&m 
 
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 ^^PP^W^f*
 
 Ex Lzbris 
 C. K. OGDEN 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 CRITICAL, POETICAL, 
 
 AND 
 
 i 
 
 DRAMATIC WORKS 
 
 BY JOHN PENN, ESQ.. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 SOLD BV HATCHARD, PICCADILLY.
 
 CRITICAL 
 
 AND 
 
 POETICAL WORKS, 
 
 BY J. PENN, Es<>. 
 
 On Thracia's hill, the Lord of WAR, 
 
 Has curb'd the fury of his car, 
 
 And dropt his thirsty lance at THT command. 
 
 PKOGRESS OF roxsr. 
 
 LONDON; 
 
 PRINTED FOR ELMSLY, STRAND} FAULDBR, BOND 
 
 STREET; SEWELL, CORNHILL ; AND OWEN 
 
 AND WHITE, PICCADILLY. 
 
 1797-
 
 Stactf 
 Anne* 
 
 LETTERS 
 
 ON 
 
 THE DRAMA 
 
 1005C33
 
 LETTERS 
 
 OK 
 
 THE DRAMA 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 HUNTED FOR ELMSLY, STRAND; FAULDER, BOND- 
 STREET; SEWELL, CORNHILL; AND OWEN 
 
 AND WHITE, PICCADILLY. 
 1796.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 LETTER I. 
 
 PAGJ 
 
 On the Drama at Athens. 5 
 
 LETTER II. 
 
 On the Difference between a minute and deli- 
 cate Taste. 9 
 
 LETTER III. 
 
 Of the true Principle of Dramatic Taste. 15 
 
 LETTER IV. 
 
 Of poetical Probability. 19 
 
 LETTER V. 
 On the supposed Deception of the Drama. 27 
 
 LETTER VI. 
 
 Of the Material of Imitation. 29 
 
 LETTER VII. 
 Of the Chorus. 3 6 
 
 LETTER VIII. 
 
 Of the Unities. - 4^
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 LETTER IX. 
 
 FAOZ 
 
 On Tragicomedy. 53 
 
 LETTER X. 
 Of the French Theatre. 5 8 
 
 LETTER XI. 
 Of tbe English Stage. 6 3 
 
 LETTER XII. 
 Of the Battle of Eddington. 68
 
 T2UJ- 
 
 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 
 
 LETTER I. 
 
 On the Drama at Athens. 
 
 JL HE invention of the drama appears generally, 
 as well as justly, attributed to ^Eschylus. For, 
 though what was called Tragedy and Comedy 
 both existed before his time, yet to him we are 
 indebted for dialogue, which is the chief distinc- 
 tion of those species of composition, according 
 to our conception, for an immoveable stage, and 
 for that connection of music with dramatic action, 
 which its prevalence since, in every age and coun- 
 try, seems to recommend. The other Greek dra- 
 matists we know of, have not improved the form 
 of tragedy or comedy (though Sophocles and Eu- 
 ripides have given to the former both ornament 
 and variety) for it still remained, in their hands, 
 a dialogue between persons principally interested
 
 6 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 
 
 in the action, witnessed by a group of spectators, 
 part of whose employment was to sing. The dia- 
 logue or speeches did not preserve the same metre 
 through the whole work, and often varied from 
 the iambic to a verse of a more lyric form ; and, 
 on the other hand, the songs did not confine them- 
 selves to any general subject, but sometimes al- 
 luded, in an extemporaneous manner, to what 
 was passing before the eyes of the singer. Yet 
 still songs were represented in the choral parts by 
 songs, and not only dialogue, or soliloquy, by songs. 
 Whatever degree, therefore, of merit there be in 
 this outline of a probable plan of introducing mu- 
 sic, not improved by his immediate successors, is 
 due to ^Eschylus. The same may be said of the 
 unities ; for by the use of a chorus, the unities of 
 time and place are allowed to have been neces- 
 sary, on a principle of probability. Whether, on 
 considering the point abstractedly, he thought mu- 
 sic would be better united with tragedy, or ap- 
 proved of the latitude modern dramatic writers 
 allow themselves in exhibiting to an audience, at 
 one time and place, actions between which days, 
 weeks, or months must have intervened, and which 
 must have happened remote from each other, can-
 
 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. J 
 
 not now be known. Those who condemn the 
 ancient plan of tragedy as represented above, sup- 
 pose the poet to have been obliged, against his 
 will, to comply with established custom ; while 
 those who think it founded on that good sense 
 which commands our approbation, in ancient, as 
 well as modern works, will conceive him to have 
 gladly seen, in the use he might make of the cho- 
 rus, a means of adding the treasures of other no- 
 ble arts to those of simple tragic dialogue ; and to 
 have been rejoiced that the necessity of making 
 his characters appear consistently before witnesses, 
 suggested to him the rules of rendering probabi- , 
 lity subservient to effect. The few instances men- 
 tioned in Mr. Twining's ingenious Notes on 
 Aristotle, of a deviation of some of the Greek 
 dramatists from the laws of exact imitation, by 
 no means, I confess, convince me they thought 
 them wrong, or that they might not have trusted 
 to the other merits of their work for its favour- 
 able reception, in spite of poetic license. With 
 respect too to the opinion of Aristotle, stated 
 and commented upon likewise by another respect- 
 able critic, Mr. Pye, I cannot draw the same in- 
 ference from it unfavourable to the unities, nor
 
 8 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 
 
 think he might not, while expressing it, have ap- 
 proved of a closer resemblance than had yet ap- 
 peared, in the imitation to the object imitated. 
 The chorus he can hardly be thought to condemn 
 absolutely, and at the same time praise the accom- 
 paniment of music so highly ; but his doubtful opi- 
 nion of the unities may be supposed, on examina- 
 tion of their propriety, less unfavourable to them.
 
 BETTERS ON THE DRAMA.- 9 
 
 1 
 
 LETTER II. 
 
 On the Difference between a minute and delicate 
 
 ** .<.tH. .I- ' ---- - 
 
 . 
 
 THERE is a sort of disposition to attend to 
 trifles, which argues a littleness of mind. Paint- 
 ing has exhibited instances of this, where an ex- 
 treme finish of the parts, without much attention 
 to proportion, or any of those animated touches 
 which assist the general effect, constitutes the 
 whole merit of the artist. But there are also in- 
 stances of works " finished more through happi- 
 ness than pains," which only denote a more en- 
 larged comprehension, able at once to take a ge- 
 neral and partial view of the subject, and add 
 
 J\ 
 
 beauties to the rough sketch, while it preserves its 
 complete character. It is natural, though at the 
 same time inimical to the attainment of absolute 
 perfection in the arts, that a nation, especially one 
 conscious of greatness of mind, should be deceived 
 by the resemblance between these two different 
 qualities of a minute and delicate taste, and revolt 
 at the idea of both of them, as one and the same.
 
 1O LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 
 
 That something of this sort is the case, in England 
 at least, observation may perhaps convince us. But 
 having produced literary compositions that upon 
 the whole vie with those of any other nation whatso- 
 ever, it may less repine at the opinion of foreigners, 
 that it has not hitherto given remarkable instances 
 of its taste : nor may it be thought so disgraceful, 
 that Montesquieu says, it is owing to liberty, that 
 " its poets will more frequently have the original 
 sudeness of invention, than that species of delicacy 
 which is given by taste ; and one will sooner find 
 in them something approaching to the force of 
 Michael Angelo, than to the grace of Raphael."* 
 But however impatient the mind may be of 
 correctness or simplicity, little is gained by any 
 new exertion that violates them ; and it never is 
 by this violation, but by other circumstances at- 
 tending the exertion, that it succeeds. There is 
 nothing noble in bombast or singularity, consi- 
 dered by themselves; nor does incorrectness seem 
 a much more admirable quality. It is true, that 
 Pope expresses the opinion contained in the fol- 
 lowing lines : 
 
 * Esprit des Loix, Liv. 19. ch. 27.
 
 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. H 
 
 " If, when the rules not far enough extend 
 (Since rules were made but to promote their end) 
 Some lucky license answer to the full 
 The intent proposed, that license is a rule." 
 
 And it is likewise just; nor ought a rejection 
 of beauties connected with faults to be uni- 
 versally recommended; but this is owing to the 
 weakness of the mind, which has not so ready a 
 command of beauties, as to make it prudent to run 
 the risk of dull fauklessness, by refusing every 
 thought that wants the stamp of perfection. This, 
 however, ought to vary according to the degree of 
 talents for correction in the writer, and also ac- 
 cording to that of excellence in the thought ; and 
 not to countenance the establishing of a sort of 
 rule of wrong, which is pleasing only to those who 
 love the marvellous. Voltaire observes, in some 
 part of his critical works, that nothing is so absurd 
 as to sit down to write with an intention of erring 
 against the rules of any species of writing. We 
 may naturally -err against them by the omissions of 
 negligence or inadvertency, faults, 
 
 '* Quas aut incuria fudit, 
 
 Aut humana parum cavit naturaj"
 
 1 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 
 
 But to maintain it is more correct to be incorrect, 
 is contradictory. A want of regularity is often 
 reasoned upon in drawing or painting, as a mark of 
 genius, but that it is justly in any art, may not be 
 altogether evident. It is known that the ancient 
 statuaries, who were perhaps the greatest and most 
 unrivalled artists who have existed in any line, did 
 not scruple to adhere to a system very observable 
 in their remaining works, and which oftener exhi- 
 bited the appearance of too much than of too little 
 art : so that where there is merit, its supposed re- 
 semblance, in incorrectness, is unnecessary. The 
 determined neglect of any approved though infe- 
 rior quality also of painting, is not now custo- 
 mary; and though the artist's principal object be 
 to imitate the outline of Raphael, the colouring of 
 Titian, and the claro scuro of Corregio, he will 
 not think it beneath him to improve himself by 
 paying some attention to that less admirable art 
 possessed by Lanfranc and Pietro di Cortona, of 
 disposing his figures in a picturesque and attractive 
 manner. The able author of the Sublime and 
 Beautiful has the following passages : 
 
 " As many of the works of imagination are not 
 confined to the representation of sensible objects,
 
 LETTERS ON THB DRAMA 13 
 
 nor to efforts upon the passions, but extend them- 
 selves to the manners, the characters, the actions, 
 and designs of men, their relations, their virtues, 
 and their vices, they come within the province of 
 the judgment, which is improved by attention, 
 and by the habit of reasoning. All these make a 
 very considerable part of what are considered as 
 the objects of taste ; and Horace sends us to the 
 schools of philosophy, and the world, for our in- 
 struction in them. Whatever certainty is to be 
 acquired in morality and the science of life ; just 
 the same degree of certainty have we in what re- 
 lates to them in works of imitation. Indeed it is 
 for the most part in our skill in manners, and in 
 the observances of time and place t and of decency 
 in general, which is only to be learned in these 
 schools to which Horace recommends us, that what 
 is called taste by way of distinction^ consists." 
 
 The following words too, a little below, are to 
 the same effect : 
 
 " So far as the imagination and the passions are 
 concerned, I believe it true, that the reason is 
 little consulted ; but where disposition, where de- 
 corum, where congruity are concerned, in short, 
 wherever the best taste differs from the. worst," &c.
 
 14 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 
 
 From these passages the value of that taste will 
 be judged of, which is employed in estimating 
 those parts of a composition which do not act so 
 immediately upon the passions, and also of that art 
 vhich is their character.
 
 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 1 5 
 
 V 
 
 LETTER III. 
 
 Of the true Principle of Dramatic Taste. 
 
 WHEN an orator is addressing himself to an au- 
 dience composed of persons of rank and education, 
 he often rests his arguments upon political axioms, 
 and draws inferences for their conviction, which 
 would not easily be understood by persons whose 
 minds were uninformed. When he wishes to ac- 
 quire the favour of the people, and harangues a 
 mixed multitude with that intent, he has less of 
 abstract reasoning, and references to such proofs 
 of the justice of his cause as are not familiar to all 
 around him, and attains his end oftener by some 
 declamatory allusion to their rights in general, or 
 other appeal to their passions. Yet at the same 
 time, he does not find it necessary to speak un- 
 grammatically, or to adopt the faulty dialect or 
 vulgar expressions used by one of the common 
 people, though such a person might prevail 
 more with his hearers than he would have done 
 in speaking as he did in the senate. Upon 
 this principle ought the dramatic writer to pro-
 
 l6 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 
 
 ceed ; and the superior difficulty of pleasing the 
 illiterate as well as the informed, helps very much 
 to render tragic a rival to epic poetry, in dignity. 
 Its perfection seems to be to gratify the most fas- 
 tidious scholar by the closest adherence to dra- 
 matic rules, and at the same time to indulge the 
 most ignorant frequenter of sights by whatever 
 may strike the eye or the ear. Some people think 
 this latter derogatory from the character of tra- 
 gedy j but it is very possible to render stage effect 
 respectable by its artful and striking use. The 
 supposed difficulty of uniting the opinions of so 
 many in our favour, deters us from attempting it; 
 and yet, surely, a less time than the usually allotted 
 space of nine years, seems amply sufficient for the 
 undertaking. 
 
 People may err in their judgments of a dramatic 
 work, by not sufficiently considering the two dif- 
 ferent characters it is meant to unite, of a literary 
 performance, and of a spectacle. There is no- 
 thing extraordinary or improper, that those who 
 only understand it as a spectacle, should condemn 
 it upon the whole, and they are perhaps the 
 greatest part of its judges. It is different with 
 other literary works, which are, comparatively
 
 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 17 
 
 speaking, all understood by their judges. Yet it 
 does not follow that a play which is well received, 
 must be more valuable than one which is con- 
 demned; nor, indeed, that any thing which is a 
 beauty in another work, such as the scene of the 
 grave-diggers in Shakspeare, and the cypress-tree 
 mentioned by Horace, should not be valuable 
 when separately considered. 
 
 It has been sometimes held, that an Athenian 
 audience must have possessed extraordinary judg- 
 ment in matters of taste, and much superior to an 
 English one. Yet I cannot, for my part, think 
 there can be much difference between audiences 
 in the degree of their taste. If the simple ar- 
 rangement of the story be thought a proof of it, I 
 object to it for two reasons : first, that at the time 
 of the Greek tragic writers, an audience had no 
 experience of the charms of stage effect, as it is 
 produced on our theatre. Secondly; there must 
 have" been a species of stage effect produced by 
 the pomp and strangeness of the spectacle, which 
 perhaps made it unnecessary ; and instead of the 
 probability of the literary work, it was perhaps the 
 improbability, or at least the glare and pageantry, 
 of the spectacle, that recommended the ancient 
 
 B
 
 l8 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 
 
 tragedies to the greater part of an audience, and 
 satisfied them, without recourse being had to the 
 variety of vicious taste. 
 
 Another mode of pleasing might have been by 
 moral and political reflections. We know how, 
 at our theatres, the very tone of the most sentimen- 
 tal morality is secure of applause from the well- 
 meaning audience. Always allowing the first place 
 to pathos in a tragedy, and to manners in a co- 
 medy, there seems no reason why we should re- 
 ject any means consistent with correct compo- 
 sition, of interesting an audience. I cannot, for 
 this reason, subscribe to the opinion of Gibbon, 
 in his entertaining posthumous works just pub- 
 lished, who allows no advantage to be taken of so 
 fertile a source of pleasure as that of farce. 
 
 When Addison wrote against some of the stage 
 tricks common in those days, he thought himself 
 serving the cause of regular composition ; but it 
 was quite the reverse. They would have helped 
 out the tragedy of Cato much better than his love 
 scenes. It is equally certain that they would not 
 have been worse.
 
 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 19 
 
 LETTER IV. 
 
 Of poetical Probability. 
 
 THERE are various ways, more or less absurd, 
 according to the opinions of critics, in which 
 poets may violate the laws of probability. Of the 
 Bard of Gray, there appear to be some who reason 
 in the following manner. Though Johnson re- 
 sembles Rhymer in his condemnation of the great 
 poet he criticises, he resembles him also in the 
 justness of his remarks; and however inferior the 
 " Prophecy of Nereus" be, upon the whole, to 
 " the Bard," it is superior in point of probability. 
 To imagine the god Nereus to prophecy, was a 
 natural conception, and calculated instantly to at- 
 tract the mind of those who allowed such a divi- 
 nity ; and though Horace should not have given 
 credit to the possibility of it, yet, by a sympathy 
 which daily discourse furnishes instances of, he 
 might be supposed for a moment to adopt the 
 tastes and opinions of those among whom he lived, 
 and whom he wished to amuse. This was a na- 
 tural operation of the mind, and nature is always
 
 aO LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 
 
 pleasing. But the author of" the Bard," not only 
 supposed to exist what neither he nor any other 
 living person could think possible (for he professed 
 a far more jealous* religion than Horace); but 
 did not, as Johnson observes, adhere accurately 
 to the creed of those whose superstition he feigned 
 to believe. Hence, as far as the magic of his 
 style permits us, we express disapprobation of the 
 idea of " the Bard" as more strained and far- 
 fetched than " the Prophecy of Nereus." 
 
 When this sort of improbability is in the drama, 
 it is one degree better ; for the poet does not ab- 
 solutely, in his own words, assert his belief in the 
 fiction. So that one may imagine he meant to re- 
 present the ideas of another person. In the Phae- 
 dre of Racine, where Hyppolite loses his life in 
 consequence of the prayer of Theseus to Neptune, 
 it will occur, that though a Pagan poet believed in 
 the divinity and power of Neptune, a Christian 
 could not; Yet, as Racine did not affirm any- 
 thing himself, but made his characters tell their 
 own story, there is less improbability in thb; 
 though, in a regular drama, even this degree of 
 remoteness from truth is too much felt. It might, 
 
 * See Gibbon, Vol. i. page 35, quarto edition.
 
 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 21 
 
 however, be allowed in such a composition as a 
 masque or pantomime, in which all the wonders of 
 Harlequin might, to the literary spectator, be ex- 
 hibited by a Medea, or an Armida ; for, to the 
 philosopher himself, the opinions, and even errors, 
 of mankind, in different ages and countries, are a 
 curious subject of contemplation. 
 
 Pope's machinery of the Sylphs and Gnomes, is, 
 I think, the most admirable instance existing of 
 poetical probability. It is not a mere negative 
 merit, but has a positive effect ; and there is an in- 
 finite beauty in the archness of the poet's inten- 
 tion. Had either everybody, or nobody believed 
 in those familiar spirits, the fiction would have 
 wanted spirit, and the contrast of weak faith in 
 himself, and the "doubting wit" with the credulity 
 of the " fair and innocent," would not have given 
 force to the satire, or equal beauty to the compo- 
 sition. Owing to the inferior aptitude, at the pre- 
 sent day, of this machinery, the use of it seems im- 
 proper; though it does not seem at all contrary to 
 probability, to imagine new spirits consistent with 
 prevailing notions. 
 
 But it is not only the violation of historical 
 truth that is said to transgress probability ; but in
 
 22 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 
 
 general whatever is not imagined either necessa- 
 rily, or naturally, is said more or less to err 
 against it. It is held by some (for instance), that 
 the characters who appear at the first scene should 
 act throughout a play, as if they remained in the 
 same place, and be supposed to complete the ac- 
 tion in the same time that they appear to do. 
 Johnson, however, thinks it does not, but that a 
 change of scene may be made, and the action ' 
 continued at a time somewhat remote ; arguing, 
 that when this change is made, it is no more diffi- 
 cult to imagine the second place represented, than 
 the first. But this is at least certain, that suppos- 
 ing us to transport ourselves in imagination to the 
 first, it is possible for us to conceive the absurdity 
 of any place's being, at once, the same and different, 
 whatever force there be in this idea. It is not less 
 improbable, that the time and place should be varied 
 between the acts j for we, in a manner, see through 
 the curtain, just as the ancients did through the 
 drapery with which Timanthes, in his picture, co- 
 vered the head of Agamemnon ; and every thing, 
 both what may be behind the curtain, and what 
 appears when it is drawn up, conspires to form 
 one connected whole. Lord Kaimes does not ad-
 
 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 23 
 
 vert to this, where he says, " after an interval, the 
 imagination readily adapts itself to any place that 
 is necessary, as readily as at the commencement of 
 the play." These unities of time and place are 
 the only ones that have to do with probability. 
 
 The action's passing before witnesses, is thought, 
 .by those who favour the chorus, to be more pro- 
 bable, and, I think, in one sense, justly : however, 
 I in general approve of the dramatic opinions of 
 the judicious Bishop Hurd, I do not go so far as 
 to think it indispensably, or in such a manner 
 probable, that its not doing so could shock us as 
 absurd ; it would only have a feebler effect upon 
 the mind, by not being marked with an additional 
 characteristic circumstance, namely, its power of 
 producing such and such sensations in the minds 
 of stage spectators. 
 
