may be neglected by the juwerful,
it is still in great danger from the mistaken efforts of the
learned to improve it. What criticisms have we not heard of
late in favor of blank verse, and Pindaric odes, chorusses,
anapests, and iambies, alliterative care and happy negligence !
Every absurdity has now a champion to defend it: and as he
is generally much in the wrong, so he has always inuch to
say; for error is ever talkative.
But there is an enemy to this art still more dangerous-[
mean party Party entirely distorts the judgment and de-
stroys the taste. When the mind is once infected with this
disease, it can only find pleasure in what contributes to in
crease the distemper. Like the tiger that seldom desists from
pursuing man, after having onec preyed upon human flesh,
the reader, who has once gratified his appetite with alumny,
makes ever after the most agreeable feast upon murdered
refinement of the times, from the diversity of juilaments produced by oppo-
sing systems of criticism, and from the inere prevalent divisions of opinion
intluenced by pariy, the strongest and happiest efforts can expect to please but
in a very narrow circle. Though the port wrre as sure of his aim as the
imperial archer of antiquy, who boasted that he never missed their heart; y't
would many of his chatix now fly at randui, for the heart is too often in the
wrong place."- First edit)
DEDICATION.
19
reputation. Such readers generally admire some half-witted
thing, who wants to be thought a bold man, having lost the
character of a wise one. Ilim they dignify with the name of
poct: his tawdry lampoons are called satires; his turbulence
is said to be force, and his frenzy lire.
What reception a poem may find wich has neither abuse,
party, nor blank verse to support it, I caynot tell, nor am I
solicitous to know. My aims are right. Without espousing
the cause of any party, I have attempted to moderate the rage
of all. I have endeavored to show, that there may be equal
happiness in states that are differently governed from our
own; that every state has a particular principle of happiness,
and that this priuciple in each may be carried to a mischie-
There are few can judge better than yourself,
how far these positions are illustrated in this poem.
VOUS excess.
I am, dear Sir,
Your most affectionate Brother,
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
* [“ And that this principle in each state, and in our own in particular,
may be carried to a mischievous excess.”—First edit.]
+ [A feeling worthy of all praise produced this dedication to his brother.
Careless of any interests of his own which might be promoted by conciliating
the powerful or the wealthy, it was intended not merely as a return of respect
and attention for the kindness shown to his earlier years, but to bring into
notice, and perhaps preferment, should the work become popular, a worthy,
though friendless clergyman. Allusions to the motive took place in conversu -
tion with his friends, and afterwards found its way into the newspapers; in a
paragraph in imitation of a paper of Switt, where, among other instances of
men who have acted nobly, is the following :-“ Dr. Goldsmith, when he dedi-
cated his beautiful poem, the Traveller, to a man of no greater income than
forty pounds a year."-Sce Life, ch. xiv.)
.
TAE
TRAVELLER;
OR,
A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY.
REMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, slow,*
Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po;
Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boort
Against the houseless stranger shuts the door;
* (An anecdote connected with this poem, exhibiting that absence of mind
and facility of temper in its author, which occasionally led him to make ad-
missions which he did not mean, and which were thence sometimes turned
against himself, was told by Dr. Johnson. “I remember," said he, “ Chamier
once asked him what he meant by slow, in the first line of the Traveller. Did
he mean tardiness of locomotion? Gold-mith, who would say something
without consideration, answered, 'Yes.' I was sitting by and said, “ No, sir,
you did not mean tardiness of locomotion ; you mean that sluggishness of
mind which comes upon a man in solitude' Ne, however, was a man who,
whatever he wrote, did it better than any other man could do: he deserved a
place in Westminster Abbey, and every year he lived would have deserved it
better." See Boswell, vol. vii p. 85, ed. 1835.)
† (Carinthia was visited by Goldsmith in 1755. Being questioned as to
the justice of the censure passed upon a people whom other travellers praised
for being as good, if not better than their neighbors, he gave as a reason his
being once, after a fatiguing day's walk, obliged to quit n house he had entered
for shelter, and pas part or whole of the night in serking another. See
Life, ch. x]
22
THE TRAVELLER.
Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies,
A weary waste expanding to the skies;
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see,
My heart untravell’d fondly turns to thee:
Still to my Brother turns, with ceaseless pain,
And drays at each remove a lengthening chain.*
Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend,
And round his dwelling guardian saints attend;
Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire
To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire;
Blest that abode, where want and pain repair,
And every stranger finds a ready chair;
Blest he those feasts with simple plenty crown'l, f
Where all the ruddy family around
Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail,
Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale;
Or press the lashful stranger to liis food,
And learn the luxury of doing good
But me, not destin'd such delights to share,
My prime of life in wandering spent and care;
Impelld, with steps unceasing, to pursue
Some fleetiug good, that mocks me with the views
* (« The farther I travel, I feel the pain of separation with stronger force;
those ties that bind me to my native country and you, are still unbroken. By
every remove I only drag a greater length of chain.”_Citizen of the World.
See vol ii. p. 21.
† (“* Blest be those flasis where mirth and peace abound."- First edit.}
1 [linit.-"Jarl was their lolum, bomly wis their fool,
For all their luxury was donen coul."- GARTH.]
$ " When will my wanderings he ai on pod? When will my restlegg
TII E
23
TRAVELLER.
That, like the circle bounding earth and skies,
Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies ;*
My fortune leads to traverse realms alono,
And find no spot of all the world my own.t
Ev'n now, where Alpine solitudes ascend,
I sit me down a pensive hour to spend;
And, plac'd on high above the storm's career,
Look downward where an hundred realms appear;
Lakes, forests, cities, plains, extending wide. I
The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride.
When thus Creation's charms around combine,
Amidst the store, should thankless pride repine ?
Say, should the philosophic mind disdain
That good which makes cach humbler bosom vain ?!
Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can,
These little things are great to little man ;
And wiser le, whose sympathetic mind
disposition give me leave to enjoy the present hour? When at Lyons, I
thought all happiness lay beyond the Alps; when in Italy, I found myself still
in want of something, and expected to leave solitude behind me by going
into Romelia ; and now you find me turning back, still expecting ease every
where but where I am.”—The Bee, See vol. i. p. 28.]
* “Death, the only friend of the wretched, for a little while mocks the
weary traveller with the view, and like his liorizon still flies before him."-
Vicar of Wakefield, ch. xxix]
+ [Init.—- My destin'd miles I shall have gone,
By Thames or Mease, by Pn or Rhone,
And found no foot of earth my own."- Prior.)
1 ["Lakes, forests, cities, plins extended wide." – First edit.)
${"* Amidst the store, 't we're thankiess to repine." - First edit.}
I [" "Twere affectation all, and school-taucht prile,
To spumn the spionu tamngs by heaven supply']." - First edit)
24
TRAVELLER.
THE
Esults in all the good of all mankind.
Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splendor crown'd;
Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round;
Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale;
Ye bending swains, that dress the flowery vale;
For me your tributary stores combine:
Creation's beir, the world, the world is mine!
As some lone miser, visiting his store,
Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er ;
Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill,
Yet still he sighs, for boards are wanting still :
Thus to my breast altrrnate passions rise,
Pleas'd with each good that IIeaven to man supplies :
Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall,
To see the hoard of human bliss so small;*
And oft I wish, amidst the scene to find,
Some spot to real lappiness consigud,
Where my worn soul, cach wandering hope at rest,
Jay gatlier bliss to see my fellows blest.
But, where to find that happiest spot below,t
Who can direct, when all pretend to know?
The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own ; #
Estols the treasures of liis stormy seas,
And liis long niylits of revelry and case :
The naked negro, pinting at the line,
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine,
.
("To see the sum of human bliss so small." --First edit 1
+ * Yet, where to find," &C- Fir:toll.
! • Probily a pre that comtry for his own"? First edit)
THE TRAVELLER.
25
Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave,
And thanks his gods for all the good they gave.
Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam,
His first, best country, ever is at home.
And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare,*
And estimate the blessings which they share,
Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find
An equal portion dealt to all mankind ;
As different good, by art or nature given,
To different nations makes their blessings even.
Nature, a mother kind alike to all,
Still grants her bliss at labor's earnest call;
With food as well the peasant is supplied
On Idra's cliffs as Arno's shelvy side;
And though the rocky crested summits frown,t
These rocks, by custom, turn to beds of down.
From art more various are the blessings sent;
Wealth, commerce, honor. liberty, content.
Yet these each other's power so strong contest,
That either seems destructive of the rest.
Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment fails,
And bonor sinks where commerce long prevails.
Hence every state to one lov'd blessing prone,
Conforms and models life to that alone.
(" And yet, perhaps, if states with states we scan,
Or estimate their bliss on reason's plan,
Though patriots flatter and though fools contend,
We still shall find uncertainty suspend;
Find that each good, by art or nature given,
To these or those, but makes the balance even:
Find that the bliss of ai is much the same,
And patriouc boasting reason's shame."--First edit )
* (And though rough rocks or gloomy summits frown."--First odit.]
VOL. IV.
2
26
THE TRAVELLER.
Each to the fav’rite happiness attends,
And spurns the plan that aims at other ends,
Till, carried to excess in each domain,
This fav’rite good begets peculiar pain.
But let us try these truths with closer eyes,
And trace them through the prospect as it lies:
Here for a while my proper cares resign'd,
Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind;
Like yon neglected shrub at random cast,
That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast.
Far to the right where Apennine ascends,
Bright as the summer, Italy extends;
Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side,
Woods over woods in gay theatrie pride:
While oft some temple's mould'ring tops between,
With vencrable grandeur mark the scene.
Could Nature's bounty satisfy the breast,
The sons of Italy were surely blest.
Whatever fruits in different climes were found,
That proudly rise, or hunably court the ground;
Whaterer blooms in torrid tracts appear,
Whose bright succession ducks the varied year;
Whatever sweets salute the northern sky
With vernal lives, that blossom but to die;
These here disporting own the kindred soil,
Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil;
While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand
To winnow fragrance round the smiling land.
THE TRAVELLER.
27
But small the bliss that sense alone bestows,
And sensual bliss is all the nation knows.
In florid beauty groves and fields appear,
Man seems the only growth that dwindles here.
Contrasted faults through all his manners reign;
Though poor, luxurious; though submissive, vain;
Though grave, yet trifling; zealous, yet untrue;
And even in penance planning sins anew.
All evils here contaminate the mind,
That opulence departed leaves behind;
For wealth was theirs, not far remov'd the date,
When commerce proudly flourish'd through the state;
At her command the palace learn'd to rise,
Again the long-fall'n column sought the skies;
The canvas glow'd beyond e'en nature warm,
The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form:
Till, more unsteady than the southern gale,
Commerce on other shores display'd her sail;*
While nought remaind of all that riches gave,
But towns unmann'd, and lords without a slave;
And late the nation found, with fruitless skill,
Its former strength was but plethoric ill.
Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied
By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride :f
From these the feeble heart and long-fall’n mind
An easy compensation seem to find.
Here
may
be in bloodless pomp array'd,
seen,
. ["But more unsteady than the southern gale,
Soon commerce lund on other shores her sail."-First edit)
+ [" Yet, though to fortune lost, here still abide
Some splendid arts, the wrecks of former pride."--First edit ]
28
THE TEAVELLER.
The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade;
Processions form’d for piety and love,
A mistress or a saint in every grove.
By sports like these are all their cares beguild,"
The sports of children satisfy the child it
Each nobler aim, repress'd by long control,
Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul;
While low delights, succeeding fast behind,
In happier meanness occupy the mind;
As in those domes where Cæsars once bore sway,
Defac'd by time, and tott'ring in decay,
There in the ruin, heedless of the dead,
The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed;
And, wondering man could want the larger pile,
Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile.
[Either Sir Joshua Reynolds, or a mutual friend who immediately com-
municated the story to him, calling at Goldsmith's lodgings, opened the door
without ceremony, and discovered him not in meditation, or in the throcs of
poetic birth, but in the boyish oflice of teaching a favorite dog to sit upright
upon its haunches, or as it is commonly said, to beg. Occasionally he
glanced his eyes over his desk, and occasionally shook his finger at the un-
willing pupil, in order to make him retain his position ; while on the page
before him was written that couplet, with the ink of the second line still wet,
from the description of Italy:-
“By sports like these are all their cares beguiled,
The sports of children satisfy the child.”
The sentiment seemed so appropriate to the employment, that the visitor could
not refrain from giving vent to his surprise in a strain of banter, which was
received with characteristic good-humor, and the admission at once made, that
the amusement in which he had been engaged had given birth to the idea.-
See Life, ch. xiv.)
+ (Here followed in the first edition :-
"At sports like these while foreign arms advance,
In passive case they leave the world to chance.'']
1 “ When struggling Virtue sinks by long control,
She leaves at last, or feebly mans the soul.”—First edit.)
$(" Amidst the run, heedless of the dead."-- First edit.]
THE TRAVELLER.
29
a
My soul, turn from them; turn we to survey
Where rougher climes a nobler race display,
Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread,
And force a churlish soil for scanty bread:
No product here the barren hills afford,
But man and steel, the soldier and his sword;
No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array,
But winter lingering chills the lap of May;
No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast,
But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest.
Yet still, even here, content can spread a charm,
Redress the clime, and all its rage
disarm.
Though poor the peasant's hut, his feast though small,
He sees his little lot the lot of all;
Sees no contiguous palace rear its head,
To shame the meanness of his humble shed ;
No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal,
To make him loathe his vegetable meal;
But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil,
Each wisl contracting, fits him to the soil.
Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short repose,
Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes ;
With patient angle trolls the finny deep,
Or drives his vent'rous ploughshare to the steep;
Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way,
And drags the struggling savage into day.
At night returning, every labor sped,
He sits him down the monarch of a shed;
Smiles by his cheerful fire. and round surveys
His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze;
While his lov'd partner, boastful of her board,
30
THE TRAVELLER.
Displays her cleanly platter on the board :
And haply too some pilgrim, thither led,
With many a tale repays the nightly bed.
Thus every good his native wilds impart,
Imprints the patriot passion on his heart;
And e'en those ills that round his mansion rise,
Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies.
Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms,
And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms;
And as a child, when scaring sounds molest,*
Clings close and closer to the mother's breast,
So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar,
But bind him to his native mountains more.
Such are the charms to barren states assign’d;
Their wants but few, their wishes all confin'd.
Yet let them only share the praises due;
If few their wants, their pleasures are but few :
For every want that stinulates the breast
Becomes a source of pleasure when redrest;
Whence from such lands each pleasing science fies,
That first excites desire, and then supplies;
Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy,
To fill the languid pause with finer joy;
Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame,
Catch every nerve, and ribrate through the frame.
Their level life is but a mouldering fire,
Unquench'd by want, unfann'd by strong desire ;t
a
[" And as a babe, when scaring som k molest," &c. --First edit. )
+ " Their level life is but a manlilering fire,
Not quenchi by want, nor fann'l hy strong desire" -Did.)
THE TRAVELLER.
31
Unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheer
On some high festival of once a year,
In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire,
Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire.
But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow;
Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low:
For, as refinement stops, from sire to son
Unalter'd, unimprev'd the manners run ; *
And love's and friendship's finely-pointed dart
Fall blunted from each indurated heart.
Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast
May sit, like falcons cowering on the nest :
But all the gentler morals, such as play
Through life's more cultur'd walks, and charm the way,
These, far dispers’d, on timorous pinions fly,
To sport and flutter in a kinder sky.
To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign,
I turn; and France displays her bright domain.
Gay sprightly land of mirth and social ease,
Pleas'd with thyself, whom all the world can please,
How often have I led thy sportive choir,
With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire !
Where shading elms along the margin grew,
And, freshen'd from the wave, the zephyr fiew;
And haply, though my harsh touch falt'ring still,
But mock'd all tune, and marr’d the dancer's skill;
Yet would the village praise my wondrous power,
And dance, forgetful of the noon-tide hour.
(“Unaltered, unimproved their manners run." - First odit.)
+ [“ I had some knowledge of musie,” says George Primrose, in the Vica)
32
THE TRAVELLER.
Alike all
ages.
Dames of ancient days
Have led their children through the mirthful maze,
And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore,
Has frisk'd beneath the burthen of threescore.
So blest a lite these thoughtless realms display,
Thus idly busy rolls their world away:
Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear,
For honor forms the social temper here.
Honor, that praise which real merit gains,
Or e'en imaginary worth obtains,
Here passes current; paid from hand to hand,
It shifts in splendid traffic round the land;
From courts to camps, to cottages it strays,
And all are taught an avarice of praise;
They please, are pleas'd; they give to get esteem,
Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem."
But while this softer art their bliss supplies,
It gives their follies also room to rise;
For praise too dearly lov'd, or warmly sought,
Enfeebles all internal strength of thought;
And the weak soul, within itself unblest,
Leans for all pleasure on another's breast
of Wakefield, “ with a tolerable voire, and now turned what was my amusina
ment into a present means of subsistence. I passed among the harmless peas-
ants of Flanders, and among such of the French as wire proor enonatı to be
very merry; for I ever found them -prightly in proportion to their wants. When-
ever I approached a peasant's house towards night-tall, I played one of my
most merry tunes; and that procureid nie not only a lodging, but subsistence for
the next day.”- Sec Life, chy}
[": There is perhaps no couplet in English rhyme more perspieuously
condensed than those two lines of the Traveller,' in which the author describes
the at once flattering, vain, und happy character of the French "---('IMPREIL,
British Ports, vol vi. p. 26-2.1
THE
33
TRAVELLER.
Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art,
Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart;
Here vanity assumes her pert grimace,
And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace;
Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer,
To boast one splendid banquet once a year;
The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws,
Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause.
To men of other minds my fancy flies,
Embosom'd in the deep where Holland lies.
Methinks her patient sons before me stand,
Where the broad ocean leans against the land,
And, sedulous to stop the coming tide,
Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride.
Onward, methinks, and diligently slow,
The firm connected bulwark seems to grow;
Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar,
Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore.
While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile,
Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile;
• The slow canal, the yellow-blossom'd vale,
The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail,
The crowded mart, the cultivated plain,
A new creation rescu'd from his reign. *
Thus, while around the wave-subjected soil
Impels the native to repeated toil,
(Speaking of the sea retiring from parts of the land, Goldsmith nearly
repeats this description in his “ Ilistory of Animated Nature," vol. i. p. 276.
“But we need scarce mention these, when we find that the whole kingdom of
Ilolland seems to be a conquest on the sea, and in a manner rescued from its
2*
VOL.
IV.
34
TRAVELLER.
THE
Industrious habits in each bosom reign, *
And industry begets a love of gain.
Hence all the good from opulence that springs,
With all those ills superfluous treasure brings,
Are here display'd. Their much-lov'd wealth imparts
Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts:
But view them closer, craft and fraud appear,
E'en liberty itself is barter'd here.
At gold's superior charms all freedom flies,
The needy sell it, and the rich man buys;
A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves,
Here wretches seek dishonorable graves,
And calmly bent, to servitude conform,
Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm.
Heavens ! how unlike their Belgie sires of old !
Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold;
War in each breast, and freedom on each brow;-
How much unlike the sons of Britain now !
Fir'd at the sound, my genius sprends her wing,
And flies where Britain courts the western spring:
Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride,
And brighter streams than famid Ilydaspes glide;
bosom. The surface of the earth in this country is below the level of the bed
of the sea ; and I remember upon approaching the coast to have looked down
upon it from the sea as into a valley"]
[** Industrious habits in each brease obcain.''-Line edit.]
+ ["Ilow unlike the brawa pracants, their ancestors, who sprend terror in
either India, and always declared themselves the ailies of those who drew the
Eword in defence of freedom !"- Introduction to listory of the Seven Years'
War. See vol. i. p. 476.]
TIE TRAVELLER.
35
There all around the gentlest breezes stray,
There gentle music melts on every spray;
Creation's mildest charms are there combin'd,
Extremes are only in the master's mind!
Stern o'er each bosom reason holds her state,
With daring aims irregularly great;
Pride in their port, defiance in their eye,
I see the lords of human kind pass by ;*
Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band,
By forms unfashion’d, fresh from nature's hand,
Fierce in their native hardiness of soul,t
True to imagin'd right, above control,
While e'en the peasant boasts these rights to scan,
And learns to venerate himself as man. I
Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings picturd here,
Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear;
Too blest, indeed, were such without alloy,
But foster'd e'en by freedom, ills annoy ;
That independence Britons prize too high,
Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie;
The self-dependent lorulings stand alone,
All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown;
Here by the bonds of nature feebly held.Ş
Minds combat minds, repelling and repellid:
* ["I see the lords of human kind pass by,
Pride in their port, defiance in their eye."--First edit.)
["Fierce in a native,' &c.- Ibid.)
1 [“We talked of Goldsmith's Traveller, of which Dr. Johnson spoke
highly; and, while I was helping him on with his great-coat, he repeatedly
quoted from it the character of the British nation ; which he did with such
energy, that the fear started in his eye."-- Dosurell's Johnson, vol. v., p. 85,
edit. 1835.)
$("Sce, rhonch by circlin derps together held."'-First edil!
36
THE TRAVELLER.
Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar,
Represt ambition struggles round her shore,
Till, over-wrought, the general system feels
Its motions stop, or frenzy fire the wheels.
Nor this the worst. As nature's ties decay,*
As duty, love, and honor fail to sway,
Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law,
Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe.
Hence all obedience bows to these alone,
And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown :
Till time may come, when, stript of all her charms,
The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms,
Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame,
Where kings have toil'd, and poets wrote for fament
One sink of level avarice shall lie,
And scholars, soldiers, kings, uhonorel (lie.
Yet think not, thus when Freedom's ills I state,
I mean to flatter kings, or court the great:
Ye powers of truth, that bid my soul aspire,
Far from my bosom drive the low desire :I
And thou, fair Freedom, taught alike to feel
The rabble's rage, and tyrant's angry steel:
Thou transitory flower, alike undone
By proud contempt, or favor's fostering sun,
Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure.
I only would repress them to scrure :
. ["Nor this the worst as social bonus decay."-First edit.)
t (" And monarchs loil, and practs jant for fine." - Ibiil.)
${* Periah the wish; for, inly satisfied,
Above their promp I hold my rarool pride ". - Thil.)
THE TRAVELLER.
37
For just experience tells, in every soil,
That those that think must govern those that toil;
And all that Freedom's highest aims can reach,
Is but to lay proportion'd loads on each.
Hence, should one order disproportion'd grow,
Its double weight must ruin all below.
O then how blind to all that truth requires,
Who think it freedom when a part aspires !
Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms,
Except when fast-approaching danger warms:
But when contending chiefs blockade the throne,
Contracting regal power to stretch their own ;*
When I behold a factious band agree
To call it freedom, when themselves are free;
Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw,
Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law it
The wealth of climes, where savage nations roam,
Pillag'd from slaves, to purchase slaves at home;
(“The constitution of England is at present possessed of the strength of
its native oak, and the flexibility of the bending tamarisk ; but should the
people at any time, with a mistaken zeal, pant after an imaginary freedom,
and fancy that abridging monarchy was increasing their privileges, they would
be very much mistaken, since every jewel plucked from the crown of majesty
would only be made use of as a bribe to corruption : it might come to the few
who shared it among them, but would in fact impoverish the public. As the
Roman senators, by slow and imperceptible degrees, became masters of the
people, yet still flattered them with a show of freedom while themselves only
were free, so is it possible for a body of men, while they stand up for privi-
leges, to grow into an exuberance of power themselves, and the public become
actually dependent, while some of its individuals only governed.”—Citizen of
the World. See vol. ii. p. 212.)
+ ["What they may then expect may be seen by turning our eyes to Hol-
land, Genoa, or Venice, where the laws govern the poor, and the rich govern
the law.-Vicar of Wakefield, chap. xix. See vol. iii. p. 113 )
38
THE TRAVELLER.
Fear, pity, justice, indignation start,
Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart;
Till half a patriot, half a coward grown,
I fly from petty tyrants to the throne.
Yes, Brother, curse with me that baleful hour,
When first ambition struck at regal power;
And thus polluting honor in its source,
Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force.
Ilave we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore,
Her useful sous exchanged for useless ore?
Seen all her triumphis but destruction haste,
Like flaring tapers brightning as they wante;
Seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain,
Lead stern depopulation in her train,
And over fields where seatter'd hamlets rose,
In barren solitary pomp repose?
Have we not seen at pleasure's lordly call,
The smiling long-frequented village fall?
Beheld the duteous son, the sire decay'd,
The modest mation, and the blushing maid,
Fore'd from their homes, a melancholy train,
To traverse climes beyond the western main;
* [In this and the subsequent lines to the end of the passage, may be
traced the germ of the Deserted Village; so that the subject of that poem
was no doubt contemplatud as long as the poet avows; namely, five years,
and probably longer. If additional proof were requirrel of their reference to
an Irish village, we may find it in the couple where he expressly says to bia
brother:-
“Tlave we not seen at pleasure's lordly call,
The smiling long cguented villae fall ?'']
THE TRAVELLER.
39
Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around,
And Niagara stuns with thund'ring sound ?*
E'en now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays
Through tangled forests, and through dangerous ways;
Where beasts with man divided empire claim,
And the brown Indian marks with murd'rous aim it
There, while above the giddy tempest flies,
And all around distressful yells arise,
The pensive exile, bending with his woe,
To stop too fearful, and too faint to go,
Casts a long look where England's glories shine,
And bids his bosom sympathize with mine.
Vain, very vain, my weary search to find
That bliss which only centres in the mind :
Why have I stray'd from pleasure and repose,
To seek a good cach government bestows ?
In every government, though terrors reign,
Though tyrant kings, or tyrant laws restrain,
Ilow small, of all that human hearts endure,
That part which laws or kings can cause or cure.
(When Goldsmith wrote, the third syllable was rendered long; at pre-
sent, it is more usual to dwell upon the second. The former, however, is the
native Indian pronunciation. Ningara means thunder-water.)
† (" And the brown Indian takes a deadly aim.”-First elit.)
[“ Dr. Johnson said of Goldsmith’s • Traveller,' which had been published
in my absence, there had not been so fine a poem since Pope's time. In the
year 1783, he, at my requesi, marked with a pencil the lines which he had fur-
nished, which are only line 12014:--
"To stop too fearful, and too faint to go;'
and the concluding ten lines, except the last couplet but one."-- Boswell, vol.
ii., p. 309, ed. 1-35 )
40
THE TRAVELLER.
Still to ourselves in every place consigned,
Our own felicity we make or find :
With secret course, which no loud storms annoy,
Glides the smooth current of domestic joy.
The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel,
Luke's iron crown,* and Damien's bed of steel,t
To men remote from power but rarely known,
Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all our own.
* ["Goldsmith mentions Luke as a person well known, and superficial
readers have passed it over quite smoothly; while those of more attention have
been as much perplexed by Luke, as by Lyrliat in the Vanity of Human
Wishes.' The truth is, that Goldsmith himself was in a mistake. In the
• Respublica Hungarica,' there is an account of a desperate rebellion in the year
1514, headed by two brothers of the name of Zeck, George and Luke. When
it was quelled, George, not Luke, was punished, by his heaư being encircled
with a red-hot iron crown ; 'coronà candescente ferrea coronatur.' The same
severity of torture was exercised on the earl of Athol, one of the murderers
of James I. of Scotland.”—Doswell, vol. ii., p. 309.]
† Robert-François Damiens, the assassin who attempted the life of Louis
XV. in 1757. “ What the miserable inan suffered," says IIorace Walpole,“ is
not to be described. When first seized, and carried into the guard-chainber,
the garde-des-sçéaud and the Due d'Ayen ordered the tongs to be heated, and
pieces of flesh torn from his legs, to make him declare his accomplices. The
industrious art used to preserve his life was not less than the refinement of
torture by which they meaned to take it away. The inventions to form the
bed in which he lay (as the wounds on his loos prevented his standing, that
his health might in no shape be affected, equalled what a refining tyrant would
have sought to indulge his own luxury."- Memoirs of George II., vol. i. p. 105.
:>
T IᎻ Ꭼ Ꮋ Ꭼ Ꭱ Ꮇ I T .
A BALLAD.
1
1
[Willing to profit by such suggestions as the taste of Gold-
smith might throw out, portions of the "Rcliques of Ancient
Poetry” were submitted to him by his friend Percy, during the
progress of that work through the press. Admiration of the
style produced one of its frequent effects, imitation; to which, and
to the desire of gratifying the taste of the Countess of Northum-
berland, we owe this, perhaps the most beautiful Ballad in our
own, or in any language. It was written in 1764; and for the
pleasure of perusing it in print rather than in manuscript, by the
lady who was the immediate cause of its production, a few copies
were printed off in the octodecimo form, which are now rarely to
be met with. None is to be found, as a communication from the
Duke of Northumberland intimates, in the library of Sion IIouse,
nor is it in any of the public libraries of London. A copy, how-
ever, has been procured, which belonged to the industrious Isaac
Reed, to whose name is added the following memorandum :—“ Of
this Ballad, which is different from the copy printed in Gold-
smith's Works, a few copies only were printed." The name also
differs from that by which it is now known, as appears in the
heading, or title :-"Elvin and Angelina, a Bullail ; by MIr.
Goldsmith : printed for the amusement of the Countess of North-
umberland."
The originality of the poem being disputed in the St. James's
Chronicle, in 1767, Goldsmith addressed the following Letter to
the Editor :-
.
" SIR:
“ As there is nothing I dislike so much as newspaper controversy, particu-
larly upon trifles, permit me to be as concise as possible in informing a corres-
pondent of yours, that I recommended Blainville's Trarels because I thought
the book was a good one; and I think so still. I said, I was told by the
bookseller that it was then first published; but in that, it seems, I was misin-
formed, and my reading was not extensive enough to gre me right.
Another correspondent of yours, accuses me of having taken a Ballad I
66
published some time ago, from one* by the ingenious Mr. Percy. I do not
think there is any great resemblance between the two pieces in question. If
there be any, his ballad is taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy some
years ago ; and he (as we both considered these things as trifles at best) told
me, with his usual good-humor, the next time I saw him, that he had taken
my plan to form the fragments of Shakspeare into a ballad of his own.
Ile
then read me his little Cento, if I may so call it, and I highly approved it.
Such petly anecdotes as these are scarcely worth printing; and, were it not
for the busy disposition of some of your correspondents, the public should
never have known that he owes me the hint of his ballad, or that I am
obliged to his friendship and learning for communications of a much more im-
portant nature,
I am, sir,
Yours, &c.
“OLIVER GOLDSMITII."
Thirty years after this attempt to detract from the Poet's
credit, another and, for the moment, more formidable attack upon
his originality appeared; but though no longer able to defend
himself, there were friends qualified and willing to vindicate
his fame.-See Liſe, ch. xv.
To trace a work of genius to the first rude draught and follow
up its successive steps to perfection, is always interesting : there-
fore, the variations made in successive editions are now given.]
.
· The Friar of Orders Gray." Reliques of Ancient Poetry, Vol. I. Book IJ. No. 18,
THE HER MIT.
A BALLAD.
I.
"Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way,
To where yon taper cheers the vale
With hospitable ray.*
II.
“For here forlorn and lost I tread,
With fainting steps and slow;
Where wilds immeasurably spread,
Seem lengthening as I go."
2
III.
" Forbear, my son,” the Hermit cries,
“ To tempt the dangerous gloom;
For yonder faithless phantom flies
To lure thee to thy doom.
[The opening stanza originally stood thus :-
"Deign, saint-like tenant of the dale,
To guide my nightly way,
To yonder fire that cheers the vale
With hospitable ray."')
46
TIIE HERMIT.
IV.
“ Here to the houseless child of want
My door is open still;
And though my portion is but scant,
I give it with good will.
V.
" Then turn to-night, and freely share
Whate'er
my
cell bestows;
My rushy couch and frugal fare,
My blessing and repose.
VI.
“ No flocks that range the valley free,
To slaughter I condemn;
Taught by that Power that pities me,
I learn to pity them:
VII.
“ But from the mountain's grassy side
A guiltless feast I bring;
A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied,
And water from the spring
VIII.
“Then, pilgrim, turn; thy cares forego;
All earth-born cares are wrong:
“Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long.''
* (Goldsmith has been charged with here appropriating to himself, without
acknowledgment, a line of Young-
THE HERMIT.
47
IX.
Soft as the dew from heaven descends,
His gentle accents fell:
The modest stranger lowly bends,
And follows to the cell.
X.
Far in a wilderness obscure
The lonely mansion lay,*
A refuge to the neighb’ring poor
And strangers led astray.
XI.
No stores beneath its humble thatch
Requir'd a master's care;
The wicket, opening with a latch, t
Receiv'd the harmless pair.
XII,
And
now, when busy crowds retire
To take their evening rest,
The Hermit trimm'd his little fire,
And cheer'd his pensive guest;
XIII.
And spread his vegetable store,
And gayly press'd, and smil'd;
"Man wants but little, nor that little long :"
but in the original copy the passage was given in the usual manner of quota.
tions; and this has now been restored accordingly.]
. [" Far shelter'd in a clade obscure
The modest mansion lay.”-First edit.]
+ [" The door just opening with a latch."-- Ibid.)
# [** And now, when worldly crowds retire
To revels or to resi.''-- Ibid)
48
THE HERMIT.
And, skilld iu legendary lore,
The ling’ring hours beguild.
XIV.
Around in sympathetic mirth
Its tricks the kitten tries,
The cricket chirrups in the hearth,
The crackling faggot flies.
XV.
But nothing could a charm impart
To soothe the stranger's woe;
For grief was heavy at his heart,
And tears began to flow.*
XVI.
His rising cares the Hermit spied,
With answ'ring care opprest:
“ And whence, unhappy youth,” he cried,
“ The sorrows of thy breast?
XVII.
« From better habitations spurn'd,
Reluctant dost thou rove?
Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd,
Or unregarded love?
XVIII.
« Alas! the joys that fortune brings
Are trifling, and decay,
[“But nothing inirihlul could assuage
The pensive stranger's woe;
For griet had seized his early age,
And tears would often fow.''-First odit. 1
THE HERMIT.
49
And those who prize the trifling things,
More trifling still than they.
XIX.
« And what is friendship but a name;
A charm that lulls to sleep;
A shade that follows wealth or fame,
But leaves the wretch to weep?
XX.
* And love is still an emptier sound,
The modern fair one's jest:
On earth unseen, or only found
To warm the turtle's nest.
XXI.
« For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush,
And spurn the sex," he said;
But while he spoke, a rising blush
His love-lorn guest betray'd.*
XXII.
“Surpris'd he sees new beauties rise,
Swift mantling to the view;
Like colors o'er the morning skies,
As bright, as transient too.
XXIII.
« The bashful look, the rising breast,t
Alternate spread alarms:
(“The bashful guest betray'd.”--First edit.)
"He sees unnumber'd beauties rise,
Expanding to the view;
Like clouds that deck the morning skies,
As bright, as transient 100."--- Ibid.)
: {"Jer looks, her lips, her panting breast," &c. -- Ibid.)
VOL. IV.
3
50
THE HERMIT.
The lovely stranger stands confest,
A maid in all her charms.
XXIV.
"And, ah ! forgive a stranger rude,
A wretch forlorn," she cried;
6 Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude
Where Heaven and you reside.
XXV.
a
“ But let a maid thy pity share,
Whom love has taught to stray :
Who seeks for rest, but finds despair
Companion of her way.*
XXVI.
“My father liv'd beside the Tyne,
A wealthy lord was he;
And all his wealth was mark'd as mine;
He had but only me.
XXVII.
u To win me from his tender arms,
Unnumber'd suitors came;
1** Forgivs, and let thy pious care
A heart's distress allay:
That seeks repose, but finds despair
Companion of the way.
“My father liv'd, of high degree,
Remote beside the Tyne;
And as he had but only me,
Whate'er he had was ininc.
" To win me from his tender arms,
Unnumber'd suitors came :
Their chief pretence my fater'd charms,
My wealth perhaps their aim."-First edit.)
THE HERMIT.
5
Who prais'd me for imputed charms,
And felt, or feign'd a flame.
XXVIII.
“ Each hour a mercenary crowd
With richest proffers strove;
Amongst the rest young Edwin bow'd,
But never talk'd of love.*
XXIX.
“In humble, simplest habit clad,
No wealth nor power had he;
Wisdom and worth were all he had,
But these were all to me.t
XXX.
" And when beside me in the dale,
He carol'd lays of love,
His breath lent fragrance to the gale
And music to the grove. I
XXXI.
"The blossom opening to the day,
The dews of heaven refin’d,
Could nought of purity display
To emulate his mind,
["Among the rest young Edwin bow'],
Who offer'd only love."'--First edit.)
t("A constant heart was all he had,
But that was all to me."-Ibid.)
1 [This stanza, which was written some years after the rest of the poem.
was presented in manuscript by Goldsmith to Richard Archdal, Esq., of
Ireland.)
$("Whene'er he spoke amidst the train
How would my heart attend !
52
TIIE HERMIT.
XXXIT.
“ The dew, the blossom on the tree,
With charms inconstant shine;
Their charms were his, but woe to me!
Their constancy was mine.
XXXIII.
" For still I tried each fickle art,
Importunate and vain ;
And while his passion touch'd my heart,
I triumph'd in his pain.
XXXIV.
« Till quite dejected with my scorn,
He left me to my pride ;*
And sought a solitude forlorn,
In secret, where he died. f
And till delighted even to pain,
Ilow sigh for such a friend !
"And when a little rest I sought,
In Sleep's refreshing arms,
How have I mended what he taught,
And lent him fancied charmy!
" Yet still (and woe betide the hour!)
I spurn'd him from my side,
And still with ill-dissembled power,
Repaid his love with pride."-First edit)
• (“Till quite dejected with my scorn,
Ile left me to deplore;
And sought a solitude forlorn,
And ne'er was heard of more,
“ Then since he peri-h'd hy my fault,
This pilgrimage I pay," &c. - Ibid.
(Imil.-"And grew so coy and nice to please,
As women's looks are often soe,
lle might nou kisse, nor hand forsooth,
Unlesse I willed him soe to do.
THE HERMIT.
53
XXXV.
“ But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,
And well my
life shall
pay;
I'll seek the solitude he sought,
And stretch me where he lay.*
XXXVI.
6 And there forlorn, despairing, hid,
I'll lay me down and die;
'Twas so for me that Edwin did;
And so for him will I.”+
XXXVII.
6 Forbid it Heaven !" the Hermit cried,
And clasp'd her to his breast;
“ Thus being wearyed with delayes,
To see I pittyed not his greeffe,
He gott him to a secret place,
And there he dyed without releeffe."--Gentle Herdsman.
O
(Imit." And for his sake these weeds I weare,
And srcrifice my tender age;
And every day lle beg my bread,
To undergoe this pilgrimage.
“Thus every day I fast and pray,
And ever will doe all I dye;
And gett me 10 some secret place,
For sve did he, and soe will l.”—Ibid.)
+
"And there in shelt'ring thickets hid,
I'll linger till I die :
'Twas thus for ine my lover did,
And so for him will l.
" Thou shall not thus, the IIermit cried,
And claspil ber to his breast:
The astonish'u lair one turned to chide,-
"Twas Edwin's self that prest.
For now no longer could he hide,
What first to hide he strove;
His looks resume their youthful pride,
And flush with honest love."-First edit. )
54
THE HERMIT.
The wond'ring fair one turn'd to chide,
'Twas Edwin's self that prest.
XXXVIII.
6.
- Turn, Angelina, ever dear,
My charmer, turn to see
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,
Restor'd to love and thee.
)
XXXIX.
6 Thus let me hold thee to my heart,
And ev'ry care resign:
And shall we never, never part,
My life, my all that's mine?
XL.
“ No, never, from this hour to part,
We'll live and love so true ;*
The sigh that rends thy constant heart,
Shall break thy Edwin's too.”+
.
• ["No, never, from this hour to part,
Our love shall still be new;
And the last nigh that rend: the heart,
Shall break thy Edwin's too."--First edit.)
+ (Here followed in the original draught:-
“Here amist sylvan bowers we'll rove,
From lawn to woodland stray;
Blest as the song-lors of the grove,
And innocent as they
"To all that want, and all that wail.
Our pity shall be given,
And when this life of love shall fail,
We'll love again in heaven.'')
THE
DESERTED VILLAGE.
A POEM.
CRITICAL REMARKS.
57
[" THE DESERTED VILLAGE" made its appearance in the latter
end of May 1770, and at once obtained a place in popular esteem.
On the 7th of June came out the second edition, on the 14th a
third, on the 28th a fourth, and on the 16th of August a fifth;
being a run of success such as few poems of the time had expe-
rienced within so short a period. The journals devoted to litera-
ture hailed it with the warmest applause, and the author was
highly elated at his good fortune. See Life, ch. xix. Shortly
after its appearance the following Lines were addressed to him
by Miss Aiken, afterwards Mrs. Barbauld :-
“ In vain fair Auburn weeps her desert plains ;
She moves our envy who so well complains:
In vain hath proud oppression laid her low;
She wears a garland on her faded brow.
Now, Auburn, now, absolve impartial Fate,
Which, if it makes thee wretched, makes thee great.
So unobserv’d, some huinble plant may bloom,
Till crush'd, it fills the air with sweet perfume:
So had thy swains in ease and plenty slept,
The Poet had not sung, nor Britain wept.
Nor let Britannia mourn her drooping bay,
Unhonor'd Genius, and her swiſt decay:
O Patron of the Poor! it cannot be,
While one-one poet yet remains like thee.
Nor can the Muse desert our favor'u isle,
Till thou desert the Muse, and scorn her smile.
The same lady, in her Lives of the British Novelists, thus
characterizes the poetry of Goldsmith:
“Of all the walks in which Goldsmith exercised his genius, that of
poetry is the one in which it shone the brightest. Of his compositions in
this line the bulk is small; but for beautiful description, touching sentiment,
and a harmony of versification thai operates like a charm upon any one who
has an ear for poetry, they are scarerly exceeded by any in the language.
There is scarcely any poem in the English language, in which harmony,
3*
VOL IV.
58
CRITICAL REMARKS.
beautiful description, and pathos are united with greater effect than in the
Deserted Village.”— British Novelist, vol. xxii. p. 7.
To this we will add the able critique of Mr. Thomas Camp-
bell:-
1
1
“In the Deserted Village,” he says, “ Goldsmith is an advocate for the
agricultural, in preference to the commercial prosperity of a nation; and he
pleads for the blessings of the simpler state, not with the vulgar predilection
for the country which is common to poets, but with an earnestness that pro-
fr-sses to challenge our soberest belief. Between Rousseau's celebrated letter
on the influence of the sciences, and this popular poem, it will not be difficult
to discover some resemblance of principles. They arrive at the same con-
clusions against luxury; the one from contemplating the ruins of a village, and
the other from reviewing the downfall of empires. But the English poet is
more moderate in his sentiments than the philosopher of Geneva ; he neither
stretches them to such obvious paradox, nor involves them in so many details
of sophistry; nor does he blaspheme all philosophy and knowledge in pro-
nouncing it malediction on luxury. Rousseau is the advocate of savageness,
Goldsmith only of simplicity. Still, however, his theory is adverse to trade,
and wealth, and arts. He delineates their evils, and disdains their vaunted
benefits. This is certainly not philosophical neutrality; but a neutral
balancing of arguments would have frozen the spirit of poetry. We must
consider him as a pleader on that side of the question which accorded
with the predominant state of his heart ; and, considered in that light,
he is the poetical advocate of many truths. He revisits a spot conse-
crated by his earliest and tenderest recollections ; he misses the bloomny flush
of life, which had marked its once busy, but now depopulated scenes; he
beholds the inroads of monopolizing wealth, which had driven the peasant to
emigration ; and, tracing the sources of the evil 10. Trade's proud empire;'
which has so often proved a transient glory and an enervating good, he lainents
the state of society,' where wealth accumulates and men decay' ('ndoubtedly,
counter views of the subject might have presented themselves, both to the poet
and philosopher. The imagination of either might have contemplated, in remote
perspective, the replenishing of empires beyond the deep, and the diffusion
of civilized existence, as eventual consolations of futurity, for the present suf-
ferings of emigration. But those distant and cold calculations of optimi-in
would have been wholly foreign to the tone and subject of the poem.
It was
meant to fix our patriotic sympathy on an innocent and suflering class of the
community, to retiesh our recollections of the simple joys, the sacred and
strong local attachments, and all the manly virtues of rustic life. Of such
virtues the very remembrance is by degrees obliterated in the breasts of a com-
ܪ
CRITICAL REMARKS.
59
mercial people. It was meant to rebuke the luxurious and selfish spirit of
opulence, which, imitating the pomp and solitude of feudal abodes, without
their hospitality and protection, surrounded itself with monotonous pleasure-
grounds, which indignantly ‘spurned the cottage from the green.'
“ Although Goldsmith has not examined all the points and bearings of the
question suggested by the changes in society which were passing before his
eyes, he has strongly and affectingly pointed out the immediate evils with
which those changes were pregnant. Nor while the picture of Auburn
delights the fancy, does it make a useless appeal to our moral sentiments.
It may be well sometimes that society, in the very pride and triumph of its
improvement, should be taught to pause and look back upon its former steps;
to count the virtues that have been lost, or the victims that have been sacri-
ficed by its changes. Whatever may be the calculations of the political
economist as to ultimate effects, the circumstance of agricultural wealth being
thrown into large masses, and of the small farmer exiled from his scanty
domain, foreboded a baneful influence on the independent character of the
peasantry, which it is by no means clear that subsequent events have proved
to be either slight or imaginary.
• Pleasing as Goldsmith is, it is impossible to ascribe variety to his poetical
character; and Dr. Johnson has justly remarked something of an echoing
resemblance of tone and sentiment between the · Traveller' and Deserted
Village' But the latter is certainly an improvement on its predeces-
The field of contemplation in the Traveller' is rather desultory. The
other poem has an endearing locality, and introduces us to beings with whom
the imagination contracts an intimate friendship. Fiction in poetry is not the
reverse of truth, but her soft and enchanted resemblance; and this ideal
beauty of nature has been seldom united with so much sober fidelity as in the
groups and scenery of the Deserted Village."— British Poets, vol. vi. p. 265.
sor.
(
Sir Walter Scott, in performing the office of reviewer to a
volume of poems, thus writes :-
It would be difficult to point out one among the English poets less likely
to be excelled in his own style, ihan the author of the · Deserted Village.'
Possessing much of Pope's versification, without the monotonous structure of
his lines ; rising sometimes to the swell and fulness of Dryılen, without his
inflations ; delicate and masterly in his descriptions ; graceful in one of the
greatest graces of poetry, its transitions ; alike surcessful in his sportive or
grave, his playful or melancholy mood; he may long bid defiance to the
numerous competitors whom the friendship or flattery of the present age is so
hastily arraying against him.”--Quarterly Rev., vol. iv. p. 516.
Again :-
“ The wreath of Goldsmith is unsullied: he wrote to exalt virtue and
6
60
CRITICAL REMARKS.
expose vice; and he accomplished his task in a manner which raises him to
the highest rank among British authors. We close this volume with a sigh
that such an author should have written so little from the stores of his own
genius, and that he should have been so prematurely removed from the sphere
of literature which he so highly adorned.”—Prose Works, vol. ili. p. 238, edit.
1834.
To these testimonials we will add that of the great poet of
Germany, Goethe:--
6
“ A poetical production, which our little circle hailed with transport, now
occupied our attention ; this was Goldsmith's • Deserted Village. This poem
seemed perfectly adapted to the sentiments which then actuated us. The
pictures which it represented were those which we loved to contemp?114, and
sought with avidity, in order to enjoy them with all the zest of youth. Village
fêtes, wakes, and fairs, the grave meetings of the elders under the village
trees, to which they have retreated in order to leave the young to the pleasures
of the dance; the part taken by persons of a more elevated rank in these
village entertainments ; the decency maintained in the midst of the general
hilarity by a worthy clergyman, skilled to moderate mirth when approaching
to boisterousness, and to prevent all that mighi produ«e discord ;-such were
the representations the poet laid before us, 1101 as the object of present attention
and enjoyment, but as past pleasures, the lo-s of which excited regret. We
found ourselves once more in our beloved Wakefield, amidst its well known
circle. But those interesting characters had now lost all life and movement ;
they appeared only like shadows called up by the plaintive tones of the elegiac
muse. The idea of this poern seems singularly happy to those who can enter
into the author's intention, and who, like him, find a melancholy satisfaction
in recalling innocent pleasures long since tled. I shared all Gotler's enthu-
siasm for this charming production. We both undertook to translate it;
but he succeeded better than I did, because I had too scrupulously endeavored
to transfer the tender and affecting character of the original into our language.
I had effected my purpose in a few stanzas, but had failed in the general
effect.” -- Memoirs, p. 418.]
TO
SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.
Dear. Sir :
I can have no expectations, in an address of this kind, either
to add to your reputation or to establish my own. You can gain
nothing from my admiration, as I am ignorant of that art in
which you are said to excel; and I may lose much by the severity
;
of your judgment, as few have a juster taste in poetry than you.
Setting interest therefore aside, to which I never paid much atten-
tion, I must be indulged at present in following my affections.
The only dedication I ever made was to my brother, because I
loved him better than most other men. He is since dead. Per.
mit me to inscribe this Poem to you.
How far you may be pleased with the versification and mere
mechanical parts of this attempt, I do not pretend to inquire;
but I know you will object (and indeed several of our best and
wisest friends concur in the opinion), that the depopulation it
deplores is nowhere to be seen, and the disorders it laments are
only to be found in the poet's own imagination. To this I can
scarcely make any other answer than that I sincerely believe
what I have written ; that I have taken all possible pains, in my
62
DEDICATION.
country excursions, for these four or five years past, to be certain
of what I allege, and that all my views and inquiries have led me
to believe those miseries real, which I here attempt to display.
But this is not the place to enter into an inquiry, whether the
country be depopulating or not; the discussion would take up
much room, and I should prove myself, at best, an indifferent
politician, to tire the reader with a long preface, when I want his
unfatigued attention to a long poem.
In regretting the depopulation of the country, I inveigh
against the increase of our luxuries; and here also I expect the
shout of modern politicians against me. For twenty or thirty
years past, it has been the fashion to consider luxury as one of
the greatest national advantages; and all the wisdom of antiquity
in that particular, as erroneous. Still, however, I must remain a
professed ancient on that head, and continue to think those lux-
uries prejudicial to states by which so many vices are introduced,
and so many kingdoms have been undone. Indeed, so much has
been poured out of late on the other side of the question, that,
merely for the sake of novelty and variety, one would sometimes
wish to be in the right.
I am, dear Sir,
Your sincere friend, and ardent admirer,
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
THE
DESERTED VILLAGE.
Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheer'd the laboring swain,
Where smiling spring its carliest visit paid,
And parting summer's ling'ring blooms delay'd :
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,
How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,
Where humble happiness endear'd each scene !
How often have I paus'd on every charm,
The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm,
The never-failing brook, the busy mill,
The decent church that topt the nighiboring hill,
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whispering lovers made!*
* " Lissoy, near Ballymahon, where the poet's brother, the clergyman,
had his living, claims the honor of being the spot from which the localities of
the Deserted Village were derived. The church which tops the neighboring
hill, the mili, and the brook, are still pointed out; and a hawthorn has suffered
the penalty of poetical celebrity, being cut to pieces by those admirers of the
bard, who desired to have dassical tooth-pick cases and tobacco-stoppers.
Much of this supposed locality may be fanciful, but it is a pleasing tribute 10
the poet in the land of his fathers."-SiR WALTER SETT, Prose Works, vol.
iii. p. 250, edit. 1834. See alsı Life, ch xix )
64
THE DESERTED VILLAGE.
How often have I bless'd the coming day, *
When toil remitting lent its turn to play,
And all the village train, from labor free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree;
While many a pastime circled in the shade,
The young contending as the old survey'd ;
And many a ganibol frolick'd o'er the ground,
And sleights of art and feats of strength went round;
And still as cach repeated pleasure tir’d,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir’d;
The dancing pair that simply sought renown,
By holding out to tire each other down;
The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter titter'd round the place;
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,
The matron's glance that would those looks reprove.
These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like these,
With sweet succession, taught c'en toil to please;
These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed,
These were thy charms--but all these charms are fled.
Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn,
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn;
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seenit
And desolation saddens all thy green:
One only master grasps the whole domain,
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain ;
* (Supposed to allude to the number of Saints' days in Ireland, kept
he Roman Catholic peasantry ]
+ [The character said to be intended in this and other passages, w
General Robert Napier, an Euglih gentleman, who is will remembered
have ruled the village with a “Tyrani's hand."--See Life, ch uis)
)
THE DESERTED VILLAGE.
65
W
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,
But, chok'd with sedges, works its weedy way;
Along thy glades, a solitary guest,
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest;*|
Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies,
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries.
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all,
And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall;
And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand
Far, far away, thy children leave the land.
Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay :/
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade;
A breath can make them, as a breath has made it
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,
When once destroy’d, can never be supplied.
a
A time there was, ere England's griefs began,
When every rood of ground maintain’d its man;
*
:
(“* Those who have walked in an evening by the sedgy sides of unfre-
quented rivers, must remembor a variety of notes from different water-fowl:
the loud scream of the wild-goose, the croaking of the mallard, the whining
of the lapwing, and the tremulous neighing of the jacksnipe : but of all these
sounds, there is none so dismally hollow as the booming of the bittern. It is
impossible for words to give those who have not heard this evening call an
adequate idea of its solemnity. It is like an interrupted bellowing of a bull,
but hollower and louder, and is heard at a mile's distance, as if issuing from
some formidable being that resided at the bottom of the waters. I remember
in the place where I was a boy with what error this bird's ote affected the
whole village: they considered it as a presa ge of some sad event, and gene-
rally found or made one to succeed it.”- Animated Nature, vol. vi. p. 24.]
+ [“ De Caux, an old French poet, in one of his moral poems, comparing
the world to his hour-glass, says-
C'est un verre qui luit,
Qu'un souille peut détruire, et qu'un souille, a proluit.'"-D'ISRAELI..]
66
THE DESERTED VILLAGE.
For him light labor spread her wholesome store,
Just gave what life requir’d, but gave no more:
His best companions, innocence and health,
Vand his best riches, ignorance of wealth.
But times are alter'd ; trade's unfeeling train
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain :
Along the lawn where scatter'd hamlets rose,
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose;*
And every want to luxury allied,
And every pang that folly pays to pride.
Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,
Those calm desires that ask'd but little room,
Those healthful sports that grac'd the peaceful scene,
Liv'd in each look, and brighten'd all the green;
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore,
And rural mirth and manners are no more.
Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour,
Thy glades forlorn coufess the tyrant's power.
Here, as I take my solitary rounds,
Amidst thy tangling walks, and ruin'l grounds,
{“ On the subject of those misnamed improvements, in which
"Along the lawn where scatteri hamlets rose,
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose,'
the possessors themselves of those places have not been always destitute of
compunctions similar to the sentiment of the poet. Jr. Potter, in hisó (boer-
vations on the Poor Laws,' has recorded an instance of it. When the late
Earl of Leicester was complimented upon the completion of his great desin
at Holkham, he replied, “ It is a melancholy thing to stand alone in one's
county. I look round, not a house is to be seen but mine. I am the Giant of
Giant Castle, and have eat up all my neighbors.'” --( AMPBELL, British Ports,
vol. vi. p. 966
THE DESERTED VILLAGE.
67
>
#
And, many a year elaps'd, return to view
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew,
Remembrance wakes, with all her busy train,
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain.
j
In all my wanderings round this world of care,
In all my griefs--and God has given my sharet-
I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown,
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;
To husband out life's taper at the close,
And keep the flame from wasting by repose:
I still had hopes, for pride attends us still,
Amidst the swains to show my book-learn'd skill,
Around my fire an evening group to draw,
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw;
And, as a hare whom hounds and horns pursue,
Pants to the place from whence at first he flew,
I still had hopes, my long vexations past,
Here to return—and die at home at last.
O blest retirement, friend to life's decline,
Retreats from care, that never must be mine,
How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these,
A youth of labor with an age of
ease;
Who quits a world where strong temptations try,
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly!
(Here followed, in the first edition :
“Here, as with doubtful pensive steps I range,
Trace every scene and won'ler at the change,
Remembrance," &e.)
+ [The same phrase occurs in Collins's second eclogue:
"Ye mute companions of my toils, that bear,
In all my griets, a more than equal share."
: ["My anxion day to husband near the close,
And keep litex fame froin wasting by repose," -- Fırxe edit)
68
TIE DESERTED VILLAGE.
For him no wretches, born to work and weep;
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep;
Nor surly porter stands in guilty state,
To spurn imploring famine from the gate:
But on he moves to meet his latter end,
Angels around befriending virtue's friend;
Sinks to the grave with unperceiv'd decay,
While resignation gently slopes the way;
And, all his prospects brightening to the last,
His heaven commences ere the world be past.
Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close,
Up yonder hill the village urmur rose;
There, as I pass'd with careless steps and slow,
The ningling notes came soften’d from below;
The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung,
The sober herd that low'd to meet their young;
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool,
The playful children just let loose from school;
The watch-dog's voice, that bay'd the whispering wind,
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind;
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,
And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made.
But now the sounds of population fail,
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale;
No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread,
But all the bloomy flush of life is fled:
All but you widow'd, solitary thing,
That feebiy bends beside the plasly spring;
(Sir Joshua Reynolds from this passage took the idea of his painting of
• Resignation, of which an engraving being takın, he thus inscribed it to the
poet: “ This attempt to express a character in the Deserted Village, is dedi.
cated to Dr. Goldsmith by his sincere friend and admirer, Joshua Rurxolos.)
THE DESERTED VILLAGE.
69
She, wretched matron, forc'd in age, for bread,
To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread,
To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn,
To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn;
She only left of all the harmless train,
The sad historian of the pensive plain.*
Near yonder copse, where once the garden smild,
And still where many a garden flower grows wild;
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.f
A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a year ;
Remote from towns he ran bis godly race,
Nor c'er had chang'd, nor wish'd to change his place;
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power,
By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour;-
Far other aims his heart had learnt to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train,
He chid their wanderings, but reliev'd their pain ;!
* (These lines are supposed to apply to a female, named Catherine
Geraghty, whom the poet had known in earlier and better days. The brook
and ditches near the spot where her cabin stood still furnish cresses, and
several of her descendants reside in the village.]
† (More than one of Goldsmith's relatives have been put forward as claim-
ants for this character; his father by Mrs. Hodson, his brother by others, and
his uncle Contarine by the Rev. Dr. O'Connor. The fact perhaps is, that he
fixed upon no one individual, but borrowing, like all good poets and painters,
a little from each, drew the character by their combination.)
† “ Even the lowest of the people," says Leland, “ claimed reception and
refreshment by an almost perfect right, and so ineffectual is the flux of many
centuries to efface the ancient manners of a people, that at this day the wander-
ing beggar enters the house of a farmer or gentleman, with as much ease and
freedom as an inmate." -Leland's Hist. of Ireland, vol. 1. p. 36, 1773.)
TO
THE DESERTED VILLAGE.
The long-remember'd beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd ;
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away;
Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done,
Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won.
Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave cre charity began.
Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side ;
But in his duty prompt at every call,
He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all;
And, as a bird cach fond endearment tries,
To tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the skies,
He tried cach art, reprov'd each dull delay,
Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way.
Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd,
The reverend champion stood. At his control,
Despair and auguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise.
At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorn'd the venerable place;
THE DESERTED VILLAGE.
71
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remain’d to pray.*
The service past, around the pious man,
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran ;
E'en children follow'd with endearing wile,
And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile.
His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest,
Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distrest;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. f
Beside you straggling fence that skirts the way,
With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay,
"
[This line bears some resemblance in expression to a passage in Dryden's
Britannia Redeviva :-
"Our vows are heard betimes, and heaven takes care
To grant before we can conclude the pray'r;
Preventing angels met it half the way,
And sent us back to praise who came to pray.”]
+ ["This is one of the most simple and sublime passages in English
poetry.”—GIFFORD.
“ As Claudian has come in my way," says Gilbert Wakefield, in his
Memoirs, "and the subject turns on the obligations of the moderns to the
ancients, I will step out of the road to discover the origin of perhaps the sub-
limest simile that English poetry can boast :-
-Ut altus Olympi
Vertex, qui spatio rentos hieme sque relinquit,
Perpetuum nullâ temeratus nube serenum,
Celsior exsurgit pluviis, auditque ruentes
Sub pedibus nimbos, et rauca tonitrua calcat ;
Sic patiens animus per tanta negotia liber
Emergii, similique sui: justique tenorem
Flectere non odium cogii, non gratia suadet.'”
CLAI'D. de Mall. Theod. Cons. 206
“Suat sublimis aper, vertosque imbresque serenus
Despicit.”- Theb. ii. 35.)
72
TIE DESERTED VILLAGE.
There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule,
The village master taught his little school:
A man severe he was, and stern to view,
I knew him well, and every truant knew;
Well had the boding tremblers learn’d to trace
The day's disasters in his morning face;
Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;
Full well the busy whisper circling round,
Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd :
Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault;
The village all declar'd how much he knew,
'Twas certain he could write and cipher too;
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,
And e'en the story ran—that he could gauge :
In arguing too, the parson own’d his skill,
For e'en though vanquish’d, he could argue still ;
While words of learned length, and thund'ring sound,
Amaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd around;
And still they gaz'd, and still the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew.*
But pass’d is all his fame. The very spot
Where many a time be triumph'd, is forgot.
Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high,
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye,
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspir'd,
Where graybeard mirth, and smiling toil retir'd,
* (Goldsmith is here supposed to have drawn the portrait of his own early
instructor, Thomas Byrne -See Life, ch. i.]
THE DESERTED VILLAGE.
73
Where village statesmen talked with looks profound,
And news much older than their ale went round.
Imagination fondly stoops to trace
The parlor splendors of that festive place;
The white-wash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor,
The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door ;*
The chest contriv'd a double debt to pay,
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day;
The pictures plac'd for ornament and use,
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ;
The hearth, except when winter chill’d the day,
With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay,
While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show,
Rang’d o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row. I
Vain, transitory splendors! could not all
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall ?
* \"Goldsmith's chaste pathos makes him an insinuating moralist, and
throws a charm of Claude-like softness over his descriptions of homely objects,
that would seem only fit to be the subjects of Dutch painting. But his quiet
enthusiasm leads the affections to humble things without a vulgar association;
and he inspires us with a fondness to trace the simplest recollections of Auburn,
till we count the furniture of its alehouse, and listen to the varnished clock
that clicked behind the door.'”—CAMPBELL, vol. vi. p. 263.]
+ Crabbe, who had his eye frequently fixed on Goldsmith, of whom he is
indeed in many passages an enlarged, sometimes avowed imitator, has like-
wise introduced “ The Twelve Good Rules” as part of the ornamental furni-
ture of the industrious swain's cot in the introduction to the Parish Register:
There is King Charles, and all his Golden Rules,
Who proved mistortune's was the best of schools;
And then his Son, who tried by years of pain,
Proved that mistorlunce may be sent in vain."'--Vol. ii. p. 144, edit. 1834.)
1 [The alehouse has been rebuilt by the poet's relative, Mr. Hogan, and
supplied with the sign of the “ Three Jolly Pigeons," with new copies of the
“ Twelve Golden Rules" and the “ Royal Game of Goose," not omitting the
“ broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show."--See Life, ch. xix.]
VOL. IV.
4
!
1
i
74
TIIE DESERTED VILLAGE.
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart;
Thither no more the peasant shall repair,
To sweet oblivion of his daily care;
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale,
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail;
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear,
Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear;
The host himself no longer shall be found
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round;
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest,
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest.
Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain,
These simple blessings of the lowly train,
To me more dear, congenial to my heart,
One native charm, than all the gloss of art:
Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play,
The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway;
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind,
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfind.
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade,
With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd,
In these, ere triflers half their wish ohtain,
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain:
And c'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy,
The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy ?
Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey
The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay,

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.
75
'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand
Between a splendid and a happy land.*
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore,
And shouting folly hails them from her shore;
Hoards e'en beyond the miser's wish abound,
And rich men flock from all the world around.
Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name,
That leaves our useful products still the same.
Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride
Takes up a space that many poor supplied;
Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds,
Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds:
The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth,
Has robb’d the neighboring fields of half their growth;
His seat, where solitary sports are seen,
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green;
Around the world each needful product flies,
For all the luxuries the world supplies.
While thus the land, adorn'd for pleasure all,
In barren splendor feebly waits the fall.
As some fair female, unadorn'd and plain,
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign,
Slights every borrow'd charm that dress supplies,
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes;
* [“ Happy, very happy, might they have been, had they known when to
bound their riches and their glory: had they known that extending empire is
often diminishing power ; that countries are ever strongest which are internally
powerful; that colonies, by draining away the brave and enterprising, leave
the country in the hands of the timid and the avaricious; that too much com-
merce may injure a nation as well as too little ; and that there is a wide differ.
ence between a conquering and a flourishing empire.”—Citizen of the Worla
See vol. č. p. 109.)
76
THE DESERTED VILLAGE.
But when those charms are past, for charms are frail,
When time advances, and when lovers fail,
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless,
In all the glaring impotence of dress.
Thus fares the land, by luxury betray d;
In nature's simplest charms at first array'd,
But verging to decline, its splendors rise,
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ;
While, scourg'd by famine from the smiling land,
The mournful peasant leads his humble band;
And while he sinks, without one arm to save,
The country blooms—a garden, and a grave.
Where then, ah! where shall poverty reside,
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride ?
If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd,
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade,
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide,
And e'en the bare-worn common is denied.
If to the city sped—What waits him there?
To see profusion that he must not share;
To see ten thousand baneful arts combin'd
To pamper luxury, and thin mankind;
To see each joy the sons of pleasure know,
Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe.
Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade,
There the pale artist plies the sickly trade;
Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps display,
There the black gibbet glooms beside the way.
The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reigu,
Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train ;

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.
77
Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square,
The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare.
Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy!
Sure these denote one universal joy!
Are these thy serious thoughts? Ah! turn thine eyes
Where the poor houseless shivering female lies.
She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest,
Has wept at tales of innocence distrest ;
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn,
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn ;
Now lost to all, her friends, her virtue fled,
Near her betrayer's door she lays her head,*
And pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower,
With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour,
When idly first, ambitious of the town,
She left her wheel, and robes of country brown.
Do thine, sweet AUBURN, thine, the loveliest train,
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ?
E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led,
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread !
a
Ah, no. To distant climes, a dreary scene,
Where half the convex world intrudes between,
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go,
Where wild Altamat murmurs to their woe.
[“ These poor shivering females have once seen happier days, and been
red into beauty. They have been prostituted to the gay luxurious villain,
Tre now turned out to meet the severity of winter. Perhaps, now lying
e doors of their betrayers, they sue to wretches whose hearts are insen-
or debauchees who may curse, but will not relieve them.”—Citizen of
Vorld, No. cxviii. See vol. ii. p. 464 ]
(A river of Georgia, North America; introduced here probably from
78
THE DESERTED VILLAGE.
Far different there from all that charm'd before,
The various terrors of that horrid shore;
Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray,
And fiercely shed intolerable day;
Those matted woods where birds forget to sing,
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling;
Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crown'd,
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around:
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake;
Where crouching tigers* wait their liapless prey,
And
savage men more murderous still than they ;
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies,
Mingling the ravag'd landscape with the skies.
Far different these from
every
former
scene,
The cooling brook, the grassy vested green,
The breczy covert of the warbling grove,
That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love.
being mentioned in conversation by General Oglethorpe, the founder of that
state, with whom Goldsmith was intiinate ]
[“ The poet,” says Dr. Percival, “ is not on all occasions to be confined
within the precise boundaries of truth. What writer of lively fancy, in
describing a morning walk on the banks of Keswick, would not embellish the
beauty of the scene by the melody of birds, and thus add the charms of music
to all the enchantments of vision ? Yet, I believe, there is not a feathered
songster to be found in those delightful vales: probably owing to the terrors
inspired by the birds of prey which abound on the mountains that surround
them. The same observation will perhaps justity the author of the Deserted
Village,' when he attempts to magnify the terrors of an American wilderness
by introducing a tiger into the tremendous group, though this animal has never
yet been found in the British trans-Atlantic settlements.”— Il'orks, vol. ii. p.
170, edit. 1806.
“I believe I have taken a poetical license to transplant the jackal from
Asia. In Greece I never saw nor heard these animals; but among the ruins
of Ephesus I have heard them by hundreds. They haunt ruins and follow
armies."-LORD BYRON, Siege of Corinth, note.]
THE DESERTED VILLAGE,
79
Good Heaven! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day,
That called them from their native walks away;
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past,
Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd their last,
And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain
For seats like these beyond the western main ;
And shuddering still to face the distant deep,
Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep.
The good old sire, the first prepar'd to go
To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe;
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave,
He only wished for worlds beyond the grave.
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears,
The fond companion of his helpless years,
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,
And left a lover's for her father's arms.
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,
And blest the cot where every pleasure rose;
And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear,
And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear ;
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief
In all the silent manliness of grief.*
1
1
O luxury! thou curst by IIcaven's decree,
How ill exchang'd are things like these for thee!
How do thy potions, with insidious joy,
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy!
Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown,
Boast of a florid vigor not their own :
At every draught more large and large they grow,
A bloated mass of rank, unwieldy woe,
"1" In all the decent manliness of grief."-First edit.)
80
THE DESERTED VILLAGE.
Till sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound,
Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round.
E'en now the devastation is begun,
And half the business of destruction done ;
E'en now, methinks, as pondering here I stand,
I see the rural virtues leave the land.
Down where you anchoring vessel spreads the sail,
That idly waiting flaps with every gale,
Downward they move, a melancholy band,
Pass from the shore and darken all the strand.
Contented toil, and hospitable care,
And kind connubial tenderness, are there;
And piety withi wishes plac'd above,
And steady loyalty, and faithful love.
And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid,
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade;
Unfit in these degenerate times of shame,
To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame;
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried,
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride.
Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe,
That found'st me poor at first, and keep’st me so;
Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel,
Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well!
Farewell, and ()! wherrer thy voice he tried,
On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side,
Whcther where equinoctial fervors glow,
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow.
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time,
Redress the rigors of th' inclement clime;
Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain,
THE DESERTED VILLAGE.
81
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain;
Teach him, that states of native strength possest,
Though very poor, may still be very blest ;
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay,
As ocean sweeps the labor’d mole away;
While self-dependent power can time defy,
As rocks resist the billows and the sky.*
*
[“ Dr. Johnson favored me by marking the lines which he furnished to Gold.
smith's · Deserted Village, which are only the four last." -Boswell, vol. ii.
p. 309, edit. 1835.)
VOL IV
1

THE
AUNCII OF VENISON.
A POETICAL EPISTLE,
TO
L O R D C L A RE.
[Part of the spring and summer of the year 1771, Goldsmith
passed at Gosfield and at Bath, with his friend Lord Clare. On
his return from this visit he drew up the following amusing little
poem. It was not published till 1776, two years after his decease.
A second edition, with considerable additions and corrections,
appeared in the same year. See Life, ch. xx.
(
The leading idea of the · Haunch of Venison,'” observes the Right Hon.
J. W. Croker, in a communication to the editor, “is taken from Boileau's third
Satire (which itself was no doubt suggested by Horace's raillery of the banquet
of Nasidienus); and two or three of the passages which one would, d priori,
have pronounced the most original and natural, are closely copied from the
French poet:
“We'll bavn Johnson and Borke-all the wits will be there;
My acquaintance is slight, or Td ask my Lord Clare.
Molière avec Tartuffe y doit jouer son rôle,
Et Lambert, qui plus est, m'a donné sa parole.'
• My friend hade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb,
With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come.
A peine étais.je entré, que ravi de me voir,
Mon homme, en m'embrassant, m'est venu reçevoir;
Et mox rant à mes yeux une allégreese entiere,
Nous n'avons, ni'a-t-il dit, ni Lambert ni Molivre.'
But, to be sure, Goldsmith's host, and his wife, . Little Kitty,' and the Scot, and
the “ Jew, with his chocolate cheek,' are infinitely inore droll and more natural
than Boileau's deux campagnards. The details of the dinner, too, overdone
and tedious in Boileau, are touched by Goldsmith with a pleasantry not carried
100 far.”)

3€.
few
e-
THE
e.
HAUNCH OF VENISON.
d
Thanks, my Lord, for your Ven'son; for finer or fatter
Never rang'd in a forest, or smok'd in a platter:
The Haunch was a picture for painters to study
The fat was so wbite, and the lean was so ruddy ;*
Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regretting
To spoil such a delicate picture by eating :
I had thoughts in my Chambers to place it in view,
To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtù;
As in some Irish houses, where things are so-so,
One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show;
But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in,
They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in.f
But hold—let me pause—don't I hear you pronounce
This tale of the bacon a damnable bounce ?
[" The white was so white, and the red was so ruddy.”—First edit. )
+ [Nearly the same thought occurs in “ Animated Nature,” vol. iiip, 9. as
applicable to the peasantry of other countries : “ There is scarcely a cottage
in Germany, Poland, and Switzerland, that is not hung round with these
marks of hospitality; and which often makes the owner better contented with
hunger, since he has it in his power to be luxurious when he thinks proper.
A piece of beef hung up there, is considered as an elegant piece of furniture,
which though seldom touched, at least argues the possessor's opulence and
ease.")
86
THE HAUNCH OF VENISON.
Well! suppose it a bounce--sure a poet may try,
By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly.
But, my Lord, it's no bounce: I protest in my turn,
It's a truth-and your lordship may ask Mr. Burn.*
a
To go on with my tale—as 1 gaz'd on the Haunch,
I thought of a friend that was trusty and stanch,
So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undressed,
To paint it, or eat it, just as he lik'd best.
Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose;
'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's;
But in parting with these I was puzzled again,
With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when.
There's II-d, and C-y, and II-rtlı, and II—ff,
I think they love ven’son-I know they love beef.
There's my countryman, Iliggins-Oh! let him alone,
For making a blunder or picking a bone.
But hang it—to poets who seldom can eat,
Your very good mutton's a very good treat;
Such dainties to them, their health it might hurt;
It's like sending them ruffes, when wanting a shirt. $
While thus I debated, in reverie centred,
An aequaintance, a friend as he call’d himself, enterd;
An under bred, fine-spoken fellow was he,
And he smild as he look'd at the Ven’son and me.
* Lord Clare's nephew.
† [" There's Coley, and Williams, and lIoward, and liſt.”-First edit.)
(Dr. Paul Hiffernan. For an account of this eccentric character, see
Life, ch. xx]
$("Such dainties to them! It would look like a flirt.
Like sending 'em rulls when wanting a shirt." -First edit.]
$("A fine-spoken Custona house officer he,
Who smil'd as he gazd on the Ven'son and me."-- Ibid.)

THE HAUNCH OF VENISON.
87
36.
few
t have we got hee?-_Why, this is good eatirng!
own I suppose—or is it in waiting ?”
whose shoold it be?" cried I, with a fluunce,
these things often”—but that was a bounce :
- lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation,
eas'd to be kind—but I hate ostentation."
Ile-
de.
uld
sa
that be the case then,” cried he, very gay,
glad I have taken this house in my way.
-rrow you take a poor dinner with me;
rds—I insist on't—precisely at three:
have Johnson and Burke; all the wits will be there;
quaintance is slight, or I'd ask my Lord Clare.
ow that I think on't, as I am a sinner!
inted this Ven’son to make out a dinner.
say you—a pasty ?-it shall, and it must,*
my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust.
porter !—this Ven’son with me to Mile-end;
rring,—I beg, my dear friend,—my dear friend !"|
snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind,
he porter and estibles follow'd behind.
; alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf,
nobody with me at sea but myself,"
h I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty,
ohnson, and Burke, and a good Ven’son pasty,
things that I never dislik’d in my life,
h clogged with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife.
I'll take no denial-you shall and you must.”—First edit.]
No words, my dear Goldsmith! my very good friend!” – Ibid.)
Letters that passed between his Royal Highness Henry, Duke of
and Lady Grosvenor. 12mo. 1769.
88
THE HAUNCH OF VENISON.
So next day, in due splendor to make my approach,
I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach.
6
When come to the place where we all were to dine,
(A chair-lumber'd closet, just twelve feet by nine ;)
My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb,
With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come;
“For I knew it," he cried, "both eternally fail,
The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale;
But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party,
With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty.
The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew,
They both of them merry, and authors like you ; *
The one writes the Suarler,' the other the Scourge:'
Some think he writes · Cinna'-he owns to · Panurge.'”
While thus he describ'd them by trade and by name,
They enter'd, and dinner was serv'd as they came.
At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen,
At the bottom was tripe, in a swingeing tureen; ·
At the sides there was spinage, and pudding made hot;
In the middle, a place where the Pasty-was not.f
Now, my Lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion,
And
your
bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian;
So there I sat stuck like a horse in a pound,
While the bacor and liver went merrily round;
But what vex'd me most was that d-'d Scottish rogue,
With his long-winded speeches, his smiles and his brogue,
And, “ Madam," quoth he, “ may this bit be my poison,
A prettier dinner I never set eyes on!
Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be curst,
But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst.”
*[** Who dabble and write in the papers like you." - First edit.)
if In the middle a place where the Ven'son - war not.". - Ibid.)

THE HAUNCH OF VENISON.
89
36.
few
a
Llle-
a
de
ud
sa
"The tripe," quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek,
“ I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week :*
I like these here dinners, so pretty and small;
But your friend there, the Doctor, eats nothing at all."
“ 0–ho !" quoth my friend,“ he'll come on in a trice,
He's keeping a corner for something that's nice;
There's a Pasty "-"a Pasty !" repeated the Jew,
“ I don't care if I keep a corner for't too."
“What the de’il, mon, a Pasty !" re-echo'd the Scot,
Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that;"
“We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out;
While thus we resolv'd, and the Pasty delay'd,
With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid ;
A visage so sad, and so pale with affright,
Wak'd Priam in drawing his curtains by night.
But we quickly found out,—for who could mistake her !
That she came with some terrible news from the baker:
And so it fell out; for that negligent sloven
Had shut out the Pasty on shutting his oven.
Sad Philomel thus- —but let similes drop-
And now that I think on't, the story may stop.
To be plain, my good Lord, it's but labor misplac'd,
To send such good verses to one of your taste:f
("Your tripe!" quoth the Jew, "if the truth I may speak,
I could eat of this tripe seven days in the week.”—First edit. )
+ [Lord Clare was a man of parts, a poet, and a facetious companion.
Almon observes, that his poems breathe the true Horation fire, but are more
than half unknown. A volume of them was published anonymously by Dodsley
in 1739, entitled “Odes and Epistles.” Several other poems of his Lordship
are printed in Dodsley's Collection, and in the New Foundling Hospital for
Wit. His only daughter married the first Marquis of Buckingham, on whose
second son the title of Baron Nugent de polved. He died in 1788.– See
Nichols, Lit. Anec , vol. viii p 2, and Croker's Boswrll, vol. ii. p. 123.]
90
THE HAUNCH OF VENISON.
You've got an odd something-a kind of discerning-
A relish-a taste-sicken'd over by learning ;
At least, it's your temper, as very well known,
That
you
think very slightly of all that's your own:
So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss,
You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this.

36.
few
lle-
de.
uld
ssa
THE CAPTIVITY.
AN ORATORIO.*
[Written in 1764, and now printed from the original manuscript, in
Goldsmith's handwriting, in the possession of Mr. Murray.—See Life,
ch. xiv. 1
THE PERSONS.
First JEWISI PROPHET.
SECOND JEWSI PROPHET.
IsraelITISH WOMAN.
FIRST CHALDEAN PRIEST.
SECOND CHALDEAN PRIEST.
CHALDEAN WOMAN.
CHORUS OF YOUTHS AND Virgixs,
SCENE. — The Banks of the River Euphrates, near Babylon.

36.
2 a few
Alle-
inde.
puld
issa
THE CAPTIVITY.
2.)
ACT I.--SCENE I.
ISRAELITES sitting on the Banks of the Euphrates.
First PROPHET.
Recitative.
Ye captive tribes, that hourly work and weep,
Where flows Euphrates, murmuring to the deep;
Suspend awhile the task, the tear suspend,
And turn to God, your
father and
your
friend;
Insulted, chain'd, and all the world a foe,
Our God alone is all we boast below.
a
First PROPHET.
Air.
Our God is all we boast below,
To him we turn our eyes ;
And every added weight of woe
Shall make our homage rise.
94
THE CAPTIVITY.
Second PROPHET.
And though no temple richly drest,
Nor sacrifice is here;
We'll make his temple in our breast,
And offer up a tear.
The first stanza repeated by the Chorus.
Second PROPHCT.
Recitative.
That strain once more: it bids remembrance rise,
And brings my long-lost country to mine eyes.
Ye fields of Sharon, dress'd in flowery pride;
Ye plains where Jordan rolls its glassy tide;
Ye hills of Lebanon, with cedars crown'd;
Ye Gilead groves, that fling perfumes around:
These hills how sweet! those plains how wond'rous fair ?
But sweeter still, when Heaven was with us there.
Air.
O Memory, thou fond deceiver !
Still importunate and vain ;
To former joys recurring ever,
And turning all the past to pain :
IIence, intruder, most distressing,
Seck the happy and the free;
The wretch who wants each other blessing,
Ever wants a friend in thee.
THE CAPTIVITY.
95
First PROPHET.
Recitative.
Yet, why complain? What, though by bonds confin'd,
Should bonds repress the vigor of the mind ?
Have we not cause for triumph, when we see
Ourselves alone from idol-worship free?
Are not this very morn those feasts begun,
Where prostrate error hails the rising sun ?
Do not our tyrant lords this day ordain
For superstitious rites and mirth profane ?
And should we mourn? Should coward virtue fly,
When impious folly rears her front on high?
No; rather let us triumph still the more,
And as our fortune sinks, our wishes soar.
Air.
The triumphs that on vice attend
Shall ever in confusion end ;
The good man suffers but to gain,
And every virtue springs from pain :
As aromatic plants bestow
No spicy fragrance while they grow,
But crushid or trodden to the ground,
Diffuse their balmy sweets around.
Second PROPHET.
Recitative.
But hush, my sons ! our tyrant lords are near;
The sound of barbarous mirth offends mine ear:
96
THE CAPTIVITY.
Triumphant music floats along the vale ;
Near, nearer still, it gathers on the gale ;
The growing sound their swift approach declares ;-
Desist, my sons, nor mix the strain with theirs.
Enter CHALDEAN Priests, attended.
First PRIEST.
Air.
Come on, my companions, the triumph display;
Let rapture the minutes employ;
The sun calls us out on this festival day,
And our monarch partakes in the joy.
Second PRIEST.
Like the sun, our great monarch all rapture supplies,
Both similar blessings bestow :
The sun with his splendor illumines the skies,
And our monarch enlivens below.
A Chaldean WOMAN.
Air.
Haste, ye sprightly sons of pleasure ;
Love presents its brightest treasure,
Leave all other joys for me.
A Chaldean ATTENDANT.
Or rather Love's delights despising,
Haste to raptures ever rising :
Wine shall bless the brave and free.
THE CAPTIVITY.
97
First PRIEST.
Wine and beauty thus inviting,
Each to different joys exciting,
Whither shall my choice incline ?
Second PRIEST.
I'll waste no longer thought in choosing;
But neither this nor that refusing,
I'll make them both together minc.
Recitative.
But whence, when joy should brighten o'er the land,
This sullen gloom in Judah's captive band ?
Ye sons of Judah, why the lute unstrung?
Or why those harps on yonder willows hung ?
Come, take the lyre, and pour the strain along,
The day demands it; sing us Sion's song.
Dismiss your griefs, and join our warbling choir ;
For who like you can wake the sleeping lyre !
Second PROPIET.
Bow'd down with chains, the scorn of all mankind,
To want, to toil, and every ill consign'd,
Is this a time to bid us raise the strain,
And mix in rites that Heaven regards with pain ?
No, never ! May this hand forget each art
That speeds the power of music to the heart,
Ere I forget the land that gave me birth,
Or join with sounds profane its sacred birth,
5
VOL. IV.
98
THE CAPTIVITY.
First PRIEST.
Insulting slaves ! if gentler methods fail,
The whips and angry tortures shall prevail.
[Exeunt CHALDEANS.
First PROPIET.
Why, let them come, one good remains to cheer ;
We fear the Lord, and know no other fear.
Chorus.
Can whips or tortures hurt the mind
On God's supporting breast reelin'd?
Stand fast, and let our tyrants see,
That fortitude is victory.
[Exeunt.
ACT II.
Scenc as before.
Chorus of ISRAELITES.
O peace of mind, angelic guest!
Thou soft companion of the breast!
Dispense thy balmy store :
Wing all our thoughts to reach the skies,
Till earth, receding from our eyes,
Shall vanish as we soar.
First PRIEST.
Recitative.
No more! Too long has justice been delay'd ;
The king's command must fully be obey'd ;
THE CAPTIVITY.
99
Compliance with his will your peace secures,
Praise but our gods, and every good is yours.
But if rebellious to his high command,
You spurn the favors offer'd at his hand;
Think, timely think, what terrors are behind;
Reflect, nor tempt to rage the royal mind.
Second PRIEST.
dir.
Fierce is the whirlwind howling
O'er Afric's sandy plain,
And fierce the tempest rolling
Along the furrow'd main :
But storms that fly,
To rend the sky,
Every ill presaging,
Less dreadful show
To worlds below
Than angry monarch's raging.
ISRAELITISH WOMAN.
Recitative.
Ah, me! what angry terrors round us grow:
How shrinks
my
soul to meet the threaten'd blow!
Ye prophets, skill'd in Heaven's eternal truth,
Forgive my sex's fears, forgive my youth!
If shrinking thus, when frowning power appears,
I wish for life, and yield me to my fears.
Let us one hour, one little hour obey;
To-morrow's tears may wash our stains away.
100
THE CAPTIVITY.
Air.
To the last moment of his breath,
On hope the wretch relies;
And e'en the pang preceding death
Bids expectation rise.
Hope, like the gleaming taper's light,
Adorns and cheers our way;
And still, as darker grows the night,
Emits a brighter ray.*
Second PRIEST.
Why this delay ? At length for joy prepare ;
I read your looks, and see compliance there.
Come on, and bid the warbling rapture rise,
Our monarch's fame the noblest theme supplies.
Begin, ye captive bands, and strike the lyre;
The time, the theme, the place and all conspire.
CHALDEAN WOMAN.
dir.
See the ruddy morning smiling,
Hear the grove to bliss beguiling;
Zephyrs through the woodland playing,
Streams along the valley straying.
• ["Fatigued with life, yet loth to pari,
On hope the wretch relies;
And every blow that sinks the heari,
Bids the deluder riwe.
** Hope, like the tapos's gleainy light,
Adorns the wretch's way;
And still, as darker grows the nigh!,
Emits a brighter ray."'-- Oris MS)
THE CAPTIVITY.
101
First PRIEST.
While these a constant revel keep,
Shall Reason only teach to weep?
Hence intruder! we'll pursue
Nature, a better guide than you.
Sccoru! PEIEST.
Every moment, as it flows,
Some peculiar pleasure owes ;
Then let us, providently wise,
Seize the debtor as it flies.
Think not tomorrow can repay
The pleasures that we lose to-day;
To-morrow's most unbounded store
Can but pay its proper score.
First PRIEST.
Recitative
But, hush! see foremost of the captive choir,
The master-prophet grasps his full-ton'd lyre.
Mark where he sits, with executing art,
Feels for each tone, and speeds it to the heart.
See how prophetic rapture fills his form,
Awful as clouds that nurse the growing storm;
And now his voice, accordant to the string,
Prepares our monarch's victories to sing,
102
TIE CAPTIVITY.
First PROPHET.
Air.
From north, from south, from east, from west,
Conspiring nations come;
Tremble thou vice-polluted breast,
Blasphemers, all be dumb.
The tempest gathers all around,
On Babylon it lies ;
Down with her! down-down to the ground,
She sinks, she groans, she dies.
Second PROPHET.
Down with her, Lord, to lick the dust,
Ere yonder setting sun;
Serve her as she has serv'd the just!
'Tis fix'd-it shall be done.
First PRIEST.
Recitative
No more! when slaves thus insolent presume,
The king himself shall judge, and fix their dooin.
Unthinking wretches; bave not you and all,
Beheld our power in Zedekiah's fall ?
To yonder gloomy dungeon turn your eyes;
See where dethron't? your captive monarch lies,
Depriv'd of sight and rankling in his chain;
See where he mourns his friends and children slain.
Yet know, ye slaves, that still remain behind
More pond'rous chains, and shimgeons more confin'ů.
THE CAPTIVITY.
103
Chorus of AU.
Arise, all potent ruler, rise,
And vindicate thy people's cause;
Till every tongue in every land
Shall offer up unfeign'd applause.
[Exeunt.
ACT III.—Scene as before.
-
First PRIEST.
Recitative.
Yes, my companions, Heaven's decrees are past,
And our fix'd empire shall for ever last;
In vain the madu'ning prophet threatens woe,
In vain rebellion aims her secret blow;
Still shall our fame and growing power be spread,
And still our vengeance crush the traitor's head.
Air.
Coeval with man
Our empire began,
And never shall fall
Till ruin shakes all :
When ruin shakes all
Then shall Babylon fall.
First PROPHET.
Recitatire.
'Tis thus that pride triumphant rears the head,
A little while, and all their power is fled;
104
THE CAPTIVITY.
But ha! what means yon sadly plaintive train,
That this way slowly bend along the plain ?
And now, methinks, to yonder bank they bear
A pallid corse, and rest the body there.
Alas! too well mine eyes indignant trace
The last remains of Judah's royal race:
Our monarch falls, and now our fears are o'er,
Unhappy Zedekiah is no more!
Air.
Ye wretches who by fortune's hate,
In want and sorrow groan;
Come ponder his severer fate,
And learn to bless your own.
You vain, whom youth and pleasure guide,
Awhile the bliss suspend;
Like yours, bis life began in pride,
Like his, your lives shall end.
Second PROPHET.
Behold his wretched corse with sorrow worn,
His squalid limbs with ponderous fetters torn;
Those eyeless orbs that shock with ghastly glare,
Those ill-becoming rags--that matted hair.
And shall not Hearen for this its terrors show,
Grasp the red bolt, and lay the guilty low ?*
How long, how long, Almighty God of all,
Shall wrath vindictive threaten ere it fall!
P" And shall not Heaven for this its terror show,
And deal its angry vengeance on the ſoe!"- Orig. MS]
THE CAPTIVITY.
105
ISRAELITISH WOMAN.
Air.
As panting flies the hunted hind,
Where brooks refreshing stray;
And rivers through the valley wind,
That stop the hunter's way;
Thus we, O Lord, alike distrest,
For streams of mercy long;
Those streams which cheer the sore opprest,
And overwhelm the strong.
First PROPIET.
Recitai il'c.
But whence that shout? Good heavens! amazement all!
See yonder tower just nodding to the fall;
See where an army covers all the ground,
Saps the strong wall, and pours destruction round !
The ruin smokes, destruction pours along,
IIow low the great, how fecble are the strong!
The foe prevails, the lofty walls recline-
0, God of hosts, the victory is thine!
Chorus of ISRAELITES.
Down with them, Lord, to lick the dust;
Thy vengeance be begun :
Serve them as they have serv'd the just,
And let thy will be done.
VOL.
IV.
106
THE CAPTIVITY.
First PRIEST.
Recitative.
All, all is lost. The Syrian army fails,
Cyrus, the conqueror of the world, prevails !
The ruin smokes, the torrent pours along,
How low the proud, how feeble are the strong!
Save us, O Lord ! to thee, though late, we pray,
And give repentance but an hour's delay.
First and Second PRIEST.
Thrice happy, who in happy hour
To Heaven their praise bestow,
And own his all-consuning power
Before they feel the blow.
First PROPHET.
Recitative.
Now, now's our time! ye wretches bold and blind,
Brave but to God, and cowards to mankind ;
Too late you seek that power unsought before,
Your wealth, your pride, your kingdom, are no more.
Air
0, Lucifer, thou son of morn,
Alike of Heaven and man the foe;
Heaven, men, and all,
Now press thy fall,
And sink thee lowest of the low.
THE CAPTIVITY.
107
First PROPHET.
O, Babylon, how art thou fallen!
Thy fall more dreadful from delay!
Thy streets forlorn,
To wilds shall turn,
Where toads shall pant and vultures prey.
Second PROPHET.
Recitative.
Such be her fate! But listen! from afar
The clarion's note proclaims the finish'd war.
Cyrus, our great restorer, is at hand,
And this way leads his formidable band.
Give, give your songs of Zion to the wind,
And hail the benefactor of mankind :
He comes pursuant to divine decree,
To chain the strong, and set the captive free.
Chorus of Youths.
Rise to transports past expressing,
Sweeter from remember'd woes;
Cyrus comes, our wrongs redressing,
Comes to give the world repose.
Chorus of Virgins.
Cyrus comes the world redressing,
Love and pleasure in his train;
Comes to heighten every blessing,
Comes to soften every pain.
108
THE CAPTIVITY.
Semi-Chorus.
Hail to him with mercy reigning,
Skill'd in every peaceful art;
Who from bonds our limbs unchaining,
Only binds the willing heart.
Last Chorus.
But chief to Thee, our God, defender, friend,
Let praise be given to all eternity;
O Thou, without beginning, without end,
Let us, and all, begin and end in Theo.

36.
few
le-
e.
d
RET ALIATION.
A POEM.
a
[This poem was written in February, 1774, but was not pub-
lished until after the author's decease. It arose not from a scene
at the Literary Club in Gerrard-street, as sometimes said, but from
a inore miscellaneous meeting, consisting of a few of its members
and their friends who assembled to dine at the St. James's Coffee-
house. Much mirth and convivial pleasantry appear to have
resulted from their meetings. The late Sir George Beaumont
mentioned that whatever was the dinner hour, whether in a
private or public party, Goldsmith always came late and generally
in a bustle. A peculiarity like this drew attention upon him at
table, and became a source of banter to his companions. This
led to further observation : his person, dialect, and manners,
his genius mingled with peculiarities, his negligences and blun-
ders, often no doubt the effect of abstraction, furnished a theme
for jocular notice, too tempting to be lost by men drawn together
to amuse and be amused; and the remark of some one, how he
would be estimated by posterity, first gave rise to the idea of
characterizing him by epitaphs. It does not appear that many
were written, or none that deserved remembrance, except that by
Garrick, of which the following is stated to be an exact copy :-
“ Ilere lies Poet Goldsmith, for shortnes called Noll,
Who wrote like an angel, but talk'd like poor Poll.”
See Life, ch. xxi.)
RETALIATION.
Of old, when Scarron his companions invited,
Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united;
If our landlord* supplies us with beef, and with fish,
Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish;
Our Deant shall be venison, just fresh from the plains;
Our Burket shall be tongue, with the garnish of brains;
Our Willş shall be wild fowl, of excellent flavor,
And Dick with his pepper shall heighten the savour,
|
Our Cumberland's I sweet-bread its place shall obtain,
And Douglas** is pudding, substantial and plain;
* The master of the St. James's coffee-house, where the Poet, and the
friends he has characterized in this poem, occasionally dined.
† Dr. Barnard, Dean of Derry in Ireland. (Afterwards Bishop of Killaloe,
and in 1749 translated to the see of Limerick. He died at Wimbledon, in
Surrey, June, 7, 1806, in his eightieth year. ]
† The Right Hon. Edmund Burke.
Mr. Williain Burke, late secretary to General Conway, member for
Bedwin, and afterwards holding office in India.
|| Mr. Richard Burke, collector of Granada ; afterwards Recorder of
Bristol
T Richard Cumberland, Esq., author of the West-Indian, Fashionable
Lover, the Brothers, Calvary, &c. &c.
** Dr. Douglas, canon of Windsor (now Bishop of Salisbury), an ingenious
Scotch gentleman, who has no less distinguished himself as a citizen of the
world, than a sound critic, in detecting several literary mistakes (or rather
irgeries) of his countrymen ; particularly Lauder on Milton, and Bower's
History of the Popes. He died in 1807.)
112
RETALIATION.
Our Garrick's* a sallad; for in him we see
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree:
To make out the dinner, full certain I am,
That Ridget is anchovy, and Reynolds is lamb;
That Hickey'sý a capon, and, by the same rule,
Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool.
At a dinner so various, at such a repast,
Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last?
Here, waiter, more wine! let me sit while I'm able,
Till all my companions sink under the table;
Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head,
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead.
a
TIere lies the good Dean. | reunited to carth,
Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth;
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt,
At least, in six weeks I could not find 'em out;
Yet some bare declar'd, and it can't be denied 'em,
That sly-hoots was cursuilly emning to liide 'em.
Here lies our good Edmund, T whose genius was such,
We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much ;
Who born for the universe, parrow'd his mind,
And to party gave up what wils meant for mankind."
# David Garrick, Esq.
† Counsellor John Ridge, a gentleman belonging to the Irish bar.
I Sir Joshua Reynolds.
§ An eminent attorney.
|| Vide page 111.
Pile page 111.
** (In this thought Goldsmith had probably in remembrance a passage in
one of l'ope's letters to Swift, in which, speaking of Bolingbroke, he complains
of his being so much taken up with particular men as to neglect mankind;
still rather a creature of this world than of the universe. ]
RETALIATION.
113
Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat,
To persuade Tommy Townshend* to lend him a vote;
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,
And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining;
Though equal to all things, for all things unfit,
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit;
For a patriot too cool; for a drudge disobedient,
And too fond of the right, to pursue the expedient.
In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd, or in place, sir,
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.
Here lies honest William,† whose heart was a mint,
While the owner never knew half the good that was in't;
The pupil of impulse it forc'd him along,
His conduct still right, with his argument wrong;
Still aiming at honor, yet fearing to roam,
The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home:
Would
you
ask for his merits ? alas ! he had none;
What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own.
Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh at:
Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet!
What spirits were his! what wit and what whim !
Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb!
Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball!
Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all!
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,
That we wish'd him full ten times a day at Old Nick;
* Mr. Thomas Townshend, member for Whitchurch. (Afterwards Lord
Sydney.]
+ Vide page 111.
1 Mr. Richard Burke. This gentleman having slightly fractured one of his
arms and legs, at different times, the Doctor has rallied him on these accidents,
as a kind of retributive justice for breaking his jrets upon other people.
114
RETALIATION.
But missing his mirth and agreeable vein,
As often we wish'd to have Dick back again.
Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts,
The Terence of England, the mender of hearts;
A flattering painter, who made it his care
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are
His gallants are faultless, his women divine,
And comedy wonders at being so fine;
Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out,
Or rather like tragedy giving a rout.
His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd
Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud ;
And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone,
Adopting his portraits, are pleas'd with their own.
Say, where has our poet this malady caught,
Or, wherefore his characters thus without fault?
Say, was it that vainly directing his view
To find out men's virtues, and finding them few,
Quite sick of pursuing cach troublesome elf,
He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself?
Here Douglas* retires from his toils to relax,
The scourge of impostors, the terror of ynacks:
Come all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines,
Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines :
When satire and censure encircled his throne,
I fear'd for your safety, I fear’d for my own;
But now he is gone, and we want a detector,
Our Doddst shall be pious, our Kenrickst shall lecture;
* Vide page Ul.
+ The Rev. Dr. William Dodd.
+ Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern, under the title of
“ The School of Shakspeare,” (For an account of whom, see Life, ch. viii)
RETALIATION.
115
Macpherson* write bombast, and call it a style,
Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile;
New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over,
No countryman living their tricks to discover;
Detection her taper shall quench to a spark,
And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark.
Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can,
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man;
As an actor, confess'd without rival to shine;
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line :
Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart,
The man had his failings, a dape to his art.
Like an ill-judging beauty, his colors he spread,
And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red.
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting;
'Twas only that when he was off, he was acting.
With no reason on earth to go out of his way,
He turn'd and he varied full ten times a day:
Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick,
If they were not his own by finessing and trick:
He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack,
For he knew when he pleas'd he could whistle them back.
Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came,
And the puff of a dance, he mistook it for fame;
'Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease,
Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please.
But let us be candid, and speak out our mind,
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind.
* James Macpherson, Esq , who lately from the mere force of his style,
wrote down the first port of all antiquity. [This alludes to his prose transla-
tion of Homer, which has been wholly and deservedly neglected.]
116
RETALIATION.
Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys,* and Woodfallst so grave,
What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave !
How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you rais'd,
While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were be-prais'd !
But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies,
To act as an angel and mix with the skies:
Those poets, who owe their best fame to his skill,
Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will,
Old Shakspeare receive liim with praise and with love,
And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above.
Here IIickeyf reclines, a most blunt pleasant creature,
And slander itself must allow him good nature;
IIe cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper ;
Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper!
Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser ?
I answer no, no, for he always was wiser:
Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat?
His very worst foc can't accuse him of that.
Perhaps he conſided in men as they go,
And so was too foolishly honest ? ali, no!
Then what was his failing ? come tell it, and, burn ye:
IIe was, could he help it?-a special attorney.
Ilere Reynolds is lail, and to tell you my mind,
He has not left a wiser or better behind;
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand;
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland;
* Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of False Delicacy, Word to the Wise, Clemen.
tina, School for lives. &, &c.
+ Wr. William Woolfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle.
[See Life, vol. ii. p. 295.)
s [- To his gentle anii happy composure of mind, our common friend
POSTSCRIPT.
117
Still born to improve us in every part,
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart:
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering,
When they judg'd without skill, he was still hard of hearing:
When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff,
He shifted his trumpet,* and only took snuff. f
POSTSCRIPT.
After the fourth edition of this Poem was printed, the publisher received
the following epitaph on Mr. Whitefoord , 1 from a friend of the late Dr.
Goldsmith.
HERE Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can,
Though he merrily liv’d, he is now a graveg man:
Goldsmith alludes, when, in describing Sir Joshua Reynolds, he employed the
epithet blandma word eminently happy, and characteristic of his easy and
placid manner; but, taking into our consideration at once the soundness of
his understanding, and the mildness and suavity of his deportment, perhaps
Ilorace's description of the amiable friend of the younger Scipio—the “mitis
sapientia Læli,'—may convey to posterity a more perfect idea of our illustrious
painter, than the unfinished delineation of his poetical friend.”-MALONE, Life
of Sir Joshua Reynolds.]
* Sir Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf, as to be under the necessity
of using an ear-trumpet in company.
+ [“ These were the last lines Goldsmith ever wrote. He had written half
a line more of this character, when he was seized with the fever which carried
him in a few days to the grave. He intended to have concluded with his own
character."- MALONE.)
Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays.
Ø Mr. Whitefoord was so notorious a puneter, that Dr. Goldsmith used 10
say it was impossible to keep him company, without being infected with the
itch of punning.
118
POSTSCRIPT.
Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun!
Who relish'd a joke, and rejoic'd in a pun;
Whose temper was generous, open, sincere;
A stranger to flatt'ry, a stranger to fear;
Who scatter'd around wit and humor at will;
Whose daily bon mots half a column might fill:
A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free:
A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he
What pity, alas! that so lib’ral a mind
Should so long be to newspaper essays contin'd!
Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar,
Yet content “if the table be set in a roar;"'
Whose talents to fill any station were fit,
Yet happy if Woodfall* confess'd him a wit.
Ye newspaper witlings! ye pert scribbling folks!
Who copied his squibs, and re-echo'd his jokes;
Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come,
Still follow your nuaster, and visit his tomb:
To deck it, bring with you festoons of the vine,
And copious libations bestow on his shrine;
Then strew all around it (you can do no less)
Cross-readings, Ship-news, and Mistakes of the Press.
Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for thy sake I admit
That a Scot
may have humor, I had almost said wit.
This debt to thy mem’ry I cannot refuse,
“ Thou best-humor'd man with the worst-humor'd Muse." I
* Mr. H. S. Woodtall, printer of the Public Advertiser.
† Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with humorous pieces
ander those titles in the Public Advertiser.
1 [The wit of Goldsmith in this poem produced, as such things frequently
POSTSCRIPT.
119
a
do, an effusion of wit from other men. Garrick, who had a turn for epigram,
was the first in the field: led by the skill and keenness with which his own
character had been analyzed, but unprepared for reply, his first feeling seems
to have been one of mere discontent, which he expressed in the following
JEU D'ESPRIT.
"ON DR. GOLDSMITH'S CHARACTERISTICAL COOKERY.
" Are these the choice dishes the Doctor has sent us?
Is this the great poet whose works so content us?
This Goldsmith's fine feast, who has written fine books i
Heaven sends us good meat, but the Devil sends cooks."
Further reflection convinced Garrick of the enduring nature of the satire ;
and he soon found that it was thought by others to contain much truth. This
prompted a more labored effusion in the form of attack on his assailant; for
the idea and point of which, however, he is indebted to Swift. It was not
printed, and probably not written, before 1776.
« JUPITER AND MERCURY.
A FABLE.
“ Ilere, Hermes, says Jove, who with nectar was mellow,
Go fetch me some clay- I will make an old fellow!
Right and wrong shall be jumbled, -much gold and some dross;
Without cause be he pleas'd, without cause be he cross;
Be sure, as I work, to throw in contradictions,
A great love of truth, yet a mind turn'd to fictions;
Now mix these ingredients, which, warm'd in the baking,
Turn'd to learning and gaming, religion and raking.
With the love of a wenchi, let his writings be chaste;
Tip his tongue with strange matter, his pen with fine taste ;
That the rake and the poet o'er all may prevail,
Set fire to the head, and ret fire to the tail;
For the joy of each sex, on the world i'll bestow il,
This scholar, rake, Christian, (lupe, gamester, and poet;
Though a mixture so odl, he shall merit great fame,
And among brother mortals--be Goldsmith his name;
When on earth this strange meteor no more shall appear,
You, Hermes, shall fetch him-to make us sport here."
Cumberland, having no resentments to gratify, ventured to imitate his
original, by applying to wines the characters appropriated by Goldsmith to
dishes. The idea was good: and in the following piece, which was first
printed about 1777, is cleverly executed, though infinitely inferior to the humor,
discrimination, and talent that pervades · Retaliation.'
120
POSTSCRIPT.
“ FOETICAL EristLE TO Dr. GOLDSMITH, OR SUPPLEMENT TO HIS
RETALIATION.'
“Doctor, according to our wishes,
You've character'd us all in dishes :
Served up a sentimental treat,
or various emblematic meat;
And now it's time, I trust, you'll think
Your company should have some drink;
Else, take my word for it, at least
Your Irish mends won't like your feast.
Ring, then, and see that there is placed
To each according to his taste.
"To Douglas, fraught with learned stock
Of crinc lore, give ancient Ilock;
Let it be genuilie, bright, and fine,
Pure, unadulterated wine;
For if there's fault in taste or odor,
He'll search it, as he search'd out Lauder.
6. To Johnson, philosophic sage,
The moral Mentor of the are;
Religion's friend, with soul sincere,
With meltins lieart, but loik austere ;
Give liquor of an honest sort,
And crown his cup with priestly Porl.
“ Now fill the glass with may Champagne,
And frisk it in a livelier stran:
Quick! quick! the sparkins nectar quaff;
Drink it, dear Garrick! drink and laugh.
* Pour forth to Reynolds, without stint;
Rich Burgundy of ruby tint;
li e'er his colors chance to fade,
This brilliane hue shall come in aid;
With ruddy light refresh the faces,
And warm the bo-on of the Graces.
"To Burke a pure lilation bring,
Fresh drawn from the Casialian spring;
With civic oak the goblet bind,
Fit emblem of his patriot mind;
Let Clio at his table sip,
And Hermes hanl it to his lip.
* Till out my friend, the Dean of Derry,
A bumper of conventual Sherry.
* Give Riige and Ilickoy, generous souls!
01 Whisky punch convivial bowis;
But let the kindred Burkes regale,
With poten: draughts or Wicklow ale!
POSTSCRIPT.
121
"To Cradock next in order turn ye,
And grace him with the wines of Ferney.
64
* Now, Doctor, you're an honest sticker,
So take your glass, and choose your liquor.
Wil't have it steep'd in Alpine snows,
Or damask'd at Silenus' nose ?
With Wakefield's Vicar sip your tea,
Or to Thalia drink with me?
And, Doctor, I would have ye know it,
An honest I, though humble, poet;
I scorn the speaker like a toad,
Who drives his cart the Dover Road;
There, traitor to his country's trade,
Smuggles vile scraps of French brocade.
llence with all such! for you and I
By English wares will live and die.
Come, draw your chair, and stir the fire;
And, boy !--a pot of Thrale's entire !"
Dean Barnard, who wrote verses with facility, printed the following lines
after perusing those of Goldsmith and Cumberland :-
“Dear Noll and dear Dick, since you've made us so merig,
Accept the best thanks of the poor Dean of Derry!
Though I here must confess that your meat and your wine
Are not to my taste, though they're both very fine;
For Sherry's a liquor monastic, you own-
Now there's nothing I hate so as drinking alone :
It may do for your Monks, or your Curates and Vicars,
But for my part, I'm fond of more sociable liquors.
Your Ven'son's delicious, though 100 sweet your sauce is--
Sed non ego maculis offendar paucis.
So soon as you please you may serve me your dish up,
But instead of your sherry, pray make me a-Bishop."]
(Joseph Cradock, Esq. The allusion is to his having altered and adapted Voltairo's
Zobeide' to the English stage.')
VOL. IV.
6
1
MISCELLANIES.
1
MISCELL ANIES.
THE CLOWN'S REPLY.
John Trott was desir'd by two witty peers,
To tell them the reason why asses had ears;
“ An't please you," quoth John, “ I'm not given to letters,
Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters;
Howe'er from this time I shall ne'er see your graces,
As I hope to be sar'd! without thinking on asses."
Edinburgh, 1753.*
PROLOGUE,
WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE POET LABERIUS, A ROMAN
KNIGHT, WHOM CÆSAR FORCED UPON THE STAGE.
Preserved by Macrobiust
What! no way left to shun th' inglorious stage,
And save from infamy my sinking age!
66
* (This is the only effusion preserved of several, which Goldsmith is said
to have written while a student at Edinburgh.)
+ [This translation was first printed in The Present State of Polite
Learning,” in 1759 ; but was omitted in the second edition, which appeared
in 1774. Decimus Laberius was made a Roman knight by Julius Cæsar. For
a long period he maintained the first character as a farce writer ; but Publius
Syrus at last became his rival, and carried off the applause of the theatre
See Aulus Gellius, 1. ii., c. 7; and Hor. Sat. lib. i. sat. x.]
126
MISCELLANIES.
Scarce half alive, oppress'd with many a year,
What, in the name of dotage, drives me here?
A time there was, when glory was my guide,
Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside ;
Unaw'd by power, and unappall’d by fear,
With honest thrift I held
my
honor dear:
But this vile hour disperses all my store,
And all my hoard of honor is no more ;
For ah! too partial to my life's decline,
Cæsar persuades, submission must be mine;
Him I obey, whom Heaven itself obeys,
Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclin'd to please.
Here then at once I welcome every shame,
And cancel at threescore a life of fame;
No more my titles shall my children tell; ;
The old buffoon will fit my name as well :
This day beyond its term my fate extends,
For life is ended when our honor ends.
THE LOGICIANS REFUTED.
In imitation of Dean Swiſi.*
Logicians have but ill defin'd
As rational the human mind;
* [First printed in the “ Busy Body," 1759; to draw attention to which
publication it was announced as the production of the Dean of St. Patrick.
It was included in the Dublin edition of his works, and is continued by Sir
Walter Scott, who had doubtless forgotten its position in the works of
Goldsmith. See Life, ch. ix.
MISCELLANIES.
127
Reason, they say, belongs to man,
But let them prove it if they can.
Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius,
By ratiocinations specious,
Have strove to prove with great precision,
With definition and division,
IIomo est ratione proditum ;
But for my soul I cannot credit 'em;
And must in spite of them maintain,
That man and all his ways are vain;
And that this boasted lord of nature
Is both a weak and erring creature.
That instinct is a surer guide
Than reason, boasting mortals' pride;
And that brute beasts are far before 'em,
Dcus est anima brutorum.
Who ever knew an honest brute
At law his neighbor prosecute,
Bring action for assault and battery,
Or friend beguile with lies and flattery?
O’er plains they ramble unconfin’d,
No politics disturb their mind;
They eat their mcals and take their sport,
Nor know who's in or out at court;
They never to the levee go
To treat as dearest friend, a foe;
They never importune his Grace,
Nor ever cringe to men in place;
Nor undertake a dirty job,
Nor draw the quill to write for Bob :*
* (Sir Robert Walpole, the object of so much vituperation by Swifi.
128
MISCELLANIES.
Fraught with invective they ne'er go,
To folks at Paternoster Row;
No judges, fiddlers, dancing masters,
No pickpockets or poetasters,
Are known to honest quadrupeds,
No single brute his fellow leads.
Brutes never meet in bloody fray,
Nor cut each others' throats for
pay.
Of beasts, it is confess'd, the ape
Comes nearest us in human shape;
Like man, he imitates each fashion,
,
And malice is his ruling passion;
But both in malice and grimaces,
A courtier any ape surpasses.
Behold him, humbly cringing, wait
Upon the minister of state;
View him soon after to inferiors
Iping the conduct of superiors:
TIe promises with equal air.
And to perform takes equal care.
He in his turn finds imitators,
At court, the porters, lacqueys, waiters,
Their master's manners still contract,
And footmen, lords and dukes can act.
Thus at the court, both great and small,
Behare alike, for all
прс
all
MISCELLANIES.
129
EPIGRAM
ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH, STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING.
Sure 'twas by Providence design'd,
Rather in pity, than in hate,
That he should be, like Cupid, blind,
To save him from Narcissus' fate.f
STANZAS
ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC, AND DEATH OF GENERAL WOLFE.
Amidst the clamor of exulting joys,
Which triumph forces from the patriot heart,
Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice,
And quells the raptures which from pleasure start.
0, Wolfe! to thee a streaming flood of woe,
Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear;
Quebec in vain shall teach our breast to glow,
Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear.
(First printed in “ The Bee," 1759. See vol. i. p. 18.]
+ [": The Princess of Eboli, the mistress of Phillip 11. of Spain, and
Maugiron, the minion of Henry III. of France, had each of them lost an eye ;
and the famous Latin epigram, which Goldsmith has either translated or
imitated, was written on them."-LORD BYRON, Works, vol. vi p. 390.]
1 [First printed in the “ Busy Body," 1759. The alleged relationship of
the Poet with this distinguished officer, produced very naturally an effort to
c lebrate him, after a death so honorable.)
VOL. IV.
6*
130
MISCELLANIES.
Alive, thee foe thy dreadful vigor fled,
And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes;
Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead !
Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise.
STANZAS. *
Weeping, murmuring, complaining,
Lost to every gay delight;
Myra, too sincere for feigning,
Fears th' approaching bridal night.
Yet why impair thy bright perfection?
Or dim thy beauty with a tear ?
Had Myra follow'd my direction,
She long had wanted cause of fear.
TIIE GIFT.
TO INIS, IN BOW-STREET, COVENT-GARDEN,
Imilaire fro the Freuri!
Say, cruel Iris, pretty rake.
Dear mercenary beauty,
* First printed in “ The Bee," 1759.)
† [First printeil in “ The Bee," 1759. The original is in Ménariama,
om. iv. p. 200:-
ÉTRENNE À IRIS
Pour témoignan de ma flamme,
Ins, du meilleur ile mon âine,
JE VOUS lonne à ce noul an,
Non pas dentelle, ni ruhan,
MISCELLANIES.
131
What annual offering shall I make
Expressive of my duty ?
My heart, a victim to thine eyes,
Should I at once deliver,
Say, would the angry fair one prize
The gift, who slights the giver ?
A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,
My rivals give-and let 'em;
If gems, or gold, impart a joy,
I'll give them when I get 'em.
I'll give—but not the full-blown rose,
Or rose-bud more in fashion;
Such short-liv'd off'rings but disclose
A transitory passion.
I'll give thee something yet unpaid,
Not less sincere than civil:
I'll give thee--ah! too charming maid,
I'll give thec—to the devil.
Non pas essence, non pas pommade,
Quelques boites de marmalade,
Un mouchoir, des amis, un bouquet,
Non pis fleres, ni chaplet.
Quoi done! attenilez, je vou donne,
O! fille plus belle que bonne,
Qui m'avez toujours refuso
Le point si souvent proposé,
Je vous donne-Ah! le puis-je dire?
Oui; c'est trop souffrir le martyre,
Il est temps de m'emanciper,
Patience va m'échapper,
Fussitz vous cent fois plus aimable,
Belle Tris, je vous donne--au diable."
132
MISCELLANIES.
AN ELEGY
ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE.
Good people all, with one accord,
Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word-
From those who spoke her praise.
The needy seldom pass d her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor,-
Who left a pledge behind.
She strove the neighborhood to please,
With manners wondrous winning;
And never follow'd wicked ways,-
Unless when she was sinning.
* [These lines were first printed in “ The Bee,” 1759. Mr. Croker
observes, in a communication to the editor :-—" The elegy on Madam Blaize,
and the better part of that on the Death of a Mad Dog, are closely imitated
from a well-known French string of absurdities called. La Chanson du fameux
la Galisse;" one of many versions of which you will find in ibe Ménagiana,
vol. iii. p. 29. I shall select two or three stanzas as examples :-
"Messieurs, vous plait-il d'ouir
L'air du fameux la Galisse,
Il pourra vous rejouir,-
Pourvu qu'il vous divertisse.
On dit que dans ses amours,
Il fut caressé des belles,
Qui le suivirent tonjours, –
Tant qu'il marche devant elles.
Il fut par un triste sori,
Blesso d'une main cruelle ;
On croit, puisqu'il est mort,-
Que la plaie était mortelle.")
MISCELLANIES.
133
At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size;
She never slumbered in her pew,-
But when she shut her eyes.
Her love was sought, I do aver
By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has followed her,-
When she has walk'd before.
But now her wealth and finery fled,
IIer hangers-on cut short all;
The doctors found, when she was dead, -
Her last disorder mortal.
Let us lament, in sorrow sore,
For Kent-street well may say,
That had she liv'd a twelvemonth more,-
She bad not died to-day.
DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR'S BED-CHAMBER"
Where the Red Lion staring o'er the way,
Invites cach passing stranger that can pay;
Where Calvert's butt, and Parson's black champagne,
Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane;
* (First printed, in 1760, in “ The Citizen of the World.” See vol. ii. p.
127. On this subject Goldsmith had projected an heroi-comic poem, as appears
by one of his letters to his brother (see Life,ch. viii.); and with a few variations
it forms the description of the ale house in the “ Deserted Village.” See p. 73
of the present volume.)
134
MISCELLANIES.
There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug,
The Muse found Scroygen stretch'd beneath a rug;
A window, patch'd with paper, lent a ray,
That dimly show'd the state in which he lay;
The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread:
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread:
The royal Game of Goose was there in view,
And the Twelve Rules the royal martyr drew;*
The Seasons, fram’d with listing, found a place,
And brave Prince William show'd his lampblack face.
The morn was cold, he views with keen desire
The rusty grate unconscious of a fire :
With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scor'd,t
And five crack d to-cup's dress'd the chimney board;
A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay,
I cap by night--a stocking all the day!
* (V'iz. 1. “ L'rge no healths; 2. Profane no divine ordinances; 3. Touch
no state matters; 1. Reveal no secrets; 5. Piek no quarrels; 6. Make no
comparisons; π Maintain no ill opinions; S. Keep no bad company ;
9. Encourage yo vile; 10. Make no long meals; 11. Repeat no grievances;
12. Lay no wagers.”]
+ [“ And now imagine, afier bis soliloquy, the landlord to make his
appearance, in order to dun liim for the reckoning:
6. None with that fitre, su smirile and so gay,
That welcomes every ster that can pay,
With sulky por he ahel the patient man,
Then pulled bus breeches 11.311, and thus began," &r.
All this is taken, you sec, from nature. It is a good remark of Mon-
taigne's, that the winest mention have friends, with whom they do not care
how much they play the fool. Take my preselle tollies as instances of regard.
Poetry is a much easier, and more agrrenble species of composition than prose,
and could a man live hy it, it were not mpleasant employment to be a poet."
-Letter to his Brother. Ser Life, ch. viii]
MISCELLANIES.
135
SONG.*
O memory! thou fond deceiver,
Still importunate and vain,
To former joys recurring ever,
And turning all the past to pain :
Thou, like the world, the opprest oppressing,
Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe;
And he who wants cach other blessing,
In thee must ever find a foc.t
SONG.
The wretch condemnd with life to part,
Still, still on IIope relics;
And every pang that rends the heart,
Bides expectation rise.
* (From the oratorio of the Captivity, written 1761. See p. 94, in tne
present volume, and Life, ch xiv.]
+ [In the original MS., in the possession of Mr. Murray :-
"Ilonce, receiver! most di treening,
Seck the happy and the tree;
They who want each other blessing,
Ever want a friend in thee.'')
1 [Also from the oratorio of the Captivity. See p. 100.)
$ (Originally — “Fatigued with life, yet luth to par“,
On hope the wretch rilies;
And every blow the sake the heart
Bids the deluler rie
Ilope's like the tipuri deaminlight,
Addorts the wretchi's Wrey,"
In Mr. Murray's MS, the stanza rus thus:---
136
MISCELLANIES.
Hope, like the glimmering taper's light,
Adorns and chcers the way;
And still, as darker grows the night,
Emits a brighter ray.
TIE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION.
A TALE*
Secluded from domestic strife,
Jack Bookworin led a college life;
A fellowship at twenty-five
Made him the happiest man alive;
He drank his glass, and crack'd his joke,
And freshmen wonder'd as he spoke.
Such pleasures. unalloy'd with care,
Could any accident impair?
Could Cupid's shaft at length transfix
Our swain, arrived at thirty-six ?
0! had the Archer neer come down
To ravage in
a country town!
Or Flavia been content to stop
At triumphs in a Fleet-street shop!
(To the last moment of his breath,
On hope the wreich relies;
And c'en the pang preceding death
Bids expectation rise,
* Tlope, like the cleaming taper's light,
Alerts and cheer: our wiy, &c.'']
* (Printed in the volume of Essays which appeared in 1765.7
† (Here followed, in the first edition :
** Without politeness, and at breciling,
An lauhid at prilantry and reading "?
MISCELLANIES.
137
O, had her eyes forgot to blaze !
Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze;
0!But let exclamations cease,
Her presence banish'd all his peace.
So with decorum all things carried ;
Miss frown'd and blush’d, and then was-married.
Need we expose to vulgar sight
The raptures of the bridal night?
Need we intrude on hallow'd ground,
Or draw the curtains clos'd around?
Let it suffice, that each had charms;
He clasp'd a goddess in his arms:
And, though she felt his usage rough,
Yet, in a man, 'twas well enough.
The honey-moon like lightning flew;
The second brought its transports too:
A third, a fourth, were not amiss,
The fifth was friendship mix'd with bliss:
But when a twelvemonth pass'd away,
Jack found his goddess made of clay;
. (Here followed, in the first edition:
"Our alter'd parson now began
To be a perfect lady's man;
Made sonnets, li-p'd his sermons o'er,
And told the tales oft told before ;
of bailitis pumpil and proctors bit;
Al college how he showed his wit;
And as the fair one still approv'd,
He fell in love--or thought it love,
So, &c."
The allusion to the “bailiffs pump'll" applies to an incident in the Poet's own college
'areer. See Life, ch. 111.)
+ 1" And though she felt his visage rough."-Orig!
138
MISCELLANIES.
Found half the charms that deck'd her face
Arose from powder, shreds, or lace:
But still the worst remain'd behind,
That
very
face had robb'd her mind.
Skill'd in no other arts was she,
But dressing; patching, repartee;
And, just as humor rose or fell,
By turns a slattern or a belle.
'Tis true she dress'd with modern
grace,
Half naked at a ball or race;
But when at home, at board or bed,
Five greasy night-caps wrapp'd her head.
Could so much beauty condescend
To be a dull domestic friend?
Could any curtain lectures bring
To decency so fine a thing?
In short, by night, 'twas fits or fretting;
By day, 'twas gadding or coquetting.
Fond to be seen, she kept a bevy*
Of powder'd coxcombs at her levy;
The 'squire and captain took their stations,
And twenty other near relations:
Jack suck'd his pipe, and often broke
A sigh in suffocating smoke:t
While all their hours were pass'd between
Insulting repartee or spleen.
Thus as her faults cach day were known,
IIe thinks her features coarser grown;
["Now tawury malam hupe a bevy." -Orig)
+ ["She in hier turn became perplexing,
And found sustavual 1.5 m verm."-1!..]
MISCELLANIES.
139
He fancies every vice she shows,
Or thins her lip, or points her nose:
Whenever rage or envy rise,-
How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes!
He knows not how, but so it is,
Her face is grown a knowing phiz;
And, though her fops are wond'rous civil,
He thinks her ugly as the devil.
Now to perplex the ravell’d noose,
As each a different way pursues,
While sullen or loquacious strifo
Promised to hold them on for life,
That dire disease, whose ruthless power
Withers the beauty's transient flower :-
Lo! the small pox, whose horrid glare
Levell’d its terrors at the fair;
And, rifling every youthful grace,
Left but the remnant of a face.
The glass, grown hateful to her sight,
Reflected now a perfect fright:
Each former art she vainly tries
To bring back lustre to her eyes;
In vain she tries her paste and creams,
To smooth her skin, or hide its seams;
Her country beaux and city cousins,
Lovers no more, flew off by dozens;
The squire himself was seen to yield,
And ev'n the captain quit the field.
Poor madam, now condemn’d to hack
The rest of life with anxious Jack,
14C
MISCELLANIES.
Perceiving others fairly flown,
Attempted pleasing him alone.
Jack soon was dazzled to behold
Her present face surpass the old :
With modesty her cheeks are dy'd,
Humility displaces pride;
For tawdry finery is seen
A person ever neatly clean :
No more presuming on her sway,
She learns good-nature every day :
Serenely gay, and strict in duty,
Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty.
A NEW SIMILE.
IN THE MAXXER OF SWirt.*
Long had I sought in vain to find
A likeness for the scribbling kind;
The modern scribbling kind, who write,
In wit, and sense, and nature's spite ;
Till reading. I forget what day on,
A chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon,
I think I met with something there
To suit my purpose to a hair ;
But let us not proceed too furious ;
First please to turn to God Jercurius!
You'll find him pictur'd at full length,
In book the second, page the tenth :
The stress of all my proofs on him I lay,
And now proceed we to our simile.
* (Printed in the Easnys, 1765.]
MISCELLANIES.
141
Imprimis; pray observe his hat,
Wings upon either side-mark that.
Well! what is it from thence we gather ?
Why, these denote a brain of feather.
A brain of feather ! very right,
With wit that's flighty, learning light;
Such as to modern bard's decreed;
A just comparison,-proceed.
1
1
In the next place, his feet peruse,
Wings grow again from both his shoes ;
Design'd no doubt their part to bear,
And waft his godship through the air ;
And here my simile unites ;
For in the modern poet's flights,
I'm sure it may be justly said,
His feet are useful as his head.
Lastly, vouchsafe t'observe his hand,
Fill'd with a snake-encircled wand;
By classic authors term'd Caduceus,
And highly fam'd for several uses.
To wit-most wond'rously endu'd,
No poppy-water half so good ;
For let folks only get a touch,
Its soporific virtue's such,
Though ne'er so much awake before,
That quickly they begin to snore.
Add too, what certain writers tell,
With this he drives men's souls to Hell.
Now to apply, begin we then :-
His wand's a modern author's pen ;
142
MISCELLANIES.
The serpents round about it twin'd,
Denote him of the reptile kind;
Denote the rage with which he writes,
His frothy slaver, venom'd bites;
An equal semblance still to keep,
Alike, too, both conduce to sleep,
This difference only, as the god
Drove souls to Tart'rus with his rod,
With his goose-quill the scribbling clf,
Instead of others, damns himself.
And here my simile almost tript;
Yet grant a word by way of postscript.
Moreover Merc'ry had a failing :
Well! what of that? out with it-stealing;
In which all modern bards
agree,
Being each as great a thief as lie:
But cv'n this deity's existence
Shall lend my simile assistance.
Our modern bards! why, what a pox
Are they—but senseless stones and blocks?
STANZAS.
ON WOMAN.*
When lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray;
What charm can soothe her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away?
* First printed in the “ Vicar of Wakefield," in 1766.)
MISCELLANIES.
143
The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom-is to die.
ELEGY
ON TIIE DEATH OF A MAD DO
DOG.
Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold you long.
In Islington there was a man,
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race
hc
ran, -
Whene'er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and focs;
The naked every day he clad, --
When he put on his clothes.
* [" This specimen of Goldsmith's poetical powers is wonderfully pathetic.
It is sweet as music, and polished like a gem.”—Mrs. BARBAULD.]
† (First printed in the “Vicar of Wakefield,” 1766, though probably
written at an earlier period; perhaps in 1760, as we find in the “Citizen of
the World,” (see vol. ii. p. 237,) an amusing paper in which Goldsmith
ridicules the fear of mad dogs as one of those epidemic terrors to which the
people of England are occasionally prone.)
144
MISCELLANIES.
And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.
This dog and man at first were friends ;
But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain some private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.
Around from all the neighboring streets
The wondering neighbors ran,
And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.
The wound it seem'd both sore and sad
To every Christian eye;
And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light,
That show'd the rogues they lied;
The man recover'd of the bite,
The dog it was that died.
MISCELLANI ES.
145
EPITAPH
ON
EDWARD PURDON.
Here lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed,
Who long was a bookseller's hack;
He led such a damnable life in this world,
I don't think he'll wish to come back. *
(Purdon died suddenly in Smithfield, in March 1767. He was the
college friend of Goldsmith. Being of a thoughtless turn, he enlisted as a
private soldier after quitting the University ; but becoming tired of this mode
of life, he commenced professional writer in London, and renewed his
acquaintance with the Poet, of whose bounty he frequently partook, and is
believed to have been the cause of some of the difficulties and imprudences of
his good-natured friend. He died as he had lived-in penury; and it was,
perhaps, with reference to him and others whom Goldsmith had known in the
same unfortunate situation, and it is to be feared with the remembrance of
some sufferings of his own, that we find the following passage on the effects of
hunger in his Animated Nature :-“ The lower race of animals, when satisfied
for the instant moment, are perfectly happy; but it is otherwise with man: his
mind anticipates distress, and feels the pangs of want even before it arrests
him. Thus the mind being continually harassed by the situation, it at length
influences the constitution, and unfits it for all its functions. Some cruel
disorder, but no way like hunger, seizes the unhappy sufferer; so that almost
all those men who have thus long lived by chance, and whose every day may
be considered as a happy escape from famine, are known at last to die in
reality of a disorder caused by hunger, but which, in common language,
is often called a broken heart. Some of these I have known myself when
very little able to relieve them.”—See Life, ch. vii.]
VOL. IV.
7
146
MISCELLANIES.
EPILOGUE
TO THE
COMEDY OF THE SISTER."
What ? five long acts—and all to make us wiser ?
Our authoress sure has wanted an adviser.
Had she consulted me, she should have made
Her moral play a speaking masquerade;
Warmd up each bustling scene, and in her rage
Have emptied all the green-room on the stage.
My life on't, this had kept her play from sinking;
Have pleas'd our eyes, and sav'd the pain of thinking.
Well! since she thus has shown her want of skill,
What if I give a masquerade ?-I will.
But how? ay, there's the rub! (pausing]-I've got my cue;
The world's a masquerade! the masquers, you, you, you.
[To Bores, Pit, and Gallery.
Lud! what a group the motley scene discloses !
False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses !
Statesmen with bridles on; and, close beside 'em,
Patriots in party-color'd suits that ride 'em.
* (Written by Mrs. Charlotte Lennox, and represented at Covent-Garden
Theatre, in Januray 1769. The plot was taken from the authoress's own
novel entitled “ Henrietta." The audience expressed their disapprobation of
it with so much clamor and appearance of prejudice, that she would not suffer
an attempt to exhibit it a second time. She published it without either
remonstrance or complaint.-See Gent. Mag. vol. xxxix. p. 199.)
There are but two decent prologues in our tongue--Pope's to Cato-
Johnson's to Drury Lane. These, with the epilogue to the Distrest Mother,
and, I think, one of Goldsmith's, and a prologue of old Colman's to Beaumont
and Fletcher's Philaster, are the best things of the kind we have."-LORB
BYRON, Works, vol. ii p. 165.)
66
MISCELLANIES.
147
There Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once more
To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore :
a
These in their turn, with appetites as keen,
Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen.
Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon,
Flings down her sampler, and takes up the woman;
The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure,
And tries to kill, ere she's got power to cure :
Thus 'tis with all-their chief and constant care
Is to seem every thing—but what they are.
Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on,
Who seems t' have robb’d his vizor from the lion;
Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round parade,
Looking, as who should say, dam'me! who's afraid ?
[Nimicking
Strip but this vizor off, and sure I am
You'll find his lionship a very lamb.
Yon politician, famous in debate,
Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state;
Yet, when he deigns his real shape t'assume,
He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom.
Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight,
And seems, to every gazer, all in white,
If with a bribe his candor you attack,
He bows, turns round, and whip—the man in black !
Yon critic, too—but whither do I run ?
If I proceed, our bard will be undone !
Well then, a truce, since she requests it too:
Do you spare her, and I'll for once spare you.
148
MISCELLANIES.
VERSES
IN REPLY TO
AN INVITATION TO DINNER AT SIR GEORGE BAKER'S"
“ This is a poem! This is a copy of verses !
Your mandate I got,
You
may
all go to pot;
IIad your senses been right,
You'd have sent before night;
As I hope to be saved,
I put off being shaved;
For I could not make bold,
While the matter was cold,
To meddle in suds,
Or to put on my duds;
So tell Horneck and Nesbitt,
And Baker and his bit,
And Kauffman beside,
And the Jessamy bride,
With the rest of the crew,
The Reynoldses two,
Little Comedy's face,
And the Captain in lace. ☺
* For the above verses, now first published, the reader is indebteå to
Major General Sir Henry Bunbury, Bart. They were written about the year
1769, in reply to an invitation to dinner at Sir George Baker's, to meet the
Misses Homeck, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Miss Reynolds, Angelica Kauffinan,
and others. - See Life, ch. xvii.)
† (Mary Horneck (Mrs. Gwyn).]
I [Catherine Horneck, afterwards Mrs. Bunbury.]
$ (Ensign (afterwards General) Horneck.)
MISCELLANIES.
149
a
(By the bye you may tell him,
I have something to sell him;
Of use I insist,
When he comes to enlist.
Your worships must know
That a few days ago,
An order went out,
For the foot guards so stout
To wear tails in high taste,
Twelve inches at least;
Now I've got him a scale
To measure each tail,
To lengthen a short tail,
And a long one to curtail.)
-
Yet how can I when vext,
Thus stray
from
Tell each other to rue
Your Devonshire crew,
For sending so late
To one of my state.
But 'tis Reynolds's way
From wisdom to stray,
And Angelica's whim
To be frolick like him,
But, alas ! your good worships, how could they be wiser,
When both have been spoil'd in to-day's Advertiser ?*
OLIVER GOLDSMITIL
my text?
(The following is the compliment alluded to:--
" While fair Angelica, with matchless grace,
Paints Conway's lovely forin anul Stanhope's ſace;
Our hearts to beauty willing homage pay,
We praise, admire, and gaze our souls away.
But when the likeness she hath done for thee,
O Reynolds' with astonishment we see,
150
MISCELLANIES.
EPITAPH.
ON
DR.
PARNELL.
This tomb, inscrib'd to gentle Parnell's name,
May speak our gratitude but not his fame.
What heart but feels his sweetly moral lay,
That leads to truth through pleasure's flowery way!
Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid;
And Ileaven, that lent him genius, was repaid.
Needless to him the tribute we bestow,
The transitory breath of fame below:
More lasting rapture from his works sha}l rise,
While converts thank their poet in the skies
EPILOGUE
ΤΟ
TIE GOOD NATURED MAN,
Spoken by Mrs. Bulkley.t
As puffing quacks some caitiff wretch procure
To swear the pill, or drop, has wronght a cure;
Forced to subunit, with all our prile we own,
Such strength, such harmony excell'd by none,
And thou art rivall'd by thyself alone."')
[First printed by T. Davies, in “ Miscellanies by the Author of the
Rambler," and written about the year 1770.]
+ The author, in expectation of an Epilogue from a friend at Oxford, deferred
writing one himself tili the very last hour. What is here offered, owes all its
success to the graceful manner of the actress who spoke it.
MISCELLANIES.
151
Thus, on the stage, our play-rights still depend,
For epilogues and prologues on some friend,
Who knows each art of coaxing up the town,
And make full many a bitter pill go down.
Conscious of this, our bard has gone about,
And teaz'd each rhyming friend to help him out.
An epilogue, things can't go on without it;
It could not fail, would you but set about it.
Young man, cries one (a bard laid up in clover),
Alas! young man, my writing days are over;
Let boys play tricks, and kick the straw, not I;
Your brother doctor there, perhaps, may try.
What, I ! dear Sir, the doctor interposes;
What, plant my thistle, Sir, among his roses !
No, no, I've other contests to maintain ;
To-night I head our troops at Warwick-lane.
Go ask your manager—Who, me! Your pardon;
Those things are not our forte at Covent Garden.
Our author's friends, thus plac'd at happy distance,
Give him good words indeed, but no assistance.
As some unhappy wight at some new play,
At the pit door stands elbowing away;
While oft, with many a smile, and many a shrug,
He
eyes the centre, where his friends sit snug;
His simpering friends, with pleasure in their eyes,
Sink as he sinks, and as he rises rise ;
He nods, they nod; he cringes, they grimace;
But not a soul will budge to give him place.
Since then, unhelp’d, our bard must now conform
"To 'bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,"
Blame where you must, be candid where you can,
And be eacb critic the Good-natur'd Man.
152
MISCELLANIES.
PROLOGUE TO ZOBEIDE:
A TRAGEDY ; WRITTEN BY JOSEPII CRADDOCK, ESQ.
Spoken by Mr. Quick, in the Character of a Sailor.'
In these bold times, when Learning's sons explore
The distant climate, and the savage shore;
When wise astronomers to India steer,
And quit for Venus many a brighter here it
While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling,
Forsake the fair, and patiently-go simpling;
Our bard into the general spirit enters,
And fits his little frigate for adventures.
With Scythian storcs, and trinkets deeply laden,
He this way steers his course in hopes of trading-
Yet ere he lands he's order'd me before,
To make an observation on the shore.
Where are we driven ? our reckoning sure is lost!
This seems a rocky and a dangerous coast.
Lord, what a sultry climate am I under!
Yon ill-foreboding cloud seems big with thunder.
[Upper Gallery
(Zobeide was first represented at Covent Garden on the 10th of December
1.*1, and was well received. Goldsmith appears to have first met Mr.
Craadock at the house of Mr. Yates, the actor. Being applied to for a
prologue through the medium of the Yateses, the husband being to speak it
(though Quick was afterwards deputed to this duly), and the wife to perform
in the play, sent the above to the author, accompanied by the following note:
" Mr. Goldsmith presents his best respects to Mr. Craddock ; has sent him
the prologue, such as it is. He cannot take time to make it better.
he will give Mr. Yates the proper instructions; and so, even so, he commits
him to fortune and the public."-See Life, ch. xxi.)
+ [In allusion to Captain Cook's voyage for the purpose of observing the
transit of Venus.
[Alluding to Sir Joseph Banks's participation in the same voyage.]
-
lle begs
MISCELLANIES.
153
There mangroves spread, and larger than I've seen 'em-
[Pit.
Here trees of stately size—and billing turtles in 'em-
[ Balconies.
Here ill-conditioned oranges abound-
[Stage.
And apples, bitter apples, strew the ground. [Tasting them.
The inhabitants are cannibals, I fear:
I heard a hissing-there are serpents here !
O, there the people arc-best keep my distance;
Our captain, gentle natives ! craves assistance;
Our ship's well-stored ;-in yonder creek we've laid her;
His honor is no mercenary trader.*
This is his first adventure; lend him aid,
And we may chance to drive a thriving trade.
His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from far,
Equally fit for gallantry and war.
What! no reply to promises so ample?
I'd best step back—and order up a sample.
a
AN EPILOGUE,
INTENDED FOR
MRS.
BULK L E Y.
There is a place, so Ariosto sings,
A treasury for lost and missing things :
* Mr. Craddock had given his right to any profits that might accrue from
the representation to Mrs. Yates, who greatly distinguished herself in the part
of Zobeide.)
+ [Presented in MS, among other papers, to Dr. Percy, by the Poet; but
for what play intended has not been ascertained. It appears, however, by the
VOL IV.
154
MISCELLANIES.
Lost human wits have places there assigu'd them,
And they who lose their senses,
find them.
But where's this place, this storehouse of the age ?
The Moon, says he ;-but I affirm, the Stage:
At least in many things, I think, I see
His lunar, and our mimic world agree.
Both shine at night, for, but at Foote's alone,
We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down.
Both prone to change, no settled limits fiz,
And sure the folks of both are lunatics.
But in this parallel my best pretence is,
That mortals visit both to find their senses;
To this strange spot, rakes, macaronis, cits,
Come thronging to collect their scatter'd wits.
The gay coquette, who ogles all the day,
Comes here at night, and goes a prude away.
Hither the affected city dame advancing,
Who sighs for operas, and dotes on dancing,
Taught by our art, her ridicule to pause on,
Quits the ballet, and calls for Nancy Dawson.
The gamester too, whose wit's all high or low,
Oft risks his fortune on one desperate throw,
Comes here to saunter, having made his bets,
Finds his lost senses out, and pays his debts.
The Mohawk too—with angry plırases stor’d,
As “Dam'me, Sir," and " Sir, I wear a sword;"
Here lesson'd for a while, and hence retreating,
Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating.
there
may
concluding lines, that it was not a sentimental comedy, but of the school which
Goldsmith adopted, and praised by the line
"Sull stoops among the low to copy nature.'
MISCELLANIES.
155
Here come the sons of scandal and of news,
But find no sense--for they had none to lose.
Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser,
Our Author's the least likely to grow wiser;
Has he not seen how you your favor place,
On sentimental queens and lords in lace ?
Without a star, a coronet, or garter,
How can the piece expect or hope for quarter?
No high-life scenes, no sentiment:—the creature
Still stoops among the low to copy nature.
Yes, he's far gone:—and yet some pity fix,
The English laws forbid to punish lunatics.
156
MISCELLAXIES.
THREXODIA AUGUSTALIS;*
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF
HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES. +
ADVERTISEMENT.
The following may more properly be termed a compilation than a poem.
It was prepared for the composer in little more than two days; and may there-
fore rather be considered as an industrious effort of gratitude than of genius.
In justice to the composer it may likewise be right to inform the public, that
the music was composed in a period of time equally short.
OVERTURE.— A solemn Dirge.
Air-Trio.
Arise, ye sons of worth, arise,
And waken every note of woe!
When truth and virtue reach the skies,
'Tis ours to weep the want below.
Chorus
When truth and virtue, &c.
* [Printed from the copy belonging to Mr. Isaac Reed, who has written on
the title-page : This poem was written, or, as he says, compiled by Dr. Oliver
Goldsmith. It is very scarce, and ought to be in his works” It was performed
in the Great Room, Soho Square, the 20th February 1772. The composer was
Signor Vento; the speaker: Mr. Lee and Mrs. Bellamy; and the singers Mr.
Champness, Mr. Dine, and Mrs. Jameson - See Life, ch. xxi.]
+ [Daughter of Frederick II., Duke of Saxe Gotha, and mother of King
George III.)

MISCELLANIES.
157
36.
a few
Alle-
Man Speaker
The praise attending pomp and power,
The incense given to Kings,
Are but the trappings of an hour-
Mere transitory things :
The base bestow them; but the good agree
To spurn the venal gifts as flattery;
But when to pomp and power are join'd,
An equal dignity of mind;
When titles are the smallest claim;
When wealth and rank and noble blood,
But aid the power of doing good;
Then all their trophics last—and flattery turns to fame.
nde.
ould
issa
2.)
Blest spirit thou, whose fame, just born to bloom,
Shall spread and flourish from the tomb;
How hast thou left mankind for heaven!
E'en now reproach and faction mourn,
And, wondering how their rage was born,
Request to be forgiven!
Alas! they never had thy hate;
Unmov'd in conscious rectitude,
Thy towering mind self-centred stood,
Nor wanted man's opinion to be great.
In vain, to charm thy ravish'd sight,
A thousand gifts would fortune send;
In vain, to drive thee from the right,
A thousand sorrows urged thy end :
Like some well-fashioned arch thy patience stood,
And purchased strength from its increasing load :
Pain met thee like a friend to set thee free;
Afriction still is virtue's opportunity!
a
i53
MISCELLANIES.
Song.—By a Man.
Virtue, on herself relying,
Ev'ry passion hush'd to rest,
Loses every pain of dying,
In the hopes of being blest.
Ev'ry added pang she suffers,
Some increasing good bestows,
And ev'ry shock that malice offers,
Only rocks her to repose.
WOMAN Speaker.
Yet, ahı ! what terrors frown'd upon her fate-
Death with its formidable band,
Fever, and pain, and pale consumptive care,
Determin'd took their stand.
Nor did the cruel ravagers design
To finish all their efforts at a blow;
But, mischievously slow,
They robb’d the relic and defaced the shrine.
With unavailing grief,
Despairing of relief,
Her weeping children round,
Beheld each hour
Death's growing power,
And trembled as he frown'd.
As helpless friends who view from shore
The laboring ship, and hear the tempest roar,
While winds and waves their wishes cross,
They stood, while hope and comfort fail,
Not to assist, but to bewail
The inevitable loss.
MISCELLANIES.
159
Relentless tyrant, at thy call
How do the good, the virtuous fall !
Truth, beauty, worth, and all that most engago,
But wake thy vengeance and provoke thy rage.
Song.-By a MAN.
When vice my dart and scythe supply,
How great a king of terrors I!
If folly, fraud, your hearts engage,
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage !
Fall, round me fall, ye little things,
Ye statesmen, warriors, poets, kings !
If virtue fail her counsel sage,
Tremble. ye mortals, at my rage!
Man Speaker.
Yet let that wisdom, urged by her example,
Teach us to estimate what all must suffer;
Let us prize death as the best gift of nature;
As a safe inn, where weary travellers,
When they have journey'd through a world of cares,
May put off life and be at rest for ever.
Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy sables,
May oft distract us with their sad solemnity;
The preparation is the executioner.
Death, when unmask'd, shows me a friendly face,
And is a terror only at a distance;
For as the line of life conducts me on
To Death's great court, the prospect seems more fair
'Tis Nature's kind retreat, that's always open
To take us in when we have drain'd the
cup
Of life, or worn-our days to wretchedness.
160
MISCELLANIES.
In that secure, serene retreat,
Where all the humble, all the great,
Promiscuously recline;
Where wildly huddled to the eye,
The beggar's pouch and prince's purple lie,
May every bliss be thine.
And, ah! blest spirit, wheresoe'er thy flight,
Through rolling worlds, or fields of liquid light,
May cherubs welcome their expected guest,
May saints withi songs receive thee to their rest,
May peace, that claim'd while here thy warmest love,
May blissful, endless peace be thine above!
Song.—By a WOMAN.
Lovely, lasting Peace below,
Comforter of ev'ry woc,
Heav'nly born, and bred on high,
To crown the favorite of the sky;
Lovely, lasting Peace appear;
This world itself, if thou art here,
Is once again with Eden blest,
And man contains it in his breast.
Womax Speaker.
Our vows ar? heard ! long, long to mortal eyes,
Her soul was fitting to its kindred skies;
Celestial-like her bounty fell
Where modest want and patient sorrow dwell;
Want pass'd for merit at her door,
Unseen the modest were supplied,
Her constant pity fed the poor,
Then only poor, indeed, the day she died.
MISCELLANIES.
161
And, oh! for this, while sculpture decks thy shrine,
And art exhausts profusion round,
The tribute of a tear be mine,
A simple song, a sigh profound.
There Faith shall come, a pilgrim gray
To bless the tomb that wraps thy clay;
And calm Religion shall repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there.
Truth, Fortitude, and Friendship shall agree,
To blend their virtues while they think of thee.
Air.-CHORUS.
Let
us,
let all the world agree,
To profit by resembling thee.
Part II.
OVERTURE.—Pastorale.
MAN Spauker.
Fast by that shore where Thames' translucent stream
Reflects new glories on his breast,
Where, splendid as the youthful poet's dream,
He forms a scene beyond Elysium blest;
Where sculptur'd elegance and native grace
Unite to stamp the beauties of the place;
While sweetly blending, still are seen
The wavy lawn, the sloping green ;
While novelty, with cautious cunning,
Through ev'ry maze of fancy running,
From China borrows aid to deck the scene :-
There sorrowing by the river's glassy bed,
162
MISCELLANIES.
a
1
Forlorn a rural bard complain'd,
All whom Augusta's bounty fed,
All whom her clemency sustain'd.
The good old sire, unconscious of decay,
The modest matron, clad in homespun gray,
The military boy, the orphan'd maid,
The shatter d veteran, now first dismay'd;
These sadly join beside the murmuring deep,
And as they view the towers of Kew,
Call on their mistress, now no more,
and
weep.
CHORUS
Ye shady walks, ye waving greens,
Ye nodding towers, ye fairy scenes,
Let all your echoes now deplore,
That she who formed your beauties is no more.
MAN Speaker.
First of the train the patient rustic came,
Whose callous hand had form’d the scene,
Bending at once with sorrow and with age,
With many a tear and many a sigh between,
“ And where," he cried, “ shall now my babes have bread,
Or how shall age support its feeble fire ?
No lord will take me now, my vigor fled,
Nor can my strength perform what they require;
Each grudging master keeps the laborer bare,
A sleek and idle race is all their care.
My noble mistress thought not so:
Her bounty, like the morning dew,
Unseen, though constant, used to flow,
And as my strength decay'd, her bounty grew."
MISCELLANIES.
163
Woman Speaker.
In decent dress and coarsely clean,
The pious matron next was seen,
Clasp'd in her hand a godly book was borne,
By use and daily meditation worn;
That decent dress, that holy guide,
Augusta's care had well supplied.
" And ah!" she cries, all woe-begone,
“ What now remains for me?
Oh! where shall weeping want repair,
To ask for charity ?
Too late in life for me to ask,
And shame prevents the deed,
And tardy, tardy are the times
To succor, should I need.
But all my wants, before I spoke,
Were to my Mistress known;
She still relieved, nor sought my praise,
Contented with her own.
But every day her name I'll bless,
My morning prayer, my evening song;
I'll praise her while my life shall last,
A life that cannot last me long."
Song-By a Woman.
Each day, each hour, hier name I'll bless,
My morning and my evening song;
And when in death my vows shall cease,
My children shall the note prolong.
164
MISCELLANIES.
Man Speaker.
The hardy veteran after struck the sight,
Scarr'd, mangled, maimed in every part,
Lopp'd of his limbs in many a gallant fight,
In nought entire—except his heart;
Mute for a while, and sullenly distress'd,
At last the impetuous sorrow fir'd his breast.
“ Wild is the whirlwind rolling
O'er Afric's sandy plain,
And wild the tempest howling
Along the billow'd main;
But every danger fell before,
The raging deep, the whirlwind's roar,
Less dreadful struck me with dismay,
Than what I feel this fatal day.
Oh, let me fly a land that spurns the brave,
Oswego's dreary shores shall be my grave;
I'll seek that less inhospitable coast,
And lay my body where my limbs were lost."
Song.–By a MAN.
Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield,
Shall crowd from Cressy's laurell'd field,
To do thy memory right;
For thine and Britain's wrongs they feel,
Again they snatch the gleamy steel,
And wish the avenging fight.
Woman Speaker.
In innocence and youth complaining,
Next appear'd a lovely maid,
Afliction o'er each feature reigning,
MISCELLANIES.
165
a
my
Kindly came in beauty's aid;
Every grace that grief dispenses,
Every glance that warms the soul,
In sweet succession charms the senses,
While pity harmoniz'd the whole.
“ The garland of beauty” (tis this she would say),
“ No more shall my crook or my temples adorn,
I'll not wear a garland—Augusta's away,
I'll not wear a garland until she return;
But alas ! that return I never shall see,
The echoes of Thames shall my sorrows proclaim,
There promis'd a lover to come, but, ah me!
'Twas death,--'twas the death of mistress that came.
But ever, for ever, her image shall last,
I'll strip all the spring of its earliest bloom;
On her grave shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,
And the new blossom'd thorn shall whiten her tomb."
Song.-By a WOMAN. — Pastorale.
With garlands of beauty the Queen of the May
No more will her crook on her temples adorn;
For who'd wear a garland when she is away,
When she is remov'd and shall never return.
On the grave of Augusta these garlands be plac'd,
We'll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom;
And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,
And the new blossom'd thorn shall whiten her tomb.
CHORUS
On the grave of Augusta this garland be plac'd,
We'll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom;
And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,
The tears of her country shall water her tomb.
166
MISCELLANIES.
LETTER,
IN PROSE AND VERSE, TO MRS. BUNBURY.
a
Madam: I read your letter with all that allowance which
critical candor could require, but after all find so much to object
to, and so much to raise my indignation, that I cannot help giving
it a serious answer. I am not so ignorant, Madam, as not to see
there are many sarcasms contained in it, and solecisms also,
(solecism is a word that comes from the town of Soleis in Attica
among the Greeks, built by Solon, and applied as we use the word
Kidderminster for curtains from a town also of that
name;
but
this is learning you have no taste for.)-I say, Madam, there are
sarcasms in it and solecisms also. But, not to seem an ill-natured
critic, I'll take leave to quote your own words, and give you my
remarks
upon
them as they occur. You begin as follows:
“I hope, my good Doctor, you soon will be here,
And your spring velvet coat very smart will appear,
To open our ball the first day in the year."
Pray, Madam, where did you ever find the epithet "good" ap-
plied to the title of Doctor ? Had
you
called me learned Doctor,
or grave Doctor, or noble Doctor, it might be allowable, because
they belong to the profession. But, not to cavil at trifles, you
talk of my spring velvet coat, and advise me to wear it the first
day in the year, that is in the middle of winter ;-a spring velvet
n the middle of winter!!! That would be a solecism indeed;
а
$
9
[Miss Catharine Horneck became, in August *1771, the wife of Henry
Bunbury, Esq., celebrated for the powers of his pencil. An invitation from
the lady, in a rhyming and jocular strain, to spend some time with them at
their seat at Barton in Suffolk, brought from the Poet the above reply, which
is now printed for the first time. It was written in 1772. See Life, ch. xxii.)
MISCELLANIES.
167
and yet, to increase the inconsistency, in another part of your
letter you
call me a beau: now, on one side or other, you must
be wrong. If I am a beau, I can never think of wearing a spring
velvet in winter; and if I am not a beau—why—then—that ex-
plains itself. But let me go on to your two next strange lines:
“ And bring with you a wig that is modish and gay,
To dance with the girls that are making of hay.”
The absurdity of making hay at Christmas you yourself seem
sensible of; you say your sister will laugh, and so indeed she
well may. The Latins have an expression for a contemptuous
sort of laughter, Naso contemnere adunco: that is, to laugh with
a crooked nose; she may laugh at you in the manner of the
ancients if she thinks fit.—But now I am come to the most
extraordinary of all extraordinary propositions, which is, to take
your and your sister's advice in playing at loo. The presumption
of the offer raises my indignation beyond the bounds of prose;
it inspires me at once with verse and resentment. I take advice !
And from whom ? You shall hear.-
First let me suppose, what may shortly be true,
The company set and the word to be loo;
All smirking and pleasant and big with adventure,
And ogling the stake which is fixed in the centre.
Round and round go the cards, while I inwardly damn,
At never once finding a visit from pam;
I lay down my stake apparently cool,
While the harpies about me all pocket the pool;
I fret in my gizzard, get cautious and sly,
I wish all
my
friends
may
be bolder than I;
Yet still they sit snug; not a creature will aim,
By losing their money to venture at fame,
168
MISCELLANIES.
'Tis in vain that at niggardly caution I scold,
'Tis in vain that I flatter the brave and the bold;
All play their own way, and they think me an ass;
What does Mrs. Bunbury? I, Sir ? I pass.
Pray what does Miss Horneck ? Take courage, come, do!
Who, I ? Let me see, Sir; why I must pass too.
Mrs. Bunbury frets, and I fret like the devil,
To see them so cowardly, lucky, and civil;
Yet still I sit snug, and continue to sigh on,
Till made by my losses as bold as a lion.
I venture at all; while my avarice regards
The whole pool as my own. Come, give me five cards.
Well done! cry the ladies; ah! Doctor, that's good,
The pool's very
rich. Ah! the Doctor is loo'd.
Thus foiled in my courage, on all sides perplext,
I ask for advice from the lady that's next.
Pray, Ma'am, be so good as to give your advice;
Don't you think the best way is to venture for't twice?
I advise, cries the lady, to try it I own;
Ah! the Doctor is loo'd. Come, Doctor,
Thus playing and playing I still grow more eager,
And so bold and so bold, I'm at last a bold beggar.
Now, ladies, I ask, if law matters you're skill'd in,
Whether crimes such as yours should not come before Fielding;
For giving advice that is not worth a straw,
May well be call'd picking of pockets in law;
And picking of pockets, with which I now charge ye,
Is by Quinto Elizabeth, death without clergy.
What justice, when both to the Old Bailey brought !
By the gods I'll enjoy it, tho' 'tis but in thought!
Both are placed at the bar with all proper decorum,
With bunches of fennel and nosegays before 'em ;
put down.
MISCELLANIES
169
Both cover their faces with mobs and all that,
But the Judge bids them angrily take off their hat.
When uncover'd, a buzz of inquiry goes round,
Pray what are their crimes? They've been pilfering found.
But, pray whom have they pilfer'd? A Doctor, I hear;
What, yon solemn-faced odd-looking man that stands near ?
The same.
What a pity! How does it surprise one!
Two handsomer culprits I never set eyes on !
Then their friends all come round me with cringing and leering,
To melt me to pity and soften my swearing.
First Sir Charles advances with phrases well strung,
Consider, dear Doctor, the girls are but young.
The younger
the worse,
I return him again,
It shows that their habits are all dyed in grain;
But then they're so handsome, one's bosom it grieves :
What signifies handsome when people are thieves !
But where is your justice ? Their cases are hard;
What signifies justice ?-I want the reward.
There's the parish of Edmonton offers forty pound-There's
the parish of St. Leonard, Shoreditch, offers forty pound— There's
the parish of Tyburn, from the Ilog in the Pound to St. Giles's
Watch-house, offers forty pound--I shall have all that if I convict
them.--
But consider their case, it may yet be your own,
And see how they kncel; is your heart made of stone?
This moves; so at last I agree to relent,
For ten pounds in hand and ten pounds to be spent.
I challenge you all to answer this. I tell you, you cannot.
It cuts deep; but now for the rest of the letter; and next-but
8
VOL. IV.
170
MISCELLANIES.
I want room-80 I believe I shall battle the rest out at Barton
some day next week.—I don't value you all.
0. G.
EPILOGUE
TO
66
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER; or, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT."
Spoken ly Mrs. Bulkley, in the Character of Miss Hardcastle. *
Well, having stooped to conquer with success,
And gain'd a husband without aid from dress,
Still, as a bar-maid, I could wish it too,
As I have conquer'd him to conquer you:
And let me say, for all your resolution,
That pretty bar-maids have done execution.
* This comedy' was first acted at Covent Garden Theatre, on the 15th of
March 1773. In a letter to Mr. Cradock, written immediately after the
representation of the piece, Goldsmith says :-“I thank you sincerely for your
epilogue, which, however, could not be used, but with your permission shall be
printed. The story in short is this; Vurplıy sent me rather the outline of an
epilogue than an epilogue, which was to be sung by Vis: Catley, and which
she approved. Mrs. Bulkley hearing this, insisted on throwing up her part
unless, according to the custom of the theatre, she were permitted to speak the
epilogue. In this embarrassment I thought of making a Quarrelling Epilogue
between Catley and her, debating who should speak the epilogue, but then
Miss Catley refused atter I had taken the irouble of drawing it out.
then at a loss indeed; an epilogue was to be made, and for none but Mrs.
Bulkley. I made one, and Colman thought it too bad to be spoken; I was
obliged, therefore, to try a fourth time, and I made a very mawkish thing, as
you'll shortly see. Such is the history of my stage adventures, and which
I have at last done with. I cannot help saying that I am very sick of the
stage ; and though I believe I shall get three tolerable benefits, yet I shall on
the whole be a loser, cyen in a pecuniary light; my ease and comfort
I certainly lost while it was in agitation.”—See Life, ch. xxii.]
I was
3
MISCELLANIES.
171
Our life is all a play, compos'd to please,
6 We have our exits and our entrances."
The first act shows the simple country maid,
Harmless and young, of every thing afraid;
Blushes when hir'd, and with unmeaning action,
"I hopes as how to give you satisfaction."
Her second act displays a livelier scene,
The unblushing bar-maid of a country inn,
Who wbisks about the house, at market caters,
Talks loud, coquets the guests, and scolds the waiters.
Next the scene shifts to town, and there she soars,
The chop-house toast of ogling connoisseurs.
On 'squires and cits she there displays her arts,
And on the gridiron broils her lovers' hearts-
And as she smiles, her triumphs to complete,
E'en common-councilmen forget to cat.
The fourth act shows her wedded to the 'squire,
And madam now begins to hold it higher;
Pretends to taste, at operas cries caro !
And quits her Nancy Dawson, for Che Faro:
Doats upon dancing, and in all her pride
Swims round the room, the Heinel of Cheapside:
Ogles and leers with artificial skill,
Till. having lost in are the power to kill,
She sits all night at cards, and ogles at spadille.
Such, through our lives the eventful history,
The fifth and last act still remains for me.
The bar-maid now for your protection prays,
Turns female barrister, and pleads for bays.
172
MISCELLANIES.
EPILOGUE
TO
66
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.”
Intended to be spoken by Mrs. Bulklıy and Miss Catley.*
Enters Mrs. BULKLEY, who curtsics very low as beginning to speak.
Then enters Miss Catley, who stands full before her, and
curtsies to the Audience.
MRS. BULKLEY.
Hold, Ma'am, your pardon. What's your business here?
Miss CATLEY.
The Epilogue.
MRS. BULKLEY.
The Epilogue ?
Miss Catley.
Yes, the Epilogue, my dear.
Mrs. BULKLEY.
Sure you mistake, Ma'am. The Epilogue, I bring it.
Miss CATLEY.
Excuse me, Ma'am, the author bid me sing it.
3)
* (This is the “Quarrelling Epilogue to which allusion is made by
Goldsmith in the preceding note. A copy, in his own handwriting, given
to the late Dr. Farr, who was a fellow student at Edinburgh, remains in the
family of that gentleman.)
MISCELLANIES.
173
RECITATIVE.
Ye beaux and belles that form this splendid ring,
Suspend your conversation while I sing.
Mrs. BULKLEY.
Why, sure the girl's beside herself! an Epilogue of singing,
A hopeful end indeed to such a blest beginning.
Besides, a sinner in a comic set-
Excuse me, Ma'am, I know the etiquette.
Miss CATLEY.
What if we leave it to the house ?
Mrs. BULKLEY.
The House !-Agreed.
Miss CATLEY.
Agreed.
MRS. BULKLEY.
And she whose party's largest shall proceed.
And first, I hope you'll readily agree
I've al, the critics and the wits for me.
They, I am sure, will answer my commands;
Ye candid judging few, hold up your hands.
,
What! no return? I find too late, I fear,
That modern judges seldom enter here.
Miss Catley.
I'm for a different set.—Old men, whose trade is
Still to gallant and dangle with the ladies.
RECITATIVE.
Who mump their passion, and who, grimly smiling,
Still thus address the fair with voice beguiling.
174
MISCELLANIES.
AIR.— Cotillon.
Turn my fairest, turn, if ever
Strephon caught thy ravish'd eye.
Pity take on your swain so clever,
Who without your aid must die.
Yes, I shall die, hu, hu, hu, hu.
Yes, I must die, ho, ho, ho, ho.
Da Capo.
Give me
young, the
MRS. BULKLEY.
Let all the old pay homage to your merit;
the
gay, the men of spirit.
Ye travell'd tribe, ye macaroni train,
Of French frisseurs and nosegays justly vain;
Who take a trip to Paris once a year
To dress, and look like awkward Frenchmen here,
Lend me your hand.–O fatal news to tell,
Their hands are only lent to the Heinelle.
Miss CATLEY.
Ay, take your travellers— travellers indeed!
Give me my bonny Scot, that travels from the Tweed.
Where are the chiels ? —Ah! ah, I well discern
The smiling looks of each bewitching bairn.
Air.—A bonny young Lad is my Jockey.
I sing to amuse you by night and by day,
And be unco merry when you are but gay;
When you with your bagpipes are ready to play,
My voice shall be ready to carol away
With Sandy, and Sawney, and Jockey,
With Sawney, and Jarvie, and Jockey.
MISCELLANIES.
175
you."
Mrs. BULKLEY.
Ye gamesters, who, so eager in pursuit,
Make but of all your fortune one va toute :
Ye jockey tribe, whose stock of words are few,
“I hold the odds. Done, done, with
you,
with
Ye barristers, so fluent with grimace,
"My Lord, Your Lordship misconceives the case."
Doctors, who cough and answer every misfortuner,
“I wish I'd been call'd in a little sooner:"
Assist my cause with hands and voices hearty,
Come end the contest here, and aid my party.
Miss CATLEY.
Air.— Ballinamony.
Ye brave Irish lads, hark away to the crack,
Assist me, I pray, in this woful attack;
For sure I don't wrong you, you seldom are slack,
When the ladies are calling, to blush and hang back.
For you're always polite and attentive,
Still to amuse us inventive,
And death is your only preventive:
Your hands and your voices for me.
Mrs. BULKLEY.
Well, Madam, what if, after all this sparring,
We both agree, like friends, to end our jarring?
Miss CATLEY.
And that our friendship may remain unbroken,
What if we leave the Epilogue unspoken ?
Mrs. BULKLEY.
Agreed.
176
MISCELLANIES.
Miss Catley.
Agreed.
Mrs. BulKLEY.
And now with late repentance,
Un-epilogued the Poet waits his sentence.
Condemn the stubborn fool who can't submit
To thrive by flattery, though he starves by wit.
[Exeunt.
SONG.
AH ME! WHEN SHALL I MARRY ME?*
Intended to hare been sung in the Comedy of “ She Stoops to Conquer.**
Au me! when shall I marry me?
Lovers are plenty; but fail to relieve me.
IIe, fond youth, that could carry me,
Offers to love, but means to deceive me.
* (Preserved by Mr. Boswell, and communicated by him to the editor of
the London Magazine, with the following noto :-
“SIR,—I send you a small production of the late Dr. Goldsmith, which has
never been published, and which might perhaps have been totally lost, bad I
not secured it. He intended it as a song in the character of Miss Hardcastle,
in his admirable comedy of “ She Stoops to Conquer," but it was left out, as
Mrs. Bulkley, who played the part, did not sing. He sung it himself in private
companies very agreeably. The tune is a pretty Irish air, called “ The Ilumors
of Balamagairy,' to which, he told me, he found it very difficult to adapt
words ; but he has succeeded very happily in these fi-w lines. As I could sing
the tune, and was fond of them, he was so good as to give me them, about a
year ago, just as I was leaving London, and bidding him adieu for that season,
little apprehending that it was a last farewell. I preserve this little relic, in
his own handwriting, with an affectionate care. I am, Sir, your humble
servant, James Boswell.”]
4
MISCELLANIES.
177
But I will rally, and combat the ruiner:
Not a look, nor a smile shall my passion discover.
She that gives all to the false one pursuing her,
Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover.*
à
EPILOGUE,
SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWES, IN THE CHARACTER OF HARLEQUIN,
AT HIS BENEFIT.T
Hold! Prompter, hold! a word before your nonsense:
I'd speak a word or two, to ease my conscience.
My pride forbids it ever should be said,
My heels eclips'd the honors of my head;
That I found humor in a piebald vest,
Or ever thought that jumping was a jest.
[Takes off his mask.
Whence, and what art thou, visionary birth?
Nature disowns, and reason scorns thy mirth;
In thy black aspect every passion sleeps,
The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps.
IIow hast thou fill’d the scene with all thy brood
Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursued !
Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses,
Whose only plot it is to break our noses;
Whilst from below the trap-door demons rise,
And from above the dangling deities.
* [This air was revived and vulgarized in a song sung by the late Mr.
Johnstone in Colman's farce of “ The Wags of Windsor.” Mr. Moore has
brought it back into good company; it is to be found in the ninth number of
his “ Irish Melodies.”—CROKER, Boswell, vol. ii. p. 207.)
† (These were probably the last verses written by Goldsmith. They were
spoken on the 28th of April 1771, twenty-four days after his death.]
VOT
IV.
178
MISCELLANIES.
And shall I mix in this unhallow'd crew ?
May rosin'd lightning blast me if I do!
No-I will act, I'll vindicate the stage:
Shakspeare himself shall feel my tragic rage.
Off! off! vile trappings! a new passion reigns !
The madd'ning monarch revels in my veins.
Oh! for a Richard's voice to catch the theme:
“Give me another horse! bind up my wounds !-soft—'twas but a
dream."
Ay, 'twas but a dream, for now there's no retreating,
If I cease IIarlequin, I cease from eating.
'Twas thus that Æsop's stag, a creature blameless,
Yet something vain, like one that shall be nameless,
Once on the margin of a fountain stood,
And cavill'd at his image in the flood.
“ The deuce confound," he cries, “these drumstick shanks,
They never have my gratitude nor thanks;
They're perfectly disgraceful! strike me dead!
But for a head, yes, yes, I have a head.
How piercing is that eye! how sleek that brow!
My horns !—I'm told horns are the fashion now."
Whilst thus he spoke, astonish'd, to his view,
Near, and more near, the hounds and huntsmen drew;
HIoicks! hark forward ! came thund'ring from behind,
He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wind:
IIe quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways;
He starts, he pants, he takes the circling maze.
At length, his silly head, so priz'd before,
Is taught liis former fully to deplore;
Whilst his strong limbs conspire to set him free,
And at one bound be saves himself, like me.
[Tuking a jump through the stage dom
а
DR A MAS.
!
THE
GOOD-NATURED MAN;
A
COMEDY:
AS PERFORMED AT THE
THEATRE-ROYAL, COVENT GARDEN.
[The “Good-Natured Man" was first performed at Covent
Garden Theatre on the 29th of January 1768. Goldsmith seems
to have taken the hint of the character from whom the play is
named from the lover of the unfortunate Miss Braddock, in his
own Life of Beau Nash, sce vol. iii. p. 308. “ Dr. Johnson,"
says Boswell, “pronounced it to be the best comedy that had
appeared since . The Provoked Ilusband,' and declared that there
had not been of late any such character exhibited on the stage as
that of Croaker. I observed, it was the Suspirius of his Ram-
bler. IIe said Goldsmith had owned he had borrowed it from
thence.”—See Life, ch. xvii.]
PREFACE.
When I undertook to write a comedy, I confess I was strongly
prepossessed in favor of the poets of the last age, and strove to
imitate them. The term, genteel comedy, was then unknown
amongst us, and little more was desired by an audience, than
nature and humor, in whatever walks of life they were most con-
spicuous. The author of the following scenes never imagined
that more would be expected of him, and therefore to delincate
character has been his principal aim. Those who know any thing
of composition, are sensible that, in pursuing humor, it will some-
times lead us into the recesses of the mean: I was even tempted
to look for it in the master of a spunging-house; but in defer-
ence to the public taste, grown of late, perhaps, too delicate, the
scane of the bailiffs was retrenched in the representation. In
deference also to the judgment of a few friends, who think in a
particular way, the scene is here restored. The author submits
it to the reader in his closet; and hopes that too much refine-
ment will not banish humor and character from ours, as it has
already done from the French theatre. Indeed, the French com-
edy is now become so very elevated and sentimental, that it has
(The taste of the town had become sentimental, and the scene of the
bailiffs in the opening of the third act appeared so broad in its humor, as to
keep the fate of the piece some time in suspense ; nor was its safety fully
secured till the scene of the fourth act, where Shuter, in the character of
Croaker, read the supposed incendiary letter.)
184
PREFACE.
not only banished humor and Molière from the stage, but it has
banished all spectators, too.*
Upon the whole, the author returns his thanks to the Public
for the favorable reception which the Good-Natured Man has met
with; and to Mr. Colman in particular, for his kindness to it. It
may not also be improper to assure any who shall hereafter write
for the theatre, that merit, or supposed merit, will ever be a suf.
ficient passport to his protection.
[“ Returning home one day from dining at the chaplain's table, Mr.
Johnson told me that Dr. Goldsmith had given a very comical and unneces-
sarily exact recital there of his own feelings when his play was hissed; telling
the company how he went to the Literary Club at night, and chatted gayly
among his friends as if nothing had happened amiss ; that to impress them
still more forcibly with an idea of his magnanimity, he even sung his favorite
song about an old woman tossed in a blanket seventeen times as high as the
moon; but all this while I was suffering horrid tortures,' said he, “and verily
believe that if I had put a bit into my mouth, it would have strangled ine on
the spot, I was so excessively ill; but I made more noise than usual to cover
all that; and so they never perceived my not eating, nor I believe at all
imagined to themselves the anguish of my heart; but when all were gone
except Johnson here, I burst out a-crying, and even swore that I would never
write again. All which, Doctor,' said Johnson, amazed at his odd frankness,
• I thought had been a secret between you and me; and I am sure I would not
have said any thing about it for the world.'”—Piozzi.]
PROLOGUE.
185
PROLOGUE
WRITTEN BY DR. JOHNSON ;
Spoken by Mr. Bensley.*
Press’d by the load of life, the weary mind
Surveys the general toil of human kind;
With cool submission joins the lab'ring train,
And social sorrow loses half its pain :t
Our anxious bard, without complaint, may share
This bustling season's epidemic care,
Like Cæsar's pilot, dignified by fate,
Tost in one common storm with all the great;
Distrest alike, the statesman and the wit,
When one a borough courts, and one the pit,
The busy candidates for power and fame,
Have hopes, and fears, and wishes, just the same;
Disabled both to combat, or to fly,
Must hear all taunts, and hear without reply.
* (" The first lines of this prologue are strongly characteristic of the dismal
gloom of Johnson's mind; which in his case, as in the case of all who are
distressed with the same malady of imagination, transfers to others its own
feelings. Who could suppose it was to introduce a comedy when Mr. Bensley
solemnly began
Prese'd by the load of life, the weary mind
Surveys the general toil of human kind.'
But this dark ground might make Goldsmith's humor shine the more.”-
BOSWELL, vol. iii. p. 35 )
(After this line the following couplet was inserted :-
Amidst he toils of this returning ytar,
When senalors and nobles learn to fear,
Our little baril,' &c.
So the prologue appeared in the public Advertiser. Goldsmith probably thought
that the lines printed in italic characters might give offence, and therefore
prevailed on Johnson to omit them. The epithet little, whiclı perhaps the
author thought might diminish his dignity, was also changed to anxious,' &e.
-Maione.)
186
PROLOGUE.
Uncheck'd, on both loud rabbles vent their rage,
As mongrels bay the lion in a cage.*
Tl’offended burgess hoards his angry tale,
For that blest year when all that vote may rail;
Their schemes of spite the poet's focs dismiss,
Till that glad night, when all that hate may hiss.
* This day the powder'd curls and golden coat,"
Says swelling Crispin, “ begg'd a cobbler's vote."
- This night, our wit," the pert apprentice cries,
“ Lies at my feet-I hiss him, and he dies."
The great, 'tis true, can charm the electing tribe;
The bard may supplicate, but cannot bribe.
Yet judged by those, whose voices ne'er were sold,
IIe feels no want of ill-persuading gold;
But confident of praise, if praise be due,
Trusts without fear, to merit, and to you.
• ["Uncheck’d, on both caprice may vent its rage,
As children fret the lion in a cage."--Orig.)
DRAMATIS PERSONE.
MEN.
Mr. Honeywood
Croaker .
Lofty
Sir I illiam Honeywood
Leontine
Jarris
Butler
Bailill
Dubardieu
Postboy
Mr. POWELL.
MR. SUUTER.
Mr. Woodward.
MR. CLARKE.
MR. BENSLEY.
MR. DUNSTALL.
Mr. CUSHING.
Mr. R. SMITI.
MR. HOLTAM.
MR. QUICK
WOMEN.
Miss Richland
Olivia
Mrs. Croaker
Mrs. BULKLEY.
Mrs. MATTOCKS.
Mrs. Pitt.
MRS. GREEN.
Mrs. Wuite.
Garnet
Landlady
Scene-LONDON.
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
ACT FIRST.
SCENE- An Apartment in Young HONEYWOOD's House.
Enter Sir William HONEYWOOD, Jarvis.
Sir WM. Good Jarvis, make no apologies for this honest
bluntness. Fidelity, like yours, is the best excuse for every
freedom.
Jarv. I can't help being blunt, and being very angry too,
when I hear you talk of disinheriting so good, so worthy a young
gentleman as your nephew, my master. All the world loves him.
Sir WM. Say rather, that he loves all the world ; that is his
fault.
Jarv. I am sure there is no part of it more dear to him
than you are, though he has not seen you since he was a child.
Sie WM. What siguifies his affection to me; or how can I
be proud of a place in a heart, where every sharper and coxcomb
find an easy entrance ?
JARV. I grant you that he is rather too good-natured ; that
he's too much every man's man; that he laughs this minute withı
one, and cries the next with another : but whose instructions may
he thank for all this?
190
DRAMAS.
Sın Wm. Not mine, sure? My letters to him during ny
employment in Italy, taught him only that philosophy which
might prevent, not defend his errors.
Jarv. Faith, begging your honoris pardon, I'm sorry they
taught him any philosophy at all; it has only served to spoil
him. This same philosophy is a good horse in the stable, but an
arrant jade on a journey. For my own part, whenever I hear
him mention the name on't, I'm always sure he's going to play
the fool.
Sir Wm. Don't let us ascribe his faults to his philosophy, I
entreat you. No, Jarvis, his good-nature arises rather from his
fears of offending the importunate, than his desire of making the
deserving happy.
Jarv. What it arises from, I don't know. But to be sure,
every body has it, that asks it.
Sir Wm. Ay, or that does not ask it. I have been now for
some time å concealed spectator of his follies, and find them as
boundless as his dissipation.
Jart. And yet, faith, he has some fine name or other for
them all. He calls his extravagance, generosity; and his trust-
ing every body, universal benevolence. It was but last week he
went security for a fellow whose face he scarce knew, and that he
called an act of exalted mu-mu-munificence; ay, that was the
name he gave it
Sir Wu. And upon that I proceed, as my last cffort, though
with
very little bopes to reclaim him. That very fellow has just
absconded, and I have taken up the security. Now. my inten-
tion is to involve him in fictitious distress, before he has plunged
himself into real calamity: to arrest him for that very debt; to
clap an officer upon him, and then let him sce which of his
friends will come to his relief.
Jarv. Well, if I could but any way see him thoroughly
TIE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
191
vexed, every groan of his would be music to me; yet faith, I be-
lieve it impossible. I have tried to fret him myself every morn-
ing these three years; but instead of being angry, he sits as
calmly to hear me scold, as he does to his hair-dresser.
Sir WM. We must try him once more, however, and I'll go
this instant to put my scheme into execution : and I don't de-
spair of succeeding, as, by your means, I can have frequent op-
portunities of being about him without being known. What a
pity it is, Jarvis, that any man's good will to others should pro-
duce so much neglect of himself, as to require correction! Yet
we must touch his weaknesses with a delicate hand. There are
some faults so nearly allied to excellence, that we can scarce
weed out the vice without eradicating the virtue. [Exit.
Jarv. Well, go thy ways, Sir William IIoneywood. It is
not without reason, that the world allows thee to be the best of
men. But here comes his hopeful nephew; the strange good-
natured, foolish, open-hearted-And yet, all his faults are such
that one loves him still the better for them.
Enter HONEYWOOD.
Honey. Well, Jarvis, what messages from my friends this
morning?
Jarv. You have no friends.
Honey. Well; from my acquaintance then ?
Janv. (Pulling out bills.) A few of our usual cards of
compliment, that's all. This bill from your tailor; this from
your mercer; and this from the little broker in Crooked-lane.
He
says he has been at a great deal of trouble to get back the
money you borrowed.
Honey. That I don't know; but I am sure we were at a
great deal of trouble in getting him to lend it.
Jarv. IIc has lost all patience.
192
DR A MAS.
Honey. Then he has lost a very good thing.
Jarv. There's that ten guineas you were sending to the poor
gentleman and his children in the Fleet. I believe that would
stop his mouth for a while at least.
HONEY. Ay, Jarvis, but what will fill their mouths in the
mean time? Must I be cruel, because he happens to be impor-
tunate; and, to relieve his avarice, leave them to insupportable
distress ?
JARV. 'Sdeath! Sir, the question now is how to relieve your-
self; yourself.—Haven't I reason to be out of my senses, when I
see things going at sixes and sevens ?