 An effect of want of animation has been pointed 
 out by Mr. Pye in the moral interference of the 
 chorus,, which is only an error against probability, 
 and the cause being removed, the effect ceases. 
 The remarks upon this, that " it is the horror 
 shewn by the physician and attendant, during 
 Lady Macbeth's dream, and the indignation of 
 Faulconbridge at Hubert, as the supposed murderer
 
 24 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 
 
 of Arthur, that resemble the two horses in Lc 
 Brun's picture." Now this is the very object of 
 a chorus, to form precisely such situations as are 
 here mentioned. A chorus ought to moralize, but 
 not in a more improbable manner, than Faulcon- 
 bridge does here, or than Henry the Sixth does at 
 the death of Cardinal Beaufort. If it should be 
 doubtful, whether morality be not too frequently 
 inculcated by the fair chorus of Elfrida, yet in Ca,- 
 ractacus, Mr. Mason has made ample amends; 
 for every moral sentence, pronounced by a priest, 
 contributes to his priestly dignity ; and Mr. Ma- 
 son's art in managing this, leaves us nothing to 
 desire. Probability here has not only a negative 
 effect, but also gives force to character. 
 
 I own I equally approve of the character of the 
 Goryphaea in Elfrida, compared with that of the 
 confidante, which the author observes he might 
 have chosen. The chorus ought no more to be 
 considered as a group of important characters, 
 than the lords, gentlemen, servants, &c. of Shak- 
 speare, whdse number, however great, never 
 shocks us. We consider them as in the back 
 ground, and they are distinguished, as men, by no 
 peculiar, character; which, I think, I may say, is
 
 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. *5 
 
 the case of the ancient Coryphaei. Besides, if we 
 compare the characters, with how much more pro- 
 bability are domestics found at the house of a 
 great person than even a near relation ? Many 
 may be without such particular relations, but none 
 can be unattended ; besides, that a shew of de- 
 pendants marks their situation in society with 
 greater truth ; add too, that the appearance of 
 these attendants in Elfrida improves the costume, 
 and with truer colours represents the manners of 
 the age. 
 
 Upon the whole, I think the claim just, of at 
 least equal probability, both in the unities and the 
 chorus. With respect to the former, it appears 
 from the very eloquence used to contest it. In 
 the commentary on Aristotle it is observed, that 
 " this rule of natural unity has nothing to do with 
 the most striking flights of improbability. If a 
 writer puts his hero on a magic courser, that can 
 
 " Put a girdle round about the earth 
 In forty minutes," 
 
 it is no offence against this rule." But were this 
 liberty of the dramatic writer capable of being
 
 96 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 
 
 justified as natural, it would have been so by a 
 metaphor not representing a preternatural action. 
 It is remarkable, that the instances here given 
 of violation of the rules of natural unity is taken 
 not from those plays which have strictly adhered 
 to the regular unities, but from the tragedy of 
 King Lear; and it may be observed too of the 
 chorus, that only some of the Greek plays have 
 furnished instances of improbability, occasioned 
 by its introduction : whereas, in finally condemn- 
 ing a species of composition, we ought at least to 
 have it proved to us, that it never has succeeded, 
 as we undertake to pronounce, that it never can. 
 I am at a loss, indeed, for a reason, why, in all 
 other works, even ideal probability should be 
 either a beauty, or no defect ; but that we should 
 stop short of this point in the drama.
 
 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 27 
 
 LETTER V. 
 
 On the supposed Deception of the Drama. 
 
 I OWE to my perusal of the commentary* my 
 idea of theatrical deception. The skilful deve- 
 lopment of the plot, the effect of theatrical spec- 
 tators, as exhibited in the chorus, and that perspi- 
 cuity, which I shall speak more of, resulting from 
 the unities of place and time, and owing to the 
 equal connection of all the parts of regular trage- 
 dy, seem to produce a more vivid conception of 
 the event passing before our eyes, mistaken, I 
 imagine, for that belief, which it would naturally 
 accompany. The more there is of this vivid con- 
 ception so produced, and unattended by belief, 
 the more pleasure do we derive from tragedy. I 
 do not mean to dispute Mr. Burke's idea of our 
 taking t pleasure in real calamity; but a stage re- 
 presentation is an exception to this rule. It must 
 be said in favour of the unities, that this effect 
 
 * Pages 1 1 6, 117. 
 
 f Sublime and Beautiful.
 
 28 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 
 
 never has been attributed to them, and, therefore, 
 so far we may go, not only with safety, but with 
 profit. But proceeding farther, if we write tra- 
 gedy in prose, and exhibit the manner's of our 
 own times, we shall produce an effect resembling 
 that of painted statues, and approach too near to 
 deception to obtain our purpose. But till proba- 
 bility is carried to this length, it is always reasoned 
 upon as an advantage. 
 
 Mr. Pye justly mentions the exalted personages 
 of tragedy as one circumstance preventing this de- 
 ception ; from which might be inferred the use of 
 what is called the royal tragedy, the characters of 
 which certainly attract by importance, (a very ge- 
 neral source of pleasure in poetry !) and which is 
 the most calculated to avail itself of the opportunity 
 peculiar to the drama, among literary perform- 
 ances, of striking the eyes. For the object of 
 tragedy is not only to affect, but to interest, or, 
 in other words, to affect in the most pleasing 
 manner.
 
 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 29 
 
 LETTER VI. 
 
 On the Material of Imitation. 
 
 FROM what I have said of the propriety of the 
 closest imitation that does not go so far as to pro- 
 duce deception, will follow the propriety of our 
 \ising prose in comedy, and blank verse in tragedy. 
 In comedy, the imitation is perfect; in tragedy, 
 it is as nearly so, as it well can be, To imitate 
 the manners of remote ages is now impossible, 
 and, were it not, the object would be to divert 
 the attention from manners to actions. The pomp 
 of blank verse (which we can better conceive the 
 language of all ages and nations) is calculated 
 for this distinction, at the same time that it is that 
 verse, the liberty of which most resembles con- 
 versation. Other nations have imitated with less 
 simplicity : the Greeks sacrificed exactness in this 
 respect to the custom of -disguising the human fi- 
 gure by stage dresses, and to the use of the dance 
 during the representation. The Italians, in their 
 operas, sing their parts ; and the French, in their 
 tragedies, and principal comedies, use rhyme,
 
 gO LETTERS ON THE DRAMA* 
 
 These customs we object to, as unnatural, accord- 
 ing to that usual disposition in man, from which 
 arises the wish of destroying, or altering, by a 
 standard of abstract excellence. But in this, as 
 in many things, practice is at war with theory, 
 and those who are most conversant with foreign 
 and ancient works of this sort, can best conceive, 
 how they do not revolt, by what we think ab- 
 surdity, the patives of those countries for whose 
 amusement they were designed. We may rejoice 
 that our literature, in this respect, like our go- 
 vernment, is founded in reason, without desiring 
 that other nations should suffer inconvenience by 
 an hazardous attempt to resemble us. 
 
 Metastasio observes, that " an imitator, who 
 does not undertake to produce the exact truth, 
 but only to give as great a likeness as possible to 
 the material he employs, has perfectly fulfilled his 
 promise, and attained his end, when he has given 
 it every tiling of which his materials are capable 
 and that it is from ignorance of this nature of imi- 
 tation, that arises the contemptuous judgment of 
 those, who treat the musical drama as improbable 
 and absurd, because the actors die with a song 
 in their mouth." On this subject, however, we
 
 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 1 
 
 might more easily agree with him, if the same re- 
 lation were preserved in the materials as in the 
 objects of imitation. For instance, did the opera 
 not vary more in the poetry and the music, than 
 just in proportion to the temper of mind of the 
 speaker, and did they just in the proper degree 
 heighten or enforce every passion, a refined taste 
 need not be hurt at the present want of truth per- 
 ceived in the relation between the different mate- 
 rials of imitation. In that case, what advantage 
 there may be in music for the expression of senti- 
 ments in a more delightful manner, would go 
 much farther towards compensating for the de- 
 fects of a less natural mode of imitation. At 
 present there are only two dissimilar vehicles for 
 sentiment; blank verse, united with recitative, 
 and lyric poetry, set to a much more varied mu- 
 sic ; and to these two all the passions must adapt 
 themselves. We see here the advantage of the 
 Greek chorus, even as it was rudely designed by 
 yEschylus. They are not characters whose sing- 
 ing is merely an imitation of discourse, but who 
 represent singers; and therefore have nothing in 
 them, in this respect, that we can think unnatural. 
 Discourse and song are divided in reality, and
 
 ga LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 
 
 they are therefore properly in imitation. It must 
 be owned, there is not in the colloquial parts of 
 the Greek drama the same uniformity that there 
 is in discourse. Dr. Francklin, indeed, the trans- 
 lator of Sophocles, approves of this very fault, 
 on the principle of variety ; and Metastasio, un- 
 able to defend it by appealing to reason, appeals 
 thus to the example of the ancients, in his letter 
 to the Duke of Chattellux.* " You have before 
 learnedly observed, Sir, that the primitive fathers 
 of tragedy, in order to furnish music with oppor- 
 tunities for displaying its beauties, and to vary 
 the expression, sometimes changed in the mouths 
 of the characters the usual iambics into anapaests 
 and trochees ; nor has it escaped you, that the 
 personages themselves sung alone, with each other, 
 and in dialogue, with the chorus, strophes, anti- 
 strophes, and epodes; measures which naturally 
 require that species of music which we now apply 
 to air ; and which you, in a masterly manner, have 
 called periodical : hence, by a necessary conse- 
 quence, you will conclude, that in flattering the 
 effeminate ears of the audience with arietti, we 
 have doubtless illustrious ancient and great autho- 
 * Burney's Life of Metastasio, vol. II. p. 323.
 
 BETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 33 
 
 rity, both for air and recitative." But the songs 
 of the ancient plan of drama, are perfectly na- 
 tural, supposing, in the first place, they are pre- 
 meditated ; and, in the second, that the leader of 
 the band indicates the song either by beginning 
 to sing what they are supposed to know, or by 
 proposing it, as the Druid calls upon his brethren, 
 in Caractacus, to chant cc the prelude of the famed 
 solemnity :" or else that some principal character 
 should call for the song, as in the play of Esther, 
 where she says, 
 
 " Mes filles, chantez nous quelqu'un de ces 
 
 cantiques, 
 
 Ou vos voix, si sou vent se melant a nos pleurs, 
 De la triste Sion celebrent les malheurs." 
 
 This designation of a particular song is made first, 
 I believe, by Racine. Mr. Mason has, with judg- 
 ment, imitated him in this, but has himself made 
 a real improvement in this best sort of tragedy, 
 by effecting the true division of it into chorus and 
 iambic, according to Milton's happy definition. 
 The principal characters, in his plays, never quit 
 the iambic metre; though they do, I fancy, in 
 every one of the Greek tragedies, as well as Ra- 
 cine. We may form a judgment of the idea the 
 C
 
 34 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA.. 
 
 Italians have of the nature of operas, by the opU 
 nion of one* of their critics ; who objects to the 
 custom of making similies, or thoughts marked 
 "With simple fancy, the subject of airs, and says, 
 that only the more impassioned sentiments of the . 
 piece are proper for them. However music and 
 f metre should be capable of imitating truly, by 
 their power real or supposed, of expressing pas- 
 sion in its different degrees, it will be impossible 
 to preserve a due relation between the part of the 
 work in which blank verse is united with prose : 
 for while the principal characters are elevated 
 above nature, the rest will remain upon a level 
 with it j as there is no way of varying or modify- 
 ing prose. A fault is remarked, by Mr. Pye, in 
 Thomson's Tancred and Sigismunda, where a 
 letter is read in prose. Yet still, though by prose 
 the material may seem avowed, there is a natural 
 reason for changing the material, which must have 
 influenced Thomson. The French poets, in this 
 case, use sonnet metre, and Shakspeare likewise, 
 though certainly without much deep reflection 
 Upon its fitness for tragedy, has used rhyme. 
 But in the tragi- comedy, where the act does riot 
 
 
 ^~- * Planelli, dell' Opera in Musica, page 83.
 
 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA, 35 
 
 
 
 vary from speaking to writing, still the material 
 varies from poetry to prose, and a false relation 
 is produced between the parts of the work, that 
 transgresses poetical probability. Nor is there 
 excuse for this, if we consider the power blank 
 verse has, by rejecting variety of pauses, as in 
 the scene where Antony harangues the mob, of 
 expressing the simplest notions of the meanest 
 citizen. 
 
 C 2
 
 36 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 
 
 LETTER VII. 
 
 Of the Chorus. 
 
 HAVING now at large considered the subject 
 of poetical probability, I shall not dwell any longer 
 upon it, and confine myself chiefly, or wholly to 
 others, both in treating of the other parts of the 
 drama, and the chorus; which I shall next speak 
 of, as being the parent, no less than the mate, of 
 tragedy ; though I hope you will find that it is nei- 
 ther, like Sin in Milton, monstrous in itself, nor 
 has formed a disadvantageous union ; nor, finally, 
 has produced an unsightly and inharmonious 
 brood, whose existence there may be cause to 
 regret. 
 
 Before we attempt to reason upon the propriety 
 of a chorus, it seems necessary to define it with ac~ 
 curacy, and to determine precisely what we mean 
 by it. Colman, in his notes on the Epistle " ad 
 Pisones/* observes, that if we attempt to revive the 
 chorus, we ought, in order to do it thoroughly, to 
 revive ^the dance, as well as the song. I might add, 
 that we ought to compose in Greek ; nay, celebrate.
 
 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 37 
 
 the rites of Bacchus. But this is not enjoined by 
 the generality of, those critics who have written 
 against the chorus ; I wish no more than to abide 
 by their idea of s haracter, while they condemn 
 it. Now all, or most of them, have, I believe, 
 written since the first appearance of the Esther 
 and Athalie of Racine, and none of them have 
 objected to the ancientry of that style of drama, 
 nor said, that it is not according to the manner 
 of the Greek tragedies, with a chorus. Their si- 
 lence upon the subject justifies our opinion, that 
 they allow those plays to be, essentially , of that 
 kind. But why then is the constant presence of the 
 chorus mentioned as if insisted upon, it not being 
 to be found in those plays? I do not say that, 
 however difficult, a fine tragedy may not be written, 
 with perfect propriety, and the constant presence 
 of the chorus take place ; but I think the contrast 
 arising from its occasional absence, makes suffi- 
 cient amends for its usual effect of producing a 
 more vivid conception of what passes ; or rather, 
 produces the same effect in another way, 
 
 I shall proceed to consider those advantages of 
 the chorus which I have not yet touched upon, 
 and our evident acknowledgment of those very
 
 38 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 
 
 advantages, in the construction of a modern tra- 
 gedy, will easily appear. 
 
 First. With respect to its moral effect, it may 
 be asked, what is the peculiar advantage of the 
 chorus, if all the characters of the play ought * to 
 make no moral remarks but what are probable ? 
 To this I answer, that the Coriphaeus may be relied 
 on for them more than any single character, 
 (though not so much as the whole number of 
 them,) and for this reason, he is of a rank which 
 are the lookers on, and censors in society, and 
 \vill be more employed in giving opinions of ac- 
 tions, than in acting themselves. The moral ef- 
 fect of a chorus might perhaps be produced, in co- 
 medy, most frequently by the servants of a house ; 
 and the spirit of farce, cautiously admitted, in- 
 stead of seeming heterogeneous, might have a pe- 
 culiar force confined to those characters. Now, 
 both in comedy and tragedy, do not we already 
 make a similar use of such inferior characters ? 
 
 Secondly. As to its effect in improving the 
 spectacle. Both variety and dignity are given to 
 the group by a chorus ; and this likewise the mo- 
 derns obtain by the mixture of high and -low 
 * See pjfge 23.
 
 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 39 
 
 racters, especially in what is called royal tragedy. 
 In speaking of this subject, the CEdipe of Voltaire 
 naturally occurs. It is a curious attempt of one 
 who is prejudiced against the other advantages of 
 the chorus, to render the spectacle, by means of 
 it, more picturesque. 
 
 Thirdly. With respect to its songs. I shall con- 
 sider, first, whether they take from the effect of 
 the drama j and, secondly, what degree of advan~ 
 tage they confer upon it. 
 
 If the introduction of music into tragedy do, 
 indeed, interrupt the course of events, so as to di- 
 minish the interest, as is supposed by many, there 
 is no doubt it ought not to be admitted. But there 
 are some parts of a tragedy, perhaps, where it may 
 be safely pronounced beforehand, that it cannot 
 happen. Towards the beginning, for instance, 
 where the attention is not yet,or is hardly awakenedj 
 or at the end, particularly after the catastrophe, 
 where the joy or sorrow wants to be completely 
 expressed, might not music aptly be introduced ? 
 But if I were to say, there is an English play with 
 chorusses confined to the intermediate parts, 
 which was thought to derive acknowledged ad- 
 vantage from them by a critic, not by any means
 
 ^O LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 
 
 of the ancient school, it would surprise. And yet, 
 if we judge rather by things than names, we shall 
 find that the tragedy of Theodosius is such a play, 
 and that the following is part of a critique of it, 
 given in Baker's Biographia Dramatica. " It is 
 also assisted in the representation by several en- 
 tertainments of singing in the solemnity of church 
 music, composed by the celebrated Henry Pur- 
 cell, being the first he ever composed for the 
 stage." But those who attend the theatres, need 
 not inquire elsewhere the degree of pleasure a 
 British audience can receive from theatrical mu- 
 sic. I do not know whether the French could re- 
 vive the chorus, but am persuaded that the Eng- 
 lish might ; nor can I think that the great medio- 
 crity of the songs in Theodosius, for instance, 
 when compared with the chorusses of Sophocles, 
 gives the author of the former any advantage. 
 Athenian sublimity, and even obscurity, would, no 
 less than even Grub-street fatuity, be put out of 
 view, to most people, by the pleasing interrup- 
 tion of the accompaniment. 
 
 This justification of the introduction of cho- 
 russes, suggests a reason why we should embody 
 those inferior characters, always necessary, and
 
 form of them a regular chorus ; or at least, that if 
 we chose to separate the offices, we should have 
 a distinct body for this purpose only. 
 
 But this custom does not only deserve justifica- 
 tion, as not taking from the effect of tragedy, but 
 preference, as improving it, and forming not only 
 a different, but a better species of it. The advan- 
 tages I have considered appear nothing in com- 
 parison of that which I shall now speak of; I mean 
 the power which belongs to the chorus, of delight- 
 ing by the means of music and lyric poetry. I have 
 often wondered that critics and academicians have 
 dwelt so little upon this quality of the chorus in tra- 
 gedy ,when they might have seen in Racine's Esther 
 and Athalie that it was considered by him as the 
 principal, and almost only material one. It is by 
 means of this alone that it can at all rival epic 
 poetry as a literary work. The two species of 
 composition have been compared very justly by 
 Mr, Pye, and their merits as justly determined, 
 upon taking into consideration only the dramatic 
 parts of tragedy. But let us consider the idea 
 Aristotle had of it, as connected with the greater 
 ode, a species of writing that hardly yields to any. 
 Suppose that Othello or Macbeth had, naturally
 
 42 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 
 
 introduced in them, odes such as Dryden's Alex- 
 ander's feast, which alone is allowed to have merit 
 capable of immortalizing an author ; or suppose 
 that all the odes of Gray, on which was founded 
 his claim to a cenotaph in Westminster Abbey, 
 which are not more than sufficient, made part of 
 a single choral tragedy, would the work exhibit 
 less variety of talents ? Epic poetry, perhaps, may 
 exhibit more variety of talents, but it does not 
 talents so extremely opposite, as those fitted for 
 dramatic dialogue, in which words are extremely 
 subservient to things, and those adapted to the 
 ode, in which glowing expression is almost ex- 
 clusively the object : for eloquence in this art is 
 cultivated more purely than in any; being neither 
 confined to truth of fact, as at the bar, or in the 
 senate ; not interrupted by the attention necessary 
 either for narration, or even elaborate disposition 
 and arrangement ; while it borrows assistance, at 
 least as' much as any, from that elevation of 
 phrase which is peculiar to poetry. Mr. Pye says, 
 tf the epopee depends more on itself; the poet is 
 at the same time, poet, actor, and manager." But 
 it seems to me this is the case, or at least ought to 
 be, no less in tragedy. The writer ought to corv
 
 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA 43 
 
 ceive clearly the mode in which the actors are to 
 deliver his sentiments, and as far as possible indi- 
 cate it by a note. He ought too to make himself 
 master, as much as possible, of the means of 
 striking by the scenery, and study the full effect 
 of it; otherwise he will find it difficult to amuse 
 the galleries, while he preserves the unities. Now 
 this, instead of being easy, shews more opposite 
 talents than what the epic has to do, because of the 
 want of connection between the three talents here; 
 whereas the epic poet, using the same verse, and 
 mode of exhibiting his representations, is led na- 
 turally from one to the other of these employments. 
 They are all habitual to him as a literary man. 
 I do not, however, pretend to argue that of two 
 compositions, one of which shall be an epic poem, 
 and the other a choral tragedy, executed in the 
 same manner, the former may not be a greater 
 work. The latter, however, as an admirable in- 
 vention, adapted to the nature of man, does not 
 seem to yield to it. " The production of a drama," 
 says Metastasio, in which all the fine arts concur, 
 is an extreme difficult enterprize." Let us consider 
 how many of those elegant arts which are (for the 
 most part) the pride of genius, and which there
 
 44 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 
 
 must always be so great a demand for in a populous 
 and civilized country, -were united for the en- 
 tertainment of an Athenian audience. In the 
 dialogue was the art of exciting pity and terror; 
 in the odes, that of pleasing by the happiest union 
 of enthusiastic language and metre, as well as the 
 art of music and of dancing; in the building 
 where they sate, architecture ; in the decorations 
 of the building, sculpture; on the stage, as in 
 the scene, painting, and the histrionic art. Dancing 
 however, was introduced in a manner that must 
 have taken from the faithfulness of the imitation, 
 and to which nothing but inveterate custom could 
 have reconciled the audience. It has never yet 
 appeared to have been the subject of contempla- 
 tion, whether a more probable kind of dance, that 
 would accord with the manners of the time and 
 place where the event happened, might not be 
 cautiously introduced, by favour of that obscu- 
 rity in remote history, which as Gray justly ob- 
 serves, " gives an unbounded liberty to pure ima- 
 gination and fiction."* Perhaps this art may be 
 dispensed with in tragedy ; but how friendly is 
 the obscurity here mentioned to the probable in- 
 Memoirs, Section 4th. Letter 27th.
 
 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 45 
 
 troduction of a band of singers ; and how much 
 more now than in the time of the Greeks, whose 
 own annals were so simple, and who had not such 
 a choice of stories, just sufficiently dark for the 
 poet, in the annals of other countries ! Voltaire, 
 with a mind far more harmonized by the arts than 
 his anarchical scholars, was however too fastidious 
 in his ideas of propriety, in what regarded his 
 favourite, tragedy, to allow of this beautiful as- 
 semblage of sister arts. He disapproves, as was 
 observed, of the use of a chorus, and he consi- 
 ders that degree of ornament, which was seen in 
 an ancient theatre, as vain and ostentatious. Yet 
 whether sculpture, if admissible, would be worse 
 calculated than painting to please by candlelight, 
 will be determined by those who, like us, have 
 seen the Apollo de Belvidere with torches.
 
 46 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 
 
 LETTER VIII. 
 
 Of the Unities. 
 
 THE Unities of place and time, are the only 
 ones that are peculiar to the drama, and have di- 
 vided critics into two parties, those who condemn, 
 and who approve of them. How far they arc 
 necessary to the drama on the score of probability, 
 I have considered in a former letter, and I now 
 therefore shall consider them in other respects. 
 
 Instead of examining whether the unities of 
 time and place are necessary, we ought first to 
 inquire what reason there is to violate them. A 
 poet, we will say, begins a tragedy, and writes the 
 first act without having introduced any change of 
 place, or prolonged the time : arrived at that point, 
 he finds it convenient to do so, and according to 
 his reasons, I approve or condemn him. If he 
 say, either that he is obliged before a certain day 
 to furnish a piece for the theatre, or that he has 
 such natural impatience and want of talents for 
 correct composition, that he cannot write by rule, 
 withouf spoiling the work he has undertaken, the
 
 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 47 
 
 utmost poetical license ought to be allowed him, 
 and he ought to be completely indifferent to the 
 cavils of French dogmatism. But if he wish to 
 represent all farther attempts at perfection as use- 
 less, and complain that without extending the 
 time, he cannot combine into one piece two 
 events related in history; I would ask him, why 
 he does not look into the annals of imagination , 
 and find there every possible situation that may 
 serve his purpose ? If he be not either one of the 
 few, whom skill or patience enables to search those 
 volumes, let him not rashly question the existence 
 of what they contain. Suppose one writing bad 
 poetry were to say gravely, in excuse for it, thatch 
 was too difficult to produce expressive and har- 
 monious language ; would it be thought sufficient ? 
 
 It will not, surely, be held that the time, which 
 elapses in a play, over and above that of the re- 
 presentation, and when the characters are off the 
 stage, can excite the passions by the force of 
 mere duration. 
 
 Eternity is certainly a sublime idea, but no 
 portion of time, however extended, affects us in 
 the same manner, nor has it ever entered into the 
 head of a dramatic poet to rival Shakspeare, by
 
 48 LETTERS ON THE BRAMA. 
 
 representing in his tragedy a series of events, 
 which should reach down from the creation to 
 the present time. Thus neither are these unities 
 always adverse to providing subject matter for a 
 work, nor do they of themselves deduct any thing 
 from the force and effect of it ; on the contrary, 
 would not these breaks very improperly intrude 
 in the middle of an impassioned scene? or, at 
 least, would the interruption they cause, very 
 much increase the interest? Gravina,* a critic 
 of cautious taste, and one who adhered very close- 
 ly to Aristotle, thought, however, four-and-twenty 
 hours preferable to a shorter time, for the duration 
 of the fable ; because, he says, a great event 
 must necessarily take up so much time. But 
 when the pleasure, arising from reflection on a 
 story, is substituted for the emotion produced by 
 a succession of interesting actions, tragedy may 
 attract ; but it is on the principle of the epopee ; 
 for though the fable be valuable for its import- 
 ance, its power of acting upon the passions 
 ought to be its principal merit. That such was 
 the character of tragedy, was conceived by its 
 great inventor, who considered his poems as 
 
 * Delia Tragedia, cap. 6.
 
 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 49 
 
 rc single dishes taken from the great feast of Ho- 
 mer." Aristotle does not expressly^ indeed, say 
 that the time of the representation is the best for 
 the duration of the fable, and he even makes a dis- 
 tinction between them ; but I do not collect 
 from what he says of a fable's being better as it is 
 larger, provided it be perspicuous, he means any 
 degree of perspicuity should be sacrificed for its 
 extension ; and extreme perspicuity is only to be 
 had by a strict adherence to the unities of time 
 and place. Where they are, observed there is a 
 perpetual key to the story ; the mind no longer 
 having occasion to enter into itself to develope 
 any .part of it. Thus if perspicuity be a quality 
 of the least value in composition, these unities are 
 not, as Johnson represents them, superfluous, or 
 rather a blemish, such as would be " the intro- 
 duction of all the orders into a citadel, when the 
 principal beauty of a citadel is to exclude the 
 enemy:" a simile illustrating simplicity by an ex- 
 ample of its opposite, ornament. Though not indis- 
 pensable for pleasing, they are in themselves cal- 
 culated to add to pleasure ; not to mention in 
 their praise the exclusive privilege they give the 
 drama, of being regulated by precise invariable 
 D
 
 /JO LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 
 
 rules, drawn from the nature of things. To wish 
 a mind like Metastasio's, should be under that 
 restraint, in composition, he held to be attached 
 to the observation of the unities, would be pedan- 
 tic; to condemn Shakspeare on account of his 
 transgression of them, would be no less so : but 
 ought therefore the advantages of regularity to be 
 undervalued ? or does it not rather seem peculi- 
 arly, characteristic of a polished age ? As to change 
 of scene, it only pleases because it is variety ; and 
 if variety be produced by other means, it is use- 
 less. Yet it is certain that as lights and shades in 
 any place may vary during the course of hours, 
 any place may exhibit, during that time, a diffe- 
 rent appearance ; and accordingly, I have heard 
 an artist in the line of landscape-painting say, he 
 thought an effect adequate to change of place 
 might be obtained by merely exhibiting the same 
 objects, at different times of the day. Still greater 
 would be the difference of day and night, or some 
 accidental change in the scene, without changing 
 the place , as in the Athalie of Racine. But it is 
 not the unlettered part of an audience (which 
 judges as well as its degree of information permits) 
 aor yet those learned critics, who cautiously
 
 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 51 
 
 dissent from him, that the regular writer finds so 
 very difficult to content : it is only those admirers 
 of system, who in prologues, newspapers, &c. 
 zealously wxite down any attempt to please, ac- 
 cording to a different model from that which they 
 have determined is best ; who, finding the drama 
 either allows or requires a freer measure, do not 
 scruple to reckon harmony a fault; and who want 
 no other reason to condemn a piece than its ad- 
 hering, more strictly than usual, to the laws of 
 good sense, and, of course, departing from what 
 they mistake for English energy. Lettered critics 
 are of two sorts, one of which may be said to judge 
 according to rule, and the other by rule. The 
 first when they form their judgment of a work,have 
 already qualified their minds for the task by know- 
 ledge of the rule, but now dismiss all thoughts 
 of it, and are influenced solely by feeling ; the latter, 
 being destitute of feeling, have nothing to direct 
 them but the rule, from which they cannot depart. 
 Their inability of doing justice to merit discourages 
 it improperly, even when it acknowledges error, 
 but still more when it professes to exhibit a nearer 
 approach to perfection. 
 
 Upon the whole, it is to be wished that poets 
 D 2
 
 52 .LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 
 
 would adopt that form of composition, which they 
 feel gives them liberty to write in the happiest 
 mood. But still one form may be better than ano- 
 ther, and it may possibly happen, in process of 
 time, that dramatic effect may be so well under- 
 stood, that we shall wonder at the necessity now 
 supposed, of transgressing rules. 
 
 Unity of action has, I believe, been allowed by 
 most critics to be founded in reason. There is 
 not the same difference of opinion in respect to 
 this, as to the unities of time and place, between 
 the English critics on the one hand, and those of all 
 formertimes,andalmost all foreign countrieson the 
 other. That a fable should be one, and the events, 
 though happening at different times, and different 
 places, should be equally connected with each other, 
 and subordinate only to one principal one, is by no 
 means an unfashionable opinion, especially among 
 enlightened critics. Aristotle may be easily sup- 
 posed to entertain it, and he has considered the 
 subject in that part of his poetics, where he com- 
 pares a just fable to an animal, neither too large 
 to be taken in by the eye at one view, nor too 
 small to attract the attention.
 
 LITTERS ON THE DRAMA. 53 
 
 LETTER IX. 
 
 On Tragi. comedy. 
 
 THE new commentary on Aristotle, has some 
 very just criticism upon tragi-comedy. Mr. Pye 
 disapproves not only of the regular tragi-comedy, 
 as being contrary to the rule I last mentioned, 
 by its double plot, but condemns the union of 
 comic and tragic scenes, even in a single plot. 
 The monthly Reviewers seem not to notice the 
 distinction made by him between the tragi-comic 
 plays of Shakspeare, and those of Dryden and 
 Otway, and, as far as I understand them, approve 
 of both species ; Mr. Pye's opinion of this mat- 
 ter seems, in both instances, founded on the same 
 principle ; for even in the case of a single plot, 
 unity of action, especially in compositions not 
 more extended than a drama, appears impracti- 
 cable without unity of character; and when the ac- 
 tion becomes comic, it is no longer the same. If 
 indeed the comic parts are decidedly subordinate, 
 as in some Greek tragedies, and Homer's Iliad, 
 it offends much less. A nobleman, whose elegant
 
 54 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 
 
 pen confers literary consequence on those fine 
 arts, which are not literary, and lends a charm to 
 the dry study of the antiquary, has also success- 
 fully attempted a work of fiction, in the Castle of 
 Otranto ; but the rule recommended by precept 
 in the preface, and by example in the tale, may 
 not universally seem proper. It may be thought 
 perhaps that in the scene of the grave diggers, a 
 fault has been committed; but one of Shakspeare's 
 faults, and, as usual, more valuable than the care- 
 ful composition of another author: that a dis- 
 tinction may be made between that and the scene 
 where Antony and Brutus harangue the mob, 
 whose language is surely " vested in heroics," 
 and errs little against rule j and that whatever the 
 merit of the former scene, when considered by it- 
 self, it acts more forcibly, and to a worse effect 
 on the whole composition, than the comic parts 
 of the Castle of Otranto ; first, because it is more 
 comic, and more extended, and, secondly, be- 
 cause the march of the drama is more rapid, and 
 prevents its glancing, like the epopee, at objects 
 not pressing upon its attention ; though such in- 
 terlocutors as are here recommended may, in this 
 original example, have produced a good effect,
 
 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 5 
 
 as well as in any later work, in imitation of it; 
 yet one may possibly foresee that their blunders 
 cannot furnish inexhaustible means of giving dig- 
 nity to a work, nor tend very powerfully to en- 
 liven it. 
 
 Tragi-comedy has been sometimes of late de- 
 fended as being a more natural picture of human 
 life ; in which happiness and misfortune appear 
 alternately. But tragedy and comedy likewise 
 aspire to the praise of being pictures of human 
 life : how therefore shall we determine their com- 
 parative claims? I think in the following manner: 
 comedy is a picture of human life as it is every 
 day : tragedy is so during those great events 
 which operate powerfully upon our conduct : but 
 tragi-comedy shews the general rule observed in 
 the former, unnaturally jumbled, with the excep- 
 tion instanced in the latter. It is said, that the 
 exception proves the rule; but that is, when they 
 are argued upon as of opposite natures, and not 
 as of the same nature. In tragedy the passions 
 shine immediately and forcibly; in comedy, by 
 giving lustre to the manners; but in tragi-come- 
 dy, where the direct influence of the passions is 
 looked for, and yet the manners appear, the con-
 
 56 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 
 
 sequence is unavoidable, that their effect must 
 be weakened, and their splendour be obscured. 
 
 It is true, I confess, that what is most material 
 to please an audience, is that which is exhibited 
 at a single point of time ; so that were there. 
 a succession of stage tricks and buffooneries, 
 through a piece, with but a decent degree of 
 connection between them, it would content them ; 
 and upon this principle tragi-comedy finds fa- 
 vour. Two questions will arise naturally from 
 this. 
 
 First, if single, momentary actions are what 
 chiefly please, why is not tragi-comedy as eligible 
 a species of the drama as any other ? 
 
 Secondly, for the same reason, why need we re- 
 quire, with the author of the Pratique du Theatre, 
 any bounds to a tragedy, or say precisely, how 
 many hundred lines* it ought to consist of? 
 
 To the first question I answer, that the general 
 interest of the piece is always an addition, and 
 use may be made of this very disposition to va- 
 riety. If, instead of a comic scene, songs are 
 
 * A French tragedy it too long for an English audience ; 
 for whom ^Eschylus's plays are of a better length than those 
 of SophQcles and Euripides.
 
 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 57 
 
 introduced, the same tone of mind is preserved, 
 to increase the interest, and that variety no less 
 obtained. 
 
 To the second I answer, that though an audience 
 does not fatigue its attention by listening to every 
 word in a play, yet even stage tricks, exhibited 
 by the same persons long, will want variety.
 
 58 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 
 
 LETTER X. 
 
 Of the French Theatre. 
 
 JTALY has undoubtedly the honour of reviving 
 the regular tragedy in as perfect a manner, with re- 
 spect to its mere form, as it appeared at Athens. 
 And this would be an honour worthy of most 
 countries, but is not of one that boasts such supe- 
 rior merit ; Italy is a country, that in spite of the 
 doctrine of the rights of man, and the new philoso- 
 phy, has perpetually abounded with genius, and, 
 what is extraordinary, still more under monks, than 
 under senators. In some line or other, we every- 
 where see conspicuous characters rising round 
 us, and are tempted to cry out with the wonder- 
 ing Sybil, " quo fessum rapids, Fabii?" 
 
 The opinion Lopez de Vega had of the 
 taste of Spain, which he was obliged to comply 
 with, is known from himself. He tells us in a 
 poem, that he is obliged to neglect Sophocles, 
 Euripides, and Terence, in order to please bad 
 judges, who ought justly to have, for their money,
 
 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 59 
 
 what they prefer. But the drama was soon after- 
 wards cultivated by the French, and an union of 
 genius, with a remarkable sense of propriety, is 
 discernible in their theatre. To them we owe 
 the rule, that a drama ought, in strictness, to be 
 confined to the time of representation ; nor have 
 a few of those rules, which sensibility of taste 
 must approve, been traced by their critics. France 
 is certainly one of the few countries that have ga- 
 thered laurels in almost every part of literature, 
 and though the children of Europe are ill trusted 
 with the edge-tools of philosophy, yet, when di- 
 rected properly, their efforts have been marked 
 by a sensible increase in the genuine produce of 
 dramatic labour. On the other hand; however 
 just their rules, they have rated them too high, in 
 making them the principal test of the merit of 
 performances; and Dr. Johnson, though wrongly 
 I conceive, arguing against them, yet does it in 
 support of a good cause, by his defence of Shak- 
 speare. Mrs. Montague had the merit, during the 
 controversy between her and Voltaire, of observ- 
 ing the due medium ; and while she did justice to 
 correct composition, shewing as commendable a 
 candour to the errors of genius. Dr. Warton
 
 6O LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 
 
 considers the usual rules of the drama in the same 
 point of view, to judge from parts of his Essay on 
 the Genius of Pope. His critique on Addison's 
 Cato, remarks the fault of its unnecessarily ex- 
 ceeding the time of the representation. With- 
 out condemning French correctness, he observes, 
 in allusion to the frequent boast of it by its ad- 
 vocates, " if it means, that, because their tragedians 
 have avoided the irregularities of Shakspeare, 
 and have observed a juster economy in their fa- 
 bles, therefore the Athalie, for instance, is pre- 
 ferable to Lear, the notion is groundless and ab- 
 surd." An Englishman will not be slow to allow 
 the superiority of Lear over Athalie, as a work 
 of wit, and upon the whole ; but in the single 
 quality of taste, the other must be confessed to 
 excel most dramas. It is not merely " an absence 
 of petty faults," but an assemblage of great ex- 
 cellencies that pleases us in it ; and it possesses in 
 no small degree that spirited correctness, which 
 peculiarly respects the feelings, not of the pedant, 
 but the true scholar. 
 
 The faults of the French theatre, which are 
 most noticed by us, and are common to them and 
 the Greek tragedians, are an adoption of the de-
 
 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 6l 
 
 clamatory and narrative style. It is a style calcu- 
 lated: iiv itself to shew great poetical powers, and 
 accordingly in both the nations that have used it, 
 we have to regret that such beauties are marked 
 with any impropriety. It is, however, certain, 
 that with respect to declamation, what we want 
 is facts, not reasons; and that with respect to 
 narration, what we require is actions, and not 
 stories. But as to the peculiarity of the father 
 of the 'French stage, namely his political style, 
 considered separately from his declamatory; I 
 mean to give my reasons why I do not think it a 
 censurable peculiarity. 
 
 The ingenious critic last mentioned proceeds, 
 according to the same way of thinking, to observe, 
 " the rules of the drama, for instance, were never 
 more completely understood than at present; yet 
 what uninteresting, though faultless, tragedies, 
 have we lately seen !" He then accounts for this 
 fact, by supposing the systematic spirit so much 
 in vogue, by consulting only reason, has destroy- 
 ed sentiment. But it seems to me that the ex- 
 treme irregularity which has been often exhibited 
 on the stage, since that part of the essay was 
 written, may sufficiently prove that it is not always
 
 62 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 
 
 too much regard to reason that prevents excel- 
 lence: it seems only to be accounted for by the 
 rarity of a true turn for art in the artist, either 
 alone, or accompanied by genius, and which is 
 absolutely necessary to excel in any degree. 
 Where this is wanting, we shall in vain advise 
 authors either to observe, or reject rules. To 
 advise their rejection seems the least proper ; for, 
 as there are some whose minds, after a mere 
 sketch, grow tired of the work which has been 
 employing them, so there may be others who 
 are so animated by the idea of absolute perfec- 
 tion, that they never retouch without effect : but 
 that candour which approves of faultlessness is 
 surely preferable to that which is kind to error.
 
 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 63 
 
 LETTER XI. 
 
 Of the English Stage. 
 
 OUR school of dramatic painting appears, after 
 making these reflections, not upon the whole to 
 yield to any other, in spite of the superiority al- 
 lowed, in some respects, to the cabinets of other 
 countries. The sketches of our Salvator Rosa 
 are in so high a style, that the more faithful imita- 
 tion, the dramatic colouring of the French, has 
 in vain been relied upon to discredit them. The 
 fault of the French critics in their strictures upon 
 Shakspeare, is like that of a connoisseur, who 
 should condemn every drawing that was not co- 
 loured, and praise every one that was : but that 
 of the English critics resembles the absurdity of 
 one who should maintain, that grass and foliage 
 were of the colour of Indian ink, and that this 
 was capable of exhibiting all the varieties of na- 
 ture. Dramatic painting too, like dramatic poetry, 
 requires an extraordinary effort at preserving ex- 
 actness of imitation ; for a sketch is not out of 
 place hung up in a room; but upon the stage, we
 
 4 LETTERS OK THE DRAMA, 
 
 require that the scene should exhibit the most 
 faithful copy of nature. Qn the other hand, 
 the example of Corneille, followed by other poets, 
 has introduced in France a good taste, as far as 
 respects the observance of the unities; yet this 
 acquiescing spirit in the audiences of Paris, has 
 not preserved its due limits, but has unavoidably 
 given encouragement to the peculiar faults of the 
 French dramatists. Our audiences, on the con- 
 trary, indifferent as they are to the literary merit 
 of a piece, and looking chiefly for the amusement 
 of stage business and bustle, according to the 
 manner which Shakspeare's example has estab- 
 lished in England; yet by this liberty of thinking 
 have essentially benefited the drama; of which 
 nothing can be a greater proof than that our rivals, 
 so proud of their dramatic writers of the age of 
 Louis the Fourteenth, have not scrupled to copy 
 us in speaking, in their tragedies, more to the 
 eyes, and in rendering them less declamatory. 
 ^Voltaire did this; for when he began to write, 
 English literature was, by degrees, becoming 
 known in France, and while he was in England 
 he had an opportunity of closely examining our 
 drama ; which, though he had too mean an opinion
 
 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 65 
 
 of, he with great judgment, took hints from, for 
 the improvement of that of his own country. 
 Whence then was this improvement ultimately 
 derived ? From the undissembled wants of a Bri- 
 tish audience IT WAS OWING TO A BRITISH 
 
 GALLERY. 
 