HONEY. Whatever reason you may have for being out of
your senses, I hope you'll allow that I am not quite unreasona-
Ι
ble for continuing in mine.
Jarv. You are the only man alive in your present situation
that could do so. Every thing upon the waste. There's Miss
Richland and her fine fortune
gone already, and
upon
the point
of being given to your rival.
HONEY. I'm no man's rival.
Janv. Your upcle in Italy preparing to disinherit you;
your own fortune almost spent; and nothing but pressing credi-
tors, false friends, and a pack of drunken servants that your kind-
ness has made unfit for any other family.
IIONEY. Then they have the more occasion for being in
mine.
Jarv. Soh! What will you have done with him that I caught
stealing your plate in the pantry ? In the fact; I caught him
in the fact.
HONEY. In the fact? If so, I really think that we should
pay him his wages, and turn him off.
Jarv. He shall be turned off at Tyburn, the dog; we'll
hang him, if it be only to frighten the rest of the family.
THE GOOD NATURED MAN.
193
Honey. No, Jarvis ; it's enough that we have lost what he
has stolen ; let us not add to it the loss of a fellow-creature !
Jarv. Very fine! well, here was the footman just now, to
complain of the butler : he says he does most work, and ought
to have most wages.
IIONEY. That's but just; though perhaps here comes the
butler to complain of the footman.
Jarv. Ay, it's the way with them all, from the scullion to
the privy-counsellor. If they have a bad master, they keep
quarrelling with him; if they have a good master, they keep
quarrelling with one another.
Enter Butler, drunk.
BUT. Sir, I'll not stay in the family with Jonathan; you
must part with him, or part with me, that's the ex-ex-exposi-
tion of the matter, Sir.
Honey. Full and explicit enough. But what's his fault,
good Philip?
But. Sir, he's given to drinking, Sir, and I shall have my
morals corrupted by keeping such company.
Honey. Ha! ha! he has such a diverting way-
Jarv. O, quite amusing.
But. I find my wine's a-going, Sir; and liquors don't go
without mouths, Sir; I hate a drunkard, Sir.
IIONEY Well, well, Philip, I'll hear you upon that another
time; so go to bed now.
JARV. To bed ! let him go to the devil.
But. Begging your honor's pardon, and begging your par-
don, master Jarvis. I'll not go to bed, nor to the devil neither. I
have enough to do to mind my cellar. I forgot, your honor, Mr.
Croaker is below. I came on purpose to tell you.
Honey. Why didn't you
show him
up,
blockhead ?
9
VOL. IV.
194
DRAMAS.
But. Show him up, Sir! With all my heart, Sir. Up or
down, all's one to me.
[Exit.
Jarv. Ay, we have one or other of that family in this house
from morning till night. He comes on the old affair, I suppose ;
the match between his son that's just returned from Paris, and
Miss Richland, the young lady he's guardian to.
IIONEY. Perhaps so. Mr. Croaker, knowing my friendship
for the young lady, has got it into his head that I can persuade
her to what I please.
Jarv. Ah! if you loved yourself but half as well as she
loves you, we sbould soon see a marriage that would set all things
to rights again.
Honey. Love me! Sure, Jarvis, you dream. No, no; her
intimacy with me never amounted to more than mere friendship
—mere friendship. That she is the most lovely woman that ever
warmed the human heart with desire, I own. But never let me
harbor a thought of making her unhappy, by a connection with
one so unworthy her merits as I am. No, Jarvis, it shall be my
study to serve her, even in spite of my wishes; and to secure
her happiness, though it destroys my own.
Jarv. Was ever the like? I want patience.
HONEY. Besides, Jarvis, though I could obtain Miss Rich-
land's consent, do you think I could succeed with her guardian,
or Mrs. Croaker, his wife; who, though both very fine in their
way, are yet a little opposite in their dispositions, you know.
JARV. Opposite enough. Ileaven knows the very reverse of
each other: she, all laugh and no joke; he always complaining
and never sorrowful: a fretful poor soul, that has a new distress
for every hour in the four-and-twenty-
HONEY. Hush, hush, he's coming up, he'll hear you.
JARV. One whose voice is a passing-bell-
Hoxer. Well, well; go, do.
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
195
Jarv. A raven that bodes nothing but mischief; a coffin
and cross-bones; a bundle of rue; a sprig of deadly night-shade;
a—(HUNEYWOOD, stopping his mouth, ut lust pushes him of:)
[E.cil JARVIS.
ilovey. I must own, my old monitor is not entirely wrong.
There is something in my friend Croaker's conversation that en-
tirely depresses me. His very mirth is quite an antidote to all
gayety, and his appearance has a stronger effect on my spirits than
an undertaker's shop.- Mr. Croaker, this is such a satisfaction-
Enter CROAKER.
CRO. A pleasant morning to Mr. Honeywood, and many of
them. How is this ! you look most shockingly to-day, my dear
friend. I hope this weather does not affect your spirits. To be
sure, if this weather continues—I say nothing-But God send
we be all better this day three months !
Hoxey. I heartily concur in the wish, though, I own, not in
your apprehensions.
Cro. May be not. Indeed, what signifies what weather we
have in a country going to ruin like ours? Taxes rising and
trade falling Money flying out of the kingdom, and Jesuits
swarming into it. I know at this time no less than a hundred
and twenty-seven Jesuits between Charing-cross and Temple-bar.
Honey. The Jesuits will scarce pervert you or me, I should
hope.
Cro. May be not. Indeed, what signifies whom they per:
vert in a country that has scarce any religion to lose? I'm only
afraid for our wives and daughters.
Honey. I have no apprehensions for the ladies, I assure
you.
Cro. May be not. Indeed, what signifies whether they be
perverted or no? The women in my time were good for some-
196
DRAMAS,
a
thing. I have seen a lady drest from top to toe in her owu man-
ufactures formerly. But now-a-days, the devil a thing of their
own manufacture's about them, except their faces.
HONEY. But, however these faults may be practised abroad,
you
don't find them at home, either with Mrs. Croaker, Olivia, or
Miss Richland ?
Cro. The best of them will never be canonized for a saint
when she's dead. By the by. my dear friend, I don't find this
match between Miss Richland and my son much relished, either
by one side or t’other.
HONEY. I thought otherwise.
Cro. Ah, Mr. Honeywood, a little of your fine serious ad-
vice to the young lady might go far: I know she has a very ex-
alted opinion of your understanding.
Honey. But would not that be usurping an authority that
more properly belongs to yourself?
Cro. My dear friend, you know but little of my authority
at home. People think, indeed, because they see me come out
in a morning thus, with a pleasant face, and to make my friends
merry,
that all's well within. But I have cares that would break
a heart of stone. My wife has so eneroached upon every one of
my privileges, that I'm now no more than a mere lodger in my
own house
IIONEY. But a little spirit exerted on your side might per-
haps restore your authority.
Cro. No, though I had the spirit of a lion! I do rouse some-
times. But what then? always haggling and haggling A man
is tired of getting the better before his wife is tired of losing the
victory.
HONEY. It's a melancholy consideration indeed, that our
chief comforts often produce our greatest anxieties, and that an
increase-of our possessions is but an inlet to new disquietudes.
a
THE GOOD NATURED MAN.
197
Cro. Ah, my dear friend, these were
the
very
words of
poor
Dick Doleful to me not a week before he made
away
with himself.
Indeed, Mr. Honeywood, I never see you but you put me in mind
of poor Dick. Ah, there was merit neglected for you! and so
true a friend! we loved each other for thirty years, and
yet
he
never asked me to lend him a single farthing.
HONEY. Pray what could induce him to commit so rash an
action at last ?
Cr.3. I don't know: some people were malicious enough to
say it was keeping company with me; because we used to meet
now and then and open our hearts to each other. To be sure I
loved to hear him talk, and he loved to hear me talk; poor dear
Dick! He used to say that Croaker rhymed to joker; and so
we used to laugh.—Poor Dick !
[Going to cry.
HONEY. His fate affects me.
CRO. Ah,
he
grew sick of this miserable life, where we do
nothing but eat and grow hungry, dress and undress, get up and
lie down; while reason, that should watch like a nurse by our
side, falls as fast asleep as we do.
Honey. To say a truth, if we compare that part of life
which is to come, by that which we have passed, the prospect is
hideous.
Cro. Life at the greatest and best is but a froward child,
that must be humored and coaxed a little till it falls asleep, and
then all the care is over.
HONEY. Very true, sir; nothing can exceed the vanity of
our existence, but the folly of our pursuits. We wept when we
came into the world, and every day tells us why.
Cro. Ah, my dear friend, it is a perfect satisfaction to be mis-
erable with you. My son Leontine shan't lose the benefit of such
fine conversation. I'll just step bome for him. I am willing to
show him so much scriousness in one scarce older than himself.
198
DRAMAS.
And what if I bring my last letter to the Gazetteer on the in-
crease and progress of earthquakes ? It will amuse us, I promise
you. I there prove how the late earthquake is coming round to
pay us another visit, from London to Lisbon, from Lisbon to the
Canary Islands, from the Canary Islands to Palmyra, from Pal-
myra to Constantinople, and so from Constantinople back to Lon-
don again.
[Exit.
HONEY Poor Croaker! his situation deserves the utmost
pity. I shall scarce recover my spirits these three days. Sure
to live on such terms is worse than death itself!
when I consider my own situation,-a broken fortune, a hopeless
passion, friends in distress, the wish but not the power to serve
them—(pausing and sighing).
And yet,
Enter BUTLER.
BUT. More company below, Sir; Mrs. Croaker and Miss
Richland: shall I show them up? but they're showing up them-
selves.
[Exit.
Enter Mrs. CROAKER anal Miss RicHLAND.
Miss Rich. You're always in such spirits.
MRS. CRO We have just come, my dear Honeywood, from
the auction. There was the old deaf dowager, as usual, bidding
like a fury against herself. And then so curious in antiques!
herself the most genuine piece of antiquity in the whole collec-
tion.
Honey. Excuse me, ladies, if some uneasiness from friend-
ship makes me unfit to share in this good humor: I know you'll
pardon me
Mrs. Cro. I vow he seems as melancholy as if he had taken
a dose of my husband this morning. Well, if Richland here can
pardon you, I must.
THE GOOD NATURED MAN.
199
etteer on
se us. Ipin
ming round ta
Like
Ta, from Pal
back to les
(Ex:
the atmos
77. Sen
And te
Zopeles
IIONEY
a
to serie
Miss Ricu. You would seem to insinuate, Madam, that I
have a particular reason for being disposed to refuse it.
MRS. CRO Whatever I insinuate, my dear, don't be so ready
to wish an explanation.
Miss Rich. I own I should be sorry Mr. Honeywood's long
friendship and mine should be misunderstood.
Honey. There's no answering for others, Madam. But I hope
you'll never find me presuming to offer more than the nost deli-
cate friendship may readily allow.
Miss Rich. And I shall be prouder of such a tribute from
you than the most passionate professions from others.
Iloney. My own sentiments, Madam: friendship is a disin-
terested commerce between equals; love, an abject intercourse
between tyrants and slaves.
Miss Rich. And, without a compliment, I know none more
disinterested, or more capable of friendship, than Mr. Honeywood.
Mrs. Cro. And, indeed, I know nobody that has more friends,
at least among the ladies. Miss Fruzz, Miss Oddbody, and Miss
Winterbottom, praise him in all companies. As for Miss Biddy
Bundle, she's bis professed admirer.
Miss Rich. Indeed! an admirer ! I did not know, Sir, you
were such a favorite there. But is she seriously so handsome ?
Is she the mighty thing talked of?
Honey. The town, Madam, seldom begins to praise a lady's
HONEY
beauty, till she's beginning to lose it-(smiling).
MRS. Cro. But she's resolved never to lose it, it seems; for,
as ber natural face decays, her skill improves in making the arti-
ficial one.
Well, nothing diverts me more than one of these fine
old dressy things, who thinks to conceal her age by every where
exposing her person; sticking herself up in the front of a side
box; trailing through a minuet at Almack's; and then, in the
hebt
200
DRAMAS.
public gardens, looking for all the world like one of the painted
ruins of the place.
Honey. Every age has its admirers, ladies. While you, per-
haps, are trading among the warmer climates of youth, there
ought to be some to carry on a useful commerce in the frozen
latitudes beyond fifty.
Miss Rich. But, then, the mortifications they must suffer, be-
fore they can be fitted out for traffic. I have seen ne of them
fret a whole morning at her hair-dresser, when all the fault was
her face.
IIONEY. And yet, I'll engage, has carried that face at last
to a very good market. This good-natured town, Madam, has
husbands, like spectacles, to fit every age, from fifteen to fourscore.
Mrs. Cro. Well, you're a dear, good-natured creature. But
you know you're engaged with us this morning upon a strolling
party. I want to show Olivia the town, and the things; I beliere
I shall have business for you for the whole day.
IIONEY. I am sorry, Vadam, I have an appointment with Mr.
Croaker, which it is impossible to put off,
Mrs Cro What! with my husband? Then I'm resolved
to take no refusal. Vay, I protest you must. You know I never
laugh so much as with you.
IIONEY. Why, if I must, I must. I'll swear you have put me
into such spirits. Well, do you find jest, and I'll find laugh, I
promise you. We'll wait for the chariot in the next room.
[Excunt.
Enter LEONTINE AN OLIVIA,
LEON
Leon. There they go, thoughtless and happy. My dearest
Olivia, what would I give to see you capable of sharing in their
amusements, and as cheerful as they are.
OLIVIA. How, my Leontine, how can I be cheerful, when I
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
201
have so many terrors to oppress me? The fear of being detected
by this family, and the apprehensions of a censuring world, when
I must be detected
LEON. The world, my love! what can it say? At worst it
can only say, that being compelled by a mercenary guardian to
embrace a life you disliked, you formed a resolution of flying with
the man of your choice; that you confided in his honor, and took
refuge in my father's house; the only one where yours could
remain without censure.
OLIVIA. But consider, Leontine, your disobedience and my
indiscretion; your being sent to France, to bring home a sister,
and, instead of a sister, bringing home-
LEON. One dearer than a thousand sisters. One that I am
convinced will be equally dear to the rest of the family, when she
comes to be known.
OLIVIA And that, I fear, will shortly be.
Leon. Impossible, till we ourselves think proper to make the
discovery. My sister, you know, lias been with her aunt at Lyons
since she was a child, and you find every creature in the family
takes
you
for her.
OLIVIA But mayn't she write, mayn't her aunt write ?
LEON. Her aunt scarce ever writes, and all my sister's letters
are directed to me.
OLIVIA. But won't your refusing Miss Richland, for whom
you know the old gentleman intends you, create a suspicion ?
Leon. There, there's my master-stroke. I bave resolved not
to refuse her; nay, an hour hence I have consented to go with
my father to make her an offer of my heart and fortune.
OLIVIA. Your heart and fortune!
LEON. Don't be alarmed, my dearest. Can Olivia think so
meanly of my honor or my love, as to suppose I could ever hope
for happiness from any but her ? No, my Olivia, neither the
VOL. IV.
202
DRAMAS.
force, nor, permit me to add, the delicacy of my passion, leare
any room to suspect me. I only offer Miss Richland a heart I
am convinced she will refuse; as I am confident, that, without
knowing it, her affections are fixed upon Mr. Honeywood.
OLIVIA. Mr. IIoneywood! You'll excuse my apprehensions ;
but when your merits come to be put in the balance-
Leon. You view them with too much partiality. However,
by making this offer, I show a seeming compliance with my
father's command; and, perhaps, upon her refusal, I may have
his consent to choose for myself.
OLIVIA. Well, I submit. And yet, my Leontine, I own I
shall envy her eren your pretended addresses. I consider every
look, every expression of your esteem, as due only to me. This is
folly, perhaps : I allow it: but it is natural to suppose, that inerit
which has made an impression on one's own heart, may be pow-
crful over that of another.
LEON. Don't, my life's treasure, don't let us make imaginary
evils, when you know we have so many real ones to encounter,
At worst, you know, if Miss Richland should consent, or my
father refuse bis pardon, it can but end in a trip to Scotland; and-
Enter CROAKER.
CRO. Where have you been, boy? I have been seeking you.
My friend Honeywood here has been saying such comfortable
things. Ah! he's an example indeed. Where is he? I left
him here.
LEON. Sir, I believe you may see him, and bear lim too, in
the next room; he's preparing to go out with the ladies.
CRO. Good gracious! can I believe my eyes or my ears! I'm
struck dumb with his vivacity, and stunned with the loudness of
his laugh. Was there ever such a transformation! (-1 laugh,
lchind the scenes, CROAKER mimicks it.) Ha! ha! ha! there it
THE GOOD-NATURED MAY.
203
gocs: a plague take their balderdash! Yet I could expect no-
thing less. when my precious wife was of the party. On my con-
science, I believe she could spread a horse-laugh through the
Jews of a tabernacle.
LEON.
Leon. Since you find so many objections to a wife, Sir, how
can you be so earnest in recommending one to me?
Cro. I have told you, and tell you again, boy, that Miss
Richland's fortune must not go out of the family; one may find
confort in the money, whatever one does in the wife.
Leon. But, Sir, though, in obedience to your desire, I am
ready to marry her, it may be possible she has no inclination
to me.
ment, which
Cro. I'll tell you once for all how it stands.
A good part
of Miss Richland's large fortune consists in a claim upon govern-
my good friend, Mr. Lofty, assures me the treasury
will allow. One-half of this she is to forfeit, by her father's will,
in case she refuses to marry you So, if she rejects you, we seize
half her fortune; if she accepts you, we seize the whole, and a
fine girl into the bargain.
LEON. But, Sir, if you will but listen to reason--
Cro. Come, then, produce your reason. I tell you, I'm
fixed, determined; so now produce your reasons. When I'm
determined, I always listen to reason, because it can then do no
harm.
LEON. You have alleged that a mutual choice was the first
requisite in matrimonial happiness.
Cro. Well, and you have both of you a mutual choice. She
has her choice-to marry you, or lose half her fortune; and you
bave your choice—to marry her, or pack out of doors without
any fortune at all.
Leon. An only son, Sir, might expect more indulgence.
CRO. An only father, Sir, might expect more obedience:
204
DRAMAS.
besides, has not your sister here, that never disobliged me in her
life, as good a right as you? He's a sad dog, Livy, my dear,
and would take all from you. But he shan't, I tell you be
shan't, for you shall have your share.
OLIVIA. Dear Sir, I wish you'd be convinced, that I can
never be happy in any addition to my fortune which is taken
from his.
Cro. Well, well, it's a good child, so say no more: but come
with me, and we shall see something that will give us a great
deal of pleasure, I promise you; old Ruggins, the curry-comb
maker, lying in state: I am told he makes a very handsome
corpse, and becomes his coffin prodigiously. He was an intimate
friend of mine, and these are friendly things we ought to do for
each other.
[Exeunt.
ACT SECOND.
Scene—CROAKER'S House.
Miss RICHLAND, GARNET.
Miss Rich. Olivia not his sister? Olivia not Leontine's
sister? You amaze me!
GARNET. No more his sister than I am; I had it all from
his own servant: I can get any thing from that quarter.
Miss Rich. But how? Tell me again, Garnet.
GARNET. Why, Madam, as I told you before, instead of
going to Lyons to bring home his sister, who has been there
with her aunt these ten years, he never went further than Paris:
there he saw and fell in love with this young lady—hy the by; •
of a prodigious family.
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
205
Miss Rich. And brought her home to my guardian as his
daughter?
GARN. Yes, and daughter she will be. If he don't consent
to their marriage, they talk of trying what a Scotch parson
can do.
Miss Rich. Well, I own they have deceived me—And so
demurely as Olivia carried it too !-Would you believe it, Garnet,
I told her all my secrets; and yet the sly cheat concealed all this
from me?
Garn. And, upon my word, Madam, I don't much blame
her: she was loth to trust one with her secrets, that was so very
bad at keeping her own.
Miss Ricul. But, to add to their deceit, the young gentle-
man, it seems, pretends to make me serious proposals. My
guardian and he are to be here presently, to open the affair in
form. You know I am to lose half my fortune if I refuse
him.
Garn. Yet, what can you do? For being, as you are, in
love with Mr. Honeywood, Madam-
Miss Rici. Ilow! idiot, what do you mean? In love with
Mr. Honeywood! Is this to provoke me?
Gary
GARN. That is, Madam, in friendship with him; I meant
nothing more than friendship, as I hope to be married; nothing
more.
7
Miss Ricni. Well, no more of this. As to my guardian and
his son, they shall find me prepared to receive them: I'm
resolved to accept their proposal with seeming pleasure, to
mortify them by compliance, and so throw the refusal at last
upon them.
Garn. Delicious! and that will secure your whole fortune
to yourself. Well, who could have thought so innocent a face
could cover so much 'cuteness!
2051
DRAMAS.
Miss Ricu. Why, girl, I only oppose my prudence to their
cunning, and practise a lesson they have tauglit me against
themselves.
Garn. Then you're likely not long to want employment, for
here they come, and in close conference.
Enter CROAKER, LEONTINE.
LEON. Excuse me, Sir, if I seem to hesitate upon the point
of putting to the lady so important a question.
CRO. Lord! good Sir, moderate your fears; you're so plaguy
shy, that one would think you had changed sexes.
I tell you wa
must have the hialf or the whole. Come, let me see with what
spirit you begin : Well, why don't you? Eh! what? Well
thien-I must, it seems-Miss Richland, my dear, I believe you
guess at our business; an affair which my son here comes to
open, that nearly concerns your happiness.
Miss Ricu. Sir, I should be ungrateful not to be pleased
with any thing that comes recommended by you.
Cro. How, boy, could you desire a tiner opening? Why
don't you begin, I say?
[To Lcontine.
Lrox. Tis true, Diadam, my father, Madam, has some inten-
tioushem-of explaining an affair—which—himself-can best
explain, Madam
CRO. Yes, my dear; it comes entirely from my son ; it's all
a request of his own, Macam. And I will permit him to make
the best of it.
LEON. The whole affair is only this, Madam; my father has
a proposal to make, which he insists none but himself shall
deliver.
CRO. My mind misgives me, the fellow will never be brought
on (asile). In short, Madam, you see before you one that loves
you, one whose whole happiness is all in you.
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
207
Miss Rich. I never had any doubts of your regard, Sir;
and I hope you can have none of my duty.
Cro. That's not the thing, my little sweeting; my love!
No, no, another-guess lover than I: there he stands, Madam, his
very looks declare the force of his passion-Call up a look, you
dog! (asicle).—But then, had you seen him, as I have, weeping,
speaking soliloquies and blank verse, sometimes melancholy, and
sometimes absent.
Miss Rich. I fear, Sir, he's absent now; or such a declara-
tion would have come most properly from himself.
Cro. Himself, Madam! he would die before he could make
such a confession; and if he had not a channel for his passion
through me, it would ere now have drowned his understanding.
Miss Rich. I must grant, Sir, there are attractions in
modest diffidence above the force of words. A silent address
is the genuine eloquence of sincerity.
Cro. Madam, he has forgot to speak any other language;
silence is become his mother-tongue.
Miss Rich. And it must be confessed, Sir, it speaks very
powerfully in his favor. And yet I shall be thought too forward
in making such a confession; shan't I, Mr. Leontine?
Leos. Confusion! my reserve will undo me. But if modesty
attracts her, impudence may disgust her. I'll try (asidr). Don't
imagine from my silence, Madam, that I want a due sense of the
honor and happiness intended me. My father, Madam, tells me,
,
your humble servant is not totally indifferent to you—he admires
you: I adore you; and when we come together, upon my soul,
I believe we shall be the happiest couple in all St. James's.
Miss Rich. If I could flatter myself you thought as you
speak, Sir-
Leon. Doubt my sincerity, Madam ? By your dear self
208
DRAMAS.
no means.
I swear. Ask the brave if they desire glory? ask cowards if
they covet safety-
Cro. Well, well, no more questions about it.
LEON. Ask the sick if they long for health ? ask misers if
they love money? ask —
CRO. Ask a fool if he can talk nonsense! What's come
over the boy? What signifies asking, when there's not a soul to
give you an answer? If you would ask to the purpose, ask this
lady's consent to make you happy.
Miss Rich. Why indeed, Sir, his uncommon ardor almost
compels me—forces me to comply. And yet I'm afraid he'll
despise a conquest gained with too much ease; won't you, Mr.
Leontine?
LEOX. Confusion! (aside). Oh, by no means, Madam, by
And yet, Madam, you talked of force. There is
nothing I would avoid so much as compulsion in a thing of this
kind. No, Madam, I will still be generous, and leave you at
liberty to refuse.
Cro. But I tell you, Sir, the lady is not at liberty. It's a
match. You see she says nothing. Silence gives consent.
Leox. But, Sir, she talked of force. Consider, Sir, the
cruelty of constraining her inclinations.
Cro. But I say there's no cruelty. Don't you know, block-
head, that girls have always a roundabout way of saying yes
before company? So get you both gone together into the next
room, and hang him that interrupts the tender explanation. Get
you gone,
I
say;
I'll not hear a word.
LEON. But, Sir, I must beg leave to insist-
Cro. Get off, you puppy, or I'll beg leave to insist upon
knocking you down. Stupid whelp! But I don't wonder: the
boy takes entirely after his mother.
[Errunt Miss RICHLAVD and LEONTINE
THE GOOD-XATIRED MAN.
209
Enter Mrs. CROAKER.
Mrs. Cro. Mr. Croaker, I bring you something, my dear,
that I believe will make
you
smile.
Cro. I'll hold you a guinea of that, my dear.
Mrs. Cro. A letter; and, as I knew the hand, I ventured to
open it.
Cro. And how can you expect your breaking open my
let-
ters should give me pleasure ?
Mes. Cro. Poo! it's from your sister at Lyons, and contains
good news; read it.
Cro. What a Frenchified cover is here! That sister of mine
has some good qualities, but I could never teach her to fold a
letter.
Mrs. Cro. Fold a fiddlestick. Read what it contains.
Croaker (reading).
"DEAR NICK,
“ An English gentleman, of large fortune, has for some time
made private, though honorable proposals to your daughter
Olivia. They love each other tenderly, and I find she has con:
sented, without letting any of the family know, to crown his ad-
dresses. As such good offers don't come every day, your own
good sense, his large fortune, and family considerations, will in-
duce you to forgive her.
RACHAEL Croaker."
Yours ever,
My daughter Olivia privately contracted to a man of large
fortune! This is good news, indeed. My heart never foretold
me this. And yet, how slily the little baggage has carried it
since she came home; not a word on't to the old ones for the
world. Yet I thought I saw something she wanted to conceal.
Mrs. Cro. Well, if they have concealed their amour, they
shan't conceal their wedding; that shall be public, I'm resolved.
210
DRAMAS.
part of the
Cro. I tell thee, woman, the wedding is the most foolish
ceremony. I can never get this woman to think of
the most serious part of the nuptial engagement.
Mrs. Cro. What would you have me think of, their funeral ?
But come, tell me, my dear, don't you owe more to me than you
care to confess? Would you have ever been known to Mr. Lof-
ty, who has undertaken Miss Richland's claim at the Treasury,
but for me? Who was it first made him an acquaintance at
Lady Slabbaroon's rout? Who got him to promise us his inte-
rest? Is not le a backstairs favorite, one that can do what he
pleases with those that do what they please? Is not he an ac-
quaintance that all your groaning and lamentation could never
have got us?
Cro.
He is a
man of importance, I grant you. And yet
what amazes me is, that, while he is giving away places to all the
world, he can't get one for himself.
Mrs. Cro. That perhaps may be owing to his nicety. Great
men are not easily satisfied.
1
You sce now,
צנון
Enter FRENCH SERVANT,
Serv. An expresse from Monsieur Lofty. He vil be vait
upon your honors instrammant. He be only giving four five in-
struction, read two tree memorial, call upon von ambassadeur.
He vil be vid you in one tree minutes.
MRS. Cro.
dear. What an extensive de-
partment! Well, friend, let your master know that we are ex-
tremely honored by this honor. Was there any thing ever in a
higher style of breeding? All messages among the great are
now done by express.
Cro. To be sure, no man does little things with more so-
lemnity, or claims more respect than he. But he's in the right
on't. In our bad world, respeet is given where respect is claimed.
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
211
Mrs. Cro. Never mind the world, my dear; you were never
in a pleasanter place in your life. Let us now think of receiving
him with proper respect—la loud rapping at the door);—and
there he is, by the thundering rap.
Cro Ay, verily, there he is ! as close upon the heels of his
own express, as an indorsement upon the back of a bill. Well,
I'll leave you to receive him, whilst I go to chide 11.
little Olivia
for intending to steal a marriage without mine or her aunt's con-
sent. I must seem to be angry, or she too may begin to despise
my authority.
[Erit
Enter LOFTY, speaking to his Serrant.
LOFTY. “ And if the Venetian ambassador, or that teazing
creature the Marquis, should call, I'm not at home. Dam'me,
I'll be pack-horse to none of them.” My dear madam, I have
just snatched a moment—" And if the expresses to his
grace
be
ready, let them be sent off; they're of importance.”—Madam, I
ask a thousand pardons.
Mrs. Cro. Sir, this honor-
LOFTY. “ And, Dubardieu ! if the person calls about the
commission, let him know that it is made out. As for Lord
Cumbercourt's stale request, it can keep cold: you understand
me.”—Madam, I ask ten thousand pardons.
Mrs. Cro. Sir, this honor-
Lorry. And, Dubardieu ! if the man comes from the Cor-
nish borough, you must do him; you must do him, I say.”-
Madain I ask ten thousand pardons.--". And if the Russian am-
bassador calls; but he will scarce call to-day, I believe." — And
now, madam, I have just got time to express my happiness in
having the honor of being permitted to profess myself your
most obedient humble servant.
6.
212
DR A MAS.
Mrs. Cro. Sir, the happiness and honor are all mine: and
yet, I'm only robbing the public while I detain you.
Lorry. Sink the public, madam, when the fair are to be at-
tended. Ah, could all my hours be so charmingly devoted !
Sincerely, don't you pity us poor creatures in affairs ? Thus it
is eternally: solicited for places here, teazed for pensions there,
and courted everywhere. I know you pity me. Yes, I see
you do.
)
Mrs. Cro Excuse me, Sir. “ Toils of empires pleasures
are," as Waller says.
LOFTY. Waller, Waller, is he of the House?
Mrs. Cro. The modern poet of that name, Sir.
Lorry. Oh, a modern! we men of business despise the
moderns; and as for the ancients, we have no time to read them.
Poetry is a pretty thing enough for our wives and daughters;
but not for us. Why now, here I stand that know nothing of
books. I say, madam, I know nothing of books; and yet, I be-
lieve, upon a land-carriage fishery, a stamp act, or a jayhire, I
can taik my two hours without feeling the want of them.
Mrs. Cro. The world is no stranger to Mr. Lofty's emi-
in
every capacity.
Lorty. I vow to gad, Madam, you make me blush. I'm
nothing, nothing, nothing in tlic world; a mere obscure yenile-
To be sure, indeed, one or two of the present ministers
are pleased to represent me as a formidable man.
I know they
are pleased to bespatter me at all their little dirty levees. Yet,
upon my soul, I wonder what they see in me to treat me so !
Measures, not men, have always been my mark; and I vow, by
all that's honorable, my resentment has never done the men, as
mere men, any manner of harm—that is, as mere men.
Mrs. Cro. What importance, and yet what modesty !
LOFTY. Oh, if you talk of modesty, Madam, there. I own,
nence
inan.
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
213
a
I'm accessible to praise : modesty is my foible : it was so the
Duke of Brentford used to say of me. “I love Jack Lofty," he
used to say: no man has a finer knowledge of things ; quite a
man of information ; and, when he speaks upon his legs, by the
Lord he's prodigious, he scouts them; and yet all men have their
faults; too much modesty is his," says his Grace.
Mrs. Cro. And yet, I dare say, you don't want assurance
when
you come to solicit for
your
friends.
LOFTY. O, there indeed I'm in bronze. Apropos I have
just been mentioning Miss Richland's case to a certain
personage;
we must name no names. When I ask, I am not to be put off,
Madam. No, no, I take my friend by the button.—“ A fine girl,
Sir; great justice in her case. A friend of mine-borough
interest business must be done, Mr. Secretary.--I say, Mr.
Secretary, her business must be done, Sir.” That's my way, Ma-
dam.
Mrs. Cro. Bless me! you said all this to the Secretary of
State, did you?
Lorry. I did not say the Secretary, did I? Well, curse it,
since you have fouud me out, I will not deny it. It was to the
Secretary
Mrs. Cro. This was going to the fountain head at once, not
applying to the understrappers, as Mr. Honeyword would have
had us.
.
Lorry. Honeywood! he! he! He was, indeed, a fine solicit-
or. I suppose you have heard what has just happened to him?
Mrs. Cro. Poor dear man! no accident, I hope ?
Lofty. Undone, Madam, that's all. His creditors have
taken him into custody. A prisoner in his own house.
Mrs. Cro. A prisoner in his own house! How? At this
very time? I'm quite unhappy for him.
LOFTY. Why, so am I. The man, to be sure, was immensely
214
DRAMAS.
good-natured But then I could never find that he had any
thing in him.
Mrs. Cro. His manner, to be sure, was excessively harin.
less; some, indeed, thought it a little dull.
For my part I al-
ways concealed my opinion.
Lorty. It can't be concealed, Madam; the man was dull, dull
as the last new comedy! a poor impracticable creature! I tried
once or twice to know if he was fit for business; but he had
scarce talents to be groom-porter to an orange barrow.
Mrs. Cro. How differently does Miss Richland think of
him ! for I believe, with all his faults, she loves him.
LOFTY. Loves him! does she? You should cure her of that
by all means. Let me see; what if she were sent to him this
instant, in his present doleful situation ? My life for it, that
works her cure. Distress is a perfect antidote to love. Suppose
we join her in the next room? Miss Richland is a fine girl, has
a fine fortune, and must not be thrown away. Upon my honor,
Madam, I have a regard for Miss Richland; and rather than she
should be thrown away, I should think it no indignity to marry
her myself.
[E ceunt.
Enter Olivia and LEONTINE.
LEON. And yet, trust me, Olivia, I had every reason to ex-
pect Miss Richland's refusal, as I did every thing in my power
to deserve it. Her indelicacy surprises me.
Olivia. Sure, Leontine, there's nothing so indelicate in being
sensible of your merit. If so, I fear I shall be the most guilty
thing alive.
LEON. But you mistake, my dear. . The same attention I
used to advance my merit with you, I practised to lessen it with
her. What more could I do?
OLIVIA. Let us now rather consider what is to be done. Wo
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
215
have both dissembled too long - I have always been ashamed-I
am yow quite weary of it. Sure I could never have undergone
so much for any other but you.
LEON. And you shall find my gratitude equal to your kindest
compliance. Though our friends should totally forsake us, Olivia,
we can draw upon content for the deficiencies of fortune.
OLIVIA. Then why should we defer our scheme of humble
happiness, when it is now in our power? I may be the favorite
of your father, it is true; but can it ever be thought, that his
present kindness to a supposed child will continue to a known
deceiver ?
LEON. I have many reasons to believe it will. As his at-
tachments are but few, they are lasting. His own marriage was
a private one, as ours may be. Besides, I have sounded him
already at a distance, and find all his answers exactly to our wish.
Nay, by an expression or two that dropped from him, I am in-
duced to think he knows of this affair.
Olivia. Indeed ! But that would be a happiness too great
to be expected.
LEON. However it be, I'm certain you
have
power over him;
and I am persuaded, if you informed him of our situation, that
he would be disposed to pardon it.
OLIVIA. You had equal expectations, Leontine, from your
last scheme with Miss Richland, which you find has succeeded
most wretchedly.
LEON. And that's the best reason for trying another.
OLIVIA. If it must be so, I submit.
LEON. As we could wish, he comes this way. Now, my
dearest Olivia, be resolute. I'll just retire within hearing, to
come in at a proper time, either to share your danger, or confirm
your victory
[Exit.
216
DRAMAS
Enter CROAKER.
Cro. Yes, I must forgive her; and yet not too easily, neither.
It will be proper to keep up the decorums of resentment a little,
if it be only to impress her with an idea of my authority.
Olivia.' How I treinble to approach him!—Might I presume,
Sir,-if I interrupt you-
Cro. No, child, where I have an affection, it is not a little
thing that can interrupt me. Affection gets over little things.
OLIVIA. Sir, you're too kind. I'm sensible how ill I deserve
this partiality; yet, Heaven knows, there is nothing I would ne,
do to gain it.
Cro. And you have but too well succeeded, you little hussy,
you. With those endearing ways of yours, on my conscience, I
could be brought to forgive any thing, unless it were a very great
offence indeed.
OlivIA. But mine is such an offence—When you know my
guilt-Yes, you shall know it, though I feel the greatest pain in
the confession.
Cro. Why, then, if it be so very great a pain, you may spare
yourself the trouble; for I know every syllable of the matter be-
fore you begin.
OLIVIA. Indeed! then I'm undone.
Cro. Ay, Miss, you wanted to steal a match, without letting
me know it, did you? But I'm not worth being consulted. I sup-
pose, when there's to be a marriage in my own family. No, I'm
nobody. I'm to be a mere article of family lumber; a piece of
cracked china to be stuck up in a corner.
OLIVIA Dear Sir, nothing but the dread of your authority
could induce us to conceal it from you.
Cro. No, no, my consequence is no more; I'm as little
minded as a dead Russian in winter, just stuck up with a pipe
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
217
in its mouth till there comes a thaw-It goes to my heart to
vex her.
[Aside.
OLIVIA. I was prepared, Sir, for your anger, and despaired
of pardon, even while I presumed to ask it. But your severity
shall never abate my affection, as my punishment is but justice.
Cro. And yet you should not despair neither, Livy. We
ought to hope all for the best.
Olivia. And do you permit me to hope, Sir ? Can I ever
expect to be forgiven ? But hope has too long deceived me.
Cro. Why, then, child, it shan't deceive you now, for I for-
give you
this very moment; I forgive you all; and now you are
indeed my daughter.
Olivia. O transport! this kindness overpowers me.
CRO. I was always against severity to our children. We
have been young and giddy ourselves, and we can't expect boys
and girls to be old before their time.
OLIVIA. What generosity! But can you forget the many
falsehoods, the dissimulation-
Cro. You did indeed dissemble, you urchin you ; but
where's the girl that won't dissemble for a husband ? My wife
and I had never been married, if we had not dissembled a little
beforehand.
OLIVIA. It shall be my future care never to put such gene-
rosity to a second trial. And as for the partner of my offence
and folly, from his native honor, and the just sense he has of his
duty, I can answer for him that-
Enter LEONTINE.
LEON. Permit him thus to answer for himself (Knceling).
Thus, Sir, let me speak my gratitude for this unmerited forgive
Yes, Sir, this even excecds all your former tenderness. I
10
ness.
VOL. IV.
218
DRAMAS.
can now boast the most indulgent of fathers. The life he gave,
compared to this, was but a trifling blessing.
Cro. And, good Sir, who sent for you, with that fine trage.
dy face, and flourishing manner? I don't know what we have to
do with your gratitude upon this occasion.
LEON. How, Sir! Is it possible to be silent, when so much
obliged? Would you refuse me the pleasure of being grateful ?
of adding my thanks to my Olivia's ? of sharing in the trans-
ports that you have thus occasioned?
Cro. Lord, Sir, we can be happy enough without your
coming in to make up the party. I don't know what's the mat-
ter with the boy all this day; he has got into such a rhodomon-
tade manner all this morning !
Leox. But, Sir, I that have so large a part in the benefit,
is it not my duty to show my joy ? is the being admitted to your
favor so slight an obligation ? is the happiness of marrying my
Olivia so small a blessing?
Cro. Marrying Olivia ! marrying Olivia! marrying his
own sister!
Sure the boy is out of his senses. His own sister !
Leon. My sister!
OLIVIA. Sister! How have I been mistaken! [Aside.
Leon. Some cursed mistake in all this, I find. [Aside.
Cro. What does the booby mean? or has he any meaning ?
Eh, what do you mean, you blockhead, you?
Leon. Mean, Sir,—why, Sir-only when my sister is to be
married, that I have the pleasure of marrying her, Sir, that is, of
giving her away, Sir-I have made a point of it.
Cro. O, is that all? Give her away.
You have made a
point of it. Then you had as good make a point of first giving
away yourself, as I'm going to prepare the writings between you
and Miss Richland this very minute. What a fuss is here about
a
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
219
nothing! Why, what's the matter now? I thought I had made
you as happy as you could wish.
Olivia. O! yes, Sir; very happy.
Cro. Do you foresee any thing, child ? You look as if you
did. I think if any thing was to be foreseen, I have as sharp a
look-out as another; and yet I foresee nothing.
[Exit.
LEONTINE, OLIVIA.
OLIVIA. What can it mean?
LEON. He knows something, and yet for my life I can't tell
what.
Olivia. It can't be the connection between us, I'm pretty
certain.
LEON. Whatever it be, my dearest, I am resolved to put it
out of fortune's power to repeat our mortification. I'll haste and
prepare for our journey to Scotland this very evening. My
friend Honeywood has promised me his advice and assistance.
I'll go to him and repose our distresses on his friendly bosom ;
and I know so much of his honest heart, that if he can't relieve
our uneasinesses, he will at least share them.
[Exeunt.
ACT THIRD.
SCENE— Young Honeywood's House.
BAILIFF, HONEYWOOD, FOLLOWER.
BAIL. Lookye, Sir, I have arrested as good men as you in
my time: no disparagement of you neither : men that would go
forty guineas on a game of cribbage. I challenge the town to
show a man in more gentecler practice than myself.
a
2:20
DRAMAS.
Honey. Without all question, Mr. I forget your name,
Sir ?
Bail. How can you forget what you never knew he !
he! he!
HONEY. May I beg leave to ask your name?
Bail. Yes, you may.
Honey. Then, pray, Sir, what is
, your
name?
Bail. That I didn't promise to tell you. He! he! he!
A joke breaks no bones, as we say among us that practise the
law.
HONEY You may have reason for keeping it a secret, per-
haps ?
BAIL. The law does nothing without reason. I'm asham'd
to tell my name to no man, Sir. If you can show cause, as why,
upon a special capus, that I should prove my name—But come,
Timothy Twitch is my name. And, now you know my name,
what have you to say to that?
HONEY. Nothing in the world, good Mr. Twitch, but that I
have a favor to ask, that's all.
BAIL. Ay, favors are more easily asked than granted, as
we say among us that practise the law. I have taken
oath against granting favors. Would you have me perjure
myself?
HONEY. But my request will come recommended in so
strong a manner, as I believe, you'll have no scruple (pulling
out his purse). The thing is only this. I believe I shall be able
to discharge this trifle in two or three days at farthest; but as I
would not have the affair known for the world, I have thoughts
of keeping you, and your good friend here, about me, till the
debt is discharged; for which I shall be properly grateful.
Ball. Oh! that's another maxum, and altogether within my
oath. For certain, if an honest man is to get any thing by a
a
an
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
221
thing, there's no reason why all things should not be done in
civility.
Honey. Doubtless all trades must live, Mr. Twitch ; and
yours is a necessary one.
[Giirs him money.
BAIL. Oh! your honor; I hope your honor takes nothing
Bail
amiss as I does, as I does nothing but my duty in so doing. I'm
sure no man can say I ever give a gentleman, that was a gentle-
man, ill-usage. If I saw that a gentleman was a gentleman, I have
taken money not to see him for ten weeks together.
Honey. Tenderness is a virtue, Mr. Twitch.
Bail. Ay, Sir, it's a perfect treasure.
I love to see a gen-
tleman with a tender heart. I don't know, but I think I have a
tender heart myself. If all that I have lost by my heart was put
together, it would make a—but no matter for that.
Honey. Don't account it lost, Mr. Twitch. The ingratitude
of the world can never deprive us of the conscious happiness of
having acted with humanity ourselves.
Bail. Humanity, Sir, is a jewel. It's better than gold. I
.
love humanity. People may say, that we in our way have no
humanity; but I'll show you my humanity this moment. There's
my follower here, little Flanigan, with a wife and four children,
a guinea or two would be more to him, than twice as much to
another. Now, as I can't show him any humanity myself, I must
beg leave that you'll do it for me.
HONEY. I assure you, Mr. Twitch, yours is a most powerful
recommendation.
[Giving money to the follower.
Bail Sir, you're a gentleman. I see you know what to do
with your money. But to business : we are to be with you here
as your friends, I suppose. But set in case company comes.--
Little Flanigan here, to be sure, has a good face; a very good
face; but then, he is a little seedy, as we say among us
that
prac.
tise the law. Not well in clothes. Smoke the pocket-holes.
&
222
DRAMAS.
Honey. Well, that shall be remedied without delay.
Enter SERVANT.
Serv. Sir, Miss Richland is below.
HONEY. How unlucky! Detain her a moment. We must
improve my good friend little Mr. Flanigan's appearance first.
Here, let Mr. Flanigan have a suit of my clothes-quick-the
brown and silver-Do you hear?
Serv. That your honor gave away to the begging gentleman
that makes verses, because it was as good as new.
Honey. The white and gold then.
Serv. That, your honor, I made bold to sell, because it was
good for nothing
HONEY. Well, the first that comes to hand then. The blue
and gold then. I believe Mr. Flanigan will look best in blue.
[E.cit FLANIGAN.
Bail. Rabbit me, but little Flanigan will look well in any
thing. Ah, if your honor knew that bit of flesh as well as I do,
you'd be perfectly in love with him. There's not a prettier scout
in the four counties after a shy-cock than he: scents like a hound;
sticks like a weazle. He was master of ceremonies to the black
queen of Morocco, when I took him to follow me. (Re-enter
-
FLANIGAN.) Heh, ecod, I think he looks so well, that I don't
care if I have a suit from the same place for myself.
IIONEY. Well, well, I hear the lady coming. Dear Mr.
Twitch, I beg you'll give your friend directions not to speak.
As for yourself, I know you will say nothing without being di-
rected.
Bail. Never you fear me; I'll show the lady that I have
something to say for myself as well as another. One man has
one way of talking, and another man has another, that's all the
difference between them
a
a
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
223
Enter Miss Richland and her Maid.
Miss Ricu. You'll be surprised, Sir, with this visit. But
you know I'm yet to thank you for choosing my little library.
Hoxey. Thanks, Madam, are unnecessary; as it was I that
was obliged by your commands. Chairs here. Two of my very
good friends, Mr. Twitch and Mr. Flanigan. Pray, gentlemen,
sit without ceremony.
Miss Ricii. Who can these odd-looking men be! I fear it
is as I was informed. It must be so.
[Aside.
Bail. (After a pause.) Pretty weather; very pretty weather
for the time of the
year,
Madam.
Fol. Very good circuit weather in the country.
HONEY. You officers are generally favorites among the
ladies. My friends, Madam, have been upon very disagreeable
duty, I assure you. The fair should in some measure recompense
the toils of the brave!
Miss Ricu. Our officers do indeed deserve every favor. The
gentlemen are in the marine service, I presume, Sir ?
HONEY. Why, Madam, they do--occasionally serve in the
fleet, Madam. A dangerous service!
Miss Rich. I'm told so. And I own it has often surprised
me, that while we have had so many instances of bravery there,
we have had so few of wit at lone to praise it.
Honey. I grant, Madam, that our poets have not written as
our soldiers have fought; but they have done all they could, and
llawke or Amherst could do no more
Miss Rich. I'm quite displeased when I see a fine subject
spoiled by a dull writer.
Honey. We should not be so severe against dull writers,
Madam. It ten to one but the dullest writer exceeds the
most rigid French critic who presumes to despise him.
224
DRAMAS.
Fol. Damn the French, the parle vous, and all that belongs
to them.
Miss Rich. Sir!
Hoxey. Ha, ha, ha! honest Mr. Flanigan. A true English
officer, Madam; he's not contented with beating the French, but
he will scold them too.
Miss Rich. Yet, Mr. Honeywood, this does not conrince me
but that severity in criticism is necessary. It was our first
adopting the severity of French taste, that has brought them in
turn to taste us.
Bail. Taste us! By the Lord, Madam, they devour us.
Give monseers but a taste, and I'll be damn'd but they come in
for a bellyfull.
Miss Rich. Very extraordinary this !
Fol. But very true. What makes the bread rising ? the
parle vous that devour us. What makes the mutton fivepence a
pound ? the parle vous that eat it up. What makes the beer
threepence-halfpenny a pot?-
IIONEY. Ah! the vulgar rogues; all will be out (aside).
Right, gentlemen, very right, upon my word, and quite to the
purpose. They draw a parallel, Madam, between the mental
taste and that of our senses. We are injured as much by the
French severity in the one, as by French rapacity in the other.
That's their meaning.
Miss Rich. Though I don't see the force of the parallel, yet
I'll own, that we should sometimes pardon books, as we do our
friends, that have now and then agreeable absurdities to re-
commend them.
BAIL. That's all my eye. The king only can pardon, as the
law says: for set in case-
IIONEY. I'm quite of your opinion, Sir. I see the whole
drift of your argument. Yes, certainly, our presuming to pardon
THE GOOD NATURED MAN.
225
any work, is arrogating a power that belongs to another. If all
have power to condemn, what writer can be free?
Bail. By his habus corpus. His habus corpus can set him
free at any time: for, set in case-
Honey. I'm obliged to you, Sir, for the hint. If, Madam,
as my friend observes, our laws are so careful of a gentleman's
person, sure we ought to be equally careful of his dearer part,
his fame.
Fol. Ay, but if so be a man's nabb’d, you know-
Honey. Mr. Flanigan, if you spoke for ever, you could not
improve the last observation. For my own part, I think it con-
clusive.
Bail. As for the matter of that, mayhap-
Honey. Nay, Sir, give me leave in this instance to be posi-
tive. For where is the necessity of censuring works without ge-
nius, which must shortly sink of themselves? what is it but aim-
ing an unnecessary blow against a victim already under the hands
of justice?
Bail. Justice! 0, by the elevens, if you talk about justice,
I think I am at home there: for, in a course of law-
Honey. My dear Mr. Twitch, I discern what you'd be at,
perfectly; and I believe the lady must be sensible of the art with
which it is introduced. I suppose you perceive the meaning,
Madam, of his course of law.
Miss Rich. I protest, Sir, I do not. I perceive only that
you answer one gentleman before he has finished, and the other
before he has well begun.
Bail. Madam, you are a gentlewoman, and I will make tho
matter out. This here question is about severity, and justice,
and pardon, and the like of they. Now, to explain the thing-
Honey. O! curse your explanations.
[Aside.
VOL. IV.
10
226
DRAMAS.
me.
>
Enter SERVANT.
SERVANT. Mr. Leontine, Sir, below, desires to speak with you
upon earnest business.
Hoxer. That's lucky (aside). Dear Madam, you'll excuse
me and my good friends here, for a few minutes.
There are
books, Madam, to amuse you. Come, gentlemen, you know I
make no ceremony with such friends. After you, Sir. Excuso
Well, if I must. But I know your natural politeness.
Bail. Before and behind, you know.
FOL. Ay, ay, before and behind, before and behind.
[Exeunt HoneyWood, Bailiff, and FOLLOWER.
Miss Rich. What can all this mean, Garnet ?
GARNET. Mean, Madam! why, what should it mean, but
what Mr. Lofty sent you here to see? These people he calls
officers, are officers sure enough ; sheriff's officers;- bailiffs,
Madam.
Miss RICH. Ay, it is certainly so. Well, though his perplex-
Rich
ities are far from giving me pleasure, yet I own there is some-
thing very ridiculous in them, and a just punishment for his dis-
simulation.
Garnet. And so they are. But I wonder. Madam, that the
lawyer you just employed to pay his debts and set him free, has
not done it by this time. IIc ought at least to have been here
But lawyers are always more ready to get a man
into troubles than out of them.
before now.
Enter Sir WILLIAM HONEYWOOD.
Sir W'm. For Miss Richland to undertake setting him free,
I own, was quite unexpected. It has totally unhinged my schemes
to reclaim him. Yet it gives me pleasure to find, that among a
number of worthless friendships, he has made one acquisition of
real value; for there must be some softer passion on her side that
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
227
prompts this generosity. Ha! here before me: I'll endeavor to
sound her affections. Madam, as I am the person that have had
some demands upon the gentleman of this house, I hope you'll
excuse me, if, before I enlarged him, I wanted to see yourself.
Miss Rich. The precaution was very unnecessary, Sir. I
suppose your wants were only such as my agent had power
to satisfy
Sir WM. Partly, Madam. But I was also willing you should
be fully apprised of the character of the gentleman you intended
to serve.
Miss Rich. It must come, Sir, with a very ill grace from
you. To censure it after what you have done, would look like
malice; and to speak favorably of a character you have oppressed,
would be impeaching your own. And sure, his tenderness, his
humanity, his universal friendship, may atone for many faults.
Sir Wm. That friendship, Madam, which is exerted in too
wide a sphere, becomes totally useless. Our bounty, like a drop
of water, disappears when diffused too widely. They wlio
pretend most to this universal benevolence, are either deceivers,
or dupes: men who desire to cover their private ill-nature by a
pretended regard for all; or men who, reasoning themselves into
false feelings, are more earnest in pursuit of splendid, than of
useful virtues.
Miss Rich. I am surprised, Sir, to hear one, who has prob-
ably been a gainer by the folly of others, so severe in his censure
of it.
Sir Wr. Whatever I may have gained by folly, Madam, you
see I am willing to prevent your losing by it.
Miss Rich. Your cares for me, Sir, are unnecessary.
I
always suspect those services which are denied where they are
wanted, and offered, perhaps, in hopes of a refusal.
No, Sir, my
1
228
DRAMAS.
directions have been given, and I insist upon their being complied
with.
Sır. Wm. Thou amiable woman! I can no longer contain
the expressions of my gratitude, my pleasure. You see before
you one, wbo has been equally careful of his interest; one, who
has for some time been a concealed spectator of his follies, and
only punished in hopes to reclaim him-his uncle !
Miss Rich. Sir William Honeywood! You amaze me. How
shall I conceal my confusion? I fear, Sir, you'll think I have
been too forward in my services. I confess I-
Sir Wm. Don't make any apologies, Madam. I only find
myself unable to repay the obligation. And yet, I have been
trying my interest of late to serve you. IIaving learned, Madam,
that you have some demands upon Government, I have, though
unasked, been your solicitor there.
Miss Ricu. Sir, I'm infinitely obliged to your intentions.
But my guardian has employed another gentleman, who assures
him of success.
Sie Wm. Who, the important little man that visits here?
Trust me, Madam, he's quite contemptible among men in power,
and utterly unable to serve you. Mr. Lofty's promises are much
better known to people of fashion, than his person, I
assure you.
Miss Rich. How have we been deceived! As sure as can
be, here he comes.
Sir WM. Does he? Remember I'm to continue unknown.
My return to England has not yet been made public. With
what impudence he enters !
1
4
Enter LOFTY
LOFTY. Let the chariot-let my chariot drive off; I'll visit to
his Grace's in a chair. Miss Richland here before me! Punctual,
as usual, to the calls of humanity. I'm very sorry, Madam,
a
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
229
things of this kind should happen, especially to a man I have
shown every where, and carried amongst us as a particular
acquaintance.
Miss Rich. I find, Sir, you have the art of making the mis-
fortunes of others your own.
LOFTY. My dear Madam, what can a private man like me
do? One man can't do every thing; and then, I do so much in
this way every day. Let me see; something considerable might
be done for him by subscription; it could not fail if I carried the
list. I'll undertake to set down a brace of dukes, two dozen
lords, and half the lower house, at my own peril.
Sir WM. And, after all, it's more than probable, Sir, he might
reject the offer of such powerful patronage.
LOFTy. Then, Madam, what can we do? You know I never
make promises. In truth I once or twice tried to do something
with him in the way of business; but, as I often told his uncle,
Sir William Honeywood, the man was utterly impracticable.
Sir WM. His uncle! then that gentleman, I suppose, is a
particular friend of yours.
LOFTY. Meaning me, Sir?-Yes, Madam, as I often said
my dear Sir William, you are sensible I would do any thing
as far as my poor interest goes, to serve your family: but what
can be done? there's no procuring first-rate places for ninth-rate
abilities.
Miss Rich. I have heard of Sir William Honeywood; he's
abroad in employment: he confided in your judgment, I suppose ?
Lorty. Why, yés, madam, I believe Sir William had some
reason to confide in my judgment; one little reason, perhaps.
Miss Ricu. Pray, Sir, what was it?
Lofty. Why, Madam— but let it go no further-it was I
procured him his place.
SIR WM. Did
you,
Sir ?
230
DRAVIS.
Lorry. Either you or I, Sir.
Miss Ricu. This, Mr. Lofty, was very kind indeed.
Lorty. I did love him, to be sure; hic had some amusing
qualities; no man was fitter to be a toast-master to a club, or had
a better head.
Miss Ricu. A better head ?
Lorty. Ay, at a bottle. To be sure, lic was as dull as a
choice spirit; but, hang it, he was grateful, very grateful; and
gratitude hides a multitude of faults.
Su Wm. Ile might have reason, perhaps. His place is pretty
considerable. I'm told.
LOFTS. A trific, a mere trifle among us men of business.
The truth is, he wanted dignity to fill up a greater.
Sir Wr. Dignity of person, do you mean, Sir? I'm told
he's much about my size and figure, Sir.
Lorty. Ay, tall enough for a marching regiment; but then
he wanted a something--a consequence of form-a kind of a-I
believe the lady perceives my meaning.
Miss Rin. (), perfectly; you courtiers can do any thing,
—
1
I sec.
Lorry. My dear Madam, all this is but a merc exchange;
we do greater things for one another cvery day. Why, as thus,
now: let me suppose you the first lord of tlic treasury; you havn
an employment in you that I want; I have a place in mne that
you want: do me here, do you therc: interest of both sides, few
words, flat. donc and donc, and it's over.
Sir Wm. A thought strikes me (asile). Now you mention
Sir William Honeywood. Madam, and as he scenis, Sir, an acquaint-
ance of yours, you'll be glad to hear hic is arrived from Italy; I
had it from a friend who knows him as well as lic docs mc, and
you may depend on my information.
THE GOOD NATURED MAN.
231
you
Lofty. The devil he is! If I had known that, we should
not have been quite so well acquainted.
[Asile.
SIR WM. He is certainly returned; and as this gentleman
is a friend of yours, he can be of signal service to us, by intro-
ducing me to him: there are some papers relative to your affairs
that require dispatch, and his inspection.
Miss Ricu. This gentleman, Mr. Lofty, is a person emplwy-
.
?d in my affairs ; I know you'll serve us.
Lofty. My dear Madam, I live but to serve you. Sir
William shall even wait upon him, if think
proper to com
mand it.
Sir Wm. That would be quite unnecessary.
Lofty. Well, we must introduce you, then. Call upon me
- let me see—ay, in two days.
Sir Wm. Now, or the opportunity will be lost for ever.
Lofty. Well, if it must be now, now let it be. But damn
it, that's unfortunate; my Lord Grig's cursed Pensac, la busi-
ness comes on this very hour, and I'm engaged to attend—another
time-
Sin Wm. A short letter to Sir William will do.
LOFTY. You shall have it; yet, in my opinion, a letter is a
very bad ray of going to work ; face to face, that's my way.
Sir W. The letter, Sir, will do quite as well.
Lofty. Zounds ! Sir, do you pretend to direct me ? direct
me in the business of office ? Do you know me, Sir ? Who
7
im I ?
Miss Ricu. Dear Mr. Lofty, this request is not so much his
as mine; if my commands--but you despise my power.
Lofty. Delicate creature! your commands could even con-
trol a debate at midnight: to a power so constitutional, I am all
obedience and tranquillity. He shall have a letter : where is my
secretary? Dubardieu! And yet. I protest I don't like this
232
DRAMAS.
way of doing business. I think if I spoke first to Sir William
-But
you
will have it so.
[Exit with Miss R:CHLAND
Sir William (alone).
Ha, ha, ha !—This, too, is one of my nephew s hopeful asso-
ciates. O vanity, thou constant deceiver, how do all thy efforts to
exalt, serve but to sink us! Thy false colorings, like those em-
ployed to heighten beauty, only seem to mend that bloom which
they contribute to destroy. I'm not displeased at this interview:
exposing this fellow's impudence to the contempt it deserves, may
be of use to my design; at least, if he can reflect, it will be of
use to himself.
Entcr Jarvis.
1
Sir · WM. How now, Jarvis, where's your master, my
nephew ?
Jarvis. At his wit's ends, I believe : he's scarce gotten out
of one scrape, but he's running his head into another.
Sir WM. How so?
Jarvis. The house has but just been cleared of the bailiffs,
and now he's again engaging, tooth and sail, in assisting old
Croaker's son to patch up a clandestine match with the young
lady that passes in the house for his sister.
Sir War. Ever busy to serve others.
Jarvis. Ay, any body but himself. The young couple, it
seems, are just setting out for Scotland; and he supplies them
with money for the journey .
Sir Wm. Money! how is he able to supply others, who has
scarce any for himself ?
Jarvis. Why, there it is: he has no money, that's true;
but then, as he never said No to any request in his life, he has
given them a bill, drawn by a friend of his upon a merchant in
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
233
the city, which I am to get changed; for you must know that I
am to go with them to Scotland myself.
Sir WM. How !
Jarvis. It seems the young gentleman is obliged to take a
different road from his mistress, as he is to call upon an uncle of
his that lives out of the way, in order to prepare a place for their
reception when they return; so they have borrowed me from
my master, as the properest person to attend the young lady
down.
Sir Wm. To the land of matrimony! A pleasant journey,
Jarvis.
Jarvis. Ay, but I'm only to have all the fatigues on't.
Sir W21. Well, it may be shorter, and less fatiguing, than
you imagine. I know but too much of the young lady's family
and connections, whom I have seen abroad. I have also dis-
covered that Miss Richland is not indifferent to my thoughtless
nephew; and will endeavor, though I fear in vain, to establish
that connection. But, come, the letter I wait for must be almost
finished; I'll let you further into my intentions, in the next
[E.ceunt.
room.
ACT FOURTH.
SCENE—Croaker's House.
Lofty. Well, sure the devil's in me of late, for running my
head into such defiles as nothing but a genius like
my own could
draw me from. I was formerly contented to husband out my
places and pensions with some degree of frugality; but curse it,
of late I have given away the whole Court Register in less time
than they could print the title-page; yet, hang it, why scruple a
234
DRAMAS.
lie or two to come at a fine girl, when I every day tell a thousand
for nothing. Ha! Honeywood here before me! Could Miss
Richland have set him at liberty?
Enter HONEYWOOD.
Mr. Honeywood, I'm glad to see you abroad again. I find
my concurrence was not necessary in your unfortunate affairs.
I had put things in a train to do your business; but it is not for
me to say what I intended doing.
IIONEY. It was unfortunate indeed, Sir. But what adds to
my umeasiness is, that while you seem to be acquainted with my
misfortune, I myself continue still a stranger to my benefactor.
LOFTY. How! not know the friend that served you?
Honey. Can't guess at the person.
LOFTY. Inquire.
Honey. I have; but all I can learn is, that he chooses to
remain concealed, and that all inquiry must be fruitless.
Lorty. Must be fruitless!
HONEY. Absolutely fruitless.
LOFTY. Sure of that?
HIONEY. Very sure.
Lorry. Then I'll be damn'd if you shall ever know it from
me.
HONEY. How, Sir ?
LOFTy. I suppose now, Mr. IIoneywood, you
think
my
rent-
roll very considerable, and that I have vast sums of money to
throw away; I know you
do. The world, to be sure, says such
things of me.
IIONEY. The world, by what I learn, is no stranger to your
generosity. But where does this tend?
LOFTY. To nothing; nothing in the world.
The town, to
be sure, when it makes such a thing as me the subject of con-
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
235
sersation, has asserted, that I never yet patronized a man of
merit.
Honey. I have heard instances to the contrary, even from
yourself.
LOFTY. Yes, Honeywood; and there are instances to the
contrary, that
you
shall never hear from myself.
Honey. Ha! dear Sir, permit me to ask you but one ques-
tion.
LOFTY. Sir, ask me no questions; I say, Sir, ask me no ques-
tions; I'll be damn'd if I answer them.
Honey. I will ask no further. My friend ! my benefactor !
it is, it must be here, that I am indebted for freedom, for honor.
Yes, thou worthiest of men, from the beginning I suspected it,
but was afraid to return thanks; which, if undeserved, might
seem reproaches.
Lofty. I protest I do not understand all this, Mr. Honey-
LOFTY
wood: you treat me very cavalierly. I do assure you, Sir-
Blood ! Sir, can't a man be permitted to enjoy the luxury of his
own feelings, without all this parade ?
Hoxer. Nay, do not attempt to conceal an action that adds
to your honor.
Your looks, your air, your manner, all confess it.
Lorty. Confess it, Sir! torture itself, Sir, shall never bring
me to confess it. Mr. Honeywood, I have admitted you upon
terms of friendship. Don't let us fall out; make me happy, and
let this be buried in oblivion. You know I hate ostentation ; you
know I do. Come, come, Honeywood, you know I always loved
to be a friend, and not a patron. I beg this may make no kind
of distance between us. Come, come, you and I must be more
familiar-indeed we must.
Honey. Heavens! Can I ever repay such friendship? Is
there any way?-Thou best of men, can I ever return the obli-
gation ?
236
DRAMAS.
Lofty. A bagatelle, a mere bagatelle! But I see your heart
is laboring to be grateful. You shall be grateful. It would be
cruel to disappoint you.
HONEY. How ! teach me the manner. Is there any way?
LOFTY. From this moment you're mine. Yes my friend,
you shall know it-I'm in love.
HONEY. And can I assist you?
LOFTY. Nobody so well.
HONEY. In what manner ? I'm all impatience.
LOFTY. You shall make love for me.
Honey. And to whom shall I speak in your favor ?
Lofty. To a lady with whom you have great interest, I as-
sure you : Miss Richland.
HONEY. Miss Richland !
LOFTY. .
Yes, Miss Richland. She has struck the blow up to
the hilt in my bosom, by Jupiter !
Honey. Heavens! was ever any thing more unfortunate! It
is too much to be cndured.
LOFTY. Unfortunate, indeed! And yet I can endure it, till
you have opened the affair to her for me. Between ourselves, I
think she likes me. I'm not apt to boast, but I think she does.
HONEY Indeed! But, do you know the person you apply
!
to?
LOFTY. Yes, I know you are her friend and mine: that's
enough. To you, therefore, I commit the success of my passion.
I'll say no more, let friendship do the rest. I have only to add,
that if at any
time
my
little interest can be of service—but, lang
it, I'll make no promises---you know my interest is yours at any
time. No apologies, my friend, I'll not be answered! it shall be
[Erit.
HONEY. Open, generous, unsuspecting man! He little thinks
that I love her too; and with such an ardent passion !-- But then
SO.
TII E GOOD-NATURED MAN.
237
it was ever but a vain and hopeless one; my torment, my per:
secution ! What shall I do? Love, friendship; a hopeless
passion, a deserving friend! Love, that has been my tormentor;
a friend, that has, perhaps, distressed himself to serve me. It
shall be so. Yes, I will discard the fondling hope from my
bosom, and exert all my influence in his favor. And yet to see
her in the possession of another !—Insupportable! But then to
betray a generous, trusting friend !-Worse, worse! Yes, I'm
resolved. Let me but be the instrument of their happiness, and
then quit a country where I must for ever despair of finding my
[Fait.
Own.
Enter Olivia and Garnet, who carries a milliner's box.
OLIVIA. Dear me, I wish this journey were over.
No news
of Jarvis yet? I believe the old peevish creature delays purely
to vex me.
GARNET. Why, to be sure, Madam, I did hear him say, a
little snubbing before marriage would teach you to bear it the
better afterwards.
Olivia. To be gone a full hour, though he had only to get
a bill changed in the city! How provoking!
GARNET. I'll lay my life, Mr. Leontine, that had twice as
much to do, is setting off by this time from his inn; and here
you are left behind.
Olivia. Well, let us be prepared for his coming, however.
Are you sure you have omitted nothing; Garnet?
GARNET. Not a stick, Madam-all's here. Yet I wish you
could take the white and silver to be married in. It's the worst
luck in the world, in any thing but white. I knew one Bett
Stubbs, of our town, that was married in red; and, as sure as
eggs is eggs, the bridegroom and she had a miff before morning,
23€
DRAMAS
OLIVIA. No matter. I'm all impatience till we are out of
the house.
GARNET. Bless me, Madam, I had almost forgot the wedding
ring !—The sweet little thing—I don't think it would go on my
little finger. And what if I put in a gentleman's night-cap, in
case of necessity, Madam ?—But here's Jarvis.
Enter Jarvis.
OLIVIA. O Jarvis, are you come at last? We have been
ready this half hour. Now let's be going. Let us fly!
JARVIS. Ay, to Jericho; for we shall have no going to
Scotland this bout, I fancy.
OLIVIA. How! what's the matter?
JARVIS. Money, money, is the matter, Madam. We have
got no money. What the plague do you send me of your fool's
errand for? My master's bill upon the city is not worth a rush.
Here it is; Mrs. Garnet may pin up her hair with it.
OLIVIA. Undone ! How could Honeywood serve us so !
Vhat shall we do? Can't we go without it?
JARVIS. Go Scotland without money! To Scotland with-
out money! Lord, how some people understand geography !
We might as well set sail for Patagonia upon a cork jacket.
OLIVIA. Such a disappointment! What a base insincere
man was your master, to serve us in this manner! Is this his
good-nature ?
Jarvis. Nay, don't talk ill of my master, Madam. I won't
bear to hear any body talk ill of him but myself.
Gannet. Bless us ! now I think on’t, Madam, you need not
be under any uneasiness : I saw Mr. Leontine receive forty
guineas from his father just before he set out, and he can't yet
have left the inn. A short letter will reach him there.
Olivia. Well remembered, Garnet; I'll write inmediately.
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
239
.
How's this ! Bless me, my hand trembles so, I can't write a
word. Do you write, Garnet; and upon second thought, it will
be better from you.
Garnet. Truly, Madam, I write and indite but poorly. I
never was cute at my learning. But I'll do what I can to please
you.
Let me see.
All out of my own head, I suppose !
Ι
Olivia. Whatever you please!
GARNET. (Writing.) Muster Croaker-Twenty guineas,
.
Madam ?
OLIVIA. Ay, twenty will do.
GARNET. At the bar of the Talbot till called for. Expedi-
tion--Will be blown up-All of a flame—Quick dispatch-
Cupid the little God of love. I conclude it, Madam, with
Cupid : I love to see a love-letter end like poetry.
OLIVIA. Well, well, what you please, any thing. But how
shall we send it? I can trust none of the servants of this
family.
GARNET. Odso, Madam, Mr. Honeywood's butler is in the
next room: he's a dear, sweet man; he'll do any thing for me.
Jarvis. He! the dog, he'll certainly commit some blunder.
He's drunk and sober ten times a day.
OLIVIA. No matter. Fly, Garnet; any body we can trust
will do. (Exit Garner.) Well, Jarvis, now we can have nothiog
more to interrupt us; you may take up the things, and carry
them on to the inn. Have you no hands, Jarvis ?
Jarvis. Soft and fair, young lady. You, that are going to
be married, think things can never be done too fast; but we, that
are old, and know what we are about, must clope methodically,
Madam.
Olivia. Well, sure, if my indiscretions were to be done over
again -
Jarvis. My life for it, you would do them ten times over.
>
>
240
DRAMAS.
OLIVIA. Why will you talk so? If you knew how unhappy
they make me-
Jarvis. Very unhappy, no doukt: I was once just as un-
happy when I was going to be married myself. I'll tell you a
story about that-
Olivia. A story! when I'm all impatience to be away. Was
there ever such a dilatory creature !
Jarvis. Well, Madam, if we must march, why we will march,
that's all. Though, odds-bobs, we have still forgot one thing;
we should never travel without—a case of good razors, and a
box of shaving powder But no matter, I believe we shall be
pretty well shaved by the way.
[Going
Enter GARNET.
Gannet. Undone, undone, Madam. Ah, Mr. Jarvis, you
said right enough. As sure as death, Mr. Honeywood's rogue of
a drunken butler dropped the letter before he went ten yards
from the door. There's old Croaker has just picked it up,
and
is this moment reading it himself in the hall.
OLIVIA. Unfortunate! we shall be discovered.
GARNET. No, Madam; don't be uneasy; he can neither
make head nor tail of it. To be sure he looks as if he was broke
loose from Bedlam about it, but he can't find what it means for
all that. O lud, he is coming this way all in the horrors !
Olivia. Then let us leave the house this instant, for fear he
should ask further questions. In the mean time, Garnet, do you
write and send off just such another.
[Exeunt.
Enter CROAKER.
Cro. Death and destruction! Are all the horrors of air,
fire, and water, to be levelled only at me? Am I only to be
singled out for gunpowder-plots, combustibles, and conflagration 2
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
241
Here it is—an incendiary letter dropped at my door. “ To Mus.
ter Croaker, these with speed.” Ay, ay, plain enough the direc-
tion: all in the genuine incendiary spelling, and as cramp as the
devil. “With speed.” O, confound your specd. But let me
read it once more. (Reads) “ Muster Croaker, as sone as yow
sce this, leve twenty gunnes at the bar of the Talboot tell called
for, or yowe and yower experetion will be all blown up.” Ah,
but too plain. Blood and gunpowder in every line of it. Blown
up! murderous dog! all blown up! Heavens! what have I
and my poor family done, to be all blown up? (Reads) “ Our
pockets are low, and money we must have." Ay, there's the rea-
son ; they'll blow us up, because they have got low pockets.
(Reads) " It is but a short time you have to consider; for if this
takes wind, the house will quickly be all of a flame." Inhuman
monsters! blow us up, and then burn us ! The earthquake at
Lisbon was but a bonfire to it. (Reads) " Make quick dispatch,
and so no more at present. But may Cupid, the little god of love,
go with you wherever you go." The little god of love! Cupid,
the little god of love, go with me! Go you to the devil, you and
your little Cupid together. I'm so frightened, I scarce know
whether I sit, stand, or go. Perhaps this moment I'm treading
on lighted matches, blazing brimstone, and barrels of gunpow-
der. They are preparing to blow me up into the clouds. Mur-
der! we shall be all burnt in our beds; we shall be all burnt in
our beds.
66
Enter Miss RICHLAND.
Miss Rici. Lord, Sir, what's the matter ?
Cro. Murder's the matter. We shall all be blown up in our
beds before morning.
Miss Rich. I hope not, Sir.
Cro. What signifies what you hope, Madam, when I have a
11
VOL. IV.
242
DRAMAS.
a
certificate of it here in my hand ? Will nothing alarm may
family ? Sleeping and eating, sleeping and eating, is the only
work from morning till night in my house. My insensible crew
could sleep, though rocked by an earthquake, and fry beefsteaks
at a volcano.
Miss Rich. But, Sir, you have alarmed them so often already;
we have nothing but earthquakes, famines. plagues, and mad dogs,
from year's end to year's end. You remember, Sir, it is not
above a month ago, you assured us of a conspiracy among the ba-
kers, to poison us in our bread; and so kept the whole family a
week upon potatoes.
Cro. And potatoes were too good for them. But why do I
stand talking here with a girl, when I should be facing the ene-
my without ? Here, John, Nicodemus, search the house. Look
into the cellars, to see if there be any combustibles below; and
above, in the apartments, that no matches be thrown in at the
windows. Let all the fires be put out, and let the engine be
drawn out in the yard, to play upon the house in case of ne-
cessity.
[Exit.
Miss RICH. (Alone.) What can he mean by all this? Yet
why should I inquire, when he alarms us in this manner almost
cvery day? But IIoneywood has desired an interview with me in
private. What can he mean? or rather, what means this palpi-
tation at his approach ? It is the first time be ever showed any
thing in his conduct that seemed particular. Sure he cannot
mean to-but he's here.
Enter HONEYWOOD.
HONEY. I presumed to solicit this interview, Madam, before
I left town, to be permitted-
Miss Rich Indeed! Leaving town, Sir?-
Honey. Yes, Madam; perhaps the kingdom. I have pre-
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
243
sumed, I say, to desire the favor of this interview,—in order to
disclose something which our long friendship prompts. And
yet my fears-
Miss Rich. His fears! What are bis fears to mine ! (aside.)
We have indeed been long acquainted, Sir ; very long. If I
remember, our first meeting was at the French ambassador's.---
Do you recollect how you were pleased to rally me upon my
complexion there?
Honey. Perfectly, Madam: I presumed to reprove you for
painting; but your warmer blushes soon convinced the company
that the coloring was all from nature.
Miss Ricu. And yet you only meant it, in your good-
natured way, to make me pay a compliment to myself. In the
same manner you danced that night with the most awkward
woman in company, because you saw nobody else would take her
out.
Hoxey. Yes; and was rewarded the next night by dancing
with the finest woman in company, whom every body wished to
take out.
Miss Rich. Well, Sir, if you thought so then, I fear your
judgment has since corrected the errors of a first impression.
We generally show to most advantage at first. Our sex are
like poor tradesmen, that put all their best goods to be seen at
the windows.
IIONEY. The first impression, Madam, did indeed deceive
I expected to find a woman with all the faults of conscious,
flattered beauty : I expected to find her vain and insolent. But
every day has since tauglit me, that it is possible to possess sense
without pride, and beauty without affectation.
Miss Richi. This, Sir, is a style very unusual with Mr. IIon-
eywood; and I should be glad to know why he thus attempts to
me.
244
DRAMAS.
increase that vanity, which his own lessons have taught me to
despise.
HONEY. I ask pardon, Madam. Yet, from our long friend-
ship, I presumed I might have some right to offer, without of-
fence, what you may refuse without offending.
Miss Rich. Sir! I beg you'd reflect: though, I fear, I shall
I
scarce have any power to refuse a request of yours, yet you may
be precipitate: consider, Sir.
Honey. I own my rashness; but as I plead the cause of
friendship, of one who loves—Don't be alarmed, Madam-who
loves you with the most ardent passion, whose whole happiness
is placed in you-
Miss Ricu. I fear, Sir, I shall never find whom you mean,
by this description of him.
HONEY. Ah, Madam, it but too plainly points him out;
though he should be too humble himself to urge his pretensions,
or you too modest to understand them.
Miss Rich. Well; it would be affectation any longer to pre-
tend ignorance; and I will own, Sir, I have long been prejudiced
in his favor. It was but natural to wish to make his heart mine,
as he seemed himself ignorant of its value.
IIONEY. I see she always loved him (aside). I find, Madam,
you're already sensible of his worth, his passion. How happy is
my friend, to be the favorite of one with such sense to distinguish
merit, and such beauty to reward it.
Miss Rich. Your friend, Sir! What friend?
Honey. My best friend—my friend Mr. Lofty, Madam.
Miss Rich. He, Sir !
Honey. Yes, he, Madam. He is, indeed, what your warmest
wishes might have formed him; and to his other qualities he
adds that of the most passionate regard for you.
Miss Rich Amazement !--No more of this, I beg you, Sir.
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
245
I
Honey. I see your confusion, Madam, and know how to in-
terpret it. And, since I so plainly read the language of your
heart, shall I make my friend happy, by communicating your
sentiments ?
Miss Rich. By no means.
Honey. Excuse
me,
I must; I know you desire it.
Miss Rich. Mr. Honeywood, let me tell you,
that
you wrong
my sentiments and yourself. When I first applied to your
friendship, I expected advice and assistance; but now, Sir, I see
it is in vain to expect happiness from him, who has been so bad
an economist of his own; and that I must disclaim his friend-
ship who ceases to be a friend to himself.
[Exit.
HONEY. How is this ! she has confessed she loved him, and
yet she seemed to part in displeasure. Can I have done any
thing to reproach myself with? No; I believe not: yet after
all, these things should not be done by a third person : I should
have spared her confusion. My friendship carried me a little
too far.
Enter Croaker, with the letter in his hand, and Mrs.
CROAKER.
Mrs. Cro. IIa ! ha! ha! And so, my dear, it's your su-
preme wish that I should be quite wretched upon this occasion ?
ha! ha!
Cro. (Mimicking.) Ha! ha! ha! And so, my dear, it's
your supreme pleasure to give me no better consolation ?
Mrs. Cro. Positively, my dear; what is this incendinary
stuff and trumpery to me? our house may travel through the
air like the house of Loretto, for aught I care, if I am to be mis-
erable in it.
Cro. Would to Heaven it were converted into a house of
246
DRAMAS.
correction for your benefit. Have we not every thing to alarm
us? Perhaps tliis very moment the tragedy is beginning.
Mrs Cro. Then let us reserve our distress till the rising of
the curtain, or give them the money they want, and have done
with them.
Cro. Give them my money !-And pray, what right have
they to my money?
Mrs. Cro. And pray, what right then have you to my good-
humor ?
CRO. And so your good-humor advises me to part with my
money? Why then, to tell your good-humor a piece of my
mind, I'd sooner part with my wife. Here's Mr. Honeywood, see
what he'll say to it. My dear Honeywood, look at this incen-
diary letter dropped at my door. It will freeze you with terror;
and yet lovey here can read it-can read it, and laugh!
Mrs. Cro. Yes, and so will Mr. Honeywood.
Cro If he does, I'll suffer to be hanged the next minute
in the rogue's place, that's all.
Mrs. Cro. Speak, Mr. Honeywood ; is there any thing more
foolish than my husband's fright upon this occasion ?
Honey. It would not become me to decide, Madam; but,
doubtless, the greatness of his terrors now will but invite them
to renew their villany another time.
Mrs. Cro. I told you he'd be of my opinion.
CRO.
How, Sir! do you maintain that I should lie down
under such an injury, and show, neither by my tears nor com-
plaints, that I have something of the spirit of a man in me?
HONEY. Pardon
me,
Sir.
You ought to make the loudest
complaints, if you desire redress. The surest way to have re-
dress, is to be earnest in the pursuit of it.
Cro. Ay, whose opinion is he of now?
TIIE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
247
Mrs. Cro. But don't you think that laughing off our fears
is the best way?
Honey. What is the best, Madam, few can say: but I'll
maintain it to be a very wise way.
Cro. But we're talking of the best. Surely the best way is
to face the enemy in the field, and not wait till he plunders us in
our very bed-chamber.
Honer. Why, Sir, as to the best, that—that's a very wise
way too.
Mrs. Cro. But can any thing be more absurd than to dou-
ble our distresses by our apprehensions, and put it in the power
of every low fellow, that can scrawl ten words of wretched spell-
ing, to torment us?
IIONEY. Without doubt, nothing more absurd.
Cro. How! would it not be more absurd to despise the rat-
tle till we are bit by the snake ?
HONEY.
IIoney. Without doubt, perfectly absurd.
.
Cro. Then you are of my opinion ?
Hoxer. Entirely.
Mrs. Cro. And you reject mine?
HONEY. Heav'ns forbid, Madam! No, sure, no reasoning
can be more just than yours. We ought certainly to despise
malice if we cannot oppose it, and not make the incendiary's pen
as fatal to our repose as the highwayman's pistol.
Mrs. Cro. 0! then you think I'm quite right?
IIONEX. Perfectly right.
Cro. A plague of plagues, we can't be both right. I ought
to be sorry or I ought to be glad. My hat must be on my head,
or my hat must be off.
Mrs. Cro. Certainly, in two opposite opinions, if one be per-
fectly reasonable, the other can't be perfectly right.
HONEY. And why may not both be right, Madam? Mr.
248
DRAMAS.
a
Croaker in carnestly seeking redress, and you in waiting the
event with good-humor? Pray, let me see the letter again. I
have it. This letter requires twenty guineas to be left at the bar
of the Talbot inn. If it be indeed an incendiary letter, what if
you and I, Sir, go there; and, when the writer comes to be paid
for his expected booty, seize him ?
Cro. My dear friend, it's the very thing; the very thing.
While I walk by the door, you shall plant yourself in ambushº
near the bar; burst out upon the miscreant like a masked bat-
tery; extort a confession at once, and so hang him up by surprise.
IIONEY. Yes, but I would not choose to exercise too much
severity. It is my maxim, Sir, that crimes generally punish
themselves.
Cro. Well, but we may upbraid him a little, I suppose ?
(Ironically.)
Iloney. Ay, but not punish him too rigidly.
Cro. Well, well, leave that to my own benevolence.
Hoxey. Well, I do; but remember, that universal benevo-
lence is the first law of nature.
[Excunt IIONEYwood and Mrs. CROAKER.
Cro. Yes; and my universal benevolence will hang the dog,
if he had as many necks as a hydra.
ACT FIFTII.
SCENE-- An Inn.
Enter OLIVIA, JARVIS.
OLIVIA. Well, we have got safe to the inn, however. Now,
if the post-chaise were ready-
Jarvis. The horses are just finishing their oats; and, as
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
249
us.
they are not going to be married, they choose to take their own
time.
OLIVIA, You are for ever giving wrong motives to my impa-
tience.
JARVIS. Be as impatient as you will, the horses must take
their own time; besides, you don't consider we have got no an-
swer from our fellow-traveller yet. If we hear nothing from Mr.
Leontine, we have only one way
left
Olivia. Wbat way?
JARVIS. The way home again.
Olivia. Not so. I have made a resolution to go, and no-
thing shall induce me to break it.
Jarvis. Ay; resolutions are well kept, when they jump with
inclination. However, I'll go hasten things without. And I'll
call, too, at the bar, to see if any thing should be left for us there.
Don't be in such a plaguy hurry, Madam, and we shall go the
faster, I promise you
[Exit Jarvis.
Enter LANDLADY.
LAND. What! Solomon, why don't you move? Pipes and
tobacco for the Lamb there.--Will nobody answer? To the
Dolphin ; quick. The Angel has been outrageous this half hour.
Did your ladyship call, Madam ?
OLIVIA. No, Madam.
LAND. I find as you're for Scotland, Madam.-- But that's no
business of mine; married, or not married, I ask no questions.
To be sure we had a sweet little couple set off from this two days
ago for the same place. The gentleman, for a tailor, was, to be
sure, as fine a spoken tailor as ever blew froth from a full pot.
And the young lady so bashful, it was near half an hour before
we could get her to finish a pint of raspberry between us.
VOL. IV.
11*
250
DRAMAS.
OLIVIA. But this gentleman and I are not going to be mar
ried, I assure you.
LAND. May be not. That's no business of mine; for certain,
Scotch marriages seldom turn out. There was, of my own know-
ledge, Miss Macfay, that married her father's footman-Alack-a-
day, she and her husband soon parted, and now keep separate
cellars in IIedge-lane.*
OLIVIA. A very pretty picture of what lies before me! [Aside.
Enter LEONTINE.
Leon. My dear Olivia, my anxiety, till you were out of dan-
ger, was too great to be resisted. I could not help coming to
see you set out, though it exposes us to discovery.
OLIVIA. May every thing you do prove as fortunate. Indeed,
Leontine, we have been most cruelly disappointed. Mr. Honey-
wood's bill upon the city has, it seems, been protested, and we
have been utterly at a loss how to proceed.
Lcox. How! an offer of his own, too. Sure he could not
mean to deceive us?
OLIVIA. Depend upon bis sincerity; he only mistook the
desire for the power of serving us.
But let us think no more of
it. I believe the post-chaise is ready by this.
LAND. Not quite yet; and, begging your ladyship’s pardou,
I don't think your ladyship quite ready for the post-chaise. The
north road is a cold place, Madam. I have a drop in the house
of as pretty raspberry as ever was tipt over tongue. Just a
thimbile-full to keep the wind off your stomach. To be sure,
the
last couple we had here, they said it was a perfect nosegay. Ecod,
I sent them both away as good-naturel-i'p went the blinds,
round went the wheels, and drive away post-boy, was the word.
(On this subject Goldsmith afterwards drew up a humorous paper which
will be found in the E-sars. See vol. i. p. 385.)
TIE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
251
Enter CROAKER.
Cro. Well, while my friend Honeywood is upon the post of
danger at the bar, it must be my business to have an eye about
me here. I think I kuow an incendiary's look ; for wherever the
devil makes a purchase, he never fails to set his mark. IIa !
who have we here? My son and daughter! What can they be
doing here?
LAND. I tell you, Madam, it will do you good; I think I
know by this time what's good for the north road.
It's a raw
night, Madam.-Sir-
Leox. Not a drop more, good Madam. I should now take
it as a greater favor, if you hasten the horses, for I am afraid to
Le seen myself.
Laxd. That shall be done. Wha, Solomon! are you all
dead there? Wha, Solomon, I say !
[E.cit, barcling
OLIVIA. Well, I dread lest an expedition begun in fear,
should end in repentance.—Every moment we stay increases our
danger, and adds to my apprehensions.
Leon. There's no danger, trust me, my dear; there can be
If Honeywood has acted with honor, and kept my father,
as he promised, in employment till we are out of danger, nothing
can interrupt our journey.
OLIVIA. I have no doubt of Mr. Honeywood's sincerity, and
eren his desires to serve us. My fears are from your father's
suspicions. A mind so disposed to be alarmed without a cause,
will be but too ready when there's a reason.
LEON. Why let him, when we are out of his power.
But
believe me, Olivia, you have no great reason to dread his resent-
ment. Ilis repining temper, as it does no manner of injury to
himself, so will it never do harm to others. Ile only frets
to keep himself employed, and scolds for his private amuse.
ment.
none.
252
DR AMAS.
Olivia. I don't know that; but I'm sure, on some occasions
it makes him look most shockingly.
your
Croaker, discovering himself.
How does he look now!-How does he look now?
OLIVIA. Ah!
LEON. Undone!
Cro. How do I look now? Sir, I am your very
humble
se, vant.
Madam, I am yours. What, you are going off, are
you? Then, first, if you please, take a word or two from me
with
you
before
you go.
Tell me first where you are going; and
when you have told me that, perhaps I shall know as little as I
did before.
LEON. If that be so, our answer might but increase
dis-
pleasure, without adding to your information.
Cro. I want no information from you, puppy: and you, too,
good Madam, what answer have you got? Eh! (Acry without,
Stop him!) I think I heard a noise. My friend Honeywood
without-has he seized the incendiary? Ah, no; for now I hear
no more on't.
Leon. Honeywood without! Then, Sir, it was Mr. Honey-
wood that directed
you
hither?
Cro. No, Sir, it was Mr. IIoneywood conducted me hither.
LEON. Is it possible ?
Cro. Possible! Why he's in the house now, Sir; more
anxious about me than my own son, Sir.
Leon. Then, Sir, he's a villain.
Cro. How, sirralı! a villain, because he takes most care of
I'll not bear it. I tell you I'll not bear it.
Honeywood is a friend to the family, and I'll have him treated
as such.