 Let us not therefore join in the usual outcry 
 against the taste of the uninformed part of our 
 audience. To their openness we are indebted for 
 much knowledge of dramatic effect. It is an 
 hopeless task often to give satisfaction to cold 
 criticism, but the poet may much easier accom- 
 modate himself to the taste of unaffected and un- 
 biassed ignorance. This more natural style of dra- 
 matic representation is therefore the contribution 
 of our theatre to the art. We have also, as well 
 as the French, produced two works of that sort in 
 Mr. Mason's two poems, which I hold to be the 
 most perfect sort of tragedy. An ingenious po- 
 litical writer* compares the adherence to drama- 
 tic rule with the metaphysical spirit which has 
 raged in France of late years; but surely the most 
 bloodless experiment has the advantage, and, 
 
 * Sir Brook Boothby's pamphlet. 
 E
 
 66 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA'. 
 
 though it may appear like regulating ourselves by 
 abstract fitness, it must still be allowed that it is 
 also building upon old foundations* In spite of 
 the wonderful effort of the Greeks, in the invent 
 tion of the drama, we have advanced in dramatic 
 knowledge since their time, and it becomes us 
 particularly to make use of it, for the production 
 of new and more perfect works in this line. The 
 strange imagination of French critics, that because 
 our tragedies wanted regularity, we had less a 
 theatre than they had, no longer obtains respect. 
 But though our dramatic school of design in no 
 wise yields to theirs, yet the art of dramatic co- 
 louring is not perfectly established among us ; and 
 it is always esteemed an act of patriotism, and de- 
 serving commendation, to introduce any art into 
 a country. Accordingly, I have long wished that 
 writers would attempt to supply this defect in our 
 literature, till we should at length be possessed of a 
 competent number of acting tragedies, not erring 
 against those beautiful rules, the violation of 
 which has subjected our theatre to criticism. 
 This appears to me the great desideratum of 
 English literature.
 
 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 6/ 
 
 There has yet remained till now one defect in 
 the chorus, which is, that the songs are often 
 extemporaneous, and therefore less natural ; and 
 upon the whole, in estimating the progress, which 
 is owing to us, in the dramatic art, we may come 
 to this conclusion; that our experience has shewn 
 stage-effect to be chiefly necessary to it, and we 
 have drawn the inference, that incorrectness is 
 supportable ; but we have not drawn that equally 
 just one, that correctness is so likewise.
 
 68 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 
 
 LETTER XII. 
 
 Of the Battle of Eddington. 
 
 WITH the idea of English tragedy, I have de- 
 scribed in my last letter, I was induced to attempt 
 the subject of the Battle of Eddington. Hume 
 had lamented, that this pattern of kings who was 
 engaged in it, had lived in so dark an age that 
 history was not able to do justice to his merits. 
 It, in consequence, occurred to me as incumbent 
 upon Englishmen to remedy as much as possible, 
 this defect, and make poetical description, which 
 is in our power, a substitute for historical, which 
 is not. I wished to see English dramatic writers 
 vie with each other in representing this great man 
 in every part of his life : according to these ideas 
 therefore of tragedy in general, and of this subject 
 in particular, I published the first edition of my 
 play, but with too much impatience, and the more 
 as at that time, in the year 1792, the subject of the 
 English constitution engaged, in an unusual man- 
 ner, the thoughts of the public. Nothing could 
 have been more unfavourably received : the
 
 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 69 
 
 monthly Reviewers observed, that " the subject, 
 we are told, is mentioned by Milton ; but in this 
 author's hands it has not succeeded, and it is as 
 unfit for the closet as the stage." This is, as far 
 as I can recollect, their criticism. I will just 
 here remark upon the general opinion, which 
 seems to have regulated this criticism, of the exclu- 
 sive aptitude for the closet of a regular play : the 
 contrary has always seemed to me the case; but you 
 will judge from this description of my feelings. 
 When I go to see a regular play, the entrance of 
 every character is already prepared by what pre- 
 cedes in the play ; and I am never at a loss ; but 
 when a variation of the supposed time takes place, 
 I am immediately puzzled, and am ignorant of the 
 poet's new hypothesis, till I develope it by close at- 
 tention. But when I read the same play, I find that 
 information I wanted, however concisely ex- 
 pressed, at the head of every scene. A regular 
 play, therefore, seems to have an equal advantage 
 on the stage and in the closet; but an irregular 
 play loses an advantage when represented. 
 
 I carried it to Covent Garden, saying that I 
 would alter it for representation ; but it was so 
 evidently unfit to bring on, that it was returned to
 
 JO LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 
 
 . me with a refusal, though the leaves had not been 
 cut. It was also declined at Drury-lane. As I 
 was zealous in the cause of regular tragedy, I had 
 to choose whether I would alter a tragedy, the 
 subject of which was so popular, or begin another, 
 encountering greater labour, and running the risk 
 of being less supported by the subject. 1 chose 
 the former j and undertook those alterations, 
 which were undoubtedly very necessary ; but I 
 did not see absolute reason to despair of their suc- 
 cess, and hoped that, coming after such eminent 
 writers, whose plays are not often acted, I might 
 at least succeed, in the manner of that person who 
 sent the notice to Hanover of Queen Anne's 
 death;, and valued himself upon doing what the 
 great Mr. Addison was unable to do. 
 
 ' Mr. Mason did not mean to write for the stage, 
 and had he done so, could not have written at 
 that time with so much knowledge of the difficulty 
 of pleasing, within the rules, as he could now, 
 after the subsequent long experience of the ne- 
 cessity of studied stage-effect. If therefore his 
 plays are not acted so frequently as their merit 
 deserves, it cannot furnish an argument against 
 this species of writing. From Mr. Mason's criti-
 
 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 
 
 cism on Gray's Agrippina, and still more from 
 conversation with him, I know he would now use a 
 very different method in writing for the stage. 
 
 Count Alfieri has of late years, with spirit, and 
 \vith patriotism, avoided the servility of forming 
 himself exclusively upon the style of either the 
 French or English theatre, and aimed at excel- 
 lence by uniting the broken impassioned utter- 
 ance of the one, with the artificial arrangement of 
 the other. The only thing to be regretted in the 
 form of his tragedies, is the absence of the chorus ; 
 for what a superior advantage would it derive from 
 Italian singing! It was about this time that I 
 met with his tragedies, and fortunately with a 
 criticism included in the work by Ranieri di Ca- 
 salbigi, from which I derived, I think, more use- 
 ful information on the subject of dramatic effect, 
 which I was now studying, than from any thing. 
 This amusing treatise is at least marked with 
 originality : its aim is to found a system of drama- 
 tic criticism upon that single precept of Horace, 
 " ut pictura poesis erit." Its merit, however, is 
 all his own, and none owing to Horace. Living 
 in the country which contains the finest produc- 
 tions of ancient and modern art, it was natural
 
 72 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 
 
 that he should consider tragedy with the eye of a, 
 painter; and instead of speaking contemptuously, 
 as the French critics have done, of that part of 
 the drama which addresses itself to the sight, he 
 considers it as the principal. He divides a tra- 
 gedy of his friend's into what he calls a series 
 of pictures, and points out every impassioned 
 group, as if he were descanting upon the works 
 of an historical painter : this is the principal part 
 of stage-effect ; nor can we, I think, condemn it, 
 without passing a similar sentence upon the art of 
 Raphael. 
 
 I observed, not long afterwards, the effect of 
 Mr. Murphy's regular play of the Rival Sisters, 
 which though it exhibited the same scene through 
 five acts, occasioned only a faint hiss at the be- 
 ginning of the last, as if prejudice forced it un- 
 willingly from a small part of the house. I fre- 
 quently also saw a very slight change in the sce- 
 nery, a continuation of blank verse, and of the 
 serious style, through other plays, sufficiently 
 content an audience : from which I concluded, 
 that such outrageous violation of rule as is often 
 practised is by no means necessary to please ge- 
 nerally.
 
 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 73 
 
 Mr. Pye's idea of the division of the drama into 
 three acts, and his play so written, called the Siege 
 of Meaux, pleased me, as I had already formed 
 the same opinion, in reading Aristotle's Poetics, 
 though I had accidentally ended my five acts with 
 the five songs, thinking I might connect them with 
 the music between the acts. I was induced by 
 it, and also by a casual inspection of Elfrida and 
 Caractacus as altered for the stage, to divide my 
 play into three acts ; as the irregular manner in 
 which the songs appeared scattered over those, 
 plays, suggested tome the possibility of producing 
 effect by the sudden, or varied introduction of 
 music. I recollected also, that had Mr. Murphy's 
 play before mentioned, been divided into three 
 acts, it would have escaped the hiss. 
 
 In the course of the year 1792, Mr. Mason did 
 me the favour of calling, and dining with me at 
 Stoke. I mentioned to him the subject of Count 
 Alfieri's tragedies; and he seemed to think, that 
 if the same method were used, of omitting the 
 chorus, there was more hope of the success of regu- 
 lar tragedy. It gave me pleasure, not long after, 
 to have occasion to be -of a different opinion; for 
 going at that time frequently to the theatre, I
 
 74 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 
 
 could not but observe the taste of the audience 
 for what are called choruses j and it immediately 
 occurred that they might be easily grafted upon a 
 tragedy of the ancient form, and that then an au- 
 dience might suffer, indeed, the unities, but they 
 would actually admire the chorus. 
 
 In observing the ingenious machinery exhibited 
 in some pantomimes, and the great effect of ges- 
 ture and emphasis; I grew almost to think, that 
 a play as sirrjple as the Samson Agonistes, if it 
 failed, might owe its ill success either to the ac- 
 tors or the manager. But I was particularly 
 struck with the effect of apt allusions in the lan- 
 guage, and of moral and political remarks. Di- 
 derot and others, indeed, have condemned this 
 source of dramatic pleasure, according to the 
 usual affectation in French critics, of contempt 
 for stage-effect; the want of which is so per- 
 ceivable in their tragedies. I made use of this re- 
 mark in -many ways, but think I have most reason 
 to value myself upon one in particular. 
 
 Though there are many who agree with me in 
 approving of regular choral tragedies, yet I believe 
 it is an universal opinion, that Corneille, in first 
 introducing political scenes into the drama, was
 
 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. '75 
 
 not the inventor of any thing valuable, but justly 
 incurred the blame of writing what was out of 
 place, and that it might be said of such scenes, 
 " nunc non erat his opus." My desire that jus- 
 tice should be done to so great a poet, increased 
 the satisfaction I felt at making what I thought a 
 curious discovery. My inference then, from the 
 remark was as follows. I asked myself this ques- 
 tion : if a number of scattered political remarks 
 have the power each of them separately of gra- 
 tifying an audience, why may they not all com- 
 bine into a single scene, like those of Corneille? 
 Might not the striking reflections of that author 
 and of Lucan, please generally, if assisted by this 
 pointed delivery of sentiments; and are not sen- 
 timents of this cast peculiarly fit to inculcate mo- 
 ral lessons, the best object of works of fiction ? 
 I therefore, approved of the moderate use of this 
 style of dramatic writing ; and having adopted in 
 one scene, without much idea of its being possible 
 to defend it, I now altered that scene in the 
 manner which it appeared might suit the taste of 
 an audience; nor was any received with more ap- 
 plause, though it represented a serious debate
 
 76 .LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 
 
 upon the principles of liberty, and the British 
 constitution. 
 
 Was it a composition of another sort, and not 
 a play I was to publish, I should have waited to 
 improve the language in many instances ; but the 
 great object was dramatic effect, and if this is 
 allowed to be united with so much regularity, the 
 labour, surely, may be deemed sufficient. 
 
 I venture to suppose you are of opinion, that 
 the applause received was earned, as far as it 
 could be, by pains taken to render a piece accept- 
 able. Yet when it had been altered, it was a 
 second time pronounced, at Covent Garden, un- 
 fit for representation. I next thought of taking, 
 in the usual manner, the summer theatre for one 
 night : but having applied, I found that a resolu- 
 tion had been lately entered into, owing to a dis- 
 turbance on a similar occasion, of not permitting 
 any piece to be acted there for the first time. 
 This appeared to me a sad discouragement of the 
 drama : I had found that it was the custom in 
 : country theatres, to act no plays but what had 
 been performed in London j and this resolution 
 -at once made poets completely dependant upon
 
 77 
 
 the taste of managers, and prevented their being 
 able to command an audience, circumstanced like 
 those at regular theatres. Before this, provided 
 there were no objectionable sentiments in a piece, 
 the author could himself try the effect of it before 
 such an audience ; but afterwards it was impos- 
 sible ; and as a drama seems imperfect and un- 
 fit to be printed till it has been acted, there is, in 
 truth, to him, no liberty of the press. If a remedy 
 were sought for this, there may be enough at the 
 present time to suggest that of destroying the mo- 
 nopoly ; but let us consider if in this, as well as 
 other things, sensible change is always necessary 
 to improvement. Suppose that an author, on 
 making a compensation to managers for the thin- 
 ness of their houses, according to an average a- 
 greed upon, could always hire and open a theatre, 
 for one, two, or three nights, or till they allowed the 
 play had had a full and fair trial. This could not be 
 said to affect private property ; and if a drama was 
 condemned, it would, like other literary works, be 
 condemned by the public at large, and not by a 
 few people whose judgments are as fallible as 
 those of other men. Being determined, if pos- 
 sible, to have mine fairly before the public, at
 
 78 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA* 
 
 a London theatre, I found no other ready mean*, 
 except by applying to Captain Wathen, the owner 
 of the Richmond theatre ; thinking that perhaps he 
 might be willing to dispense with any prevailing 
 custom, of refusing to permit plays to be first act- 
 ed there. He very politely and readily gave his 
 consent; apd my point was consequently gained, 
 of removing the objection to my play at the Hay- 
 market theatre. 
 
 When it was bringing on at Richmond, how- 
 ever, I had before promised myself success from 
 the chorus; I now dreaded so strong a lesem- 
 blance of the ancient manner, and I did not ven- 
 ture to bring on any musician except an harper 
 and a singer, who were not accompanied by the or- 
 chestra. I found, however, fortunately, that the 
 play gave general satisfaction, though the music 
 displeased ; and from this very reason, according 
 to my former opinion, that it was different from 
 the usual style. And when it was afterwards acted 
 in town, the satisfaction given (as the music was 
 encored,) justified my intention both of hazarding 
 it upon the theatre, and doing so in that very way 
 I had originally wished. 
 
 The monthly Reviewers, who had condemned
 
 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 79 
 
 my play to line trunks^ as fit neither for the stage 
 nor the closet, may possibly be surprised that, in- 
 stead of altering it gradually to their taste, and at 
 last obtaining perhaps their approbation of it, as 
 tolerable for a classical play, I should, before 
 the second edition, have appealed to, and expe- 
 rienced favour from, a London gallery. They will 
 learn that a classical play, though formed upon 
 rules stricter than those of Aristotle's (where 
 the time of the action only equals that of the re- 
 presentation,) may be so calculated to give satis- 
 faction, that a critic cannot reckon every author 
 as sure of condemnation, who preserves the uni- 
 ties ; but that, without more caution, the harm 
 may be superior to the good they do, by leading 
 readers into error, whose taste they undertake to 
 guide. 
 
 You will have observed, that I change the 
 scene partially, without changing the place, after 
 the example I have alluded to. You may also 
 take notice of my adoption of the French method 
 of numbering the scenes, and of indicating at the 
 beginning of each the persons present. The 
 former may have its use, in a critical reference 
 to any particular scenes ; and the latter, besides
 
 80 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 
 
 its use, is, I think in print, beautifully charac- 
 teristic of the drama, when the names are printed in 
 capitals. Its use is, that the eye may immediately 
 glance to the page containing the names, and as 
 much as possible, render our conception of a play 
 read, as lively as that of a play acted. For the 
 same reason, I thought every marginal explana- 
 tion necessary, and have adhered to the English 
 custom of particularizing the exits and entrances. 
 The mode of numbering the lines, as in the 
 Greek tragedies, might be useful, where copious 
 notes are subjoined to a standard author; for it 
 furnishes a more precise reference: but otherwise, 
 the page may be sufficient. 
 
 THE END.
 
 THE 
 
 BATTLE OF EDDINGTON; 
 
 01?, 
 
 BRITISH LIBERTY.
 
 THE 
 
 BATTLE OF EDDINGTON; 
 
 OR, 
 
 BRITISH LIBERTY. 
 
 TRAGEDY. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 =S=B 
 
 PRINTED FOR ELMSLY, STRAND; FAULDER, BOND- 
 
 STREET; SEWELL, CORNHILL ; AND OWEN 
 
 AND WRITE, PICCADILLY.
 
 TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 
 
 WILLIAM PITT 
 
 SIR, 
 
 I VENTURED to dedicate to you the first 
 edition of the Battle of Eddington, recom- 
 mended only by the sincerity of my respect 
 for you, as the champion of law and order. 
 I less scruple to dedicate to you a second 
 altered edition, which derives some real 
 value from the applause of a British au- 
 dience: for you have not ceased, ever since, 
 to deserve equally the gratitude and admi- 
 ration of all, by maintaining the unequal 
 contest with your adversaries, though not, 
 on your part, rendered even partially in- 
 vulnerable by any sprinkling of execrable 
 popularity. 
 
 Posterity, Sir, will do you the justice to 
 remark, that had danger, at the present
 
 DEDICATION., 
 
 period, been apprehended from the crown, 
 the country would have found, in history, 
 consoling proofs of its 'ability to cope with 
 monarchs ; but that as it was to be looked 
 for in the metaphysical spirit growing 
 among the people, it stood in a new and 
 alarming predicament, and imposed on you 
 a task of the most arduous kind. They 
 will take notice, that the same nation, in 
 the last, and present centuries, has forced 
 the rest of Europe to unite for the preser- 
 vation of its independence, and that it has 
 at both periods manifested an equal con- 
 Jtempt of the balance of power. If I speak 
 as one prejudiced, beyond others, against 
 its politics, the reason must be sought in 
 my situation. It may not be deemed won- 
 derful that the grandson, and representa- 
 tive, in the elder branch, of the founder of 
 Pennsilvania, should think that a secondary 
 mode of law-giving, which supposes neces- 
 sary the destruction of antecedent systems 
 of government.
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 It has been, of late, a matter of literary 
 discussion, who is, or is not, the proper 
 object of a dedication. I do not know 
 whether a minister has been specifically 
 allowed such, in case the dedicator prefers 
 receiving no future benefit at his hands. 
 If he is, I shall be happy that, in the pre- 
 sent instance, a tribute has been offered., 
 not unworthy of him. 
 
 I am, Sir, 
 
 Your most obedient 
 And most humble Servant, 
 
 JOHN PENN. 
 
 Spring-Gardens, 
 April 6, 1796.
 
 What the lofty grave tragedians taught, 
 In CHORUS or IAMBIC ; teachers best 
 Of moral prudence, with delight received 
 In brief sententious precepts, while they treat 
 Of fate, and chance, and change in human life, 
 High actions and high passions best describing. 
 
 PARADISE RESAIN'O-
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 MEN. 
 
 ALFRED, King of England. 
 EDMUND, the Son and Heir of Alfred, then very 
 
 young. 
 MERVIN, Prince of South Wales, dependent on 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 ETHELRED, Minister and General of the English* 
 % 
 C E o L u P H, an English Nobleman. 
 
 A Danish Captain of Auxiliaries, brought to the 
 
 Danes from Ireland. 
 CEOLUPH'S Vassal. 
 
 Officers, Harper, and other Attendants of the Queen. 
 Soldiers of different Nations engaged in the Battle. 
 
 WOMEN. 
 
 ELSITHA, Queen of England. 
 
 EDITH A, an old Woman inhabiting the Cottage. 
 
 Female Attendants.
 
 a.*it
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 IRELAND was very early, by the successful ex- 
 ertions of St. Patrick, converted to Christianity; 
 the early progress of which also in England, had 
 perhaps tended to create an intercourse of the 
 most friendly sort, between the countries ; for ve- 
 nerable Bede informs us, that, towards the end of 
 the seventh century, Egfrid, king of Northumber- 
 land, wantonly invaded Ireland, " an harmless 
 nation," he says, " and always particularly friendly 
 to the English." In the year 853, the Danes 
 established themselves by force in that country, 
 and in the course of their wars with the inhabi- 
 tants, were gradually converted to Christianity, 
 without becoming less hostile. At the accession 
 of Alfred, in 871, they had nearly possessed them- 
 selves of this island. He succeeded his brother 
 in the twenty-second year of his age, having mar- 
 ried the sister of Buthred, tributary king of Mer- 
 cia, the beautiful and accomplished Elsitha, wha 
 supported with him the various hardships he was 
 for some years destined to endure ; and his eldest
 
 8 ARGUMENT. 
 
 son was named Edmund, who inherited some of 
 his father's talents, but died before him. In their 
 retreat among the marshes at Athelney in Somer- 
 setshire, (which has occasioned a comparison be- 
 tween his situation and that of Marius) .Alfred 
 witnessed the daily progress of the Danes, who 
 obliged Buthred to fly to Rome, and who found 
 in Ceoluph, called in the Saxon Chronicle " a cer- 
 tain thane," and one of Buthred's household, a 
 person friendly enough to their views, to make 
 them place him upon the vacant throne. During 
 the time he was in favour with the Danes, and 
 consequently in power, it appeared to be his whole 
 object to enrich himself by extortion. Ethelred, 
 a warrior eminent for virtues and talents, assisted 
 Alfred in his warlike enterprizes, and probably 
 during his distresses ; for not long after them, he 
 was made governor of London. He received 
 also in marriage, his daughter Elfleda (called the 
 English Zenobia), together with the earldom of 
 Mercia. 
 