LEON. I shall study to repay his friendship as it deserves.
your father?
THE GOOD NATURED MAN.
253
stop him!
Cro. Ah, rogue, if you knew how earnestly he entered into
my griefs, and pointed out the means to detect them, you would
love him as I do. (A cry without, Stop him!) Fire and fury !
they have seized the incendiary: they have the villain, the in-
cendiary in view! Stop him! stop an incendiary! a murderer !
[E.cit.
OLIVIA. O, my terrors ! What can this tumult mean?
Leon. Some new mark, I suppose, of Mr. Honeywood's
sincerity. But we shall have satisfaction : he shall give me
instant satisfaction.
Olivia. It must not be, my Leontine, if you value my
esteem or my happiness. Whatever be our fate, let us not add
guilt to our misfortunes—Consider that our innocence will
shortly be all that we have left us. You must forgive him.
LEON. Forgive him !
Forgive him! Has he not in every instance betrayed
us? Forced to borrow money from him, which appears a mere
trick to delay us; promised to keep my father engaged till we
were out of danger, and here brought him to the very scene of
our escape ?
Olivia. Don't be precipitate. We may yet be mistaken.
Enter PostBoy, dragging in Jarvis; HONEYWOOD entering
soon after.
Post. Ay, master, we have him fast enough. Here is the
incendiary dog. I'm entitled to the reward: I'll take my oath
I saw him ask for the money at the bar, and then run for it.
HONEY. Come, bring him along. Let us see him. Let him
learn to blush for his crimes. (Discovering his mistake.) Death!
what's here? Jarvis, Leontine, Olivia! What can all this mean?
Jarv. Why, I'll tell you what it means: that I was an old
fool, and that you are my master-that's all.
HONEY. Confusion !
254
DRAMAS.
LEON. Yes, Sir, I find you have kept your word with me.
After such baseness, I wonder how you can venture to see the
man you have injured.
IIoxer. My dear Leontine, by my life, my honor-
LEON. Peace, peace, for shame; and do not continue to
aggravate baseness by hypocrisy. I know you, Sir, I know yon.
HONEY. Why, won't you hear me? By all that's just, I
know not-
Leon. Ilear
you, Sir! to what purpose ? I now see through
all your low arts; your ever complying with every opinion; your
never refusing any request: your friendship’s as common as a
prostitute's favors, and as fallacious; all these, Sir, have long
heen contemptible to the world, and are now perfectly so to me.
HONEY
Ila! contemptible to the world! that reaches me.
[ Aside
LEON. All the seeming sincerity of your professions, I now
find, were only allurements to betray; and all your seeming
regret for their consequences, only calculated to cover the cow-
ardice of your heart. Draw, villain !
Enter CROAKER, out of breath.
CROAKER. Where is the villain? Where is the incendiary?
(Seizing the Postboy) Hold him fast, the dog: he has the
.
gallows in his face. Come, you dog, confess; confess all, and
,
hang yourself.
POSTBOY. Zounds! master, what do you throttle me for ?
Cro. (Beuting him.) Dog. do yo'ı resist? do you resist?
Posteoy. Zounds, master, I'm not he; there's the man that
we thought was the rogue, and turns out to be one of the
company,
(ro. Ilow!
JIONET Mr. Croaker, we have all been under a strange
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
255
mistake here; I find there was nobody guilty; it was all an
error; entirely an error of our own.
Cro. And I say, Sir, that you're in an error; for there's
guilt and double guilt; a plot, a damned jesuitical, pestilential
plot, and I must have proof of it.
HONEY. Do but hear me.
Cro. What, you intend to bring 'em off, I suppose? I'll
near nothing
Honey. Madam, you seem at least calm enough to hear
reason.
OLIVIA. Excuse me.
Honey. Good Jarvis, let me then explain it to you.
Jarv. What signifies explanations when the thing is done ?
IIONEY. Will nobody hear me? Was there ever such a set,
wer
wa Mlinded by passion and prejudice! (To the Postboy) My
.
rocd friend, I believe you'll be surprised when I assure you-
Postscy. Sure me nothing-I'm sure of nothing but a good
beating
Cro. Co.no 22n, you, Madam, if you ever hope for any
favur or forgiveness, tell me sincerely all you know of this affair.
Olivia. Unhappily; Sir, I'm but too much the cause of your
suspicions: you see befo:e you, Sir, one that with false pretences
has stept into your family to betray it; not your daughter-
Cro. Not my daughter!
OLIVIA. Not your daughter- but a mean deceiver--who-
support me, I cannot -
IIONEY. IIelp, she's going; give her air.
Cro. Ay, ay, take the young woman to the air; I would not
hurt a hair of her head, whosesoever daughter she my be—not so
bad as that neither.
[Ereunt all but CROAKER.
Cro. Yes, yes, all's out; I now see the whole affair: my
son is either married, or going to be so, to this lady, whom he
a
256
DRAMAS.
imposed upon me as his sister. Ay, certainly so; and yet
I don't find it afflicts me so much as one might think. There's
the advantage of fretting away our misfortunes beforehand, we
never feel them when they come.
Enter Miss RICHLAND A w Sir WILLIAM.
Sir W. But how do you know, Madam, that my nephew
intends setting off from this place?
Miss Ricu. My maid assured me he was come to this inn;
and my own knowledge of his intending to quit the kingdom
suggested the rest. But, what do I see! my guardian here
before us! Who
Who, my dear Sir, could have expected meeting you
here? to what accident do we owe this pleasure ?
Cro. To a fool, I believe.
Miss Ricar. But to wliat purpose did you come ?
Cro. To play the fool.
Miss Rich. But with whom ?
Cro. With greater fools than myself.
Miss Rich. Explain.
Cro. Why, Mr. Honeywood brought me here, to do nothing,
now I am here; and my son is going to be married to I don't
know who, that is here : so now you are as wise as I am.
Miss Rica. Married ! to whom, Sir ?
Cro. To Olivia, my daughter, as I took her to be ; but who
the devil she is, or whose daughter she is, I know no more than
the man in the moon.
Sir Wu. Then, Sir, I can inform you; and, though a
stranger, yet you shall find me a friend to your family. It will
be enough, at present, to assure you, that both in point of birth
and fortune the young lady is at least your son's equal. Being
left by her father, Sir James Woodville-
Cro. Sir James Woodville! What, of the west ?
>
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
257
Sir Wm. Being left by him, I say, to the care of a merce-
nary wretch, whose only aim was to secure her fortune to him-
self, she was sent to France, under pretence of cducation; and
there every art was tried to fix her for life in a convent, con-
trary to her inclinations. Of this I was informed upon my ar-
rival at Paris; and, as I had been once her father's friend, I did
all in my power to frustrate her guardian's base intentions. I
had even meditated to rescue her from his authority, when your
son stepped in with more pleasing violence, gave her liberty, and
ou a daughter.
Cro. But I intend to have a daughter of my own choosing,
Sir. A young lady, Sir, whose fortune, by my interest with those
who have interest, will be double what my son has a right to ex-
pect. Do you know Mr. Lofty, Sir ?
Sir WM. Yes, Sir; and know that you are deceived in him.
But step this way, and I'll convince you.
(Croaker and Sir William scem to confer.
Enter HoxeYWOOD.
Honey. Obstinate man. still to persist in his outrage! In-
sulted by him, despised by all, I now begin to grow contemptible
even to myself. How have I sunk by too great an assiduity to
please! How have I over-taxed all my abilities, lest the appro-
bation of a single fool should escape me! But all is now over;
I have survived my reputation, my fortune, my friendships,
and nothing remains henceforward for me but solitude and
repentance.
Miss Rich. Is it true, Mr. Honeywood, that you are setting
off, without taking leave of your friends? The report is, that
you are quitting England. Can it be?
HONEY. Yes, Madam ; and though I am so unhappy as to
have fallen under your displeasure, yet, thank JIeaven! I leavo
258
DRAMAS.
you to liappiness; to one who loves
you, and deserves your love:
to one who has power to procure you afluence, and generosity to
improve your enjoyment of it.
Miss Ricu. And are you sure, Sir, that the gentleman you
mean is what you describe him ?
HONEY. I have the best assurances of it—his serving me.
IIe does indeed deserve the highest happiness, and that is in
your power to confer.
As for me, weak and wavering as I have
been, obliged by all, and incapable of serving any, what hap-
piness can I find but in solitude ? what hope, but in being for-
gotten?
Miss Ricu. A thousand ! to live among friends that esteem
you, whose happiness it will be to be permitted to oblige you.
IIONEY. No, Madam, my resolution is fixed. Inferiority
among strangers
is
casy ;
but
among
those that once were equals,
insupportable. Xay, to show you how far my resolution can go,
I can now speak with calmness of my former follies, my vanity, my
dissipation, my weakness. I will even confess, that, among the
number of my other presumptions, I had the insolence to think
of loving you. Yes, Madam, while I was pleading the passion of
another, my
heart was tortured with its own. But it is over ; it
was unworthy our friendship, and let it be forgotten.
Miss Rici. You amaze me !
ILONEY. But you'll forgive it, I know you will; since the
.
couſession should not have come from me even now, but to con-
vince you of the sincerity of my intention of never mentioning
it more.
[Going
Miss Ricu. Stay, Sir, one moment-IIa! bie here-
Enter LUFTY.
LOFTI. Is the coast clear? None but friends? I have fol-
lowed you here with a trifling piece of intelligence; but it goes
THE GOOD-NATI'RED MAN.
259
no further; things are not yet ripe for a discovery. I have spirits
working at a certain board ; your affair at the treasury will be
done in less than-a thousand years. Mum!
Miss Ricu. Sooner, Sir, I should hope.
LOFTY. Why, yes, I believe it may, if it falls into proper
hands, that know where to push, and where to parry; that know
how the land lies—ch, Honeywood ?
Miss Rici. It has fallen into yours.
Lofty. Well, to keep you no longer in suspense, your thing
is done. It is done, I say—that's all. I have just had assur-
ances from Lord Neverout, that the claim has been examined,
and found admissible. Quictus is the word, Madam.
Hoxer. But how? his lordship has been at Newmarket
these ten days.
LOFTY. Indeed! Then Sir Gilbert Goose must have been
most damnably mistaken. I had it of him.
Miss Ricu. IIe! why Sir Gilbert and his family have been
in the country this month.
Lofty. This month! it must certainly be so-Sir Gilbert's
letter did come to me from Newmarket, so that he must have
met his lordship there; and so it came about. I have his letter
about me; I'll read it to you—(Taking out a large bunulle).
That's from Paoli of Corsica ; that from the Marquis of Squila-
chi. -Have you a mind to see a letter from Count Poniatowski,
now King of Poland ?-IIonest Pon-Sharching).
0, Sir!
what, are you here too? I'll tell you what, honest friend, if you
have not absolutely delivered my letter to Sir William Honey-
wood, you may return it. The thing will do without him.
Sir Wa Sir. I have delivered it; and must inform you, it
was received with the most mortifying contempt.
Cro. Contempt! Mr. Lofty, what can that mean?
260
DRAMAS.
Lofty. Let him go on, let him go on,
I
say. You'll find it
come to something presently.
Sir WM. Yes, Sir; I believe you'll be amazed, if after wait.
ing some time in the antechamber; after being surveyed with
insolent curiosity by the passing servants, I was at last assured,
that Sir William Honeywood knew no such person, and I must
certainly have been imposed upon.
Lofty. Good! let me dic; very good. Ha! ha! ha!
Cro. Now, for my life, I can't find out half the goodness
of it.
Lorry. You can't. Ha! ha!
Cro. No, for the soul of me! I think it was as confounded
a bad answer as ever was sent from one private gentleman to
another.
Lorty. And so you can't find out the force of the mes-
sage? Why, I was in the house at that very time. Ha! ha!
It was I that sent that rery answer to my own letter. IIa! ha!
Cro. Indeed! How? why?
Lorty. In one word, things between Sir William and me
must be behind the curtain. A party has many eyes. IIe sides
with Lord Buzzard, I side with Sir Gilbert Goose. So that un-
riddles the mystery.
Cro And so it does indeed; and all my suspicions are over.
Lorty. Your suspicions! What, then, you have been sus-
LOFTY
pecting ? you liave been suspecting, have you? Mr. Croaker, you
and I were friends; we are friends no longer. Never talk to me.
It's
over;
I
say
Cro. As I hope for your favor I did not mean to offend.
It escaped me. Don't be discomposed.
LOFTY. Zounds! Sir, but I am discomposed, and will be
discomposed. To be treated thus! Who am I ? Was it for
this I have been dreaded both by ins and outs? Have I been
it's over.
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
261
am
libelled in the Gazetteer, and praised in the St. James's ? Havo
I been chaired at Wildman's, and a speaker at Merchant-Tailor's
Hall? Have I had my hand to addresses, and my head in the
print-shops; and talk to me of suspects ?
Cro. My dear Sir, be pacified. What can you have but ask-
ing pardon ?
LOFTY. Sir, I will not be pacified-Suspects! Who am I?
To be used thus! Have I paid court to men in favor to serve
my friends; the lords of the treasury, Sir William Honeywood,
and the rest of the gang, and talk to me of suspects? Who am
I, I say ;
who I ?
Sir WM. Since, Sir, you are so pressing for an answer, I'll
tell you who you are:-A gentleman as well acquainted with po-
litics as with men in power; as well acquainted with persons of
fashion as with modesty; with lords of the treasury as with
truth; and with all, as you are with Sir William Honeywood.
I am Sir William Honeywood. (Discovering his ensigns of the
Bath )
Cao. Sir William Honeywood !
HONEY. Astonishment! my uncle !
[Aside.
Lorty. So, then, my confounded genius has been all this
time only leading me up to the garret, in order to fling me out
of the window.
Cro. Wbat, Mr. Importance, and are these your works? Sus-
pect you! You, who have been dreaded by the ins and outs; you,
who have had your hand to addresses, and your head stuck up in
print-shops. If you were served right, you should have your
bead stuck up in a pillory.
Lorty. Ay, stick it where you will; for, by the Lord, it cuts
but a very poor figure where it sticks at present.
Sir WM. Well, Mr. Croaker, I hope you now see how inca-
262
DRAMAS.
pable this gentleman is of serving you, and how little Miss Rich
land has to expect from his influence.
Cro. Ay, Sir, too well I see it; and I can't but say I have
had some boding of it these ten days. So, I'm resolved, since
my son has placed his affections on a lady of moderate fortune,
to be satisfied with his choice, and not run the hazard of another
Mr. Lofty in helping him to a better.
Sir Wm. I approve your resolution; and here they come to
I
receive a confirmation of your pardon and consent.
Enter Mrs. Croaker, JARVIS, LEONTINE, and Olivia.
Mrs. Cro. Where's my husband? Come, come, lovey, you must
forgive them. Jarvis here has been to tell me the whole affair;
and I say you must forgive him. Our own was a stolen match,
you know, my dear; and we never had any reason to repent of it
Cro. I wish we could both say so. Ilowever, this gentleman,
Sir William IIoneywood, has been beforehand with you in obtain-
ing their pardon. So, if the two poor fools have a mind to marry,
I think we can tack them together without crossing the Tweed
for it.—[ Joining their huls.
LEON. Hlow blest and unexpected! What, what can we say
to such goodness ? But our future obedience shall be the best
reply. And as for this gentleman, to whom we owe-
Sir Wm. Excuse me, Sir, if I interrupt your thanks, as I
have here an interest that calls me.--(Turning to IIONEYWOOD.)
Yes, Sir, you are surprised to see me: and I own that a desire of
correcting your follies led me hither. I saw with indignation the
errors of a mind that only sought applause from others; that
easiness of disposition which, though inclined to the right, had
not courage to condemn the wrong. I saw with regret those
splendid errors, that still took name from some neighboring
duty; your charity, that was but injustice; your benevolence,
THE GOOD-XATURED MAN.
203
that was but weakness; and your friendship, but credulity. I
saw with regret great talents and extensive learning only
employed to add sprightliness to error, and increase your
perplexities. I saw your mind with a thousand natural charms;
but the greatness of its beauty served only to heighten my pity
for its prostitution.
Honey. Cease to upbraid me, Sir: I have for some time
but too strongly felt the justice of your reproaches. But there
is one way still left me. Yes, Sir, I have determined this very
hour to quit for ever a place where I have made myself the
voluntary slave of all, and to seek among strangers that fortitude
which may give strength to the mind, and marshal all its dis-
sipated virtues. Yet ere I depart, permit me to solicit favor for
this gentleman; who, notwithstanding what has happened, has
laid me under the most signal obligations. Mr. Lofty-
Lofty. Mr. Honeywood, I'm resolved upon a reformation as
well as you. I now begin to find that the man who first invented
the art of speaking truth, was a much cunninger fellow than I
thought him. And to prove that I design to speak truth for the
future, I must now assure you, that you owe your late enlarge-
ment to another; as, upon my soul, I had no hand in the matter.
So now, if any of the company has a mind for preferment, he may
take my place; I'm determined to resign.
[Exit.
IIONEY. Ilow have I been deceived !
Sır WM. No, Sir, you have been obliged to a kinder, fairer
friend, for that favor— To Miss Richland Would she complete
. our joy, and make the man she has honored by her friendship
liappy in her love, I should then forget all, and be as blest as
the welfare of my dearest kinsman can make me.
Miss Rich. After what is past it would be but affectation
to pretend to indifference. Yes, I will own an attachment, which
I find was more than friendship. And if my entreaties cannot
264
DR A MAS.
1
alter his resolution to quit the country, I will even try if my
hand has not power to detain him.
[Giving her hand.
HONEY. Heavens! how can I have deserved all this? How
express my happiness, my gratitude ? a moment like this over-
pays an age of apprehension.
Cro. Well, now I see content in every face; but Heaven
send we be all better this day three months !
Sir WM. Henceforth, nephew, learn to respect yourself. He
who seeks only for applause from without, has all his happiness
in another's keeping.
HONEY. Yes, Sir, I now too plainly perceive my errors; my
vanity, in attempting to please all by fearing to offend any; my
meanness, in approving folly lest fools should disapprove. Hence-
forth, therefore, it shall be my study to reserve my pity for real
distress; my friendship for true merit; and my love for her,
who first taught me what it is to be happy.
* (For the Epilogue, see p. 150.)
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER; ;
OR,
THE MISTAKES OF A NIGIIT.
А
COMEDY.
VOL. IV.
12
1
[The first representation of this comedy took place at Covent
Garden Theatre, on the 15th of March 1773; between which
and the conclusion of the season, in consequence of holidays and
benefits, no more than twelve nights, including three for the
author, remained to the managers: these, however, were occupied
by the new comedy, and the house closed with it on the 31st of
May. The leading incident of the piece, the mistaking a gentle-
man's house for an inn, is said to have been borrowed from a
blunder of the author himself, while travelling to school at
Edgeworthstown. " It is remarkable enough," says Sir Walter
Scott, in his Biographical Notices of Goldsmith, " that we our-
selves are acquainted with another instance of the kind, which
took place, however, in the middle rank of life.” Speaking of
“She Stoops to Conquer," Dr. Johnson said, “I know of no
play, for many years, that has answered so much the great end
of comedy-making an audience merry."-See Life, ch. xxii.]
1
1
TO
SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL. D.
Dear Sir,
By inscribing this slight performance to you, I do not mean
so much to compliment you as myself. It may do me some
honor to inform the public, that I have lived many years in
intimacy with you. It may serve the interests of mankind also
to inform them, that the greatest wit may be found in &
character, without impairing the most unaffected piety.
I have, particularly, reason to thank you for your partiality
to this performance. The undertaking a comedy, not merely
sentimental, was very dangerous; and Mr. Colman, who saw
this piece in its various stages, always thought it so.* However,
I ventured to trust it to the public; and, though it was
necessarily delayed till late in the season, I have every reason
to be grateful
I am, dear Sir,
Your most sincere friend and admirer,
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
[A few days before the first representation, Dr. Johnson wrote thus to a
friend:-“ Goldsmith has a new comedy in rehearsal at Covent Garden, to
which the manager predicts ill-success. I hope he will be mistaken. I think
it deserves a very kind reception.” Speaking on the same subject, in 1778, he
said, “ Both Goldsmith's comedies were once refused: his first by Garrick, his
second by Colman, who was prevailed on at last by much solicitation, nay, a
kind of force, to bring it on."-See Boswell, vol. iii. p. 244.)
:
DRAMATIS PERSONE
MEN.
Sir Charles llarlow
Young Alarlow (his Son)
llardcastle
Ilastings
Tony Lumpkin
Diggory
Mr. Gardner.
MR. LEE LEWIS. *
Mr. SHUTER.
Mr. DUBELLAMY.
Mr. Quick
MR. SAUNDERS.
.
WOMEN.
Mrs. Ilurilcastlc
Miss Ilaricusile
Miss Ncrille
Maid
Mrs. GreCN.
Mrs. BulKLEY.
MRS. KNIVETOX,
Miss WILLIAMS.
Lanulloril, Serrants, &c. &c.
-
(Smith and Woodward, who were designed to play Young Marlow and
Tony Lumpkin, threw up their parts. To this fanciful resignation Lee Lewis
and Quick owed much of their early celebrity.)
1
PROLOGUE.
269
PROLOGUE,
WRITTEN BY
DAVID GARRICK, ESQ.
Enter Mr WOODWARD, dressed in Wack, and holding a
hanulkerchief to his cycs.
Excuse me, Sirs, I pray- I can't yet speak-
I'm crying now—and have been all the week.
6 Tis not alone this mourning suit,” good masters :
"I've that within"—for which there are no plasters!
Pray, would you know the reason why I'm crying ?
The Comic Muse, long sick, is now a-dying !
And if she goes, my tears will never stop;
For as a player, I can't squeeze out one drop:
I am undone, that's all-shall lose
my
bread-
I'd rather, but that's nothing-lose my head. .
When the sweet maid is laid upon the bier,
Shuter and I shall be chief mourners here.
To her a mawkish drab of spurious breed,
Who deals in sentimentals, will succeed !*
V
[" When this piece was brought forward, the taste of the nation had
sickened with a preposterous love for what was termed sentimental comedy ;
that is a dramatic composition, in which the ordinary business of life', whichi,
in a free country like England, produces such a diversity of character, was to
be superseded by an unnatural affectation of polished dialogue, in which the
usages and singularities of the multitude were to be nearly, if not altogether
rejected. Kelly and others were enforcing this principle with ardor, when
Goldsmith planted the standard of Thalia on the boards of Covent Garden
Theatre, and banished triumphantly those mawhish monsters of fashion,
which were tending to make sentiment ridiculour, by di-solving its ties with
common incidents, and thereby remering it somewhat independent of social
virtue, by weakening its moral interest." - Biog. Dram , vol. iii. p. 263.]
270
PROLOGUE.
Poor Ned and I are dead to all intents;
We
e can as soon speak Greek as sentiments!
Both nervous grown, to keep our spirits up,
We now and then take down a hearty cup.
What shall we do? If Comedy forsake us,
They'll turn us out, and no one else will take us.
But, why can't I be moral!--Let me try-
My heart thus pressing-fix'd my face and eye-
With a sententious look, that nothing means,
(Faces are blocks in sentimental scenes)
Thus I begin—" All is not gold that glitters,
Pleasures seem sweet, but proxe a glass of bitters.
When ignorance enters, Folly is at hand:
Learning is better far than house and land.
Let not your virtue trip; who trips may stumble,
And virtue is not virtue, if she tumble.”
I give it up—morals won't do for me;
To make you laugh, I must play tragedy.
One hope remains-hearing the maid was ill,
A Dortor comes this night to show his skill.
To cheer her heart, and yive your muscles motion,
He in Five Braughts prepar'l. presents a potion:
I kind of magic charm-for be assurd,
If
you
will swallow it, the maid is curd :
But desp'rate the Doctor and her case is,
If you reject the dose, and make
wry
faces!
This truth he boasts, will boast it while he lives,
Vo pois nous drugs are mix'd in what he gives.
Should be succeed, you'll give him his degree;
If not, within he will receive no fee!
The college. you, must lis pretensions back,
Pronounce lim Regular, or duh him Quack.
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER;
OR,
THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT.
ACT FIRST.
SCENE- A Chamber in an old-fashione IIouse.
Enter Mrs. HARDCASTLE and Mr. HARDCASTLE.
Mrs. HARD. I vow, Mr. Ilardcastle, you're very particular.
Is there a creature in the whole country but ourselves, that does
not take a trip to town now and then, to rub off the rust a little ?
There's the two Miss Hoggs, and our neighbor Mrs. Grigsby, go
to take a month's polishing every winter.
Hard. Ay, and bring back vanity and affectation to last
them the whole year. I wonder why London cannot keep its
own fools at home! In my time, the follies of the town crept
slowly among us, but now they travel faster than a stage-coach.
Its fopperies come down not only as inside passengers, but in the
a
very basket.
Mrs. Hand. Ay; your times were fine times indeed; you
have been telling us of them for many a long year. Ilere we
272
DRAMAS.
live in an old rumbling mansion, that looks for all the world like
an inn. but that we never see company.
Our best visitors are
old Mrs. Oddfislı, the curate's wife, and little Cripplegate, the
lame dancing-master; and all our entertainment your old stories
of Prince Eugene and the Duke of Marlborough. I hate such
old-fashioned trumpery.
HAND. And I love it. I love every thing that's old; old
friends, old times, old manners, old books, old wines, and I be-
lieve, Dorothy (taking her hand), you'll own I have been pretty
fond of an old wife.
Mrs. HARD. Lord, Mr. Hardcastle, you're for ever at your
Dorothy's and your old wives. You may be a Darby, but I'll be
no Joan, I promise you. I'm not so old as you'd make me, by
more than one good year. Add twenty to twenty, and make
money of that.
Hard. Let me see; twenty added to twenty makes just fifty
and seven.
Mrs. Hard. It's false, Mr. Ilardcastle; I was but twenty
when I was brought to bed of Tony, that I had by Mr. Lump-
kin, my first husband; and he's not come to years of discretion
yet.
Hand. Nor ever will, I dare answer for him. Ay, you have
taught him finely.
Mrs IIarn). No matter. Tony Lumpkin has a good for-
tunc. My son is not to live by his learning I don't think a boy
wants much learning to spend fifteen hundred a year.
Hard. Learning, quotha ! a mere composition of tricks and
mischief.
Mrs. Hand. Humor, my dear; nothing but humor. Come,
Mr. Iardcastle, you must allow the boy a little lumor.
JIAND. I'd sooner allow him a horse-pond. If burning the
footman's shoes, frightening the maids, and worrying the kittens,
SIIE STOOPS TO CONQUER.
273
be humor, he has it. It was but yesterday he fastened my wig
to tlie back of my chair, and when I went to make a bow, I popt
my bald head in Mrs. Frizzle's face.
Mrs. ILand. And am I to blame? The poor boy was always
too sickly to do any good. A school would be his death. When
lie comes to be a little stronger, who knows what a year or two's
Latin
may
do for him ?
ILAND. Latin for him! A cat and fiddle. No, no; the ale-
house and the stable are the only schools he'll ever go to.
Mrs. ILAR). Well, we must not snub the poor boy now, for
I believe we shan't have him long among us. Any body that
looks in his face may see hc's consumptive.
ILAND. Ay, if growing too fat be one of the symptoms.
Mits. IIan). Ile coughs sometimes.
HARD. Yes, when his liquor goes the wrong way.
Mrs. HARD. I'm actually afraid of his lungs.
Ilard. And truly so am I ; for be sometimes whoops like a
speaking trumpet-(Toxy hallooing whin the scenes.)-0, there
he goes-a very consumptive figure, truly.
a
Enter Tony, crossing the stage.
Mrs. ILIRD. Tony, where are you going, my charmer?
Won't you give papa and I a little of your company, lovce ?
TONY. I'm in haste, mother; I can't stay.
MRS. IIARD. You shan't venture out this raw evening, my
dear, you look most shockingly.
Tony. I can't stay, I tell you.
The Three Pigeons ex-
pects me down every moment. There's some fun going forward.
ILARD Ay; the alehouse, the old place; I thought so.
Mrs. HARD. A low, paltry set of fellows.
A
TONY. Not so low neither. There's Dick Muggins the
exciseman, Jurk Slang the horse doctor, little Aminadab that
VOL. IV.
274
DRAMAS.
grinds the music-box, and Tom Twist that spins the pewter
platter.
Mrs. Hard. Pray, my dear, disappoint them for one night
at least
Toxy. As for disappointing them, I should not so much
mind; but I can't abide to disappoint myself.
Mrs. IIARD. (Detaining him.) You shan't go.
Toxy. I will, I tell you.
Mrs. Hand. I say you
shan't.
TONY. We'll see which is strongest, you or I.
[Exit, hauling her out.
HARD. (Solus.) Ay, there goes a pair that only spoil each
other. But is not the whole age in a combination to drive sense
and discretion out of doors ? There's my pretty darling Kate !
the fashions of the times have almost infected her too. By liv-
ing a year or two in town, she's as fond of gauze and French
frippery as the best of them.
Enter Miss HARDCASTLE.
Hand. Blessings on my pretty innocence! drest out as
usual, my Kate. Goodness! What a quantity of superfluous
silk hast thou got about thee, girl! I could never teach the fools
of this age, that the indigent world could be clothed out of the
trimmings of the vain.
Miss Har). You know our agreement, Sir. You allow
me the morning to receive and pay visits, and to dress in my own
manner; and in the evening I put on my housewife's dress to
please you.
Hard. Well, remember, I insist on the terms of our agree-
ment; and, by the by, I believe I shall have occasion to try
your obedience this very evening
SIE STOOPS TO CONQUER.
275
Miss Hand. I protest, Sir, I don't comprehend your mean
ing
HARD. Then to be plain with you, Kate, I expect the
.
young gentleman I have chosen to be your husband from town
this very day. I have his father's letter, in which he informs
me his son is set out, and that he intends to follow himself shortly
after.
Miss II ARD. Indeed! I wish I had known something of this
before. Bless me, how shall I behave ? It's a thousand to one
I shan't like him; our meeting will be so formal, and su like a
thing of business, that I shall find no room for friendship or
esteem.
Hand. Depend upon it, child, I never will control your
choice; but Mr. Marlow, whom I have pitched upon, is the son
of my old friend, Sir Charles Marlow, of whom you have heard
me talk so often. The young gentleman has been bred a scholar,
and is designed for an employment in the service of his country.
I am told he's a man of an excellent understanding.
Miss Hard. Is he?
Hard. Very generous.
Miss Ilard. I believe I shall like him.
Hard. Young and brave.
Miss ILARD. I'm sure I shall like him.
ILRD. And
very
handsome.
Miss Harn. My dear papa, say no more (kissing his hand),
he's mine; I'll have him.
HARD. And to crown all, Kate, he's one of the most bashful
and reserved young fellows in the world.
Miss Hand. Eh! you have frozen me to death again. That
word reserved las undone all the rest of his accomplishments. A
reserved lover, it is said, always makes a suspicious husband.
276
DRAMAS.
7
HAND. On the contrary, modesty seldom resides in a breast
that is not enriched with nobler virtues. It was the very
feature
in his character that first struck me.
Miss IIARD. IIe must have more striking features to catch
me, I promise you. IIowever, if he be so young, so handsome,
and so every thing as you mention, I believe he'll do still. I think
I'll have him.
Hard. Ay, Kate, but there is still an obstacle. It's more
than an even wager he may not have you.
Miss II and. My dear papa, why will you mortify one so?
Well, if he refuses, instead of breaking my heart at his indiffer-
ence, I'll only break my glass for its flattery, set my cap to some
newer fashion, and look out for some less difficult admirer.
IIAND. Bravely resolved! In the mean time I'll go prepare
the servants for his reception : as we seldom see company, they
want as much training as a company of recruits the first day's
muster.
[E.cit.
Miss IIand. (Alone.) Lud, this news of papa's puts me all in
a flutter. Young, handsome; these he put last; but I put
them foremost. Sensible, good-natured; I like all that. But
then reserved and sheepish, that's much against him. Yet can't
he be cured of his timidity, by being taught to be proud of his
wife? Yes; and can't I—But I row I'm disposing of the hus-
band before I have secured the lover.
Enter Miss NEVILLE.
Miss land. I'm glad you're come, Neville, my dear. Tell
me, Constance, how do I look this evening? Is there any thing
w!iimsical about me? Is it one of my well-looking days, child ?
Am I in face to-day?
Miss Nov. Perfectly, my dear.
Perfectly, my dear. Yet now I look again-
bless me!--sure no accident lias bappened among the canary
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.
277
birds or the gold fishes ! Has your brother or the cat been med-
dling? or has the last novel been too moving?
Miss HARD. No; nothing of all this. I have been threat-
ened—I can scarce get it out I have been threatened with a
lover.
Miss Nev. And his name-
Miss HARD. Is Marlow.
Miss Nev. Indeed!
Miss Hars. The son of Sir Charles Marlow.
Miss Nev. As I live, the most intimate friend of Mr. IIas-
tings, my admirer. They are never asunder. I believe you
must have seen him when we lived in town.
Miss HARD. Never.
Miss Nev. He's a very singular character, I assure you.
Among women of reputation and virtue he is the modestest man
alive; but his acquaintance give him a very different character
among creatures of another stamp: you understand me.
Miss Hard. An odd character indeed. I shall never be able
to manage him. What shall I do? Pshaw, think no more of
him, but trust to occurrences for success. But how goes on your
own affair, my dear? has my mother been courting you for my
brother Tony as usual?
Miss Nev. I have just come from one of our agrecable tête-
à-têtes. She has been saying a hundred tender things, and set-
ting off her pretty monster as the very pink of perfection.
Miss IIand. And her partiality is such, that she actually
thinks him so. A fortune like yours is no small temptation. Be-
sides, as she has the sole management of it, I'm not surprised to
see her unwilling to let it go out of the family.
Miss Nev. A fortune like mine, which chiefly consists in
jewels, is no such mighty temptation. But at any rate, if my
dear llastings be but constant, I make no doubt to be too hard
278
DRAMAS.
for her at last. However, I let her suppose that I am in love
with ber son; and she never once dreams that my affections are
fixed upon another.
Miss Hard. My good brother holds out stoutly. I could
almost love him for hating you so.
Miss Nev. It is a good-natured creature at bottom, and I'm
sure would wish to see me married to any body but himself.
But
my aunt's bell rings for our afternoon's walk round the
improvements. Allons! Courage is necessary, as our affairs
are critical.
Miss Hand. 5 Would it were bed-time, and all were well."
[Exeunt.
SCENE. — An Alchouse Room.
Several shabby fellow's uith punch and tobacco. TONY at the
head of the table, a little higher than the rest, a mallet in his
hand.
OMNES. Jurrea! hurrea! hurrea! bravo!
First Fellow. Now, gentlemen, silence for a song. The
.
,
'Squire is going to knock himself down for a song.
OMNES. Ay, a song, a song:
Tony. Then I'll sing you, gentlemen, a song I made upon
this alehouse, the Three Pigeons.
SONG.
Let schoolmasters puzzle their brain,
With grammar, and nonsense, and learning,
Good liquor, I stoutly maintain,
Gives genius a better discerning,
Let them brag of their heathenish gods,
Their Lethes, their Siyxes, and Stygians,
SIDE STOOPS TO CONQUER.
279
Their quis, and their quæs, and their quods,
They're all but a parcel of pigeons.
Toroddle, toroddle, toroll.
When methodist preachers come down,
A-preaching that drinking is sinful,
I'll wager the rascals a crown,
They always preach best with a skinſul.
But when you come down with your pence,
For a slice of their scurvy religion,
I'll leave it to all men of sense,
But you, my good friend, are the pigeon.
Toroddle, toroddle, toroll.
Then come put the jorum about,
And let us be merry and clever,
Our hearts and our liquors are stout,
Here's the Three Jolly Pigeons for ever.
Let some cry up woodcock or hare,
Your bustards, your ducks, and your widgeons;
But of all the gay birds in the air,
Ilere's a healıh to the Three Jolly Pigeons.
Toroddle, toroddle, toroll.
a
OMNES.
Bravo, bravo!
First I vlow. The 'Squire has got spunk in him.
I
Sec. FE LOW. I loves to hear him sing, bekeays be never
gives us nothing that's low.
Turn FELLOW. O, damn anything that's low; I can't
bear it.
Fourth FELLOW. The genteel thing is the genteel thing any
time: if so be that a gentleman bees in a concatenation accordingly.
Tu Follow. I like the maxum of it, Master Murvins.
What though I am obligated to dance a bear, a man may be a
gentleman for all that. May this be my poison, if my bear ever
a
290
DRAMAS.
his own.
dances but to the very genteelest of tunes; “ Water Parted," or
- The Minuet in Ariadne."
Sec. Fellow. What a pity it is the 'Squire is not come to
It would be well for all the publicans within ten miles
round of him.
Tony. Ecod, and so it would, Master Slang. I'd then show
what it was to keep choice of company.
Scc. Fellow. O he takes after his own father for that. To
be sure old 'Squire Lumpkin was the finest gentleman I ever set
my eyes on. For winding the straight horn, or beating a thicket
for a hare, or a wench, he never had his fellow. It was a saying
in the place, that he kept the best horses, dogs, and girls, in the
whole county.
TOVY. Ecol, and when I'm of age, I'll be no bastard, I pro-
mise you. I've been thinking of Bet Bouncer and the miller's
gray mare to begin with. But come, my boys, drink about and
be
merry,
fur you pay no reckoning Well, Stingo, what's the
matter?
Entor LANDLORD.
LAND. There be two gentlemen in a post-chaise at the door
They have lost their wily upo' the forest; and they are talking
something about Mr. Ilardcastle.
TONY. As sure as can be, one of them must be the gentleman
that's coming down to court my sister. Do they seem to be
Londoners?
LIND. I beliere they may. They look woundily like
Frenchmen.
TONY, Then desire them to stop this way, and I'll set them
right in a twinkling. (Evit Landlowe.) Gentlemen, as they mayn't
Le good enough company for you, step down for a moment, and
I'll be with you in the squeezing of a lemon [Exeunt 1106
1
SHE STOOLS TO CONQUER.
281
>
Tony. (Alone.) Father-in-law has been calling me whelp and
hound this half-year. Now, if I pleased, I could be so revenged
upon the old grumbletonian. But then I'm afraid-afraid of
what? I shall soon be worth fifteen hundred a year, and let him
frighten me out of that if he can.
Enter LANDLORD, conducting Marlow und II ASTINGS.
Marl. What a tedious uncomfortable day have we had of
it! We were told it was but forty miles across the country, and
we have come above threescore.
Hast. And all, Marlow, from that unaccountable reserve of
yours, that would not let us inquire more frequently on the way.
Marl. I own, Hastings, I am unwilling to lay myself under
an obligation to every one I meet, and often stand the chance of
an unmannerly answer.
Hist. At present, however, we are not likely to receive any
answer.
Tony. No offence, gentlemen. But I'm told you have been
inquiring for one Mr. Hardcastle in these parts. Do you know
what part of the country you are in ?
ILST. Not in the least, Sir, but should thank you for infor-
mation.
Toxy. Nor the way you came?
Hast. No, Sir; but if you can inform us-
Towy. Wly, gentlemen, if you know neither the road you
are going, nor where you are, nor the road you came, the first
thing I have to inform you is, that-you have lost your way.
MARL We wanted no ghost to tell us that.
Tony. Pray. gentlemen, may I be so bold as to ask the place
from whence you came?
Marl. That's not necessary toward directing us where we aro
to go.
282
DRAMAS.
7
Tovy. No offence; but question for question is all fair, you
know.—Pray, gentlemen, is not this same Hardcastle a cross-
grained, old-fashioned, whimsical fellow, with an ugly face, a
daughter, and a pretty son?
Hasr. We have not seen the gentleman; but he has the
family you mention.
The daughter, a tall, trapesing, trolloping, talkative,
may-pole--the son, a pretty, well-bred, agreeable youth, that every
body is fond of
MARL. Our information differs in this. The daughter is
said to be well-bred, and beautiful; the son an awkward booby,
reared up and spoiled at his mother's apron-string.
Tony. Ile-he-hem !--Then, gentlemen, all I have to tell you
is, that you won't reach Mr. IIardcastle's house this night, I be-
lieve.
ILAST. Unfortunate!
Toni. It's a damn'd long. dark, boggy, dirty, dangerous way.
Stingo, tell the gentlemen the way to Mr. IIardcastle's! (Ilink-
ing upon the Landloril.) Mr. Hardcastle's, of Quagmire Marsh,
you understand me.
LAND. Master Ilardcastle's ! Lack-a-daisy, my masters,
you're come a deadly deal wrong! When you came to the bot-
tom of the hill, you should have crossed down Squash-Lane.
MARL. Cross down Squash Lane!
Land. Then you were to keep straight forward, till you came
to four roads.
MirL. Come to where four roads mect !
Tony. Ay; but you must be sure to take only one of them.
MUL.
(. Sir, you're facetious.
Tony. Then keeping to the right, you are to go sideways,
till you come upon Crack-skull common: there you must look
sharp for the track of the wheel, and go forward till you come to
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.
283
farmer Murrain's barn. Coming to the farmer's barn, you are to
turn to the right, and then to the left, and then to the right about
again, till
you
find out the old mill.
Marl. Zounds, man! we could as soon find out the longi-
tude!
ILAST. What's to be done, Marlow?
Mart. This house promises but a poor reception; though
perhaps the landlord can accommodate us.
LAND. Alack, master, we have but one spare bed in the
whole house.
Tony. And to my knowledge, that's taken up by three lodg-
ers already. (-1fter a pause, in which the rest seem disconcerted.)
I have hit it. Don't you think. Stingo, our landlady could accom-
modate the gentlemen by the fireside, with three chairs and
a bolster ?
HAST. I hate sleeping by the fireside.
MARL. And I detest your three chairs and a bolster.
Torr. You do, do you ?—then, let me see--what if you go
on a mile further, to the Buck's Head; the old Buck's Head on
the hill, one of the best inns in the whole county ?
Hast. O ho! so we have escaped an adventure for this night,
however.
Land. (1 part to Tony) Sure, you ben't sending them to
your father's as an inn, be you?
Tovi. Mum. you fool you. Let them find that out. (TO
them.) You have only to keep on straight forward, till you come
to a large old house by the roadside. You'll see a pair of large
liorns over the door. That's the sign. Drive
Drive up the yard, and
call stoutly about you.
IL-T. Sir, we are obliged to you. The servants can't miss
the way?
Tony. No, no ; but I tell you, though, the landlord is rich,
281
DRAMAS.
and going to leave off business: so he wants to be thought a
gentleman, saving your presence, he he! he! He'll be for
giving you his company; and, ecod, if you mind him, he'll per-
suade
you that his mother was an alderman, and his aunt a jus.
tice of peace.
LAND. A troublesome old blade, to be sure; but a keeps as
good wines and beds as any in the whole country.
MARL. Well, if he supplies us with these, we shall want no
farther connection. We are to turn to the right, did you say?
Tony. No, 110 ; straight forward. I'll just step myself and
show you a piece of the way. (To the Lanullord.) Mum!
LAND. Ah, bless your heart, for a sweet, pleasant- -damnid
mischievous son of a whore.
[Exeunt.
ACT SECOND.
SCINE-In Old-fashioncıl IIouse.
Enic IIARDCASTLE. followed by three or four awkwurd Serrants.
IIand. Well, I hope you are perfect in the table exercise
I have been teaching you these three days. You all know your
posts and your places, and can show that you have been used to
good company, without ever stirring from home.
ONNES. y, ay.
ILUND. When company comes, you are not to pop out and
stare, and then run in again, like frighted rabbits in a warren.
Onts. No, no.
IL12). You, Diggory, whom I have taken from the barn, are
to make a show at the side-table; and you, Roger, whom I have
advanced from the plough, are to place yourself behind my chair.
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.
285
a
But you're not to stand so, with your hands in your pockcts.
Take your hands from your pockets, Roger; and from your head,
you blockhead you. See how Diggory carries his hands. They're
a little too stiff, indeed, but that's no great matter.
Dig. Ay, mind how I hold them. I learned to hold my
hands this way, when I was upon drill for the militia. And so
being upon drill
HARD. You must not be so talkative, Diggory. You must
be all attention to the guests. You must hear us talk, and not
think of talking; you must see us drink, and not think of drink-
ing; you must see us eat, and not think of eating.
Dig. By the laws, your worship, that's parfectly unpossible.
Whenever Diggory sees yeating going forward, ecod he's always
wishing for a mouthful himself.
HARD. Blockhead! Is not a belly-full in the kitchen as
good as a belly-full in the parlor ? Stay your stomach with that
reflection.
Dig. Ecod, I thank your worship, I'll make a shift to stay
my stomach with a slice of cold beef in the pantry.
HIARD. Diggory, you are too talkative.—Then, if I happen
to say a good thing, or tell a good story at table, you must not
all burst out a laughing, as if you made part of the company.
Dig. Then ecod your worship must not tell the story of old
Grouse in the gun-room : I can't help laughing at that—he! he!.
he !—for the soul of me. We have laughed at that these twenty
years—ha! ha! ha!
HARD. Ha! ha! ha! The story is a good one. Well,
honest Diggory, you may laugh at that--but still remember to
be attentive. Suppose one of the company should call for a glass
of wine, how will you behave? A glass of wine, Sir, if you
please, (to Diggory.)- Eh, why don't you move?
Dig. Ecod, your worship, I never have courage till I see the
I
286
DRAMAS.
eatables and drinkables brought upo' the table, and then I'm as
bauld as a lion.
HARD What, will nobody move ?
First SERVANT. I'm not to leave this place.
Sec. SERVANT. I'm sure it's no place of mine.
TH. SERVANT. Nor mine, for sartain.
Dig. Wauns, and I'm sure it canna be mine.
Hard. You numskulls! and so while, like your betters, you
are quarrelling for places, the guests must be starved. O you
dunces! I find I must begin all over again—But don't I hear
a coach drive into the yard ? To your posts, you blockheads.
I'll go in in the meantime and give my old friend's son a hearty
reception at the gate.
[Exit HARDCASTLE.
Dig. By the elevens, my place is gone quite out of my
head.
Roger. I know that my place is to be every
where.
First SERVANT. Where the devil is mine?
Sec. SERVANT. My place is to be nowhere at all; and so
I’ze go about my business. [Ereunt Serrants, running
about as if frighted, different ways.
Enter SERVANT with candles, showing in Marlow and
ILASTINGS.
SERVANT. Welcome, gentlemen, very welcome! This way.
Hast. After the disappointments of the day, welcome once
more, Charles, to the comforts of a clean room and a good fire.
Upon my word, a very well-looking house; antique but cred-
itable.
MARL. The usual fate of a large mansion. Having first
ruined the master by good housekeeping, it at last comes to levy
contributions as an inn.
Hast. As you say, we passengers are to be taxed to pay
all
1
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.
287
these fineries. I have often seen a good sideboard, or a marble
chimneypiece, though not actually put in the bill, inflame a reck-
oning confoundedly.
Marl. Travellers, George, must pay in all places; the only
difference is, that in good iuns you pay dearly for luxuries, in bad
inns you are fleeced and starved.
ILAST. You have lived very much among them. In truth, I
have been often surprised, that you who have seen so much of the
world, with your natural good sense, and your many opportuni-
ties, could never yet acquire a requisite share of assurance.
Marl. The Englishman's malady. But tell me, George,
where could I have learned that assurance you talk of? My life
has been chiefly spent in a college or an inn, in seclusion from
that lovely part of the creation that chiefly teach men confidence.
I don't know that I was ever familiarly acquainted with a single
modest woman, except my mother—But among females of another
class, you know
Hast. Ay, among them you are impudent enough of all con-
science.
Marl. They are of us, you know.
Hast. But in the company of women of reputation I never
saw such an idiot, such a trembler; you look for all the world as
if you wanted an opportunity of stealing out of the room.
Marl. Why, man, that's because I do want to steal out of
the room.
Faith, I have often formed a resolution to break the
ice, and rattle
away
But I don't know how, a single
glance from a pair of fine eyes has totally overset my resolution. .
An impudent fellow may counterfeit modesty, but I'll be hanged
if a modest man can ever counterfeit impudence.
Hast. If you could but say half the fine things to them,
that I have heard you lavish upon the bar-maid of an inn, or even
a college bed-maker
at
any rate.
283
DRIMAS.
a
MARL. Wy, George, I can't say fine things to them; they
freeze, they petrify me. They may talk of a comet, or a burning
mountain, or some such bagatelle; but to me, a modest woman,
drest out in all her finery, is the most tremendous object of the
whole creation.
Hast. Ha! ha! ha! At this rate, man, how can you ever
expect to marry ?
Marl. Never; unless, as among kings and princes, my bride
were to be courted by proxy. If, indeed, like an eastern bride-
groom, one were to be introduced to a wife he never saw before,
it might be endured. But to go through all the terrors of a
formal courtship, together with the episode of aunts, grand-
mothers, and cousins, and at last to blunt out the broad staring
question of, Madam, will you marry me? No, no, that's a strain
much above
me,
I assure you.
Hast. I pity you.
But how do you intend behaving to
the lady you are coinc down to visit at the request of your
father?
MARL. As I behave to all other ladies. Bow very low;
answer yes or no to all her demands-But for the rest, I don't
think I shall venture to look in her face till I see my father's
again.
ILAST. I'm surprised that one who is so warm a friend can
be so cool a lover.
Marl. To be explicit, my dear IIastings, my chief induce-
ment down was to be instrumental in forwarding your happiness,
not my own. Miss Neville loves you, the family don't know
you ; as my friend you are surc of a reception, and let honor do
the rest.
HAST. My dear Marlow! But I'll suppress the emotion.
Were I a wretch, meonly seeking to carry off a fortune, you
should be the last man in the world I would apply to for assist-
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.
289
ance.
But Miss Neville's person is all I ask, and that is mine,
both from her deceased father's consent, and her own inclination.
Marl. Happy man ! You have talents and art to capti-
vate any woman. I'm doomed to adore the
sex, and yet to con-
verse with the only part of it I despise. This stammer in my
address, and this awkward unprepossessing visage of mine, can
never permit me to soar above the reach of a milliner's 'prentice,
or one of the duchesses of Drury-Lane. Pshaw! this fellow
here to interrupt us.
Enter HARDCASTLE.
HARD. Gentlemen, once more you are heartily welcome.
Which is Mr. Marlow? Sir, you are heartily welcome. It's not
my way, you see, to receive my friends with my back to the
I like to give them a hearty reception in the old style at
my gate. I like to see their horses and trunks taken care of.
Marl. (Asiile.) He has got our names from the servants
already. (To him) We approve your caution and hospitality,
Sir. (To Ilastings.) I have been thinking, George, of changing
our travelling dresses in the morning. I am grown confoundedly
ashamed of mine.
HARD. I beg, Mr. Marlow, you'll use no ceremony in this
house.
Hast. I fancy, Charles, you're right; the first blow is half
the battle. I intend opening the campaign with the white and
gold.
Hard. Mr. Marlow, Mr. Ilastings---gentlemen-pray be
under no restraint in this house. This is Liberty-hall, gentle-
You may do just as you please here.
Marl. Yet, George, if we open the campaign too fiercely at
first, we may want ammunition before it is over. I think to re-
serve the embroidery to secure a retreat.
13
men.
VOL. IV.
290
DRAMAS.
ILIRD. Your talking of a retreat, Mr. Marlow, puts me in
mind of the Duke of Marlborough, when we went to besiege
Denain. He first summoned the garrison-
MARL. Don't you think the ventre l'or waistcoat will do with
the plain brown?
HARD. He first summoned the garrison, which might consist
of about five thousand men
HAST. I think not: brown and yellow mix but very
poorly.
ILARD. I say, gentlemen, as I was telling you, he suu-
moned the garrison, which might consist of about fire thousand
men-
Wir
MARL. The girls like finery.
JLARD. Which might consist of about five thousand men,
well appointed with stores, ammunition, and other implements of
Now, says the Duke of Variborough to George Brooks,
that stood next to him-You must have heard of George Brooks
-I'll pawn my dukedom, says he, but I take that garrison with-
out spilling a drop of blood. So---
MARUL
Illat, my good friend, if you give us a glass of
runch in the mean time; it would help us to carry on the siege
with vigor.
HARD. Puneli, Sir! (usile.) This is the most unaccounta-
ble kind of modesty I cver met with.
MARL. Yes, Sir, punch. A glass of warm prunch, after
our journey, will be comfortable. This is Liberty-ball, you
know.
ILRD.
Here's a cup
Sir.
MANL. (Asiile.) So this fellow, in his Liberty-hall, will only
let us have just what he pleases.
ILRD. (Taking the cup) I hope you'll find it to your mind
I
I have prepared it with my own hands, and I believe you'll oua
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.
291
the ingredients are tolerable. Will you be so good as to pledge
me. Sir? Here Mr. Marlow, here is to our better acquaintance.
(Drinks.)
Marl. (Aside.) A very impudent fellow this ! but he's a
character, and I'll humor him a little. Sir, my service to you.
(Drinks.)
ILAST. (Aside) I see this fellow wants to give us his com-
pany, and forgets that he's an innkeeper, before he has learned
to be a gentleman.
Marl. From the excellence of your cup, my old friend, I
suppose you have a good deal of business in this part of the
country. Warm work, now and then, at elec ns, I suppose.
ILARD. No, Sir, I have long given that work over. Since
our betters have hit upon the expedient of electing cach other,
there is no business " for us that sell ale."
Hast
ILAST. So then, you have po turn for politics, I find.
ILARD. Not in the least. There was a time, indeed. I fret-
ted myself about the mistakes of government, like other people;
but finding myself every day grow more angry, and the govern-
ment growing no better, I left it to mend itself Since that, I
no more trouble my head about lyder Ally, or Ally Cawn, than
about Ally Croaker. Sir, my service to you.
Hast. So that with eating above stairs, and drinking below,
with receiving your friends within, and amusing them without,
you lead a good pleasant bustling life of it.
HARD. I do stir about
a great deal, that's certain.
Half the differences of the parish are adjusted in this very
parlor.
Marl. (After drinking.) And
you
have an argument
in your cup, old gentleman, better than any in Westminster-
hall.
Hand. Ay, young gentleman, that, and a little pliilosophy.
а
292
DR AMAS.
MARL. (Aside.) Well, this is the first time I ever heard of
an innkeeper's philosophy.
II asr. So then, like an experienced general, you attack them
on every quarter.
If
you
find their reason manageable, you at-
tack it with your philosophy ; if you find they have no reason,
you attack them with this. Here's your health, my philosopher.
(Drinks.)
Hard. Good, very good, thank you; ha! ha! ha! Your
generalship puts me in mind of Prince Eugene, when he fought
the Turks at the battle of Belgrade. You shall bear.
MARL. Instead of the battle of Belgrade, I believe it's al-
most time to talk about supper. What has your philosophy got
in the house for supper ?
IIard. For supper, Sir! (Aside.) Was ever such a request
ILARD
to a man in his own house!
Marl. Yes, Sir, supper, Sir; I begin to feel an appetite.
I shall make devilish work to night in the larder, I promise
you.
ILRD). (Asiile.) Such a brazen dog sure never my eyes be-
· held. (To him.) Why, really, Sir, as for supper, I can't well
tell My Dorothy and the cook-maid settle these things between
them. I leave these kind of things entirely to them.
MARL. You do, do you?
II ind. Entirely. By the by, I believe they are in ac-
tual consultation upon what's for supper this moment in the
kitchen.
MURL. Then I beg they'll admit me as one of their privy-
council. It's a way I have got. When I travel I always choose
to regulate my own supper.
Let the cook be called. No of-
fence I hope, Sir ?
Ilard. O no, Sir, none in the least; yet I don't know how;
our Bridget, the cook-maid, is not very communicative upon theso
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.
293
a
occasions. Should we send for her, she might scold us all out of
the house.
Hast. Let's see your list of the larder then.
I ask it as a
favor. I always match my appetite to my bill of fare.
MARL. (To IIARDCASTLE, who looks at them with surprise.)
Sir, he's very right, and it's my way too.
HARD. Sir, you have a righ: to command here. Here,
Roger, bring us the bill of fare for to-night's supper: I believe
it's drawn out - Your manner, Mr. Ilastings, puts me in mind of
my uncle, Colonel Wallop. It was a saying of his, that no man
was sure of his supper till he had eaten it.
ILAST. (Aside.) All upon the high rope ! His uncle a colo-
nel! we shall soon hear of his mother being a justice of the
peace. But let's hear the bill of fare.
MARL. (Perusing.)
What's here? For the first course i
for
the second course; for the dessert. The devil, Sir, do you think
we have brought down the whole joiner's company, or the corpo-
ration of Bedford, to eat up such a supper? Two or three little
things, clean and comfortable, will do.
Ilist. But let's hear it.
Marl. (Reading) For the first course at the top, a pig, and
pruin sauce.
Hast. Damn your pig, I say.
Mil. And damn your pruin sauce, say I.
IIand. And yet, gentlemen, to men that are hungry. pig with
pruin sauce is very good eating.
MARL. At the bottom a calf's tongue and brains.
Ilast. Let your brains be knocked out, my good Sir, I don't
like them.
Marl. Or you may clap them on a plate by themselves.
Hard. (Asile.) Their impudence confounds mc. (To them.)
294
DRAMAS.
Gentlemen, you are my guests, make what alterations you please.
Is there any thing clse you wish to retrench or alter, gentle.
men ?
MARL. Item. A pork pie a boiled rabbit and sausages, a
Florentine, a shaking pudding, and a dish of tiff-taff-taffety
cream.
HAST. Confound your made dishes; I shall be as much at a
loss in this house as at a green and yellow dinner at the French
ambassador's table. I'm for plain eating.
HARD. I'm sorry, gentlemen, that I have nothing you like,
but if there be any thing you have a particular fancy to-
MARL. Why really, Sir, your bill of fare is so exquisite,
that any one part of it is full as good as another. Send us what
you please. So much for supper. And now to see that our beds
are aired, and properly taken care of.
HARD. I entreat you'll leave all that to me. You shall not
stir a step.
MarL. Leave that to you! I protest, Sir, you must excuse
me, I always look to these things myself.
ILrn. I must insist, Sir, you'll make yourself easy on that
head.
Marl. You see I'm resolved on it. (Asile.) A very trouble-
some fellow this, as I ever met with.
ILind. Well, Sir. I'm resolved at least to attend you. (Asile.)
This may be modern modesty, but I never saw any thing look so
like old-fashioned impudence.
[Errunt Varlow and ILIRDCASTLE.
Hast. (Alone)
So I find this fellow's civilities begin to grow
troublesome. But who can be angry at those assiduities which
are meant to please him?-Ha ! what do I see ? Miss Neville, by
all that's happy!
9
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.
295
Enter Miss VEVILLE.
Miss Nev. My dear Hastings ! To what unexpected good
fortune, to what accident, am I to ascribe this happy meeting?
ILAST. Rather let me ask the same question, as I could
never have hoped to meet my dearest Constance at an inn.
Miss Nev. An inn! sure you mistake; my aunt, my guar-
dian, lives here. What could induce you to think this house an
inn?
ILAST. My friend, Mr. Marlow, with whom I came down,
and I, have been sent here as to an inn, I assure you. A young
fellow, whom we accidentally met at a house hard by, directed us
hither.
Miss Vev. Certainly, it must be one of my hopeful cousin's
tricks, of whom you have heard me talk so often; ha! ha! ha!
IIAST. Ile whom your aunt intends for you? he of whom I
have such just apprehensions ?
Miss Nev. You liave nothing to fear from him, I assure you.
You'd adore himn if you knew how heartily he despises me. My
aunt knows it too, and has undertaken to court me for him, and
actually begins to think she has made a conquest.
ILAST. Thou dear dissembler! you must know, my Con-
stance, I have just seized this liappy opportunity of my friend's
visit here,to get admittance into the family. The horses that
carried us down are now fatigued with their journey, but they'll
soon be refreshed; and then, if my dearest girl will trust in her
faithful Hastings, we shall soon be landed in France, where even
among slaves the laws of marriage are respected*
.
Miss Ver. I have often told you that though ready to obey
you. I yet should leave
my
little fortune belind with reluctance.
The greatest part of it was left me by my uncle, the India di-
Soe Luf, vol. ii p. 3911
296
DRAMAS.
rector, and chiefly consists in jewels. I have been for some
time persuading my aunt to let me wear them. I fancy I'm very
near succeeding. The instant they are put into my possession,
you
shall find me ready to make them and myself yours.
Hast. Perish the baubles! Your person is all I desire. In
the mean time, my friend Marlow must not le let into his mis-
take. I know the strange reserve of his temper is such, that if
abruptly informed of it, he woud instantly quit the house before
our plan was ripe for execution.
Miss Nev. But how shall we keep him in the deception ?
Miss IIardcastle is just returned from walking ; what if we still
continue to deceive him ?-_This, this way- [Tlacy conſer:
Erici MIR LOKI.
Marl. The assiduities of these good people tease me beyond
bearing My host seems to think it ill manners to leave me
alone, and so he claps not only himself but liis old-fasliioned wife
on my back. They talk of coming to sup with us too; and then,
I suppose, we are to run the gauntlet through all the rest of the
family:- What have we got here?
HAST. My dear Charles! Let me congratulate you !—The
most fortunate accidont !-Who do you think is just alighted ?
Marl. Cannot guess.
IIAST. Our mistresses, boy, Miss Hardcastle and Miss
Neville, Give me leave to introduce Miss Constance Neville to
your acquaintance. Ilappening to live in tlie neiglılarlıunil.
dine ,
they called on their return to take fresh horses here. Viss
Hardcastle has just stept into the next room, and will be back in
an instant. Wasn't it lucky? ch!
MARL. (Asiile.) I have been mortifici enough of all con.
science, and here comes something to complete my embarrass.
ment.
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.
927
Hast. Well, but wasn't it the most fortunate thing in the
world?
Marl. Oh! yes. Very fortunate—a most joyful encounter
—But our dresses, George, you know are in disorder-What is
we should postpone the happiness till to-morrow ?-To-morrow at
her own house-It will be every bit as convenient—and rather
more respectful-To-morrow let it be.
[Offering to go.
Miss Nev. By no means. Sir. Your ceremony will displease
her. The disorder of your dress will show the ardor of your
impatience. Besides, she knows you are in the house, and will
permit you to sce her
MARL. O! the devil! how shall I support it? Hem! hem!
Hastings, you must not go. You are to assist me, you know.
I shall be confoundedly ridiculous. Yet, hang it ! I'll take cou-
ragc. Hem !
IIAST. Pshaw, man! it's but the first plunge, and all's over.
She's but a woman, you know.
Marl. And of all women, she that I dread most to en-
counter.
Enter Miss II ANDCASTLE, (cs rcturnal from walking,
Hast. (Introducing them.) Miss Hardcastle. Mr. Marlow.
I'm proud of bringing two persons of such merit together, that
only want to know, to esteem cach other.
Miss IIRD. (Asile) Now for meeting my modest gentleman
with a demure face, and quite in bis own manner. (-1fter a pause'
in which he appears very uncusy and disconcertail) I'm glad of
your safe arrival, Sir. I'm told you had some accidents by the
way.
Marl. Only a few, Vadam. Yes, we had some. Yes, Maddam,
a good many accidents, but should be sorry-Madan-or rather
glad of any acciderits--that are so agreeably concluded. Ilem!
13*
VOL. IV.
298
DRAMAS.
ILAST. (To him) You never spoke better in your whole life
Keep it up, and I'll insure you the victory.
,
Miss ILARD. I'm afraid you flatter, Sir. You that have seen
so much of the finest company, can find little entertainment in
an obscure corner of the country.
MARL. (Gathering courage.) I have lived, indeed, in the
world, Madam; but I have kept very little company. I have
been but an observer upon life, Madum, while others were enjoy-
ing it.
Once more,
Miss Nev. But that, I am told, is the way to enjoy it at last.
HAST. (To him) Cicero never spoke better.
and you are confirmed in assurance for ever.
Marl. (To him) IIem! Stand by me, then, and when I'm
down, throw in a word or two to set me up again.
Miss HARD. An observer like you upou life, were, I fear,
disagreeably employed, since you must have had much more to
censure than approve.
MARL. Pardon me, Madam. I was always willing to be
amused. The folly of most people is rather an object of mirth
than uneasiness.
HAST. (To him) Bravo, bravo. Never spoke so well in your
whole life. Well, Viss Hardcastle, I see that you and Mr. Mar-
low are going to be very good company. I believe our being here
will but embarrass the interview.
Marl. Not in the least, Jr. IIastings. We like
pany of all things. (To hint) Zounds! George, sure you won't
go? IIow can you leave us?
List. Our presence will but spoil conversation, so we'll re-
tire to the next room. (To him) You don't consider, man, that
we are to manage a little telentéte of our own. [Ereunt.
Miss ILED). (-1/107 al preuse.) But you have not been wholly
-1f1er at
your com-
SI! E STOOPS TO CONQUER.
299
an observer, I presume, Sir: the ladies, I should hope, have cm-
ployed some part of your addresses.
Marl. (Relapsing into timidity.) Pardon rre, Madam, I-
me I.
I-I-as yet have studied-only—to deserve them.
Miss Ind. And that, some say, is the very worst way to
obtain them
Marl. Perlaps so, Madam. But I love to converse only
with the more grave and sensible part of the sex. But I'm afraid
I grow tiresome.
Miss ILand. Not at all, Sir; there is nothing I like so much
as grave conversation myself; I could hear it for ever. Indeed,
I have often been surprised how a man of sentiment could ever
admire those light airy pleasures, where nothing reaches the
heart.
MARL. It's a disease of the mind, Madam. In the
variety of tastes there must be some who, wanting a relish-for
-
-uma-um.
Miss Ilird. I understand you. Sir.
There must be some
who, wanting a relish for refined pleasures, pretend to despise
what they are incapable of tasting.
MARL. My meaning, madam, but infinitely better expressed
And I can't help observing-a
Miss Iard. (-1.siile.) Who could ever suppose this fellow
impudent upon such occasions ! (To him) You were going to
observe. Sir-
Mart. I was observing. Vadam-I protest, Madam, I forget
what I was going to observe.
Miss Iard. (Asile.) I vow and so do I. (To lum) You
were observing, Sir, that in this age of hypocrisy-something about
hypocrisy. Sir
Mart Yes. Vadam. In this age of hypocrisy there are few
who mpon strict inquiry do not-
----
300
DRAMAS.
Miss Hard. I understand you perfectly, Sir.
Marl. (Aside.) Egad! and that's more than I do myself.
Miss Hand. You mean that in this hypocritical age there
are few that do not condemn in public what they practise in pri-
vate, and think they pay every debt to virtue when they rin it.
MARL. True, Madam; those who have most virtue in their
mouthis, have least of it in their bosoms. But I'm sure I tire
you, Madam.
Miss HARD. Not in the least, Sir; there's something so
agreeable and spirited in your manner, such life and force-pray,
Sir, go on.
MARL. Yes, Madam. I was saying that there are some
occasions,—when a total want of courage, Madam, destroys all
the---and puts us-
-upon a-a-a-
Miss IIARD. I agree with you entirely; a want of courage
upon some occasions assumes the appearance of ignorance, and
betrays us when we most want to excel. I beg you'll proceed.
MARL. Yes, Madam. Morally speaking, Madam-But I see
Miss Neville expecting us in the next room. I would not intrude
for the world.
Miss HLARD. I protest, Sir, I never was more agreeably en-
tertained in all my life. Pray go on.
MirL. Yes, Madam. I was- -but she beckons us to join
her. Madam, shall I do myself the honor to attend you?
.
Miss IIARD. Well then, I'll follow.
MARL. (Aside.) This pretty smooth dialogue has done for
[Exit.
Miss IIand. (Alone.) IIa! ha! ha! Was there ever such
a sober, sentimental interview? I'm certain he scarce looked in
my face the whole time. Yet the fellow, but for his unaccount-
able bashfulness, is pretty well too. Ile has good sense, but then
80 buried in bis fears, that it fatignes one more than ignorance.
me.
SIE STOOPS TO CONQUER:
301
If I could teach him a little confidence, it would be doing some-
body that I know of a piece of service. But who is that some-
body? That, faith, is a question I can scarce answer. [E.cit.
Enter Tony and Miss Neville, followed by Mrs. HanDCASTLE
and ILASTINGS.
Tony. What do you follow me for, Cousin Con? I wonder
you're not ashamed to be so very engaging.
Miss Nev. I bope, cousin, one may speak to one's own rela-
tions, and not be to blame.
Tony. Ay, but I know what sort of a relation you want to
make me, though; but it won't do. I tell you, Cousin Con, it
won't do; I beg you'll keep your distance, I want no nearer rela-
tionship
[She follows, coquetting him to the back scene.
Mrs. HARD. Well! I vow, Mr Hastings, you are very enter-
taining. There is nothing in the world I love to talk of so
much as London, and the fashions, though I was never there
myself.
Hast. Never there! You amaze me! From
your
air and
manner, I concluded you had been bred all your life either at
Ranelagh, St. James's, or Tower Wharf
Mrs. Iard. ()! Sir, you're only pleased to say so. We
country persons can have no manner at all. I'm in love with the
town, and that serves to raise me above some of our neighboring
rustics; but who can have a manner, that has never seen the
Pantheon, the Grotto Gardens, the Borough, and such places
where the nobility chiefly resort ? All I can do is to enjoy Lon-
don at second-hand. I take care to know every tête-à-tête from
the Scandalous Magazine, and have all the fashions, as they come
out, in a letter from the two Miss Rickets of Crooked-Lane.
Pray how do you like this head. Mr. Hastings?
ILAST. Extremely elegant and langée. upon my word, Ma-
dam. Your friseur is a Frenchman, I suppose ?
I
302
DRAMAS
Mrs. ILARD. I protest, I dressed it myself from a print in
the Ladies: Memorandum-book for the last year.
ILAST. Indeed! Such a head in a side-box at the play-house
would draw as many gazers as my Lady Mayoress at a city ball.
Mrs. Ind. I vow, since inoculation began, there is no such
thing to be seen as a plain woman; so one must dress a little
particular, or one may escape in the crowd.
IList. But that can never be your case, Madam, in any
dress. (Boxing :)
Mrs. JARD. Yet, what signifies my dressing when I have
Ilar
such a piece of antiguity by my side as Mr. Ilardcastle: all I can
say will never argue down a single button from his clothes. I
have often wanted him to throw off his great flaxen wig, and
where he was bald, to plaster it over like my Lord Pately, with
powder.
IList. You are right. Madam ; for, as among the ladies there
are none ugly, so among the men there are none old.
Mus. ILAND). But what do you think his answer was? Why,
with his usual Gothic vivacity, he said I only wanted him to
throw off his wiy to convert it into a tite for my own wearing.
ILIST. Iutolerable ! At your age you may wear what you
please, and it must become you.
Mrs. Wan). Pray, Mr. Hastings, what do you take to be the
most fashionable age about town?
IL-t. Some time ago, forty was all the mode; but I'm told
the ladies intend to bring up fifty for the ensuing winter.
Mrs. ILand. Seriously. Then I shall be too young for the
fashion.
ILST. No lady begins now to put on jewels till she's past
forty. For instance, Miss there, in a polite circle, would be con.
sidered as a child, as a mere risker of samplers.
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.
303
Mrs. ILAND. And yet Mrs. Niece thinks herself as much a
woman, and is as fond of jewels, as the oldest of us all.
ILAST. Your niece, is she? And that young gentleman, a
brother of yours, I should presume?
Mrs. Hard. My son, Sir. They are contracted to each
other. Observe their little sports. They fall in and out ten
times a day, as if they were man and wife already. (To them)
Well, Tony, child, what soft things are you saying to your cousin
Constance this evening ?
Tony. I have been saying no soft things; but that it's very
hard to be followed about so. Ecod! I've not a place in the
house now that's left to myself, but the stable.
Mrs. Hard. Never mind him, Con, my dear, he's in another
story behind your back.
Miss NEV. There's something generous in my cousin's manner.
IIe falls out before faces to be forgiven in private.
Tony. That's a damned confounded-crack.
Mrs. ILinn. Ah! he's a sly one. Don't you think they'ro
like each other about the mouth. Mr. Hastings? The Blenkinsop
mouth to a T. They'rt of a size too. Back to back, my pretties,
that Mr. Jlastings may see you. Come, Tony:
TONY. You had as good not make me, I tell you.
(1/cusuring )
Miss Nev. O lud! he has almost cracked my head.
Mrs. ILard. O, the mouster! For shame, Tony.
You a
a
man, and behave so!
TONY. If I'm a man, let me have my fortin. Ecod! I'll
not be made a fool of no longer.
MRS.
Mes. ILand. Is this, mgrateful buy, all that I'm to get for
the pains I have taken in your education ? I that have rocka
you in your cradle, and fol that pretty mouth with a spoon!
Did not I work that waistcoat to make you geuteel? Did not I
a
304
DRAMAS
prescribe for you every day, and weep while the receipt was
operating?
Tony. Ecod!
you
bad reason to weep, for you
have been
dosing me ever since I was born. I have gone through every
receipt in the Complete Housewife ten times over; and you have
thoughts of coursing me through Quincy next spring. But, ecod!
I tell you, I'll not be made a fool of no longer.
Mrs. ILand. Wasn't it all for your good, viper? Wasn't it
all for your good ?
TONY. I wish you'd let me and my good alone, then. Snub-
bing this way when I'm in spirits. If I'm to have any good, let
it come of itself; not to keep dinging it, dinging it into one so.
Mrs. Hard. That's false; I never see you wiien you're in
spirits. No, Tony, you then go to the alehouse or kennel. I'm
never to be delighted with your agreeable wild notes, unfeeling
monster!
Toni. Ecod ! mamma, your own notes are the wildest of
the two.
Mrs. ILAND. Was ever the like? But I see he wants to
break my heart; I see he does.
ILAST. Dear Vadam, permit me to lecture the young gentle-
man a little. I'm certain I can persuade him to his duty.
Mrs. Lin. Well, I must retire. Come, Constance, my
IL
love. You sec, Mr. Hastings, the wretchedness of my situation :
was ever poor woman so plagued with a dear, sweet, pretty,
provoking, undutiful boy?
[Eunt Mrs. ILARDCASTHE and Miss NEVILLE.
LASTINGS, TONY.
TOT. singing
“ There was a young man riding by, and fain would have his
Rang do didlo dee.?? Don't mind her. Let her cry.
will
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.
305
It's the comfort of her heart. I have seen her and sister cry
over a book for an hour together; and they said they liked the
book the better the more it made them cry.
HAST. Then you're no friend to the ladies, I find, my pretty
young gentleman ?
TONY. That's as I find 'um.
Hast. Not to her of your mother's choosing, I dare answer ?
And yet she appears to me a pretty well-tempered girl.
Tony. That's because you don't know her so well as I.
Ecod! I know every inch about her; and there's not a more
bitter cantackerous toad in all Christendom.
ILAST. (Asiile.) Pretty encouragement this for a lover!
TONY. I have seen her since the height of that. She has
as many tricks as a hare in a thicket, or a colt the first day's
breaking
HAST. To me she appears sensible and silent.
Tony. Ay, before company. But when she's with her play-
mate, she's as loud as a hog in a gate.
HAST. But there is a meek modesty about her that charms
me.
Tovy. Yes, but curb her never so little, she kicks up,
and
you're flung in a ditch.
Hast. Well, but you must allow her a little beauty.-Yes,
you must allow her a little beauty.
Tony. Bandbox! She's all a made-up thing. mum. Ah!
could
you but see Bet Bouncer of these parts, you might then
talk of beauty. Ecod, she has two eyes as black as sloes, and
cheeks as broad and red as a pulpit cushion. She'd make two
of sle.
ILAST. Well, what say you to a friend that would take this
bitter bargain off your hands?
Tovy. Anon
306
DRAMAS.
IList. Would
you
thank him that would take Viss Neville,
and leave you to happiness and your dear Betsy?
Tony. Ay; but where is there such a friend, for who would
take her?
ILAST. I am he. If you but assist me, I'll engage to whip
her off to France, and you shall never hear more of her.
Tovy. Assist you! Ecod I will, to the last drop of my
.
blood. I'll clap a pair of horses to your chaise that shall trundle
you off in a twinkling, and may be get you a part of her fortin
beside in jewels that you little dream of.
HLST. My dear 'squire, this looks like a lad of spirit.
Tony. Come along, then, and you shall see more of my spirit
before you have done with me.
(Singing :)
“ We are the boys
That fears no noise
Where the thundering cannons roar.
[Exeunt.
ACT THIRD).
Enter ILANDCASTLE, alone.
ILAND. What could ny old friend Sir Charles mean by
recommending his son as the modestest young man in the town?
To me he appears the most impudent piece of brass that ever
spoke with a tongue. He has taken possession of the easy chair
by the fireside already. He took off his boots in the parlor, and
desired me to see them taken care of. I'm desirous to know how
his impudenee affects my daughter. She will certainly be
shocked at it.
Enter Miss ILARDCASTLE. plainly alrcssel.
1. my Kate, I see you have changed your
ILID
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.
307
dress, as I bid you; and yet, I believe, there was no great
occasion.
Miss HIARD. I find such a pleasure, Sir, in obeying your
commands, that I take care to observe them without ever debat-
ing their propriety.
HARD. And yet, Kate, I sometimes give you some cause,
particularly when I recommended my modest gentleman to you
as a lover to-day.
Miss ILAND. You taught me to expect something extraordi-
nary, and I find the original exceeds the description.
HLARD I was never so surprised in my
life! He has quite
confounded all my faculties !
Miss Iard. I never saw any thing like it; and a man of
the world too!
HAND. Ay, he learned it all abroad—what a fool was I, to
think a young man could learn modesty by travelling. He might
as soon learn wit at a masquerade.
Miss Ilird. It seems all natural to him.
HAND. A good deal assisted by bad company and a French
dancing-master.
Miss Hund. Sure you mistake, papa! A French dancing-
master could never have taught him that timid look—that awk-
ward address-that bashful manner-
Ilarn). Whose look? whose manner, child?
Miss ILARD. Mr. Marlow's; his maraise honte, his timidity,
struck me at first sight.
ILIRD. Then your first sight deceived you; for I think
him one of the most brazen first sights that ever astonished my
senses.
Miss ILAND. Sure, Sir, you rally! I never saw any one so
modest.
ILAND.
And can you be serious? I never saw such a boune.
308
DRAMAS.
ing, swaggering puppy since I was born. bully Dawson was
but a fool to him.
Miss IIARD. Surprising! He met me with a respectful bow,
stammering voice, and a look fixed on the ground.
HARD. He met me with a loud voice, a lordly air, and a fa-
miliarity that made my blood freeze again.
Miss HARD. He treated me with diffidence and respect;
censured the manners of the age; admired the prudence of girls
that never laughed; tired me with apologies for being tiresome;
then left the room with a bow, and “Madam, I would not for the
world detain you."
Hard. He spoke to me as if he knew me all his life before;
asked twenty questions, and never waited for an answer; inter-
rupted my best remarks with some silly pun; and when I was
in my best story of the Duke of Marlborough and Prince
Eugene, he asked me if I had not a good hand at making
punch. Yes, Kate, he asked your father if he was a maker of
punch!
Miss ILIRD. One of us must certainly be mistaken.
ILARD. If he be what he has shown himself, I'm determined
he shall never have my consent.
Miss Hard. And if he be the sullen thing I take him, he
shall never have mine.
ILIRD. In one thing then we are agreed-to reject him.
Miss IIand. Yes: but upon conditions. For if you should
find him less impudent, and I more presuming--if you find him
more respectful, and I more importunate-I don't know-the
fellow is well enough for a man-Certainly, we don't meet many
such at a horse-race in the country.
ILIRD. If we should find him so— But that's impossible.
The first appearance lias done my business. I'm seldom de.
ceived in that.
SIE STOOPS TO CONQUER.
309
Miss Hand. And yet there may be many good qualities un.
der that first appearance.
HARD. Ay, when a girl finds a fellow's outside to her taste,
she then sets about guessing the rest of his furniture. With her,
a smooth face stands for good sense, and a genteei figure for
every virtue.
Miss Hard. I hope, Sir, a conversation begun with a com-
pliment to my good sense, won't end with a sneer at my under-
standing?
Hand. Pardon me, Kate. But if young Mr. Brazen can
find the art of reconciling contradictions, he may please us both,
perhaps.
Miss Hand. And as one of us must be mistaken, what if we
go to make farther discoveries?
Hard. Agreed. But depend on't, I'm in the right.
Miss HARD. And depend on't, I'm not much in the wrong.
[E.reunt.
Enter Tony, running in with a casket.
TONY. Ecod! I have got them. Here they are.
My
cousin Con's necklaces, bobs and all. My mother shan't cheat
the
poor
souls out of their fortin neither. O! my genus, is that
you?
Enter IIASTINGS.
ILAST. My dear friend, how have you managed with your
mother? I hope you have amused her with pretending love for
your cousin, and that you are willing to be reconciled at last ?
Our lorses will be refreshed in a short time, and we shall soon
be ready to set off.
TONY. And here's something to bear your charges by the
.
way (giving the caske); your sweetheart's jewels. Keep them,
and hang those, I say, that would rob you of one of them.
310
DRAMAS.
1
IIAST. But how have you procured them from your
mother?
Tony. Ask me no questions, and I'll tell you no fibs. I
procured them by the rule of thumb. If I had not a key to
every drawer in mother's bureau, how could I go to the alehouse
so often as I do? An honest man may rob himself of his own
at any time.
ILAST. Thousands do it every day. But to be j.lain with
you, Miss Neville is endeavoring to procure them from her aunt
this
very
instant. If she succeeds, it will be the most de.icate
way at least of obtaining them.
Tony. Well. keep them, till you know how it will be. But I
know it will be well enough; she'd as soon part with the only
sound tooth in her head.
Hast. But I dread the cffects of her resentment, when she
finds she has lost them.
Tony. Never you mind her resentment, leave me to manage
tbat. I dout value her resentment the bounce of a cracker.
Zounds! here they are. Morice! prance !
[Exit IISTINGS
Tour. Mrs. ILIRDCASTLE, and Miss NEVILLE.
MRS. ILIRD Indeeil, Constance, you amaze me.
Such a
girl as you want jewels! It will be time enough for jewels,
my dear, twenty years hence, when your beauty begins to want
repairs.
Miss Vry. But what will repair beauty at forty, will cer-
tainly improve it at twenty, Madam.
Mrs. ILR). Yours, my dear, can admit of none. That
natural blush is beyond a thousand ornaments. Besides, child,
jewels are quite cut at present. Don't you see half the ladies of
onr acquaintance, my lady Kill-day-light, and Mrs. Crump, and
the rest of them, carry their jewels to town, and bring nothing
but paste and marcasites back?
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.
311
Miss Nev. But who knows, Madam, but somebody that
shall be nameless would like me best with all my little tinery
about me?
Mrs. Hand. Consult your glass, my dear, and then see if
with such a pair of eyes you want any better sparklers. What
do you think, Tony, my dear ? does your cousin Con want any
jewels in your eyes to set off her beauty ?
TONY. That's as thereafter may be.
Miss Nev. My dear aunt, if you knew how it would oblige
ine.
Mrs. HARD. A parcel of old-fashioned rose and table cut
things. They would make you look like the court of King Solo-
mon at a puppet-show. Besides, I believe I can't readıly come
at them. They may be missing, for aught I know to the con-
trary.
Tony. (Apart to Drs. Hardcastle.) Then why don't you tell
JIrs.
her so at once, as she's so longing for them?
Tell her they're
lost. It's the only way to quiet her. Say they're lost, and call
me to bear witness.
Mrs. Hard. (part to Tony.) You know, my dear, I'm only
keeping them for you. So, if I say they're gone, you'll bear me
witness, will you ? lle! he! he!
Tony. Never fear me. Ecod! I'll I saw them taken
out with my own eyes.
Miss NEV. I desire them but for a day, Madam. Just to
be permitted to show them as relics, and then they may be locked
say
up again.
MRS. ILARD. To be plain with you, my dear Constance, if
I could find them you should have them. They're missing, I as-
sure you
Lost, for anght I know; but we must have patience,
wherever they are
Miss Jev. lll not believe it ! this is but a shallow pretence
312
DRAMAS.
to deny me. I know they are too valuable to be so slightly kept,
and as you are to answer for the loss-
Mrs. ILAND. Don't be alarmed, Constance. If they be lost,
,
I must restore an equivalent. But my son knows they are miss-
ing, and not to be found.
TONY. That I can bear witness to. They are missing, and
not to be found; I'll take my oath on't.
MRS. HARD. You must learn resignation, my dear; for
though we lose our fortune, yet we should not lose our patience.
See me, how calm I am.
Miss Nev. Ay, people are generally calm at the misfortunes
of others.
Mrs. Hard. I wonder a girl of your good sense should
waste a thought upon such trumpery. We shall soon find them;
and in the mean time you shall make use of my garnets till your
jewels be found.
Miss Ner. I detest garnets.
MRS ILAND). The most becoming things in the world to set
off a clear complexion. You have often seen how well they look
a
upon me: You shall have them.
[Erit.
Miss Niv. I dislike them of all things. You shan't stir.-
Was ever any thing so provoking, to mislay my own jewels, and
forec me to wear her trumpery.
Tony. Don't be a fool. If she gives you the garnets, take
what you can get. The jewels are your own already. I have
stolen them out of her bureau, and she does not know it. Fly
to your spark, lie'll tell you more of the matter. Leave me to
manage ber.
Miss Nev. My dear cousin !
Tony. Vanish. She's here, and has missed them already
[Erit Miss NEVILLE) Zounds! how she fidgets and spits about
like a catherine wheel.
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.
313
Enter Mrs. HARDCASTLE.
Mrs. Hand. Confusion! thieves ! robbers! we are cheated,
plundered, broke open, undone.
,
.
Tony. What's the matter, what's the matter, mamma? I
hope nothing has happened to any of the good family?
Mrs. Hard. We are robbed. My bureau has been broken
open, the jewels taken out, and I'm undone.
Tony. Oh! is that all? Ha! ha! ha! By the laws, I never
saw it acted better in all my life. Ecod, I thought you was ruined
in earnest, ha! ha! ha!
Mrs. Hard. Why, boy, I am ruined in earnest. My bureau
has been broken open, and all taken away.
TONY. Stick to that: ha! ha! ha! stick to that. I'll bear
witness, you know; call me to bear witness.
MRS. HARD. I tell you, Tony, by all that's precious, the
jewels are gone, and I shall be ruined for ever.
Tony. Sure I know they are gone, and I'm to say so.
Mrs. Hand. My dearest Tony, but hear me. They're gone,
I say.
Tony. By thic laws, mamma, you make me for to laugh, ha !
ha! I know who took them well enough, ha! ha! ha!
Mrs. Hard. Was there ever such a blockhead, that can't
tell the difference between jest and earnest ? I tell you I'm
not in jest, booby.
TONY. Thats right, that's right; you must be in a bitter
passion, and then nobody will suspect either of us. I'll bear wit-
ness that they are gone.
Mrs. HARD. Was there ever such a cross-grained brute, that
won't hear me? Con
you bear witness that you're no better than
a fool ? Was ever poor woman so beset with fools on one hand,
and thieves on the other?
Tony. I can bear witness to that.
14
VOL. IV.
314
DRAMAS.
Mrs. HARD. Bear witness again, you blockhead you, and I'll
turn you out of the room directly. My poor niece, what will be-
come of her? Do you laugh, you unfeeling brute, as if you en.
joyed my distress?
TOxy. I can bear witness to that.
Mrs. Ilur. Do you insult me, monster ? I'll teach you to
vex your mother, I will.
Tony. I can bear witness to that. (He runs ol', she follows
him.)
Enter Miss ILARDCASTLE and MAD.
Miss Hard. What an unaccountable creature is that brother
of mine, to send them to the house as an inn, ha! ha! I don't
wonder at his impudence.
MAD. But what is more, Madam, the young gentleman, as
you passed hy in your present dress, asked me if you were the
bar-maid ? IIe mistook you for the bar-maid, Vadam.
Miss Iarn. Did he? Then as I live I am resolv'd to kecp
up the delusion. Tell me, Pimple, how do you like my present
.
dress? Don't you think I look something like Cherry in the
Beaux Stratavem?
MAID. It's the dress. Madam, that every lady wears in the
country, but when she visits or receives company.
Miss ILIRD. And are you sure lie does not remember my
face or person?
MA!D. Certain of it.
Miss Urd. I vow I thought so; for though we spoke for
some time together, yet his fears were such that he never once
looked up during the interview. Indeed, if he had, my bonnet
would have kept him from seeing me.
MAD. But what do you hope from keep my him in his mistake?
Miss ILARD In the first place, I shall low seed, and that is
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.
315
no small advantage to a girl who brings her face to market.
Then I shall perhaps make an acquaintance, and that's no small
victory gained over one who never addresses any but the wildest
of our sex. But
my chief aim is to take my gentleman off his
guard, and, like an invisible champion of romance, examine the
giant's force before I offer to combat.
Maid. But are you sure you can act your part, and disguise
your voice so that he may mistake that, as he has already mis-
taken your person?
Miss HARD. Never fear me. I think I have got the true
bar cant-Did your honor call ?- Attend the Lion there. -Pipes
and tobacco for the Angel. The Lamb has been outrageous this
half-hour.
Maid. It will do, Madam. But he's here. [Exit Maid.
Enter Marlow.
Marl. What a bawling in every part of the house! I have
scarce a moment's
repose.
If I
go to the best room, there I find
my host and his story; if I fly to the gallery, there we have my
hostess with her curtsey down to the ground. I have at last got
a moment to myself, and now for recollection. (Walks anul
muses.)
Miss ILARD. Did you call, Sir ? Did your honor call ?
Marl. (Ausing.) As for Miss Hardcastle, she's too grave
and sentimental for me.
Miss HARD. Did
your
honor call? (She still places herself
Wwfore him, he turning away)
MARL. No, child (musing). Besides, from the glimpse I had
of her, I think she squints.
Miss Hand. I'm sure, Sir, I heard the bell ring.
Mar... No, no (musing). I have pleased my father, how
316
DR A MAS.
ever, by coming down, and I'll to-morrow please myself by
returning (Taking out his tablets and perusing)
Miss Hard. Perhaps the other gentleman called, Sir ?
MarL. I tell you, no.
Miss Hard. I should be glad to know, Sir. We have such
a parcel of servants !
Marl. No, no, I tell you (looks full in her face). Yes,
child, I think I did call. I wanted—I wanted—I vow, child,
you are vastly handsome.
Mise Hand. O la, Sir, you'll make one ashamed.
MarL. Never saw a more sprightly, malicious eye. Yes, yes,
my dear, I did call.
Have you got any of your—a—what d'ye
call it in the house?
Miss Hard. No, Sir; we have been out of that these ten
days.
ManL. One may call in this house, I find, to very little
purpose. Suppose I should call for a taste, just by way of trial,
of the nectar of your lips; perhaps I might be disappointed in
that too.
Miss Hand. Vectar, nectar! That's a liquor there's no call
for in these parts. French, I
suppose.
We keep no French
wines here, Sir.
MARL. Of true English growth, I assure you.
Miss IIARD. Then it's odd I should not know it. We brew
all sorts of wines in this house, and I have lived here these
eighteen years.
Marl Eighteen years! Why, one would think, child, you
kept the bar before you was born. How old are you?
Miss Harv. 0! Sir, I must not tell my age. They say
women and music should never be dated.
Marl. To guess at this distance, you can't be much above forty
(approaching) Yet nearer I don't think so much (approaching).
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.
317
manner.
By coming close to some women, they look younger still; but
when we come very close indeed—(attempting to kiss her.)
Miss HARD. Pray, Sir, keep your distance. One would think
you wanted to know one's age as they do hcrses, by mark of
mouth.
Marl. I protest, child, you use me extremely ill. If you
keep me at this distance, how is it possible you and I can ever be
acquainted ?
Miss HARD. And who wants to be acquainted with you? I
want no such acquaintance, not I. I'm sure you did not treat
Miss Hardcastle, that was here awhile ago, in this obstropalous
I'll warrant me, before her you looked dashed, and
kept bowing to the ground, and talked, for all the world, as if
you were before a justice of peace.
Marl. (Aside.) Egad, she has hit it, sure enough! (To her)
In awe of her, child ? Ha! ha! ha! A mere awkward squint-
ing thing; no, no. I find you don't know me. I laughed and
rallied her a little ; but I was unwilling to be too severe.
No, I
could not be too severe, curse me!
Miss Harn. 0! then, Sir, you are a favorite, I find, among
the ladies ?
MARL. Yes, my dear, a great favorite. And yet, hang
me, I don't see what they find in me to follow. At the ladies'
club in town I'm called their agreeable Rattle. Rattle, child,
is not my real name, but one I'm known by. My name is Solo-
mons; Mr. Solomons, my dear, at your service. (Offering to
salute her.)
Miss ILARD. Hold, Sir. you are introducing me to your
club, not to yourself. And you're so great a favorite there, you
say?
MARL.
Yes, my dear.
There's Mrs. Mantrap, Lady Betty
Blackleg, the Countess of Sligo, Mrs. Langhorns, old Miss
318
DRAMAS.
Biddy Buckskin, and your humble servant, keep up the spirit of
the place.
Miss HARD. Then it is a very merry place, I suppose ?
Marl. Yes, as merry as cards, supper, wine, and old women
can make us.
Miss Hand. And their agreeable Rattle, ha! ha! ha!
MARL. (Aside.) Egad! I don't quite like this chit. She
looks knowing, methinks. You laugh, child?
Miss HARD. I can't but laugh, to think what time they all
have for minding their work or their family.
MARL. (ilside.) All's well; she don't laugh at me. (To her.)
Do
you ever work, child ?
Miss IIand. Ay, sure.
There's not a screen or a quilt in
the whole house but what can bear witness to that.
Manl. Odso! then you must show me your embroidery.
I embroider and draw patterns myself a little. If you want a
judge of your work, you must apply to me. (Seizing her handl.)
Miss IIand. Ay, but the colors do not look well by candle-
light. You shall see all in the morning. (Struggling :)
.
Mirl. And why not now, my angel ? Such beauty fires be-
yond the power of resistance.-Pshaw! the father here! My
old luck: I never nicked seven that I did not throw ames ace
three times following:
[E.cit MARLOW.
Enter HARDCASTLE, who stands in surprise.
Hand. So, Madam. So I find this is your modest lover.
This is your humble admirer, that kept his eyes fixed on the
ground, and only adored at humble distance. Kate, Kate, art
thou not ashamed to deceive your father so?
Miss IIARD. Never trust me, dear papa, but he's still the
modest man I first took him for; you'll be convinced of it as
well as I.
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.
319
a
IIATD. By the hand of my body, I believe his impudence is
.
infectious! Didn't I see him seize your hand ? Didn't I see
him haul you about like a milk-maid? And now you talk of his
respect and his modesty, forsooth!
Miss ILAND. But if I shortly convince you of his modesty,
that he has only the faults that will pass off with time, and the
virtues that will improve with age, I hope you'll forgive him.
HARD. The girl would actually make one run mad! I
tell
you I'll not be convinced. I am convinced. He has scarce
been three hours in the house, and he has already encroached on
all my prerogatives. You may like his impudence, and call it
modesty ; but my son-in-law, Madam, must have very different
qualifications.
Miss HARD. Sir, I ask but this nigirt to convince you.
ILARD. You shall not have half the time, for I have thoughts
of turning him out this very hour.
Miss Lurd. Give me that hour then, and I hope to satisfy
you.
IL RD. Well, an hour let it be then. But I'll have no trifling
with your father.
All fair and open,
do
you
mind me.
Miss ILIRD. I hope, Sir, you have ever found that I consid
ered your commands as my pride; for your kindness is such,
that my duty as yet has been inclination.
[Ermt.
ACT FOURTII.
Entor HLASTINGS AND VISS NEVILLE.
Hast. You surprise me; Sir Charles Marlow expected here
this night! Where have
your information?
Mus
M-NX. You may depend upon it. I just saw his letter
you
had
320
DRAMAS.
to Mr. Hardcastle, in which he tells him he intends setting out
a few hours after his son.
HAST. Then, my Constance, all must be completed before he
arrives. He knows me; and should he find me here, would
discover my name, and perhaps my designs to the rest of the
family.
Miss Nev. The jewels, I hope, are safe ?
HLAST. Yes, yes.
I have sent them to Marlow, who keeps
the keys of our baggage. In the mean time, I'll go to prepare
matters for our elopement. I have had the Squire's promise of a
fresh pair of horses; and if I should not see him again, will
write him farther directions.
[Exit.
Miss Nev. Well! success attend you. In the mean time
I'll
go amuse my aunt'with the old pretence of a violent passion
for my cousin.
[E.cit.
,
Enter Marlow, followed by a Serrant.
Marl. I wonder what Ilastings could mean by sending me
so valuable a thing as a casket to keep for him, when he knows
the only place I have is the seat of a post-coach at an inn-door.
Have you deposited the casket with the landlady, as I ordered
you? Have you put it into her own hands?
SER. Yes, your honor.
Jarl. She said she'd keep it safe, did she?
Sra. Yes, she said she'd keep it safe enough; she asked me
how I came by it? and she saill she had a great mind to make
me give an account of myself.
[Erit Serrant.
Marl. IIa! ha! ha! They're safe, however.
What an un
accountable set of beings have we got amongst! This little bar-
maid though runs in my head most strangely, and drives out the
absurdities of all the rest of the family. She's mine, she must
be mine, or I'm greatly mistaken.
SIE STOOPS TO CONQUER.
321
Enter ILASTINGS.
Hist. Bless me! I quite forgot to tell her that I intended
to prepare at the bottom of the garden. Marlow here, and in
spirits too!
MARL. Give me joy, Gcorge! Crown me, shadow me with
laurels! Well, Gcorge, after all, wc modest fellows don't want
for success among the women.
ILAST. Some women you mcan.
But what success has your
honor's modesty been crowned with now, that it grows so insolent
upon us ?
MARL. Didn't you see the tempting, brisk, lovely ittle
thing, that runs about the house with a bunch of keys to its
girdle?
ILAST. Well, and what thien ?
Mire.
She's mine, you roguc you. Such fire, such motion,
such cyes, such lips; but, -ogad ! she would not let me kiss them
though.
ILAST. But are you so sure, so very sure of her ?
Marl. Why, man, she talked of showing me her work above
stairs, and I am to approve the pattern.
ILust. But how can you, Charles, go about to rob a woman
of her honor!
MUL Pshaw! pshaw ! \l'e all know the honor of the bar-
maid of an inn. I don't intend to rob her, take my word for it;
there's nothing in this house I shan't honestly pay for.
ILAST. I believe the girl las virtue.
Mirt. And if she has, I should be the last man in the
world that would attempt to corrupt it.
ILST. You have taken care, I hope, of the casket I sent you
to lock up? It's in safety?
MARL.
It's safe enough. I have taken care of it.
But how could you think the seat of a post-coacli at an inn-door
Yes, yes.
VOL. IV.
322
DRAMAS.
a place of safety? Ah! numskull! I have taken better pre
cautions for you than you did for yourself - I have
HAST. What?
Marl. I have sent it to the landlady to keep for you.
HIAST. To the landlady!
Marl. The landlady.
Ilist. You did ?
MARL. I did. She's to be answerable for its forthcoming,
you know.
Hast. Yes, she'll bring it forth with a witness.
Mart. Wasn't I right? I believe you'll allow that I acted
prudently upon this occasion.
ILAST. (Asidle ) He must not see my uneasiness.
Marl. You seem a little disconcerted though, methinks.
Sure nothing has happened ?
IIAST. No, nothing Never was in better spirits in all my
life. And so you left it with the landlady, who, no doubt, very
rcadily undertook the charge.
MARL. Rather too readily. For she not only kept the cas-
ket, but, through her great precaution, was going to keep the
messenger too. Ila! ha! ha!
ILST. He! he! he! They're safe, however.
As a guinea in a miser's purse.
ILAST. (ulsive.) So now all hopes of fortune are at an end,
and we must set off without it (To him.) Well, Charles, I'll
leave you to your meditations on the pretty bar-maid, and, he !
he! he! may you be as successful for yourself, as you have been
for me!
[E.cit.
Marl. Thank ye, Gcorge: I ask no more. Ila! ha! ha!
MIL.
Enter ILARDCASTLE.
Harn.
I no longer know my own house.
It's turned all
SIIL STOOLS TO CONQUER.
323
topsy-turvy. His servants have got drunk already. I'll bear it
no longer; and yet, from my respect for his father, I'll be calma
(To him.) Mr Marlow, your servant. I'm your very humble ser-
vant. (Boring loue.)
Marl. Sir, your humble servant. (Asisle.) What's to be
the wonder now?
IARD. I believe, Sir, you must be sensible, Sir, that no man
alive ought to be more welcome than your father's son, Sir. I
liope you think so
NEL. I do from my soul, Sir. I don't want much entreaty.
I generally make my father's son welcome wherever he goes.
ILARD. I believe you do, from my soul, Sir. But though I
say nothing to your own conduct, that of your servants is insuf-
ferable. Their manner of drinking is setting a very bad cxam-
ple in this house, I assure you.
MARL. I protest. ny very goed Sir, that is no fault of mine.
If they don't drink as they ought, they are to blame. I ordercel
them not to spare the cellar. I did, I assure you. (To the süle-
scene.) IIcre, let one of my servants come up. (To him.) My posi-
tive directions were, that as I did not drink myself, they should
make up for my deficiencies below.
ILARI). Then they had your orders for what they do? I'm
satisfied!
Marl. They had, I assure you. You shall hear from one of
themselves.
Enter SERVANT, trunk
Mar You, Jeremy! Come forward, sirrah! What were my
orders? Were you not told to drink freely, and call for what you
trouglit fit, for the good of the house?
ILED. (Isl.) I begin to lose my patience?
Please your bonor, liberty and Flect-street for ever!
JER:
321
DRAMAS.
.no
ness
Though I'm but a servant, I'm as good as another man. I'll
drink for no man before supper, Sir, damme! Good liquor will
sit upon a good supper, but a good supper will not sit upon-
hiccup-upon my conscience, Sir.
Marl. You see, my old friend, the fellow is as drunk as he
can possibly be. I don't know what you'd have
you'd have the poor devil soused in a beer-barrel.
HARD. Zounds! he'll drive me distracted, if I contain myself
any longer. Mr. Marlow-Sir; I have submitted to your inso-
lence for more than four hours, and I see no likelihood of .ts
coming to an end. I'm now resolved to be master here, Sir;
and I desire that you and your drunken pack may leave my house
directly
MARL. Leave your house ! Sure you jest, my good friend!
What? when I'm doing what I can to please you?
Hard. I tell you, Sir, you don't please me; so I desire
you'll leave
my
house.
Marl. Sure you cannot be serious ? at this time o’night, and
such a nigiit? You only mean to banter me.
HARD. I tell you, Sir, I'm serious! And now that my pas-
sions are roused, I say this house is mine, Sir; this house is
mine, and I command you to leave it directly.
MARL. IIa ! ha! ha! A puddle in a storin. I shan't stir
a step, I assure you.—(In a serious tone) This your house, fellow!
It's
my
house. This is my house. Mine, while I choose to stay.
What right have you to bid me leave this house, Sir ? I never
met with such impudence, curse me; never in my
whole life
before.
Hand. Nor I, confound me if I ever did. To come to my
house, to call for what he likes, to turn me out of my own chair,
to insult the family, to order his servants to get drunk, and then
to tell
me, “ This house is mine, Sir.” By all that's impudent it
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.
325
a
makes me laugh. Ha! ha! ha! Pray, Sir (bantering), as you
take the house, what think you of taking the rest of the furni-
ture? There's a pair of silver candlesticks, and there's a fire-
screen, and there's a pair of brazen-nosed bellows; perhaps you
may take a fancy to them.
MARL
Mand. Bring me your bill, Sir, bring me your bill, and let's
make no more words about it.
Hand. There are a set of prints, too. What think you of
the Rake's Progress, for your own apartment?
Marl. Bring me your bill, I say; and I'll leave you and
your infernal house directly.
HARD. Then there's a mahogany table that you may see your
own face in.
Marl. My bill, I say.
Hard. I had forgot the great chair for your own particular
slumbers, after a hearty meal.
Marl. Zounds! bring me my bill, I say, and let's hear no
more on't.
Hard. Young man, young man, from your father's letter to
me, I was taught to expect a well-bred modest man as a visitor
here, but now I find him no better than a coxcomb and a bully;
but he will be down here presently, and shall hear more of it.
[Ecit.
MARL. How's this! Sure I have not mistaken the house.
Every thing looks like an inn; the servants cry coming; the
attendance is awkward ; the bar-maid, too, to attend us. But
she's here, and will further inform me. Whither so fast, child ?
A word with you.
Enter Miss ILARDCASTLE.
Miss HARD. Let it be short, then. I'm in a hurry. (Asidde.)
I believe he begins to find out his mistake. But it's too soon
quite to undeceive him.
326
DRAMAS,
on.
Mr. Pray, child. answer me one question. What are you,
and what may your business in this house be ?
Viss IIard. A relation of the family, Sir.
MARL What! a poor relation?
Miss ILaRD. Yes, Sir; a poor relation, appointed to keep
the keys, and to see that the guests want nothing in my power
to give them.
Marl. That is, you act as bar-maid of this inn.
Miss II Rn. Inn! O la—what brought that in your head?
One of the best families in the country keep an inn-Ha! ha! ha!
old Nr. Ilardcastle's house an inn!
MirL. Mr. Ilardcastle's house! Is this Mr. Hardcastle's
house. child?
Miss Ilar). Ay, sure! Whose else should it be?
Mirl. So then, all's out, and I have been damually imposed
O, confound my stupid head, I shall be laughed at over the
whole town. I shail bu stuck up in caricatura in all the print-
shops. The Dullissimo. Jieccaroni. To mistake this house of all
others for an inn, and my father's old friend for an innkeeper!
What a swaggering pumpy must he take me for! What a silly
puppy do I find myself'! There, again, may I be hang'd, my
dear, but I mistook you for the bar:maid.
Miss IL). Dar me! dear me! I'm sure there's nothing
in
my behavior to put me upon a level with one of that stamp.
Mu. Nothing my dear. nothing. But I was in for a list
of blunders, and could not help making you a subscriber. My
stupidity saw every thing the wrong way. I mistook
your
assiduity four assurance, and your simplicity for allurement. But
it's over-- This house I no more show my face in.
Miss II.1) I love. Sir, I have done nothing to disollige
yoll I'm sure I should be saty to affront any gentleman who
has been so polite, and said so many civil things to me. I'm
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.
327
sure I should be sorry (pretending to cry) if he left the family
upon my account.
I'm sure I should be sorry people said any
thing amiss, since I have no fortune but
my
character.
MARL. (Aside.) By Heaven! she weeps. This is the first
mark of tenderness I ever had from a modest
women,
and it
touches me. (To her) Excuse me, my lovely girl ; you are the
only part of the family I leave with reluctance. But to be plain
with you, the difference of our birth, fortune, and education,
makes an honorable connection impossible; and I can never
liarbor a thought of seducing simplicity that trusted in my
honor, of bringing ruin upon one, whose only fault was being too
lovely.
Miss Hand. (Asile.) Generous man! I now begin to
admire him—(To him) But I am sure my family is as good as
Miss IIardcastle's; and though I'm poor, that's no great mis-
fortune to a contented mind; and until this moment, I never
thought that it was bad to want fortune.
MARL. And why now, my pretty simplicity ?
Miss IIARD. Because it puts me at a distance from one, that,
if I had a thousand pounds, I would give it all to.
Marl. (1sile) This simplicity bewitches me, so that if I
stay, I'm undonc. I must make one bold effort, and leave her. –
(To her) Your partiality in my favor, my dear, touches me most
sevsibly: and were I to live for myself alone, I could easily fix
But I owe too much to the opinion of the world, too
much to the authority of a father; so that-I can scarcely speak
it-it affects me. Farewell.
[..cit.
Miss Hird. I never knew half his merit till now. He shall
not go, if I have power or art to detain him. I'll still preserve
thie character in which I stopped to conqucr, but will undeceive
my papa, who, perhaps, may laugh him out of his resolution.
[cit.
my choice.
328
DRAMAS.
a
7
Enter Tony, Miss NEVILLE.
Tony. Ay, you may steal for yourselves the next time. I
have done my duty. She has got the jewels again, that's a sure
thing; but she believes it was all a mistake of the servants.
Miss Nev. But, my dear cousin, sure you won't forsake as
in this distress? If she in the least suspects that I am going off,
I shall certainly be locked up, or sent to my aunt Pedigree's,
which is ten times worse.
Tony. To be sure, aunts of all kinds are damned bad things.
But what can I do? I have got you a pair of horses that will fly
like Whistle-jacket; and I'm sure you can't say but I've courted
you nicely before her face. Here she comes, we must court a bit
or two more, for fear she should suspect us.
(They retire, and seem to fondle.)
Enter Mrs. ILARDCASTLE.
Mrs. Hand. Well, I was greatly fluttered, to be sure. But
my son tells me it was all a mistake of the servants. I shan't
be easy, however, till they are fairly married, and then let her
keep her own fortune. But what do I see? fondling together,
as I'm alive. I never saw Tony so sprightly before. Ah! have
I caught you, my pretty doves? What, billing, exchanging
stolen glauces and broken murmurs? Ah!
TONY. As for murmurs, mother, we grumble a little now and
then to be sure. But there's no love lost between us.
MRS. ILARD, A mere sprinkling, Tony, upon the flame, only
to make it burn brighter.
Miss NET ('ousin Tony promises to give us more of his
company at home. Indeed, he shan't leave us any more. It
won't leave us, cousin Tony, will it?
TONY. 0! it's a pretty creature. Yo, I'd sooner leave my
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.
329
horse in a pound, than leave you when you smile upon one so.
Your laugh makes you so becoming.
Miss Nev. Agreeable cousin!
Agreeable cousin! Who can help admiring that
natural humor, that pleasant, broad, red, thoughtless—(patting
his check) ah! it's a bold face.
Mrs. HARD. Pretty innocence !
!
Tony. I'm sure I always loved cousin Con's hazel eyes,
and
her pretty long fingers, that she twists this way and that over the
haspicolls, like a parcel of bobbins.
Mrs. Hand. Ah, he would charm the bird from the tree. I
was never so happy before. My boy takes after his father, poor
Mr. Lumpkin, exactly. The jewels, my dear Con, shall be yours
incontinently. You shall have them. Isn't he a sweet boy, my
dear? You shall be married to-morrow, and we'll put off the
rest of his education, like Dr. Drowsy's sermons, to a fitter op-
portunity
Enter Diggory.
Dig.. Where's the 'squire? I have got a letter for your
worship
Tony. Give it to my mainma. She reads all my letters
first.
Dig. I had orders to deliver it into your own hands.
TONY. Who does it come from?
Dig. Your worship inun ask that the letter itself.
Toxy. I could wish to know though (turning the letter and
gucing on it.)
Miss Nev. (Isidle.) 'ndone! undone! A letter to him
from Ilastings. I kuow the band. If my aunt sees it, we are
ruined for ever. I'll keep her employed a little if I can. (To
Mrs. liardcusile) But I have not told you,
Madam, of my
cousin's smart answer just now to Mr. Marlow. We so laughed.
330
DRAMAS.
-You must know, Madam—This way a little, for he must not
hear us. (They confer.)
Tony. (Still gucing.) A damned cramp piece of penman-
ship, as ever I saw in my life. I can read your print hand very
well. But here there are such handles, and shanks, and dashes,
that one can scarce know the head from the tail.
" To Anthony
Lumpkin, Esquire." It's very odd, I can read the outside of my
letters, where my own name is, well enough.
But when I come
to open it, it's all-buzz. That's hard, very hard; for the
inside of the letter is always the cream of the correspondence.
Mrs. ILARD. IIa! ha! ha! Very well, very well. And so
my son was too hard for the philosopher.
Miss Nir. Yes, Madam; but you must hear the rest, Madam.
A little more this way, or he may hear us. You'll hear how he
puzzled him again.
MRS. ILARD. IIe seems strangely puzzled now liimself, me-
thinks.
TONY. (Hill saging.) 1 damned up and down hand, as if it
was disguised in liquor. (Revuting) Dear, Sir.-ay, that's that.
Then there's an M, and a T. and an S, but whether the next be
an izzard, or an R, confound me, I cannot tell.
Vrs. ILIR. What's that, my dear?
Can I give you any
assistance.
M's Nev. Pray. amt, let me read it Nobody reads a
cramp hand better than I. (Tiritching the letter from him.)
Do you know who it is from ?
Toxv. Can't tell, except from Dick Ginger, the feeder.
Miss Nav Ay, so it is pretending to mar). Dear 'Squire,
hoping that you're in health, as I am at this present. The gentle-
men of the Shake-bag club has cut the gentlemen of the Goose-
green quite out of feather. The odds -um--odd battle
--u--long fighting -- um-hiere, here, it's all about cocks and
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.
331
fighting; it's of no consequence, here, put it up, put it up.
(Thrusting the crumpled letter upon him.)
TONY. But I tell you, Miss, it's of all the consequence in
the world. I would not lose the rest of it for a guinca. Here,
mother, do you make it out. Of no consequence! (Giving
Drs. Hardcastle the letter.)
Mrs. IIARD. How's this! (Reads.) “Dear 'Squire, I'm
now waiting for Miss Neville, with a post-chaise and pair, at the
bottom of the garden, but I find my horses yet unable to per-
form the journey. I expect you'll assist us with a pair of fresh
horses, as you promised. Dispatch is necessary, as the hay (ay,
the hag) your mother, will otherwise suspect us. Yours, Hast-
ings." Grant me patience: I shall run distracted! My rage
chokes me.
Miss Nev. I hope, Madam, you'll suspend your resentment
for a few moments, and not impute to me any impertinence, or
sinister design, that belongs to another.
Mrs. ILurd. (Curtsrying rery lour.) Fine spoken Madam,
you are most miraculously polite and engaging and quite the very
pink of courtesy and circumspection, Madam. (Changing her
tone.) And you, you great ill-fashioned oaf, with scarce sense
enough to keep your mouth shut: were you, too, joined against
me? But I'll defeat all your plots in a moment.
Madam, since you have got a pair of fresh horses really, it would
be cruel to disappoint them. So, if you please, instead of run-
ming away with your spark, prepare, this very moment, to run off
Your old aunt Pedigree will keep you secure. I'll war-
rant me. You too, Sir, may mount your horse, and guard us
upon the way. Ilere, Thomas. Roger, Digvory! I'll show you,
that I wish you better than you do yourselves.
[Eril.
Miss Nex. So now I'm completely ruined.
.
.
Tony. Ay, that's a sure thing.
As for you,
with me.
332
DRAMAS
Miss Nev What better could be expected from being con-
nected with such a stupid fool,—and after all the nods and signs
I made him ?
Tony. By the laws, Miss, it was your own cleverness, and
not my stupidity, that did your business. You were so nice and
so busy with your Shake-bags and Goose-greens, that I thought
you could never be making believe.
Enter HASTINGS.
Hast. So, Sir, I find by my servant, that you have shown
my letter, and betrayed us. Was this well done, young gentle-
man?
Tony. Here's another. Ask Miss, there, who betrayed you?
Ecod, it was her doing, not mine.
Enter MARLOW.
Marl. So I have been finely used here among you. Ren-
dered contemptible, driven into ill-manners, despised, insulted,
laughed at
Tony. Here's another. We shall have old Bedlam broke
loose presently.
Miss NEX. And there, Sir, is the gentleman to whom we all
owe every obligation.
Marl. What can I say to him? a mere boy, an idiot, whose
ignorance and age are a protection.
IIast. poor contemptible booby, that would but disgrace
correction
Miss Nev. Yet with cunning and malice enough to make
himself merry with all our embarrassments.
ILST. An insensible cub.
MARL. Replete with tricks and mischief.
Tovy. Baw! dam’me, but I'll fight you both, one after the
other- -with baskets
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.
333
Marl. As for him, he's below resentment. But your con
duct, Mr. Hastings, requires an explanation. You knew of my
mistakes, yet would not undeceive me.
Hast. Tortured as I am with my own disappointments, is
this a time for explanations? It is not friendly, Mr. Marlow.
MARL. But. Sir-
, —
Miss Nev. Mr. Marlow, we never kept on your mistake, till
it was too late to undeceive
you.
Enter ServANT.
SERV. My mistress desires you'll get ready immediately,
Madam. The horses are putting to. Your hat and things are
in the next room. We are to go thirty miles before morning.
[Exit SERVANT.
Miss Nev. Well, well, I'll come presently.
Marl. (To Hastings.) Was it well done, Sir, to assist in ren-
dering me ridiculous? To hang me out for the scorn of all my
acquaintance? Depend upon it, Sir, I shall expect an explanation.
Hasr. Was it well done, Sir, if you're upon that subject, to
deliver what I entrusted to yourself, to the care of another, Sir?
Miss Nev. Mr. IIastings ! Mr. Marlow! Why will you
increase my distress by this groundless dispute? I implore, I
entreat you
Enter ServANT.
Serv. Your cloak, Madam. My mistress is impatient.
[Exit SERVANT
Miss Nev. I come. Pray be pacified. If I leave you thus,
I shall die with apprehension.
Enter SERVANT..
Serv. Your fan, muff, and gloves, Madam. The horses aro
waiting.
234
DRAMAS.
me.
Miss Nev. O, Mr. Marlow, if you knew what a scene of con-
straint and ill-nature lies before me, I am sure it would convert
your resentment into pity.
MARL. I'm so distracted with a variety of passions, that I
don't know what I do. Forgive me, Madam. George, forgive
You know my hasty temper, and should not exasperate it.
HAST. The torture of my situation is my only excuse.
Miss Nev. Well, my dear Hastings, if you have that estuem
for me that I think, that I am sure you have, your constancy
for three years will but increase the happiness of our future con-
nection. If
Mrs. Hard. (Within.) Miss Neville. Constance, why Con-
stance, I say.
Miss Nev. I'm coming. Well, constancy, remember, con-
stancy is the word.
[Exit.
Hast. My heart! how can I support this ? To be so near
happiness, and such liappiness!
MANL. ' (Tb Tony.) You see now, young gentleman, the
effects of your folly. What might be amusement to you, is here
disappointment, and even distress.
Tony. (From a retoric.) Ecod, I have hit it: it's here. Your
hands. Yours and yours, my poor Sulky.—My boots there, ho!
Meet me two hours hence at the bottom of the garden; and if
you don't find Tony Lumpkin a more good-natured fellow than
you thought for, I'll give you leave to take my best horse, and
Bet Bouncer into the bargain. Come along. My boots, ho!
[Exeunt.
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.
335
ACT FIFTH.
Enter HASTINGS and SERVANT.
Hast. You saw the old lady and Miss Neville drive off,
you say?
Serv. Yes, your honor. They went off in a post-coach, and
the young 'Squire went on horseback. They're thirty miles off
by this time.
Hast. Then all my hopes are over.
Serv. Yes, Sir. Old Sir Charles is arrived. He and the
old gentleman of the house have been laughing at Mr. Marlow's
mistake this half hour. They are coming this way.
HAST. Then I must not be seen. So now to my fruitless
appointment at the bottom of the garden. This is about the
time.
Enter Sir CHARLES and HARDCASTLE.
HARD. Ha! ha! ha! The peremptory tone in which he
sent forth his sublime commands !
Sir Cias. And the reserve with which I suppose he treated
all your advances.
Hap.D. And yet he might have seen something in me above
a common innkeeper, too.
Sir Chas. Yes, Dick, but he mistook you for an uncommon
innkeeper; ha! ha! ha!
ILARD. Well, I'm in too good spirits to think of any thing
but joy. Yes, my dear friend, this union of our families will
make our personal friendships Dureditary, and though my
daughter's fortune is but small
Sır Cuis. Why, Dick, will you talk of fortune to me? My
son is possessed of more than a competence already, and can
want nothing but a good and virtuous girl to share his hap-
336
DRAMAS
piness, and increase it. If they like each other, as you say they
do
Hand. If, man! I tell you they do like each other. My
daughter as good as told me so.
Sir Chas. But girls are apt to flatter themselves, you know.
Hard. I saw him grasp her hand in the warmest manner
myself; and here he comes to put you out of your ifs, I warrant
him.
Enter Marlow.
MARL. I come, Sir, once more, to ask pardon for my
strange conduct. I can scarce reflect on my insolence without
confusion
HARD. Tut, boy, a trifle. You take it too gravely. An
hour or two's laughing with my daughter will set all to rights
again. She'll never like you the worse for it.
Marl. Sir, I shall be always proud of her approbation.
Approbation is but a cold word, Mr. Marlow; if I
am not deceived, you have something more than approbation
thereabouts. You take me ?
Marl. Really, Sir, I have not that happiness.
ILARD. Come, boy. I'm an old fellow, and know what's what
as well as you that are younger. I know what has passed between
you; but mum.
MARL. Sure, Sir, nothing has passed between us but the
most profound respect on my side, and the most distant reserve
on hers. You don't think, Sir, that my impudence has been
passed upon all the rest of the family?
ILAR!). Impudence! No, I don't say that—not quite impu-
dence—though girls like to be played with, and rumpled a little
too, sometimes. But she has told no tales, I assure you.
Marl. I never gave her the slightest cause.
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.
337
Hard. Well, well, I like modesty in its place well enough
But this is over-acting, young gentleman. You may be open.
Your father and I will like you the better for it.
Marl. May I die, Sir, if I ever-
Hand. I tell you she don't dislike you ; and as I'm sure you
like her-
Mart. Dear Sir—I protest, Sir-
HARD. I see no reason why you should not be joined as fast
as the parson can tie you.
MARL. Dit hear me, Sir
HARD. Your father approves the match, I admire it; every
moment's delay will be doing mischief, so-
Marl. But why won't you hear me? By all that's just and
true, I never gave Miss Hardcastle the slightest mark of my at-
tachment, or even the most distant hint to suspect me of affec-
tion. We had but one interview, and that was formal, modest,
and uninteresting
Hard. (Aside.) This fellow's formal modest impudence is
beyond bearing
Sir Chas. And you never grasped her hand or made any
protestations ?
MARL.
As IIcaven is my witness, I came down in obedience
to your commands; I saw the lady without emotion, and parted
without reluctance. I hope you'll exact no further proofs of my
duty, nor prevent me from leaving a house in which I suffer so
many mortifications.
[E.cit.
Sır Cras. I'm astonished at the air of sincerity with which
he parted
Hard. And I'm astonished at the deliberate intrepidity of
his assurance.
Sir CHAS I dare pledge my life and honor upon his truth.
15
VOL.
11
338
DRAMAS
HARD. Here comes my daughter, and I would stake my hap
piness upon her veracity.
Enter Miss HARDCASTLE.
Hard. Kate, come hither, child. Answer us sincerely and
without reserve; has Mr. Marlow made you any professions of
love and affection ?
Viss Ilard. The question is very abrupt, Sir! But since
you require unreserved sincerity, I think he has.
HARD. (To Sir Charles.) You see.
Sm Cias. Ind pray, Madam, have you and my son had
more than one interview ?
Miss ILIRD. Yes, Sir, several.
HIAR1). (To Sir Charles.) You see.
Sir Chas. But did he profess any attachment?
Miss IIARD). A lasting one.
). A
Sir Chas. Did he talk of love?
Diss HOD. Much, Sir.
Sir Culas. Amazing! And all this formally?
Miss ILAND). Formally.
ILARD. Now, my friend, I hope you are satisfied.
Sir Chas. And low did he behave, Madam?
Miss Hand. Is most professed admirers do; said some civil
things of my face; talked much of his want of merit. and the
greatness of mine; mentioned his heart, gave a short tragedy
speech, and ended with pretended rapture.
SIR CHAS. Now I'm perfectly convinced indeed. I know lis
conversation among women to be modest and submissive; this
forward cantiny ranting manner by no means describes him; and,
I am confident, he never sat for the picture.
MIS. ILIRD. Then, what, Sir, if I should convince you to
your face of my siucurity? If you and my zadat, in about half an
SIIE STOOPS TO CONQUER.
339
hour, will place yourselves behind that screen, you shall hear him
declare his passion to me in person.
Sır Chas. Agreed. And if I find him what you describe,
all my happiness in him must have an end.
[Erit.
Miss Hann. And if you don't find him what I describe-I
fear my happiness must never have a beginning. [Exeunt.
Scene changes to the back of the Garden.
Enter HASTINGS.
Hast. What an idiot am I, to wait here for a fellow who
probably takes a delight in mortifying mc. IIe never intended
to be punctual, and I'll wait no longer. What do I see? It is
he! and perhaps with news of my
Constance.
Enter Tony, bootal and swattereil.
HLAST. Vy honest Squire ! I now find you a man of your
word. This looks like friendship
Tony. Ay, I'm your friend, and the best friend you
have in
the world, if you knew but all. This riding by night, by the by,
is cursedly tiresome. It has shook me worse than the basket of
a stage-coach.
Hist. But how? where did you leave your fellow-travellers ?
Are they in safety? Are they housed?
TONY. Five and twenty miles in two hours and a half is
no such bad driving. The poor beasts have smoked for it: Rab.
bit me, but I'd rather ride forty miles after a fox than ten with
such varment.
ILAST. Well, but where have you left the ladies ? I die with
impatience
Tony. Left them! Why where should I leave them, but
where I found them?
310
DRAMAS.
Ilast. This is a riddle.
Tony. Riddle me this then. What's that goes round the
house, and round the house, and never touches the house ?
HAST. I'm still astray.
Tony. Why, that's it, mon.
I have led them astray. By
jingo, there's not a pond or a slough within five miles of the place
but they can tell the taste of.
HAST. Ha! ha! ha! I understand: you took them in a
round, while they supposed themselves going forward, and so you
have at last brought them home again.
Tony. You shall hear. I first took them down Feather-bed-
Lane, where we stuck fast in the mud. I then rattled them
crack over the stones of Up-and-down Hill. I then introduced
them to the gibbet on Ileavy-tree Heath; and from that, with a
circumbendibus, I fairly lodged them in the horse-pond at the
Ι
bottom of the garden.
Ilast. But no accident, I hope?
Tony. No, no, only mother is confoundedly frightened. She
thinks herself forty miles off. She's sick of the journey; and the
cattle can scarce crawl. So if your own horses be ready, you may
whip off with cousin, and I'll be bound that no soul here can
budge a foot to follow you.
ILAST. My dear friend, how can I be grateful?
TONY. Ay, now it's dear friend, noble 'Squire. Just now,
it was all idiot, cub, and run me through the guts. Damn your
way of fighting, I say. After we take a knock in this part of the
country, we kiss and be friends. But if you had run me through
the guts, then I should be dead, and you might go and kiss the
hangman
ILAST. The rebuke is just. But I must hasten to relieve
Miss Neville: if you keep the old lady employed, I promise to
take care of the young one.
[Exit HASTINGS.
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.
311
Tony. Never fear me. Here she comes. Vanish! She's
got from the pond, ard draggled up to the waist like a mermaid.
Enter Mrs. HARDCASTLE.
Mrs. Hard. Oh, Tony, I'm killed! Shook! Battered to
death. I shall never survive it. That last jolt, that laid us
against the quickset hedge, bas done my business.
Tony. Alack, mamma, it was all your own fault. You
would be for running away by night, without knowing one inch
of the
way.
Mrs. HARD. I wish we were at home again. I never met
so many accidents in so short a journey. Drenched in the mud,
overturned in a ditch, stuck fast in a slough, jolted to a jelly,
and at last to lose our way. Whereabouts do you think we are,
Tony ?
Tony. By my guess, we should come upon Crackskull Com-
mon, about forty miles from home.
Mrs. Hard. O lud! O lud ! The most notorious spot in
all the country. We only want a robbery to make a complete
night on't.
Tony. Don't be afraid, mamma, don't be afraid. Two of the
five that kept here are hanged, and the other three may not find
Don't be afraid. —Is that a man that's gallopiug behind us?
No; it's only a tree.-Don't be afraid.
Mrs. Hard. The fright will certainly kill me
.
Tony. Do you see any thing like a black hat moving behind
the thicket?
Mrs. HARD. Oh, death!
Hard
Tunt. No; it's only a cow. Don't be afraid, mamma; don't
be afraid.
Mrs. Ilar. As I'm alive, Tony, I see a man coming towards
Ah! I'm sure on't. If he perceives us we are undore
us.
us.
342
DRAMAS.
Toxy. (1side) Father-in-law, by all that's unlucky, come
to take one of his night walks --(To her) Ah! it's a highway-
man, with pistols as long as my arm. A damn’d ill-looking
fellow.
Mrs. Hard. Good Heaven defend us! He approaches.
.
Tony. Do you hide yourself in that thicket, and leave me to
manage him. If there be any danger, I'll cough, and cry hem.
When I cough be sure to keep close. (Mrs. HardCASTLE hides
behinul a tree in the back scene.)
Enter HARDCASTLE.
Ilard. I'm mistaken, or I heard voices of people in want of
help. Oh, Tony! is that you? I did not expect you so soon
back. Are your mother and her charge in safety?
Tony. Very safe, Sir, at my aunt Pedigree's. Hem.
Mrs. Hard. (From Ichind.) Ah, death! I find there's
danger.
Hard. Forty miles in three hours; sure that's too much,
my youngster.
TONY. Stout horses and willing minds make short journeys,
as they say.
Пеm.
Mrs. ILAND (From behind.) Sure he'll do the dear boy no
harm.
Hird. But I heard a voice here; I should be glad to know
from whence it came.
Tory. It was I. Sir, talking to myself, Sir. I was saying
that forty miles in four hours was very good going. Hem. As
to be sure it was, len1. I have got a sort of cold by being out
in the air. We'll go in, if you please. Iem.
HUD. But if you talked to yourself you did not answer
yourself I'm certain I heard two voices, and am resolved
(raising his rier) to find the other out.
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.
313
а
Mrs. Ilsnn. (From behind.) Oh! he's coming to find me
.
out. Oh!
TOXT. What need you go. Sir, if I tell you? Hem. I'll
TONY.
lay down my life for the truth--hem-I'll tell you all, Sir.
(Detaining him.)
HAND. I tell you I will not be detained. I insist on seeing.
It's in vain to expect I'll believe you.
Mrs. ILind. (Running forward from behinl) O lud! he'll
murder my poor boy, my darling! Ilere, good gentleman, whet
your rige upon me. Take my money, my life, but spare that
young gentleman; spare my child, if you have any merey.
Kind. Hy wiſe, as I'm a Christian. From whence can she
come? or what does she mean?
Mrs. ILIRD. (Kneeling.) Take compassion on us, good Mr.
Highwayman. Take our money, our watches, all we have, but
spare our lives.
We will never bring you to justice; indeed we
won't, good Mr. IIighwayman.
ILIRD. I believe the woman's out of her senses.
Dorothy! don't you know me?
MS LAND.
Mr. Hardcastle, as I'm alive! Jy fears
blinded me.
But wlo, my dear, could have expected to meet
you here, in this frightful place, so far frova home? What has
brought you to follow us?
ILARI). Sure, Dorothy, you have not lost your wits? So far
from home, when you are within forty yards of your own door !
-(To him) This is one of your old tricks, you graceless
rogue you.—(To her) Don't you know the gate and the
mulberry-tree; and don't you remember the hors-pontmy
dear?
Mis. Il D. Yes, I shall remember the horse-pond as long
as I live: I have caught my death in it--(77) And is it
What,
344
DRAMAS.
to you, you graceless varlet, I owe all this?
I'll teach you to
abuse your mother, I will.
Tony. Ecod, mother, all the parish says you hare spoiled
me, and so you may take the fruits on't.
Mrs. Iard. I'll spoil you, I will.
[Follonos him of the stage. E.cit.
Hard. There's morality, however, in his reply. [E.cit.
Enter HASTINGS and Miss NEVILLE.
Hast. My dear Constance, why will you deliberate thus ?
If we delay a moment, all is lost for ever. Pluck up a little
resolution, and we shall soon be out of the reach of her ma
lignity.
Miss Nov. I find it impossible. My spirits are so sunk
with the agitations I have suffered, that I am unable to face any
new danger. Two or three years' patience will at last crown ug
with happiness.
HIAST. Such a tedious delay is worse than inconstancy. Let
us fly, my charmer. Let us date our happiness from this very
moment. l'erish fortune! Love and content will increase what
we possess beyond a monarchi’s revenue. Let me prerail !
Miss Nav. No, Mr. Hastings, no.
Prudence once inore
comes to my relief, and I will obey its dietates. In the moment
of passion, fortune may be despised, but it ever produces a last-
ing repentance. I'm resolved to apply to Mr. Hardcastle's com-
passion and justice for redress.
ILST. But though he had the will. he has not the power to
a
relieve you.
Miss Nev. But he has influence, and upon that I am re.
solved to rely
ILIST. I have no hopes But since you persist, I must
reluctantly obey you.
[Errunt
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.
345
Scene changes.
Enter Sir CHARLES and Miss HARDCASTLE.
Sir Chas. What a situation am I in !
If what you say
appears, I shall then find a guilty son. If what he says be true,
I shall then lose one that, of all others, I most wished for a
daughter.
Miss Hand. I am proud of your approbation; and to show
I merit it, if you place yourselves as I directed, you shall hear
his explicit declaration. But he comes.
Sir Chas. I'll to your father, and keep him to the appoint-
ment.
[Exit Sm Charles.
Enter Marlow.
renove.
Marl. Though prepared for setting out, I come once more
to take leave; nor did I, till this moment, know the pain I feel
in the separation.
Miss IIard. (In her oun natural manner.) I believe
these sufferings cannot be very great, Sir, which you can so easily
A day or two longer, perhaps, might lessen your un-
easiness, by showing the little value of what you now think proper
to regret.
Mirl. (Asiele.) This girl every moment improves upon
me.—(75 her.) It must not be, Madam. I have already trifled
too long with my heart. My very pride begins to submit to my
passion. The disparity of education and fortune, the anger of
a parent, and the contempt of my cpals, begin to lose their
weight; and nothing can restore me to myself but this painful
effort of resolution.
Miss ILUD. Then go, Sir : I'll urge nothing more to de-
tain you. Though my family be as good as hers you camo
down to visit, and my education, I hope, not inferior, what are
15*
VOL. IV.
316
DRAMAS
these advantages without equal afluence? I must remain con-
sented with the slight approbation of imputed merit; I must
have only the mockery of your addresses, while all your serious
aims are fixed on fortune.
Enter LLARDCASTLE and Sir CHARLES, from behind.
Sir CHAS. lIere, behind this screen.
ILD. Ay, ay; make no noise. I'll engage my Kate covers
him with confusion at last.
Marl. By heavens, Madam! fortune was ever my small-
est consideration. Your beauty at first caught my eye; for who
Quld see that without emotion ? But every moment that I con-
verse with you, steals in some new grace, heightens the picture,
and gives it stronger expression. What at first sight seemed
rustic plainness, now appears refined simplicity. What scemed
forward assurance, now strikes me as the result of courageous in-
nocence and conscious virtue.
Sir Cuis. What can it mean? Ile amazes me!
HARD). I told you how it would be. Hush !
VRL. I am now determined to stay, Madam, and I have
too good an opinion of my father's discernment, when he sees
you, to doubt his approbation.
Miss HIAR. No, Vir. Marlow, I will not, cannot detain
you.
Do
you think I could suffer a connection in which there is
the smallest room for repentance? Do you think I would take
the mean advantage of a transient passion to load you
with con-
fusion? Do you think I could ever relish that happiness which
was acquired by lessening yours?
MLARI. By all that's good, I can have no happiness but
what's in your power to grant me!
Nor shall I ever feel re-
pentance but in not having seen your merits before.
I will stay
even entrary to your wishes; and though you should persist to
SIIE STOOPS TO CONQUER.
347
slun
me,
I will make my respectful assiduities atone for the levity
of my past conduct.
Miss ULR1). Sir, I must entreat you'll desist. As our ac-
quaintance began, so let it end, in indifference. I might have
given an hour or two to levity; but seriously, Mr. Marlow, do
you think I could ever submit to a connection where I must
appear mercenary, and you imprudent? Do you think I could
erer catch at the confident addresses of a secure admirer?
MRL. (Knerting) Does this look like security ? Does
this look like confidence? No, Vadam, every moment that shows
inc your merit, only serves to increase my diffidence and confu-
sion. Ilere let me continue--
Sur Chas I can hold it no longer. Charles, Charles, how
hast thou deceived me! Is this your indifference, your uninter-
esting conversatior ?
ILAND. Your cold contempt; your formal interview! What
bave
you to say now?
MANL. That I'm all amazemeni! What can it mean?
HARD. It means that you can say an unsay things at
pleasure: that you can address a lady in private, and deny it in
public: that you have one story for 113, and another for my
daughter.
Miel Daughter !—This lady your daughter ?
ILARI). Yes, Sir, my only dangliter: ny Kate ; whose else
should sie be?
Mar. Oh, the devil!
Miss HARD. Yes, Sir, that very identical tall squiniing lady
you were pleased to take me for (courtseying); she that
rou
ad-
dressed as the mill, modest, sentimental man of gravity, and the
bold, forward, agreeable Rattle of the ladies' club. Ia! ha! ha!
M. Zonds! there's no hearing tliis; it's worse than
death!
3
348
DRAMAS.
Miss IIand. In which of your characters, Sir, will you give
us leave to address you? As the faltering gentleman, with looks
on the ground, that speaks just to be heard, and hates hypocrisy;
or the loud confident creature, that keeps it up with Mrs. Man.
trap, and old Miss Biddy Buckskin, till three in the morning ?-
Ha! ha! ha!
MARL. 0, curse on my noisy head! I never a itempice to be
impudent yet that was not taken down! I must be gone.
HARD. By the hand of my body, but you shall not.
it was all a mistake, and I am rejoiced to find it. You shall not,
Sir, I tell you. I know she'll forgive you. Won't you forgive
him, Kate?
We'll all forgive you. Take courage, man.
[They retire, she tormenting him, to the back: scone.
I see
20, I
Enter Mrs. HARDCASTLI, TONY.
Mrs. HARD. So so, they're gone off. Let them care not
Harm).
Who gone?
Mrs. ILARD. Vy dutiful niece and her gentleman, Mr. Has-
tings, from town. Ile who came down with our modest visitor
here.
Sr Cruis. Who, my honest George Hastings ? As worthy
a fellow as lives, and the girl could not have made a more pri-
dent choice.
ILARD. Then, by the hanıl of my body, I'm proud of the
connection
Mrs. Har). Well, if he has taken away the lady, he has
not taken her fortune; that remains in this family to console us
for her loss.
HARD. Sure, Dorothy, you would not be so mercenary ?
Mrs. Linn. Ay, that's my affair, not yours.
Ilarn. But you know if your son, when of :39, refuses to
marry his cousin, her whole fortune is then at her own disposal.
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.
349
Mrs. HARD. Ay, but he's not of age, and she has not thought
proper to wait for his refusal.
Enter HASTINGS and Miss NEVILLE.
Mrs. Hand. (Aside.) What, returned so soon! I begin not
to like it.
Hast. (To Hardcastle.) For my late attempt to fly off with
your niece, let my present confusion be my punishment. We are
now come back, to appeal from your justice to your humanity.
By her father's consent I first paid her my addresses, and our
passions were first founded in duty.
Miss Nev. Since his death, I have been obliged to stoop to
dissimulation to avoid oppression. In an hour of levity, I was
ready to give up my fortune to secure my choice: but I am now
recovered from the delusion, and hope from your tenderness what
is denied me from a nearer connection.
Mrs. Hand. Pshaw, pshaw ! this is all but the whining end
of a modern novel.
Hard. Be it what it will, I'm glad they're come back to re-
claim their due. Come hither, Tony, boy. Do you refuse this
lady's hand whom I now offer you?
Tony. What significs my refusing? You know I can't re-
fuse her till I'm of
ige,
father.
Hard. While I thought concealing your age, boy, was likely
to conduce to your improvement, I concurred with your mother's
desire to keep it secret.
But since I find she turns it to a wrong
use, I must now declare you have been of age these three months.
Tony. Of age! Am I of age, father?
,
HARD. Above three months.
Tony. Then you'll see the first use I'll make of my liberty.
(Taking Miss NEVILLE's hanıl.) Witness all men by these pre-
sents, that I, Anthony Lumpkin, Esquire, of BLANK place, refuso
330
DRAMAS.
you, Constantia Neville, spinster, of no place at all, for my true
and lawful wife. So Constance Neville may marry whom she
pleases, and Tony Lumpkin is his own man again
Sir Chas O brave 'Syuire !
ILAST. My worthy friend !
Mus. ILARI). My undutiful offspring !
Marl Jay, my dear George, I give you joy sincerely.
.
And could I prevail upon my little tyrant here to be less arbi-
trary, I should be the happiest man alive, if you would return me
the favor.
HLAST. (To Miss ILARDCASTLE.) Come, Madam, you are now
driven to the very last scene of all your contrivances. I know
you like him, I'm sure he loves you, and you must and shall
have him.
ILARD. (Joining their hands.) And I say so too. And, Mr.
Marlow, if she makes as good a wife as she has a daughter, I don't
believe you'll ever repent your bargain. So now to supper. To-
morrow we shall gither all the poor of the parish about us,
and
thie mistakes of the night shall be crowned with a merry morning
So, boy, take her; and as you liave been mistaken in the mistress,
my wish is, that you may never be mistaken in the wife.
[Exeunt omnes.
(For the Epilogue, spoken by Mrs. Bulkley, in the character of Miss
Hardcastle. See p. 351.)
EPILOGIE.
351
EPILOGUE,
To be Spoken in the Character of Tony Lumpkin.
BY. J. CRADOCK, ESQ.*
Well—now all's ended—and my comrades gone,
Pray what becomes of “ motlıer's nonly son ?"
A hopeful blade !-in town f'll fix my station,
And try to make a bluster in the nation;
As for my cousin Neville, I renounce her,
Off-in a crack-I'll carry big Bet Bouncer.
Why should not I in the great world appear?
I soon shall have a thousand pounds a year!
No matter what a man may here inherit,
In London--gad, they've some regard to spirit.
I see the borses prancing up the streets,
And big Bet Bouncer bobs to all she meets;
Then hoiks to jics and pastimes ev'ry night-
Not to the plays—they say it ain't polite;
To Sadler's-Well perhaps, or operas go,
And once hy chance, to the roratorio.
Thús bere and there, for ever up and down,
We'll set the fashions too to half the town;
And then at anctions—money ne'er rogard,
Buy pictures like the great, ten pounds a yard :
Zouds, we shall make these London ventry say,
We know what's damnit oonteel as well as they
This came too!.:Ptol, sirkes). Sep 170.
1
SCENE
FROM
T II E Ꮐ Ꭱ U I B Ꮮ Ꭼ Ꭱ .
A FARCE.
(Now first printed.]
SCENE
FROM
THE GRUMBLER.
A FARCE.
(Noio first printed.)
a
[Gratitude to Quick, for his alle personation of Tony Lump-
kin in “She Stoops to Conquer," induced Goldsmith to consent
to alter Sir Charles Sedley's translation of Bruey's Comedy of
6. Le Grondeur" into a Farce for his benefit. The following is
an outline of the plot. Sourby, an ill-tempered, discontented
man, is the torment of his family, neighbors, and servants. In
the opening of the piece his son is on the point of being married
to Clarissa, the consent of Sourby being chiefly obtained by the
lady, who believes he has a design upon her himself, relinquish-
ing her naturally mild character for that of a termagant. The
character thus assumed agrees however so well with his own,
that, in defiance of previous arrangements, he determines to
marry her himself, a design favored by her fortune being in his
power. No other remedy occurs to the lovers to avoid his
tyranny than further deception: the lady therefore assumes the
character of an extravagant, giddy woman of fashion, who is de-
termined to have “ habits, feasts, fiddles, hautboys, masquerades,
concerts, and especially a ball for fifteen days after their nuptials."
Above all, her intended husband must learn to dance; and she
will admit of no excuse on the plea of years. In a change of
scene the dancing-master arrives; Sourby, as soon as he knows
his errand, orders him off and threatens chastisement: but the
former having his cue, declares he has positive orders from
Clarissa to make him dance, and drawing his svord compels him
to do so by force. In the midst of this scene Wentworth arrives,
and Sourby, in a fit of rage. renounces the lady. The piece was
represented at Covent Garden Theatre, on the 8th of May 1773,
but was not repeated. As it has never been printeil, a scene,
from the MS. copy, in the possession of John Paine Collier, Est,
is here given.-See Life, ch. xiii.]
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
.
Sourby (the Grumbler)
MR. QUICK
Octario (his Son)
Mr. Davis.
Wentworth (Brother-in-law to Sourby)
Mr. OWENSON.
Dancing Master (calleil Signior Capriole in the
Bills)
Mr. King.
Scamper (Servant)
Mr. SAUNDERS.
Clarissa (in love with Octavio)
Miss IIELMS.
Jenny (ler Mail)
Miss PEARCE.
.
1
SCENE
FROM
THE GRUMBLER. .
Enter SCAMPER (Sourby's servant) to Sourby, and his intended
wife's maid Jenny.
SCAM. Sir, a gentleman would speak with you.
JENNY. Good! Here comes Scamper; he'll manage you,
I'll warrant me.
[Aside.
Sour. Who is it?
SCAM. He says his name is Monsieur Ri-Ri-Stay, Sir,
I'll go and ask him again.
Sour. (Pulling him by the cars.) Take that, sirrah, by the
way.
SCAM. Ahi! Ahi!
[E.cit.
JENNY. Sir, you have torn off his hair, so that he must now
have a wig: you have pulled his ears off; but there are none of
them to be had for money.
Sour. I'll teach him-'Tis certainly Mr. Rigaut, my notary;
I know who it is, let him come in. Could he fiud no time but
this to bring me money? Plague take the blockhead!
358
DRAMAS
Who are you,
Enter DANCING-MASTER and his FIDDLER.
Sour. This is not my man.
with
your compli
ments ?
Dan. Mast. (Bowing often.) I am called Rigaudon, Sir, at
your service.
Sour. (To Jenny.) Have not I seen that face somewhere
before?
JENNY. There are a thousand people like one another.
Sour. Well, Mr. Rigaudon, what is your business?
DAN MAST. To give you this letter from Madam Clarissa.
Sour. Give it to me—I would fain know who taught Clarissa
to fold a letter thus. What contains it?
JENNY. (Asile, while he unfolds the letter.) A lover, I
believe, never complained of that before.
Sour. (Reads.) “Every body says I am to marry the most
brutal of men. I would disabuse them; and for that reason you
and I must begin the ball to-night." She is mad!
Dan. Vast. Go on, pray Sir.
Sour. (Reads.) “You told me you cannot dance; but I
have sent you the first man in the world."
(Sourby looks at him from houd to foot.)
DAN. MAST. Oh Lord, Sir.
Sour. (Reds.) “Who will teach you in less than an hour
enough to serve your purpose.” I learn to dance !
DAN. Mist. Finish, if you please.
SOUR. And if
you
will learn the Allemande,"
The Allemande! Jr. the first man in the world, do
you are in some danger here?
Dix. VAST. Come, Sir, in a quarter of an hour, you shall
dance to a miracle !
Sour. Mr. Rigandon, do you know I will send you out of
the window if I call my servants?
6.
love me, you
you know
THE GRUMBLER.
352
Dan. Mast. (Bidding his man play.) Come, brisk, this
little prelude will put you in humor; you must be held by the
hand; or have you some steps of your own?
Sour. Unless you put up that d-d fiddle, I'll beat it about
your ears.
Dan. Mast. Zounds, Sir! if you are thereabouts, you shall
dance presently—I say presently.
Sour. Shall I dance, villain ?
Dan. Mast. Yes. By the heavens above shall you
dance.
I have orders from Clarissa to make you dance. She has paid
me, and dance you shall; first, let him go out.
[Hle draws his sword, and puts it under his arm.
Sour. Ah! I'm dead. What a madman has this woman
sent me!
JENNY. I see I must interpose. Stay you there, Sir; let me
speak to him; Sir, pray do us the favor to go and tell the lady,
that it's disagreeable to my master.
DAN. MAST. I will have him dance.
Sour. The rascal ! the rascal !
Jexxy. Consider, if you please, my master is a grave man.
Dan MAST. I'll have him dance.
JCXXY. You
may
stand in need of him.
Sour. (Tuking her asile.) Yes, tell him that when he will,
without costing him a farthing, I'll bleed and purge him his
bellyfull.
Dax MAST. I'll have nothing to do with that; I'll have him
dance, or have his blood.
Suur. The rascal! (muttering.)
Juny. Sir, I can't work upon him; the madman will not
hear reason; some harm will happen-we are alone.
Surr. "Tis very true.
JENNY Look on him; he has an ill look.
360
DRAMAS.
Sour. He has so (trembling).
Dan. Mast. Make haste, I say, make haste.
Ι
Sour. Help! neighbors ! murder !
JENNY. Aye, you may cry for help; do you know that all
your neighbors would be glad to see you robbed and your throat
cut? Believe me, Sir, two Allemande steps may save your
life.
Sour. But if it should come to be known, I should be taken
for a fool.
JENNY. Love excuses all follies! and I have heard
say
that
when IIercules was in love, he spun for Queen Omphale.
Sour. Yes, Hercules spun, but Hercules did not dance the
Allemande.
JENNY. Well, you must tell him so; the gentleman will teach
you another.
а
Dan. Mast. Will you have a minuet, Sir ?
Sour. A minuet; no.
DAN. Mast. The loure.
Sour. The loure, no.
Dax Mast. The passay!
. MAST.
Sour. The passay, no.
DAN. MAT. What then? the trocanny, the tricotez, the
rigadon? Come, choose, choose.
Sour. No, no, no, I like none of these.
Dan. Mast. You would have a grave, serious dance, perhaps?
MAST
Sour. Yes, a serious one, if there be any—but a very serious
dance.
Dan. Mast. Well, the courante, the hornpipe, the brocane,
the sarahand ?
Sour. No, no, no !
DAN. MAST. What the devil then will you have? But make
haste or death!
THE GRUMBLER.
36.
Sour. Come on then, since it must be so; I'll learn a few
steps of the-the-
Dan. Mast. What of the-the-
Sour. I know not what.
Dan. Mast. You mock me, Sir; you shall dance the Alle-
mande, since Clarissa will have it so, or-
[He leads him about, the fiddle playing the Allemande.
Sour. I shall be laughed at by the whole town if it should
be known. I am determined, for this frolic, to deprive Clarissa
of that invaluable blessing, the possession of my person.
Dan. Mast. Come, come, Sir, move, move. (Teaching him.)
Sour. Cockatrice !
Dan. Mast. One, two, three ! (Teaching.)
Sour. A d—d, infernal-
Enter WENTWORTI.
Oh! brother, you are come in good time to free me from this
cursed bondage.
WENT. IIow! for shame brother, at your age to be thus
foolish.
Sour. As I hope for mercy,
WENT.
For shame, for shame-practising at sixty what
should have been finished at six.
Dan. Mast. He's not the only grown gentleman I have had
in hand.
WENT. Brother, brother, you'll be the mockery of the whole
city.
Sour. Eternal babbler! hear me; this curs'd confounded
villain will make me dance perforce.
WENT. Perforce.
Sour. Yes; by order, le says, of Clarissa ; but since I
now find she is unworthy, I give her ap--renounce her for ever.
16
VOL. IV.
363
DRAMAS
[The young couple enter immediately after this declaration, and
finding no farther obstruction to their union, the piece finishes
with the consent of the Grumbler, " in the hope," as he says,
" that they are possessed of mutual requisites to be the plague
of each other."]
CRITICISM,
RELATING TO
POETRY AND THE BELLES LETTRES.
(Now first collected.-See Life, ch. vi. and viii.)
1
!
CRITICISM,
RELATING TO
POETRY AND THE BELLES LETTRES.
I.-BURKE ON THE SUBLIME AND BEAUTIFUL.*
(From the Nonthly Rerieu, 1757. "A Philosophical Inquiry
into the Origin of our Ideas of the Sublime and beautiful."
8r0. Dosley.
There are limits prescribed to all human researches, beyond
which if we attempt to explore, nothing but obscurity and con-
jecture lic before us, and doubts instead of knowledge must ter-
minate the inquiry. The genius, not the judgment, of an author
,
may appear in the too abstracted speculation; he may contribute
to the amusement, but seldom to the instruction of the reader.
His illustrations may perplex, but not enlighten the mind; and,
* [This celebrated work, which Dr. Johnson considered“ an example of
true criticism," and which now forms a text book in liberal education, was
planned when Mr. Burke was in his twenty-second year, and finished before
he had attained his twenty-fifth. Whether Goldsmith knew the author person-
ally at this time is doubtful; that he may have been informed of his name, and
remembered him as a college contemporary, is probable."]
366
POETICAL CRITICISM.
like a microscope, the more he magnifies the object, he will repre
sent it the more obscurely.
There is, perhaps, no investigation more difficult than that of
the passions, and other affections resulting from them. The
difference of opinion among all who have treated on this subject,
serves to convince us of its uncertainty. Even the most eminent
philosophers have sometimes taken novelty, not truth, for their
conductor; and have destroyed the hypothesis of their prede-
cessors without being able to establish their own. It often hap-
pens, indeed, that while we read the productions of such a phi-
losopher, though we condemn the reasoner, we admire the
writer. Yet still learning, taste, and perspicuity, can lay claim
but to a subordinate degree of esteem, when they are employed
in contradicting truth, or in the investigation of inextricable
difficulties.
Our author thus, with all the sagacity so abstruse a subject
requires; with all the learning necessary to the illustration of
his system ; and with all the genius that can render disquisition
pleasing; by proceeding on principles not sufficieutly established,
has been only agreeable when he might have been instructive. Ho
rejects all former systems, and founds his philosophy on his own
particular feelings. He has divided the whole into sections, with
the contents of cach prefixed; a ucthod peculiarly necessary in
works of a philosophical nature; as such divisions serve for rest-
ing-places to the reader, and give him time to recollect the forco
of the author's reasoning.
The Sublime and the Beautiful have, through inadvertency;
or ignorance, been frequently confounded and mistaken one for
the other. What in its own nature is sublime, has the appella-
tion of beauty; and what is beautiful is often called sublime.
This, as the author remarks, must necessarily cause many mis-
takes in those whose business it is to influence the passions;
1
BURKE ON THE SUBLIME AND BEAUTIFUL.
367
since, by being unacquainted with the difference between the
sublime and the beautiful, they cannot happily succeed, unless by
chance, in either. The design of the work then is, to lay down
such principles as may tend to ascertain and distinguish the
sublime and the beautiful in any art, and to form a sort of stand-
ard for each.
The author first inquires into the affections of the sublime
and beautiful, in their own nature; he then proceeds to investi-
gate the properties of such things in nature as give rise to these
affections; and lastly, he considers in what manner these pro-
perties act to produce those affections, and each correspondent
emotion.
All our passions have their origin in self-preservation and in
society; and the ends of one or the other of these they are all
calculated to answer. The passions which concern self-preserva-
tion, and which are the most powerful of all the passions, turn
mostly on pain or danger. For instance, the idea of pain, sick-
ness, and death, fill the mind with strong emotions of horror;
but life and health, though they put us in a capacity of being
affected with pleasure, make no such impression by the single
enjoyment.
When danger or pain immediately affect us, they are simply
terrible, and incapable of giving any delight; but when the idea
of pain or danger is excited, without our being actually in such
circumstances as to be injured by it, it may be delightful, as every
one's experience demonstrates. This pleasing sensation, arising
from the diminution of pain, and which may be called hereafter
delight, is very different from that satisfaction which we feel with-
out any pain preceding it, which may be, in the sequel, termed
positive pleasure, or simply pleasure. Delight acts by no means
so strongly as positive pleasure; since no lessening, even of the
368
POETICAL CRITICISM.
severest pain, can rise to pleasure,* but the mind still continues
impressed with awe; a sort of tranquillity shadowed with horror.
When we have suffered from any violent emotion, the mind
naturally continues in something like the same condition, even
after the cause which frst produced it has ceased to operate; as
the fashion of the countenance and the gesture of the body, in
those who have just escaped some imminent degree of danger,
sufficiently indicate.
Whatever excites this delight, whatever is fitted in any
sort
to excite the ideas of pain and danger, without their actual exist-
ence, whatever is in any sort terrible, or is conversant about ter-
rible objects, or operates in a manner analogous to terror, is the
source of the sublime; that is, it is productive of the strongest
emotion the mind is capable of feeling. +
To prevent any interruption of the author's chain of reasoning, whatever
remark may happen to occur to us, in the course of our epitome of his per-
formance, we shall subjoin it as a note. Thus with regard to his distinction
between delight and pleasure, we may here observe, that most of the real
pleasures we possess, proceed from a diminution of pain. Our author imagines,
that positive pleasure operates upon us, by relaxing the nervous system ; but
that delight acts in a quite contrary manner. Yet it is evident, that a reprieve
to a criminal often affects him with such pleasure, that his whole frame is
relaxed, and he faints away: here, then, a diminution of pain operates just as
pleasure would have done, and we can see no reason why it may not be caller
pleasure. To put our objections in another light—all wants that immediately
aflect us, are in some degree painful. If upon offering any enjoyment to the
mind, it feels no consciousness of the want, no uneasiness for the fruition of
the pleasure proffered, we may safely conclude it will find no great degree of
pleasure in its possession. How vainly do delicacies solicit the appetite of him
who feels not a want from hunger! What various methods are tried to create
this pain, only that the voluptuous may enjoy a greater pleasure by its diminu.
tion! Hence, if what the author himself allows to be pleasures are increased
by preceding pain, why may they not be produced from it? In fact, pleasure
and pain may be found positively subsisting without relation to each other;
but then they may also be found mutually to produce each other.
+ Our Author, by assigning terror for the only source of the sublime,
excludes love, admiration, &c. But to make the sublime an idea incompatible
BURKE ON THE SUBLIME AND BEAUTIFUL.
369
The second head to which the passions are referred, in rela-
tion to their final cause, is society. There are two kinds of soci-
ety; the first is the society of the sex, the passion belonging to
which is called love; it contains a mixture of lust, and its object
is the beauty of women.
The other is the great society with man,
and all other animals; but this has no mixture of lust, though
its object be beauty.* The passions belonging to the preservation
with these affections, is what the general sense of mankind will be apt to con-
tradict. It is certain, we can have the most sublime ideas of the Deity, with-
out imagining him a God of terror. Whatever raises our esteem of an object
described, must be a powerful source of sublimity; and esteem is a passion
nearly allied to love: our astonishment at the sublime as often proceeds from
an increased love, as from an inward fear. When, after the horrors of a tem-
pestuous night, the poet hails us with a description of the beauties of the
morning, we feel double enjoyment from the contrast. Our pleasure here must
arise from the beautiful or the sublime. If from the beautiful, then we have a
positive pleasure, which has had its origin, contrary to what the author
advances, in a diminution of pain. If from the sublime, it is all we contend
for ; since here is a description, which, though destitute of terror, has the same
eflect that any increase of terror could have produced.
* Self-interest, and not beauty, may be the object of this passion : it is not
from beauty in the man, we cement friendships; it is not from beauty in
animals, that we value and maintain them; nor from the beauty of vegetables,
that we improve them by culture : were this the case, there would be no
society betwixt the deformed of mankind; we should entertain an abhorrence
of every ill-looking, though useful and inoffensive animal; receive the painted
snake to our bosom, and the spotted panther into our dwelling. Even in vege-
tables, w prefer 'ise to beauty: “alba ligustra cadunt, vaccinia nigra leguntur.”
Reason, not sensation, certainly suggests our ideas of this species of beauty,
and from the dictates of reason it is we admit of new connections. The
infant, new to the world, finds all beauty in color; as he grows older, shape,
smoothness, and several other adventitious ideas are superadded, which his
reason, not his senses, have suggested. Some, even among the adult, have no
idea of what is called beauty in animals with which they are not conversant,
as the beauty of horses, dogs, &c. : but an acquaintance with these animals,
and a knowledge of their fitness, by particular syminetries, &c. to answer their
own or our purposes, soon discover to us beauties of which we could otherwise
have had no conception. Hence a great part of our perceptions of beauty
arises not from any mechanical operation on the senses, capable of producing
Vol. IV.
370
POETICAL CRITICISM.
gree of horror.
of the individual, which are capable of affecting us with the strong
emotions of the sublime, turn wholly on pain and danger, but
those of society, on our desire of enjoyment; hence, as the sublime
had its rise in pain, so beauty has its source in positive pleasure.
The passion caused by the great and the sublime in nature,
when these causes operate most powerfully, is astonishment; by
which all the motions of the soul are suspended, with some de-
Whatever also is terrible with regard to sight,
is sublime, whether this cause of terror be endued with greatness
of dimensions or not; for it is impossible to look to any thing
as trifling, or contemptible, that may be dangerous. To heighten
this terror, obscurity, in general, seems necessary.
When we
know the full extent of any danger, when we accustom our eyes
to it, a great deal of the apprehension vanishes. Thus, in pagan
worship, the idol is generally placed in the most obscure part of
the temple; which is done with a view of heightening the awe of
its adorers. Wherefore it is one thing to make an idea clear,
and another to make it affecting to the imagination. Nay, so far
is clearness of imagery from being absolutely necessary to influ-
ence the passions, that they may be considerably operated upon
as in music, without presenting an image at all. Painting never
makes such strong impressions on the mind as description, yet
painting must b^ allowed to represent objects more distinctly
than any description can do; and even in painting, a judicious
obscurity, in some things, contributes to the proper effect of the
picture. Thus, in reality, clearness helps but little towards affect-
ing the passions; as it is, in some measure, an enemy to all en
thusiasm whatsoever.*
1
positive pleasure, but from a rational inference drawn with an eye to self-
interest, and which may, in many instances, be deduced from self-preservation,
Therefore, some ideas of beauty have their origin in self-preservation.
• Distinctness of imagery has ever been held productive of the sublime,
5
BURKE ON THE SUBLIME AND BEAUTIFUL.
371
a
All general privations are great, because they are terrible;
as vacuity, darkness, solitude, silence. Greatness of dimension
is a powerful cause of the sublime. Infinity is another source;
though perhaps it may be resolved into inagnitude. In all ob-
jects where no boundary can be fixed to the eye, as in the inside
of a rotund, there must necessarily arise the idea of greatness.
Another source of greatness is difficulty. When any work seems
to have required immense force and labor to effect it, as in Stone-
henge, the idea is grand. Magnificence, too, or a great profu-
sion of any things which are splendid or valuable in themselves,
is sublime.
With respect to colors, such as are soft or cheerful (except,
perhaps, a strong red, which is cheerful) are unfit to produce great
images. An immense mountain, covered with a shining green
turf, as the author expresses it, is nothing in this respect to one
dark and gloomy. The cloudy sky is more grand than the blue;
and night more sublime and solemn than day; therefore, in his-
torical painting, a gay or gaudy drapery can never have a happy
effect: and in buildings, where a uniform degree of the most
striking sublimity is intended, the materials should consist of
sad and fuscous colors; and as darkness is productive of more
The more strongly the poet or orator impresses the picture he would describe
upon his own mind, the more apt will he be to paint it on the imagination of
his reader. Not that, like Ovid, he should be minute in description ; which,
instead of impressing our imagination with a grand whole, divides our idea
into several littlenesses. We only think the bold yet distinct strokes of a
Virgil far surpass the equally bold but confused ones of Lucan. The terin
painting, in poetry, perhaps implies more than the mere assemblage of such
pictures as affect the sight; sounds, tastes, feelings, all conspire to complete a
poetical picture: hence, this art takes the imagination by every inlet, and
while it paints the picture, can give it motion and succession too. What
wonder, then, it should strike us so powerfully! Therefore, not from the con-
fusion or obscurity of the description, but from being able to place the object
to be described in a greater variety of views, is poetry superior to all other
descriptive arts.
3
372
POETICAL CRITICISM.
sublime ideas than light, the inside should have all that gloom
which may be consistent, at the same time, with showing the
particular beauties of the architecture Sounds also have a great
power in producing the sublime: the noise of cataracts, raging
storms, thunder; these overpower the soul, suspend its action,
and fill all with terror. A sudden beginning also, or ceasing of
sound, puts all our faculties on their guard. Low, tremulous,
intermitting sounds, and the yelling of animals, all, as they in-
spire some degree of horror, conduce to exalt us into the sublime.
Smells and tastes, particularly the ideas of excessive bitters or
intolerable stenches, have some, though but a small share, in our
ideas of greatness
With respect to feeling, the idea of bodily pain in all the
modes and degrees of labor, anguish, torment, is productive of the
sublime; and nothing else in this sense can produce it. Hence,
every cause of the sublime, with reference to the senses, evinces
that the sublime is an idea belonging to self-preservation : that it
is therefore one of the most affecting we have; that its strongest
emotion is an emotion of distress, and that no positive or absolute
pleasure belongs to it.
Beauty is that quality, or those qualities, of bodies, by which
they cause love, or some passion similar to it. This idea cannot
arise from proportion, since in vegetables and animals there is no
standard by which we can measure our ideas of proportion; and
in man, exact proportion is not always the criterion of beauty;
neither can it arise from fitness, since then all animals would have
beauty; for every one seenis best adapted to its own way of lir-
ing; and in man, strength would have the name of beauty, whichi,
however, presents a very different idea. Nor is it the result of
perfection, for we are often charmed with the imperfections of an
agreeable olject. Nor, lastly, of they alities of the mind; sinec
such rather conciliate our esteem than our love. Beauty, there-
BURKE ON TIE SUBLIME AND BEAUTIFUL.
373
fore, is no criterion of reason, but some merely sensible quality
acting mechanically upon the human mind, by the intervention
of the senses. I shall consider, therefore, says the author, in
what manner these sensible qualities are disposed in such things
as, by experience, we find beautiful, or which excite in us the
passion of love, or some correspondent affection.
First, then, the qualities of beauty, as they are merely sensi-
ble qualities, are comparative smallness. Thus the diminutives
of every language express affection. In the animal creation ex-
clusive of their own species, it is the small we are inclined to be
fond of. Secondly, they must be smooth; a quality so essential,
that few things are beautiful that are not smooth : in trees and
flowers, smooth leaves are beautiful, smooth slopes in gardens,
smooth streams in landscapes. Thirdly, to have a variety in the
lirection of parts. Fourthly, to have those parts not angular,
but melted, as it were, into each other. Fifthly, to be of a deli-
cate frame, without any remarkable appearance of strength.
Sixthly, to have its colors clear and bright, but not very strong
and glaring. Seventhly, or if it should have any gloomy colors,
to have it diversified with others. In sounds, the most beautiful
are the soft and delicate; not that strength of note required to
raise other passions, nor notes which are shrill, or harsh, or deep.
It agrees best with such as are clear, even, smooth, and weak.
Thus there is a remarkable contrast between the beautiful and
the sublime: sublime objects are rast in their dimensions; beau-
tiful ones comparatively small. Beauty should be smooth and
polished; the great, rugged and negligent. Beauty should not
be obscure; the great ought to be dark and gloomy. Beauty
should be light and delicate; the great ought to be solid and even
massive.
The author comes next to consider in what manner the sub-
lime and beautiful are produced. As the sublime is founded on
374
POETICAL CRITICISM.
1
pain and terror, which are but different degrees of an unnatural
tension of the nerves, whatever produces this tension must be
productive also of the sublime; but how any species of delight
can be derived from a cause so apparently contrary to it, deserves
to be considered.
As the body, by inactivity, contracts disorders, so labor is
necessary to prevent those evils. Labor is an exertion of the
contracting power of the muscles, and as such resembles pain,
(which consists in tension or contraction) in every thing but de-
gree. Thus, as common labor, which is a mode of pain, is the
exercise of the grosser, a mode of terror is the exercise of the
finer parts of the system. In this case, if the pain or terror be
so modified as not to be actually noxious, they are capable of
producing delight, since they serve to put the machine into mo-
tion. In visual objects, the eye labors to take in their great
dimensions; and by a parity of reasoning, we may extend this
to every sense in its reception of sublimity. Darkness has, by
general consent of mankind and perhaps by its own painful ope-
ration on the sensory, been accounted terrible; too great a dilata-
tion of the pupil of the eye, caused by darkness, may be offensive
to the mind, as being primarily so to the organs of the body;
and hence this sensation is so well fitted to produce sublimity. *
Beauty, as we may gather from the attitude of any person
beholding a beautiful object, arises from a quite contrary cause
to the sublime, namely, from a universal relaxation of the
* The muscles of the uvea act in the contraction, but are relaxed in the
dilatation the ciliary circle. Therefore, when the pupil dilates, they are in
a state of relaxation, and the relaxed state of a muscle is its state of rest. In
an amaurosis, where these muscles are never employed, the pupil is always
dilated. Hence darkness is a state of rest to the visual organ, and consequently
che obscurity which the author justly remarks to be often the cause of the sub-
lime, can affect the sensory by no painful inipression ; so that the sublime is
often caused by a rrlaxation of the muscles, as well as by a tepsion.
BURKE ON THE SUBLIME AND BEAUTIFUL.
375
nervous system. Hence smoothness, which has no asperities to
vellicate the parts, nor cause a sensation of pain, is beautiful.
Sweets also, which, when reduced to their proper salts, assume a
globular figure, and may be called the smooth in taste, must con-
sequently relax, that is, be beautiful to the sense which they
respectively affect Smallness and color may be accounted for
on the same principles.
Thus have we given an abstract of the more material parts of
a performance, which seems to have cost the author much study
and attention ; and which, with all the charms of style, is
branched out more extensively on the subject than any modern
work of this kind within our recollection. A writer who en-
deavors to penetrate beyond the surface of things, though he may
be sometimes too minute, and at others even erroneous, will, how-
ever, clear the way for succeeding adventurers; and perhaps
make even his errors subservient to the investigation of truth.
If we have, in a very few instances, attempted to point out any
nistake or oversight in this very agreeable author's principles,
not a captious spirit of controversy, but a concern for truth, was
the motive: and the ingenious inquirer, we are persuaded, is too
much a philosopher to resent our sometimes taking a different
course in pursuit of the game he has started.
376
POETICAL CRITICISM.
11.-MYTHOLOGY AND POETRY OF THE CELTES.
1
[From the Monthly Reewu, 1757. On “Remains of the Oly.
thology and Poetry of the Celtes, particularly of Scandina-
via, designell as a Supplement and Proof of the Introduction
to the History of Denmark." By P. H. Mallet,* Copenha-
gen, 1756. 4to.
If all the brilliancy of sentiment which so dry a subject may
require to its support, and all the laborious assiduity which may
be necessary in the solution of its intricacies, demand applause,
Professor Mallet must deserve it, who has so happily united botlı.
The learned on this side of the Alps bare long labored at the
antiquities of Greece and Rome, but almost totally neglected
their own; like conquerors who, while they have made inroads
into the territories of their neighbors, have left their own natural
dominions to desolation.
The cause of this our author ascribes ; first, to the disad-
vantageous idea we have conceived of the Celtes in general, an
idea entirely groundless, and which offers no reason for not
studying those antiquities to which our manners, our govern-
ment, our laws, are continually calling us back. Secondly, to
the few monuments of Celtic mythology which bave reached our
times. “To draw this subject from obscurity, we ought in some
measure to give new life to those poetical mytholoyists, our an-
cestors; we should consult them, and attend, in the frightful
* [Paul Henry Mallet was born at Geneva in 1731. He was for some
time professor of history in his native city, and became afterwarıls professor
royal of the Belles-Lettres at Copenhagen, a member of the academies of
Upal, Lyons, ('a-vel, and of the Celtic Academy at Paris. An excellent
translation, by Bishop Porry, of his Northern Antiquities, including the
Edda," was published in 1770. Ile died in 1801 ]
4
MYTHOLOGY AND POETRY OF THE CELTES.
377
"
gloom of their forests, to those mysterious incantations in which
is concealed the whole system of their religion and morality.”
In France, Spain, and England, the ravages of time, or of
more destructive zeal, bave left few remains of this sacred poesy.
The countries of the north, who were more slowly converted from
superstition, still preserve those valuable monuments. Here is
to be found the “ Edda,"'* first written in Iceland after the abo-
lition of the Celtic religion there. This was a work designed
for the use of those young Icelanders who intended to become
Scaldes or poets. Odin and Friga, genii and fairies, served as
machinery to northern poetry then, as Grecian mythology does
to ours now; and though they had abandoned the religion, yet
the poets found it necessary to retain the knowledge of these
fabulous divinities. The author of Edda, therefore, has given
his countrymen an abridgment of this mythology, with a poetical
dictionary to explain words or metaphors that may be too sub-
lime. A translation of this work M. Mallet now lays before the
public. There were two books of this name: the first was com-
posed by Sæmund Sigfusson, born in Iceland, about the year
1057;t but being too voluminous and obscure in many respects,
Snoro Sturleson, I about a hundred and twenty years after, ab-
stracted from the collection of Sæmund a system of poctical my-
[“ This name of Elda hath frequently exercised the penetration of the
etymologist. The most probable conjectures are, that it is derived from an
old Gothic word signifying grandmother. In the figurative language of the
old poets, this term was, doubtless, thought proper to express an ancient doc
trine — Wallet, Northern Antiq. vol. ii. p. 24.)
† (Sæmund was born in 1756. He studied at Cologne, and travelled
in Italy and Germany. On his return to Iceland, he took holy orders. Not
long before his death, which took place about the year 1134, he wrote a History
of Norway.--- Vouv. Dict. Ilist]
I [ A noblema of ancient family, who twice, in 1215 and 122.2, Glled the
high post of chief judge of Iceland. He was assassinated, in 12:11, by Gyssarus,
:he chief of an opposite faction, --Ibid.)
378
POETICAL CRITICISM.
9
1
thology, both easy and intelligible. The Celtic religion, as our
author clearly evinces in the work preceding this, was at first
extremely simple; yet even this did not long hold its simplicity.
Though nothing can be more express than some passages in the
Edda concerning the supreme government of One God, yet those
intelligences who are supposed to act by his commands receive
in it too much veneration; their assistance seems nearer than
that of a Deity, whose very name calls to our imagination the
immense distance between him and his creatures: yet must we
still remember (says M. Mallet), that the Edda is but a poetical
mythology, in which the real opinions of those times are set off
with all the luxuriance of a heated imagination.
A King of Sweden, says the Edda, named Gylfe, astonished
at the respect his subjects paid to some people who had newly como
from Asia, was resolved to travel to Asgard, habited like an old
man, and under the fictitious name of Gangler, with intention to
improve by the journey.
On his arrival there, he was introduced into a magnificent
palace, where he had a long conference with three kings, liar,
Jafnar, and Thredi, whom he found seated on thrones in one of
the inner apartments. These conferences are comprised in thirty-
three fables, of which the first part of the Edda is composed.
There we see those remarkable pages already hinted at with rela-
tion to the Supreme Being Gangler demands, “Who is the su-
preme of the gods ?" llar replies, "Him whom we call Alfader,
that is. Father of all." Gangler again asks, " What has he done
“
to make his glory appear ?" Har replies, “ He lives eternally.
'
He governs his dominions, and things great and little, with great
care." Jafnar adds, “ He has made the heaven, the earth, and
the air. _“Ile has done more than making a heaven, or an
earth.” continues Thredi; " He has made man, and infused into
6
MYTHOLOGY AND POETRY OF THE CELTES.
379
him a living soul, which, even after the body is reduced to dust
and ashes, shall continue to live for ever."
The three first fables abound in allegories, as extraordinary
as an imagination the most fruitful of wonders could possibly
conceive, on the formation of the carth, and the creation of man.
Here may be perceived, however, striking resemblances of the
doctrine of Moses, with respect to the luminous matter before
that of the sun and moon; as also of the deiuge, and the history
of the giants spoken of in Genesis. Our author, in his notes,
takes care to point out these similitudes; and remarks, that of
all the known systems, that of the ancient Persians most ap-
proaches the mythology of the Edda : an observation which
greatly serves to confirm what several learned men have advanced,
that anciently there was no difference between the Persians and
Celtes.
The fourth fable describes Odin as father of gods and men,
and who by his virtue has produced all things. Friga (or the
earth) is his daughter, and wife, on whom he begat his son Thor.
This doctrine of the union of the Deity with the earth, is of great
antiquity. It has been generally received in all the Celtic na-
tions; nay, the Greeks themselves adopted the same sentiments,
as appears by the history of Saturn and Rhea.
And here our
autior ingeniously remarks, that though in this mythology the
concourse of Deity and matter produced the universe, yet there
is a vast difference, according to the Celtes, in these two prin-
ciples. The Supreme God was eternal. By him matter was
made, and consequently had a beginning. The name also of
'Thor, their son, signifies, in the language of the north, thunder;
and our Thursday even now is called by the Flemish, donderday,
or the day of thunder.
Nothing, however, can be more ridiculous than the system of
physics that runs through the whole Edda, particularly the sixth
>
380
POETICAL CRITICISM.
occa-
fable. A horse with his shining mane scatters light, and illu-
minates the earth and air. Two little children, with a pitcher
suspended at the end of a stick, accompany
the
moon,
and
sion its eclipses. The sun runs very swiftly; for two wolves,
ready to devour him, continually follow. In this fable we have
the origin of a custom received among us, the source of which
seems to have been forgotten. The Edda gives the night pre-
eminence over the day; it precedes, and out of it the day is pro-
duced. Hence we say, “this day se'nnight,' for seventh night;
• fortnight,' for fourteenth night. Thus customs taken from for-
gotten opinions are often erroneously attributed to the effects of
chance or caprice.
The eighth fable takes for its title The Holy City, or the Re-
sidence of the gods. In it we hear of Odin demanding a draught
of the Fountain of Wisdom, but obliged to pawn one of his eyes
for the grant. Thus, we see the father of heaven wanting an eye,
which Mimis keeps as a pledge in his own possession, and every
morning bathes it with hydromel. A strange allegory this; and,
what is worse, we want the key for its solution. In this fable
also we find a complete theory of Fairyism. “ Three virgins
whose names, as in the Celtic language, are Past, Present, and
Future, as fates, dispense the periods of man's life; but there are
several who assist at his birth, and decide his future fortune.”
Fairies, according to the conjectures of our author, were deified
propheti:ses, for the Celtic women excelled in every sort of super-
stition, particularly in augury; and perhaps those who were most
distinguished in this art, were raised to the rank of gods. The
ninth fable treats of Thor, son to the father of the universe, who
conquered the giants, who performed many wonderful exploits,
and whose palace was called an asylum against fear. IIe, too, like
the Persian Mithras, was the symbol of fire, and like him a mer.
ciful divinity. a mediator between God and man.
MYTHOLOGY AND POETRY OF THE CELTES.
381
In the sixteenth and seventeenth fables, in the histories of
Loke and Loup Fenris, we have the principle of evil character-
ized in the most perspicuous and striking manner. Loup Fenris
is represented as a being educated by the gods, till they perceived
that he every day most surprisingly increased in stature, and
till the oracles had apprised them he should one day be their foe.
Accordingly they united to bind him, and the execrations he then
poured forth were most horrible; since when, the “foam issues
from his mouth in such abundance, that it forms a river called
Vam, that is to say, vices;—but this monster will break his chains
at the twilight (crepuscule) of the gods, in other words, at the
end of the world."
But the great event which the Edda never loses sight of, is
the future destruction of the world; and the description of it, in
the thirty-third and thirty-fourth fables, is to the last degree sub-
lime and picturesque. Take an instance in the following sketch.
“Loup Fenris advances, opening his enormous jaws, the lower of
which descended to earth while the upper was lifted to heaven,
and would have aspired even above the heavens, could it find
room. Destroying flames burst from his eyes and nostrils; he
vomits floods of poison, that overwhelm the air and the waters
in the inundation. In the midst of this tumult the heaven
divides, and the genii of fire come riding through the chasm."
We are displeased to find Odin, the father of all, perish in the
dreadful catastrophe. This contradicts his eternity; but we are
not to expect precision in poetical mythology.
Vodar, his son, bowever, became at last victorious, and reduc-
ed all things to order. And, says the Edda, when this world
shall be consumed by flames, again shall spring from the sea
another earth, beautiful, pleasing, and clothed with landscapes of
unceasing verdure. The author, in a note at the end of the last
fable, gives us the doctrine of the Edda, stripped of its poctical
2
POETIC.IL CRITICIS.
ornameuts and its adventitious allegories: " And though,” says
he, - the Edda should have no other merit than that of informing
us what the Celtes thought of futurity, even for this it might
deserve to be saved from oblivion."
III.-THORNTON AND COLMAN'S CONNOISSEUR.*
[From the Monthly Review, 1757. On - The Connoisseur. By
Mr. Town, Critic and Censor General." 4 vols. 1-2mo.]
When fate or fortune calls from us the friend whose society
has contributed towards the pleasure or the happiness of our lives,
how gladly do we substitute in his room all that remains of him!
We find consolation in every pledge of friendship he has left be-
hind, and cherish every relic that reminds us of our past satisfac-
tion. The Connoisseur has taken leave of the public, and every
admirer of good taste and good humor must regret his departure;
but he here commits to their patronage a new edition of his late
* [The publication of the “ Connoisseur” was commenced in January
1754, by Bonnell Thornton and George Colman. Thornton had been one of
the contributors to the “ Adventurer;" and Colman, at the age of twenty, had
then made, what was probably his first appearance in public as a prose writer.