 While Alfred sallied occasionally from his re- 
 treat, with little hopes but to support himself and 
 his followers, or take some revenge upon his ene- 
 mies/ he heard that Oddune, Earl of Devonshire,
 
 ARGUMENT. g 
 
 had defeated an army of the Danes, from Ireland 
 and other parts, who attempted to land near Ap- 
 pledore in that county, and had taken from them 
 the famous standard, which they thought was en- 
 chanted, and promised them success in war. Their 
 leader, Hubba, fell, and after burying him in a 
 solemn manner, they betook themselves to their 
 ships. On this event the prospects of Alfred be- 
 gan to brighten. 
 
 pul cher fug atis 
 
 Ille dies Latio tenebris 
 Qui primus alma risit adored, 
 Dims per urbes Afer ut Italas, 
 Ccuflamma per tadas, vel Eurus 
 Per Siculas equitavit undas. 
 
 When first glad conquest smil'd with golden 
 
 gleam, 
 
 And chas'd the dreary night, since Latium's foe, 
 Dire Africk's chief, laid waste her reign, 
 Fierce as the blazing torches glow, 
 Wild as the storm that sweeps Sicilia's main. 
 
 Mr. BOSCAWZN. 
 
 
 He immediately went, disguised as a harper, to the 
 Danish camp at Eddington, in Wiltshire, and by
 
 1O ARGUMENT. 
 
 his wit and skill in music, made himself so welcome 
 to the Danes, that he had means of forming an 
 exact judgment of the strength of the camp; which 
 their dissolute and careless manner of life render- 
 ed more easily assailable. He then privately 
 summoned those who remained attached to him 
 from all parts ; and a general meeting took place 
 at Selwood forest, on the spot where *' Alfred's 
 Tower *' was erected in honour of that event, by 
 the family of Sir Richard Hoare, the present pos- 
 sessor of the estate. From hence the army march- 
 ed, without halting, to Eddington ; and though 
 for a long time resisted by the Danes, with deter- 
 mined courage, it prevailed at length, and the 
 scattered remnant of the enemy fled to a neigh- 
 bouring castle, and soon after capitulated, in the 
 year 880. Alfred gave the Danes their liberty, 
 and granted to those, who embraced the Christian 
 religion, a large tract of land in the northern parts 
 of England. The princes of South Wales had 
 already done homage to Alfred, for their princi- 
 palities, and Anarawd, their elder brother, and 
 prince of North Wales, now followed their ex- 
 ample. Some accounts represent Scotland like- 
 wise, where Gregory the Great then reigned, as 
 X J - -
 
 ARGUMENT. 11 
 
 courting the advantage of a similar union with 
 this country. Having thus established and ex- 
 tended his power in the prime of life, and being 
 in the highest degree, possessed of every great and 
 good quality, he was enabled more effectually to 
 labour in the great work of laying the foundations 
 of the English government, before his death took 
 place, A. D. 900. 
 
 The above facts are true, according to the most 
 credible accounts ; but the texture of the fable, 
 and other incidents, are wholly imaginary.
 
 .... 
 
 

 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 The picture deign to judge with candour due, 
 We now prepare to exhibit to your view ; 
 Help'd by no study of effect , that draws, 
 In spite of nature, from the crowd applause: 
 * It aims alone to please, with sober art, 
 Nor with pathetic varnish thrill the heart. 
 The subject you willjind (bowe'er remote, 
 To Britons born of memorable note,) 
 The final contest, when the Danes, who long 
 With rage relentless, and with numbers strong, 
 Threat'ned the hopes of England to overwhelm, 
 By Alfred's genius baffled, fled the realm ; 
 And years of peace the victor could employ, 
 To plan that freedom which we now enjoy. 
 
 to the side boxes. 
 
 Ton to whom rank and fortune grant on earth 
 A power unrivall'd to encourage worth ; 
 See to what cause ye owe the prosperous state, 
 Whence we are destined to behold, elate, 
 The foreign tribes, who art's perfection boast, 
 On all sides, hasten to our island's coast :
 
 14 PfcOLOGUfi. 
 
 [looking round the house. 
 And you, who shew, without a wish to roam, 
 Britain's pre-eminence in arts at borne ; 
 And taste with industry combine, tbe land 
 To adorn, and distant markets to command ; 
 Observe tbe fortune of that glorious day, 
 Since which tbe laws all equally obey ; 
 Have rous'd your enterprise, and bid you feel 
 Your own advantage in tbe public weal: 
 
 [to the gallery. 
 
 You too, on whose support our state relies, 
 Of tbe just measures of the good and wise ; 
 To which your ardour, by no hindrance cbeck'd, 
 And loyal spirit, wisely give effect, 
 Proof to tbe specious arguments of foes - t 
 See bow that honour' d government arose: 
 Wbicb ever has secur'd, and will secure, 
 Alike from violence tbe rich and poor; 
 And both of ease and freedom, gives you more, 
 With comfort join' d, than has been felt before. 
 
 [to aH. 
 
 If these reflections, tbe design suggests, 
 Excite a generous bias in your breasts ; 
 Tbe solemn sentence we shall wait unaw'd, 
 Sure you will mildly censure or applaud.
 
 THE 
 
 BATTLE OF EDDINGTON. 
 
 ACT. I. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Eddington. The morning mists and sbades, cast 
 by the surrounding bills, render the distant ob- 
 jects confused. In the foreground, which is il- 
 luminated by the early and slanting rays, a cot- 
 tage , at the border of a wood, on one side, and, 
 another wood on the opposite one. Enter the 
 English driving the Danes before them. After- 
 wards, 
 
 Mervin, Etbelred. Soldiers waiting. 
 
 Etbelred. 
 
 A.D VANCE the prisoner, soldiers. Here I wait 
 you. [Exeunt Soldiers.
 
 l6 THE fcATTLl [Act /. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 Mervin, Etbelred. 
 
 At length, brave Mervin, to our firm attack, 
 Have the fierce Danes given way, and, o'er the 
 
 plain, 
 
 Soft-hearted pity hails the quiet hour, 
 Hope promises so near of victory. 
 Fortune looks kinder on us ; yet I fear'd, 
 Believe me, prince, our enemy's success, 
 Who rallying, drove us, in the warm pursuit, 
 Back from this conquer'd station, threat'ned worse. 
 Much I suspect it sprang from treachery. 
 
 Merv. Thy words must fill each hearer with 
 
 amaze. 
 
 Can Britons, valiant Ethelred, exist 
 So base of soul, as privately to treat 
 With foreign armies, and betray the cause, 
 Both of their country, and the Christian world ? 
 
 Etb. I fear it is too certain, and my fears, 
 I trust, preserv'd us. I have now oppos'd 
 As Alfred's general, with due success, 
 Ere 'twas too late, the progress of the danger. 
 A timely movement has secur'd, perhaps.
 
 Act /.] OF EDD1NGTON. I/ 
 
 The British army, and this plotting lord, 
 Cannot, I trust, surround us. 
 
 Merv. Who is this, 
 
 Rank only makes conspicuous to disgrace him ? 
 Eth. [gluing a letter.^ That scroll may best 
 
 explain the doubtful story. 
 Merv. None, sure, can doubt. Lord Ceoluph 
 
 has sign'd it, 
 
 And treats full plainly with the troops of Ireland, 
 Who war against us opposite that ground, 
 Which, with his troops, he holds. 
 
 Eth. It is his vassal, 
 
 Who, ere he left the precincts of our army, 
 Was seized, and found the bearer of this letter. 
 Merv. What are thy orders ? shall I seek the 
 
 traitor, 
 Among his very guards? 
 
 Etb. No ; I will seek him. 
 We must be secret here, lest he escape, 
 Finding our purpose; and, in truth, respect; 
 Is his just due, till evidence disprove 
 He entertain'd our former hope, to draw 
 These Irish to our side. 
 
 Merv. Whence rose your hope? 
 Etb. Well thou remember'st that late victory 
 B
 
 l8 THE BATTLE \_Act /. 
 
 On Devon's shore, when Danish Hubba fell, 
 And those who follow'd him, to invade us, fled 
 Astonish'd at our unexpected valour, 
 And sought their ships, leaving our men trium- 
 phant. 
 'Twas what first cheer'd our drooping spirits, and 
 
 thou 
 
 Wast straight encourag'd to declare thy friendship; 
 And, with thy subjects of South Wales, hast 
 
 join'd us! 
 
 Merv. 'Tis true, we boldly fix'd on our allies ; 
 But how could Ireland's conquer'd sons discover 
 Aversion to their lords, or love to us? 
 
 Etb. Know that when, mask'd in a mean harp- 
 er's habit, 
 
 The king pass'd unsuspected many a day 
 Within the Danish camp, he found those troops 
 Muttering reproach against their pagan masters ! 
 While he, and every Briton, for the achievement, 
 Were grac'd with their unanimous applause, 
 Their zeal almost broke forth in mutiny. 
 
 Merv. Ah ! why was not some earlier compact 
 
 form'd? 
 
 Etb. The time would ill permit, and Alfred 
 rather
 
 Act /.] OF EDDINGTON. i 
 
 Chose to forbear, when first our forces met, 
 Than lose the occasion to surprise our foes, 
 While they were plung'd in thoughtless revelry, 
 And dreamt not of us But the vassal comes. 
 
 Merv. Name then the service, which thy wis- 
 dom deems 
 
 Best suited to the powers I consecrate 
 To the great cause we fight for. 
 
 Rib. Honour'd chief ! 
 The inquiry, which our duty now enjoins, 
 May soon determine thee wait here its issue,. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Me re in > Et Lei red. To them re-enler Soldiers witb 
 Vassal in chains. 
 
 Elb. Dost thou still plead, the object of thy 
 
 errand 
 Was for the general good ? 
 
 Vass. Truth cannot vary : 
 My first assertion may condemn, or clear me. 
 Etb. P'avour will not be shewn to stubbornness. 
 Vass. I seek no favour, but from English laws. 
 Etb. Thy speech is bold : But, with this letter, 
 say, 
 
 B 2
 
 2O 
 
 What message did thy lord entrust to thee ? 
 
 Fass. [ Aside. ~] How answer this ? ^loud.~\ It was 
 
 to warn the Irish 
 
 That reconcilement would become two lands 
 So leagu'd, as legends tell us ours have been, 
 In constant amity, from earliest times : 
 Supporters both of the pure Christian faith ; 
 (While unbelieving tribes nigh wrought its down- 
 fall) 
 
 Till one late lost that honourable title. 
 This he conjur'd the Irish to recover, 
 Again unite with us, and dread to leave 
 A growing labour to our single strength. 
 
 Eth. Thy tale is plausible, as is thy spirit 
 Ready to improve the advantage of free laws ; 
 Whose lenity, though wise, oft screens the guilty, 
 And renders odious the firm foes of treason. 
 Yet do not they regard it. British justice 
 Can note the obstacles by freedom raised, 
 And glory in them. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Mervin, Ethelred, Vassal^ Soldiers. To them 2d 
 Officer, and some of the Queen's Attendants. 
 
 2 Off. Give, respected lord,
 
 Act /.] OF EDDINGTON. 21 
 
 Quick counsel to the queen, the fair Elsitha, 
 Who, with her son, young Edmund, seeks this 
 cottage. 
 
 Etb. No sooner we succeed to advance one step, 
 Than fate returns us to the ground we left. 
 How came you ? 
 
 2 Off". Captive led, from our retreat, 
 By stragglers, seeking here their countrymen; 
 But rescu'd, not far distant, by our troops. 
 
 Etb. How could they pierce the marshes which 
 conceal'd you? 
 
 2 Off". They did not. Scarce you left us, when 
 
 the queen 
 
 Found in the apartment an unopen'd writing, 
 Which darkly warn'd the king of ill designs. 
 Deaf to remonstrance, to o'ertake the army, 
 She rashly ventur'd forth. 
 
 Etb. Thou hast, brave prince, 
 An apt occasion to exert thy zeal : 
 Go to the army, and conduct a band 
 Hither, to guard the queen. 
 
 Merv. Ere long expect it. [Exit.
 
 22 THE BATTLE [_Act 1^ 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 Etbelred Attendants, Vassal, Soldiers. 
 
 Etb. You from her right remove, my friends, 
 
 the prisoner ; 
 
 But watch him near and closely. He must soon 
 To Alfred answer, on a charge of treason. 
 
 [Exeunt Ait. and Vassal. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 
 Etbelred, Attendants, Soldiers. To them, enter 
 Elsitba, Edmund, and other Attendants. 
 
 Els. What did I hear of Alfred and of treason ? 
 Alas, I plainly see, J have been led 
 By no false warning to resume my fear 
 Of treachery's deeds, and tremble for his life! 
 Those fetters, Ethelred, full surely prove it : 
 Yes, they declare that enemies at home 
 (The basest enemies) assist the Danes; 
 They hold their meetings, and they \vhet their 
 daggers.
 
 Act /.] or ED-DINGTON. 23 
 
 Not all the qualities that grace your king, 
 
 His spotless virtue, or his public spirit ; 
 
 Not all his wisdom can unite the people, [weeps. 
 
 Elb. Princess, the danger is at length subdu'd, 
 And what there was, thy fears had magnified. 
 
 Els. Ah, be not too secure: for have not, say, 
 Too often base assassins, won by Danes, 
 Pledg'd them, ere this, their horrible support ? 
 
 Elb. We now less fear it. His reviv'd ad- 
 herents, 
 
 Rouz'd from the lethargy of long distress, 
 And still excited by this day's advantage, 
 Will keep a wakeful eye upon their prince, 
 Through the contending crowd. Hope feeds their 
 
 zeal. 
 
 Even now, among the troops, to every mind 
 Does fond remembrance trace his various merits > 
 Mark'd in their looks, their voices, as we pass; 
 His matchless eloquence, his manly beauty, 
 His martial glory is the theme of all. 
 
 1 Off. My lord, our purpose waits thy ap- 
 probation. 
 
 Etb. You mean to search that cot ? 
 
 1 Off". Yes ; o'er the plain 
 Its solitary shelter caught our notice,
 
 24 THE BATTLE [Ad I. 
 
 Shewn by the rising sun ; we came forthwith : 
 We -would prepare it for the queen's reception. 
 
 Etb. Do so; but learn, I must depart in speed ; 
 And be not too long absent from your queen, 
 Though you be thus advis'd. Suspect all counsel, 
 Till Mervin's presence, with the guards, secure you. 
 [Exeunt 1 Off. and some Attendants, into the 
 cottages. 
 
 SCENE VIL 
 Elsitba t Edmund y Etbelred, Attendants^ Soldiers. 
 
 Etb. Soldiers, return, like lightning, to the 
 
 army ; 
 
 And tell the king what here demands his presence! 
 1 Sold. We shall not linger in our way, to 
 
 drive 
 
 Invaders from the land. 
 Eib. 'Twas spoke like Britons. [Exeunt Soldiers.
 
 Act I.~\ OF EDDINGTON. 25 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 
 Ehitha, Edmund^ Etbelred, Attendants. 
 
 Eth. Princess, the expected chief will SOOR 
 
 relate 
 What haste forbids me, and dispel thy fears. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 
 Elsitha> Edmund, Attendants. 
 
 Els. Ill hadst thou far'd, poor wretch, had it 
 
 prov'd true 
 Thy father had been slain. How wouldst thou 
 
 hope 
 To rule a country? how conduct thyself 
 
 When we had triumph'd over these our foes? 
 Edm. But often, sure, I heard thee tell my 
 
 father, 
 That we should never gain the victory. 
 
 Els. Now, child, the times are chang'd; the 
 wise assure us
 
 26 THE BATTLE \_Act I. 
 
 Our new allies give us full cause for hope. 
 We shall with ease subdue our adversaries. 
 
 Edm. Who is the al y ? 
 
 Els. The powerful king of Scotland; 
 Who sends his forces to support thy father ; 
 And would ensure thy birthright by his arms. 
 
 Edm. May Heaven reward him for his gracious 
 
 aid 
 
 Against the wicked ; those who slew its priests, 
 And burnt the holy places of its worship. 
 
 Els. But all their brave endeavours vs ill be vain, 
 If thou, an helpless claimant of the crown, 
 Canst not compose the jarring interests, 
 And guard with policy what they restore, 
 For thine, and England's surety. 
 
 Edm. I will try : 
 For I remember what my father said. 
 
 Els. What hast thou heard him say? 
 
 Edm. " A king's first care, " 
 He told us, " was to single virtue forth ; 
 And make mankind respect its bright example." 
 Oft too he said, " he ought not to forget, 
 Those trusty subjects, who, in all his sufferings a 
 Fought at his side, or shar'd in his distress." 
 So would I treat my friends.
 
 Act /.] OF EDDINGTOX. ZJ 
 
 Els. And how thy foes ? 
 Edm. As I have seen my father. 
 Els. How was that? 
 Edm. He spared the conquer'd Danes, and 
 
 heard their prayers ; 
 
 Saying, " resentment towards our enemies 
 Disgraced the conqueror, and was mean and 
 
 useless. 
 
 The humbled wretch could not be humbled more; 
 'Twas folly then to spurn his gratitude, 
 When clemency might win it, fix his love, 
 And in his heart, though savage, plant the seeds 
 Of justice, loyalty, and mild religion." 
 
 Els. [embracing him.~] Bless'd be thy memory, 
 
 and that ready judgment 
 
 Which stamps its use ; when slow maturing time 
 Shall waken in thy mind its latest fruits, 
 Mayst thou, my child, reward a parent's care ; 
 Mayst thou pursue the footsteps of thy sire, 
 And reach, with him, true glory,
 
 J&8 THE BATTLE 
 
 SCENE X. 
 
 Elsitba, Edmund, Attendants. To tbem t enter 
 Attendants from the cottage. 
 
 1 Off. Queen, we found 
 The tenant of this cot, oppress'd with fears 
 Which the loud tumult of the battle round her 
 Had cherish'd long. The well known garb of 
 
 Britons, 
 
 As on our entering troop she fix'd her eyes, 
 At once reliev'd her mind, and cheer'd her aspect. 
 
 SCENE XL 
 
 Elsitba, Edmund t Attendants. To tbem t enter 
 Editba t from tbe cottage. 
 
 Els. Much we rejoice, good cottager, to think 
 Thou art not willing to withhold thy aid 
 From Britons in distress. 
 
 Edm. Whate'er assistance
 
 Act /.] OF EDDINCTON. 29 
 
 Lies in the power of helpless Editha, 
 You may command. It is, alas! too small, 
 Besides her daily prayers to righteous Heaven 
 For the good king's success. 
 Els. Lead, worthy friend, 
 
 Where we may now repose: and take our thank*. 
 Know, loyalty in dangerous times like these, 
 Honours, however helpless, those who feel it, 
 And merits gratitude from all that's virtuous. 
 [Exeunt Elsitba, Editba, and Edmund, into 
 the cottage. 
 
 SCENE XII. 
 Attendants. 
 
 1 Off. (to the harper.) Methinks your art, though 
 
 not intended e'er 
 
 For such a place, were properly employ 'd 
 To soothe the queen, and, while it can, prevent 
 The ills of painful thought. 
 
 2 Off. 'Tis wisely counseled : 
 
 Yes ; let this desert hear harmonious sounds. 
 1 Off'. At least, if ever, now she needs relief,
 
 gO THE BATTLE \_Act 1. 
 
 When treason to war's terrors adds its own, 
 So fearfully o'ermatching female weakness. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 You -whom low gain, in secret ', arms 
 Against Jair Britain, favoured queen, 
 
 Ah, bear her plead her varied charms, 
 Of social towns, and meadows green! 
 
 See bliss obey her sage command; 
 
 'And spare, ah spare your native land / 
 { 
 
 If other climes his gifts produce, 
 
 Where vintage crowns the race of toil - 
 
 Or fruits of a more tasteful juice, 
 That ripen in the sunny soil ; 
 
 Heaven showers on us with lavish band; 
 
 Then spare, ah spare your native land! 
 
 Our chosen fields, the happy reign 
 Of freedom boast, with reason join 'd; 
 
 Hence industry o'er every plain 
 Suri'eys the wonders she design' d:
 
 Act /J OF EDDINGTOM. 
 
 Wide harvests wave, flocks feeding stand, 
 And bid you spare your native land. 
 
 No common, ardour fires the soul 
 Of Britons that, to Alfred true, 
 
 Mark his past laws the unjust controul, 
 And ho he his future toils to -view. 
 
 For he your rising greatness plann'd, 
 
 Who bids you spare your native land. 
 
 He, to repel the furious foe, 
 
 First shelter' d with a fleet our coast ; 
 (Reserved our best defence to show,) 
 
 Which henceforth shall be Britain's boast. 
 This praise, at least, his deeds demand ; 
 Then spare, ah spare your native land ! 
 
 Or if this king, this country, fail, 
 Te hold, to merit your applause-, 
 
 Haste where less haughty lords prevail ; 
 Where justice springs from freer lavas. 
 