Their humor and their talents were well adapted to what they had undertaken;
and Beaumont and Fletcher present what is probably the only parallel instance
of literary co-operation so complete, that the portions written by the respec-
tive parties are undistinguishable. Cowper,” says Mr. Southey, “contributed
a few papers to the Connoisseur. One of them is upon the subject of
keeping a Secret; and though written in a strain of levity, it had so good an
effect upon himself, that he says, “from that day he believed he had never
divulged one.' If he had not the same virtue of discretion before (and so it
may be inferred from such an acknowledgment), this is a remarkable instance
of the benefit that may be derived from calmly considering what our opinions
are upon any question of practical importance, before it happens directly to
concern us."-Southey's Couper, vol i. p. 19 ]
THORNTON AND COLMAN'S CONNOISSEUR.
383
publications, and we doubt not their welcome reception of them
will evince their regard to his memory.
The writer may be styled the friend of Society, in the most
agreeable acceptation of the term; for he rather converses with
all the ease of a cheerful companion, than dictates, as other writers
in this class have done, with the affected superiority of an author.
He is the first writer since Bickerstaff, who has been perfectly sa-
tirical yet perfectly good-natured; and who never, for the sake of
declamation, represents simple folly as absolutely criminal. He
has solidity to please the grave, and humor and wit to allure
the gay: in a word, as the manners of the times which he repre-
sents differ from those of the preceding, so his method of treat-
ing them is different from that of former essayists. “ Whatever
objections," says our author, “the reader may have to the sub-
jects of my papers, I shall make no apology for the manner in
which I have chosen to treat them. The dread of falling into
what they are pleased to call colloquial barbarisms, has induced
some skilful writers to swell their bloated diction with uncouth
phrases and the affected jargon of pedants. For my own part, I
never go out of the common way of expression, merely for the
sake of introducing a more sounding word with a Latin termi:
nation; the English language is sufficiently copious, without any
further addition of new terms; and the native words seem to me
to have far more force than any foreign auxiliaries, however pur-
posely ushered in,-as British soldiers fight our battles better
than the troops taken into our pay.
- The subjects of my Essays have been chiefly such as I
thought might recommend themselves to the public notice, by
being new and uncommon. For this reason I purposely avoided
the worn-out practice of retailing scraps of morality, and affect-
ing to dogmatize on the common duties of life. In this point,
,
indeed, the Spectator is inimitable: nor can I hope to say any
384
POETICAL CRITICISM.
thing new upon these topics, after so many excellent moral and
religious essays, which are the powerful ornament of that work;
I have therefore contented myself with exposing vice and folly,
by painting mankind in their natural colors, without assuming
the rigid air of a preacher, or the drowsiness of a philosopher; I
have rather chosen to undermine our fashionable excesses by se-
cret sapping, than to storm them by open assault. In a word,
upon all occasions I have endeavored to laugh people into a better
behavior; as I am convinced that the sting of reproof is not less
sharp for being concealed, and advice never comes with a better
force than when it comes with a laughing one."
IV.-WILKIE'S EPIGONIAD."*
[From the Monthly Review, 1757. "The Epigoniad. A Poem,
in nine Books. 12mo. E linburgh.”]
This poem, as the author informs us, " is called the Epigoniad,
because the heroes whose actions it celebrates, have got the name
of Epigones,” (Epigoni, he should have said.) “ being the sons
66
i
* (William Wilkie, D. D., the “ Scottish Homer," as he has been called,
was born at Echlin, in the county of Linlithgow, in 1721. While at the
university of Edinburgh, he formed intimacies with Doctor Robertson, David
Flume, Adam Smith, and John Home, the author of “ Douglas.” Henry
Mackenzie, in his Life of the last-mentioned individual, says that Wilkie's
friends all spoke of him as “superior in genius to any man of his time, but
rough and unpolished in his manners, and still less accommodating to the
decorum of society in the ordinary habits of his life. Charles Townshend, a
very competent judge of men, said, after being introduced to him and spending
a day with him, that he had never met with a man who approached so near
to the two extremes of a god and a brute as Dr. Wilkie.” The “ Epigoniad”
was published at Edinburgh in 1757, and a second edition in 1759 ; after which
it was not re-printed till 179-1, when it was admitted by Dr. Anderson into his
edition of the British Poets. Wilkie died in 1772.]
WILKIE'S EPIGONIA D.
385
of those who attempted the conquest of Thebes in a former ex-
pedition."
When the poet carries his readers back into classic antiquity,
he seems in a peculiar manner to bespeak the patronage of the
learned ; for them his labors appear to be calculated, and from
them alone he must expect an adequate reward ; but then, as he
writes for the scholar, it is expected that he himself should be
one of the number. Possessed of this advantage, the learned
will regard him with fraternal tenderness; and though he may
not obtain the highest applause, he is sure at least to meet with
indulgence for slight defects. On the contrary, if he be detect-
ed of ignorance when he pretends to learning, his case, indeed,
will deserve our pity: too antique to please one party, and too
modern for the other, he is deserted by both, read by few, and
soon forgotten by all, except his enemies.
The Epigoniad seems to be one of these new old perform-
ances; a work that would no more have pleased a peripatetic of
the academic grove, than it will captivate the unlettered subscri-
ber to one of our circulating libraries. - Tradition," says the
author in his preface, " is the best ground on which a fable can
be built, not only because it gives the appearance of reality to
things that are merely fictitious, but likewise because it supplies
a poet with the most proper materials for his invention to work
upon.” We might have expected from this remark, that he had
not only taken tradition for the ground of his fable, but employed
it also to guide him through the narration ; nevertheless, unfor-
tunately, he has not only forsook, but contradicted it, on almost
every occasion; and given up the conduct of his poem to an
invention barren of incidents, or at best productive of trifling
ones.
Eustathius, in his commentary upon the fourth book of the
Iliad, gives us a list of the nine warriors who were called tho
17
VOL. IV.
386
POETICAL CRITICISM.
Epigoni ; most of which our author never once mentions in this
poem, but, instead of them introduces, not the descendants of
those unfortunate heroes who fell before Thebes in a former ex-
pedition, but several of their contemporaries, as Theseus and
Nestor, who had no motives of revenge to prompt them to this
undertaking. Theseus in particular was not there; for we find
in the Suppliants of Euripides, that Theseus went upon a former
expedition to Thebes, to procure funeral honors for the seven
fathers of the Epigoni, who lay unburied before the walls of that
city; and at the end of the same tragedy we are told, that the
capture of the city was reserved for the Epigoni alone. Our
poet also gives Theseus the conduct of the war, in contradiction
to Diodorus Siculus, who affirms, that by the advice of the oracle
of Apollo, Alemæon was constituted generalissimo. He likewise
makes Creon king of Thebes; but Creon had been dead four
years before; and Eustathius positively says, that Laodamas was
at that time their king.
The author's disregard of the traditions of the ancients, is
not more flagrant than his neglect of their manners and customs;
thus he introduces virgins as priestesses at the altar of Venus,
talks of Styx as a river of fire, gives a nymph the conveyance of
winged shoes; the caduceus of Mercury he calls his sceptre, and
instead of the whistle which Virgil describes as pendant from
the neck of Polyphemus, our author claps a bag on the giant's
back,
around his shoulders flung,
His bag enormous, by a cable hung."
Here is a large bag, and a very strong rope to tie it withal; but
we cannot conceive what use the Cyclops had for such a bag, un-
less he chose to wear it as our physicians wear their swords,
nerely for ornament.
WILKIE'S EPIGONIA D.
387
any suc-
However, we must acknowledge, though he had been minutely
exact, nor ever transgressed in any of the above mentioned
particulars, his subject is of such a nature as could at best have
afforded us but small satisfaction. We speak with regard to our
own particular feelings; and some may perhaps wonder when we
assign as a reason of our disgust, our being conscious that the
poet believes not a syllable of all he tells us. Poets, like flatter-
ers, are only heard with pleasure when they themselves seem
persuaded of the truth of all they deliver. Boileau, to convince
us that he believes what he writes, avers, that if he has
cess beyond his contemporary poets, it is wholly owing to his be-
ing superior to them in point of truth. We have no reason to
doubt but Homer, who lived in an age of ignorance, and conse-
quently of credulity, believed, or at least was thought to believe,
what he relates; and Virgil, though he might not credit the
story of Encas, yet his countrymen gave credit to it. Witches
and enchanters, too, made a part of the popish mythology (if we
may so call it) in the days of Tasso : and the subject of Paradise
Lost is reverenced with almost universal assent.
As we have nothing to commend in this author's plan, 80 we
have little to praise with respect to his execution. He has, indeed,
some good lines, and here and there something of the true spirit
of poetry flashes out ; but what can be said for such passages as
the following ?
“ The gods assembled met; and view'd from far,
Thebes and the various combats of the war.
From all apart, the Paphian goddess sat,
And pitied in her heart her fav’rite state,
Decreed to perish by the Argive bands,
Pallas's art, Tydides' mighty hands."
That the gods not only assembled but met, is truly marvellous ;
358
POETICAL CRITICISM.
and as truly piteous is the distress of poor Venus : —but we are
chiefly struck with the Broughtonian idea of Diomed's mutton.
fists; which the author seenis fond of displaying upon most occa-
sions. Thus in another place, p. 13:
'grasping in his mighty hand,
The regal staff.”
Again, p. 67;
“ Andremon first, beneath his mighty hand,
Of life bereft, lay stretch'd upon the sand.”
The hands of Minerva, too, though a lady, were, it seems, cast
in the same mould with those of her favorite Tydides-vide the
prayer of Ulysses :
“Great Queen of Arts! on thee my hopes depend
By thee my infant-arms were taught to throw
The dart with certain aim, and bend the bow:
Oft on my little hands, immortal naid !
To guide the shaft, thy mighty hands were laid.”
Our witty countryman, Butler, says, that
66
· Rhyme the rudder is of verses,
With which, like ships, they steer their courses."
And therefore,
“ Those who write in rhyme still make
The one verse for the other's sake;
For one for sense, and one for rhyme,
I think's sufficient at one time."
Our handy poet seems to have profited by this observation;
and therefore we need not wonder to see him, like a good steers-
man, so constantly keep his hands to the rudder; of which we
have the following, among other instances :-
WILKIE'S EPIGONIAD.
389
“grasping in his mighty hand,
The regal staff, the sign of high command.” p. 13.
“ in whose superior hand,
Consenting Princes plac'd their chief command.” p. 14.
“the Prince, whose sou’reign hand
Sways the dread sceptre of supreme command."
Supine he fell amidst his native bands,
And wrench'd the fixed dart with dying hands.” p. 30.
“ Only be men, and make the Argive bands
Dread in succeeding times your mighty hands.” p. 38.
“ Their valiant Chief resign’d to hostile hands,
He thus aloud address'd the scatt'ring bands.” p. 44.
“ In the devoted line myself I stand,
And here must perish by some hostile hand.”
p. 53.
“ Silent amidst th' assembled peers he stands,
And wipes his falling tears with trembling hands."*
p. 78.
“ Thebes on ev'ry side assembled stands,
And supplicates the gods with lifted hands." p. 80.
“Now in full view before the guards they stand,
The priest displays his ensigns in his hand.” p. 81.
“ the princely band,
By turns presented each his friendly hand." p. 83.
they soon shall feel my hand,
And rue that e'er they touch'd Trinacria's strand.” p. 90.
" with his ucighty hand,
Their flight oppress’d, and mix'd them with the sand.” p. 92.
“ Oblations vow'd, if, by his mighty hand,
Conducted safe, I found my native land." p. 99.
* The imagery in this couplet being perfecıly just, we are somewhat con-
cerned that two such good lines should fall into such bad company.
390
POETICAL CRITICISM.
“ These eyes beheld when, with a ruthless hand,
My wretched mates you murder'd on the strand."
P. 101.
“ If heav'n's dread sov'reign, to my vengeful hand
His wasting flames would yield, and forked brand." p. 102.
“ Who still intent to catch it where it stands,
And grasps the shining meteor with his hands." p. 103.
“equity and public right demands,
That Thebes should fall by our avenging hands.” p. 110.
“Now round the flaming hearth th' assembly stands,
And Theseus thus invokes with lifted hands." p. 118.
“ Any bold warrior of the Argive bands,
Against a Theban liſts his hostile hands."
Ibid.
“ The chief of Argos, warriors ! first demands
Funereal honors from our grateful hands.” p. 123.
“ As when the sire of gods, with wrathful hand,
Drives the swift lightning and the forked brand.” p. 133.
“ Him Tydeus lov’d, and in his faithful hand,
Had plac'd the sceptre of supreme command.”
p. 146.
“Never, obsequious to thy mad command,
Against the foe I'll lift a hostile hand." p. 150.
“ The scourge of Thebes, whose wide destroying hand
Has thinn'd our armies in their native land."
p. 171.
“ That no bold warrior of the Theban bands,
This maid shall violate with hostile hands."
p. 173.
“ Whose feeble age the present aid demands,
And kind assistance of my filial hunds.” p. 179.
“ by command
The captive violates with hostile hand.”
p. 181.
“ with vengeful hands,
He dealt destruction 'midst the Theban bands.” Ibid.
WILKIE'S EPIGONIAD.
391
“ the bow commands,
And arrows sacred, from his mighty hands.” p. 189.
“ round this heart the furies wave their brands,
And wring my entrails with their burning hands."
p. 199.
* Obsequious for your last commands,
And tenders to your need his willing hands."
P. 204.
66
“ With an unrelenting hand,
Fix, in the bows beneath, a flaming brand.” p. 209.
“ If great Alcides liv’d, her tow'rs should stand,
Safe and protected by his mighty hand.” p. 211.
“the forked brand,
Which for destruction arms thy mighty hand.” p. 233.
“ In his mighty hand,
Brandish'd with gesture fierce a burning brand.” p. 243.
“ Myself, my daughters, dragg’d by hostile hands,
Our dignity exchang’d for servile bands.”
p. 266.
« Such sacrifice Cassandra's ghost demands,
And such I'll offer with determin'd hands."
p. 280.
“and stand,
A rampart to oppose my vengeful hand.” Ibid.
“ Creon in vain the desp'rate rout withstands,
With sharp reproaches and vindictive hands.
p. 286.
To the foregoing citations we could have added many others
of the same sort; but these are more than sufficient to convince
the critics at George's and the Bedford, that verses have hands
as well as fect.
Our northern bard frequently scems, indeed, at some loss for
a variety of language, which has led him into many disgustful
repetitions. Thus, p. 13, Diomed charges Talthybius :
“ to concene from tent to tent
The Kings 10 Eteon's lofty monument."
392
POETICAL CRITICISM.
Where they meet accordingly, p. 15, and Tydides is exhorted
“ to declare
What cause convenes the senate of the war."
Tydides thus replied :
66
Princes! I have not now the host conven'd,
For secrets by intelligence obtain'd.”
It is said this poem is a Scotch production ; b'it p. 3:. we
meet with the following notorious Londonism :
Presumptuous youth forbear,
To tempt the fury of my flying spear,
That warrior there was by my javelin slain."
That there, and this here, had, doubtless, their origin in Cheap-
side; but how they found their way down to Scotland, is a mys-
tery which our poet is best able to unriddle. Elsewhere, however,
our bard seems more strongly attracted towards the Hibernian
shores; particularly where he makes Jupiter apprehensive lest
fate should forget to be fatal, and, harlequin-like, jump down her
own throat. To explain this enigma, we must give our author's
own words; for no others can do him equal justice. Jove's mes-
senger thus addresses Apollo, p. 74 :
· Ruler of light! let now thy car descend,
So Jove commands, and night her shade extend,
Else Thebes must perish ; and the doom of fate,
Anticipated, harc an curlier date,
Than fate decrees : for, like devouring flame,
Tydides threatens all the Theban name."
But it is no uncommon thing for this poet to employ his
celestials in a manner somewhat incomprehensible to mere mor-
tal understandings. Page 76, War, like a brawling brat, who
cries and frets himself to sleep in his cradle, rocks itself to rest
in much the same moord:
WILKIE'S EPIGONIAD.
393
“the martial clangors cease,
And war tumultuous lulls itself to peace.”
As contending countries and cities severally claimed the hon-
or of having given us the author of the Iliad, so, we foresee,
will various parts of the British empire contend for that of hav-
ing given us the author of the Epigoniad. And as the authority
of the review will, doubtless, be quoted in support of the con-
jectures and proofs that shall in future times be advanced on
this occasion, we have been careful to note our several observa-
tions with regard to this matter. England, Ireland, and Scot-
land, have been mentioned; but here comes a line that seems to
vacate all their claims, and by its gurgling or turkey-cock sound,
to point out some other part of the world, but whether Wales,
or Germany, or, the Cape of Good Hope, let the reader determine.
Here it is, taken from p. 114, where Discord is described in her
flight from hell:
Gliding meteorous, like a stream of flame.”
But if sometimes a rumbling line chance to offend the nicer
ear, it will meet with more frequent opportunities of lulling
itself to peace, by the help of many a soothing couplet, like the
following:
“ In ev'ry art, my friends! you all excel,
And cach deserves a prize for shooting well.”
“ here, in doubtful poise, the battle hings,*
Faint is the host, and wounded halft the Kings.
Again :
“ Rank above rank the living structure grows,
As settling bees the pendent heap compose,
Which in some shade or vaulted cavern, hings,
Woren thick with complicated feet and wings."
† Precisely half?
* What country word is this?
VOL. IV.
17*
394
POETICAL CRITICISM.
a
If bad rhymes are to be deemed, as some think they are, a cap
ital defect, our author will be capitally convicted on many an in-
dictment in the court of criticism. For instance, p. 242, we have
the following strange couplet:
Graceful the goddess turn'd, and with a voice,
Bold, and superior to the vulgar noise,
O'er all the field commands.”
The badness of the rhyme in the two first lines is, however, their
smallest imperfection : Minerva, sure, will never pardon the un-
graceful mention of her goddess-ship's vociferation; which, ac-
cording to the idea here raised, would even silence the loudest
water-nymph in the neighborhood of Thames-street.
But as it may, and not unreasonably, be urged, in our poet's
favor, that a few single lines, or couplets, culled from different
parts of his work, are by no means to be considered as a fair spec-
men of the whole; we shall conclude with his entire description
of a swimming-match, which, though we have disapproved his
choice of the sport, will show the author to somewhat more advan-
tage than, possibly, the reader may expect, from the samples al-
ready produced :
(
With thirst of glory fir'd,
Crete's valiant monarch to the prize aspir’d;
With Sparta's younger chief, Ulysses came;
And brave Clearchus, emulous of fame,
A wealthy warrior from the Samian shore,
In cattle rich, and heaps of precious ore;
Distinguish'd in the inidst the heroes stood,
Eager to plunge into the shining flood.
“ His brother's ardor purpos’d to restrain,
Atrides strove, and counsellid thus in vain :
Desist, my brother! shun th' unequal strife ;
For late you stood upon the verge of life:
WILKIE'S EPIGONIAD.
395
No mortal man his vigor can retain,
When flowing wounds have emptied ev'ry vein.
If now you perish in the wat’ry way,
Grief upon grief shall cloud this mournful day.
Desist, respect my counsel, and be wise,
Some other Spartan in your place will rise.
To change his brother's purpose thus he tried,
But Menelaus resolute replied :
Brother, in vain you urge me to forbear,
From love and fond affection prompt to fear;
For firm as e'er before my limbs remain,
To dash the fluid waves, or scour the plain.
“ He said ; and went before. The heroes move
To the dark covert of a neighboring grove;
Which to the bank its shady walks extends,
Where, mixing with the lake, a riv'let ends.
Prompt to contend, their purple robes they loose,
Their figur’d vests, and gold embroider'd shocs ;
And through the grove descending to the strand,
Along the fiuw'ry bank in order stand.
As when in some fair temple's sacred shrine,
A statue stands, express'd by skill divine,
Apollo's, or the herald pow'rs, who brings
Jove's mighty mandates on his airy wings;
The form majestic awes the bending crowd:
In port and stature such the heroes stood.
"Starting at once; with equal strokes they sweep
The smooth expanse,
and shoot into the deep;
The Cretan chief exerting all his force,
His rivals far surpass'd, and led the course ;
Behind, Atrides, emulous of fame;
Clearchus next; and last Ulysses came.
And now they measurd back the wat'ry space,
And saw from far the limits of the race.
Ulysses then with thirst of glory fir’d,
The Samian left, and to the prize aspird ;
396
POETICAL CRITICISM.
Who, emulous, and dreading to be last,
With equal speed the Spartan hero pass’d.
Alarm'd, the Cretan monarch strove with pain
His doubtful hopes of conquest to maintain ;
Exerting ev'ry nerve, his limbs he plied,
And wishing, from afar the shore descried :
For near and nearer still Ulysses press'd,
The waves he left rebounding from his breast
With equal zeal for victory they strove,
When gliding sudden from the roofs of Jove,
Pallas approach'd ; behind a cloud conceald,
Ulysses only saw her form reveal’d.
Majestic by the hero's side she stood;
Her shining sandals press'd the trembling floud.
She whisper'd soft, as when the western breeze
Stirs the thick reeds, or shakes the rustling trees
Still shall thy soul, with endless thirst of fame,
Aspire to victory in ev'ry game.
The honors which from bones and sinews rise,
Are lightly valu'd by the good and wise:
To envy still they rouse the human kind;
And oft, than courted, better far declin'd.
To brave Idomenius yield the race,
Contented to obtain the second place.
The goddess thus: while, stretching to the land,
With joy the Cretan chief approach'd the strand;
Ulysses next arriv’d, and, spent with toil,
The weary Samian grasp'd the welcome soil.
“But far behind, the Spartan warrior lay,
Fatigu'd and fainting in the wat'ry way.
Thrice struggling from the lake, his head he reard;
And thrice imploring aid, his voice was heard.
The Cretan monarch hastes the youth to save,
And Ithacus again divides the wave:
With force renew'd, their manly limbs they ply,
And from their breasts the whitning billows fly.
WILKIE'S EPIGONIAD.
397
Full in the midst a rocky isle divides
The liquid space, and parts the silver tides ;
Once cultivated, now with thickets green
O'erspread, two hillocks and a vale between.
Here dwelt an aged swain; his cottage stood
Under the cliffs, encompass'd by a wood.
From poverty secure, he heard afar,
In peace profound, the tumults of the war.
Mending a net before his rural gate,
From other toils repos'd, the peasant sat,
When first the voice of Menelaus came,
By ev’ning breezes wafied from the stream.
He rose ; and turning whence the voice was heard,
Far struggling in the deep, the youth appear'd.
Hastning, his skiff he loos'd, and spread the sail,
Some present god supplied a prosp'rous gale:
For as the Spartan chief, with toil subdu'd,
Hopeless of life, was sinking in the flood ;
The swain approach'd, and in his barge receiv'd
Him safe, from danger inminent retriev'd.
· Upon a willow's trunk Thersites sat,
Contempt and laughter fated to create,
Where, bending from a hollow bank, it hung,
And rooted to the mould'ring surface clung;
He saw Airides safe ; and thus aloud,
With leer malign, address'd the list’ning crowd :
Here on the flow'ry turf a hearth shall stand ;
A hecatomb the fav'ring gods demand,
Who say'd Atrides in this dire debate,
And snatch'd the hero from the jaws of fate.
Without his aid, we all might quit the field ;
Ulysses, Ajax, and Tydides yield:
Ilis mighty arm alone the host defends,
But dire disaster still the chief attends:
Last sun beheld him vanquish'd on the plain ;
Then warriors say'd him, now shepherd swain.
399
POETICAL CRITICISM
Defend him still from persecuting fate !
Protect the hero who protects the state ;
Guard him amidst the dangers of the war;
And when he swims let aid be never far!
He said, and scorn and laughter to exite,
His features foul he writh’d, with envious spite,
Smiling contempt, and pleas'd his ranc'rous heart
With aiming thus oblique a venom'd dart.
But joy'd not long; for soon the faithless wood,
Strain’d from the root, resign'd him to the flood.
Plunging and sputi’ring, as his arms he spread,
A load of soil came thund’ring on his head,
Slipt from the bank: along the winding shore,
With laughter loud he heard the echoes roar,
When from the lake his crooked form he reard,
With horror pale, with blotting clay besmear'd:
Then clambering by the trunk in sad dismay,
Which, half immers'd, with all its branches lay,
Confounded, to the tents he skulk'd along,
Amidst the shouts and insults of the throng."
If any should imagine that we have been rather severe upon
this author, let it be observed in our excuse, that his presump-
tuous attack of so superior a character as that of the late Mr.
Pope, has justly divested him of all title to favor: read the follow-
ing extract from his preface.*
“ The language [of the Epigoniad]. is simple and artless.
This I take to be a beauty rather than a defect; for it gives an
air of antiquity to the work, and makes the style more suitable
to the subject. The quaintness of Mr. Pope's expression, in his
translation of the Iliad and Odyssey, is not at all suitable either
* This preface however, upon the whole, shows the author to be a man
of more reading and taste than his poem speaks him ; and had he published
that discourse without the Epigoni:h!, and committed the latter to the flames,
his reputation would have sustained no loss on that account.
WILKIE'S EPIGONIAD.
399
to the antiquity, or majestic gravity of his author,* and contri-
butes more to make his fable appear vain and absurd, than any
circumstance that seems of so little moment could easily be sup-
posed to do." +
He must be a tasteless critic, indeed, who could remain un-
moved, after perusiny so dogmatical a sentence, pronounced by
such a poet, upon such A GENIUS !
* [“ Perhaps it is to a want of poetical sensibility that we may chiefly
impute the inferior degree of interest excited by the Epigoniad, to that which
its merits in other respects might excite. Perhaps it suffers also from its
author having the Homeric imitation constantly in view, in which, however,
he must be allowed, I think, to have been very successful,-
,—so successful, that
a person ignorant of Greek will, I believe, better conceive what Homer is in
the original by persuing the Epigoniad than by reading over the excellent
translation of Pope.”—HENRY MACKENZIE, Life of Home.
“ If you meet with a metaphorical expression in Homer you meet with a
rarity indeed. Pope is no where more figurative in his own pieces than in
his translation of Homer. The Iliad and the Odyssey, in his hands, have no
more of the air of antiquity than if he had himself invented them. Their
simplicity is overwhelmed with a profusion of fine things, which, however they
may strike the eye at first sight, inake no amends for the greater beauties
which they conceal. The venerable Grecian is as much the worse for his
acquisitions of this kind, as a statue of Phydias or Praxiteles would be for
the painter’s brush.”—Cowper.]
+ [“ In the second edition of this poem, this passage was properly omitted.
David Hume, in a letter to Adam Smith dated April 12, 1759, gives the
following account of its reception in London. The Epigoniad, I hope, will
do, but it is somewhat up-hill work. You will see in the Critical Reviews a
letter upon that poem, and I desire you to employ your conjectures in finding
out the author.' This letter was written by Hume himself to recoinmend the
poem to the public, “as one of the ornaments of our language.' The success
was not answerable to his expectations. Too antique to please the unlettered
reader, and too modern for the scholar, it was neglected by both, read by few,
and soon forgotten by all.' — Anderson, British Poets, vol. xi., p. xii.)
400
POETICAL CRITICISM
V.-HOME'S TRAGEDY OF DOUGLAS.*
[From the Monthly Review, 1757. “ Douglas, a Tragedy ; as
it is actel at the Theatre Royal in Covent-Garden, 8vo.]
When the town, by a tedious succession of indifferent perfor-
mances, has been long confined to censure, it will naturally
wish for an opportunity of praise; and, like a losing gamester,
vainly expect every last throw must retrieve the former. In this
disposition, a performance with but the slightest share of merit is
welcomed with no small share of applause: its prettinesses exalt
us into rapture; and the production is compared, not with our
idea of excellence, but of the exploded trash it succeeds. Add
to this, that the least qualified to judge are ever foremost to ob-
trude their opinions : ignorance exclaims with excess of admira-
tion; party roars in its support; and thus the trifle of the day is
sure to have the loudest voices and the most votes in its favor;
nor does it cease to be the finest piece in nature," till a newer,
and consequently a finer, appears, to consign it to oblivion.
Do these men of applause, who can so easily be brought
" To wonder with a foolish face of praise."
deserve our envy or our censure? If their raptures are real,
66
«
* (John Home was born at Leith in 1722, and died at Edinburgh in 1808,
in his eighty-sixth year. Besides this tragedy, he wrote “ Agis," the “ Siege
of Aquileia,” the Fatal Discovery,” “ Alonzo," and Alfred ;" and also a
· History of the Rebellion of 1745.” Having passed some time as a volunteer
in a royal corps raised to repel the attack of the Chevalier, he was, in 1746,
presented to the church and parish of Athelstanesford, in East Lothian, vacant
by the death of Robert Blair, author of “ The Grave." In 1756, he came up
to London, and offered this tragedy to Garrick, but the English Roseius
pronounced it totally unfit for the stage. The friends of the author being of a
different opinion, the play was produced at Edinburgh, in December 1756, and
met with a brilliant reception. In the following February, it was brought oilt
at Covent Garden Theatre ; Garrick still persisting in not performing it at
Drury-Lane.)
HOME'S TRAGEDY OF DOUGLAS.
401
none but the ill-natured would wish to damp them; if fictitious,
stupidity only can synipathize with their pretended felicity.
As in company, the loudest laugh comes generally from the
person least capable of relishing the conversation, so in criticism,
those are often most casily plcased whose sensations are least
exquisite in the perception of beauty. The glutton may like the
feast, but the delicacy of the cpicure alone can distinguish and
enjoy the choice, the disposition, the flavors, that give clegance
of spirit to the entertainment.
To direct our taste, and conduct the poet up to perfection, has
ever been the true critic's province; and though it were to be
wished that all who aim at excellence would endeavor to observe
the rules he prescribes, yet a failure in this respect alone should
never induce us to reject the performance.
A mechanically exact adherence to all the rules of the drama
is more the business of industry than of genius. Theatrical law-
givers rather teach the ignorant where to censure, than the poet
how to write. If sublimity, sentiment, and passion, give warmth
and life and expression to the whole, we can the more easily dis-
pense with the rules of the Stagyrite; but if languor, affectation,
and the false sublime, are substituted for these, an observance of
all the precepts of the ancients will prove but a poor compen-
sation.
We would not willingly have applied this last observation to
the performance now before us; but when a work is obtruded
upon us as the consummate picture of perfection, and the standard
of taste,
“ Ne quodcunque volet, poscat sibi fabula credi !"
Let candor allow this writer mediocrity now; his future produc.
tions may probably entitle him to higher applause.*
(On the first appearance of Douglas, David Humne gave it as his opinion,
402
POETICAL CRITICISM.
With respect to his present tragedy, we could, indeed, enter
on a particular examen of the beauties or faults discoverable in
the diction, sentiment, plot, or characters ;* but, in works of this
nature, general observation often characterizes more strongly than
a particular criticism could do; for it were an easy task to point
out those passages in any indifferent author, where he has excelled
himself, and yet these comparative beauties, if we may be allowed
the expression, may have no real merit at all. Poems, like build-
ings, have their point of view, and too near a situation gives but
a partial conception of the whole. Suffice it, then, if we only add,
that this tragedy's want of moral, which should be the ground-
work of every fable; the unfolding a material part of the plot in
soliloquy; the preposterous distress of a married lady for a former
husband, who had been dead near twenty years ;* the want of
&6
any theatre.
6
that it was one of the most interesting and pathetic pieces ever exhibited on
• Should I give it the preference,” says he, “ to the Verope of
Maffei, and to that of Voltaire ; should I affirm that it contained more fire
and spirit than the former, more tenderness and simplicity than the latter, I
might be accused of partiality.” Not content with this, he proceeded to
declare, that the author possessed the true theatric genius of Shakspeare and
Otway, refined from the unhappy barbarism of the one and the licentiousness
of the other.-See lluine's Dedication to his Four Dissertations, and Biog.
Dram. vol i. p. 174.
“ In a letter to a friend, dated August 10, 1757, Mr. Gray says, I am
greatly struck with the tragedy of Douglas, though it has infinite faults: the
author seems to me to have retrieved the true language of the stage, which
had been lost for these hundred years; and there is one scene (between
Matilda and the old peasant) so masterly, that it strikes me blind to all the
defects in the work.'”- Vason's Gray, vol. i. p. 357.]
[“ The structure of the story somewhat resembles that of Voltaire's
Nérope, but is as simple and natural as that of the French author is compli-
cated and artificial. Vérope came out about 17413, and Mr. Ilome may
therefore easily have seen it; but he has certainly derived his more simple
and natural tale from the old ballad of Gil Morrice. In memory of this, the
tune of Gil Morrice, a simple and beautiful air, is, in Scotland at least, always
played while the curtain rises."-Sir WALTER Scort, Prose Works, vol. xix.
p. 345, edit. 1835.]
[There is something overstrained in the twenty years spent by Lady
*
HOME'S TRAGEDY OF DOUGLAS.
403
incidents to raise that fluctuation of hope and fear which interest
us in the catastrophe; are all faults we could easily pardon, did
poetic fire, elegance, or the heightenings of pathetic distress,
afford adequate compensation : but these are dealt to us with a
sparing hand.
However, as we have perceived some dawnings of genius in
this writer, let us not dwell on his imperfections, but rather pro-
ceed to show on what particular passage in his performance we have
founded our hopes of his brightening, one day, into stronger lustre.
Those parts of nature, and that rural simplicity with which
the author was, perhaps, best acquainted, are not unhappily de-
scribed ;
and hence we are led to conjecture, that a more univer-
sal knowledge of nature will probably increase his powers of
description. The native innocence of the shepherd Norval is
happily expressed; it requires some art to dress the thoughts
and phrases of the common people, without letting them swell
into bombast, or sink into vulgarity; a fault generally charged
upon the English authors, who are remarked by their neighbors
of the continent to write too much above, or too much below,
every subject they undertake to treat upon.
Glenalvon's character is strongly marked, and bears a near
resemblance to Shakspeare's 'Richard.' It is thus delineated in
the first act:-
6 ANNA.
Why speaks my lady thus of Randolph's heir ?
LADY RANDOLPI.
Because he's not the heir of Randolph's virtues.
Subtle and shrewd, le offers to mankind
Randolph in deep and suppressed sorrow ; nor is it natural, though useful,
certainly, to the poet, that her regrets should turn less on the husband of
her youth, than upon the new-born child whom she had scarcely seen.”—Sir
WALTER SCOTT, Prose Works, vol. xix. p. 3-12.)
404
POETICAL CRITICISM.
An artificial image of himself;
And he with ease can vary to the taste
Of different men, its features. Self-denied,
And master of his appetites he seems;
But his fierce nature, like a fox chained up,
Watches to seize unseen the wish'd-for prey ;
Never were vice and virtue pois'd so ill,
As in Glenalvon’s unrelenting mind.
Yet he is brave, and politic in war."*
The following passage is an oblique panegyric on the Union,
and contains a pleasing gradation of sentiment. The lines
marked in italics demand particular distinction.
* [** There is something awkward in Lady Randolph's sudden confidence
to Anna, as is pointed out by David Hume. “The spectator,' says the critic,
is apt to suspect it was done in order to instruct him; a very good end, but
which might have been obtained by a careful and artificial conduct of the
dialogue.' This is all unquestionably true ; but the spectator should, and
indeed must, make considerable allowances, if he expects to receive pleasure
from the drania. He must get his mind, according to Tony Lumpkin's
phrase, into 'a concatenation accordingly,' since he cannot reasonably expect
that scenes of deep and complicated interest shall be placed before him in
close succession, without some force being put upon ordinary probability; and
the question is not, how far you have sacrificed your judgment in order to
accommodate the fiction, but rather what is the degree of pleasure you have
received in return. Perhaps, in this point of view, it is scarcely possible for a
spectator to make such sacrifices for greater pleasure than we have enjoyed in
seeing Lady Randolph personified by the inimitable Siddons. Great as that
pleasure was on all occasions, it was increased in a manner which can hardly
be conceived, when her son (the late Mr. Henry Siddons) supported his mother,
in the character of Douglas, and when the full everflowings of maternal tender-
ness are authorized, nay, authenticated and realized, by the actual existence of
the relationship.”—Sir WALTER Scott.
Mrs. Siddons told ine, that she never found any study (which, in the
technical language of the staye, means the getting verses by heart) so easy as
that of Douglas, which is one of the best criterions of excellence in the
dramatic style."--HENRY MACKENZIE, Life of Home, vol. i. p. 43.]
HOME'S TRAGEDY OF DOUGLAS.
405
« LADY RANDOLPH.*
War I detest; but war with foreign foes,
Whose manners, language, and whose looks are strange,
Is not so horrid, nor to me so hateful,
As that with which our neighbors oft we wage.
A river here, and there an idle line
By fancy drawn, divides the sister kingdoms.
On each side dwells a people similar,
As twins are to each other,-
Both for their valor famous through the world.
Yet will they not unite their kindred arms,
And if they must have war, wage
distant war
But with each other fight in cruel conflict ;
Gallant in strife, and noble in their ire,
The battle is their pastime. They go forth
Gay in the morning, as to summer sport :
When evening comes, the glory of the morn,
The youthful warrior is a clod of clay."
It may not be improper to observe, before we take our leave
of this performance, that it was first acted with great applause in
Edinburgh it but made its appearance in England under a pe-
culiar disadvantage; the commendation a man of taste bad
bestowed on it, previous to its representation here, perhaps raised
too much expectation in some, and excited a spirit of envy and
critical prejudice in others. Possibly, indeed, that gentleman, in
6
[" When this tragedy was originally produced at Edinburgh, the title of
the heroine was Lady Barnard: the alteration to Lady Randolph was made
on its being transplanted to London.”—Jackson's llist. of the Scottish Stage.]
† “ I have a perfect recollection,” says Mr. Mackenzie, "of the strong
sensation that Douglas produced in Edinburgh. I was present at the first
representation ; the applause was enthusiastic ; but a better criterion of its
merits was the tears of the audience, which the tender parts of the drama
drew forth unsparingly. The town was in an uproar of exultation, that a
406
POETICAL CRITICISM.
some degree, sacrificed his taste to his friendship. However, if
this was the case, he will sustain no great loss with regard to bis
reputation, since he may gain as much on the one hand, as he
can lose on the other ; the worst that can be said amounting only
to this, that the benevolence of his disposition prevailed over the
rectitude of his judgment.*
Scotsman should write a tragedy of the first rate, and that its merits were
first submitted to them.” The appearance, however, of a tragedy written
by a clergyman, gave such offence to the Presbytery of Edinburgh, that the
author, to escape degradation, abdicated his pulpit.]
* [“ As we sat over our tea, at Inverary, Mr. Home's tragedy of Douglas
was mentioned. I put Dr. Johnson in mind, that once, in a coffee-house at
Oxford, he called to old Mr. Sheridan, · How came you, Sir, to give Home
a gold medal for writing that foolish play ? and defied Mr. Sheridan to show
ten good lines in it. He did not insist that they should be put together ;
but that there were not ten good lines in the whole play. He now persisted
in this. I endeavored to defend that pathetic and beautiful tragedy, and
repeated the following passage :--
Sincerity,
Thou first of virtues! let no mortal leave
Thy onward path, although the earth should gape
And from the gulf of hell destruction cry,
To take dissimulation's winding way.'
Johnson.— That will not do, Sir, nothing is good but what is consistent
with probability, which this is not. Juvenal, indeed, gives us a noble picture
of inflexible virtue:-
ܪ
"Esto bonus miles, tutor bonus, arbiter idem,
Integer: ambiguæ sj quando citabere testis,
Incerta que rei, Phalaris licet imperet, ut sis
Falsus, et admoto dictet perjuria tauro,
Summum crede nefas animam preferre pudori,
Ec propter vitam vivendi perdere causas.'1
“ He repeated the lines with great force and dignity; then added, “And
after this comes Johnny Home, with his carth-gaping, and his destruction-
crying,'-pooh! ”— Boswell, vol. v. p. 106, edit. 1835.)
1 ["Be brave, be just; and, when your country's laws
Call you to witness in a dubious cause,
Though Phalaris plant his bull before your eye,
And, frowning, dictate to your lips the lie,
Think it a crime no tears can e'er eilace,
To purchase safety, with compliance basc,
Al honor's cost, a feverish span extend,
And sacritice for life, life's only end." --GIFFORD.)
CARDINAL DE POLIGNAC'S ANTI-LUCRETIUS.
407
VI.-CARDINAL DE POLIGNAC'S
66
ANTI-LUCRETIUS."
[From the Monthly Review, 1757. " Anti-Lucretius, of God
and Nature; a Poem. Written in Latin by the Cardinal
De Polignac. Rendered into English by the Translator oj
Paradise Lost."* 4to.]
Ir is a doubt whether the Cardinal de Polignac be better
known to the statesmen of Europe as a politician, or to the learn-
ed as a poet: it is certain, his talent of persuasion in both capaci-
ties was extraordinary; and it is somewhat surprising, that
amidst such a multiplicity of state negotiations, as might seem
sufficient to engross all his attention, he found leisure for the
intricate disquisitions of philosophy. As neither his editor nor
our translator have mentioned what first gave rise to this poem,
it may not be improper to mention it here: “ A seeming chance,"
as we are told, “ first put Polignac upon this undertaking. The
author, in his return from Poland, made some stay in Holland,
* (John Dobson, of New College, Oxford. For translating Paradise Lost
into Latin verse, Mr. Auditor Benson, who erected a monument to Milton in
Westminster Abbey, gave him one thousand pounds. “ Dobson had acquired
great reputation by his translation of Prior's Solomon, the first book of which
he finished when he was a scholar at Winchester College. He had not, at that
time, as he told me (for I knew him well), read Lucretius, which would
have given a richness and force to his verses. Mr. Pope wished him to
translate the Essay on Man; which he began to do, but relinquished on
account of the impossibility of imitating its brevity in another language.
Though he had so much facility in translating, his original poems, of which
I have seen many, were very feeble and flat, and contained no mark of
genius."---DR. Joseph Warrox.
“ There is one translation which I greatly admire. I mean Dobson's
• Paradisus Amissus ;' my son studied, and, I believe, read every line of it.
It is more true to the original, both in sense and spirit, than any other poetical
version of length that I have seen. The author must have had an amazing
command of Latin phraseology, and a very nice ear in harmony. All that
I could ever hear of Dobson's private life was, that in his old age he was
given to drinking.”—DR. BEATTIE.)
108
POETICAL CRITICISM.
where, becoming acquainted with M. Bayle, he asked him, which
of the sects in vogue he professed? Bayle eluded the question,
by repeating some lines out of Lucretius; and being closer
pressed, he made no other answer than that he was a true Pro-
testant. The Abbé still urging him, he answered with some
emotion, “Yes, Sir, I am a true Protestant, and to the utmost
extent of the word, for I protest against all that is said or done;'
which was followed by another more energetic repetition from
Lucretius. The Abbé finding that learned person far gone in
the system of Epicurism, or at least of Skepticism, and that
these notions were seducingly advanced in his celebrated Diction-
ary, immediately conceived a design of refuting those errors, and
his two relegations (to the States) proved fortunate for the accom-
plishment."
Certainly nothing can be a more proper antidote than the
“ Anti-Lucretius" against the mischievous doctrines of the
charming poet, but indifferent philosopher, here controverted by
our author. It must be confessed Lucretius has more poetic
enthusiasm, and more frequently amuses his reader with the
glowing descriptions of a fine imagination. Our author, with
greater severity, secms always in quest of truth, and never loses
the philosopher in the poet. Lucretius strikes his reader with
the brilliancy of his arguments, the demonstrations of Polignac
operate more slowly, but then they are sure to carry conviction.
The one aims at instruction merely to please; the other pleases
merely to instruct In short, the fictions of the disciple of Epi-
curus seem to acquire additional graces from poetry, while poetry
receives new graces from his antagonist, by being employed in
the service of truth.
Lucretius has long ago been translated into our language.
This, in some measure, implied a necessity for translating his
opponent also; and the first book of the Anti-Lucretius in Eng.
CARDINAL DE POLIGNAC'S ANTI-LUCRETIUS.
402
lish verse, is here submitted, by the ingenious Mr. Dobson, as a
specimen of his abilities for the whole. He certainly seems every
way equal to the laborious undertaking, if we may be allowed to
judge from this part of his performance now before us.
preserves the sense, and very seldom loses the spirit of his ori.
ginal. Sometimes, however, he seems inferior to him in strength;
thus, line 32, in the original :
He ever
“ Incute vim dictis, propriamque ulciscere causam,"
he translates less energetically thus :
inspire
My song, and vindicate thy sovereign cause."
Where the poet rapturously cries out,
“O utinam, dum te regionibus infero sacris”
the translator coolly says,
“ Were mine the gift, as o'er the sacred clime-"
But that the reader may not rest solely upon our judgment,
it may be proper to select a specimen or two of the original, to
which subjoining the translation, we shall leave him to determine
for himself. The author thus addresses the atheist :
“Si virtutis eras avidus, rectique bonique
Tam sitiens, quid Religio tibi sancta nocebat?
Aspera quippe nimis visa est? Asperrima certe
Gaudenti vitiis, sed non virtutis amanti.
Ergo perfugium culpæ, solisque benignus
Perjuris ac fædifragis, Epicure, parabas.
Solam hominum fæcem poteras devotaque furcis
Devincire tibi capita, indignæque patronus
Nequitiæ tantum scelerisque assertor haberi;
Cui tales animos viresque atque arma ministras.
Degener ille bonis etenim non ingruit horror
VOL. IV.
18
410
POETICAL CRITICISM.
Quem perimis: sibi nec restingui Tartara poscunt,
Quos bene gesta satis tranquillant; ipsaque moram
Integritas, et parta quies moderamine casto
Vindicat à miserà longæ formidine pænæ.
His procui anguicomæ strident crepitantque flagellis
Eumenides; procul his ætema incendia fumant”
“ Were you with ardent love f virtue fir’d,
And did you thirst for equity and truth,
Why should Religion's sa cred laws offend ?
She's too severe. Severe she is to those
Whom Vice delights, but not to Virtue's friends.
For Vice, then, Epicurus, you contriv'd
A friendly refuge, to each uniscreant kind,
Each perjur'd wretch. Hence to your banners hie
In droves, the dregs and outcast of mankind.
Hence are you styl'd th' assertor of the base,
Patron of villains; whom you thus supply
With impious courage, and ignoble arms.
For that degen’rate fear you boast to quell
Damps not the virtuous; whose ingenuous deedy
Becalm their minds, and chaste integrity
Wraps in soft peace, unconscious of alarms.
From these far distant, hiss and clash their thongs,
The snake-curld Furies; distant far from these
Burn the relentless flames that never die."
"Quid si autem invenies quod credimus, ultima cum te
Sustulerit tenebrisque perennibus obruerit nox,
Nempe Deum ultorem, quem non cognoveris antè,
Vel potius notuin famå neglexeris ? Eheu!
Horresco reputans: tibi luditur alea, Quinti,
Magna nimis. Quoquò te vertas, fit tua pejor
Conditio nostra. Neque enim, si fallimur, hujue
Erroris dabimus poenas: sors æqua manebit
Nos omnes; uno sinul involvemur inani:
CARDINAL DE POLIGNAC'S ANTI-LUCRETIUS.
41
Tu, si deciperis, contrà; sine fine futurus
Infelix. Cur tanta igitur discrimina tentas ?”
(
• But should you find (what merits firmest faith),
When Death shall wrap thee in her sable shade,
Should you then find, with righteous vengeance arın’d,
That God you knew not once, or known, defied,
I shudder at the thought. Ah! Quintius, rash
Th’ adventure ; great the hazard you explore.
Shift as you please, in every light appears
Your state far worse than ours. What if we err?
That error no dread punishment attends.
One fate then all involves; we all shall sink
In one vast unessential void absorpt.
Err you? What fatal misery ensues!
Woe infinite !-Such perils who would prove ?"
The Anti-Lucretius is not a refutation of Lucretius only,
but of those in general who seem to have been favorers of Athe-
ism. Democritus, Aristotle, Epicurus, Ilobbes, and Spinosa, are
confuted; and among the number of those whom he has opposed,
,
we are sorry to find Newton, Locke, and Gassendus, whose
opinions concerning a vacuum, &c., he has taken great pains to
obviate; but his reasonings on natural subjects seem chiefly
drawn from the stores of Des Cartes, in whose amusing systems
our author had been early initiated; and it is but natural to con.
trovert any opinions that tend to discover the futility of our
former researches into nature. If the translator proceeds in this
performance (as we sincerely hope he will), some notes added in
those places where the author erroneously controverts the great
men already mentioned, would certainly be not less useful than
pleasing to the English reader. · His vacuums and his gravity
of atoms, may be given up to Lucretius, while still our obliga.
412
POETICAL CRITICISM.
tions will remain to the author for impugning the rest of his
doctrines.*
VII.-GRAY'S ODES.
[From the Monthly Review, 1757. Oiles. By Mr. Gray. 4to.]
As this publication seems designed for those who have formed
their taste by the models of antiquity, the generality of readers
cannot be supposed adequate judges of its merit; nor will the
poet, it is presumed, be greatly disappointed if he finds them
backward in commending a performance not entirely suited to
their apprehensions. We cannot, however, without some regret
behold those talents so capable of giving pleasure to all, exerted
in efforts that, at best, can amuse only the few; we cannot be
hold this rising poet seeking fame among the learned, without
hinting to him the same advice that Isocrates used to give his
scholars, “sturly the people."I This study it is that has con-
was
* [Another translation of the first book of the “Anti-Lucretius”
published in 1767, by George Canning, Esq., father of the late Right Honor-
able George Canning. Mr. Canning died the 11th of April 177l; upon which
day bis eminent and highly gifted son had completed his first year.]
† [“My friends tell me that the Odes do not succeed, and write me many
topics of consolation on that head. In short, I have heard of nobody but
an actor and a doctor of divinity that profess their esteem for them.”—Gray
to Dr. Hurd, Aug. 25, 1757.
Dr. Warburton is come to town, and I am told likes them extremely; he
says the world never passed so just an opinion upon any thing as upon them ;
for that, in other things, they have affected to like or dislike, whereas here
they own they do not understand, which he looks upon to be very true ; but
yet thinks they understand them as well as Milton or Shakspeare, whom they
are obliged, by fashion, to admire. Mr. Garrick's verses to me you have
seen."— The Same to Dr. I'arton, Oct. 7, 1757.)
† (Mr. Southey, who has introduced this passage into his Lite of Cowper,
vol. i. p. 325, was not aware that Goldsmith was the critic.]
GRAY'S ODES.
413
ducted the great masters of antiquity up to immortality. Pindar
himself, of whom our modern lyrist is an imitator, appears en-
tirely guided by it. He adapted his works exactly to the dispo-
sitions of his countrymen. Irregular, enthusiastic, and quick in
transition,-he wrote for a people inconstant, of warm imagina-
tions, and exquisite sensibility. He chose the most popular sub-
jects, and all his allusions are to customs well known, in his days,
to the meanest person.
His English imitator wants those advantages He speaks to
a people not easily impressed with new ideas; extremely tena-
cious of the old; with difficulty warmed; and as slowly cooling
again. How unsuited then to our national character is that
species of poetry which rises upon us with unexpected flights!
where we must hastily catch the thought, or it flies from us;
and, in short, where the reader must largely partake of the poet's
enthusiasm, in order to taste his beauties! To carry the parallel
a little farther: the Greek poet wrote in a language the most
proper that can be imagined for this species of composition ;
lofty, harmonious, and never needing rhyme to heighten the
numbers. But, for us, several unsuccessful experiments seem to
prove that the English cannot have Odes in blank verse; while,
on the other hand, a natural imperfection attends those which
are composed in irregular rhymes;—the similar sound often re-
curring where it is not expected, and not being found where it is,
creates no small confusion to the reader,—who, as we have not
seldom observed, beginning in all the solemnity of poetic elocution,
is, by frequent disappointments of the rhyme, at last obliged to
drawl out the uncomplying numbers into disagreeable prose.
* The best Odes of Pindar are said to be those which have been destroyed
by time; and even they were seldom recited among the Greeks, without the
adventitious ornaments of music and dancing. Our Lyric Odles are seldom set
off with these allvantages ; which, trilling as they seem, have alone given
immortality to the work of Quinault.
414
POETICAL CRITICISM.
It is by no means our design to detract from the merit of
our author's present attempt: we would only intimate that an
English poet,—“one whom the Muse has marked for her own,"
could produce a more luxuriant bloom of flowers by cultivating
such as are natives of the soil, than by endeavoring to force the
exotics of another climate: or, to speak without a metaphor,
such a genius as Mr. Gray might give greater pleasure, and ac-
quire a larger portion of fame, if, instead of being an imitator, he
did justice to his talents, and ventured to be more an original.
These two Odes, it must be confessed, breathe much of the
spirit of Pindar; but then they have caught the seeming obscu-
rity, the sudden transition, and hazardous epithet, of his mighty
master; all which, though evidently intended for beauties, will,
probably, be regarded as blemishes by the generality of his
readers. In short, they are in some measure a representation of
what Pindar now appears to be, though perhaps not what he ap-
peared to the states of Greece, when they rivalled each other
in his applause, and when Pan himself was seen dancing to his
melody.
In conformity to the ancients these Odes consist of the
strophe, antistrophe, and epode, which, in each Ode, are thrice
repeated. The strophes have a correspondent resemblance in
their structure and numbers; and the antistrophe and epode
also bear the same similitude. The poet seems, in the first Ode
particularly, to design the cpode as a complete air to the strophe
and antistrophe, which have more the appearance of recitative.
There was a necessity for these divisions among the ancients, for
they served as directions to the dancer and musician; but we
see no reason why they should be continued among the moderns ;
for, instead of assisting, they will but perplex the musician, as
* {“ And Melancholy mark”d him for her own."--Elegy in a Country
Church Yard.)
GRAY'S ODES.
415
our music requires a more frequent transition from the air to the
recitative than could agree with the simplicity of the ancients.
The first of these poems celebrates the Lyric Muse. It seems
the most labored performance of the two; but yet we think its
merit is not equal to that of the second. It seems to want that
regularity of plan upon which the second is founded; and though
it abounds with images that strike, yet, unlike the second, it con-
tains none that are affecting.
In the second antistrophe the Bard thus marks the progress
of poetry.
II.
“In climes beyond the solar road,
Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam,
The Muse has broke the twilight-gloom
To cheer the shivering natives' dull abode.
And oft beneath the od'rous shade
Of Chili's boundless forests laid,
She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat,
In loose numbers wildly sweet,
Their feather-cinctured Chiefs, and dusky loves.
Her track, where'er the Goddess roves,
Glory pursue, and generous shame,
Th' unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's holy flame."
There is great spirit in the irregularity of the numbers
towards the conclusion of the foregoing stanza.
II. 3.
“ Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep,
Isles, that crown tl' Egean deep,
Fields, that cool lissus laves,
Or where Maander's amber waves
In lingering lab'rinths creep,
416
POETICAL CRITICISM.
How do your tuneful Echoes languish,
Muie, but to the voice of Anguish?
Where each old poetic Inountain
Inspiration breath'd around;
Ev'ry shade and hollow'd fountain,
Murmur'd deep a solemn sound:
Till the sad Nine in Greece's evil hour
Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains.
Alike they scorn the poinp of tyrant-power,
And coward Vice, that revels in her chains,
When Latium had her lofty spirit lost,
They sought, oh Albion! next thy sea-encircled coast.
III. 2.
“ Far from the sun and summer-gale,
In thy green lap was Nature's darling laid,
What time, where lucid Avon stray'd,
To him the mighty mother did unveil
Her awful face: the dauntless child
Stretch'd forth his luile arms, and smild.
This pencil take, she said, whose colors clear,
Richly paint the vernal year:
Thine too these golden keys, immortal boy!
This can unlock the gates of Joy ;
Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears,
Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears."
The second Ode" is founded on a tradition current in Wales,
that Edward the First, when he completed the conquest of that
country, ordered all the Bards that fell into his hands to be put
to death." The author seems to have taken the hint of this
subject from the fifteenth Ode of the first book of Horace. Our
poet introduces the only surviving Bard of that country in
concert with the spirits of his murdered brethren, is propheti
cally denouncing woes upon the conqueror and his posterity.
GRAY'S ODES.
417
The circumstances of grief and horror in which the Bard is rep-
resented, those of terror in the preparation of the votive web,
and the mystic obscurity with which the prophecies are delivered,
will give as muchi pleasure to those who relish this species of
composition, as any thing that has hitherto appeared in our lan
guage, the Odes of Dryden himself not excepted."*
I. 2.
"On a rock, whose haughty brow
Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,
Rob’d in the sable garb of Woe,
With haggard eyes the Poet stood ;
(Loose his beard and hoary hair
Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air,)
And with a master's hand, and prophet’s fire,
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre.
• Hark how each giant-oak, and desert cave,
Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath !
O'er thee, O King! their hundred arms they wave,
Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe ;
Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,
To high-born Hoel's harp, or lost Llewellyn's lay.
I. 3.
« « Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,
That husii'd the stormy main :
Brave Crien sleeps upon his craggy bed :
Mountains, ye mourn in vain
Modred, whose magic song
Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topp'i head.
* " One of the greatest poets of this century, the late and much lamented
Mr. Gray of Cambridge, modestly declared to me, that iſ there was in his own
numbers any thing that deserved approbation, he had learned it all frou
Dryden."--BEATTIE)
18*
VOL. IV.
418
POETICAL CRITICISM.
On dreary Arvon's shore they lie,
Smeard with gore, and ghastly pale :
Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail ;
The famish'd eagle screams, and passes by.
Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,
Dear, as the light that visits these sad eyes,
Dear, as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,
Ye died amidst your dying country's cries-
No more I weep. They do not sleep.
On yonder cliffs, a grisly band,
I see them sit, they linger yet,
Avengers of their native land:
With me in dreadful harmony they join,
And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line,
II. 1.
"«Weave the warp, and weave the woof,
The winding-sheet of Edward's race.
Give ample room, and verge enough,
The characters of hell to trace.' "-
When the prophetic incantation is finished, the Bard thus
nervously concludes.
“Enough for me: with joy I see
The different doom our fates assign.
Be thine despair, and sceptred care,
To triumphi, and to die, are mine.'
He spoke, and headlong froin the mountain's height
Deep in :he roaring tide he plung'd to endless night."
FIRST INHABITANTS, ETC., OF EUROPE.
419
VIII.- WISE'S INQUIRIES CONCERNING THE FIRST INHA-
BITANTS, LANGUAGE, RELIGION, LEARNING, AND LET.
TERS OF EUROPE.*
[From the Monthly Revice, 1758. “ Some Inquiries concerning
the First Inhabitants, Language, Religion, Learning, and
Letters of Europe. By a Member of the Society of Antiqua-
rics in London. Printed at the Theats e, Oxford, 4to.”]
Every search into remote antiquity inspires us with a plea-
sure somewhat similar to what we feel upon the recollection of
the earlier occurrences of our younger days: dark, indeed, and
very confused the remembrance; yet still we love to look back
upon those scenes, in which innocence and tranquillity bear, or
seem to bear, so great a proportion. But how agreeable soever
inquiries of this nature may prove in gratifying our curiosity, the
advantage would be trifling if they rested only here. They are
further useful in promoting the advancement of other kinds of
learning; for, an acquaintance with the causes whence arts and
sciences had their rise, will probably direct us to the methods
most conducive to their perfection. Nor is the historian less than
the philosopher indebted to the antiquarian. It is from that
painful collection of opinions, and the seeningly tedious induc-
tions of the last, that the first draws his materials for the ascer-
tainment of truth, gathers order from confusion, and justly marks
the features of the age.
* (Francis Wise, B.D., and F.S.A., many years fellow of Trinity College,
Oxford, was born in 1695. In 1726, the Earl of Guildford, who had been his
pupil, presented him to the vicarage of Ellesfeld, in Oxfordshire. Besides the
above work, he published “ Annales Ælfredi Magni," “ Observations on the
Ilistory and Chronology of the Fabulous Ages," &c. Ile died,” says Mr.
Nicholis, wat his favorite retreat, at Ellesfield, October 1767, aged seventy-
two, universally beloved and esteemed, on account of his great merit and
learning."-- Lit. Anec., vol. v. p. 527.]
420
POETICAL ('RITICISM.
a
It is true, however, that as researches into antiquity are beyond
the abilities of the many, so are they calculated only for the en-
tertainment and instruction of the few. The generality of read-
ers regard investigations of this nature as an uninformed rustic
would view one of the India warehouses; where he sees a thou-
sand things, which, being ignorant of their uses, he cannot think
convertible to any valuable purpose; and wonders why people
travel so far, and run such hazards, to make so useless a collec-
tion. Experience would, however, convince him, that from such
acquisitions as these, different artists take the materials of their
different occupations; and that the mistake lay not with the col-
lectors, but in the observer.
The more polite every country becomes, the fonder it seems
of investigating antiquity; yet it happens somewhat unfortunately
for this branch of science, that it is always cultivated to most ad-
vantage at those times when a people are just beginning to emerge
from primeval obscurity. The first writers have the materials of
many preceding ages to choose from, and all that remains for their
successors is to glean what they have left behind. From hence,
therefore, we may infer, the great indulgence that should be
shown to a writer, who, in an age so enlightened as ours, conti-
nues to cultivate so laborious a part of learning. As bis mate-
rials, in such a case, are not of his own choosing, he may often
seem triflingly minute, many conjectures will be offered upon
slight probabilities, and those opinions which he supposes pecu-
liarly his own, may appear to be the repeated observations of
former writers.
As to our author in particular, his learning is extensive, and
liis candor, good sense, and modesty, serve to adorn it.
fesses himself not bigoted to any opinion, but willing to have his
own examined, though not deserving of controversy : such talents
Ile pro-
FIRST INHABITANTS, ETC., OF EUROPE.
41
cannot fail of rendering a search after truth pleasing, even though
the inquiry should prove abortive.
He draws the origin of the inhabitants of Europe from the
northern parts of Asia, anciently called Scythia; wbose colonies
spreading southward, settled near the Euxine Sea, under the
general name of Cimmerians-by whom, in all probability, the
other parts of Europe were afterwards peopled. The first Euro-
peans whose history is transmitted to us are the Greeks, who had
their original from Scythia, as appears from what Strabo relates,
that the Greeks were anciently called Barbarians; but Scythia
and Barbarian were synonymous terms, and consequently, how
much soever that polite people might have been ashamed of their
rude progenitors, they could be derived from no others. Their
very gods, whom they seemed so fond of making natives of Greece,
were probably of Scythian original: and it deserves notice, that
some of the greatest nations, in all ages, have valued themselves
upon being descended from Scythian conquerors. Thus the
modern Moguls boast their descent from Tamerlane; almost all
the royal families of Europe claim kindred with the Goths; and
we may see by our own history, low careful the Saxon princes
were to trace up their several pedigrees to Woden. The Greeks,
Phoenicians, and Egyptians did the same, only with this differ-
ence, they would have it thought that the gods were natives of
their respective countries; and there is no doubt but cach lad
as good a right to them as the other. Ilowever, whether the
Titans, or gods, were originally Scythians, the posterity of Ja-
phet, or whether they were Phoenicians, descendants of Ilam, our
author thinks it certain, that they were temporal sovereigus,--that
they possessed large territories, and were otherwise greatly inter-
ested in the affairs of Europe: but probably, in their times, one
common langnage prevailed over Europe; and that the remains
of such a langnage are still to be found in different places, par-
422
POETICAL CRITICISM.
ticularly such as have had no commerce with strangers. “Such,"
says he, “are the mountains of Biscay, the retreat of the old
Cantabrian; which is still preserved entire, in spite of all the
conquests that kingdom has undergone from the Carthaginians,
Romans, Goths, and Moors. The old Gallic gave way to the
Teutonic, but is still spoken in Armorica, or Bass Bretany. The
British sank under the Roman yoke, and would have been utterly
extirpated by the Saxons, had it not taken refuge in Wales and
Cornwall; in which last place it is now almost extinct. The
Highlands of Scotland, and the numerous isles upon that coast,
are so many barriers of this ancient language; and above all,
Ireland, where it is thought to be preserved most uncorrupt.
To support liis reasoning in this particular, the author gives us
the following anecdote, taken from his friend, the Rev. Mr. Riey.
nolds, Fellow of Eton College, &c. "In my middle age, at a parti:
cular friend's house, I found a near relation of his, one Mr. Hut-
chins of Frome, just come into England out of Spain, from Bilboa,
where he had belonged to the factory the better part of twenty
years; who, among other things, told us, that while he was there,
some time after the Protestants became entire masters of Ireland,
there came over to Bilboa an Irish Roman Catholic priest, that
knew neither English nor Spanish. When the person to whom
he was recommended, being at a loss what to do, brought him to
the English factory, to see if any one there understood Irish;
but to no purpose; till some mountain Biscainers, that used Bil-
boa market, coming to the house where he lodged, and talking
together, were perfectly understood by him, and on his accosting
them in Irish, he was as well understood by them, to the great
surprise of all that knew it, as well Spaniards as English.” This,
it is true, seems a confirmation of the affinity between those lan-
guages, that are evidently derived from the same source; riz,
the Celtic which may be styled the universal language of the
FIRST INII A BITANTS, ETC., OF EUROPE.
423
a
post-diluvian world, and a sister-dialect of the Hebrew :--but the
foregoing anecdote has been strongly contested, by a writer in
one of the magazines,* who denies the fact; asserting, that there
is no affinity between the Irish and Biscayan languages, and ap-
pealing to all who have any trade or intercourse with Biscay.
Our Inquirer goes on to give an account of the war with the
Titans, and of the Cabirict mysteries, which were by that means
introduced. He dwells considerably upon this subject, as being
the first known era in the history of Europe, and therefore essen-
tial to an inquiry into its language and inhabitants. The result
of his reasonings upon this head is, that Uranus, Saturn, and
Jupiter were powerful princes, sovereigns over a vast empire,
comprehending all Europe and great part of Asia; that this em-
pire existed long before those petty kingdoms of Greece, that
boasted such great antiquity; that the Titans were masters of
all the knowledge derived from the sons of Noah; that they had
the same religion with the people of the East; that is, either
worshipped one God, or, if more, the sun, moon, and stars; and
* (Gent. Magazine, vol. xxviii, p. 482.)
+ [“In the course of Dr. Johnson's visit to me in 1754, we walked three
or four times to Ellsfield, a village beautifully situated about three miles from
Oxford, to see Mr. Francis Wise, Radclivian librarian, with whom Johnson
was much pleased. At this place, Mr. Wise had fitted up a house and
gardens in a singular manner, but with great taste. Here was an excellent
library, particularly a valuable collection of books in northern literature, with
which Johnson was often very busy. One day Mr. Wise read to us a
dissertation which he was preparing for the press, entitled • A History and
Chronology of the Fabulous Ages.' Some old divinities of Thrace, related
to the Titans, and called the Cabiri, made a very important part of the
Theory of this piece ; and in conversation afierwards Mr. Wise talked much of
his Cabiri. As we returned to Oxford in the evening, I outwalked John-on,
and he cried out, “Suffiamina, a Latin word which came from his mouth
with peculiar grace, and was as much as to say, "Put on your drag-chain.
Before we got home, I again walked too fast for him ; and he now cried
ont, 'Why, you walk as if you were pur-ued by all the Cabiri in a body.'”-
Tuomas VAT )N, Dwell, vol ii. p 20.)
424
POETICAL CRITICISM.
a
.
that their descendants in the west were the first who set up the
grosser idolatry of paying divine honors to their progenitors.
The Titan language, therefore, our author considers as the
vehicle of the first knowledge which dawned in Europe; and sup-
poses that whatever antiquity and learning the Egyptians might
have pretended to, it was, in all probability, derived to them from
Scythia. The Egyptians pretended to no science till the time
of Thoth, or Hermes Trismegistus, who does not appear to have
been a native of Egypt; and if we may believe Sanconiathon's his-
tory, come no further off than from Phænicia ; " but I rather,” says
the Inquirer, ** suspect he was a Scythian.” We have no other
certainty of the time when Thoth lived, than what is collected
from the book fathered upon him, which calls Uranus and Saturn
his ancestors, and from them our author supposes he derived his
science. This he thinks antiquity sufficient, and that from this
beginning the Egyptians became famous in the following ages,
and in their turn were possessed of the learning then in being.
Agreeably to the natural course of things, the arts had their pe-
riods: they flourished for a period in one country, and then sunk,
and rose in another. The Greeks, to whom we owe all profane
bistory, seem to have lost their due reverence for it, and thought
themselves beholden to other nations for their learning; but a
little reflection might have taught them, that their country, from
the first ages, was the seat of arts and sciences. Astronomy, for
instance, had evidently its origin among the Europeans: the pla-
nets are distinguished by Titan names; Uranus, the father of
the Titans, is represented as an observer of the stars; IIyperion,
0.0 of his sons, is said to have found out the motion of the planets.
Atlas, son of Japetus, another Titan, is called the supporter of
the heavens; and his brother, Prometheus, is acknowledged to be
the founder of the Chaldean astronomy.
The author proceeds to prove, that t'e Barbarie sphere, so
FIRST INHABITANTS, ETC
>
425
OF EUROPE.
much disputed about by crities, was only the northern hemisphere,
cultivated by the Scythians; and he thus concludes his reason-
ings upon the subject : “ Should it be asked how and when the
Greeks became ignorant in matters that so much concerned their
honor and original, I answer, that their ignorance began to ap-
pear at a time when they prided themselves most upon their
knowledge: this is often the case with particular persons, and
custom and example make it more general. From the just use
of reason, men took a pleasure and found their adrantage in
transmitting to posterity past transactions; at first by the help
of memory, and then by some more lasting tokens, such as the
setting up of rough stones, which was one of the most ancient
methods. But when in time such marks could not be understood
without tradition, and where that failed were of no further usc,
something more significative was required, which perhaps gave
birth to sculpture and writing. These began upon stones or
trees, with rude delineations of the things intended to be record-
ed; which by degrees were reduced to more contracted signs and
characters, sufficiently intelligible to the learned of the several
countries where they were used. In this manner all knowledge
was conveyed for many ages; witness the ancient learning of
Egypt, and the living instance of the practice in China. When
the Greeks had gained the more compendious method of express-
ing their sentiments by words in alphabetical letters, they soon
grew weary of writing ly characters, as well they might; and
this means, perhaps, enriched their language, and made it so co-
pious and harmonious as it appears at present.
But they seem
from that time to have forgot, as useless, what was contained in
their former writings, or retained it but very imperfectly, and, as
it were. by tradition."
As the Grecian and Roman languages increased, the Titan
language proportionably decreased: though it kept its ground :)
426
POETICAL CRITICISM.
ern.
considerable time in the western parts of Europe, where it might
still have flourished in a great degree, had it not been contin-
ually exposed to irruptions from the north.
The author next proceeds to consider the Gothic language;
a dialect very different from the Celtic, which probably had its
origin in the more northern parts of Asiatic Scythia, and partook
more of the northern idiom, as the Celtic had more of the east-
The people in Crim Tartary, mentioned by Busbequius, as
speaking the Gothic or Saxon language, seem to be the old
Goths, from whom the language of England is partly derived.
HIaving thus settled the origin of the inhabitants, language,
and learning of Europe, he proceeds to give an account of the
origin of their letters also. The invention of these, he supposes,
transcending human genius, can only be ascribed to God; from
whom Moses first received them upon Mount Sinai: and that
Cadmus, who was probably a Jew, conveyed the discovery into
Europe. Our author's reasonings on this head are but slightly
supported, nor have they eren novelty to recommend them, as
Mr. Anselm Bayly* and others, particularly those of the Hutch-
ensonian caste, have pre-occupied the conjectures.
As our author has spoiled the Egyptians of their learning, so
neither will he allow them an alphabet. Their books, being
written in symbolic and hieroglyphic characters, were unintelli-
gible to those nations who knew the use of an alphabet. The
Latins, as all authors agree, received their letters from the
Greeks, who, at different times, sent colonies into Italy, where
they improved their old arts and gave birth to new ones. The
Tyrrhenes, or Etruscans, were the first polite people in Italy;
and in the early ages of Rome the Roman youth were instructed
in the Etruscan language by way of accomplishment. But, adds
* See the next article.
Inquiries
Mr. Bayly's work was published before these
FIRST INHABITANTS, ETC., OF EUROPE.
427
our author, when a nation is arrived at a certain pitch of polite-
ness, it often becomes a prey to another less civilized. This was
the case, continues he, with the Etruscans and Romans. As
the one increased in power, the other, who before were held to be
the most accomplished nation, sunk in esteem; as is usual with a
n
conquered people.
“ The Etruscan language (a species of corrupt Greek) being
at length extinct, the materials designed to preserve it were
soon destroyed or buried in ruins; the too common fate of mon-
uments, wherever ignorance prevails. Here they underwent a
long night of oblivion, till the revival of true learning, which is
always accompanied with a veneration for antiquity. These
monuments, as time and chance brought them to light, were care-
fully preserved by persons of curiosity; who, though they un-
derstood them not, yet judged that hereafter they might be
intelligible to others, and therefore worth preserving. It is
more than a century since some of these inscriptions have been
made public, and in this last age a new scene of literature has
been opened by their means; whole volumes have been filled with
Etruscan sculptures and inscriptions, and attempts have been
made to illustrate and explain them.”
It does not appear what letters the most ancient Celtæ used
in writing; the remains of their language now to be found in
works being written in the common character of the country
where their descendants lived. The author thinks it may be
taken for granted, that they made use of hieroglyphics only, as
we said before of the Scythians in general. But the Goths are
an exception; for they had an alphabet peculiar to themselves,
consisting formerly of sixteen letters, which is thought to be
just the number in the Greek and Phænician alphabets. In
short, as all languages, says he, were derived from one, so it is
428
POETICAL CRITICISM.
but reasonable to think the same of all alphabets; and their
affinity with each other serves to prove that they had all the
same source ; viz. the Hebrew, or Cadmean.
Thus we see through what regions of conjecture, doubt, and
palpable obscurity, our truly inquisitive author has explored his
way. He catches every gleam of light that an extensive ac-
quaintance with the ancients can afford him ; but be often, how-
ever, seems to have a favorite hypothesis in view, by which, we
doubt, he is biassed somewhat from the truth he professes to in-
vestigate. It can no way affect the interests of our religion,
though we should not admit the Jewish nation to be that foun.
tain of learning and letters from whence the rest of mankind
have been supplied: which would be allowing them greater
marks of honor than their best writers ever arrogated to them-
selves. This way of thinking appears to have been most warmly
embraced by Eusebius, and other Christian writers, through a
laudable, though perhaps mistaken zeal for a cause of which they
were the champions. But it is more our business to exbibit the
opinions of the learned, than to controvert them.
INTRODUCTION TO LANGUAGES.
429
IX.-BAYLY'S INTRODUCTION TO LANGUAGES.
[From the Monthly Revicu, 1758. “An Introduction to Lan-
6:
guages, Literary and Philosophical ; especially to the English,
Latin, Greek, anel Hebrew ; echibiting, at one view, their
Grammar, Rationale, Analogy, and Idiom. In three parts.
By Anselm Bayly, LL.B."* 8vo.]
Scaliger assigns the man he would have completely miserable,
no other employment than that of composing grammars and com-
piling dictionaries ;t perhaps with reason, as there is not, in the
whole Encyclopaedia, a more laborious, yet a more unthankful
study, than that bestowed on the rudiments of language. The
labor employed in other parts of science may be great, but it is
also apparent: in this, as in the mine, it is excessive, yet unseen.
This consideration may probably have been the cause that few
good essays upon language are to be found among us: men whose
talents were equal to such an undertaking, choosing to employ
them on more amusing studies; and those who were unequal to
the task, showing only by their unsuccessful attempts how much
* [Afterwards LL.D. He published also, “ Alliance of Music, Poetry,
and Oratory,” the “Old Testament, English and Hebrew, with Critical
Remarks, &c. ;” and died in 1794 )
+ [See, in Gent. Mag. 17-18, p. 9, Scaliger's epigram on this subject; and
also in “ Johnsoniana," 8vo. edit. p. 370, the opening lines of Murphy's
translation of Dr. Johnson's Latin verses, written after revising and enlarging
his Dictionary:-
“ When Scaliger, whole years of labor past,
Beheld his Lexicon complete al lave,
And weary of his task, with wondering eyes,
Stw from words pil'd on words a labric rise,
l!e cursid the industry, inertly strong,
In creeping toil that could persist so long :
And iſ, enrag'id he cried, Ileav'n meant 10 shed
Iis secret vengeance on the guilty head,
The drudzery of words the damu'd would know,
Doom'd to write Lexicons in endless wee, dic.")
43C
POETICAL CRITICISM.
a well-executed performance of this kind was wanting To echo
back the rules of former grammarians, to translate Latin gram-
mars into English, or English grammars into Latin, requires but
small abilities, and has been the practice of many late writers in
this species of erudition. But to trace language to its original
source, to assign reasons for the justness of every rule in gram-
mar, to show the similitude of languages, and at the same time
every distinguishing idiom of each, was reserved for the ingeni-
ous writer before us.
In the first und second parts of his work we have the rudi.
ments of the four languages referred to in the title, explained
with the utmost precision and brevity; those rules which serve
for one language being adapted, with very little variation, to the
other three. Here no technical term is used, till it be first made
plain by a definition; and reasons are always assigned for the
peculiarities of languages and usages in syntax.
The third part contains four Dissertations; in which, as these
are calculated for entertainment as well as instruction, our author
often indulges some peculiarities, ingeniously supported, though
very liable to be controverted.
The first treats of the possible number of simple sounds in
speech, of which he presents us with an alphabet; by these sounds
alone he would have children taught to read, being of opinion,
that they might learn by this method in a few months, what they
are years in acquiring by the other, now in use among us. The
author is led from his inquiry concerning the origin of simple
sound, into an examination, whether language is the natural re-
sult of man's own industry, or whether communicated to him by
some superior power. “If," says he, " in the ordinary course of
things, language is transmitted in a constant series from parents
to children, we must go back till we arrive at some point of time,
wherein the first of the human species, whether one, two, or &
INTRODUCTION TO LANGUAGES.
431
>
thousand, could not receive language in this channel; but it
inust have been derived to them in as extraordinary a manner as
their existence, from the same fountain that gave them their being.
We cannot help apprehending but that the first man's creator
must be his instructor in languages as well as duty, teaching him
how to form articulate sounds and words, giving him knowledge
of things, their attributes, actions, and relations, as well as the
power of assigning them their names.” To the same origin our
author attributes the use also of alphabetical writings, and is of
opinion, as we have hinted in the preceding article, that the alpha-
bet was first given by God to Moses on the mount.*
His rea-
soning on this head is curious, if not satisfactory; however, we
must decline the particulars for want of room.
The second dissertation treats of the changes of sounds in
pronunciation; how far they may be imitated in writing; and
the chief causes of the variation in words. As we have seen some
modern innovations in our language, with regard to spelling,
Mr. Bayly may be a useful monitor, to warn writers against such
affectation." Language," says he, " by following pronunciation
in writing, may be so altered from itself as to become new, and
rendered so vague in its meaning, that books written even but a
hundred years past, have the appearance of being barbarous, and
to the surviving generations are scarce intelligible. Pronunciation
might be left to take its course, vary ever so much and ever so
often ; but writing, as being the only preservative of a language,
:
* [" Talking of the origin of languages:-Johnson. It must have come
by inspiration. A thousand, nay a million, of children could not invent a
language. While the organs are pliable, there is not understanding enough
to forin a language : by the time there is understanding enough, the organs
are become stiff. Inspiration seems to me to be necessary, to give man the
faculty of speech; to inform him that he may have speech; which I think
he could no more find out without inspiration, than cows or hogs would think
of such a faculty.”— Boswell, vol. viii p. 198.)
432
POETICAL CRITICISM.
a
ought to be kept to some standard. Orthography should be
steady, be made the guide to orthoepy, or at least a check upon
it, and not orthoepy be the guide to orthography. Had such a
rule as this, founded in reason and the nature of things, been
attended to in all writings, though it is easy to see that it required
a knowledge equal to divine to be able to write words truly in the
first language, posterity would not have found so much difficulty
as they now do, in understanding them; the etymology and
meaning of words would have been more determinate, and the
streams of knowledge traced with more certainty up to their
fountain head."
The subject of the third dissertation is style, or the art
of just writing; that of the fourth, elocution, or the art of
speaking: both contain rules that may be useful, hints that are
new, and ingenious observations. Upon the whole, the author
attempts to give a rational and universal view of language, from
its elements through its several combinations and powers, in
writing and speaking. He is possessed of learning to examine
his subject minutely, and good sense to avoid incurring the im-
putation of pedantry; so that his book will be found equally use-
ful to the student and entertaining to the critic.
X-BURTON'S GREEK TRAGEDIES.*
6
[From the Monthly Review, 1758. “ Pentalogia; sive Trage-
diarum Gracarum Delectus." 8vo. Oxford.]
Dr. Burton, whose former productions in the learned lan-
guages are more than sufficient proofs of his abilities for an under-
*
(Dr. John Burton was born at Wombworth, in Devonshire, in 1696, and
died rector of Mapledurham, Oxfordshire, in 1771. His works consist of
GREEK TRAGEDIES.
433
taking of this vature, has here presented the public with an edi-
tion of five Greek tragedies, indisputably the best in that lan-
guage; and we may venture to add, superior to all that were ever
composed in any other. Three of these are the dipus Tyran-
nus, the Edipus Coloncus, and the Antigone of Sophocles ; the
first peculiarly excellent for its fine complication of terror and
distress, especially towards the catastrophc; the second, for its
pathetic opening, which Milton has so happily imitated in his
Sampson Agonistes; the third, also a master-piece, for what is
called by Aristotle the Tων επεισοδιων οικον
coroplar, the just dispo-
sition of incidents. The other tragedies in this book are the
Phoenissæ of Euripides, and the Septem ad Thebas of Æschylus,
which, though inferior to those of Sophocles, have, however, with
great propriety, a place in this edition. They are introduced
with intention to show (as our author expresses it), “ in materia
consimili ingeniorun dissimilium concertatio," the efforts of dif-
ferent geniuses in the same species of composition.
This edition, as we are informed, was long since undertaken ;
but the death of a young gentleman, who was principaily instru-
mental in forwarding it, occasioned its being for some time dis-
continued: and it had perhaps been totally suppressed, but for
the assistance given the editor by Dr. Markland and Mr. Heath,
and the advantage of printing at the expense of the fund be-
queathed to the university by Mr. Rolle, for purposes of this
nature.
The work is a performance of much less ostentation than use;
not being calculated to amuse the critic, but to advance the learner.
The notes annexed contain no minute philological disquisitions,
"Occasional Sermons," " Opuscula Miscellanea Theologica,” and “ Opuscula
Metrico-prosaica. &c." "He was,” buys Dr. Kippis, “an able divine, a sound
scholar, and an excellent academie; and set a useful example to University
men, whether as tellows, tutors, officers, or editors.")
19
VOL. IV.
434
POETICAL CRITICISM.
which are often still more obscure than the text, and counteract
their intention, by increasing that labor which they profess to
lessen. Here we have the conduct of the drama laid open, the
grammatical difficulties explained, the different readings exhibited,
and the text receiving proper light from a just punctuation. Not-
withstanding this, the learned author seems sensible of one objec-
tion that may be raised against the present performance; namely,
that he has given no Latin translation of the text, as is usual in
most editions of the Greek classics. This objection he has taken
some pains to obviate. The idioms of the Greek and Latin lan-
guages, as he observes, are so different as to render a translation
very difficult, if not impossible; but though such a labor were
actually effected, it would rather obstruct than promote the end
it seems intended to answer. He who, in learning Greek, has
continual recourse to a translation for assistance, is insensibly
drawn into a disuse of his grammar and lexicon, the proper guides
for introducing him to an intimacy with the language he desires
to be acquainted with. “Opibus alieni adjustus nihil de suo
promet; nihil demum marte proprio sibi elaborandum esse cen-
sebit: et velut in regione ignota hospes inelegans, ducem secutus
aliquando falsum sæpe fallacem, huc illuc temere circumvagabitur:
et cum Græciam universam itinere rapido peragraverit, nihil fere
de Gracia, nihil vere Atticum aut quovis modo memorabile, domum
reportabit.” We should in this respect imitate such as first re-
vived Greek learning in the West; who, without translations,
instructed those that afterwards became so eminent for their
skill in this enchanting language.
The assistances, however, which are denied in a translation,
are amply recompensed here, by the explications of every mate-
rial difficulty in the text, in notes at the bottom of each page;
by a separate phrascology, and by a lexicon of the uncommon
words subjoined to the whole. These are the helps offered to
GREEK TRAGEDIES.
435
the scholar, and we will venture to assert, that the learner
who will be at the pains of reading Sophocles with only the
assistances here offered him, will know more of the real beauties
of the original, and the true structure of the language, than if
he spent double the time in poring over a faulty Latin version
The translations hitherto published of Sophocles, will be more apt
to lead the scholar astray, than to direct bim to the meaning or
spirit of the original; for, whether through ignorance of the lan-
guage they attempted to translate, or through an awkward affec-
tation of elegance, certain it is they are almost always mistaking
the meaning of their author.
Though much may be said in commendation of the design
and usefulness of the edition now before us, there is room for
some objection to the method which our commentator has thought
proper
to
pursue. Not content with the illustrations at the bottom
of each page, he adds, by way of appendix, his devtipai quoruudes,
or Scholia, which are the result of more mature deliberation.
These second thoughts, which were not entered upon, as we are
informed, till the other parts of the work were printed off, are
not only a further comment upon the original, but sometimes cor-
rections of his former annotations, which they frequently profess
to contradict, amend, and explain. This ingenious way of con-
fessing one's faults, though it should serve to show a man's
modesty, may, it is feared, rather lead to prejudice his reputation
in other respects. Some may be apt to remark, that criticisms
which could, upon a review, want so much amendment, were pre-
maturely inserted: they may say, that it would have been most
prudent in our editor to have kept his work by him till repeated
amendments had rendered a palinodia unnecessary. And we may
add, though second thoughts are generally allowed the preference,
yet our annotator, it must be confessed, often corrects himself
where there seems very little occasion for correction. As to the
436
POETICAL CRITICISM.
edition, upon the whole, it may be numbered among the most
correct productions of the British press, some few faults in the
accenting excepted. The book is certainly well calculated for
the use of schools; and deserves all the encouragement due to
the best performances of this kind.
XI.--CICERO'S TUSCULAN DISPUTATIONS.
[From the Monthly Rerieu, 1758. “The Tusculan Disputations
of Marcus Tullius Cicero. In five Books A rucu transla.
tion. By a gentleman." 8vo.]
8x0]
The panegyric upon Cicero, which Erasmus hath left us, at
the same time that it does justice to the merits of the philosopher,
reflects honor on the taste of his encomiast. “I am incapable of
determining," says that judicious critic, “ whether or not my
judgment be improved by time, but certain it is, Cicero never so
much pleased me in youth as he now does in my
old
age.
I am
now at a loss whether most to admire, the divine felicity of his
style, or the purity of his heart and morals. His influence upon
.
me rises almost to inspiration; and I always feel myself a better
man upon every perusal. I make no scruple, therefore, to ex-
hort our youth to spend their hours in reading and retaining his
works, rather than in the vexatious disputes, and ill-mannered
controversies which at present perplex mankind. For my own
part, though I am now in the decline of life, yet as soon as my
present undertakings are completed, I shall think it no reproach
to seek a renewal of my acquaintance with my Cicero, and an in-
crease of that intimacy which has been for many years inter:
rujted."
I ow differently does Montaigne express himself on the same
CICERO'S TUSCULAN DISPUTATIONS.
437
subject, when he gives us to understand, that though he finds
much entertainment in Seneca or Plutarch, he could never gain
any from Cicero. “For," says the Frenchman, " instead of be-
ginning to talk on the subject proposed, he blunts the edge of curi-
osity by superfluous divisions; and the time that should be
employed in argument is wasted in adjusting preliminaries."
The truth is, Montaigne was, during his whole life, what
Erasmus was in his carly youth, incapable of thinking connect-
edly; so that this celebrated essayist only exposed the defects of
his own understanding by attempting to detract from the reputa-
tion of Cicero. The concurrent testimony of all antiquity, and
of modern times, sufficiently confutes him ; it being universally
agreed, that no pliilosopher bas more forcibly recommended all
those generous principles that tend to exalt and perfect human
nature.
From hence, therefore, we may infer, how much the public is
bound to acknowledge every judicious attempt to translate any
part of the works of a writer so admired as Cicero. If the trans-
lator succeeds in so difficult an undertaking, the motives to virtue
acquire a more universal diffusion, and our language makes a
valuable acquisition: should he fail in the execution, the great
difficulty of the work may, in some measure, plead his excuse, and
the usefulness of the design should soften the rigor of censure.
It is not without reason that this elegant Roman has been
thought the most difficult to be translated of all the classics
The translator must not only be master of his sentiments, but
also of his peculiar way of expressing them. He must have
acquired a style correct without labor, and copious without redun-
daney. The difficulty is not so much to give his sense, as to give
it in such language as Tully himself would have spoken, had he
been an Englishman. To follow him in a verbal translation, is to
catch his words only, and lose his spirit.
433
POETICAL CRITICISM.
This literal timidity, if we may so express it, where the trans-
lator cautiously moves from word to word, for fear of going astray,
is still the more unpardonable, as Cicero himself has given us di-
rections to the contrary. “ Nec tamen exprimi verbum e verbo
necesse erit, ut interpretes indiserti solent” His example also,
as well as his precept, teaches us to avoid this error. What lib-
erties does he not take with Plato, Euripides, and others! Their
sentiments remain their own, but their language is always ex-
pressed in the manner of Cicero. The translator before us has
fallen into the error of which we have been complaining; so that
Cicero appears in this English dress, not unlike some disguised
hero in romance, who, though concealed in the garb of a peasant,
still moves with an air of superior dignity.
These Tusculan disputations were composed by Cicero when,
under the dictatorship of Cæsar, he was excluded from any share
in the administration; at which time, as he informs us, he was
obliged to substitute retirement and study, for scenes of more
active employment. The work is divided into five books; the
first of which teaches us how to contemn the terrors of death,
and to look upon it as a blessing rather than an evil. The second,
to support pain and affliction with a manly fortitude. The third
and fourth, to moderate all our complaints and uneasiness under
the accidents of life. The fifth, to evince the sufficiency of virtue
.
to make man happy. It was Cicero's custom, in his leisure hours,
to take some friends with him into the country, where (to use the
words of this very incompetent translator) “ he used to order one
to propose something which he would have discussed. I disputed
(says Tully) on that either sitting or walking. I have compiled
the schools, as the Greeks call them, of five days, in as many
books; it was in this manner. When he who was the hearer had
said what he thought proper, I disputed against him.
To give
you a better notion of our disputations, I will not barely give you
6
Cicero's TUSCULAN DISPUTATIONS.
439
.
an account of them, but represent them to you as they were car-
ried on."
Perhaps there nerer was a finer or more spirited dialogue,
conducted with greater ease, or managed with more impartiality
than this, in the original. After having silenced the objections
which his antagonist had brought against his doctrine, of death's
being no evil, Cicero finally establishes it, with that spirit and
energy which his present translator has very impotently endea-
vored to preserve: let the reader judge for himself, from the fol-
lowing specimen.
“ Should it indeed be our case to know the time appointed sy
God for us to die, let us prepare ourselves for it with a pleasant
and grateful mind, as those who are delivered from a jail, and
eased from their fetters, to go back to their eternal and (without
dispute) their own habitation; or to be divested of all sense and
trouble. But should we not be acquainted with this decree, yet
should we be so disposed as to look on that last hour as happy
for us, though shocking to our friends; and never imagine that
to be an evil which is an appointment of the immortal gods, or
of Nature, the common parent of all. For it is not by hazard,
or without design, that we have a being here; but doubtless there
is a certain power concerned for human nature, which would nei-
ther have produced nor provided for a being, which, after having
gone through the labors of life. wặs to fall into an eternal evil by
death. Let us rather infer, that we have a retreat and haven
prepared for us, which I wish we could make for with crowded
sails; but though the winds should not serve, yet we shall of
course gain it, though somewhat later.''
The exordium of the third book is, in the original, one of the
finest passages in all antiquity. Let us see how it reads here.
“What reason shall I assign, Brutus, why, as we consist of soul
and body, the art of curing and preserving the body showil be
410
POETICAL CRITICISM.
80 much sought after, and the invention of it, as being so useful
should be ascribed to the immortal gods; but the medicine of the
soul should neither be the object of inquiry, whilst it was unknown,
nor so much improved after its discovery, nor so well received or
approved of by some, disagreeable. and looked on with an envious
eye by many others? Is it because the soul judges of the pains
and disorders of the body, but we do not form any judgment of
the soul by the body? Hence it comes that the soul never judgeth
of itself, but when that by which itself is judged is in a bad state.
Had nature given us faculties for discerning and viewing herself,
and could we go through life by keeping our eye on her our best
guide, no one certainly would he in want of philosophy or learn-
ing. But as it is, she has furnished us only with some few sparks,
which we soon so extinguishi hy bad morals and depraved customs,
that the light of nature is quite put out.
The seeds of virtue are
connatural to our constitutions, and were they suffered to come
to maturity, would naturally conduet us to a happy life; but now,
as soon as we are born, and received into the world, we are in-
stantly fiumiliarized to all kinds of depravity and wrong opinions;
so that we inay ke said almost to suck in error with our nurse's
milk. When we return to our parents, and are put into the hands
of tutors and governors, we imbibe so many crrors,
that truth
gives place to falschood, and nature herself to estalilished opinion.
To these we my add the poets, who, on account of the appear-
ance they exhibit of learning and wisdom, are heard, read, and
got by heart, and make a deep impression on our minds. But
when to these are added the people who are, as it were. one great
body of instructors, and the multitule who declare unanimously
for vice. then are we altoether overwhelmed with bad opinions,
and revolt entirely from mature: so that they seem to deprive us
of our best guide, who have ascribed all greatuess, worth, and
excellener, to honor and power and popular glory, which inderd
CICERO'S TUSCULAN DISPUTATIONS.
411
every excellent man aims at: but whilst he pursues that only
true honesty which nature has in view, he finds himself busied in
arrant trifles, and in pursuit of no conspicuous form of virtue,
but a shadowy representation of glory. For glory is a real and
express substance, not a mere shadow. It consists in the united
praise of good men, the free voice of those who form true judg-
mnents of excellent virtue: it is as it were the very echo of virtue,
which being generally the attendant on laudable actions, should
not be slighted by good men. But popular fume, which would
pretend to imitate it, is hasty and inconsiderate, and generally
commends wicked and immoral actions, and taints the appearance
and beauty of the other, by assuming the resemblance of honesty. .
By not being able to discover the difference of these, some men,
ignorant of real excellence, and in what it consists, have been the
destruction of their country, or of themselves. And thus the best
men have crred, not so much in their intentions, as hy a mistaken
conduct.”
The classical reader will perceive that the spirit of the ori-
ginal is, in a manner, totally extinguished in this translation.
Indeed, such is the gentleman's" obscurity in some places, such
are his mistakes of his author's meaning in others; such is the
meanness, affectation, and impropriety of his language through-
out, that it is really matter of surprise to us, how such a work
came into print; especially when we take the poetry into the ac-
count, which is below all criticism, and even contempt.
In short, the present performance is so totally destitute of every
kind of m which might serve to qualify our censure, that we
cannot avoid concluding with Cicero, upon another occasion :
- Obsecro, abjiciamus ista, et semi-liberi saltem simus; quod
assequemuir et tacendo et latendo.'
a
**
* [For a detail of the very distressing circumstances under which Golila
emith wrote this and the three preceding articles, ste Life, vol. i. 2-5
VOL. IV
19*
P
442
POETICAL CRITICISM.
XII.-MASSEY'S OVID'S FASTI.
[From the Critical Review, 1758. “ Ovid's Fusti ; or the Roman
Sacred Calendar. Translated into English Verse, with Ex-
planatory Notes. By William Massey
1* 8vo.
It was no bad remark of a celebrated French lady,t that a
bad translator was like an ignorant footman, whose blundering
messages disgraced his master by the awkwardness of the delivery,
and frequently turned compliment into abuse, and politeness into
rusticity. We cannot indeed see an ancient elegant writer man-
gled and misrepresented by the doers into English, without some
degree of indignation; and are heartily sorry that our poor
friend Ovid should send his Sacred Calendar to us by the hands
of Mr. William Massey, who, like the valet, seems to have entirely
forgot his master's message, and substituted another in its room
very unlike it. Mr. Massey observes, in his preface, with great
truth, that it is strange that this most elaborate and learned of
all Ovid's works should be so much neglected by our English
translators; and that it should be so little read or regarded,
whilst his Tristia, Epistles, and Metamorphoses, are in almost
every schoolboy's hands.
" All the crities, in general," says he,
6 speak of this part of Ovid's writings with a particular applause;
yet I know not by what unhappy fate there has not been that use
made thereof, which would be more beneficial, in many respects,
to young students of the Latin tongue. than any other of this
poet's works. For though Pantheons, and other books that treat
of the Roman mythology, may be usefully put into the hands of
This anonymou: ranslation, though destitute of every kind of merit, was
actually reprinted recently as 1828."—See Lowndes's Biblingrapher's
Manual, vol. i. p. 125 |
* (Many years master of a boarding-school at Wandsworth, in Surrey.]
+ Madame de la Fayette.
MASSEY'S OVID'S FASTI.
443
young proficients in the Latin tongue, yet the richest fund of
that sort of learning is here to be found in the Fasti. I am
not without hopes, therefore, that by thus making this book more
familiar and easy, in this dress, to English readers, it will the
more readily gain admittance into our public schools; and that
those who become better acquainted therewith, will find it an
agreeable and instructive companion, well stored with recondite
learning. I persuade myself also, that the notes which I have
added to my version will be of advantage, not only to the mere
English reader, but likewise to such as endeavor to improve them-
selves in the knowledge of the Roman language.
“ As the Latin proverb says, Jacia est alea ; and my per-
formance must take its chance, as those of other poetic adventu-
rers have done before me. I am very sensible, that I have fallen
in many places far below my original; and no wonder, as I had
to copy after so fertile and polite a genius as Ovid's; who, as
my Lord Orrery, somewhere in Dean Swift's Life, humorously
observes, could make an instructive song out of an old alma-
nac,
“ That my translation is more diffuse, and not brought within
the same number of verses contained in my original, is owing to
two reasons : firstly, because of the concise and expressive nature
of the Latin tongue. which it is very difficult (at least I find it
so) to keep to strictly, in our language; and secondly, I took the
liberty sometimes to expatiate a little upon my subject, rather
than leave it in obscurity, or unintelligible to my English readers,
being indifferent whether they may call it translation or para-
phrase; for, in short, I had this one design most particularly in
view, that these Roman Fasti might have a way opened for their
entrance into our grammar schools."
What use this translation may be of to grammar schools, we
cannot pretend to guess, unless, by way of foil, to give the boys
6
POETICAL CRITICIS.
a higher opinion of the beauty of the original by the deformity
of so bad a copy. But let our readers judge of Mr Massey's
performance by the following specimen. For the better determi-
nation of its merit, we shall subjoin the original of every quo-
tation.
“ The calends of each month througliont the year,
Are under Juno's kind peculiar care ;
But on the ides, a white lamb from the field,
A grateful sacrifice, to Jove is killid;
But o'er the nones no guardian god presides;
And the next day to calends, nones, and ides,
Is inauspicious deemd ; for on those days
The Romans suffer'l losses many ways;
And from those dire events, in hapless war,
Those days unlucky nominated are,"'*
Ovid's address to Janus, than rhich in the original scarcely
any thing can be more poetical, is thus familiarized into some.
thing much worse than prose by the translator :
“ Say, Janus, say, why we begin the year
In winter? sure the spring is better farit
Vindicat 11 sono Junonis cura kilen las;
Idibus alba Jovi grandior agna cadit.
Nonarum tutela Deo curet. Omnibus istis
(Ne fallere cuve) provinu Atrr eru.
Omen ab kventn est : jlis dim Roma diebus
Damina sub adverso triscia Murte culit.
† Dic, age, fratoribus quare norus incipit annus,
Qui melns per ver incipien.lus crat!
Omuia tunc florent : 1010 00 nova temporis atas
Lt nova de uraw.do palmiye somma tumet.
El modo formati amer viubus arbox:
Prodit et inuun Seuis herba solum :
Et tepitum volucres conceptibli aera mulcent
luli: et in pratis. luxuriche per ilg.
Tum blan' ole:: 17110pne pozilik birunko;
El luteum celt subtrabe fit opus,
Tun patitur cultus ager, it remmat aratro.
Ixe anni novitas jure vocanıla luit.
MASSEY'S OVID'S FASTI.
445
All things are then renew'd; a youthful dress
Adorns the flowers, and beautifies the trees;
New swelling buds appear upon the vine,
And apple-blossoms round the orchard shine ;
Birds fill the air with the harmonious lay,
And lambkins in the meadows frisk and play ;
The swallow then forsakes her wint’ry rest;
And in the chimney chatt'ring makes her nest;
The fields are then renew'd, the ploughman's care;
Mayn't this be call'd renewing of the year?
To my long questions Janus brief replied,
And his whole answer to two verses tied.
The winter tropic ends the solar race,
Which is begun again from the same place;
And to explain more fully what you crave,
The sun and year the same beginning have.
But why all new year's diy, said I again,
Are suits command in cour';! The reason's plain,
Replied the god; that business may be done,
And active labor emulate the sun,
With business is the pear auspiciously begun ;
Qurjeram multis ; mulis ille moratus,
Contulit in versus sic sua verba duos,
Bruma novi primi est, veterisque novissima solis
Principiu o capiunt Phæbus et annus idem.
Post pa mrabar, cur non fue latibus esset
Prima dies, Causam percipe, Janus ait,
Tempora conmi-i nascentii robus agen dist;
Totus ah au-picio ne furet annus mer.
Quisque suas artes ob iilem de ibat agendo :
Nee plus quum suum 'tificatur apus.
Mox ego; pur, quamvis aliorum numina placem,
Jane, libi primo thura merumque fero?
Ut per me pre-18 adium, qulimini servo,
Ad quocunque icom poro-11", habere deos
Ai cur lala tuis dicuntur verba kalenlis;
Et damus alternas arripimu que preres;
Tum dens inruilens baru', quem ilextra cereba
Omini principus, inquit, in colent
Ad primam vocem uimida ailversus aures:
Et v-am primum conuit auser aven
Templa patent amie que deuna: nee lingua casuca
Cimcipi alle preces; dictayil pus habent.
#
7:IICAL CRITICISM.
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e a floor J.Dus, say,
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MASSEY'S OVID'S FASTI.
447
Back to the camp; but Sextus there could find
Nor peace nor ease for his distemper'd mind;
A spreading fire does in his bosom burn,
Cain would he to the absent fair return;
Sic sedit : sic culta fuit: sic stamina nevit:
Neglectæ collo sic jacuere come :
los habuit vullus: hic illi verba fuere :
Hic decor, hæc facies, hic color oris erat.
Ut solet a magno fluctus languescere flatu;
Sed tamen a vento, qui fuit ante, tumet :
Sic, quamvis aberat placitæ præsentia formæ,
Quem dederat præsens forina, manebat amor.
Ardet; et injustí stimulis agitatus amoris
Comparat indigno vimque dolumque toro.
Exitus in dubio est: audebimus ultima, dixit:
Viderit, audentis forsne deusne juvet.
Cepimus audendo Gabios quoque. Talia ſatus
Ense latus cingit: tergaque pressit equi.
Accipit ærata juvenem Collatia porta :
Condere jam vultus sole parante suos.
Hostis, ul hospes, init penetralia Collatina:
Comiter excipitur: sanguine junctus erat.
Quantum animis erroris inest! parat inscia rerum
Infelix epulas hostibus illa suis.
Functus erat dapibus : poscunt sua tempora somni.
Nox erat; et tota lumina nulla domo.
Surgii, et auratum vagina deripit ensem :
Et venit in thalamos, nupla pudica, tuos.
Uique torum prexsil; ferruin, Lucretia, mecum est,
Nalus, ait, regis, Tarquiniusque vocor.
Ila nihil: neque enim vocem viresque loquendi,
Aut aliquid too pectore mentis habet.
Sed tremii, ut quondam stabulis deprensa relicus,
Parva sub intesto cum jacet agne lupo.
Quid faciat? pugnet ? vincetur femina pugna.
Clamet? at in dextra, qui necet, ensis adest.
Effugiat? positis urgetur pectora palmis;
Nunc primum externa pectora tacta manu.
Tastat amans hostis precibus, pretioque, minisque
Nec prece, nec pretio, nec movet ille minis.
Nil agis; eripiam, dixit, per crimina vitam:
Falsus adulterii testis adulter cro.
Interimam lamuluin; cum quo deprensa fereris.
Succubuit fame victa puella metu.
Quid, victor, gaudes! hæc te victoria perdet.
lleu quanto resnis nox stetit una tuis!
Jamque erat orta dies: passis sedet illa capillis;
Ue solet ad na'i mater itura rogum.
Grandævumque patrem fiu cum conjuge castris
Exocal; el pod prit uierijue mona.
Crne vident habitum ; que luctus cala, reparat:
448
POETICAL CRITICISM.
a
The image of Lucretia fills his breast,
Thus at her wheel she sat! and thus was drest!
What sparkling eyes, what pleasure in her look!
How just her speech, and how divinely spoke!
Like as the waves, rais'd by a boisterous wind,
Sink by degrees, but leave a swell behind :
So though by absence lessen'd was his fire.
There still remain’d the kindlings of desire ;
Unruly lust from hence began to rise,
Which how to gratify he must devise ;
All on a rack, and stung with mad designs,
He reason to his passion quite resigns ;
Whate'er's the event, said he, I'll try my fate,
Suspense in all things is a wretched state ;
Let some assistant god, or chance, attend,
All bold attenipis they usually befriend:
This way, said he, I to the Gabii trod;
Then girding on his sword, away he rode.
The day was spent, the sun was nearly set,
When he arriv'd before Collatia's gate;
Lihe as a friend, but with a sly intent,
To Collatinus' house he boldly went;
There he a kind reception met within
From fair Lucretia, for they were akin.
What ignorance attenzel ihe human mind!
How oft we are to our mistortunes blind!
Thoughtless of harm, she made a handsome feast
And o'er a cheerful glass regala her guest
With lively chat; and then to bed they went;
Bui Tarquin suill prorsued his vile intent;
All dark, about the dead of night he rose,
And sotily to Lucretia's chamber goes;
Cui paret exsequias, que sit jeta malo.
Ilam retiel, poulibunale celat amicau
Ora. FM laci ne more perenni ju).
Ilinc pater, bine conjux lacrymas sulanur, et orant
ulicet; et cellent que parentque metu.
Tepata loqui.
MASSEY'S OVID'S FASTI.
449
His naked sword he carried in his hand,
That what he could not win, he might command;
With rapture on her bed himself he threw,
And as approaching to her lips he drew,
Dear cousin, ah, my dearest life, he said,
'Tis I, 'tis Tarquin, why are you afraid ?
Trembling with fear, she not a word could say,
Her spirits fled, she fainted quite away;
Like as a lamb beneath a wolf's rude paws,
Appallid and stunn'd, her breath she hardly draws;
What can she do? resistance would be vain,
She a weak woman, he a vig'rous man.
Should she cry out? his naked sword was by ;
One scream, said he, and you this instant die:
Would she escape? his hands lay on her breast,
Now first by hands of any stranger prest:
The lover urg'd by threats, rewards, and prayers ;
But neither prayers, rewards, nor threats, she hears:
Will you not yield ? he cries; then know my will--
When these my warm desires have had their fill,
By your dead corpse I'll kill and lay a slave,
And in that posture both together leave ;
Then feign myself a witness of your shame,
And fix a lasting blemish on your fame.
Hler mind the fears of blemish'd fame control,
And shake the resolutions of her soul;
But of thy conqnest, Tarquin, never boast,
Gaining that fort, thou hast a kingdom lost;
Vengeance thy complicated guilt attends,
Which both in thine, and family's ruin ends.
With rising day the sad Lucretia rose,
Her inward grief her outward habit shows;
Mournful she sat in tears, and all alone,
As if she'd lost her only darling son;
Then wr her hu-band aus her fathes sant,
Who dridher life in huips in know th' intent;
So to as2: Non ng trong
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vurg 11,5 1,1 M. Marssy is to a tratat100 of Osid. In Dacy
placu bulan des a•4 69'ery fruta tio sen54, aod in every part
fin infinitely be the pength. euracce, and spirit of the
original Wellet by:9 16:25e, terore. to remind him of the old
Italian provash._ Il traduttores Tratatore"-and hope be will
never for the future trailors, and injure any of those poor ancients
who 16er injured him, by the portering the world with such
franelations is even his own schoolboys oright to be whipped for.
"" It was the writ which Grid mith discovered in criticising a despi.
cable translation of (vid's Fawei by a pedantic schoolmaster, and his • Inquiry
into Polita Literature, which first introduced him to the acquaintance of Dr.
Morrollat" AIKI)
MARRIOTT'S FEMALE CONDUCT.
451
XIII.-MARRIOTT'S “ FEMALE CONDUCT ; AN ESSAY ON
THE ART OF PLEASING."
He ex-
[From the Critical Review, 1759. “ Female Conduct ; being an
Essay on the Art of Pleasing. To be practisel by the Fair Sex,
before and after Marriage. A Poem, in two books. Inscribed
to Plautilla. By Thomas Marriott, Esq." 8vo.]
This performance is dedicated to her royal highness the Princess
of Wales, as the distinguished patroness of female virtue. In
the preface, the author gives some account of the poem,
and en-
deavors to anticipate the malevolence of the crities.
presses apprehension on one subject, which, however, we will ven-
ture to say is groundless; that is, “ some people will say he is too
much a poet."
He might also have spared his apology, for
having used "every art of persoasion and argument, either by
repetition, amplification, tale, fable, example, or allegory, and
every pleasing manner of conveying precepts, and enforcing
doctrines." Mr. Marriott needs no excuse for that which cannot
be displeasing. This poem, we are informed, is intended for the
use and amusement of the female sex only: and the author hopes
the salutary precepts and precautions it contains, may prove an
antidote to the poison of Ovid, and all modern productions of the
like pernicious nature. We hope so too, and commend the author
for the morality of his undertaking
Prefixed to the poem we find an ode on the death of the Duke
of Marlborough, together with an imitation of the eighth ode of
the fourth book of Horace, intended to be sent to his grace at
the beginning of the new year. * In this piece, the most remark-
* (Charles Spencer, second duke of Marlborough. He died at Munster
in Westphalia, in October 1758 ]
452
POETICAL CRITICISM.
able circumstance is this: Mr. Marriott, thinking Horace beging
and ends too abruptly, has ventured to introduce the original
with two Latin lines of his own composition, and added six at
the end, to render Horace more complete. He might, however,
have saved himself the trouble of lacing his own lines in the
margin: the reader would have distinguished them without this
precaution. Perhaps the public may be curious to see this
improvement on i Roman classic.
a Roman classic. He begins, then, in this
Lanner:
“ Annus quando novus nascitur, illius
Natalisque dies orbe revolvitur ;-
He concludes thus:
Orco, Musa, pios eripiens nigro,
Arces, carminibus, tollit ad igneas;
Nomen grande tuum fiet amabilis,
Varum materies, Musa tuis dabit
Mercedem meritis, Te faciet sacrum,
Sublimem, astra supra, Te vehet, ardua."
The poem itself is divided into two books, and contains
many curious particulars. His account of Portia's death is very
sublime :
&
“Fam'd Portia, worthy of her mate and sire,
Express'd such friendship, when she swallowed fire ;
Soon as she heard of her dear Brutus' death,
Her consort breathless, she disdain'd to brenth ;
Each instrument of death, to lier deny'd,
Shall Portia be dibari'd from death?' she cry'l,
Then drank live embers, and intrepid died.”
We wish Mr. Marriott would explain the manner in which
the ancients drank live embers. In p. 59. he candidly owns, that
he has laborai hari in bringing these poems to perfection :
MARRIOTT'S ART OF
453
PLEASING.
“ Hear me, fair pupil, ne'er despise the bard
Whose muse for your instruction labors hard.”
In the next page we meet with this curious paradox:
“ Her witty child, let the fond mother boast,
You show most wit, when you conceal it most."
This, for aught we know, may be the author's own case; for he
seems to have a particular knack at concealing his wit.
There is something so agreeable, yet familiar, in his pre
cepts !-
“Red heels, a wise man's head will ridicule.”
* From smart cock'd hat, let no vain streamers fly.”
“I only warn you—ne'er your teeth neglect;
White teeth will make amends for each defect.”
“ To singing add the force of music too."
This is a very necessary injunction; for it is very common to
hear singing without music.
66
• Make not your houses Babels! an, no more
Let numerous torches smear th' indecent door !"
“A curtsey makes impression, if made well,
Learn then to curtsey with an air genteel.”
Rather than pick out any more flowers of this kind, with
which the poem abounds, we will make a few extracts, from
which the poet's genius may be more justly estimated :
“Let no provoking words your wrath attend,
Lest passion should in dire disaster end;
How tragical had been Xantippe's fate,
Had Socrates not been her peaceful mate !
You may just hint a fault, while you commend
Ilis well-known merit, like a faithful friend.
a
454
POETICAL CRITICISM.
If distant hints from you he'll not receive,
Desist ; no curta in-lectures to him give;
Think not to tame him, like some savage beast,
By oft disturbing his nocturnal rest :
Though much he may repeated lessons need,
Sacred to concord is the genial bed:
Thence far be sour, contentious, jarring noise !
There dwell in silence, reconciling joys;
There love's bright lamp is fed with new desire,
Rekindled there, it never will expire.
“ Once I through thin partition chanc'd to hear
A curtain-lecture with astonish'd ear:
It wak’d, and scar'd me, in the dead of night,
Ere I my senses could recover quite;
It sounded like a seraph's plaintive voice,
So dire the sound, so solemn was the noise !
Trembling I heard, nor dard to ope my eyes,
Lest I might view a horrid spectre rise.
Soon I perceiv'd it was a woman's tongue,
Rehearsing to her mate each nuptial wrong;
Obdurate he, and stupid as a dunce,
Heard unconcern'd, nor interrupted once ;
Till faint and spent, she falterd in her speech,
And, quite exhausted, could no longer preach;
When her speech fail'd, she soon began to cry,
And ev'ry tear had its attendant sigh.
Then he, to aggravate each nuptial wrong,
Wish'd death would silence soon her clam'rous tongue.
Thus every curtain-lecture, preach'd in vain,
Gives to the preacher, not the hearer, pain.
To hint a fault requires the nicest touch,
The pride of self-sufficient man is such ;
Few with good grace can give or take advice,
So few think others than themselves more wise ;
Their faults the wisest are averse to hear;
Touch gently, lest you hurt a tender ear.
BARRETT'S Ovid's EPISTLES.
155
3
Thongh ev'ry charm forsake your fading frame,
Yet let your modesty remain the same.
Conceal whatever may distastc excite;
Let your dress please, attractive, clean, and neat:
Dress not your person in your consort's sight;
When dressing, you offend—when drest, invite.
Half-drest, in her short petticoat, I view'd,
By chance, the nymph who had my heart subdu'd ;
In this disguise so lost was ev'ry charm,
It turn'd to ridicule her beauteous forni.
Is this the virgin, to myself I said,
Who can so charm me in full dress array'd ?” &c. &c.
To draw a comparison between Ovid and our bard, we may
observe, that as one performance of the former was styled Tris-
tia from the subject, so this production may derive the same title
from the execution, and be justly denominated Marriott's
Tristia.
XIV.-BARRETT'S OVID'S EPISTLES.
[From the Critical Review, 1759. “ Ovid's Epistles translated
into English Verse; with critical Essays and Notes. Being
part of a Poetical and Oratorial Lecture, real in the Gram-
mar-School of Ashford, in Kent ; and calculated to initiate
Youth in the first rudiments of Taste. By Stephen Barrett,
Master of the said School.” 8vo.]
2
The praise which is every day lavished upon Virgil, Horace, or
Ovid, is often no more than an indirect method the critic takes to
compliment his own discernment. Their works have long been
considered as models of beauty; to praise them now is only to
show the conformity of our taste to theirs ; it tends not to ad-
vance their reputation, but to promote our Let us then
own.
456
CRITICISM.
POLII(IL
dismiss, for the present the pedantry of panegyric; Ovid needs
it not, and we are not disposed to turn encomiasts on ourselves.
It will be sufficient to observe, that the multitude of transla-
tors which have attempted this poet, serves to evince the number
of his admirers; and their indifferent success, the difficulty of
equalling his elegance or his ease.
Dryden, ever poor, and ever willing to be obliged, solicited
the assistance of his friends for a translation of these epistles.
It was not the first time his miseries obliged him to call in hap-
pier bards to his aid; and to permit such to quarter their fleet-
ing performances on the lasting merit of liis name. This
eleemosynary translation, as might well be expected, was ex-
tremely unequal, frequently unjust to the poet's meaning, almost
always so to his fame. It was published without notes; for it
was not at that time customary to swell every performance of
this nature with comment and scholia. The reader did not then
choose to bave the current of his passions interrupted, his atten-
tion every moment called off from pleasure only, to be informed
why he was so pleased. It was not then thought necessary to
lessen surprise by anticipation, and, like some spectators we have
met at the play-house, to take off our attention from the perform-
ance, by telling in our car, what will follow next.
Since this united effort, Ovid, as if born to misfortune, has
undergone successive metamorphoses, being sometimes transposed
by schoolmasters unacquainted with English, and sometimes
transversed by ladies who knew no Latin : thus he has alter-
nately worn the dress of a pedant or a rake; either crawling in
humble prose, or having his hints explained into unbashful
meaning. Schoolmasters, who knew all that was in bim, except
his graces, give the names of places and towns at full length, and
he moves along stiffly in their literal versions, as the man who, as
we are told in the Philosophical Transactions, was afllicted with
BAT RETT'S OVID'S EPISTLES.
457
a
a
an universal anchylosis. IIis female imitators, on the other
hand, regard the dear creature only as a lover ; express the deli-
cacy of his passion by the ardor of their own; and if now and
;
then he is found to grow a little too warm, and perhaps to ex-
press himself a little indelicately, it must be imputed to the more
poignant sensations of his fair admirers. In a word, we have
seen him stripped of all his beauties in the versions of Stiring
and Clark, and talk like a debauchee in that of Mrs. ;*
but the sex should ever be sacred from criticism ; perhaps the
ladies have a right to describe raptures, which none but them-
selves can bestow.
A poet, like Ovid, whose great beauty lies rather in expres-
sion than sentiment, must be necessarily difficult to translate.
A fine sentiment may be conveyed several different ways, with-
out impairing its vigor; but a sentence delicately expressed, will
scarcely admit the least variation without losing beauty. The
performance before us will serve to convince the public, that
Ovid is more easily admired than imitated. The translator, in
his notes, shows an ardent zeal for the reputation of his poet.
It is possible, too, he may have felt his beauties; however, he
does not seem possessed of the happy art of giving his feelings
expression. If a kindred spirit, as we have often been told,
must animate the translator, we fear the claims of Mr. Barrett
wil. never receive a sanction in the heraldry of Parnassus.
llis intentions, even envy must own, are laudable; nothing
less than to instruct boys, schoolmasters, grown gentlemen, the
public, in the principles of taste (to use bis own expression), both
by precept and example. His manner it seems is, “ to read a
course of poetical lectures to his pupils one night in the week ;
which, beginning with this author, running through select pieces
а
* (Mrs. Elizabeth Kerne ; who had recently published a translation of
Dido's Epistle to Æneas )
VOL. IV.
20
458
POETICAL CRITICISM.
of our own, as well as the Latin and Greek writers, and ending with
Longinus, contributes no little towards forming their taste.” No
little! reader, observe that, from a person so perfectly master of
the force of his own language: what may not be expected from
his comments on the beauties of another?
But, in order to show in what manner he has executed these
intentions, it is proper he should first march in review as a poet.
We shall select the first epistle that offers, which is that from
Penelope to Ulysses, observing beforehand, that the whole trans.
lation is a most convincing instance, that English words may be
placed in Latin order, without being wholly unintelligible. Such
forced transpositions serve at once to give an idea of the trans-
lator's learning, and of difficulties surmounted.
“ This, still your wife, my ling'ring lord! I send;
Yei be your answer personal, not penn'd.”
These lines seem happily imitated from Taylor, the water.
poet, who has it thus:
“ To thee, dear Ursula, these lines I send,
Not with my hand, but with my heart, they're penn'd.”
But not to make a pause in the reader's pleasure, we proceed :
66
· Sunk now is Troy, the curse of Grecian dames !
(Her king, her all, a we.thless prize!) in flames.
O had by storins (his fleet to Sparta bound)
Th’ adult'rer perish'd in the mad profound !"
Here seems some obscurity in the translation : we are at a loss
to know what is meant by the mad profound. It can certainly
mean neither Bedlam nor Fleet-ditch ; for though the epithet mad
might agree with one, or profound with the other, yet when united
they seem incompatible with other. The profound has frequent-
ly been used to signify bad verses; and poets are sometimes said
BARRETT'S OVID'S EPISTLES.
459
to be mad : who knows but Penelope wishes that Paris might
bave died in the very act of rhyming; and as he was a shepherd,
it is not improbable to suppose but that he was a poet also.
Cold in a widow'd bed I ne'er had lay,
Nor chid with weary eyes the ling’ring day.”
Lay for lain, by the figure ginglimus. Our translator makes
frequent use of this figure.
“ Nor the protracted nuptials to avoid,
By night unravellid what the day employ’d.
When have not fancied dangers broke my rest ?
Love, tin'rous passion! rends the anxious breast.
In thought I saw you each fierce Trojan's aim,
Pale at the mention of bold Hector's namne!
Ovid makes Penelope shudder at the name of Ilector. Our
translator, with great propriety, transfers the fright from Pe-
nelope to Ulysses himself: it is he who grows pale at the name of
Hector; and well indeed he might; for IIector is represented by
Ovid, somewhere else, as a terrible fellow, and Ulysses as little
better than a poltroon.
“ Whose spear when brave Antilochus embrued,
By the dire news awoke, my fear renew'd.
Clad in dissembled arms Patroclus died :
And, “ Oh the fate of stratagem !" I cried.
Tlepolemus, beneath the Lycian dart,
His breath resign d, and rous'd afresh my smart.
Thus, when each Grecian press’d the bloody field,
Cold icy horrors my fond bosom chill'd."
Here we may observe how epithets tend to strengthen the
force of expression. First, her horrors are cold, and so far Ovid
scems to think also; but the translator adds, from himself, the
epithet icy, to show that they are still colder:
:--a fine climax of
frigidity!
4.0)
PETICAL CRITICISM.
“But Heaven, induigrat to my chaste desire,
Has wrapp'd 'my hu-band sale, proad Troy in fire."
The reader may have already observed one or two instances
of our translator's skill, in parenthetically clapping one sentence
within another. This contributes not a little to obscurity; and
obscurity, we all know, is nearly allied to admiration. Thus,
when the reader begins a sentence which he finds pregnant with
another, which still teems with a third, and so on, he feels the
same surprise which a countryman does at Bartholomew-fair.
Hocus shows a bag, in appearance empty; slap, and out come a
dozen new laid eges; slap, again, and the number is doubled :
but what is his amazement, when it swells with the hen that
laid them!
“ The Grecian chiefs return, each altar shines,
And spoils of Asia grace our native shrines.
Gifts, for their lords restor'd the matrons bring;
The Trojan faies o'ercome, triumphant sing;
Old men and trembling maids admire the songs,
And wives hang, li-e'ning, on their husbands' tongues.”
Critics have expatiated, in raptures, on the delicate use the
ancients have made of the verb pendlere. Virgil's goats are
described as hanging on the mountain side; the eyes of a lady
hang on the looks of her lover. Ovid has increased the force of
the metaphor, and describes the wife as hanging on the lips of
her husband. Our translator has gone still farther, and described
the lady as pendent from his tongue. A fine picture!
(4
Now, drawn in wine, fierce battles meet their eyes,
And lion's towers in miniature arise ;
There stretch'd Sigean plains, here Simois flow'd;
And there old Priam's lofty palace stood.
Flere Peleus' son encamp'dl, Ulysses there;
Here Hector's corpse distained the rapid car."
BARRETT'S OVID'S EPISTLES.
461
“ Of this the Pylian sage in quest of thee
Embark’d, your son inform’d his mother he.”
If we were permitted to offer a correction upon the two last
lines, we would translate them into plain English thus, still pre-
serving the rhyme entire :
The Pylian sage inform’d your son embark'd in quest of thee,
Of this, and he his mother, that is me.
“ He told how Rhesus and how Dolon fell,
By your wise conduct and Tydides' steel;
That doom'd by heavy sleep oppress'd to die,
And this prevented, a nocturnal spy!
Rash man! unmindful what your friends you owe,
Night's gloom to tempt, and brave a Thracian foe.
By one assisted in the doubtful strife ;
To me how kind ! how provident of life!
Still throbb'd my breast, till, victor, from the plain,
You join'd, on Thracian steeds, th' allies again.
“ But what to me avails high Ilium's fall,
Or soil continued o'er its ruin'd wall;
If still, as when it stood, my wants remain ;
If still I wish you in these arms in vain ?
“ Troy, sack’d 10 others, yet to me remains,
Though Greeks, with captive oxen, till her plains,
Ripe harvests bend where once her turrets stood;
Rank is her soil, manur'd with Phrygian blood ;
Harsh on the ploughs, men's bones, half buried, sound,
And grass each ruin'd mansion bides around.
Yet, hid in distant climes, my conq'ror stays;
Unknown the cause of these severe delays!
“ No foreign merchant to our isle resorts,
But question'd much of you, he leaves our ports ;
llence each departing sail a letter bears
To speak (if you are found) my anxious cares.
462
POETICAL CRITICISM.
“ Our son to Pylos cut the briny wave;
But Nestor's self a dubious answer gave:
To Sparta next-nor even could Sparta tell
What seas you plough, or in what region dwell!
“ Better had stood Apollo's sacred wall :
O could I now my former wish recall !
War my sole dread, the scene I then should know;
And thousands then would share the common woe.
But all things now, not knowing what to fear,
I dread; and give too large a field to care.
Whole lists of dangers, both by land and sea,
Are muster'd, to have caus'd so long delay.
“ But while your conduct thus I fondly clear,
Perhaps (true man!) you court some foreign fair;
Perhaps you rally your domestic loves,
Whose art the snowy fleece alone improves.
No! -may I err, and start at false alarms;
May nought but force detain you from my arms.
“ Urg'd by a father's right again to wed,
Firm I refuse, still faithful to your bed!
Still let him urge the fruitless vain design ;
I am-I inusi be-and I will be thine.
Though melted by my chaste desires, of late
His rig'rous importunities abate.
“ Of teasing suitors a luxurious train,
From neighboring isles, have cross’d the liquid plain,
Here uncontroll'd th' audacious crew's resort,
Ritle your wealth, and revel in your court.
Pisander, Polybus, and Medon lead,
Antinoüs and Eurymachus succeed,
With others, whose rapacious throats devour
The wealth you purchas'd once, distain'd with gore.
Melanthius add, and Irus, hated name!
A brugаr rival to complete our shaile.
BARRETT's Ovid's EPISTLES.
463
« Three, helpless three! are here; a wife not strong,
A sire too aged, and a son too young,
He late, ly fraud, embark'd for Pylos' shore,
Nigh from my arms for ever had been tore.”
These two lines are replete with beauty: nigh, which implies
approximation, and from, which implies distance, are, to use our
translator's expressions, drawn as it were up in a line of battle.
Torc is put för torn, that is, torn by fraud from her arms; not
that her son played truant and embarked by fraud, as a reader
who does not understand Latin might be apt to fancy.
“ Hcaven grant the youth survive each parent's date,
And no cross chance reverse che course of fate.
Your nurse and herdsman join this wish of mine,
And the just keeper of your bristly swine.”
Our translator observes in a note, that “the simplicity ex-
pressed in these lines is so far from being a blemish, that it is, in
fact, a very great beauty: and the modern critic, who is offended
with the mention of a sty, however he may pride himself upon his
false delicacy, is either too short-sighted to penetrate into real
nature, or has a stomach too nice to digest the noblest relics of
antiquity.” Ile means, no doubt, to digest a hog-sty; but, anti-
quity apart, we doubt if even Powell the fire-eater himself could
bring his appetite to relislı so unsavory a repast.
“ By age your sire disarm’d, and wasting woes,
The helin resigns, amidsi surrounding foes.
This may your son resume (when years allow,)
But oh! a father's aid is wanted now.
Nor have I strength his title to maintain,
Haste then, our only refuge, o’er the main.”
“A son,
and long may lraven the blessing grant,
You have, whole years a wire's instructions want.
464
POETICAL CRITICISM.
Think how Laërtes drags an age of woes,
In hope that you his dying eyes may close ;
And I, left youthful in my early bloom,
Shall aged seem, how soon soe'er you come.”
But let not the reader imagine we can find pleasure in thus
exposing absurdities, which are too ludicrous for serious reproof.
While we censure as critics, we feel as men, and could sincerely
wish that those whose greatest sin is, perbaps, the venial one of
writing bad verses, would regard their failure in this respect as
we do, not as faults, but foibles; they may be good and useful
members of society, without being poets. The regions of taste
can be travelled only by a few, and even those often find indifferent
accommodation by the way.
Let such as have not got a passport
from nature be content with happiness, and leave the poet the
unrivalled possession of his misery, his garret, and his fame.
We have of late seen the republic of letters crowded with some
who have no other pretensions to applause but industry, who hare
no other merit but that of reading many books, and making long
quotations: these we have heard extolled by sympathetic dunces,
and have seen them carry off the rewards of genius; while others,
who should have been born in better days, felt all the wants of
poverty, and the agonies of contempt. Who, then, that has a
regard for the public, for the literary honor of our country, for
the figure we shall one day make among posterity, that would
not choose to see such humbled as are possessed only of talents
that might have made good cobblers, had fortune turned them to
trade? Should such prevail. tlie real interests of learning must
be in a reciprocal proportion to the power they possess. Let it
be then the character of our periodical endeavors, and hitherto
we flatter ourselves it lias ever been, not to permit an ostentation
of learning to pass for merit, nor to give a pedant quarter upon
the score of his industry alone, even though he took refuge behind
BARRETT's Ovid's EPISTLES.
465
Arabic, or powdered his hair with hieroglyphics. Authors thus
censured may accuse our judgment, or our reading, if they please,
but our own hearts will acquit us of envy or ill-nature, since we
reprove only with a desire to reform
But we had almost forgot that our translator is to be con.
sidered as a critic as well as a poet; and in this department he
seems also equally unsuccessful with the former. Criticism at
present is different from what it was upon the revival of taste in
Europe: all its rules are now well known; the only art at pre-
sent is, to exhibit them in such lights as contribute to keep the
attention alive, and excite a favorable audience. It must borrow
graces from eloquence, and please while it aims at instruction:
but instead of this, we have a combination of trite observations,
delivered in a style in which those who are disposed to make war
upon words will find endless opportunities of triumph.
He is sometimes hypercritical Thus, “ Pope, in his excel-
lent Essay on Criticism (as will, in its place, when you come to
be lectured upon it, at full be explained), ternis this making
the sound an echo to the sense. But I apprehend that definition
takes in but a part, for the best ancient pocts excelled in thus
painting to the eye as well as to the ear. Virgil, describing his
housewife preparing her wine, exhibits the act of the fire to tho
eye.
• Aut dulcis musti Vulcano decoquit humorem,
Et foliis undam trepidi dispumat aheni.?
“For the line (if I may be allowed the expression) boils over;
and, in order to reduce it to its proper bounds, you must, with
her, skim off the redundant syllable." These are beauties which,
doubtless, the reader is displeased he cannot discern.
Sometimes confused: - There is a deal of artful and con-
cealed satire in what Oenone throws ont against ilelen; and to
20*
VOL. IV.
466
POETICAL CRITICISM.
speak truth, there was fair scope for it, and it might naturally be
expected. Her chief design was to render his new mistress sus-
pected of meretricious arts, and make him apprehensive that she
would hereafter be as ready to leave him for some new gallant, as
she had before, perfidiously to her lawful husband, followed
him."
Sometimes contradictory: thus, "Style (say: he) is used by
some writers as synonymous with diction, yet, in my opinion, it
has rather a complex sense, including both sentiment and diction.”
Oppose to this, page 135. “As to concord, and even style, they
are acquirable by most youth in due time, and by many with ease;
but the art of thinking properly, and choosing the best senti-
ments on every subject, is what comes later."
And sometimes he is guilty of false criticism: as when he
says, Ovid's chief excellence lies in description. Description
was the rock on which he always split: “Nescivit quod bene
cessit relinquere," as Seneca says of him: when once he em-
barks in description, he most commonly tires us before he has
done with it. But to tire no longer the reader, or the translator,
with extended censure; as a critic, this gentleman seems to have
drawn his knowledge from the remarks of others, and not his
own reflection; as a translator, he understands the language of
Ovid, but not his beauties; and though he may be an excellent
schoolmaster, he has, however, no pretensions to taste.
SPENSERS FAERIE QUEENE.
467
XV.-SPENSER'S FAERIE QUEENE.
[From the Criticul Reviru, 1759. * The Furie Quecne. By
Elmun Spenser. A new Edition, with Notes, Critical anul
Ecplanatory, by Ralph Church, M. A. late Student of Christ
Church, O.con. In four volumes, 8co.]
'Tis the remark of Boccalini, that a writer whose works have
passed through a number of editions after liis decease, would
bardly know his own performances again if he were to rise from
the dead. Critics mistake his meaning, or are desirous of giving
a new one of their own. Dunces interpolate the text, and print-
ers, too, add their faults to swell the account: so that the poet
at last, like a river which receives a new tincture from every soil
through which it flows, makes a very different appearance from
that with which he set out.
Perhaps no writer confirms the truth of this remark more
than Spenser; for, in proportion as the number of editions of
the Faerie Quecne have increased, the text has become more pre-
carious; so that it was absolutely necessary to compare subse-
quent ones with that published Ly himself, and thus restore his
meaning, where it had deviated from ancient correctness and
simplicity. Mr. Church, in the edition in view, has completed
this undertaking, and merits all the praise due to an exact and
cautious editor. llere we see our old favorite rising once more
from his faults, and borrowing all the helps of exact punctuation.
We can now tread the regions of fancy without interruption, and
expatiate on fairy wilds, such as our great magician has been
pleased to represent them. There is a pleasing tranquillity of
mind which ever attends the reading of this ancient poct. We
leave the ways of the present world, and all the ages of primeval
468
POETICAL CRITICISM.
innocence and happiness rise to our view.* Virgil, and even
IIomer, seem to be modern, upon the comparison. The imagina-
tion of his reader leaves reason behind, pursues the tale, without
considering the allegory, and upon the whole, is charmed without
instruction.
It is, it must be owned, somewhat surprising that Spenser,
who was so well acquainted with Virgil, should not have adopted
the Eneid of the Roman poet, rather than the Romans of the
Wiscs and Jongleur's, his more immediate predecessors. It is
true he has endeavored to soften this defect, by forming his work
into an allegory; however, the pleasure we receive from this
species of composition, though never so finely balanced between
truth and fiction, is but of a subordinate nature, as we have al-
ways two passions opposing each other; a love of reality, which
represses the flights of fancy, and a passion for the marvellous,
which would leave reflection behind.
: However, with all his faults, no poet enlarges the imagination
more than Spenser.) Cowley was formed into poetry by reading
lim; and many of our modern writers, such as Gray, Akenside,
and others, seem to have studied his manner with the utmost
attention : from him their compounded epithets, and solemn flow
of numbers, seem evidently borrowed ; and the verses of Spen-
sér may, perhaps, one day be considered the standard of English
poetry.f It were happy indeed, if his beauties were the only
.
:
* {“ Afier reading a canto of Spenser, two or three days ago, to an old
lady between seventy and eighty years of age, she said that I had been
showing her a gallery of pictures. I don't know how it is, but she said very
right; there is something in Spanises that pleases one as strongly in one's old
age as it did in one's youth. I read the Faerie Queene when I was about
twelve, with infinite delight; and I think it gavro me as much when I read it
over about a year 246,"—— Pope, 1743-11. Spence, p. 297.)
+ [" When I began Childe Harold, I had never tried Spenser's measure ;
SPENSER's FAERIE QUEENE.
469
objects of modern imitation ; but many of his words, justly fallen
into disuse among his successors, have been of late revived, and
a language, already too copious, has been augmented by an un-
necessary reinforcement. Learning and language are ever fluc-
tuating, either rising to perfection or retiring into primeval
barbarity: perhaps the point of English perfection is already
passed, and every intended improvement may be now only devia-
tion. This at least is certain, that posterity will perceive %
strong similitude between the poets of the sixteenth, and those
of the latter end of the cighteenth century.
To this edition of Spenser's works, the editor has prefixed
some account of his life, gleaned from his own and cotemporary
writings. There is a strong similitude between the lives of
almost all our English poets. The ordinary of Newgate, we are
told, has but one story, which serves for the life of every hero
that happens to come within the circle of his pastoral care; low-
ever unworthy the resemblance appears, it may be asserted, that
the history of one poet might serve with as little variation for
that of any other. Born of creditable parents, who gave him
pious education ; however, in spite of all their endeavors, in spite
of all the exhortations of the minister of the parish on Sundays,
he turned his mind from following good things, and fell to
writing verses ! Spenser, in short, lived poor, was reviled by the
and now I cannot scribble in any other."--Lord Byron to Lord Holland
Sepi, 26, 121.2.
The stanza of the Faerie Queene is framed with such consummate skill,
that all its parts are indivisibly interlaced, and the rhythm proceeds with
increasing strength and fulness through the whole, till it is wound up in a
harmonious, richi, and perfect close. There is no form of verse in our languare
in which so many successful poems have been written as in this, not withistanda
ing its apparent difficulty. The poet who would learn the mysteries of his
art, shuuid lake Spenser for his master, and drink of his poetry as from a well,
--not inderd of English undefilead, but of perpetund harmony, pure thoughts,
delightful imagery, and teniler terting Quart. Rre, 1-14, vol. xii., p. 72 )
470
POETICAL CRITICISM.
critics of his time, and died at last in the utmost distress."
There are some quotations brought in proof of this, from a poem
called the Purple Island, which, as the reader may have never
scen, we shall beg leave to transcribe. “ The poet had been
speaking of the discouragements attending learning and the
muses :
STANZA 17.
« « But wretched we to whoine these iron daies
(Hard daies) afford nor matter nor reward :-
19.
" Witnesse our Coin; whom though all the Graces
And all the Muses murst; whose well taught song
Parnassus self, and Glorian embraces,
And all the learn’d, and all the shepherds throng ;
Yet all his hopes were crost, all suits denied,
Discourag'd, scorn’d, liis writings vilifid:
Poorly (poore man, he liv'd; poorly (poore man) he did.
20.
". And had not that great Hart (whose honor'd head
Ah! lies fuli low), pitid thy wofull plight;
There hadst thou lien unwept, unburied,
Unblest, nor grac'd with any common rite:
Yet shalt thou live, when thy great fue shall sink
Beneath his mountain tombe, whose fame shall stink,
And time his blacker name shall blurre with blackest ink.
21.
««O! let thi Tambick muse revenge that wrong,
Which cannot slumber in thy sheets of lead :
* [ Spenser died broken-hearted at London, in Jamnary 1599. He was
burical, according in his desire, near the tomb of Chaucer, and the most
celebrated ports of the timer (Shuak-peare was probably of the numberi,
followed his hearse, and threw tributary verses into his grave.-C AMPBELL,
Brit l'oeta, vol. ii. p. 176]
SPENSER'S FAERIE QUEENE.
471
Let thy abused honor crie as long
As there be quills to write, or eyes to reade:
On his rank name let thine own votes be turn'd,
Oh may that man that hath the Nuses scorn'd,
Alive, nor dead, be ever of a Muse adorn'd.'”*
" The reader will excuse our tempting his curiosity by adding,
that the author of these agreeable lines is Phineas Fletcher,
nephew to Richard Fletcher, bisbop of London. As we have
taken the liberty to introduce on this occasion this poet so little
known, we cannot but add, that he seems to be of Spenser's own
turn of mind. At IIilgayf 'tis most likely this ingenious and
good man passed his days, privately and humbly, and with all
the modest sentiments with which he every where abounds. We
cannot but think of him and love him, when he mentions
the blushing strawberries,
Which lurk close shrouded from high-looking eyes,
Showing that sweetness oft both low and hidden lies :'
* [“ I'nder the auspices of the Earl of E-sex, Spenser received from Queen
Elizabeth a pension of £50 yearly. It is supposed that some passages in his
poenis drew down upon his head the wrath of the great Burleigh; the effects
of which continued to attend him through life. The striking lines, describing
the miseries of a suitor for court favor, have been always understood to refer
to his own disappointment:-
* Full little knowest thou, that haxt not tried,
What hell it is, in suing long to bile :
To lose good days, that might be better spent;
To waste long wehts in pensive di content;
To speed to-day, to be pu: back to morrow;
To feed on hope, in pine with rear and sorrow;
To have thy princess' grace, yet want her peers';
To have thy skin, yet wilt many years;
To freli thy soul with crosses and with cares ;
To eat thy heart through comfortirse despairs;
To fawn, to crouch, to wait, to ride, to run;
To spend, to give, to want to be un lone."
Sm Walter Scott, Prove Works, vol. xvii. p. 91 )
+ [thineas Fletcher held the living of Hilmay, in Norfolk, for twenty-
He died about the year 1650 ]
nine year:
472
POETICAL CRITICISM.
“And we cannot but rerere and envy him, when giving us
advice :
· Would'st thou live honor'd ? clip Ambition's wing;
To Reason's yoke thy furious passions bring:
Thrice noble is the man who of himself is king!”
The notes to this edition are mostly imitaticos or various
readings, and sufficiently evince the editor's industry, though
they contribute little to enlighten the reader. There is also a
glossary of the obsolete terms which are not explained in the
notes; and, in short, such helps as are sufficient to understand
the poet, without any ostentation of learning in the learned
editor.
G
XVI.-LANGHORNE'S « DEATII OF ADONIS, FROM THE GREEK
OF BION."
[From the Critical Rericw, 1759. “ The Death of Alonis ; a
Pastoral Cry from the Greek of Bion. By the Rev. John
Elgy,
Linghorne"
410.]
Of all the different kinds of poetry, elegy has been least cultiva-
ted since the revival of letters. We have seen the ancients
rivalled, sometimes excelled in the epic, the ode, or the pastoral;
but in elegy they still remain without competitors, and the at-
66
* [The translator of Plutarch, and author of Letters of Theodosius and
Constantia," “ Fables of Florii," &c. &c. Ile was,” says Mr. Campbell,
"an elegant scholar and an amiable man. He gave delicht to thousands,
from the press and the pulpit. Yui, as a prose writer, it is impossible to deny,
that his rapidity was the effect of lighness more than viyor; and, as a poet,
there is no ascribing to him wither fervor or simplicity."— British Ports, vol.
vi. p. 365.)
LANGHORNE'S DEATH OF ADONIS.
473
tempts of Biderman, Fontaine, Deshouliers, and Hammond,
serve only to evince their inferiority. This may seem the more
surprising as there is scarcely a beauty in poetry, that elegy is
not capable of admitting ; sometimes replete with pathetic sim-
plicity, sometimes even assuming the bold metaphors of resent-
ment, and often borrowing every ornament that art can bestow :
in a word, is tender, passionate, or graceful, by turns. Elegy
may be distinguished into three different kinds, as either of them
happens to prevail. It is Love, and not the poet, who speaks :
like a true boy, he is easily enraged, and as easily appeased; now
exulting with success, again melting into tears of disappointment;
when angry, threatening impossibilities; when appeased, re-
penting his insolence with the most abject humility. But what-
ever the pretences of the moderns, or even of the Latins, may
be to this beautiful species of poetry, the little poem before us
bears away the prize, and is incontestably the finest production of
the elegiac Muse, if we except that of Euripides, in his Andro-
mache. We shall not enter into a disquisition with the gram-
marians, whether it be an elegy or not, as it wants what they
term the characteristic difference of this species of poesy; riz.
an alternate succession of hexameters and pentameters: be it
sufficient to observe, that it unites every charm that a beautiful
passion can suggest, and though simple, yet is is simplex mundi-
tiis. Some modern crities, it is true, have asserted. that plaintive
elegy should be entirely unornamented: it might be sufficient to
answer, that the practice of the ancients is against them; but
nature itself also opposes this doctrine. A despairing lover, it
is true, has no occasion to be tricked out like a beau, but yet
should be sufficiently beautiful to interest the spectators with
favorable sentiments, sufficiently ornamented to seem still desirous
of pleasing. Elegy shonlil in some measure resemble the poet's
mistress
474
POETICAL CRITICISM.
Purpureo jacuit seinisupina toro
Tamque fuit negiecia decens.
“Stretched on this mountain thy torn lover lies;
Weep, queen of beauty! for be bleeds-he dies.
Ah! yet behold life's last drops faint y flow,
In streams of purple, o'er those limbs of snow!
From the pale check the perish'd roses fly;
And death dims slow the ghastly-zazing eye.
Kis, his thone fading iips, ere chii.'d in death;
With soothing fundness stay the fleeting breath.
'Tis vain-ah! give the soothing fondness o'er!
Adonis feels the warm salute no more."
There is no species of poetry that has not its particular cha
racter; and this diversity, which the ancients have so religiously
observed, is founded in nature itself. The more just their imita-
tions are found, the more perfectly are those characters distin-
guished. Thus the pastoral never quits his pipe, in order to
sound the trumpet; nor does elegy venture to strike the lyre.
It is indeed passionate, but has nothing terrible; nor is there. in
the wildest rage of a lover, anght that can excite a stronger emo-
tion than pity.
“ But streaming when he saw life's purple tide
Stretch'd her fair arms, with trembling voice she cried;
Yet stay, lov'd youth! a moment ere we part,
O let me kins thee!-hold thap to my heart!
A little moment, deir Adonis! stay!
And kize thy Vinus, ere those lips are clay.
That last-left pledge shall soothe my tortured breast,
When thou art gone.".
Let it not be thought that emotion alone will suffice for mak-
ing an elegy and that love will make a greater poet than study
anil genius. Pasjon :lone will no prop produce a finished piece;
LANGHORNE'S DEATH OF ADONIS.
475
it may, indeed, furnish the most natural sentiments, if we attend
its impulses; but it is art alone that must turn them to use, and
join the graces of expression.
“ Wretch that I am! immortal and divine,
In life imprison'd whom the fates confine,
He comes! receive him to thine iron arms;
Blest queen of death! receive the prince of charms.
Far happier then, to whose wide realms repair,
Whatever lovely, and whatever fair,
The smiles of joy, the golden hours, are fled ;
Grief, only grief, survives Adonis dead."
As the philosopher asserted, that he learned the truest philo-
sophy in Homer, so he who would write a perfect clogy, should
study the performance before us with the closest application.
From one example of this kind, he will learn more than from all
the precepts critics have delivered on the subject. He will here
perceive beauty in distress, borrowing the language of nature and
passion, and adapting sentiments to the subject: the thoughts
rising, as of their own accord, without being sought after; the
verse flowing with various harmony; the whole combined by a
concealed connection, yet seemingly without order: in short,
our idea increasing. by just degrees, to the end of the piece; like
those landscapes that rise upon the eye, till they seem to touch
the skies.
“ Thus Venus griev'd--the Cupus round deplore,
And mourn her beauty and her love no more.
Now flowing tears in silent grief complain,
Mix with the purple streams, and flood the plain.
Yet not in vain those sacred drops shall flow,
The purple streams in blushing roses glow,
And catching life from ev'ry faling tear,
Their azura heads anemonics shall rear.
476
POETICAL CRITICISM.
But cease in vain to cherish dire despair,
Nor count thy sorrows to the desert air.
The last sad office let thy hand supply,
Stretch the stiff livbs, and close the glaring eye."
a
It is not thus that many of our moderns have composed what
they call elegies; they seem scarcely to know its real character.
If a hero or a poet happens to die with us, the whole board of
elegiac poets raise the dismal chorus, adorn his hearse with all
the paltry escutcheons of flattery, rise into bombast, paint him as
at the head of his thundering legions, or reining Pegasus in his
most rapid career; they are sure to strew cypress enough upon
the bier, dress up all the muses in mourning, and look themselves
every whit as dismal and sorrowful as an undertaker's shop.
Neither pomp nor flatiery agrees with real affliction : it is not
thus that Marcellus, even that Marcellus who was adopted by the
emperor of the world, is bewailed by Propertius. IIis beauty,
his strength, his milder virtues, seem to have caught the poet's
affections, and inspired his aflliction. Were a person to die in
these days, though he was never at a battle in his life, our elegiac
writers would be sure to make one for the occasion. Our lovers
too, if they are really in love, seem more solicitous to show their
wit than their passion, adapt trifling ornaments to broad senti-
ments, and somewhat resemble the lawyer, who cared not whether
he gained or lost his cause, provided he could make the court
admire his cloquence.
“ Je hais ces vains auteurs, dont la muse forcée,
M'entretient de ses feux, toujours froid, et glacée,
Qui s'affligent per art, et foux de sens rassis
S'érigent pour rimer en amoureux transit."-Boileau.
With respect to the present translation, from the instances
already given, the reader veed scarcely be informed, that it is
LANGHORNE'S DEATH OF ADONIS.
477
very elegant, and tolerably correct. Several of the minor poets
are as yet without translations: we hope that a hint will not be
lost.*
* (Langhorne died in 1779, in his forty-fourth year. In 1773, he formed
an acquaintance with the celebrated Hannah More. Meeting one day, at
Weston-supra-Mare, upon the sea-shore, he wrote with the end of his stick
upon the stand :-
“Along the shore walk'd Hannah More;
Waves, let this record last;
Sooner shall ye, proud earth and sea.
Than what she writes be past."
Miss More scratched underneath with her whip,-
"Some firmer basis, polish'd Langhome, choose,
To write the dictates of thy charming muse;
Her strains in solid characters rehearse,
And be thy tablet lasting, as thy verse."
“A very lively, intellectual intercourse (says Mr. Roberts) “ was sustained
between them, until a habit of intemperance, in which he had vainly sought
relief under the pressure of domestic calamity, raised a barrier between him
and persons of strict behavior.” The following copy of verses, written by
Langhorne in his garden, were found among Hannah More's papers :-
“Blow, blow, my sweetest rose !
For Hannah More will soon be here,
And all that crowns the ripening year,
Should triumph where she goes.
"My sun flower fair, abroad
For her thy golden breast unfold,
And with thy noble smile behold,
The daughter vi thy Goul.
"Ye laurels, brigh'er bloom !
For she your wreaths, to glory due,
Has bound upon the hero's brow, (1)
And planted round his tomb.
" Ye bay, your odors shed!
For you her youth:ul temples bounid,
What time she croil on tairy ground,
By sweet Euterpe led!
** Come, innocent and gay,
Ve rural nymphs your love confess,
For her who sought your happiness, (2)
And crown'd it with her bay."
See Roberts' Life of Hannah More, vol. 1. p. 28.)
1 (Tke Intlexible Captive.}
2 [Search after Happiness. ]
478
POETICAL CRITICISM.
XVII.-WARD ON ORATORY.*
From the Critical Review, 1759. “ A System of Oratory,
delivereil in a Course of Lectures, publicly read at Gresham
College Turu
By John Ward, L.L.D. F.R.S. In two volumes,
Svo."]
IF diction perfectly grammatical, and a method perfectly scien-
tific; if the marks of extensive reading. and an omission of scarce
aught that has been formerly advanced on the subject, demand
applause, these lectures may assert their claim. Acuurate and
copious, they contain all that the ancients have delivered on the
rhetorician's art, all the rules commentators have coolly deduced
from a careful perusal of the raptures of Demosthenes and
Cicero. This, perhaps, was all the praise our author sought; and
this much certainly is his due. We will not accuse the lecturer
of phlegm, since he only professes to be didactic; nor censure his
many repetitions, since to an audience, perhaps, they conduce to
perspicuity. They who seek to understand rhetoric, must be
contented with the disgusting dryness of names and definitions:
those names and proper definitions are supplied here in abun-
dance. If, regardless of the present age, the author has not
thought proper to adapt his rules to the differing modes of clo-
quence and different centuries, he has, nevertheless, been a faith-
ful commentator upon the ancients, whom he appears to have
studied, and whose languages he seems perfectly to have under-
stood. We would not therefore be thought to object to the
cxecution of the present performance, but to the choice of the
subject; not to the lecturer's talents, but the inutility of his
task.
* (Dr. Juhn Wird was Professor of Rhetoric in Gresham College for
thirty-eight years. He was born in London in 1679, and died in 1758.)
WARD ON ORATORY.
479
Upon a former occasion we hinted our opinion, that eloquence
is more improved by the perusal of the great masters, from whose
excellences rules have been afterwards formed, than by an attend-
ance on the lectures of such as pretend to teach the art by rule,
more by imitation than by precept. We shall here, then, take
the liberty of pursuing the thought; and as an extract from the
work before us can (from the nature of the subject) neither
excite the reader's curiosity nor awaken his attention, instead of
offering any thing from the author we shall fill up a page with a
few observations of our own. We all would be orators: we live
in an age of orators: our very tradesmen are orators. Were it
not worth while to ask what oratory is ?
Oratory is nothing more than the being able to imprint on
others, with rapidity and force, the sentiments of which we are
possessed ourselves. Thus sometimes even silence is eloquent,
and action persuades when words might fail. We may be thus
impressed, without being convinced; and our passions are often
excited on the side of the speaker, though reason would resist
their impulse. “Whatever," says Boileau, " we clearly conceive,
we can clearly express; whatever we conceive with warmth, is
expressed in the same manner:" when the emotion is strong, the
words rise almost involuntarily, to give our feelings all the force
of expression. The speaker who calmly considers the propriety
of his diction cools in the interval; the spirit is fled, and, not
being moved himself, he ceases to affect his hearers. Should we
examine writers of genius on the most applauded parts of their
performances, they would readily answer, that those parts have
been most admired which they wrote with the greatest case and
the warmest enthusiasm. Thus we see, eloquence is born with
us before the rules of rhetoric, as languages have been formed
before the rules of grammar. Nature alone is mistress of the art,
and perhaps every person who understands the language in which
450
POETICAL CRITICISM.
we
he speaks, who has great interest in the cause he defends, or is
warmly attached to his party, must be an orator. This is the
reason that the most barbarous nations speak in a style more
affecting and figurative than others; they feel with passions un-
abated by judgment, and tropes and figures are the natural
tesult of their sensations. These strong and vigorous emotions,
therefore, can be nowhere taught, but they may be extinguished
by rule; and this we find actually to have been the case :
find no Grecian orator truly sublime after the precepts of Aris-
totle, nor Roman after the lectures of Quintilian. Their pre-
cepts might have guarded their successors from falling into faults,
but at the same time they deterred them from rising into beauty.
Cool, dispassionate, and even, they never forfeited their title to
good sense; they incurred no disgust, and they raised no admi-
ration.
But if rules in general of this kind are of such inutility, how
much more must they lead us astray, when we cite the precepts
given to the orators of one country to direct the pleadings of
another; rules drawn from the ancients to direct a modern bar-
ister, would make him thoroughly ridiculous; and yet this cus-
tom prevailed in Europe till about a century ago. A lawyer, who
even then perceived the absurdity of the custom, hcaring his
adversary talk of the war of Troy, the beauteous Helen, and the
river Scamander, entreated the court to observe, that his client
was christened, not Scamander, but Simon.
In fact, those men who have taken so much pains to reduce
what is properly a talent to an art, bave but very little advanced
the interests of learning: by their means, the mind, attentive to
her own operations, mixes judgment with all her enthusiasms;
and like a man who is ever reflecting on the danger of every
hazardous enterprise, at last is satisfied with the advantages of
safety, unconcerned about the rewards attending success.
a
MURPHY'S ORPHAN OF CHINA.
481
XVIII.-MURPHY'S ORPHAN OF CHINA.
[From the Critical Review, 1759. 56 The Orphan of China ; a
Tragedy. By Arthur Murphy, Esq.”]
When luxury has exhausted every mode of enjoyment, and is
palled by an iteration of the same pursuits it often has recourse
even to absurdity for redress, and vainly expects from novelty
those satisfactions it has ceased to find in nature. Like the
Asiatic tyrant of antiquity, wearied of the old pleasures, it pro-
poses immense rewards, and eagerly seeks amusement in the new.
From the prevalence of a taste like this, or rather from this per-
version of taste, the refined European has, of late, had recourse
even to China, in order to diversify the amusements of the day.
We have seen gardens laid out in the eastern manner; houses
ornamented in front by zig-zag lines; and rooms stuck round
with Chinese vases and Indian pagodas. If such whimsies pre-
vail among those who conduct the pleasures of the times, and
consequently lead the fashion, is it to be wondered, if even poetry
itself should conform, and the public be presented with a piece
Chinese manners ?-manners whiclı, though the
poet should happen to mistake, he has the consolation left, that
few readers are able to detect the imposture. Voltaire, than
whon no author better adapts his productions to the color of the
times, was sensible of this prevalence of fashion in favor of all
that came from China, and resolved to indulge its extravagance.
Ile has accordingly embroidered a Chinese plot with all the color-
ing of French poetry; but his advances to excellence are only in
proportion to his deviating from the calm insipidity of his eastern
original. Of all nations that ever felt the influence of the in-
spiring goddess, perhaps the Chinese are to be placed in the low-
est class their productions are the most phlegmatic that can be
21
formed upon
VOL. I.
482
POETICAL CRITICISM.
imagined. In those pieces of poetry, or novel, translations, some
of which we have seen, and which probably may soon be made
public,* there is not a single attempt to address the imagination,
or influence the passions; such therefore are very improper
models for imitation: and Voltaire, who was perhaps sensible of
this, has made very considerable deviations from the original
plan.Our English poet has deviated still further, and, in pro.
portion as the plot has become more European, it has become
more perfect. By omitting many of the circumstances of the
original story, and adding several of his own, Mr. Murphy has
given us a play, if not truly Chinese, at least entirely poetical.
Perhaps it was the intention of this ingenious writer, to show the
strength of his imagination in embellishing a barren plot, and,
like the artist we have sometimes heard of, who was famous for
dressing a pair of shoes into a fricassee, chose rather to have us
admire his manner than his materials.
A specimen of this kind will probably appear next season at Ms.
Dodsley's, as we are informed. (In 1761, Goldsmith's friend, Dr. Percy,
published his translation of Han kiou Choaan, or the Pleasing History,"
a Chinese novel, containing a faithful picture of the domestic manners, habits,
and characters of that extraordinary people.)
+ [“. The first specimen of a Chinese play was translated into French by
the Jesuit Prémaire. Voltaire made his translation of the Orphan of Chaou'
the groundwork of one of his best tragedies, ' L'Orphelin de la Chine :' it is
founded on an event which occurred about a hundred years before the birth of
Confucius. A military leader having usurped the lands of the house of Chaou,
is determined on exterininating the whole race. A faithful dependent of the
family saves the life of the orphan and male heir, by concealing him, and
passing off his own child in his stead. The orphan is brought up in ignorance
of his real condition, until he reaches man's estate, when the whole subject
being revealed to him by his tutor and guardian he revenges the fate of his
family on the usurper, and recovers his rights. In this plot, Dr. llurd remarked
a near resemblance, in many points, to the Electra of Sophocles, where the
young Orestes is reared by his pedagogus, or tutor, until he is old enough to
enact summary justice on the murderers of his father Agamemnon.”—Davis,
Chinese, vol. ii. p. 191.)
MURPHY'S ORPHAN OF CHINA.
483
The first error in the plot of this piece is, that the pathos
begins without a proper preparation of incident. The most
poignant anguish begins in the second act, where Mandane, the
only woman of the play, feels all the distress of passion conflict-
ing between a subject's duty and a mother's tenderness. When
the poet thus attempts to move us before his time, the most he
can do is to raise an equally moderate degree of pity through
the whole, which all his art cannot raise into that fine agony of
distress, so common among the great masters of his art. All
enthusiasms are of short continuance; nor is it in the power
of
genius to keep our sorrows alive through five acts, unless it diver-
sifies the object, or, in every act excites some new and unforeseen
distress; but neither of these the Chinese plot in view admits
of.
Shakspeare, Otway, and Rowe, seemed to have been perfect
economists of their distress (if we may use the expression); they
were so sensible of a necessary gradation in this respect, that
their characters frequently make their first appearance in circum-
stances of joy and triumph. They well knew that we are apt to
pity the sufferings of mankind, in proportion as they have fallen
from former happiness. Othello, therefore, meets the mistress
he must soon kill, in all the ecstasy of a happy lover. Acasto sur-
veys the felicity of his family with the most unreserved degree
of rapture; and the father of the Fair Penitent, who so soon is
to be wretched indeed, begins in a strain of exaltation, that forces
us almost to envy his felicity.
We have been led into these reflections, from observing the
effect the ingenious performance before us had upon the audience
the first night of its representation. The whole house seemed
pleased, highly and justly pleased; but it was not with the lux-
ury of woe they seemed affected: the nervous sentiment, the
glowing imagery, the well-conducted scenery, seemed the sources
484
POETICAL CRITICISM.
of their pleasure; their judgment could not avoid approving the
conduct of the drama, yet few of the situations were capable of
getting within the soul, or exciting a single tear; in short, it was
quickly seen, that all the faults of the performance proceeded
from vicious imitation, and all its beauties were the poet's own.
And now we are mentioning faults (faults which a single quo-
tation from the play will happily expunge from the reader's
memory), the author has, perhaps, too frequently mentioned the
word virtue. This expression should, in the mouth of a philoso-
pher, be husbanded, and only used on great occasions; if repeat-
ed too often, it loses its cabalistic power, and at last degenerates
into contempt.
This was actually the case at Athens, so that
their Πολυθρυλλετη αρετή, as it was called, became contemptible
even among the most stupid of their neighboring nations; and
towards the latter end of their government they grew ashamed
of it themselves. But, to do the writer ample justice, we will
lay one scene against all his defects, and we are convinced that
this alone will turn the balance in his favor. Works of genius
are not to be judged from the faults to be met with in them, but
by the beauties in which they abound.
Zamti, the Chinese high-priest, is informed, that his own son
is going to be offered up as the orphan-heir of China ; after a
short conflict, his duty gains complete victory over paternal affec-
he is willing his son should die, in order to secure his king;
but the difficulty remains to persuade his wife, Mandane, to fore.
go a mother's fondness, and conspire also in the deceit.
tion;
Scene.- MANDANE, Zamri.
Mandane. And can it then be true?
Is human nature exil'd from my breast ?
Art thou, indeed, so barbarous ? -
Zamti. Lov'd Mandane,
MURPHY'S ORPHAN OF CHINA.
485
Fix not your scorpions here--a bearded shaft
Already drinks my spirits up.
Mandane. I've seen
The trusty Morat-Oh! I've heard it all.
He would have shunn'd my steps; but what can 'scape
The eye of tenderness like mine?
Zamti. By heav'n!
I cannot speak to thee.
Mandane. Think'st thou those tears,
Those false, those cruel tears, will choke the voice
Of a fond mother's love, now stung to madness?
Oh! I will rend the air with lamentations ;
Root up this hair, and beat this throbbing breast;
Turn all connubial joy to bitterness,
To fell despair, to anguish, and remorse,
Unless my son
Zamti. Thou ever faithful woman,
Oh! leave me to my woes.
Mandane. Give me my child,
Thou worse than Tartar, give me back my son;
Oh! give him to a mother's eager arms,
And let me strain him to my heart.
Zamti. Heaven knows
How dear my boy is here. But our first duty
Now claims attention—to our country's love,
All other fondnesses must yield :-
I was a subject ere I was a father.
Mandane. You were a savage, bred in Scythian wilds,
And humanizing pity never reach'd
Your heart. Was it for this-oh! thou unkind one,
Was it for this-oh, thou inhuman father,
You wou'd me to your nuptial bed?
So long
Have I then clasp'd thee in these circling arms,
And made this breast your pillow ? Cruel, say,
Are these your vows? Are these your fond endearments?
Nay, look upon me. If this wasted form,
486
POETICAL CRITICISM.
These faded eyes, have turn'd your heart against me,
With grief for you I wither'd in my bloom.
Zamti. Why wilt thou pierce my heart?
Mandane. Alas! my son,
Have I then bore thee in these matron arms,
To see thee bleed?. Thus dost thou then return?
This could your mother hope, when first she sent
Her infant exile to a distant clime ?
Ah! could I think thy early love of fame
Would urge thee to this peril ? Thus to fall
By a stern father's will. By thee to die!
From thee, inhuman, to receive his doom!
Murder'd by thee! Yet hear me, Zamti, hear me-
Thus on my knees—I threaten now no more-
"Tis Nature's voice that pleads; Nature alarm’d,
Quick, trembling, wild, touch'd to her inmost feeling,
When force would tear her tender young ones from her.
Zamti. Nay, seek not with enfeebling fond ideas
To swell the flood of grief-it is in vain-
He must submit to fate.
Mandane. Barbarian! no-(She rises hastily.)
He shall not die-rather-I pri’thee, Zamti,
Urge not a grief-distracted woman: Tremble
At the wild fury of a woman's love.
Zamti. I tremble rather at a breach of oaths.
But thou break thine. Bathe your perfidious hands
In this life blood. Betray the righteous cause
Of all our sacred kings.
Mandane. Our kings !-our kings!
What are the scepter'd rules of the world ?-
Form’d of one common clay, are they not all
Doom'd with each subject, with the meanest slave,
To drink the cup of human woe?-alike
All levell’d by aflliction ? Sacred kings!
'Tis human policy sets np their claim.
Mine is a mother's cause--mine is the cause
MURPHY'S ORPHAN OF CHINA.
487
Of husband, wife, and child ;-those tenderest ties?
Superior to your right divine of kings!
Zamti. Then go, Mandane, thou once faithful woman,
Dear to this heart in vain ;—go, and forget
Those virtuous lessons which I oft have taught thee,
In fond credulity, while on each word
You hung enamor’d. Go, to Timurkan,
Reveal the awful truth. Be thou spectatress
Of murder'd majesty. Embrace your son,
And let him lead in shame and servitude,
A life ignobly bought. Then let those eyes,
Those faded eyes, which grief for me hath dimm’d,
With guilty joy reanimate their lustre,
To brighten slavery, and beam their fires
On the fell Scythian murderer.
Nandane. And is it thus,
Thus is Mandane known? My soul disdains
The vile imputed guilt. No-never--never-
Srill am I true to fame. Come, lead me hence,
Where I may lay down life to save Zaphiiri ;
But save my Hamet 100. Then, then you'll find
A heart beats here, as warm and great as thine.
Zamti. Then make with me one strong, one glorious effort,
And rank with those who, from the first of time,
In fame's eternal archives stand rever'd,
For conquering all the dearest ties of nature,
To serve the general weal.
Mandane. That savage virtue
Loses with me its horrid charms. I've sworn
To save my king. But should a mother turn
A dire assassin-oh! I cannot bear
The picrcing thought. Distraction-quick distraction
Will seize my brain.-See there--my child--my child -
By guards surrounded, a devoted victim,-
Barbarians, hold! Ab! see, he dies !-he dies!
"She faints into Zamti's arms.
488
POETICAL CRITICISM.
Zamli. Where is Arsace ? Fond maternal love
Shakes her weak frame-(Enter Arsace.) Quickly, Arsace, help
This ever tender creature. Wand'ring life
Rekindles in her cheek. Soft, lead her off
To where the fanning breeze in yonder bow'r
May woo her spirits back. Propitious heav'n!
Pity the woundings of a father's heart;
Pity my strugglings with this best of women ;
Support our virtue :-kindle in our souls
A ray of your divine enthusiasm ;
Such as inflames the patriot's breast, and lifts
Th’ imprison'd mind to that sublime of virtue,
That even on the rack it feels the good,
Which in a single hour it works to millions,
And leaves the legacy to after-times. (Exit, leading of Mandane.
Even in so short a specimen the reader sees a strength of
thought, a propriety of diction, and a perfect acquaintance with
the stage. The whole is thus in action, filled with incident, and
embellished with a justness of sentiment, not to be found even
in M. Voltaire. The French poet, for instance, seems to speak
without detestation of self-murder, and instances the neighbor-
ing Japanese * who find in it a refuge from all their sorrows:
our poet more justly hounds it as a usurpation of
Zumti. The dread prerogative
Of life and death, and measure out the thread
Of our own beings! 'Tis the coward's act,
Who dares not to encounter pain and peril-
Re that the practice of the g'oomy north.
("L'homme était-il clone ne pour tant dependance,
De nos voisins altiers imitona la constance :
De la natura humaine ils soutiennent les droits,
Vivrut libre chez eux. et meurent à leur choix
i'n allront leir -uilit per sortir de la vie,
Et plus que le neant ils crainent l'infamie,
Le hardi Japonais n'attend per qu'au cercueil;
In derpore insolent le plonge d'un coup d'eil."
Combatin or lo (hine, acie v
sc. 5.)
MORPHY'S ORPHAN OF CHINA.
489
Mandune. Must we then wait a haughty tyrant's rod,
The vassals of his will ?-no-let us rather
Nobly break through the barriers of this life,
And join the beings of some other world,
Who'll throng around our greatly daring souls,
And view the deed with wonder and applause.
Zamti. Distress too exquisite !-Ye holy pow'rs,
If aught below can supersede your law,
And plead for wretches, who dare, self-impell’d,
Rush to your awful presence ;-oh! it is not
When the distemper'd passions rage ; when pride
Is stung to madness; when ambition falls
From his high scaffolding ;-oh!-no—if aught
Can justify the blow, it is when virtue
Has nothing left to do ;—when liberty
No more can breathe at large ;-'tis with the groans
Of our dear country when we dare to die.
Mandane. Then here at once direct the friendly steel.
Zamti. One last adieu !-now !-ah! does this become
Thy husband's love! thus with uplifted blade
Can I approach that bosom-bliss, where oft
With other looks than those-oh! my Mandane-
I've hush'd my cares within thy sheli’ring arms ?
Mandene. Alas! the loves that hover'd o'er our pillows
Have spread their pinions, never to return,
And the pale fates surround us-
Then lay me down in honorable rest ;
Come, as thou art, all hero, to my arms,
And free a virtuous wife.
Zamti. It must be so-
Now then, prepare thee-my arm flags and droops,
Concious of thee in ev'ry trembling nerve.
[Dashes down the dagger.
This is finely conceived, and exiquisitely executed. Subjoined
to the play we find a letter, addressed from the author to Vol.
21*
VOL. IV.
490
POETICAL CRITICISM.
taire, which we think might have been better suppressed; for
though it is written with fire and spirit, and contains many judi-
cious observations, it may subject Mr. Murphy to tlie censure of
having made but an indifferent return to a man, whose senti-
ments and plan he has, in a great measure, thought proper to
adopt. It may be indeed considered as a just retribution on a
Frenchman, who had served Shakspeare in the same manner;
that is, adopted all his beauties, and then reviled himn for his
faults. Voltaire is entitled to particular regard from our coun-
trymen, notwithstanding the petulance with which he has treated
them on some occasions; for he was certainly the first who
opened the eyes of Europe to the excellences of English poetry.
XIX.-- DR. YOUNG ON ORIGINAL COMPOSITION.*
[From the Critical Rerieu, 1760. “ Conjectures on Original
Composition ; in a letter to the Author of Sir Charles Gran-
dison." 810.]
One of the oldest and bravest champions in the cause of litera-
ture, has here resumed the gauntlet; and Dr. Young, the only
survivor of our age of writers, instead of growing languid with
age, seems to gather strength by time, and kindles as he runs.
Some imagery, frequent metaphor, and a glowing imagination,
are generally the prerogatives of a youthful author; howerer,
* (- Dr. Johnson told us, the first time he saw Dr. Young was at the house
of Mr. Richardson, the author of Clarissa. He was sent for, that the Doctor
might read to him his • Conjectures on Original Composition ;' which he diel,
and Dr. Jolinson made his remarks ; and he was surprised to find Young
receive as novelties, what he thou_ht very common maxims. Ile said he
believed Yomg was not a great scholar, nor had studied regularly the art of
writing "-DUHELI., vol. iv. p. 301)
DR. YOUNG ON ORIGINAL COMPOSITION.
491
the writer in view seems to invert the order of nature, and as he
grows old, his fancy seems to grow more luxuriant. To say the
truth, his metaphors are too thick sown ; he frequently drives
them too far, and often does not preserve their simplicity to the
end ; thus, when he speaks of men "up to the knees in antiquity
saluting the Pope's toe," he mises images that are in themselves
inconsistent; but wherever he falls short of perfectiun, lis faults
are the crrors of genius; lis manner peculiarly his own; and
while his book serves, by precept, to direct us to original compo-
sition, it serves to impel us by example.
He begins by apologizing for his having, at his time of life,
resunied the pen. There was need of an excuse from one whose
genius still subsists in its energy, and whose very defects will
have admirers. He proceeds to observe that there are two kinds
of imitations, one of nature, the other of authors. The first we
call originals, and confine the term imitation to the second ; an
imitator of the last class lie justly ranks infinitely beneath the
former. An imitator shares his crown with the chosen object of
his imitation ; but the original scizes reputation. Hame, fond of
new glories, sounds her trumpet in triumph at his birth; but so
few books have we dictated by original genius, that if all others
were to be burnt, the lettered world would resemble some me-
tropolis in flames, where a few incombustible buildings, a fortress,
temple, or tower, lift their heads in melancholy grandeur, amid
the mighty ruin. But wliy, continues he, are originals so few?
Not because ihe writers' harvest is over, the great reapers of an-
tiquity having left nothing to be gleaned after them, but because
illustrious examples engross, prejudice, and intimidate. They
engross our attention, and so prevent a duc inspection of our-
selves; they prejudice our judgment in favor of their abilities,
and so lessen the sense of their own ; they intimidate us with
492
POETICAL CRITICISM.
a
the splendor of their renown: and thus, under diffidence, bury
our strength.
He next asserts, that the truest way of writing like the an-
cients is to draw from nature. Let us build our compositions
with the spirit, and in the taste of the ancients, but not with
their materials. It is by a sort of noble contagion, from a gene
ral familiarity with the writings of the ancients, and not by any
particular sordid theft, that we can be the better for those who
went before us. Genius is a master workman, learning but an
instrument; and an instrument, though most valuable, not always
indispensable.
Of genius there are two species, an earlier and a later ; or
call them infantine and adult An adult genius comes out of
nature's hand, as Pallas out of Jove's head, at full growth and
mature. Shakspeare's genius was of this kind; on the contrary,
Swift had an infantine genius, which, like other infants, must be
nursed and educated, or it will come to nought. Men are often
strangers to their own abilities; genius, in this view, is like a
dear friend in our company under disguise, who, while we are
lamenting his absence, drops his mask, striking us at once with
equal surprise and joy. Few authors of distinction but have ex-
perienced something of this nature at the first beamings of their
unsuspected genius, on the hitherto dark composition. Let pot
then great examples, or authorities, browbeat our reason into too
great a diffidence of ourselves. Let us reverence ourselves, so
as to prefer the native growth of our own minds to the richest
imports from abroad, since such borrowed riches serve only to
increase our poverty. Admiration of others depresses the ad-
mirer, in proportion as it lifts the object of our applause.
le proceeds, by complaining that Pope, who had a genius
truly original. if he chose to exert it, was contented with being
an lumble imitator, and even boasted of his skill at imitation
DR. YOUNG ON ORIGINAL COMPOSITION.
493
Swift, on the contrary, not sufficiently acquainted with bimself,
left truth, in order to be original only in the wrong; and has so
satirized human nature, as to give a demonstration in himself,
that it deserves to be satirized. The author then proceeds to
characterize Shakspeare and Ben Jonson; by the by, paying
his friend, the author of Sir Charles Grandison, some very pretty
compliments. Dryden, he justly observes, was by no means a
master of the pathos in tragedy." He had a great, but a gene.
ral capacity; as for a general genius, there is no such thing in
nature. A genius implies the rays of the mind, concentred and
determined to some particular point; when they are scattered
widely they act feebly, and strike not with sufficient force to fire
or dissolve the heart. As what comes from the writer's heart
reaches ours, so what comes from his head, sets our brains at
work and our hearts at ease.”
IIe then makes a travsition to Mr. Addison, whose tragedy
of Cato is observed to be a fine, but not an affecting performance.
But though this poet deserved a superiority over cotemporary
claims, even by his writings, he infinitely surpassed his rivals for
fame in the integrity of his life, and in a glorious circumstance
attending his death. Perceiving his last moments to approach,
and no help from his physicians, he sent for a youth nearly re-
lated to him, finely accomplished, and who felt the utmost distress
at separation. The young man came, “ but life, now glimmering
in the socket, the dying friend was silent: after a decent and
proper pause, the youth said, “Dear Sir! you sent for me: I be-
lieve, and I hope that you have some
le commands; I shall hold
them most sacred.' May distant ages not only hear, but feel the
reply! Forcilly grasping the youth's hand, he softly said, 'See
in what peace a Christian can die.''
* (" Tickell, in his excellent elegy on the death of Addison, alluded, in the
494
POETICAL CRITICISM.
As Dr. Young's manner of writing is peculiarly his own, and
has already secured him an ample share of fame, we hope to see
some succeeding man of genius do justice to the integrity of his
life, and the simplicity and picty of his manners; for in this
respect not Addison himself was, perhaps, his superior. We would,
in a word, be much better pleased to see the writers of the rising
generation more fond of imitating his life than his writings; bis
moral qualities are transferable; his peculiarities, as a gelius, can
scarcely be imitated, except in their faults.
XX. BUTLER'S REMAINS, IN PROSE AND VERSE.
[From the Critical Rerieur, 1759. “ The Genuine Remains, in
Prose anul Verse, of Mr. Samuel Butler. Published from the
Original Jianuscripts, formerly in the possession of 11. Lon-
guerille, Esq.;* with Votes by R. Thyer, Keeper of the public
Library at Manchester.” In tuo vols. 8vo.]
When we consider Butler werely as a poet, and a party poet
too, and reflect that poets, in our own time, have been known to
excel in one species of composition, and yet have been useless in
following lines, as he told Dr. Young, to this moving interview with Lord
Warwick :
"Ile taught us how to live; and, oh! too high
The price of knowledge! taught us how to de.''
Jounsor's Life of Addison ]
* {“ Mr. William Longueville was a conveyancing lawyer, and a bencher of
the Inner Temple, and had raised himself from a low beginning to great emi-
nence in that profession. He was the last patron and friend that poor old Butler,
the author of Ludibras, had, and in his old age he supported him, otherwise he
mu-t bave been literally starved. All that the poet could do to recompense
liim, was to make him his heir, that is, give him his Remains; but on loose
paper, and undigested." - Life of Lori Keeper Guilford, vol. ii. p. 189, edit. 1826 }
BUTLER'S REMAINS.
495
all other purposes of life, and ignorant in all other pursuits of
learning, we bewail, but we are not greatly surprised at, the indi-
gence in which we are told he lived and died. But when we view
him by she light in which this publication places bim, we are
struck with somewhat next to borror at the want of discernment,
at the more than barbarous ingratitude, of his cotemporaries.
When we see him join the humor of Lucian to the philosophy of
Plato, and unite the virtue of Socrates with the wit of Aris-
tophanes; when he displays an equal knowledge of men and books;
when he adapts reading to reasoning, and all in the cause of liberty
and religion, we are apt to bewail, not only the disgrace, but the
loss, of our country, that could suffer such a person to be, in a
manner, dead to society.
Till the pieces before us were published, Swift could, with
some appearance of justice, have disputed with Butler the palm
of wit, humor, and observation of life. But we are of opinion,
that the question must be now, by the discerning and impartial
part of the public, decided in Butler's favor. We cannot, how-
ever, say of all the pieces of this collection, as Ovid does of the
chariot of the
sun,
- Materiam superat opus;" for here many
of
the materials are rich, but the workmanship is rough; they look
like pieces of the most precious metal, when they first come out
of a beautiful mould; but without the finishing and heightenings,
that the hand and the tools of the artist can bestow. Many of
them bear manifest indications of genius laboring, but not
crushed, under indigence; while some of them have received all
the polish that art and judgment can bestow.
The editor has performed his duty with great pertinency, yet
modesty, of observation; and this publication is far from being
one of those catchpenny subscription-works, which, circulating
from one rood-natured friend to another, at last picks the pocket
of the public. We are tempted to wish, however, that Mr. Thyer's
496
POETICAL CRITICISM.
studies had led him a little more than they seem to have done,
into those pidaling walks of pamphlet and polemical reading,
from which alone can be drawn the illustrations of many dark
passages of his admirable author; nor can we think he has been
always happy in his conjectures.
Through great part of the two volumes before us, we perceive
that Butler was no friend to the Royal Society,* and the method
of philosophizing in fashion in his time; and, indeed, as Mr.