 Go ; ease our fears, a blameless band ; 
 
 And spare, ah spare your native laud!
 
 32 THE BATTLE \_Ad /. 
 
 SCENE XIII. 
 Attendants. To tbem enter Ceolitpb. 
 
 1 Off. Thou, whom we see approaching to this 
 
 spot, 
 
 Art come, we hope, and by thy garb presume, 
 With friendly purpose. 
 
 Ceo. Friendly sure to Britons 
 He comes, who, summon'd to a meeting here, 
 Aims only to deliberate on their welfare. 
 Yes, Ceoluph still owns unr.ivall'd zeal ; 
 And say, intent upon what separate project, 
 You shun the war ? 
 
 1 Off. Our office is our answer: 
 We are not among those the war has brought. 
 
 Ceo. What! is the queen arriv'd? the event I 
 
 feel 
 
 Sufficient to alarm a loyal breast : 
 But say, can Ceoluph's advice avail her; 
 Or has she met with earlier counsellors ? 
 
 1. Off. Some we have seen, and thankfully 
 
 decline 
 The courteous offer.
 
 Act I."] OF EDDINGTON. 33 
 
 Ceo. Yet I still may serve you 
 By joyful tidings : for I wait the king. 
 
 Vass. [behind the scenesj] Yes, 'tis Lord Ceo- 
 luph. O give me way. 
 
 Ceo. These accents seem familiar to my ear. 
 
 1 Off. We only know 'tis one accus'd of treason; 
 Perhaps for this thou hast the royal summons. 
 
 SCENE XIV. 
 
 Ceolupb, Attendants. To them, enter Vassal, 
 breaking from bis keepers. 
 
 Vass. O lend thy aid to suffering innocence ! 
 Hear, my good lord. 
 
 Ceo. I know this man, my friends, 
 And curious am to learn what shameful charge 
 Vass. I heard the news of the intended 
 
 meeting, 
 
 My lord, deliver'd in a well known voice, 
 And came. O tell the king my innocence. 
 
 Ceo. Let me in private question him, my 
 
 friends ; 
 
 I gather from his agitated air, 
 
 C
 
 34 THE BATTLE [Ad I. 
 
 He less confusedly would unfold his tale 
 If unobserv'd. 
 
 1 Off. [to tbe Attendants.'] Retire you to the 
 
 wood 
 
 From whence the prisoner came, and thence ob- 
 serve him, 
 
 As is your duty, but remote from hearing: 
 We, with the caution which our general counsell'd, 
 Will, in the cottage, near the queen remain. 
 
 ' [going. 
 
 Ceo. But still beware lest her too great impa- 
 tience 
 
 Afflict her in the important conference ; 
 Say not the king waits here. 
 lOff. My lord, I will not. 
 [Exeunt 1 Officer with a few into tbe cottage, 
 ,nd tbe other Attendants into tbe wood. 
 
 SCENE XV. 
 Ceolupb, Vassal. 
 
 Ceo. Now we may freely speak. What mean 
 those chains ?
 
 Act /.] OF EDDINGTON. 35 
 
 Do they not bode such knowledge of our purpose, 
 As blasts all hope. 
 
 Vass. No, thanks to the old spirit 
 Of Saxon liberty, whose nicety brooks not 
 That summary conviction which denies 
 The respite I enjoy. I firmly answer'd, 
 Trusting that time would furnish means of flight. 
 O my good lord, how hadst thou smil'd to hear 
 Thy slave debate the interests of Ireland! \laitgbs. 
 Ceo. 'Twas wisely done; the plea that freedom 
 
 yields us, 
 
 Shall make its cause our own, though we despise it : 
 But say, must Alfred and his family 
 Meet at my risk ; he will not soon release me, 
 Hearing from them that treason's in the wind. 
 Vass. I guess'd thy late injunction was to 
 
 hinder 
 
 The queen's ill-timed appearance, and 'twas well ; 
 Yet art thou ignorant of half our hopes. 
 Know, enterprise will have a noble field, 
 And we be gainers by our seeming hindrance; 
 Retarded only with his queen and son, 
 No vulgar hostages, to join the Danes. 
 
 Ceo. What is thy plan? say, did the Danes 
 suggest, 
 
 C*
 
 36 THE BATTLE \_Ad I. 
 
 On my first message, any means of this ? 
 
 Vass. Yes ; so they hop'd to repossess this 
 
 station ; 
 
 I thought the mention useless, when our general 
 Led on the charge, and overbore resistance. 
 Then quickly seize the occasion: feign a flight, 
 The Irish will pursue, arid our mix'd bands 
 From ambush burst on these defenceless quarters. 
 
 Ceo. But why defenceless? you expect I judge 
 The guards. 
 
 Vass. They will possess the avenues 
 Conducting to this ground. 
 
 Ceo. And so repel us. 
 
 Vass. No ; beneath one a Roman arch was found 
 To pass unseen, that in the distant wood 
 Is open'd, and appears. 'Twas pierc'd so late, 
 Not even the neighbouring tenant of this cottage 
 Can give due notice of the wish'd surprise, 
 Should you attempt it ; but its outlet, mark'd 
 By yonder rugged hillock, will admit you 
 Ev'n to this spot, deceiving every guard. 
 
 Ceo. I know not how we may fall back un- 
 seen 
 
 Again, so far retreating under ground ; 
 Above it, now we shall be closely watch'd*
 
 Act IJ] OF EDDINGTON. 37 
 
 Vass. Then quickly leave the king, and seek 
 the army. 
 
 Ceo. No j first the chance of a more flattering 
 
 fortune 
 
 Must not pass slighted by ; for, be assured, 
 I meditate one final effort now 
 To gain the royal favour, long enjoy'd 
 By the unworthy minions of his reign. 
 O think how I should triumph in their downfall ! 
 Besides, the English cause is now successful. 
 
 Vass. Be not deceiv'd ; he never will desert 
 His loyal servants. 
 
 Ceo. Am I then to learn 
 That interest is man's god, and Alfred human ? 
 My power is matchless in the land, my will, 
 If kindly he receive the overture, 
 Prepar'd to crown him a despotic prince. 
 
 Vass. Thou -wilt delay the attempt, my lord, 
 
 till time 
 
 (Which we most fear,) give credit to the charge ; 
 And ev'n thy own retainers dare not aid thee. 
 
 Ceo. If I succeed in this, remember, thou 
 Wilt soar with me to all the heights of favour. 
 
 Vass. And, if thou fail, captivity will sink me.
 
 38 THE BATTLE \_Act 1. 
 
 Ceo. That is less sure When thou could hope 
 
 so late 
 For means of flight, what raises thy despair ? 
 
 Vass. But see, the king approaches with his 
 
 followers; 
 
 To wait their coming might be fatal to thee, 
 If he have heard the tale of our detection ; 
 And hazard thy arrest See, he speaks to them. 
 
 Ceo. 'Tis but to enjoin them to remain aloof; 
 While he comes on alone. Thanks to yon 
 
 thickets, 
 
 He has not seen one messenger to instruct him ; 
 Do thou draw only farther still from hence 
 The queen's attendants, lest discovery 
 Again be risk'd. 
 
 Vass. I go, without delay. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE XVL 
 Ceolupb. To bim t enter Alfred. 
 
 Alf. A sound of voices reach'd me, as I came, 
 Assisted by this stillness of the air;
 
 Act /.] OF EDDINGTON. 39 
 
 I fear, my lord, I mar some conference. 
 
 Ceo. 'Twas one subordinate, who listening took 
 His orders ; he resigns his place to Alfred. 
 
 Alf. This careful secrecy becomes a meeting 
 Of different sort; time only now permits me 
 To ask thee the position of thy troops. 
 
 Ceo. Yet did I dare to think, ere Alfred form'd 
 The solemn contract between king and people, 
 And rude beginnings of the British state, 
 The well-meant counsels of plain honesty 
 Might gain his patient hearing. 
 
 Alf. Is't then so ? 
 
 And mean'st thou to discuss what might employ 
 A senate long, now in the hour of battle. 
 
 Ceo. Yes ; for 'tis now that prudence most 
 
 requires 
 
 The close discussion of this weighty subject; 
 While thou hast yet within thy power the meant 
 To make it useful. I bestow those means : 
 My well-prov'd followers, if thou say the word, 
 Shall, when the rest victoriously disband 
 After our tedious toils, remain in arms; 
 They shall compel the people to adopt 
 What laws thou wilt, and prove that CeolupK 
 May be suspected, but was ever loyal.
 
 40 THE BATTLE [Act /. 
 
 Alf. 'Tis, I acknowledge, an important counsel, 
 Nor mark'd with feeble resolution, this 
 To levy war upon my subjects, led 
 By dreams of fancied good. Yet let me say, 
 Our maxims differ wide ; I hold, my lord, 
 That only is, in states, an wholesome change 
 Which springs from peace and unanimity. 
 
 Ceo. May then no spirit of rebellious sort, 
 We could prevent, burst forth among the people, 
 And spread destructive to whate'er we prize ? 
 If so, to extinguish it asks active care. 
 
 Alf. What instance canst thou bring in proof 
 of it ? 
 
 Ceo. Their swelling hopes, that undissembled 
 
 zeal 
 
 With which all cry, " Alfred will surely grant us 
 Those rights our Saxon ancestors possess'd; 
 He will restore us the regretted jury." 
 
 Alf. *Tis that same argument, which, in thy 
 
 judgment, 
 
 Declares them wrong, that rescues them, in mine, 
 From every blame, and justifies their hopes : 
 ^or be assur'd, if any recompence 
 Of public services to me were grateful, 
 It were that Britons should, in future, say,
 
 /.] OF EDDINGTON. 41 
 
 * c Alfred establish'd here the ancient jury." 
 
 Ceo. Did I, as clearly know that government 
 Thy wisdom plans, as this divulged intention, 
 I should not hesitate, my liege, to affirm 
 What rights consist with it, or what possess 
 Too uncongenial natures to endure it. 
 If to the people's judgment thou confide 
 The helm of state, thy reverence of their will, 
 Steer they or wrong or right, will ne'er prevent 
 them. 
 
 Alf. Think not I wish democracy should rule 
 In England's realm : too rare is its success. 
 
 Ceo. And yet I know no other government ; 
 Where such wide liberty of speech and action, 
 Unaw'd by power, can prove the people's boast, 
 
 Alf. Instead of governments which have been 
 
 tried, 
 
 Think but of one Rome's sages sought to try, 
 And 'twill unriddle all the mystery : 
 For 'tis that time (which never may return) 
 When theory, to statesmen oft delusive, 
 Can, without dread of harm, give law to practice. 
 I hope, my lord, to see in this our island, 
 Power duly dealt among three different orders ;
 
 4* THE BATTLE [Ad /. 
 
 King, lords, and commons; and Heaven speed 
 their counsels ! 
 
 Ceo. [AsideJ] Here is an unexpected road to 
 
 favour : 
 I'll instant strike into the lucky track. 
 
 Alf. What sayst thou of our hope to realize 
 The beauteous visions of immortal men 
 In the calm shades of philosophic ease ? 
 
 Ceo. Mute with amazement, I contemplate, sire, 
 That penetrating sense which could discover 
 When theory lays down her harlot arts, 
 And give her heighten'd charms secure to Britons. 
 Yes, let me now congratulate the country, 
 In which true liberty shall first be seen : 
 The nations of the earth, in future times, 
 Shall view with envy this high-favour'd isle ; 
 (Where policy unites each true advantage,) 
 And, while they sum its blessings, think of Alfred. 
 
 Alf. It gives me joy, since thou art satisfied 
 With my design, that such repugnance conquer'd, 
 Leaves us no further subject of delay. 
 
 Ceo. Believe it, ardently, my liege, I hope 
 To second thy great aim, and, if thou speak, 
 Hasten to execute whate'er commands
 
 Act /.J OF EDDINGTON. 43 
 
 Are given, and justify thy confidence : 
 Name but the office thou design'st. 
 
 Alf. My lord? 
 
 Ceo. No slow or sluggish agent shall I be 
 To do thy will ; tell me, I say, my liege, 
 What -warlike enterprize shall be my task 
 To forward thy intent, and how I may, 
 Partaking of thy councils, prove at once 
 My secrecy and zeal. 
 
 Alf. The topic seems 
 More copious than erewhile, nor longer fit 
 To be debated here. Tell me, my lord, 
 Where lie thy troops ? 
 
 Ceo. That path conducts to them. 
 
 Alf. Then know, I purpos'd to inspect them 
 
 with thee, 
 
 From some adjoining place, and on our way 
 Can hear whatever thou mayst choose to treat of. 
 Dispatch that business soon, which, when I came, 
 Employ'd thee, and o'ertake me in the wood. 
 
 [Exit.
 
 44 THE JBATTLB, [Ad L 
 
 SCENE XVII. 
 Ceolupb. 
 
 Ceo. I see how likely is my suit to prosper. 
 Neglect in one, whom we can harm, becomes 
 Intolerable as insult. [looking after Alfred.'] 
 
 My obedience 
 Thou hast once more, 'tis after that revenge.
 
 Act II. ~] OF EDDINGTON. 45 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 The progress of the day discovers the background 
 of the prospect , hitherto in shade , as the fore- 
 ground is at present. The ruins now appear, 
 on a distant bill, of a monastery, which bad 
 been destroyed by the Danes ; and near -which, as 
 was usual, a stream passes, rushing down the 
 declivity. 
 
 Attendants. 
 
 1 Off. I tremble, hearing~you, to view yon scene 
 Display'd, so brightly, by the ascending sun, 
 The work of no far, distant enemy. 
 
 Then has the chief, by this deceitful tale, 
 Withdrawn the king from hence. 
 
 2 Off. We could not find them ; 
 
 Though promised Alfred would survey the 
 ground,
 
 46 THE BATTLE [Act II. 
 
 So better to secure the queen ; and then 
 Would hasten to her presence. 
 
 1 Off. While designs 
 
 Areform'd against us, do our guards delay? 
 
 2 Off. No ; late we saw the prince disposing 
 
 them, 
 
 And told him our distress, ere we return 'd 
 To make it known to you. Behold, he comes. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 Attendants. To them, enter Meruin. 
 
 \ Off. Prince, we would gladly learn what cause 
 
 of fear 
 
 This lord's suspicious conduct gives to us. 
 Merv. The general's promptness has remov'd 
 
 already, 
 
 My friends, all cause ; he knew no hostile force 
 Could leave the assembled army, ere these suc- 
 cours ; 
 
 He rather hopes the king will be deceiv'd 
 By some new wile ; from which his wisdom guard 
 him !
 
 Act //.] OF EDDINGTON. 47 
 
 If the queen need my presence, I would know, 
 And do her will ; I shall not be far off. [ Exit. 
 
 SCENE III, 
 Attendants. 
 
 I Off'. I will convey the message, and meanwhile 
 Let music's sound exhilarate the queen, 
 As she desir'd, commending graciously 
 Our late attention. [Exit into ibe cottage. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 Attendants. 
 
 2 Off. \to the harper.'] Far thou wilt not, sure, 
 Seek for a subject ; to the worthy prince, 
 Who late has left us, thou may'st now do honour, 
 And sing the praise of Arthur, and of Wales.
 
 48 THE BATTLE \_Ad II. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 When Arthur fill* d the island-throne, 
 
 He stemm'd the boisterous flood that pour'd 
 The exbaustless strife ; on hosts alone 
 
 The champion urg'd bis guardian sword, 
 Piercing the Angle's firm array \ 
 The Power invoked to Christians known, 
 As shed its shining blade a ray 
 Auspicious to the Briton's fame, 
 
 And, to the savage tribe of Thor, 
 
 Amazement, o'er the flies of war, 
 And death, where'er it darted, came. 
 
 Chiefs prostrate lie, whose aspect awes, 
 As oaks with ruin heap the ground, 
 
 Fall'n, ere the threats of lightning pause, 
 And cease the whirlwind-waste around. 
 
 For toils like these, the Cambrian sings, 
 
 Absolved from nature's common laws, 
 
 The destin'd sire of future kings 
 
 Reclines on flowers of fairy land ; 
 And, o'er the race beflr'd in vain 
 With freedom, and his ancient reign, 
 
 Again shall stretch his wish'd command.
 
 Ad 77. ] OF EDDINGTOX. 49 
 
 Bat. tell , my harp, that from on bigb 
 Subdued the terrors of the tomb; 
 
 He sees fierce arts from Albion fly, 
 
 Rejoicing in bis country's doom ; 
 
 SMS old Consent, and public Care 
 
 Greet us with titles arms deny, 
 
 And sends bis banisb'd bands to share 
 
 A friendship may forever live ; 
 
 While to the land the victor sways 
 Their names alike (if such be praise) 
 
 Tbe foes of other ages give. 
 
 SCENE K 
 
 Attendants. To them, enter Alfred meeting 
 1 Officer. 
 
 1 Off. The prince, my liege, has doubtless made 
 
 our state 
 Known, as you pass'd the guards. 
 
 A If. 'Tis true, I know it; 
 But Ethelred ere this had told me all, 
 When, with the traitor Ceoluph, I saw him. 
 
 D
 
 5O THE BATTLE [Act II. 
 
 1 Off. Joyful, as Britons, we behold our king 
 Deliver'd from his snares. 
 
 Alf. I know not, friends, 
 If we may suffer more from his designs. 
 Suspicious of his faith/ 1 had resolv'd 
 With him to view his troops : which late employ 'd 
 
 us: 
 
 But when we saw the distant Ethelred, 
 This traitor, fertile in deceitful pretexts, 
 Told me, that now to- better counsellors 
 He left his king, and went where duty call'd him. 
 Long I observ'd him march with hurried pace ; 
 But could not learn his -purpose, till at length 
 He disappear'd among his own retainers. 
 
 1 Off. What dost thou order us, my liege, to do ? 
 
 Alf. Fly with the queen and prince, avoiding 
 
 here 
 
 To leave them longer to the event of war. 
 By me instructed, Ethelred will keep 
 His trusty bands prepar'd to second Mervin, 
 And rush, if needed, to protect this station. 
 
 [Exit into the cottage.
 
 Act II.~] OF EDDINCTON. $1 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 
 Attendants. 
 
 1 Off. Well does the king, to guard, with each 
 
 precaution, 
 His helpless queen against a barbarous foe. 
 
 2 Off. Thy words denote unwonted appre- 
 
 hension. 
 
 1 Off. The woman's late discourse, had'st thou 
 
 with us 
 
 Enter'd the cottage, might have prov'd to thee 
 What terror may these savage tribes inspire, 
 Uninfluenc'd by respect for sex or age. 
 
 2 Off. 'Twere dreadful, surely ; but since now 
 
 arriv'd, 
 
 The guards, I hope, will cover our retreat. 
 1 Off. Heaven grant they do But hark, the 
 latch is mov'd : 
 
 Fall back. The approaching king will soon in- 
 struct us.
 
 52 THE BATTLE [_Act II. 
 
 SCENE VIL 
 
 . Enter Alfred, Elsitba, and Attendants, from 
 the cottage. 
 
 Atf. Yes ; hasten to the pious hermit's cell 
 I have deserib'd, hid in embowering woods; 
 Which, though not distant, has been still conceal'd 
 From -wandering Danes, and ever must defy 
 Their closest search. The deviating track . 
 Is mark'd too plainly by the signs I nam'd, 
 To cost thee pains to find, or need inquiry. 
 Haste, my Elsitha; now delay were fatal. 
 
 Els. Ah! rather fly this unavailing strife 
 Betimes, and in some corner of the earth 
 Let thy sad family enjoy thy presence, 
 And boast the certainty thou liv'st to cheer them. 
 When war with treason threats, and this drear sv ild 
 Renders more terrible the form of danger, 
 How killing 'tis to part that thou may'st meet it ! 
 Alf. Whence is this fear ? or where, in thee 
 
 once seen, 
 The unshaken spirit which so long surprised me
 
 Act //.] OF EDDISGTON. 53 
 
 While lurking in our wretched residence ? 
 Where the gay smiles, that half o'ercame my 
 sorrows ? 
 
 Els. If duty warn'd me never to make known 
 Wishes and fears that might increase thy troubles, 
 Or interfere beyond what suits a queen, 
 Think'st thou I felt, though silent, less alarm ? 
 Employ'd in studious privacy alone, 
 (Whose charms thou taught'st me) or domestic cares, 
 I aim'd not to embarrass lawful power 
 By base intrigue, or open opposition : 
 On such forbearance resolutely bent, 
 I sought, and gain'd the favour of the people. 
 
 Alf. Even as thy virtue merits admiration, 
 So may thy firmness, my Elsitha, shine 
 With equal rays, and charm with blended lustre. 
 How should we mourn, O, think, each ruin'd hope, 
 Misled by coward fear, or senseless caution ? 
 Ill-fated outcasts in some foreign land, 
 Soon should we find the poverty we bear 
 Our future portion, or rely alone 
 On pitying courtesy for ill-earn'd ease, 
 And, in its very kindness, feel our fortune. 
 
 Els. And dost thou urge to me those weighty 
 reasons ?
 
 54 .THE BATTLE [Ad 77. 
 
 Or think I swell with the proud hope of great- 
 ness ? 
 