Thyer observes with great truth, one must own, that the mem-
bers of that learned body, at their first setting out, did justly lay
themselves open to the lashes of wit and satire.
The first poem in this collection is entitled “ The Elephant
in the Moon," and is planned upon a humorous story of a mouse
getting into a telescope, with which the virtuosos were viewing
the moon, and which they instantly pronounced to be an elephant
,
in the moon.
The story, which is full of Butler's humor, is told
at first in short, and then in long, verse, but generally in the
same terms and terminations of rhyme.
The poem which follows is entitled, "A Satire upon the
Weakness and Misery of Man," and bears the stamp not only of
genius but virtue ; with such characteristics of the latter as are
impossible to be counterfeited: as for the former, they speak for
themselves In short, this is perhaps the finest and justest satire
that any language can produce; and the whole of it has those
marks of virtuous indignation, which prove that the poet speaks
from the heart. This indignation is levelled equally against the
court of Charles the Second as against the fanatics; and the
* {": The enemies of the Royal Society were for some time very numerous
and very acrimonious; for what reason it is hard to conceive, since the
philosophers professed not to advance doctrines, but to produce facts; and
the most zealous enemy of innovation must admit the gradual progress of
experience, however he may oppose hypothetical temerity." --Jounson.]
BUTLER'S REMAINS.
497
reader is grossly mistaken if he imagines, that because Butler
was the author of Hudibras, he favored either the politics or the
manners of the court, to which his writings were so serviceable
in its distress. The satire in question, in enumerating the out-
ward circumstances that create the weakness and misery of man,
has the following lines:
· Yet as no barbarousness beside
Is half so barbarous as pride,
Nor any prouder insolence
Than that, which has the least pretence,
We are so wretched, to profess
A glory in our wretchedness ;
To vapor sillily, and rant
Of our own misery and want.
And grown vain-glorious on a score,
We ought much rather to deplore,
Who, the first moment of our lives,
Are but condemn'd, and giv'n reprieves ;
And our greatest grace is, not to know
When we shall pay 'em back, nor how;
Begotten with a vain caprich
And live as vainly to that pitch.
“Our pains are real things, and all
Our pleasures but fantastical;
Diseases of their own accord,
But cures come difficult and hard ;
Our noblest piles, and stateliest rooms
Are but out-houses to the tombs ;
Cities, though e'er so great and brave,
But mere warehouses to the grave;
Our brav'ry's* but a vain disguise,
To hide us from the world's dull eyes,
Finery
498
POETICAL CRITICISM.
The remedy of a defect,
With which our nakedness is deckt;
Yet makes us swell with pride, and boast,
As if w' had gain’d by being lost.”
After some other very fine reflections of the same caste, he
concludes in the following noble and splendid strain :
66
• That wealth, that bounteous fortune sends
As presents to her dearest friends,
Is oft laid out upon a purchase
Of two yards long in parish churches;
And those too happy men that bought it,
Had liv'd, and happier too, without it.
For what does vast wealth bring, but cheat,
Law, luxury, disease, and debt,
Pain, pleasure, discontent, and sport,
And easy-troubled life, and short ?*
“ But all these plagues are nothing near
Those far more cruel and severe,
Unhappy man takes pains to find
T inflict himself upon his mind;
* Though this satire seems fairly transcribed for the press, yet on a vacancy
in the sheet opposite to this line, I find the following verses, which probably
were intended to be added: but as they are not regularly inserted, I choose
rather to give them by way of note :
* For men ne'er digg'll so deep into
The bowels of the earth below,
For metals that are found to dwell
Near.neighbor to the pit of hell,
An have a magie pow'r to sway
The greedy souls of men that way;
But with their bodies have been fain
To fill those freaches up again;
When bloody battles have been fought
For sharing thit, which they took not.
For wealth is all things, that conduce
To man's destruction, or his use;
A standard both to buy and sell
All things from law to hell."
BUTLER'S REMAINS.
499
And out of his own bowe's spins
A rack and torture for his sins:
Torments himself, in vain, to know
That most, which he can never do;
And the more strictly 'tis denied,
The more he is unsatisfied :
Is busy in finding scruples out,
To languish in eternal doubt ;
Sees spectres in the dark, and ghosts,
And starts, as horses do at posts,
And, when his eyes assist him least,
Discerns such subtle objects best :
On hypothetic dreams and visions
Grounds everlasting disquisitions,
And raises endless controversies
On vulgar theorems and hearsays:
Grows posiuve and confident
In things so far beyond th' extent
Of human sense, he does not know,
Whether they be at all, or no ;
And doubts as much in things, that are
As plainly evident, and clear:
Disdains all useful sense, and plain,
T' apply to th' intricate and vain;
And cracks his brains in plodding on
That, which is never to be known;
To pose himself with subtleties,
And hold no other knowledge wise ;
Although, the subtler all things are,
They're but to nothing the more near:
And the less weight they can sustain,
The more he still lays on in vain,
And hangs his soul upon as nice
And subtle curiosities,
As one of that vast multitude,
That on a needle's point have stood :
500
POETICAL CRITICISM.
Weighs right and wrong, and true and false,
Upon as nice and subtle scales,
As those that turn upon a plane
With the hundredth part of half a grain;
And still the subtler they move,
The sooner false and useless prove.
So man, that thinks to force and strain
Beyond its natural sphere his brain ;
In vain torments it on the rack,
And, for improving, sets it back ;
Is ignorant of his own extent,
And that to which his aims are bent ;
Is lost in both, and breaks his blade
Upon the anvil, where 'twas made:
For, as abortions cost more pain
Than vig'rous births, so all the vain
And weak productions of man's wit,
That aim at purposes unfit,
Require more drudgery, and worse
Than those of strong and lively force."
The satire that follows is, what the author calls, in long verse,
and is upon the licentious age of Charles the Second, contrasted
with the puritanical one that preceded it. In this satire, which
is the sequel of the former, we have the following masterly lines:
"For those, who heretofore sought private holes,
Securely in the dark to damn their souls,
Wore vizards of hypocrisy, to steal
And slink away, in masquerade, to hell ;
Now bring their crimes into the open sun,
For all mankind to gaze their worst upon,
As eagles try their young against its rays,
To prove, if they're of generous breed, or base;
Call heaven and earth to witness, how they've aim'd
With all their utmost vigor to be damn'd."
BUTLER'S REMAINS.
501
Speaking of example,
“ Example, that imperious dictator
Of all that's good, or bad to hunian nature ;
By which the world's corrupted, and reclaim'd,
Hopes to be sav'd, and studies to be damn'd;
That reconciles all contrarieties,
Makes wisdom foolishness, and folly wise.”
The satire that follows is, we dare say, addressed to Sir
William Davenant, whose name our editor has been so delicate
as to suppress, and is a piece of sterling wit. Speaking of rhyme
and sense, he says:
"], whom a lewd caprich, (for some great crime
I have committed) has condemn’d to rhyme,
With slavish obstinacy vex my brain
To reconcile 'em, but, alas! in vain,
Sometimes I set my wits upon the rack,
And, when I would say white, the verse sa ys black;
When I would praise an author, the untoward
Damn'd sense, says Virgil, but the rhyme
**
Speaking of the plague of rhyme, Mr. Pope has nothing in
all his works more splendid and musical than the following lines:
“Without this plague, I freely might have spent
My happy days with leisure and content;
Had nothing in the world to do, or think,
Like a fat priest, but whore, and eat, and drink ;
Ilad pass'd my time as pleasantly away,
Slept all the night, and loiter'd all the day.
* Ned Howard. (The Honorable Edward Howard, brother-in-law of
Dryden ; author of the “ British Princes," an heroic poem, the “ Usurper,” a
tragedy, and soveral other pieces which subjected him to the ridicule of the
wits and satirists of the day, and among the rest Butler.]
502
POETICAL CRITICISM.
My soul, that's free from care, and fear, and hope,
Knows how to make her own ambition stoop."
He concludes the epistle with the following lines :
" Thou then, that see'st how ill I spend my time,
Teach me, for pity, how to make a rhyme;
And, if th' instructions chance to prove in vain,
Teach
how ne'er to write again."
The next poem that follows, entitled “Repartees between Cat
and Puss, at a Cater-wauling in the modern heroic Way," is
levelled at the rhyme-plays of Dryden,ť (for we cannot think
with Mr. Thyer, that Butler could throw his eye so low as upon
Settle.) and some other writers of otherwise gooa note; but it is
supported with such exquisite humor, and with so just a spirit of
ridicule, that it cannot admit of any quotations. Meanwhile, we
think, that in this poem we can discover some seeds that were
* (Sir William Davenant, author of "Gondibert," an heroic poem,“Albovie,"
a tragedy, &c. &c. His “Gondibert,'” said Pope, “is not a good poem, if
you take it as in the whole ; but there are a great many good things in it:
lle is a scholar of Donne's, and took his sententiousness and metaphysics from
him.-SPENCE, p. 170.]
+ [** The rage for imitating the French stage, joined to the successful efforts
of Dryden, had now carried the heroic or rhyming tragedy to its highest pitch
of popularity. The principal requisites of such a drama are summed up by
him in the two first lines of the · Orlando Furioso,'
· Le Donne, i cavalieri, l'arme, gli amori,
Le cortesie, l'audaci imprese.'
The most applauded scenes in these plays turned upon nice discussions of
metaphysical passion, such as in the days of yore were wont to be agitated
in the courts and parliaments of love. Thus, in the scene between Almanzor
and Almahide, the solicitations of the lover and the denials of the queen, are
expressed in the very carte and tierce of poetical argumentation. This kind
of Amabæan dialogue was early ridiculed by the ingenious author of Hudi-
bras, in his Repartees between Cat and Puss, at a Cater-wauling in the
modern heroic way.' ”—Sir Walter Scott, Prose Works, vol. i., p. 103.)
BUTLER'S REMAINS.
503
transplanted into the "Rehearsal" or from the "Rehearsal"
“ ,”
into it.*
The satire that follows is upon our ridiculous imitation of
the French, and is worthy of the author of Hudibras. The next
poem is inscribed to the famous Ned Howard; and till now has
always been given to Waller, and printed in his works. Then
follows a palinody to the same gentleman, in the like vein of wit
and humor. The conclusion of the next satire, which is upon
drunkenness, is so inimitably fine, and so much Butler's manner,
that we must give it to the reader.
“So Noah, when he anchor'd safe on
The mountain's top, his lofty haven,
And all the passengers he bore,
Were on the new world set ashore,
He made it next his chief design
To plant, and propagate a vine,
Which since has overwhelm’d and drown'd
Far greater numbers, on dry ground,
Of wretched mankind, one by one,
Than all the flood before had done."
The poem
that follows is entitled, “ A Satire on Marriage ;" but
is, in fact, levelled against adultery. It is but crude, though
,
charged with our author's spirit, as are the three following
poenis
written in Pindaric ode measures; one upon a
Hypo-
* (" The ostensible author of the · Rehearsal' was the wilty George Villiers,
Duke of Buckinghain. He had, however, the assistance of the witty author
of ludibras, who, while himself starving, amused his misery by ridiculing his
contemporaries; Sprat, afterwards Bishop of Rochester, and Martin Clifford,
the author of a very scurrilous criticism upon some of Dryden's plays. By the
joint efforts of this coalition the • Rehearsal' was produced ; a lively piece,
which continues to please, although the plays which it parodies are no longer
rrad or acted, and although the zest of the personal satire which it contains
has evaporated in the lapse of time.”- Ilid. vol i., p. 116.]
504
POETICAL CRITICISM.
critical non-conformist:" the next upon “ Modern Critics ;" and
the third, “ To the happy memory of the most renowned Du
Val,” the highwayman. This last had been published in the
author's lifetime. We are sorry Mr. Thyer, in a note upon this
ode, should have been so ill-informed, as to compare the fate of
Maclean, the modern bighwayman, to that of Du Val, in being
beloved and lamented by the English ladies. We can assure
him seriously, that the fact is false, and all the stories on that
head were mere inventions. By the by, Du Val was remarkably
handsome, and Maclean was as remarkably ugly.
The satire, by way of panegyric on Sir John Denham, and
the many severe touches of our author in other parts of his works
against that gentleman, must have been founded upon some
personal quarrel or disgust, as Mr. Thyer rightly observes.
Amongst other things, Sir John is accused of having bought his
Cooper's Hill, and of having borrowed the Sophy. But charges
of that kind, if not supported by some very strong facts, ought
to be discouraged; as they tend to endanger or weaken every
author's claim to reputation from his works. " Nuptiæ demon-
strant prolem," is an established maxim with regard to the issue
of our bodies; and a man's fathering a production, unless it is
clearly proved to be illegitimate, ought to establish his claim to
the issue of his brains. * But the truth is, there are strong pre-
sumptions against the knight in point of plagiarism; for his
works are so unequal, that some of them, to make use of Martial's
expression to a plagiary, seem to say, Fur es. Butler might
have reasons for his charge that we are ignorant of. Amongst
the several poems that follow, which we cannot particularize,
2
6
[" A report was spread, that the poem of Cooper's Hill' was not his
own, but that he had bought it of a vicar for forty pounds. The same attempt
was made to rob Addison of Cato, and Pope of his Essay on Criticism."-
Johnson, Life of Denham.l
BUTLER's
505
REMAINS.
1
there is a satire upon Plagiaries, which is finished, and in Butler's
best manner.
We cannot agree with Mr. Thyer's conjecture, that Oliver
Cromwell is meant in the ballad that begins, “ Draw near, good
people, all draw near;" for though Mr. Thyer supports his con-
jecture by a caricatura of Cromwell's person, drawn by one of
his professed enemies, yet we have a much better authority for
believing that his face was far from being of the hideous form
and complexion there described. There is an original of Crom-
well by Cooper extant; and it is attended with a whimsical an-
ccdote which is well-known to the virtuosi, and carries its own
evidences along with it. For there are evident marks of creases
in the canvas of the painting, and a blue scarf about his armor
is unfinished, which is said to have been owing to the usurper's
impatience, when he called at Cooper's for the picture; for see,
ing the head finished, he hastily pulled the piece from the tenter,
and clapping it into his pocket, flung into his coach. This paint-
ing is conformable to all the accounts of his face that we have
from the most impartial hands; and represents it as manly,
but somewhat stern, though far from being ugly, far less deformed
and hideous, as Butler has painted the subject of this ballad.
If we might hazard a conjecture, the poet might allegorically
design to satirize some of the committees of parliament, that sat
upon the estates of the king's party, and compounded with their
Those committees sat in different parts, not only of the
kingdom, but of the city.
Amongst the fragments designed by Butler to be inserted in
a second part of a satire upon the imperfection and abuse of
Human Learning, one of them falls foul of Milton, for leaving
the merits of the controversy between him and Salmasius, about
king Charles's murder, and turning it into a war of words, by
owner.
VOL. IV.
22
506
POETICAL CRITICISM.
accusing Salmasius of writing false Latin. This puts us in mind
of an epigram of Milton's, beginning-
“What made Salmasius, that French chattering pie,
To aim at English and IIundreda cry!
"Tis pity our author did not complete this design. His frag.
ments, like the pieces of marble got together for rearing a build-
ing, are of the most exquisite beauty and workmanship. Amongst
others, his description of a pedant is equally just and witty. Of
pedantry, he says,
“ For pedantry is but a corn, a wart
Bred in the skin of judgment, sense,
and art,
A stupcfied excrescence, like a wen,
Fed by the peccant humors of learn'd men,
That never grows from natural defects
Of downright and untutor'd intellects ;
But from the over-curious and vain
Distempers of an artificial brain."
Next follows a collection of verses, under the title of " Mis-
cellaneous Thoughts," which are finely adapted to their subjects,
and which, had they fallen into the hands of a poetical trader,
might have set him up, and as the saying is, “ made a man of
him for ever.” It is extremely hard, if not disagreeable, to give
any thing as a specimen, where every thing is equally so; but, as
we must keep up to our plan, we shall give the first that comes
to our hand of these detached verses :-
“ The worst of rebels never arm
To do their king or country harm ;
But draw their swords to do them good,
As doctors cure by letting blood.”
“ No seared conscience is so fell,
As that, which has been burnt with zeal ;
BUTLER'S REMAINS.
507
For Christian charity's as well
A great impediment to zeal,
As zeal a pestilent disease
To Christian charity and peace.”
" As thistles wear the softest down,
To hide their prickles till they're grown,
And then declare themselves and tear
Whatever ventures to come near:
So a smooth knave does greater feats
Than one, that idly rails and threats,
And all the mischief, that he meant,
Does like a rattle-snake prevent.”
• When princes idly lead about,
Those of their party follow suit,
Till others trump upon their play,
And turn the cards another way."
" What makes all subjects discontent
Against a prince's government,
And princes take as great oflence
At subjects' disobedience ;
That neither th’ other can abide,
But too much reason on each side."
« As when a greedy raven sees
A sheep entangled by the fleece,
With hasty cruelty he flies
T' attack him, and pick out his eyes;
So do those vultures use, that keep
Poor pris'ners fast like silly sheep,
As greedily to prey on all,
That in their rav'nous clutches fall.
For thorns and brambles, that came in,
To wait upon the curse for sin ;
508
POETICAL CRITICISM.
And were no part o' th’ first creation,
But for revenge a new plantation,
Are yet the fitt'st materials
T'enclose the earth with living walls;
So jailers that are most accurst,
Are found most fit in being worst.”
a
Having thus, we hope, given no unsatisfactory account of this
curious collection, so far as regards the poetical part of it, we
shall now proceed to the prose part, in which Butler will appear
with equal, if not superior, advantages.
It is a doubt whether the writings of Butler, or the neglect
he met with, be the greatest satire on the age in which he lived :
certainly, no man was ever possessed of greater talents for ridi-
cule than he; none had a greater fund of original sentiment,
none a more thorough detestation of vice, and none a more ungrate-
ful return from society. A modern French writer, who has trans-
lated a part of his works, has justly observed, that he has more
thoughts than lines, and perhaps an exuberance of sentiment is
his greatest defect: indeed, so closely do they follow cach other,
that the reader has neither time to relish what is past, nor
pare himself for what is to follow; as in other commodities, their
value seems to be diminished by their profusion.
Of all our English poets, Butler was reckoned the most
modest man: his confusion was such, upon a first introduction,
that some men imagined him scarce removed from idiotism; when
he warmed, however, in conversation, he then began to shine, and
what before was pity in the audience, was now turned to admira-
tion. Characters, however, of this kind, are perhaps not so well
qualified as others for commencing authors. Impressed with too
great a respect for the judgment of the reader, they imagine his
sagacity equal to their own, and avoid repetition or explanation,
as a tax upon his patience, or an imputation on his skill. In
BUTLER'S REMAINS.
509
short, they write as Butler has actually written, pour out thought
after thought, leave no interstice in the composition void of sen-
timent, nor even allow a pause for admiration. Such writing as
this, and not the affected diffidence expressed in a preface, is the
true characteristic of modesty. Here the writer, as in conversa-
tion, says but little, and that to the purpose.
Butler's manner is,
however, now pretty much worn out of use: most readers now
tahe up books merely to be idle; men of this complexion must
be met with smiles, instead of the severity of thoughtfulness.
As long as the writer continues to divert, so long will they per-
mit him to instruct them ; but if he offers to become too concise
for their indolence, be then becomes unintelligible: to what pur-
pose, then, should a writer think deeply, when those whom he
addresses will not be at the pains of thinking? In short, this
sententious manner of the last age somewhat resembles Gothic
architecture, where the eye of the spectator is presented with a
number of parts, each highly finished, and separately pretty, but
which, however, diminish the effect of the whole.
If we read the histories of those great men who enlightened
or adorned mankind, and, at the same time, perished like Butler
by neglect, we shall find their misfortunes owing to the warmth
of their friendships, or the virulence of their disgust. Thus
Dante, Theodore Gaza, and Cassender, were soured by their dis-
tresses, at last into misanthropy: it was just so with Butler; we
find him, through this publication, pursuing his cotemporary
authors, whom he disliked or despised, either with open or con-
cealed satire; he could not tamely bear to see men carry away
all the rewards of admiration, because rich, nor set up as models
of politeness, because hung round with titles. Sir John Den-
ham, in particular, has found no quarter; he was one of those
who owel most of his reputation to a combination of friends in
his favor, and who was as much praised beyond his desert, as his
510
POETICAL CRITICISM.
antagonist before us was undervalued. Every wrong disposition
of literary honors, Butler seems to have thought as a negative
insult upon genius: he opposed the distribution with spirit, was
tacitly approved, and left without a reward. How many plants
of medicinal virtue do we not find growing among savages unac-
quainted with their effects !
The writing characters, as the editor remarks, was a kind of
wit much in fashion in the beginning of the last century. Bru-
yère seemed to have led the mode, but, to confess the truth, has
not been equalled by any succeeding imitator: he has the happy
art of varying his manner; when the bare description of nature
begins to disgust, he has recourse to a story, and when that has
ceased to surprise, he finds refuge in a bon mot. The characters
before us want that entertaining variety, and seem drawn rather
after the designs of Theophrastus; and we must do our country-
man the justice to own, that his sketches are not inferior to
those of the refined Grecian.
His character of a small poet, for instance, is as fine a piece
of satire and criticism as we have seen united. To give the
reader a specimen :-
a
“ A small poet is one that would fain make himself that which nature never
meant him; like a fanatic that inspires himself with his own whimsies. Jie
sets up haberdasher of small poetry, with a very small stock, and no credit.
He believes it is invention enough to find out other men's wit; and whatso-
ever he lights upon, either in books or company, he makes bold with as his
own.
This he puts together so untowardly, that you may perceive his own
wit has the rickets, by the swelling disproportion of his joints. Imitation is
the whole sum of him; and his vein is but an itch or clap, that he has catched
of others; and his flame like that of charcoals, that were burnt before: but
as he wants judgment to understand what is best, he naturally takes the worst,
as being the most agreeable to his own talent. You may know his wit not
to be nature, 'tis so unquiet and troublesome in num: for as those that have
money but seldom, are always shaking their pockets when they have it ; so
BUTLER'S REMAINS.
511
a
does he, when he thinks he has got something, that will make him appear.
He is a perpetual talker; aad you may know by the freedom of his discourse,
that he came lightly by it, as thieves spend freely what they get. He mea-
sures other men's wit by their modesty, and his own by his confidence. He
makes nothing of writing plays, because he has not wit enough to understand
the difficulty. This makes him venture to talk and scrib:le, as chowses do to
play with cunning gamesters, until they are cheated and laughed at. He is
always talking of wit, as those that have bad voices are always singing out of
tune ; and those that cannot play delight to fumble un instruments. He grows
the unwiser by other men's harms; for the worse other men write, he finds
the more encouragement to do so too. Ilis greediness of praise is so eager,
that he swallows any thing that comes in the likeness of it, how rotorious
and palpable soever, and is as shot-free against any thing that may lessen his
good opinion of himself. This renders him incurable, like discases that grow
insensible.”
Were such a number of original thoughts in the possession
of a German commentator, what folios might not be the result of
his speculations! In short, this performance might serve as a
common-place book* for such as find more difficulty in thinking
than expression; a hundred sentiments may be stolen from it,
and yet the plagiary be never detected.
What can be more just than his character of a libeller, whom
he describes as one whose whole works treat but of two things,
liis own malice and the faults of another !
“ Ile is not much concerned whether what he writes be true or false ; that's
nothing to his purpose, which aims only at filthy and bittrs; and therefore his
[“ I have been informed by Mr. Thyer, of Manchester, that excellent
editor of Butler's Reiques, that he could show sommg like Iudibras in
prose. He has in his possession the common-place tol, in which Butler repo-
sited not such events and precepto as are gathrrel by reading, but such remarks,
similitudes, allusions, assemblages, or inferences, its overa-ion prompted, or me-
ditation produced, those thoughts that were generated in his own mind, and
might be usefully applied to some future purpose. Such is the labor of those
who write for immortality!”-THYSON, Life of Butler ]
512
POETICAL CRITICISM.
language is, like pictures of the devil, the fouler the better. He robs a man
of his good name, not for any good it will do him (for he dares no: own it),
but merely, as a jackdaw steals money, for his pleasure. llis malice has the
same success with other men's charity, to be rewarded in private ; for all he
gets is but his own private satisfaction, and the testimony of an evil conscience;
for which, if it be discovered, he suffers the worst kind of martyrdom, and is
paid with condign punishment, so that at the best he has but his labor for his
pains. He deals with a man as the Spanish inquisition does with heretics,
clothes him in a coat painted with hellish shapes of fiends, and so shows nim
to the rabble, to render hin the more odious. He exposes his wit like a bas-
tard, for the next comer to take up and put out to nurse, which it seldom fails
of, so ready is every man to contribute to the infamy of another. He is like the
devil that sows tares in the dark, and while a man sleeps, plants weeds among
his corn.
When he ventures to fall foul on the governinent or any great per-
sons,
if he has not a special care to keep himself, like a conjuror, safe in his
circle, he raises a spirit that falls foul on himself, and carries him to limbo;
where his neck is clapped up in the hole, out of which it is never released, until
he has paid his ears down on the nail for fees. He is in a worse condition
than a schoolboy ; for when he is discovered, he is whipped for his exercise,
whether it be well or ill-done; so that he takes a wrong course to show bis
wit, when his best way to do so is to conceal it; otherwise he shows his folly
instead of his wit, and pays dear for the mistake."
At the end of these two volumes, for which the public are so
much obliged to the editor, are subjoined thoughts upon various
subjects, still superior to any thing in the foregoing collection.
In these the author's peculiar talent shines conspicuously, since
his principal merit consists in the strength and justness of his
sertiments, without any peculiar skill in arrangement. Had all
his works been published, like those of Mahomet, which, we are
toid, vere delivered in single sentences, it is probable his fame
would have suffered no diminution. To give an example of his
talent this way:
“ This age will serve to make a very pretty farce for the next; if it have
any wit at all to make use of it"
BUTLER'S PEMAINS.
513
“ 'The preferment of fools and undeserving persons, is not so much an
honor to them, as infamy and dishonor to those that raise them; for when a
prince confers honor on those that do not deserve it, he throws it away out of
his own stock, and leaves himself so much the less, as he parts with to those
that want merit 10 pretend to it; and by that ill husbandry in time leaves him-
self none at all, to pay those to whom it is due.”
“ The worst governments are the best, when they light in good hands; and
the best the worst, when they fall into bad ones.”
“ The vices of tyrants run in a circle, and produce one another, begin with
luxury and prodigality, which cannot be supplied but by rapine. Rapine pro-
duces hate in the people, and that hate fear in the prince ; fear, cruelty ; cruelty,
despair ; and despair, destruction."
“ It is both the wisest and safest way in the world to keep at a convenient
distance with all men. For when men converse too closely, they commonly,
like those that meet in crowds, offend one another."
“ There is a kind of physiognomy in the title of books, no less than in the
faces of men, by which a skilful observer will as well know what to expect
from the one as the other."
66
· Men of the greatest apprehension and aptest geniuses to any thing they
undertake do not always prove the greatest masters in it: for there is more
patience and phlegm required in those that attain to any degree of perfection,
than is commonly found in the temper of active and ready wits, that soon tire,
and will not hold out; as the swiitest race-horse will not perform a long jour-
nay so well as a sturdy dull jade. Hence it is that Virgil, who wanted much
of that natural casiness of wit that Ovid had, did nevertheless, with hard
labor and long study, arrive at a higher perfection, than the other, with all
his dexterity of wit, but less industry, could attain to. The same we may
olserve of Jonson and Shakspeare ; for he that is able think long, and
judge well, will be sure to find out better things, than another man can hit
upon suuldenly, though of more quick and ready parts; which is commonly but
chance, and the other art and judgment "
Ilow works of such merit have been so long suppressed as
VOL. IV.
514
POETICAL CRITICISM.
those before us, is indeed somewhat surprising; or how the author
himself, in his needy hours, was never induced to turn them to
profit, is what we cannot account for: perhaps the rewards of
copy-money, as it is called, were not so high then as they are
now, and fame might have been the only incentive to publication.
XXI.--HORACE MODERNIZED.
[From the Critical Review, 1759. “ The Twentieth Epistle of
Ilorace to his Book, modernizel by the Author of Female
Conduct, and applied to his own Book, and intended as an
Answer to the Remarks on his Book, made by the writer of
the Critical Review. 8vo. Ouen.” Sce p. 451.]
.
It was once a debate among casuists, which we could wish to
see revived, whether the contempt offered to great men in dis-
guise ought justly to be resented by them as injurious. After
much reasoning upon the matter, Escobar* at length determined,
that as men they have a right to resent; but great men they
are obliged to forgiveness. This last part of the argument is so
applicable to our present purpose, that we cannot avoid urging
it in the strongest manner, in expostulating with the great man
with whom we are at present unhappily embroiled. We have a
right to be forgiven, because we now at last acknowledge the
dignity of him from whom (impressed with terror as we are) we
ask forgiveness. A few months ago a poem entitled “Female
Conduct" came from the press, published in the usual manner,
without one single mark of the author's importance; and we,
a
(A Spanish Jesuit, born at Seville in 1589, and died, while a missionary
at Lima, in 1669. His works were printed in twenty-six folio volumes. See
vol, i p. 13.1
HORACE MODERNIZED.
515
in our usual manner, found something in it to praise, and some-
thing to reprove. At this time we kuew very little of Mr. Mar-
riott, and, in the sincerity of our hearts, wished his dull, well-
meaning efforts, success. Soon, however, it was found, that in
talking of him we were all in the wrong box, nor paid him half
that deference which he claimed as his due. The pamphlet be-
fore us, written in all the fury of resentment, tells us all about
him. By this we are informed, but, alas ! too late for redress,
that Mr. Marriott is tall; that he is rich; that he is thin and
lean ; that he laughs when the sun shines; and lastly, that he is
the very man who took the two Gregories. Why could he not
have told us all this when he published his first pamphlet? No!
he slips it out upon the world in obscurity, and, like Peter the
Great, is resolved to quarrel with every creature that does not
pay homage to his greasy greatness in disguise. Had he put but
half what the present pamphlet contains into the preface of the
former, it were casy to have clapped on a pair of prudential
spectacles, and read his poetry into rhyme; for he may be con-
vinced that we sooner would have caten gunpowder, than have
meddled with the author who took the two Gregories.
Though the performance was opened with a thorough resolu-
tion not to lose our temper. upon the perusal, yet we find it so
severe, that we kindle as we read. It is all an orange stuffed
with cloves; when fatigued with scolding in prose, he has recourse
to ryhme, and when he has teased us sufficiently with English
verse, he takes up the cudgels in Latin. All are alike to him,
back-sword, single falchion, or quarterstaff; he wields them all
with equal dexterity, and no favor. Now he calls us scribblers,
anon minor crities, then dull critics, bad-hearted critics. This
sure is not polite; yet all this might be borne, but who can be
calm wlien he calls us Bavius? Yes, dear reader, he actually
calls us Bavius! Ali, little did we think, that while we censured
2
516
POETICAL CRITICISM.
the writer of "Female Conduct," we were only raising the in-
dignation of the author who took the two Gregories.
Yet shall it be left to his own breast, whether he deals
candidly with us, or the public. He first writes bad
verses,
and
next he tells the world he does not desire a reputation for poetry.
This is very modest either way. Would not any one be induced
from such a performance, and with such an invitation, to speak
his sentiments without shrinking? In an evil hour we took the
author at his word, pitied his performance, and gave him a dis-
charge from Parnassus at his own request; and yet, oh ingra-
titude! here we have him in a violent passion for our pains.
This author is surely a sly one. He invites us to a feast; tells
us we are heartily welcome to fall to, and yet is violently angry
with us for eating. Does this become the patron of virtue, this
become the avowed champion of the fair sex? Dose this become
the man who has fought, and consequently vanquished. gamesters,
methodists, and Bolingbroke? Oh, vartue, vartue! to what will
this degenerate age at length arrive, when the very man who
gives a morsel of bread with one hand, picks it from our teeth
with the other!
By this time the reader, perhaps, desires to see how our poet
trcats us in rhyme; and though, by quoting him, we propagate
our own disgrace, yet will we be just to him and the public.
The Epistle in view is from the author to his own book.
suppose him sitting like the man in the primer in his arm chair,
thus addressing the manuscript which he holds between his finger
and thumb: My little book," says he, " you have an eye or a
mind to ." but take it in his own words:
Let us
My book, you have an eye to Temple Bar,
That you may irim in (wer's sho; appear;
That you with gileled ornaments may shine,
Polish'd without, and delicate within
HORACE MODERNIZED.
517
You hate the close restraint of lock and key,
Which to a modest book would grateful be.
But go from me forewarn'd, this lesson learn,
When gone from me you never can return ; *
When this shall happen, I (who in your ear
Instillid good counsel which you would not hear)
In your distress will scornful laugh at you,
Like him, who down a rock in anger threw
that would not his commands pursue.
Who'll strive against his will to save a fool
Whom friendly adınonitions can't control ?"
The ass,
The reader at length smokes the champion we have to deal
with: he will observe what strength of thought and diction, and
what a flow of poetry are here! A piduling reader, it is cer-
tain, might object to almost all the rhymes of the above quotation;
but the less rhyme the more like blank verse, and all know that
Milton wrote without such a restraint: but if any reader is for
having the above quotation to be rhyme, he has nothing more to
do than to read it poctically. Let kry, for instance, be called kee,
and then it rhymes with le; and let fool be called fol, and then
it answers control in the next line. By this means the poetry,
which our author, no doubt, meant for blank verse, may serve for
either. We have here given but a taste of our bard's peforin-
ance: those who are pleased with it may indulge themselves to
satiety, in a publication, which he promises shortly, of several
other modernized works of this kind. We shall beg leave, in all
friendship only, to offer this unconquered champion the following
motto to his future production,
Κην με φαγης επι ριζαν, ομως ετι καρποφορησω.
* “ We are assured there is a mistake hete, being informed a large bale of
this work was sent to Killingdon for waste paper."--(_n Gregory, jun.
518
POCTICAL CRITICISM.
XXII.--DUNKIN'S EPISTLE TO LORD CHESTERFIED.
*
[From the Critical Rerieur, 1760. "An Eristle to the Right
Ilonorable Philip, Earl of Clusterficld, to which is added
An Eclogue. By illium Dunkin, D.D."* 810.]
In this publication Dr. Dunkin appears at once excessively
merry, and extremely sorrowful. His epistle to the Earl of
Chesterfield is most familiarly good-humored; his eclogue, or
Lawson's obesyuies, is mournful to the last degree. The epistle
may be considered a smart prologue to a deep tragedy, or a jig
before an adagio, or (to run into his own manner) a plate of pick-
les before a shoulder of mutton The death of his friend seems
no way to have abated his festivity; and though he weeps for
Lawson in poetry, he laughs with his lordship in prose: in short,
were we to judge of the writer by this production, we should
give liim the same appellation which Chapelain gave to Ménage,
" the poet with the double face.''
llis epistle to the Earl of Chesterfield begins thus : " My lord,
your fast friend, trusty correspondent, and faithful ally, the
prince of printers, archbibliopolist, intelligencer-general, and gen-
eral advertiser of the kingdom of Ireland, having lately discov-
cred, that I had not for many months addressed your lordship
by letter, or otherwise, with a very grave face and composed
countenance, but a fervor and tartness of style, unwont to flow
from the dispassionate tongue of his most serene highness, called
[In early life Dunkin attracted the attention of Dean Swift, who, in one
of his letters, describes him as a “gentleman of much wir, and the best Eng.
lich, as well as Latin poet in Ireland." The Earl of Chesterfield, when he
held the government of Ireland, gave him the rectory of Enniskilling ; where
le died in 1765. Ilis l'oeucal Works, in two volumes quarto, were published
in 1774]
† (Dr. John Law 3011, author of " Lectures concerning Oratory, delivered
ai 'Trinity College, Dubiin ” lle died in 1759.)
.
DUNKIN'S
519
S EPISTLE TO LORD CHESTERFIELD.
me roundly to task, and expressed his august indignation and
royal resentment. • What,' said he, was it for this, that we
brought thy labors from the darkness of thy closet, into the light
of our shop, and clothed thy naked and neglected name with
legible respect, and titular dignity? What apartment from
the base to the summit of our Palladian palace hath not been
open for thy reception, and furnished for thy residence? When
was our oval table unspread for thy repast; and when was our
big-bellied bottle withheld from thy lips? Hast thou not sat
down in our presence, even on our right hand, while poets have
stood in waiting? And have we not in familiar-wise conversed
with thee, while we have only nodded unto critics ?"
This screne highness, this we, is Mr. Faulkner, the printer, *
who, if he speaks in this manner, must be no doubt an excessively
facetious humorous companion, and well worthy not only the ac-
quaintance of the poet and his lordship, but also of the public.
A great part of the cpistle is taken up with this speech ;
which, whenever the writer takes up the conversation himself, is
every whit as humorous as the other. Ilear him:
- But, alas ! how will the sanguine hopes and expectations of
the parties premised be rendered totally null and void, when the
bellowing tribe of meagre bards and lank crities, like Pharaoh's
ill-favored and lean-fleshed kine, eat up my best-featured and
fairest offspring! What can be wrought and finished with nicer
art and ingenuity, than Aracline's lawn, suspended to the sublime
66
* (George Faulkner, designated by Swiſt,“ the prince of Dublin printers."
Ile rosa to eminence chiefly under the Dean's patronage, and was the first who
gave to the world a collected edition of his works. He died, at an advanced
age, in 1775. He had been journeyman to Mr. Bowyer. In a letter to Mr.
Nichols, written a few months before his death, he says, “ my apothecary's bill
doth not amount to five shillings a year for all my family, two-pepce of which
is not niy share. Claret is the universal medicine here, and the mundungus
port the bane and strefaction of all society. --Sor Lit. Aner , vol. iii. p. 208 ]
520
POETICAL CRITICISM.
.
6.
ceiling of a spacious hall, as it were beyond the reach of inferior
accidents? When, lo! some vile, unthrifty chamber-maid cometh
with her anti-Christian Pope's head-brush, and sweepeth down the
weaver and his web together.
“ Such, I fear, will become the downfall and undoing of
these my lofty lucubrations, disconcerted, and broken by the cal-
lous and clumsy hands of witlings and word-catchers, who from
damned poetry have turned their heads to foul criticism, as folks
convert their cast coach-horses to dung-carts.
" Little will it avail me, that, independent of external aid, I
have spun the materials out of my own brains, and labored
whole days and nights in bringing the work to perfection, when
the delicate and tender texture, instead of standing the test, will
not even abide the touch.
“ The dung-carts and their criticisms may pass well enough to-
gether; and, lest they should object against this comparison of
myself to an insect, as mean and creeping, let them hear what
Pliny saith of such industrious and neat spinsters : - Arancarum
genus erudità operatione conspicuum.' The fumily of spiders
are very notable for their curious housewifery. But in case
they should spare the spider, they will arraign the retailer of
this homely similitule for an arrant pla ziary: to quash which in-
dictment I can offer no fairer plea than an honest confession, that
I borrowed the thought, with very little variation, from a volumi-
nous Latin and English poem, written purely for the benefit of
their fraternity many years ago, although not yet published. It
is dedicated to your lordship, and must, I believe, pass for mine,
till they can lay it before the door of a better father.
- Here would I willingly halt, and spread a veil over the poet
and spider. but murder and truth will at some oulil time or other
cbulliate. Much it irketh me to cweive any thing that might
cast the least wisatory note of aspersion on a member of our
DUNKIN'S EPISTLE TO LORD CHESTERFIELD.
521
society. But what I am going to mention is rather a matter of
compassion and pity, than reproach or shame; a distemper which
frequently seizes the body poetical with sudden fits and starts,
and, what is most extraordinary, the violence of the paroxysm,
instead of heating, chills the whole mass of blood, ties the tongue,
and sinks the spirits. Some naturalists have ascribed it to the
malign influence of a planet, and look upon it as the consequent
and concomitant effect of a versifying itch : but I should rather
attribute it to mere sublunary causes; and such accidents will
happen, while there are such unclassical things upon earth, as
paltry debts, insolent writs, and rude bailiffs; for, although
pocts may take great licenses, yet, alas ! Grub-street is no place
of privilege."
Who could have thought, to speak sincerely, that such indif-
ferent prose should come from the man who is author of many
pretty poetical pieces, among which, this of Lawson's Obsequies
is not the worst. The following lines, for instance, are not despi-
cable :
“ But should he fall? And shall the mighty musa
The tuneful tribute of her grief refuse?
Refuse to him her memorable tears
With whom she sported in his tender years?
While, yet unconcions of himself he stray'd,
Unsought, unnoticed, through the pensive shade;
With wealth unfavor i, to no lordly line
Ally'd, but Pallas, and the sacred Nine,
I cull'd him out from all the sable crowd
Of Alma's tribes, indignant of the proud,
The pert, the vain, preferrd his humble name,
And woo'd his friendship with a pious flame.
“ We laughid at fops, fantastically gay,
The pomp of pride, and impotence of sway;
At siribblers vila, who plurrid the blacken e pare
With fucian pharent, for poesie raste;
522
POETICAL CRITICISM.
We laugh'd with Johnson, of ungenerous heart,
Who well could act the candid critic's part;
From fruitful fancy start the happy hint,
Surprising, quick as flashes from a fiint;
Maturely plan the regular design,
Mix wit with ease, and point the glowing line.”
6
There runs, however, through the poem an affectation which
it is not easy to excuse, as when the poet has manful eloquence?
for manly eloquence, the museful powers, for the muses: such
errors, though trifling give an air of vanity to the whole. The
man who is bred at a distance from the centre of learning and
politeness, must have a great deal of modesty or understanding,
who does not give a loose to some vanities which are apt to render
him ridiculous every where but at home. Bred among men of
talents inferior to himself, he is too apt to assume the lead, as well
from the press as in conversation, and to overrate his own abili-
ties. His oddities among his friends are only regarded as the
excrescences of a superior genius; among those who live beyond
the sphere of his importance, they are considered as instances of
folly or ignorance. There is scareely a trifling city or university
.
in Europe which las not its great men; characters, who are taught
by adulation to fancy themselves figuring in the republic of letters,
and leaving monuments of their merit to remote posterity. If
there should happen to be two of this character in the same city,
the compliments they mutually bestow on each other are pleasant
enough: they attempt to raise cach other's reputation by mutual
flattery, and establish their little dominion within the circle of all
their acquaintance.
traveller passing through the city of Burgos in Spain, was
desirous of knowing who were their most learried men, and applical
to one of the inhabitants for information 6. Ilhat!" replied the
Spaniarl, who happened to be a scholar, have you never heard
GOGUET ON THE ORIGIN OF LAWS, ETC.
523
of the admirable Brandellius, or the ingenious Mogusius? one
the eye and the other the heart of our university, known all over
the world ?" “ Never," cries the traveller; “ but pray
inform me
what Brandellius is particularly remarkable for ?" "You must
be very little acquainted in the republic of letters," says the
other, “ to ask such a question. Brandellius has written a most
sublime panegyric on Mogusius.” “ And prithee, what has Mogu-
sius done to deserve so great a favor ?" “ He has written an ex-
cellent poem in praise of Brandellius." 6 Well! and what does
the public, I mean those who are out of the university, say of
those mutual compliments?" "The public are a parcel of block-
“
heads, and all blockheads are critics, and all critics are spiders,
and spiders are a set of reptiles that all the world despises."
XXIII.-GOGUET ON THE ORIGIN AND PROGRESS OF LAWS,
ARTS, AND SCIENCES.
[From the Critical Reviour, 1759. “ De 1 Origine des Loir, des
'
Arts, et des Sciences ; et de leurs Progrès chez les Anciens
Peuples. Par M. Le President Gogud.* 3 Tols. in 110.
Paris."]
There is a prettiness, a neatness, and symmetry of parts in the
plan of most French books, which we admire, even while we
hold the abilities of the author in contempt. Their specious
manner we often mistake for solid erudition, and the superficial
clegance of a gentleman frequently passes for the depth, labor,
and judgment of the scholar. Such is the happy genius of this
lively nation, that the most profound speculations are treated by
(Antoine-Yves Goguet was born at laris in 1716, and died there
in 1758)
524
POETICAL CRITICISM.
them with the freedom of a novel; and Descartes and Newton so
refined and polished, as to make no ungrateful appearance in the
drawing room This has its good as well as bad effects; it gives
lustre to the other accomplishments of the man of fashion, but it
banishes true science into cells and cloisters. We should gladly
see their writers studied by our beaux, but less closely copied by
our authors. It is the privilege of a Frenchman to usher his
solemn trifles with the grave visage of philosophy. Their very
bagatelles have in them something pleasing, that arrests the
judgment, and leaves the reader in suspense whether most to
applaud or condemn. This art we may admire, but never imitate.
The British writer, who affects formality and method, without
profound learning, betrays his ignorance and becomes ridiculous.
Nor is he more successful in his attempts to be lively, without
a native fund of humor. But the Frenchman, with no great
share of either, is sure of being agreeable in both. Energy, accu-
racy, and industry would seem to characterize the one; beauty,
and elegance of drapery, with a certain happiness of design, are
the distinguishing marks of the other. By the former, a thought
a
is scrupulously examined in every light; by the latter it is placed
with little trouble in the most striking. The one separates, com-
pares, and pursues his subject with pain; the other playfully
skims over the surfaer, but with an eye so piercing, as, without re-
moving the reil, seems at one glance to dive into the deeps of
science. Here a writer is strained and tortured into all the dis-
tortions on the Pythian goddess, to utter what he knows; there he
talks with a decisive dignity and a graceful eloquence, upon sub-
jects of which he is totally ignorant; nay he almost persuades us
that his facility arises from his knowledge* The author before
us will, in some measure, illustrate the truth of these remarks.
* We would here be understood to speak of the general characters of
writers; which supposes numberless exerptions on both sides.
GOGUET ON THE ORIGIN OF LAWS, ETC.
525
M. Goguet appears to us rather a writer of genius than of
erudition ; yet by dint of the former we would imagine him pos-
sessed of the latter. He has spread his learning with so light and
masterly a hand, that no part of the performance seems wanting,
althouglı in the aggregate it is little more than a shadow or phan-
tom of knowledge. His subject requires depth, and his plan pro-
poses it: but alas ! in the execution we find only the skeleton,
draught, outlines of his design remaining to be filled up by some
future artist. In three volumes octavo, Mr. President Goguet
has comprised a subject, which, in the hands of some writers,
would have swelled to ten times the number in folio. If it
should please God to turn the heart of a certain learned gentle-
man to so useful an undertaking; we inay soon expect to see Dr.
Ratcliffe's library replenished with much profound learning, and
this stupendous monument of pride converted to better purposes
than being the object of stupid admiration of every head as empty
as its walls, that now visits alma mater.
Our author has here given a history of the rise and progress
of science, which, as be justly observes, may be terned a history
of the human mind from its infancy to its maturity, full growth,
and perfection. When we first set about reading our historian,
when we perused his preface, where he professes to give an accu-
rate view of facts, as first principles; to trace the origin of
laws, arts, and sciences, in the manner most agreeable to these
principles; and lastly, to connect the variety of different objects
in so regular a chain as at one glance to show their mutual influ-
ence, we doubted not but the wish of our great Lord Verulam
was accomplished. But we reckoned without our host; our au-
thor's performance falls infinitely short of the big idea of that
noble sage: for with vast pomp of method, and an almost disgust-
ing parade of erudition, (having quoted near four hundred authors
ancient and modern,) he appears to have taken many facts upon
5:26
POETICAL CRITICISM.
slight authority; to have rejected others which are well attested;
to have misrepresented some; and, upon the whole, to be injudi-
cious in his choice of facts, and superficial in his reflections. Нө
complains, and with reason, that those who have hitherto pursued
this path, have failed in the attempt, through want of ability or in
dustry to examine facts with the necessary minuteness. This
seems to be the rock, on which he likewise has split; and we fear
that such as may henceforward work on the materials he has col-
lected, will have no less cause of complaint. In short, his prefa-
tory promises are performed with the integrity usual in such
introductory pieces, and we need not scruple to apply to him
what he says of the diligent Paracelsus: " Tout y est hazardé.
Les faits les plus faux, et les contes les plus apocryphes y sont
adoptés aveuglément. Cet ouvrage prouve une parfaite négligence,
joint à une démangeaison extrême de faire un livre." Indeed,
this itch of book-making, this cacoëthes scribendi, seems no less
the prevailing disorder of England than of France. “Scribimus
indocti, doctique.”
M. Goguet, after a short sketch of the state of mankind before
the flood, begins his history with that great era, which he con-
tinues to the death of Jacob, making this period the first division
of his performance. Here he treats of the establishment of post-
tive laws under two classes, the last of which he calls the civil
law. He gives a short view of the constitution, government, and
laws of the Assyrians, Babylonians, Egyptians, and Greeks, in the
He touches
upon their agriculture, and arts neces-
sary to the support of life; shows their origin and gradual
progress, but is sparing in his reflections on the causes of their
growth and rise. Then he proceeds to the origin of weaving,
dyeing, architecture, metallurgy, etching, embossing, carving,
sculpture, and designing in general. Under this lead he includes
the first use of writing, and its progress to the year 1690 before
earliest ages.
GOGUET ON THE ORIGIN OF LAWS, ETC.
527
the birth of our Saviour. Hence he proceeds to the sciences, un-
der wich he ranks surgery, anatomy, botany, and pharmacy, which
in our opinion, he ought to have placed under the arts. His next
division of science consists of arithmetic, astronomy, geometry,
mechanics, and geography. Mechanics he treats of after geome-
try, because to it they owe their perfection. For the same reason
astronomy ought to be placed after geometry and mechanics. It
is true, that to geometry they both owe their high degree of
per-
fection, but not their birth. The spade, the mattock, and balance
were used, and many observations on the heavens made, before
geometry came to be applied to discover the powers of the wedge
and lever, or the distance and magnitude of the planets. To deep
speculation, indeed, they owe their progress; but their discovery
seems to be the result of accident, of necessity, and that sort of
observation peculiar to the human intellect. Next follows the art
of war, upon which M. Goguet has spent more pains in being
explicit, than upon any of the former topics. Then he comes to
the manners and customs of Asiatics and Europeans, without de-
fcending to the sub-listinctions of each particular nation; the whole
historical part of this period concluding with critical remarks up-
on it.
Having finished this barren disquisition, he proceeds to the
second period, viz. from the death of Jacob to the establishment
of monarchy among the Hebrews. This he has treated in the
samc order and method as the preceding The third period con-
tains a space of 560 years, that is, from the end of the former to
the return of the Hebrews from captivity; to which are subjoined
some curious extracts from Chinese writers, communicated to our
author by the learned M. Hautes Rayes. These contain many
valuable particulars concerning the history, manners, government,
arts, and sciences of the ancient Chinese, to which M. Goguet has
haud frequent recourse in his history.
52.
POETICAL CRITICISM.
As it would trespass on our plan to dwell minutely upon each
of the above particulars, we must refer our readers to the author.
Upon the whole, we will venture to say, that this work, with all
its imperfections, has likewise its merit. The arrangement,
harmony, and disposition of the several parts are nice and
judicious. The style is concise, clear, and not inelegant, and
if the reflections are not profound and labored, they are at least
pertinent, and naturally rising from the subject. It is in every
respect well calculated for such as would be scholars without the
trouble of much reading, and think it sufficient
a
“ To catch the eel of science by the tail.”
THE
END.
INDEX
INDEX.
6
Abridgments, i. 553.
Artificial miseries of some philosophers,
Abuse of our enemies, on, i. 334.
ii. 377.
Academies of Italy, i. 121.
Asem the Man-hater, an Eastern tale,
i. 361.
Actors, quarrels of ridiculed, ii. 326,
350.
Asia, treatment of females in, ij. 398.
Addison, i. 141, 155, ii. 20—his • Let- Asia, utility of travels into, ii. 427,479.
ter from Italy,' i. 566.
Asia. Van Egmont's Travels in, re-
Adultery, ii. 80.
view of, iii. 490.
• Adventures of a Strolling Player,' i.
Asiatic employments, projects for in-
238.
troducing them into the courts of
Afer, Constantius, i. 408.
Europe, ii. 433.
Age, life endeared by, ii. 305.
Atterbury, Bishop, i. 154.
Ages, view of the Obscure, i. 405.
Augustan Age of England, i. 149.
• Ah me! when shall I marry me?' iy.
Authors, i. 440.-a Club of, described,
158.
".. 1.2, 126.
Aikin, Miss, iv. 67.-See Barbauld.
• Aukurs bedchamber,' description of
an, iv. 133.
Alcander and Septimius, Story of, i.
23.
Auto-da-fé, ii. 32.
Aldrovandus, ii. 492.
Avarice, i. 439, ii. 293.
Alehouses, i. 91.
Avaricious Miller, story of the, ii. 292.
Alexander the Sixth, i. 118.
B.
Alexander's Feast, an ode, i. 566.
Bachelors, ii. 119.
Allric, i. 407.
Bacon, Lord, ii. 426.
Amherst, Nicholas, i. 157.
Baker, Sir George ; reply to an invita-
tion to dine with, iv. 148.
Anacreon, i. 221.
Balzac, i. 544.
Anaxagoras, i. 263.
Bangorian controversy, i. 128.
Animals, cruelty to, ii. 64.
• Anti-Lucretius, Cardinal de Polig- Barnard, Dean, iv. 111, 120, 121.
Barbauld, Mrs., iii. 11, iv. 67, 143.
nac's, review of, iv. 407.
Barrett's translation of Ovid's Epistles,
Antiquity, on the study of, iv. 419. reviewed, iv. 455.
Arbuthnot, iii. 384.
Bayle, M., n. 454.
Aristophanes, i. 288.
Bayly, Dr. Anselm, his • Introductior.
Aristotle, i. 277, 286, 377, ii. 491. to Languages' reviewed, iv. 419.
Armstrong, Johnny, his · Last Good Beau, the philosophical, ii. 412.
Night,' i. 44.
Beau Tibbs, ii. 227, 230, 295.
Art, i. 275.
Beaumont, Sir George, iv. 110.
Arts made use of to appear learned, ii. • Beauties of English Poetry;' Prefaco
412.
to, i. 563.
532
INDEX.
>
Beautiful Captive, History of the, ii., Bunbury, Sir Henry, iv. 148.
249.
Bunbury, Mrs., Letter in Prose and
Beauty, iv. 372–preference of Grace
Verse to, iv. 166.
to, ü. 316.
Burgess, Daniel, iii. 400.
• BEE, Tue,' i. 13.
Burke, Right Hon. Edmund, iv. 111,
Belles-Lettres, on the cultivation of a
112.
taste for, i. 259.
· Burke on the Sublime and Beautiful,
review of, iv. 365.
Bible, the, iii. 104.
Burke, Richard, iv. 111, 113.
Bidderman the Wise, a Flemish tradi-
tion, i. 72.
Burton, Dr. John, his · Pentalogia' re-
viewed, iv. 409.
Birds, Introduction to the History of,
ii. 519.
Busy Body, publication of, i. 168.
Blacklock, Dr. Thomas, i. 292.
Butler, Samuel, his · Remains in Prose
and Verse' reviewed, iv. 494.
Blackmore, Sir Richard, i. 323.
Blaize, Mrs. Mary, Elegy on the Death Byron, Lord, i. 8, 410, 450, ii. 386, iii.
of, iv. 132.
6
15, 470, 509, iv. 78, 129, 146, 443.
Blank verse, i. 450.
Byrom, Dr., i. 570.
Boar's Head, Reverie at the, i. 189.
C.
Boccaliní, iv. 467.
Camoëns, ii. 348.
Boethius, ii. 3.17.
Campbell, Thomas, iv. 59, 62, 66, 73,
Boileau, i. 125, 377.
470.
Bolingbroke, Lord, i. 155.
Capacity for education, &c., i. 261.
• BOLINGBROKE, LIFE OF,' ii. 399. 'CAPTIVITY, THE ; AN ORATORIO,' iv. 93.
Bolton, Duke of, iii. 294.
Caramuel, ii, 13.
Books, ü. 279, 313, 342, 392.
Caravagio, i. 104.
Books, big and little, i. 414.
Carolan, the blind Irish bard, account
Books seemingly sincere, falsehoods of, i. 208.
propagated by, ii. 67.
Cart race, description of a, ii. 357.
Bookseller's visit to the Chinese phi- Cassandre, François, ii. 319.
losopher, ii. 213.
Catharina Alexowna of Russia, his-
Borghese, Paulo, ii. 347.
tory of, ii, 258.
Boswell's Life of Johnson quoted, i. Celtes, mythology and poetry of the,
102, 153, 450, ii. 51, 61, 308, 347, iv. 376.
371, iii. 120, 240, 245, 290, 477, Cervantes, ii. 348.
482, 492, iv. 21, 35, 39, 40, 81, 167, Chaloner, John and James, their his-
176, 177, 267, 383, 399, 406, 423,
490,
tory, i. 216.
Boswell, specimen of the Chinese, ii.
Chardin, Sir John, ii. 415.
38.
Charles the First, state of England at
Botany, introduction to the Study of,
tho accession of, i. 481-his charac-
ii 5-19.
ter, ini. 432.
Boyle, ij. 428.
Charles the Second, his character, iii.
451.
Brent, Miss, i. 211–12.
Charles the Twelfth of Sweden, anec-
Britishı, character of the, iv. 35.
dotes of, i. 38.
British constitution described, ii. 212.
Charlevoix's History of Paraguay, re-
Browne, Hawkins, his · Pipe of To- view of, iii. 456.
bacco,' i. 568.
Charteris, Colonel Francis, i. 14.
INDEX.
533
Chesterfield, Earl of, iii. 414.
Concord, national, i. 250.
Children, i. 106, 116, 550.
Confucius, ii. 37, 84, 198, 267, 268.
China, the history of, replete with great Congreve, iii. 244.
actions, ii. 175.
* Connoisseur, review of the, iv. 382.
Chinese Boswell, specimen of, ii. 38. Consolation to the unfortunate, ii. 385.
Chinese gardens, ii. 132,
Consulution, happiness in a great
Chinese Matron, story of the, ii 75. ineasure dependent on, i. 43.
Chinese Philosopher, ü 17,34, 40, E8, Constitution of England, ii. 212.
94.
Coronation, on the, i. 248, ii. 415.
Christina of Sweden, i. 351.
Country, love of, ii. 410.
Chryzostom, St., i. 133.
Cowley, i 154.
Churchill, Charles, ii. 445, 449, Cowper, William, iv. 382, 399.
Cibber, Theophilus, biography of, i. Crabbe, Rev. George, iv. 73 n.
369.
Cradock, Joseph, iv. 121.
Cibber, Mrs , actress, i. 50.
Craftsman, l'he, iii. 414.
Cicero, his treatise on Old Age, i. 189. Cratiuus, i. 288.
Cicero, panegyric on, by Erasmus, iv. Crébillon, fils., i. 430.
437.
Credulity, Engiish, ii. 422.
Cicero's · Tusculan Disputations' trans-
lated, review of, iv. 436.
Critic, province of the, iv. 401.
• CITIZEN OF THE WORLD,' ii. 17.
Criticism, i, 419, iv. 365.
City Night-piece, ii. 463.
Croker, Right Hon. J. W., iv. 91,
132 n.
Clairon, Ilypolite, actress, i. 48.
Cromwell, Oliver, iii. 453, iv. 475.
Clare, Loril, iv. 83, 89.
Cruelty to animals, ii. 61.
Claudian, iv. 71.
Cumberland, Richard, iv. 111, 114,
Clergy, on the English, i. 339.
119.
Climate, influence of, on the temper Custom and law compared, i. 132.
and dispositions of the English, ji.
371.
Critical remarks on the Traveller, iv.
13.
Clive, Catherine, actress, i. 102.
Critical remarks the Deserted
•Clown's Reply,' iv. 15.
Village, iv. 16.
Club of Authors described, ii. 122, 126.
Clubs of London, on the, i. 108.
D.
Cobbler, history of a philosophic, ii. D'Alembert, i. 431.
271.
Domiens, iv. 10.
Cognoscento, recipe for making a, iii. Dante, i. 410.
232.
D'Argens, Marquis, i. 431, iii. 258.
Collins, William, i. 327, 145, 567.
Daures, customs of the, ii. 45.
Colman, George, ii 415, 419, iv. 382. Davenant, Dr., i. 154.
Colonies, i. 484, ii. 103-7.
Davis's Chinese,' quoted, ii 20, 35,
Comedy, i. 286.
39, 52, 17. 87, 8, 93, 101, 236, 331,
Comely, comparison between senti- 351, 330, 132, 1-2.
menial and laughing, i. 377.
Death, Parnell's Night-piece on, i. 568.
Comineree, i 92, ii 103-4.
De Caux, iv. 65 n.
Common Soldier, life of a, i 169. Deceit and fasthood, on, i. 113.
Commonwralih, suite of England Denham, Sir John, i 329-his Cooper's
during the, i 4-4
lil,' i. 565.
on
6
534
INDEX.
some,
Denmark, state of polite learning in, Edinburgh, University of, i. 437, 462
i. 420.
Edinburgh Review quoted, ii 231.
Dependence, miseries of a life of, ii. Education, essay on, i. 106.
403.
Election, description of an, ii. 441.
• Description of an Author's Bedcham- • Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize,' iv. 132
ber,' iv. 133
• Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog,
• DESERTED e,' iv. 63.
iv. 113.
Diderot, i. 431.
Elegies on the Great ridiculed, ii. 421.
Dignity of human nature, ii. 445.
Elizabeth, Queen, i. 351.
Dinner, invitation to, iv. 148.
Eloquence of the pulpit, i. 123.
Dispensary, The, a poem, by Dr. Garth, Elysium, visit to, i. 218.
i. 567.
Employments of the Great, absurdity
D'Israeli, I., i. 415, iv. 65 n.
of ii. 200.
Distresses of the poor exemplified, ii. Enemies, on abuse of our, i. 334.
469.
England, Augustan age of, i. 149.
Dcoson, John, his translation of Cardi-
nal de Polignac's · Anti-Lucretius England, on the Opera in, i. 159.
reviewed, iv. 407—his translation of England, state of polite learning in, i.
Paradise Lost into Latin, iv. 407.
431
Dodd, Rey. Dr. William, iv. 114. England, rewarding genius in, i. 436.
Dogs, fear of mad, ridiculed, ii. 287.
England, relative position of, during
the Seven Years' War, i. 456.
Donne, Dr., n. 495.
· Double Transformation ; a Tale; iv. England, sone acc unt of the republic
of letters in, ü 84.
136.
English clergy, i 339.
Douglas, Rev. Dr., iv. 111.
• Douglas," Home's tragedy vf, review. English constitution described, ii. 212.
English courts of justice, ii. 395.
ed, iv. 400.
English credulity, ii. 422.
Drayton, Michael, ii. 58.
English, influence of climate on the
Dreams, iii, 470).
temper and dispositions of the, ji.
Dress, i. 33, ii. 207, 331.
371.
Dryden, i 151 - his Alexander's English, irresolution of the, accounted
Feast,' 566---his Mac Flecknoe,'
for, ij 178.
567.
English liberty, ii. 25-attempt to de.
Durkin, Dr. William, his · Epistle to fie, ii, 209, iii. 109.
the Earl of Chesterfield' reviewed, English mourning ridiculed, ii. 383.
6
!
iv. 575.
Dunton, John, i. 157.
English national character, ii. 374-5.
D'Urfey, Tom, ii. 2:25.
English nobility, ii 136
Dutch, The, i. 475, 176, i. 237, iv. 33.
English poets, ii. 169.
---
meanness of, at the court of Japan, English pride, ii. 25.
ii. 166.
Engli-h subjert to the spleen, ii. 361.
E.
| English, sentiments of the French on
East, utility of travels into the, ij. 125.
temper of the, i. 110.
Eastern tales ridiculed, ii. 139.
English titles, absurdity of some, ji
475
Edda, the, iv. 377.
English women, ii. 42.
Edict of Nantes, i. 473.
Emui, iniseries of, i. 233-cure foi,
237.
1
INDEX.
535
• INQUIRY INTO THE PRESENT STATE OF | Fine gentleman, described, ii. 23.
Polite LEARNING in EC ROPE,' i. 395. Fine lady, described, ii. 24.
Enseneda, Marquis d', i. 419.
Fine Sense, fountain of, a dream, i
Enthusiasts, i. 130.
205.
• Epigoniad, Wilkie's, review of, iv. Fishes, Introduction to the history of,
384.
ii. 529.
• Epigram on a beautiful Youth struck Flattery, i. 113.
blind by Lightning, iv. 129.
Fletcher, Phineas, his • Purple Island
Epigram, literary contest fought by, ii. quoted, iv. 471.
418.
Folios, i. 414.
Epilogue to · The Good-natured Man,' Fontaines, Abbé des, iii. 252.
iv. 150.
Fontenelle, iii. 233.
Epilogue to “She Stoops to Conquer,' Formey's Philosophical Miscellanies,
iv. 170, 172.
review of, iji. 4.5.
Epilogue to the comedy of • The Sister,' Fortune, proved not to be blind, ii. 292.
iv. 146.
Fountain of Fine Sense, a dream, i.
Epilogue intended to be spoken by Mrs.
205.
Bulkley, iv. 153.
France, iv. 31-relative position of, du-
Epilogue spoken by Lee Lewis, in the
ring the Seven Years' War, i. 495-
character of Harlequin, iv. 177.
state of polite learning in, 426-War
Epitaph on Dr. Parnell, iv. 150.
between, and England, ii. 71.
Epitaph on Edward Purdon, iv. 145. Franks, Timothy, quack-doctor, ii. 285.
Epitaphs, on the folly of flattering, iii. Frederick William, of Prussia, iii. 254.
43.
Frederick the Second, of Prussia, iii.
Epsom races, i. 136.
250, 256, 257.
Erasmus, his panegyric on Cicero, iv. Freedom, iv.' 35, 37.
437.
French, the, iv. 31.
Escobar, Anthony, ii. 13.
French nationalities, ii. 323.
Eustathius, i. 223.
French preachers, i. 342.
F.
French prisoners of war, subscription
Faerie Queene,' Spenser's, iv. 467.
for, ii. 97.
Falsehood and Deceit, on, i. 143.
Friendship, i. 383, ii. 116.
Falsehood, propagated by books seem-
Frugality, on the duty of, i. 89-90.
ingly sincere, ii. 67.
Frugality, on political, i. 84.
Falstaff, Sir John, i. 190.
* Fudge! ii. 31, v. 51.
Fame, ini. 315.
Funeral elegies on the Great ridiculed,
ii 419.
Fame Machine, the, a reverie, i. 94.
Famous Men, a search after, ii. 129.
Funeral solemnities, ii. 51.
Faulkner, iv. 519.
G.
Favors, evils of receiving, ji. 403.
Gaming, ii. 292--passion for, among
Female Characters, i. 347.
ladies, ridiculed, ii, 403-a Dissua-
Female Warriors, i, 254.
sive against, iii. 359.
Ferrers, Earl, ii. 162, 190.
Garden, description of a Chinese, ii.
Feyjoo, Father, some particulars re-
132.
lating 10, i. 65, 419.
Gardening, Chinese, ii. 132.
Fiddle Case, story of the, ii. 274. Garrick, David, iv. 111, 115, 119.
536
INDEX.
6
6
6
Gay, John, iï. 377, 395—his “Shep- | Handel, i. 186, 187.
herd's Week,' i. 566.
Hanway's Eight Days' Journey, re.
Gemelli, ii. 425.
view of, ji. 477.
Generosity, ii. 274.
Hastings, Warren, ii. 428.
Generosity and Justice, essay on, i. 61. • HAUNCH OF VENISON, THE,' iv. 85.
Genius, i. 260, iv. 463.
Hawkins's Miscellanies, review of, iii.
Geraghty, Catherine, iv. 69.
506.
Germany, state of polite learning in, Henderson, William, iii. 320.
i. 414-relative position of, during Henry the Fifih, i. 197.
the Seven Years' War, i. 510, 511. HERMIT; A BALLAD,' ii. 31, iv. 45.
Gideon, Sampson, i. 56.
Hickey, Mr., iv. 120.
Gifford, William, ii. 402, iv. 71. Hifferman, Dr. Paul, iv. 86.
*Gift, The,' iv. 130.
• High Life Below Stairs, Townley's
Goddess of Silence, address of the, to farce of, i. 101.
the ladies, i. 336.
Hill, Sir John, i. 94, 97.
Godinot, the Griper, i. 64.
Historian, duties of an, iii. 449—quali-
Goethe, ii. 14, iv. 60.
fications of an, 454.
* Good-NATURED MAN; A Comedy,' iv: Historical excellence, iii. 494.
189.
History, iii. 266, 496.
Gouget, M., his · Essay on the Origin History, knowledge of, necessary to
of Laws, Arts, and Sciences,' re- the poet, i. 273.
viewed, iv. 523.
History of the Seven Years' War, in-
Governors, duty of submission to, ii. troduction to, i. 486.
205.
History, on the study of, i. 534, 552,
Grace, preference of, to beauty, ii. 316. 553.
Grandeur, instability of worldly, i. 117. History of a sleep-walker, i. 381.
Gratitude and Love, difference between, History, preface to the Roman, 1. 571.
ii. 274.
History of England, criticism on Smol-
Gravity, i. 142.
let's, üni. 1.19.
Greatness, characteristics of, i. 81.
• History of England, in a Series of
Greaves, Sir Launcelot, i. 332.
Letters from a Nobleman to his
- Gray, Thomas, i. 207, 565, iv. 402- Son, preface and introduction 10,
review of his · Odes,' iv. 412.
i. 550.
Great, absurdity of some of the em-
• History of the Earth and Animated
ployments of the, ii. 200.
Nature,' preface to, i. 579.
Gresset, i. 207, 130.
History of Miss Stanton,' i. 223.
Grubler, The, a Scene from, iv. 333.
· Ilistory of the World, introduction
Guicciardini, i, 515-review of his His.
to, i. 533.
tory of Italy, iii. 193.
Hobbes, Thomas, i. 112, iv. 411.
Hogarth, i. 449.
11.
Holberg, Baron, i. 420.
Hamlet's soliloquy analyzed, i. 306. Ilolland, iv. 210—relative position (f
Slappiness in a great measure depen-
during the Seven Years' far, i
dent on constientior, i 43-frequent-
5:24, 25, 526-state of police learn.
ly lost by seeking atier retinement,
ing in, i. 418.
ii 34-on the pursuit of, ii. 181- Home, Jolu, his tragedy of · Douglas
folly of changing it for show, ii. 268 reviewed, iv. 400.
6
6
a
INDEX.
537
Homer, i. 221, 296, 318.
K.
Plope, a song, iv. 135.
Kauffman, Angelica, iv. 148.
Horace Modernized, review of, iv. Kelly, Hugh, iv. 116.
514.
Horneck, General, iv. 148.
Kenrick, Dr., iv. 114.
Horneck, the Misses, iv. 148.
Kentish-town, journey to, ii. 484.
Hudibras, i. 148.
Kingdoms, natural rise and decline of,
ii. 103.
Human Liſe, i. 558.
King, i. 102.
Human Nature, danger of having too
high an opinion of, ii. 455.
Hume, David, i. 578, iv. 399, 401.
L
Hypatia, history of, i. 57.
Laberius, i. 285.
Hyperbole, on the use of, i. 320.
Ladies, a true history for the, i. 215.
Ladies, advised to get husbands, ii. 361.
Ladies' trains ridiculed, ii. 334.
I.
Lady, Chinese, of distinction, ii. 61.
Independence, a life of, praised, ii. 401. Lambertus, i. 408.
Insects, Introduction to the History of, Langhorne's • Death of Adonis,' froni
ii. 510.
the Greek of Bion, review of, iv.
Iris, a poem, iv. 130.
472-777.
Irving, Washington, iii. 12.
Language, on the use of, i. 51.
Islington, ii. 183.
Languages, method of teaching the
Isocrates, his advice to his pupils, iv.
learned, i. 114.
390.
Lao, history of the kingdom of, ü. 103.
Italians, iv. 26.
· Last Good Night, Johnny Arm-
Italy, iv 26--academies of, i. 121–
strong's, i. 44.
state of polite learning in, i. 409.
Laughter, i. 142.
Law's delay, on the, ii. 395.
Law and customs compared, i. 132.
J.
Learned, folly of useless disquisitions
Jacob, Hildebrand, ii. 416.
among the, ii. 366.
Jacob, Sir John, ii. 446.
Leasowes, on the tenants of the, i.
James the First, state of England at
372.
his accession, i. 479_his mode of Learning, causes of the decline of, i.
trying witches, i 149-his charac-
397.
ter, i i. 4.12.
Lectures, i, 461.
• Jemima and Louisa,' review of, ii.
Lee, Nathaniel, i. 152.
501
Japan, meanness of the Dutch at the Legacy hunters, ii. 403.
court of, ii. 466
Leslie, Charles, i. 157.
Jolinson, Charles ii. 417.
Lessons to a Youth on entering the
Johnson, Dr., i. 9, 373, 41.5, 565, ii.
World, ii. 254.
4:28, iii. 240, 245, 392, 393, iv. 21, L'E-trange, Sir Roger, i. 150.
153, 266, 197,5116,511.
Letters, Republic of, ii 84.
Jonson, Ben, i. 457
Louis the Fourteenth, ii. 1-3.
Jupiter and Mercury, iv. 119.
Liberty, English, ii. 25–209.
Justice and Generosity, essay on, i. 01. | Lile, i. 165.
VOL. I.
23*
538
INDEX.
Liſe endeared by age, ii. 305.
M.
Life, some cautions on, ii. 312.
Mackenzie, Henry, iv. 399.
Lightning, Lines on a beautiful Youth Macpherson, James, iv. 115.
struck blind with, i. 18.
"Mad Dog ; Elegy on the Death of a,
Linnæus, ii. 493-1.
iv. 113.
Lissoy, iv. 63.
Mad dogs, fear of, ridiculed, ii. 287.
Literary contest, in which both sides Maffei, 207, 411.
fight by epigrain, ii. 444.
Magazine in miniature, specimen of an
Literary reputation, difficulty of ob- i. 357.
taining, ii. 233.
Maintenon, Madame de, review of her
Literary Success, uncertainty of, i. 67. Memoirs, iii. 483.
Literature, causes of the rise and de- ! Maiolo, Simon, ii. 69.
cline of, ii. 261.
Mallet's · Remains of the Mythology
Literature, almost every subject of, ex- and Poetry of the Celtes, review of,
hausted, ii. 392
iv. 376.
Little great man, description of a, ii. Malone, iv. 185.
309.
Man in Black, character of the, ii. 88
Livy, i. 554.
-history of the, ii. 112.
Lloyd, Charles, ii 445.
Manners of different countries, i. 29.
Lloyd, Robert, i. 449.
Manton, Dr., iii. 400.
Locke, John, i. 110, 153.
Marlborough, Duchess of, iii. 246, 269,
Logicians Refuted,' iv. 126.
317.
London, streets and houses of, de Marriage Act censured, ii. 301, 450.
scribed, ii, 18, 21.
Marriages, Scotch, a registry of, i. 385.
London, on the clubs of, i. 168.
Marriott's • Female Conduct'reviewed,
London shopkeeper and his journey.
iv. 451.
man, ii. 3:20.
Martial Review,' Preface to the, i.
Londoners, their ardor in the pursuit
532.
of sights and monsters, ii. 190. Massey's translation of Ovid's Fasti
Longinus, i. 302.
reviewed, iv. 442.
Longueville, Wm., iv. 491.
Ma-silon, Bishop of Clermont, i. 126,
Looking-glass of Lao, a dream, ii. 191
342.
Lords, proneness to admire the writings Mathematics, i. 464, 551.
of, ii. 381.
Matrimony, iii. 23.
Love, whether it be a natural or ficti- ! Matihew, Father, ii. 413.
tious passion, ii. 115, 459.
Maupertuis, M., i. 30, iii. 258.
Love and gratitude, difference be- Maximus, Caius Julius, ii. 265.
tween, ii 274.
Memoirs of a Protestant,' Preface to,
Love of country, ii. 410.
i 171.
Lucretius, iv. 408.
Memory, a song, iv. 135.
Luitprandus, i. 407.
Ménage, i. 554.
Lulli, John Baptist, i. 184, 291.
Mencius, ii. 145, 274.
Luxury, i 87, 91-benefits of, ii. 48, Merit, upon unfortunate, i. 103.
94, iv. 75, 79.
Metaphors, on the use of, i. 301.
Luxury and pride of the middling Metastasio, i. 160, 207, 411.
classes, i. 134.
Methodists, i. 130, 438.
6
INDEX.
539
6
Miller, story of the avaricious, ii. 292., Old Age, Cicero's treatise on, i. 189.
Milo, ii. 265.
Old Maids, ii. 119.
Milion, iii. 245, 219_his L'Allegro' | Oldcastle, Sir John, i. 198.
and •Il Penseroso,' i. 564.
.O Memory! thou fond Deceiver,' is.
Miseries of Ennui, i. 233.
135.
Misers, i. 86.
Opera in England, on the, i. 159.
Misery best relieved by dissipation, ii. Oratory, iv. 478.
198-manner in which philosophers Orphan of China,' Murphy's, reviewed,
make artificial, ii. 377.
iv. 181.
Misfortunes, consolation under, ii. 388. Orpheus, i. 220.
Montaigne, iii. 494, iv. 436.
Oslade, i. 187.
Montesquieu, i. 132, 429, iii. 476-re- Otway, i. 151, 276.
view of bis Miscellaneous Pieces, Ovid, iv. 442, 455.
iii. 502.
Ovid's · Fasti, Massey's translation of,
Moral government of the world, wisdom
of God in, i. 361.
reviewed, iv. 412.
More, Hannah, iv. 477.
More, James, i. 157,
P.
More, Edward, i. 434, 568.
Painting, passion of the nobility for,
Motte, M. de la, iii. 226.
ridiculed, ii. 145.
Mouſett, Thomas, ii. 494.
Palmer, i 102.
Mourning, English, ridiculed, ii. 388. Paraguay, Charlevoix’s History of, re-
Murphy, Artbur, i. 91-his • Orphan
viewed, iii. 456.
of China' reviewed, iv. 181.
* ParnelI, LIFE OF,' iii. 373.
Mushroom-feast amongst the Tartars
Parnell, Dr., epitaph on, iv. 150.
described, ii, 136.
Parr, Dr , ii. 13 n.
Music, on the different schools of, i. Peace-makers, i. 89.
183.
Peasantry, iv. 65.
N.
Penal laws, evil tendency of increasing
Napier, General Robert, iv. 64.
them, ii. 330.
• Nasu, Richard, LIFE OF,' iii. 265.
Percival, Dr. Thomas, iv. 78 n.
National concord, on, i. 251.
Pergolesi, i. 160, 183.
National prejudices, on, i. 2.29.
Perseverance, i. 110.
Natural History, Familiar Introduction Perugino, Pietro, iii 130.
to the Study of, ii. 191.
Peter the Great, i 110.
Newmarket races ridiculed, ii. 358. Philips's “Splendid Shilling,' i. 56,568.
• New Simile, in the inanner of Swift,' Philosophical Beau, ii. 412.
iv. 140.
Philosophic Cobbler, history of a,
ii.
Newspapers, ii. 27-29.
271.
Newton, iii. 3:28.
Philosophic Vagabond, history of a, iji
Nobility, English, ii. 136.
117.
Novels, ii. 3-15, ji. 504-the absurd Piozzi, iv. 184
taste for pert and obscene ones ridi- Pindar, i. 220, iv. 413.
culed, ii, 2:21.
| Piron, i. 207, 132, 14. 236.
0.
Plato, i. 141.
Obligations, evils of receiving, ii. 401–2. , Player, adventures of a strolling, i. 238
Obscure Ages, view of, i. 405.
Pleasure, ii. 184.
540
INDEX.
• Poems for Young Ladies,' Preface to, i Purden, Edward, Epitaph on, iv. 145.
i. 560.
Poet, life of a, iii 373.
Q.
Poetry, on the origin of, i. 278-as Quacks and their nostrums ridiculed,
distinguished from other writing, i. ii. 101, 282.
290-invocation to, iv 80.
Quadrupeds, Introduction to the His-
Poets, anecdotes of, who lived and died
tory of, ii. 498.
in wretchedness, ii. 316.
Quarterly Review, quoted, ii. 330, 359,
Poets, English, ii. 169.
369, n. 438, 470, iv. 59.
Poles, wretched condition of the, i. 28. Quebec ; Stanzas on the taking of, iv.
Polignac, Cardinal do, his ‘Anti-Lucre- 129.
tius' reviewed, iv 407.
Queensbury, Duchess of, iii. 285.
• Polite Learning, Inquiry into the Pre-
sent State of,' i. 395.
R.
Polite Learning in Germany, i. 414.
Racan, Marquis de, iii. 464.
Politeness, progress of, i. 345—descrip. | Races at Newmarket ridiculed, ii. 358.
tion of true, ii. 16-1.
Raleigh, Sir Walter, i. 68.
Politics, passion of the English for, ii.
Rameau, John Philip, i. 161.
29.
Rape of the Lock, i. 564.
Polnitz, Baron, iii. 253.
Polybius, i. 544.
Ray, John, ii. 494.
Poor, distresses of the, exemplified, ii.
Refinement, happiness lost by seeking
after, ii. 34.
469.
Pope, i. 294, 314—ii. 58—his · Rape Religious Sects in England, ii. 433.
of the Lock,' i. 56 t, his · Eloisa to
Repton, i. 376.
Abelard,' 565.
Republic of Letters in England, ii. 84.
Prophyrogeneta, Constantine, i. 406. · RETALIATION,'iv. 111-supplement to,
Poveriy, ii. 115, 281, 281.
120.
Preachers, on popular, i. 339
Rehearsal, The, iv. 503.
Prejudices, national, i. 229.
Rhetoric, i. 114.
Priile and luxury of the middling classes,
Retirement from the world, folly of
i. 135, ii, 25.
attempting to learn wisdom by, ii.
Prior, Matthew, i 569.
279.
Projectors, i. *3.
Retz, Cardinal De, i. 45.
Prologue to · Zobeide,' iv. 153.
Reverie at the Boar’s Head, Eastcheap,
i. 189, ii. 94.
• Prologue, written and spoken by
Laberius,' iv. lll.
Reviews, i. 119.
Providence, the equal dealings of, de- Reynolds, Sir Joshua, iv. 28, 61, 68,
monstrated, iii. i79
112, 116, 117, 120, 148
Prus-in, relative position of, during the Rhyme, i. 450.
Seven Years Var, i. 501.
Ricci, Father Matthew, ii. 413.
Psellus, Vichael, i. 407.
Ridge, Counsellor John, iy. 112.
Pride, English, ij. 25
Rizzio, David, i. 158, 2-3.
Public rejoicingö for victory, on, i.
Rock, Richard, quack, ii. 503.
177.
Roman Hisiory, Preface to, i. 571.
Pulpit o loquence, i. 123.
Romances, i. 111, ii. 344, n. 504.
Purcell, i. 186, 187.
| Rouelle, i. 429.
INDEX
541
Rousseau, Jean Baptiste, iii. 253. Shuter, iv. 183.
Rousseau, Jean Jacques, i. 430, iv. 58. Silence, address of the Goddess of, to
Rulers, on the duty of submission to,
the Ladies, i. 336.
ii. 405.
Simile, in the manner of Swift,' iv.
Russia, ii. 23on the encroachments 140.
of, ii. 359.
Similes, i. 315.
Russian assembly, rules to be observed Sleep, iii. 487.
at a, i 236.
Sleep-walker, history of a, i. 381.
Russian encroachments, ii. 359.
Smollett, Ir., i. 94, 332, 578, 569--
Russians, folly of employing them to review of his History of England,
fight battles in Europe, ii. 359.
iii. 449.
Soldier, life of, ii. 469.
S.
Solomon, the German, i. 406.
Sabinus and Olinda, i. 137.
Southey, Dr., i. 313, 450, ii. 445, iv.
St. Paul's Cathedral, behavior of the 3-2.
congregation at, ii, 172.
Spain, relative position of, during the
Sale, George, i. 444.
Seven Years' War, i. 528.
Sallust, i. 554.
Spectator, The, i. 141.
Savage, Richard. i. 568.
Spenser's · Faerie Queen, Churches
Scaliger, i. 221, iv. 405.
edition of, reviewed, iv. 467.
Schoolmasters, i. 107.
Speroni, i. 411.
Schools of music, on the different, i. Spider, sagacity of the, i. 76.
103.
Spleen, the English subject to, ii. 369
Sciences useful in a populous state, Sprat, Bishop, i. 154.
prejudical in a barbarous one, ii. 337. Stage, of the, i. 454.
Scotch marriages, a register of, i. 385. Stage-players, the squabbles of, ridi-
Scoti, Sir Walter, i. 1:18, 262, 332, culed, ü. 326, 350.
ii. 222, 224, iij. 10. 455, iv. 03, 59, · Stanton, Miss, History of,' i. 223.
266, 102, 404, 471, 502.
Staunton, Sir George, ii. 176.
Seriblerus Club, iii. 370.
St. Cecelia's day, ode for, i. 566.
Sects, religious, in England, ii. 438.
Steele, Sir Richard, i. 155.
Seneca, i. 141, ii. 401.
Sterne, on the tendency of his writings,
Sentimental and laughing comedy, ii. 221.
comparison between, i. 376.
Stillingfleet, Bishop, i. 153.
Sesostris, ii 266.
Strolling Player, adventures of a, i.
Seven Years' War,' Preface and In-
238.
troduction to the History of, i. 471, ! Sublime, sources of the, iv. 347.
491.
Sweden, state of polite learning in, i
Shaftesbury, Lord, i. 154.
420.
Snie STOOPS TO CONQUER, OR THE
MISTAKES OF A NIGHT; A COMEDY,
Sweden, political state of, ii. 236.
iv. 265.
Swedes, picture of the, i. 38, 93.
Shenstone's gardens, i. 37:2—his School Switi, Dean, i. 154, 262, iii. 388.
Mistress,' i. 565.
Swiss, iv, 29.
Shakspeare, i 305, 323, 437.
Switzerland, iv 29.
Show, folly of exchanging happiness i Sydney, Sir Philip, i. 328.
for, ii. 263-9.
1
542
INDEX.
6
T.
Vaugelas, ii. 350.
Tacitus, i. 553, vii. 466.
Vauxball, visit to, i. 211, ï. 295.
'Taste, on the cultivation of, i. 268. Versification, on, i. 321.
Tea, iii. 479.
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD,' ni. 19.
Temple, Sir William, i. 153.
Victory, on public rejoicings for, i. 177.
Terence, i. 378, ii. 347.
Villiers, George, iv. 503.
Tessin, Count, i. 420.
Vincent, Mrs., i. 102, 212, 213.
• The Wretch condemn'd with Life to
Virgil, i. 296, 316, 322.
part,' iv. 135.
Visit to Elysium, i. 218.
Theatres, remarks on our, i. 19, 48, Visitation Dinner described, ii. 241.
451, ii. &8.
· VOLTAIRE, MEMOIRS OF,' ii. 215-262.
Theatrical squabbles ridiculed, ii. 326, Voltaire, i. 32, 207,429, 410—apostro-
350.
phe on the supposed death of, ii. 180
Thespis, i. 285.
-review of his Universal History,
Thomson, Jaines, i. 568.
jii. 245, 257, 463—his Mérope, iv.
402, 481.
Thornton, Bonnell, iv. 382.
• Threnodia Augustalis ; sacred to the
W.
Memory of the Princess Dowager
of Wales,' iv. 156.
• Wakefield, Vicar of, iii. 19.
Tibbs, Beau, ii. 227, 230, 295.
Wakefield, Gilbert, iv n71.
Tickell, Thomas, i. 569.
Walker, Dr , quack, ii. 287.
Tillotson, Archbishop, i. 131, 153. Waller, Edmund, i. 570.
Titles, influence of, ii. 381--absurdity Walpole, Horace, i. 250, 254, ii. 162,
of some English ones, ii. 475.
190, iii. 40, 484.
Town wit, description of a, iii. 45. Walpole, Lady, ii. 249.
Townsend, Hon. Thomas, iv. 113. War, i 474, ii. 71.
Trade, iv. 66, 76, 80.
Ward, Dr. John, his System of Ora-
Tragedy, i. 285.
tory' reviewed, iv. 478.
Translations, iv. 436.
Warriors, Female, i. 254.
Travel, benefits of, i. 37.
Wealth, iv. 66, 74.
• Traveller ; OR A PROSPECT OF Soci- Weather, influence of, ii. 371.
ETY,' iv. 21.
Weeping, murmuring, complaining;
Travellers, the manner of, in their re-
iv. 130.
lations, ridiculed, ii. 480.
Westminster Abbey, visit to, ii. 55.
Trenchard, Mr., i. 154.
· When lovely Woman stoops to folly,
Trifler, character of an important, ii.
iv. 143.
227.
White Conduit House, i. 37.
Tristam Shandy, ii. 221.
Whitefoord, Caleb, iv. 117.
Whitefield, Rev. George, i. 313.
U.
Wilkie's • Epigoniad,' review of, iv.
United Provinces, i. 524.
384.
Universities, on, i. 459.
Wisdom, on the pursuit cf, ii. 155.
Wisdom of God in the moral govern-
V.
ment of the world, i. 361.
Van Egmont's Travels in Asia, review Wisdom, folly of attempting to learn,
of, w. 490.
by being recluse, ii. 279.
INDEX.
513
Wise, Rev. Francis, his • Inquiries | Writings of Lords, our proneness to
concerning the first inhabitants, &c. admire them, ii. 381.
of Europe' reviewed, iv. 419.
X.
Witches and Witcheraft, i. 115, 148.
Xenophon, i. 553.
Wolfius, Christian, iii. 257.
· Woman; Stanzas on,' iv. 143.
Y.
Woman's man, character of a, ii. 42. Yaou, Emperor, ii. 266.
Women, English, ii. 42—the English Young, Dr., i. 439, 570, iii. 246, iv.
method of treating those caught in 46—his • Conjectures on Original
adultery, ii. 80—the Russian, ii. 80. Composition' reviewed, iv. 490.
Woodfall, Henry Sampson, iv. 118. Youth, Lessons to a, on entering the
Woodfall, William, iv. 116.
world, ü. 254.
World, General History of the, Intro-
Z.
duction to, i. 533.
Zeck, George and Luke, iv. 40.
Worldly grandeur, instability of, 117. Zendevesta of Zoroaster, story from,
• Wolfe, General, Stanzas on the death ii. 64.
of,' iv. 129.
Zenim and Galhenda, an Eastern talo,
Wow-wow in the country, description i. 353.
of a, i. 330.
Zeuxis, i. 274.
TAB END.
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UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
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