 O Alfred, how should I rejoice to share 
 Even the poor rustic's frugal, humble lot, 
 So I might see in safety those whose love 
 Far dearer ties had rooted in my heart. 
 Nor would, I trust, thy sorrows in retirement 
 Be thus oppressive ; but when study's charms 
 (Which most avail to banish thy sad thoughts) , 
 Have ceas'd their influence, my unwearied caresy 
 Alf. 'Tis not the fear of want, but of disgrace, 
 Visits the bosom of the wise or virtuous. 
 Base is the ruler, if, while hope remains, 
 He leaves his country threat'ned by a foe ; 
 But if his steady zeal be known to all, 
 And lawless violence alone prevail 
 By force of numbers, or the wrongs of fortune, 
 Then he may quit, without a blush, the contest ; 
 Then foreign kings receive him with respect, 
 And all their subjects, when they see, applaud 
 
 him. 
 Els. That time is come for thee. O, instant 
 
 bear us 
 
 From this devoted land ! where hope no more 
 Can tempt to stay.
 
 Act //.] OF EDDINGTON. 55 
 
 Alf. [separating with enthusiasm."] Hope, sayst 
 thou ? 
 
 Els. And pray tell me, 
 When thou hast sufTer'd, many a mournful 
 
 year, 
 
 The worst calamities sad war inflicts, 
 And art again contending in the field 
 With the same barbarous and successful foe> 
 From farther strife what can thy country hope ? 
 
 Alf. Each flattering destiny that can exalt 
 A nation's glory ; cultivated fields, 
 Where now inhospitable forests spread, 
 And, where the Thames reflects our humble 
 
 dwellings, 
 
 The capital of earth, and happy seat 
 Of the protected arts j its busy streets 
 Crowded with industry's rejoicing sons ; 
 While on the matchless stream unnumber'd 
 
 masts, 
 
 Like a wide wood, attract the stranger's eye, 
 And prove the commerce of the world our 
 own. 
 
 Els. O cease to be deluded by thy wishes, 
 And in thy fruitless rhapsodies proceed ; 
 Cease to repeat what I so oft have heard thee,
 
 56 THE BATTLE [Ad //. 
 
 That we should be renown'd in history 
 For noble deeds, be sovereigns of the sea, 
 Happy at home, and held abroad the refuge 
 Of weakness still, and terror of ambition 
 No; never, never shall such times arrive. 
 
 Alf. If I have rais'd too high my expec- 
 tation, 
 
 'Tis not, be sure, without sufficient cause. 
 In my brave Britons I behold a race 
 Dauntless in war, but mild and just in peace ; 
 Fill'd with that public spirit, whose pure aim, 
 And prompt activity extend improvement, 
 And fir'd with every great and generous view : 
 As if rare properties of air and soil 
 Could add peculiar energy to nature ; 
 Refine their heads and animate their hearts.
 
 Act II. ~] OF EDDINGTOH. 55* 
 
 SCENE, t 
 
 Alfred, Elsitba, Attendants. To them enter 
 1 Soldier. 
 
 Alf. Sounds lately heard inform, with this thy 
 
 presence, 
 
 Of some advantage newly von or lost. 
 Comest thou from Ethel red ? 
 
 1 Sold. He bade me say. 
 The desperate foes, with scarce dimini^h'd 
 
 strength, 
 
 Advisedly, in one arduous effort centering 
 Courage and skill, and charging with success, 
 Compell'd us to retreat ; nor yield the ground : 
 Yet knows he thy appearance soon will shine 
 Our gloom away. In such an unwished chance, 
 When fel} invasion menaces a realm, 
 He says, if some brave prince, his country's hope, 
 In whom the activity and fire of youth 
 Enchant the soldiery, dare lend his aid 
 To inspire the battle ; soon all see, at once, 
 The danger vanish, where he leads the way; 
 
 t This scene has been added since the publication of 
 the play.
 
 56* THE BATTLE [Ad II. 
 
 Soon on the assailants do they fiercely rush, 
 And drive them recreant back. 
 
 Alf. Tell him, I come. [Exit 1 Soldier. 
 
 SCENE. 
 
 Alfred, Elsitba, Attendants. 
 
 Els. And wilt thou,' Alfred, then delay to fly 
 Peril so imminent ? 
 
 Alf. Yes as his duty 
 Injoins the king of such deserving subjects. 
 
 Els. Whate'er the valued qualities they boast, 
 They cannot prosper, when, in their misfortunes, 
 Heaven plainly seems unfriendly to their cause. 
 
 Alf. It will be then the part of noble souls 
 To leave an high example of their firmness 
 To future times ; to brave superior power 
 Even at the- price' of life, and be the last 
 To flatter pride, and to submit to wrong. 
 
 Els. That were resistance to the Almighty's 
 
 will. 
 
 Alf. No ; rather say, 'twere a devout sub- 
 mission 
 
 To this great trial of our faith and valour 
 Th' Almighty has ordain'd ; nor, erring, think,
 
 Act II.'] OF EDDINGTON. 57 
 
 Elsitha, virtue can be chang'd by fortune. 
 Oft, o'er the field, in which the patriot strives 
 For blameless victory, do gazing angels, 
 Forwarn'd of his inevitable fate, 
 Shed their celestial tears, and, when he falls, 
 They venerate the spot as holy ground. 
 
 -E/s* This praise of slaughterous deeds might 
 
 suit a heathen; 
 
 But, Alfred, thee far less, who art a Christian, 
 And oft would'st talk of thy contempt of war. 
 Our mild religion, well thou know'st, enjoins 
 Pardon of injuries, and bids us live 
 In mutual love, fraternity, and peace. 
 
 Alf. These Heaven-taught maxims often may 
 
 mislead 
 
 Through feeble judgment, or dark policy, 
 That, envying the fair fame to virtue given, 
 May feign its worth imperfect to supplant it : 
 Though, when its arts have prosper'd, it must 
 
 yield 
 
 To like necessity, or act less justly. 
 To live in lasting peace, is, to the good, 
 The most approv'd condition : but, if wrong, 
 Be ever active to disturb their quiet, 
 Tis love of peace that arms them to control it.
 
 $8 THE BATTLE \_Act II. 
 
 Els. Then haste ; pursue the course thy reason 
 
 warns, 
 
 And thy stern virtue grant what thou canst wish 
 Of honour and renown. Lead forth with thee 
 Those who ,may share thy danger, and enjoy 
 Alike the loud applauses of the world. 
 Go ; you wiU leave at home, to humbler hopes, 
 Your weeping wives, a melancholy band, 
 Who, at their orphan children's future fate 
 Shall soon be seen to tremble ; while, oppress'd 
 By our contagious grief, the saddening land 
 
 Alf. No ; I distrust not, leaving thee, that virtue 
 Which is so fully tried ; thou w ; .lt not cherish 
 Such dangerous grief; nor will the fair of Britain. 
 Howe'er they move in that appointed sphere 
 Which gives its wonted softness to their lustre, 
 Withdrawn from notice ; yet they mark a course 
 Steady and sure, and, while they charm, assist us. 
 Their spotless faith, from mild discretion sprung, 
 Would scorn to furnish arms to discontent, 
 Or, with vain fears, conspire against their country. 
 
 Els. Spare thy reproof: acquit me of a weak- 
 ness, 
 
 And one by thee so blam'd. I would obey thee ; 
 Yes, would anticipate by ready deeds
 
 Act Il.~\ OF ED1MNGTON. 59 
 
 Thy least desire ; yet say, while : I behbW thee, 
 What is the secret, through whose mystic virtue 
 (For such, perhaps, has been reveal'd to thee) 
 A separation, cruel as I dread, 
 Can prove our wish ? 
 
 Alf. To know it is our duty. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 Elsitha, Attendants. 
 
 Els. Stay, Alfred, O ? [swoons. 
 
 1 Off. Look quickly to the queen ! 
 Support her fainting frame. 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 Elsitba, Attendants. To them -enter Editba. 
 
 1 Off: Lend, aged matron, 
 Thy aid. Untoward chance ! Bait -she revives. 
 
 Els. Afford, good friend, the hospitable shelter 
 Of thy adjoining roof, that short repose
 
 ^O THE BATTLE \_Act II. 
 
 May there recall my dissipated spirits ! 
 
 I feel my strength returning Now lead on. 
 
 [Exeunt Els. and Ed. into the cottage. 
 
 SCENE X. 
 Attendants. 
 
 1 Of. Go, tell the prince that Alfred has left 
 
 orders 
 
 For our departure. We attend the troops ; 
 As destin'd to escort our helpless band. [Exit one. 
 
 SCENE XL 
 
 Attendants. 
 
 1 Off. The queen's recover'd strength, ere long, 
 
 my friends, 
 Will prove the signal of our journey, [a noise 
 
 under ground^ Heav'ns ! 
 What noise was that? 
 
 2 Off. 'Twas surely not far off. [noise repeated.
 
 Act //.] OF EDDINGTON. 6l 
 
 1 Off. Alas! the enemy, past doubt, prevail'd 
 To undermine this station. All is lost, 
 Unless we prosper in the attempt to bear 
 The queen to safety. Follow, and assist me. 
 
 [they approach the cottage. 
 
 SCENE ML 
 
 Attendants. To them, 
 repeated.'] enter Ceoluph, -with his men from 
 the subterranean passage ; stops the Attendants, 
 and speaks to them. 
 
 Ceo. Stir you no further, but resign the charge 
 Ye cannot save; I claim it for the Danes. 
 [to the Soldiers.~] Do you obey the orders ye 
 
 receiv'd. 
 
 Fill up that passage straight, to stop the foe; 
 This is the cottage ye must first surround ; 
 And marching slow and silent through the wood, 
 Soon will ye reach the unsuspecting guards, 
 And find their terror second your assault. 
 
 [Exeunt Soldiers.
 
 62 THE BATTLE [Act II. 
 
 SCENE XIII. 
 Ceolupb, Attendants ; and some Soldiers. 
 
 1 Off. We hope, howe'er success has crown'd 
 
 your efforts, 
 
 That civil treatment will not be denied 
 Your royal captives. In compassion grant it. 
 Ceo. Your treatment will be found what ye 
 
 deserve: 
 
 If ye presume on daring violence, 
 Or are detected in intrigue, beware ; 
 The eyes of these surrounding troops are on you. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 SCENE 
 Attendants. 
 
 1 Off. [after a silence. ~\ We, who so little could 
 
 foresee the future, 
 
 Harbour'd just fear; while our best chiefs have 
 err'd
 
 7/.J OF EDDINGTON. 63 
 
 Who deem'd us safe. So weak is human wisdom ! 
 
 2 Off. I dread to think how knowledge of her 
 
 fortune 
 
 May overwhelm the queen. What dost thou 
 counsel ? 
 
 1 Off. Far be it from us, with imprudent haste, 
 To inform the queen of these o'erpowering news : 
 Till it prove fruitless to conceal them longer, 
 Spite of our ceaseless efforts. No, my friends, 
 Rather let us dissemble our reflections ; 
 And do thou, harper, wake some air, to banish 
 Suspicion of our terrible reverse; 
 As only thoughtful of thy custom'd office. 
 I will forthwith endeavour to detain her 
 Till some more favourable turn of fortune. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE XV. 
 
 Attendants. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 O nations , urged by hostile fate 
 To brave, in adverse ranks the war,
 
 64 THE BATTLE [Act IT. 
 
 Taught Heaven's mild lore, nor mov'd of late 
 The praise of savage feats to abhor-, 
 
 For ever quench your kindling rage ; 
 
 And ah! no more that vengeance waste, 
 Doom'dfor the impious head above ; 
 
 Or timely seek, with rival baste, 
 Such lenient aid of peaceful love 
 
 As may its lingering ills assuage. 
 
 Ere, on each shore, in strength secure, 
 
 We saw the invaders with amaze, 
 Our drooping country could endure, 
 
 With better hope, tempestuous days. 
 
 Now hapless Christians ease no more, 
 By social deeds, their common way > 
 
 Among the rocks encircling life ; 
 But rudely forc'd asunder stray, 
 
 And nienac'd by the storms of strife, 
 Tbdvghtful of help enjoy d before. 
 \ 
 
 Thou, Ireland, long thy silent sighs 
 With Britain's mingled, shalt remain ;
 
 Act ///) OF EDDINGTON. (> 
 
 From Heaven imploring future ties, 
 That mutual may your sons maintain 
 
 In endless union, bless" d and free ; 
 
 Whence the fair isles, with strength combin'd > 
 Shall happiness, in every land, 
 
 From arms protect, and wrong design'd ; 
 And amid waves, securely stand, 
 
 The citadels of liberty. 
 
 SCENE XVI. 
 
 Attendants. To them, 
 
 Enter Elsithi, Edmund, and 1 Officer, from the 
 cottage. 
 
 Els. No, do not urge me longer to delay: * 
 Heaven has, I trust, inspir'd, and will support me; 
 You see me ready to obey with firmness 
 The late commands of Alfred ; with what haste 
 You choose we follow. 
 
 [the Attendants seem thunderstruck. 
 But what means that air 
 Of blank confusion, and that backward silence?
 
 66 THE BATTLE \_Ad II. 
 
 Edm. [pointing behind tbe scenes."] O mother, 
 
 what a crowd is there, and there! 
 I did not see those men, when first I came. 
 
 Els. Ah ! now the riddle is expounded clearly ; 
 Yes, the successful enemy possesses 
 This spot, and holds us prisoners. Well I know it : 
 But say, (if it be true,) say, where is Alfred ? 
 Sure he escap'd not, and a tenfold fary 
 Prepares to sacrifice this valiant cause 
 Of many a pagan's death j this dread of Danes! 
 I know what ye would say : yes, at this moment 
 Does Alfred fall. [weeps. 
 
 [Edmund runs witb an intention of going out. 
 1 1 Off- Where dost thou haste, young prince ? 
 
 Edm. I'll go to all the soldiers round, and ask 
 
 them 
 To spare my father. 
 
 1 Off. Prince, thy father's safe. 
 We have not heard the king partakes our fortune 
 In this mishap, and trust he fled ere this : 
 He is beyond the power of all these soldiers. 
 Edm. Pray tell me, do they want to kill us too ? 
 
 Els. Come, come, my son ; let us retire from 
 hence,
 
 Act //.] OF EDDINGTON. 67 
 
 As suits the wretched, where, with thoughts com- 
 
 pos'd, 
 
 We may implore due fortitude from him 
 Who can deliver us from all distress, 
 And conquer all our enemies. This way. 
 
 [Exit Elsitha, and Edmund, into the cottage. 
 
 SCENE XVII. 
 Attendants. 
 
 1 Off. How touching is this state of tender 
 youth, 
 
 That half discerns, and rather on worst woes 
 
 
 Looks with the eye of curiosity, 
 
 Than with the heart of fear: ev'n the queen seems 
 
 Too far by pious resignation rais'd 
 
 Above the sad calamity she suffers: 
 
 To let dejection lower upon her brow; 
 
 Yet much I fear these Danes ; and see advance 
 
 The British lord, hither conducting one. 
 
 Something is, sure, projected, which concerns us.
 
 68 -THE BATTLE * [Ad 11. 
 
 SCENE XVllI. 
 Attendants. To them, enter Ceoluph, and Dane. 
 
 Ceo. Abandon straight, to one more worthy trust, ' 
 The place where our insulted lenity 
 Permitted you to stay. Ye shall no more 
 Repeat your treasons. 
 
 1 Off. What are they, my lord? 
 
 Ceo. 'Tis rumour'd ye have harp'd seditious 
 
 tunes 
 
 That praise the ancient friendship of our isles, 
 So to corrupt the Irish. 
 
 1 Off. No such thought, 
 
 My lord, had we; nor e'er could have surmis'd 
 An insignificant attempt to cheer 
 The drooping queen had drawn this deep attention. 
 
 Ceo. Retire, and to this valiant Dane resign 
 Your forfeit station. Exit^
 
 Act II."] OF EDDINGTON. 6$ 
 
 SCENE XIX. 
 Dane, Attendants. 
 
 Dane. It perhaps were best, 
 You first appriz'd her of the purpos'd change ; 
 Lest unprepar'd she ill support the trial. 
 
 1 Off. Soldier, we thank thee for the generous 
 
 counsel ; 
 
 And trust it bodes a spirit that inclines not 
 To load her weakness with increase of sorrow. 
 
 [Exit into cottage. 
 
 SCENE XX. 
 Dane, Attendants. 
 
 2 Off. Eager to shew, in promptness of obe- 
 
 dience, 
 
 A slight return of kindness, we retire, 
 And wait at distance, Dane, thy farther orders : 
 Ev'n gratitude's most unimportant favours 
 Gain from the just regard. [Exeunt Attendants.
 
 JO THE BATTLE [Act II. 
 
 SCENE XXI. 
 
 Dane. To bim t 
 Enter Elsitba, and 1 Officer , from tbe cottage. 
 
 1 Off. The Dane is yonder. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE XXII. 
 Elsitba, Dane. 
 
 Els. Surpris'd at the respect, I learn, good 
 
 soldier, 
 
 Thou pay'st to wretched captives, I came forth; 
 Willing to testify a grateful spirit. 
 
 Dane. My conduct, princess, is, howe'er it seem, 
 "What justice and humanity require, 
 And my religion dictates. Were it different, 
 'T would be at variance with its holy precepts j 
 And draw Heaven's known displeasure. 
 
 Els. At thy words 
 I am perplex'd. Say, art thou not a Dane ?
 
 Act //.] OF EDDINGTON. Jl 
 
 Dane. Those hard-fought battles, where, for 
 
 many a year 
 
 I strove, accompanied by Danish troops, 
 Bear ample witness, princess, to my country. 
 
 Els. Suspect not that, in any country, Dane, 
 I doubt the worth of virtue such as thine. 
 Much I admire whatever unknown stock 
 Teems with such noble fruit ; and think the hand 
 Of Heaven has scatter'd wide the precious seeds 
 Of true religion, and will bless the harvest. 
 What light so surely guides thy happy course ? 
 
 Dane. One that is darken'd by no cloud of 
 
 error, 
 As thou wilt own. 
 
 Els. In vain I seek thy meaning. 
 
 Dane. When lately Ireland, added to our con- 
 quests, 
 
 Receiv'd our bands, to mingle, as chance led, 
 Among her own inhabitants, who, long 
 Ere this, profess'd the peaceful faith of Christ, 
 We, at their blameless, inoffensive manners 
 Felt secret awe. 
 
 Els. Saint Patrick, well I know, 
 Had civiliz'd the island where he preach'd, 
 And made it honour'd in the Christian world,
 
 78 ' >..' THE BATTLE \_Act II. 
 
 We name it, for this cause, the Isle of Saints. 
 But hasten to thy tale, and say what follow 'd. 
 
 Dane. Full many, inflpenc'd by the fair ex- 
 ample, 
 
 Embrac'd with ardour the divine religion, 
 And all remain'd, except a few ; but I, 
 Having the confidence of those who led us, 
 Attended them, at their command, to invade 
 The coasts of England. 
 
 Els. Has, then, providence 
 So unexpectedly display'd its bounty, 
 As, in the depth of our despair, to shew us 
 Favour so rare, and in our prison-guard, 
 Bestow the best protector ? 
 
 Dane. To that title, princess, 
 My conduct is not destitute of claim. 
 Not to win glory, but restrain the rage 
 Of barbarous countrymen, at length, in war 
 Is my sole care. In these surrounding fields, 
 Oft have the helpless, of each sex and age, 
 Obtain'd their safety through my secret counsel, 
 Or needful mediation, from the Danes. 
 
 Els. Bless'd is the doctrine whose benign effects 
 Are thus conspicuous ! 
 
 Dane. ' No j the progress yet,
 
 Act //.] OF EDDINGTON. 73 
 
 Princess, is small, which Christianity 
 Has made ; and, till this time, its peeping dawn 
 Hardly gives notice of its cheerful day. 
 But, by degrees, o'er Europe and the world, 
 I trust, its peaceful influence will extend ; 
 One mode of policy, one form of virtue 
 Shall science slowly plan for human use, 
 (Unless dissentious vanity obstruct it) 
 Shall steadily remove the ills of life, 
 And every bar to happiness and virtue ; 
 Till, while we chance to wonder at the change, 
 And then look back upon a barbarous age, 
 We bless the heavenly cause which could pro- 
 duce it. 
 
 [Exit, following Attendants: the Queen 
 slowly, as in devout contemplation, 
 enters the cottage.
 
 74 TH E BATTLt \Att III. 
 
 ACT. IIL 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 The orders having been executed for filling ibe 
 arched passage , the prospect is discovered which 
 it concealed before ; and while the rest of the 
 background seems shaded by passing clouds, 
 exhibits the stream, after it has reached the val- 
 ley, serpentining through a variegated country. 
 
 Enter Ceoluph, and Vassal. 
 
 
 
 Vass. The work that yonder was enjoin'd the 
 
 Irish, 
 
 I see, my lord, is done. That way is barr'd 
 Against the enemy. 'Tis fortunate 
 They did not fail us. 
 
 Ceo. Yet thy words alarm me : 
 The prisoners must not be entrusted longer 
 To spirits so inclin'd. Where is the Dane ?
 
 ///.] OF EDDINGTON. 75 
 
 Vass. I saw him late among the queen's at- 
 tendants, 
 Who were dismiss'd, disposing them in safety. 
 
 Ceo. Here will I wait him. Say, meanwhile, 
 
 if more 
 
 Thy spies inform'd thee of the daring language 
 These Irish held. 
 
 Vass. Some praise the wide renown 
 And virtues of the king ; some the queen's beauty, 
 And mourn her own distresses, and her son's. 
 Others lament the oppression of the Danes, 
 Vowing that almost, to support its ills, 
 
 
 
 Christian obedience fails. The loyal, too, 
 They say, can feel, and, in necessity 
 Behold a plea that sanctifies resistance. 
 
 Ceo. And shall we trust to such the royal pri- 
 soners ? 
 Vass. Far be it from our thoughts, my honour'd 
 
 lord. 
 * Ceo. Shall I, for pity of their sufferings, leave 
 
 them 
 
 With Christians, who might pay them much respect, 
 But would betray their trust ? What is to me 
 Their mild captivity, or -soften'd sorrow ? 
 They would, I doubt not, rather than by foes,
 
 76 THE BATTLE \_Act III. 
 
 Be guarded by the Irish j but if such 
 As are acknowledg'd friends, o'erlook their wel- 
 fare, 
 
 And careless of the caution it enjoins us, 
 Forfeit our confidence, let them be thank'd for't. 
 
 Vass. My lord, I own abuse of such indulgence 
 Well merits punishment. 
 
 Ceo. And they shall have it. 
 Yes, the barbarians will ere long surround them ; 
 That wanton spirit which, remov'd till now, 
 Has been without an object, shall be seen 
 In full display : harshness, or insolence, 
 Pain, or whate'er besides caprice inflicts 
 Shall seem a grievous change 
 
 Vass. Softly, my lord j 
 
 For we may hence be heard. And see, at length, 
 The Dane approaching, whom we waited here. 
 
 Ceo. Go swiftly to my troops : let them attend 
 Without delay. I will inform the Dane 
 Of what we purpose, that he be prepar'd 
 To hasten, with the Irish, from this station, 
 While we, for present safety, take their office. 
 
 \Exit Vassal.
 
 Act HI. ~] OF EDDINGTON. 77 
 
 SCENE II. 
 Ceolnpb. To him, enter Dane. 
 
 Dane. I learn, my lord, 'twas thy desire t 
 
 see me : 
 And hence am come. 
 
 Ceo. I sought this conference, 
 'Tis true ; and my intention was to tell thee 
 We need no longer the attendance, Dane, 
 Of thee, or of the Irish ; will dispense 
 In future with thy care of this our charge, 
 And see, that 'tis dispos'd of as shall suit 
 The common cause. 
 
 Dane. I dive not to thy meaning. 
 Hast thou authority, my lord, to make 
 This change ? Canst thou produce our general'^ 
 orders ? 
 
 Ceo. The authority by which, to guard this spot, 
 I late conducted thee, I now exert. 
 Requiring thy departure. 
 
 Dane. If, as then, 
 Thou canst assure me of the chief's consent,
 
 78 THE BATTLE \_Act III. 
 
 (Whom only I obey) I shall at once 
 Confess my right now to resign my trust, 
 And thine as doubtful, to succeed to it, 
 Till this, it may not be. 
 
 Ceo. And dost thou think 
 The Danes who, for the welfare of their tribes, 
 Invited my assistance, will pronounce me 
 So useless now, and of such small account,. 
 That my exertions for the common cause 
 Must be prescrib'd by peasants ? 
 
 Dane. To nought else, 
 . Proud lord, but to the general and his rules 
 Did I expect obedience at thy hands. 
 This contumelious style thou hast assum'd, 
 Hadst thou but known and weigh'd the esteem I 
 
 boast, 
 Might have appear'd less wise. 
 
 Ceo. I see thy purpose ; 
 'Tis to create delays, and, with this band 
 Of false auxiliaries, beneath thy orders, 
 Expect the proper moment of desertion ; 
 But, ere Ms long, thy precious charge, rely on't, 
 Shall be securely plac'd beyond thy power. 
 
 Dane. Unmanner'd lord, I will not vie with thee 
 In base scurrility ; but, be assur'd,
 
 Act III.] OF EDDINGTON. 79 
 
 Nor thou, nor any other, with loud words 
 Can daunt me from my duty : that, I trust, 
 Of which my honour is the pledge, is safe. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Ceoluph, Dane. To them, enter the Soldiers of 
 Ceoluph. 
 
 Ceo. 'Tis only known by proof. 
 Dane. I shrink not from it. 
 [Ceoluph goes hastily towards the cottage, the Dane 
 folio-wing ,wbo prevents his entrance. A struggle 
 ensues at the door, during which Ceoluph draws 
 his sword and wounds the fiane. He, being 
 struck^ staggers towards the front of the stage, 
 against a tree.'] 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Ceoluph, Dane, English Soldiers. To them, enter 
 Elsitba, and Edmund running out before her. 
 
 Els. What causes this dispute? if we, by chance, 
 Should be the subject of your conference,
 
 8O THE BATTLE \ActIll. 
 
 Perhaps, by our compliance, we might give 
 
 To both content. Alas! good Dane, thou bleed's*. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 Elsitba, Edmund, Ceolvpb, Dane, E. Soldiers. 
 To them, enter the Irish as lookers on. 
 
 Ceo. [seizing Edmund.^ This is my prize, 
 Els. O spare my child ! 
 
 [swoons, and is carried in by some Irisb. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 Edmund, Ceolupb, Dane ; E. Soldiers, I. Soldiers. 
 
 Dane. [adi>ancing.~\ Mark, soldiers, 
 Maim'd as I am, how, in so fair a cause, 
 I now linsheath this sword, and bid you follow 
 To save our honour from this lawless lord. 
 He, by these insults, on the Danish name 
 Would cast foul stains, and, our reputed friend, 
 Would trample on our discipline ; but you
 
 Act HI.'] OF EDDINCTON. -8l 
 
 Know better, as I trust, the brave man's duty, 
 Than to see wrested forcibly away 
 What is confided to us. 
 
 Ceo. Shew too, you 
 
 My faithful troops, ye are not aw'd by those 
 Who, under the false garb of law and order, 
 Ensure rebellion. 
 
 [The Irish furiously charge Ceolupb's Soldiers , 
 rescue Edmund, and form a circle round him. 
 Ceo. Ye now boast success; 
 
 But ere your plots are ripe, one, at your cost, 
 
 Shall come to mar them, whose authority 
 
 Ye may perhaps allow. 
 
 [Exeunt Ceoluph and E. Soldiers. 
 
 SCENE VIL 
 Edmund, Dane, I. Soldiers. 
 
 Dane. Let one invite 
 
 The attendants back. I cannot think the general 
 (At least when he has listen'd to my counsel) 
 Would here exact this unavailing harshness. 
 
 F
 
 82 THE BATTLE [Act 111. 
 
 Those shall approach the prisoners, whose attend- 
 ance 
 
 Use has made grateful ; so ye fail not, soldiers, 
 To watch and guard them with due vigilance. 
 Go, and remember. [Exeunt I. Soldiers, 
 
 yroivjo Lri* v/:.n-> .!<< .? _ '.. 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 Edmund, Dane. 
 
 Dan*. Here, young prince, remain, 
 Where thou art safe, and need'st no longer feai* 
 The sight of strangers. [Exit Dang. 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 Edmund. To bim t enter Attendants. 
 
 1 Off. [to the Attendants.] When he joins his 
 
 troops, 
 
 Towards whom he goes, the Dane will soon per- 
 ceive
 
 Act III.~] OF EDDINGTON. 8j 
 
 A spirit less devoted to his cause 
 Than he expects. They all resent this insult 
 On so esteera'd a leader, whose persuasion 
 Alone preserv'd the Danes their loyalty. 
 For so 'tis said. One cannot read their purpose; 
 But they aver, that to defend the queen 
 And prince from harm, their lives are readiest 
 offerings. 
 
 2 Off. Then may Lord Ceoluph's return, with 
 
 proof 
 
 Of the Dane's countenance to these his measures, 
 Be their immediate signal of revolt. 
 
 1 Off. 'Tis not unlikely ; and we soon may see 
 Where tend their doubtful murmurs. So, young 
 
 prince, 
 
 Thou wast involv'd, 'tis said, in a strange scene 
 Of tumult and confusion, which, I doubt not, 
 Surpass'd whatever thou had'st known before. 
 Yet are we glad that, through the aid of Heaven, 
 We now may give thee joy of the escape. 
 But how is this? thou'lt be a warrior, prince; 
 Thou art unterrified. 
 
 Edm. [running towards the harp, and sounding' 
 it.'] O ye*. 
 
 1 Off. What, prince ! 
 
 F 2
 
 84 THE BATTLE [Act III. 
 
 Why dost thou draw thy hand across that harp ? 
 
 Edm. Did we not beat them? 
 
 1 Off. Beat them ! yes, you did. 
 
 Edm. O, I remember that my father us'd 
 To play upon his harp the songs of Ossian, 
 Who went to battle, fought, and, when return'd, 
 Would sing so nobly of the deeds he saw, 
 That, after he had done, I ask'd my father 
 When he would let me have a sword and spear, 
 And take me with him to the wars, [to the harper. 
 
 Pray tell me, 
 Canst thou not- sing so too? 
 
 1 Off. >Tis, be assur'd, 
 
 What the queen's illness recommends. Yes, raise 
 Some song of triumph, cheerful in its strains, 
 While I convey to her, without delay, 
 The important tidings of congenial sort 
 Our alter'd state permits. This too were useful., 
 [Exit 1 Officer into the cottage.
 
 Act III."] OF EDDINGTON. 85 
 
 SCENE X. 
 Edmund, Attendants. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 That harp, with Scotland's praise of old 
 
 Enchanting, o'er the festive hall, 
 
 Where Ossian sate, the amaze of all, 
 Now Britain's undistinguished deeds to unfold, 
 
 Wakes sweetly, at the poet's call. 
 " Bless* d be the day," be sings, " the auspicious day, 
 
 When strong resistance curb' d our foes ; 
 When, seen conspicuous o'er his vanquish' d clay, 
 
 The funeral mound of Hubba rose. 
 
 " Ye waves, that lash the lofty shore 
 
 Whence bis returning squadron flew, 
 
 Ye might not Britain's virtue view 
 Alone-, but from the grots of ocean hoar, 
 
 Far, far remote, on labour new 
 Intent, her chief obscur'd in base attire 
 
 His warlike limbs , and bore the charms
 
 86 THE BATTLE [Act III. 
 
 Of music to the haunt of licence dire, 
 That fury throng'd with adverse arms. 
 
 Pleas'd at bis mirthful mood, and pleas'd 
 
 At his soft harp's bewitching tone, 
 
 While he each secret spies unknown, 
 The warriors cherish the sweet bane, that eas'd 
 
 The heart of care ; yet, threatening shewn, 
 Soon shall bis myriads leave the forest-glade. 
 
 Near valour, bursting from the bands 
 Of faint despondence, with resistless aid 
 
 Obedient faith still ready stands." 
 
 O realm of ever-living strains, 
 
 Thus round thy lakes of Britain sings 
 Some bard, nor shall the slumbering strings 
 
 Pass silently the future wreaths she gains., 
 Or sivay'd by one, or many kings', 
 
 Nor shall her sons ofgloxy want their praise; 
 With arms, or counsels, skill' d from wrong 
 
 To guard a state, or trace the doubtful ways 
 Of science, or sustain the song.
 
 Act II 'I. J 01 EDDINCTON. 87 
 
 SCENE XI. 
 Edmund, Attendants. To them, re-enter I Officer. 
 
 2 Off. How fares the queen ? 
 
 1 Off. Recover'd from the effect 
 
 Of her long trance so lately, she appears 
 As one insensible to what is said. 
 Yet have I left the tidings, well assur'd 
 They quickly will restore her drooping spirits. 
 
 2 Off. The door is mov'd. Can it denote her 
 
 coming ? 
 
 SCENE XII. 
 
 Edmund, Attendants. To them, enter Elsitba very 
 weak, leaning on Editba t from the cottage. 
 
 Els. No sooner did I catch the sounds that 
 
 told 
 
 Something of what had pass'd, than straight I flew 
 To learn it all. Ah ! I perceive 'tis so.
 
 88 THE BATTLE \_ActlIT. 
 
 Good folks, I thank you much, if it was you 
 That sav'd my child. 
 
 1 Off. Princess, we have besides 
 A cause of farther joy ; our present hopes 
 
 Els. Talk not to me of hope : that is for others. 
 Once I, too, hop'd, but long calamity 
 And frequent disappointment prov'd it vain. 
 Alas ! my strength endures not this exertion, 
 And I am faint. Conduct me, worthy friend, 
 Back to the cottage. [to Edmund. ~\ Thou canst 
 
 aid to raise, 
 
 If aught can, from her present feeble state, 
 Thy mother : come, and cheer me with thy looks. 
 [be runs to Elsitba and leans fondly upon her. 
 [to Editba.^ Support my steps, [looking on Ed- 
 mund.'] Do not stir from me, child. 
 [Exeunt Elsitba, Edifba, and Edmund into 
 
 ibe cottage. 
 VWiwU'.... ' 
 
 SCENE XIII. 
 
 \ zbtiuo Attendants. 
 
 it & Sold, [without. ~] Long live King Alfred ! 
 1 Off". These are sounds which rate
 
 Act ///.] OF EDDINGTOtf. 89 - 
 
 Our fortune far superior to our hopes. 
 What may they mean ? 
 
 SCENE XIV. 
 
 Attendants. To tkem> enter Merv'm y and /. 
 Soldiers. 
 
 1 Off. Prince, we rejoice to see thee, 
 However unexpected, join us here. 
 
 Merv. Summon'd in Alfred's venerated name, 
 At length the Irish own their ancient friends, 
 And have surrender'd to our force the prisoners. 
 A guard sufficient will, without delay, 
 Transport you to the place you sought before, 
 Far from the neighbourhood of war and danger. 
 
 1 Off. 'Tis fortunate the Dane could not pre- 
 vent 
 Their just submission. 
 
 Merv. Faithful to his trust, 
 He long endeavour'd ; but the love they bore him 
 Only avail'dto stipulate such favour 
 As we were no less forward to allow. 
 He has his freedom. 
 
 1 Off. We obey thy orders.
 
 gO THE BATTLE [Act III. 
 
 Merv. Then hasten your departure. Go, since 
 
 now 
 There is no hindrance. 
 
 1 Off. [looking behind the scenes."} Yet that 
 
 new appearance 
 Which cross'd ray sight this moment, scarcely 
 
 proves it. 
 Merv. [looking the same tvayj] Who is the 
 
 chief that yonder seems with threats, 
 With a loud voice, and wild impetuous gestures, 
 To parley with our troops, ranged farthest off? 
 1 Off. 'Tis Ceoluph, that treacherous lord ; 
 
 who went 
 
 From hence just now, to seek the Danish general, 
 And authorize undue severity, 
 By his consent, on those he, raving here, 
 Entitled rebels. By the fate of war, 
 He finds them distant, and returns alone 
 To wreak his vengeance on them. Led by thee, 
 We shall not fear a trial of our strength. 
 
 Merv. No; the adjustment of this difference 
 
 rests 
 
 On us two only. No more blood be spill'd ! 
 1 Off. Prince, do not hazard, without need, thy 
 person,
 
 Act III. ~\ OF EDDINGTON. Ql 
 
 Nor slight our ready aid. 
 Merv. I charge you, stay. 
 
 [draws his sword, and exit. 
 
 SCENE XV. 
 Attendants, and I. Soldiers. 
 
 1 Off. The event will be a source of general 
 
 sorrow 
 
 To all the army, should it be pcrceiv'd, 
 In this brave prince's death, unfortunate : 
 His ardent valour, and the abhorrence felt 
 By clear integrity, at darkest baseness, 
 Are the resistless prompters of his rage. 
 O may the vigour which they lend his arm 
 Command success ! 
 
 2 Off". Thou heard'st their clashing swords? 
 
 1 Off. Perhaps from thence thou mayst dis- 
 cover somewhat 
 Of this momentous battle. 
 
 2 Off. Scarce I see them: 
 The drooping foliage so impedes my view, 
 And now a rapid impulse carries them
 
 9* THE BATTLE \_Act III. 
 
 Behind the thickest shade. 
 
 1 Off. Advance, and mark them. . 
 
 2 Off. [going, stops.'] That is the prince, most 
 
 surely, who appears 
 With signs of agitation, and directs 
 Hither his course. 
 
 1 Off. May it bode good ! 
 
 SCENE XVI. 
 Attendants, I. Soldiers. To them, enter Mervin. 
 
 Merv. I bring you 
 
 The news, that Alfred hither leads in haste 
 His earnest bands, though I fear the cause 
 Is ill success ; whose mournful signs are witness'd 
 In general flight. Our doubt will shortly cease. 
 
 & . SCENE xm. 
 
 Mervin, Attendants, I. Soldiers. To them, enter 
 Alfred, and E. Soldiers. 
 
 Alf. Prince, thus surrounded, as thou art, by 
 foes.
 
 Act III.'] OF EDDINGTON. 93 
 
 What am I to suppose ? Thou, surely, hast not 
 Fall'n by the fate of battle in their power ; 
 But if thou have, my ready arms shall strive, 
 With English valour's aid, to wrest thee from 
 them. 
 
 Merv. No, Alfred ; they are friends, not foes, 
 
 thou seest, 
 Who vie with Englishmen in acts of valour. 
 
 Alf. Such new society might raise, in some, 
 x\ doubt, if thou, prince, art become our foe$ 
 Or rather those, more fortunately friends, 
 Who lately warr'd against us. But thy faith 
 In me prevents it. 
 
 Merv. Lo ! a proof of this. 
 
 SCENE XVIII. 
 
 Alfred, Mervin, Attendants, I. and E. Soldiers. 
 To them, enter Ceoluph -wounded, brought in 
 by Vassal, and others. 
 
 Alf. How shall I praise thee, gallant prince, 
 enough ? 
 
 Yes, 'tis a noble proof 
 
 [They carry Ceoluph towards the cottage, accord- 
 ing to their intention of entering it, and one 
 who precedes is about to open the door.
 
 94 THE BATTLE \_-Act 111. 
 
 But see, his hand 
 
 Rais'd up, as if to vfarn them he would speak. 
 
 Ceo. [in a despairing voice.'] No ; stir not far- 
 ther set me down my wound 
 Asks sudden rest ; and while I yet retain 
 Life's lessening remnant, anxiously I seek 
 To put it all to profit. 
 
 Vass. If, my lord, 
 
 Thy purpose be to summon to the attack 
 Our troops, how great soe'er king Alfred's force, 
 We stand prepar'd 
 
 Ceo. [in the same tone.'] My purpose was not 
 
 such: 
 
 Let them approach him, but exhibit looks 
 Of meek submission, not of fierce defiance; 
 And to forgiveness of that breach of faith, 
 Of which I solely was the unworthy cause, 
 Waken his mercy. Let them too (and say 
 My counsel is the richest legacy 
 A chieftain could bequeath them ) ever shun 
 The paths that lead to treason. Senseless hate, . 
 And senseless envy of superior rank, 
 Be banish'd from their breast. Let them not 
 
 think 
 i 
 
 That gain is happiness, nor, for its gifts,
 
 ACt ////) OF EDDINCTON. 0,5 
 
 Hope plunder in rebellion. Let them, too, 
 Beware of those, who, by the lure of reason, 
 Would draw them to destruction. Nay, and urge 
 
 them 
 
 Ev'n to distrust their own self-counsll'd thoughts. 
 Prompting precarious change. 
 Vass. My lord, I will. 
 Ceo. 'Tis thus my faithful troops may satisfy 
 Their conscience, and their God I can no more! 
 Ev'n now I feel a sudden faintness warn 
 My end approaches fast, and from my veins 
 The life-blood issuing with a swifter flow, 
 Leaves cold these torpid limbs O injur'd mo- 
 narch 
 
 Heav'n speed him, and have mercy on my Oh ! 
 
 [dies. 
 
 Alf. 'Tis o'er, Ye vassals of the unhappy lord, 
 Bear hence the body, and, with decent rites 
 Let it be honour'd. To yourselves I grant 
 Free pardon. Go, let his judicious counsel 
 Sink in your souls, and prove your future guide. 
 
 [Exeunt with the body.
 
 .96 
 
 THE BATTLE 
 
 [Act III. 
 
 SCENE XIX. 
 Alfred, Mervin, Attendants, E. and I. Soldiers. 
 
 Alf. Thy service, prince, is now again desir'd ; 
 And for the public cause, I would to thee 
 Entrust a message. 
 
 Meru. Readily I take 
 
 The office, Alfred, though the unwelcome task 
 Be to give sanction to disgraceful terms 
 Of,peace, as conquer'd, with the haughty foe. 
 
 Alf. Then listen to what terms I grant the 
 
 Danes: 
 
 Pent, as they are, within yon distant castle, 
 In lessen'd numbers, and with humbler spirit 
 
 Merv. Repeat thy words. What ! have we 
 gain'd the day? 
 
 Alf. Yes, never Alfred has beheld, till now, ' 
 His power so firmly fix'd, or stretch'd so wide 
 Over this beauteous isle. The king of Scotland, 
 The prudent Gregory, for his country's good, 
 Had wisely sought protection from our own, 
 And sent his brave auxiliars to the war,
 
 CF EDDINGTON. 97 
 
 As subject to our sway. Since which event, 
 Almost the sovereignty of Britain's mine. 
 
 Merv. Almost! 'tis quite: I hail thee king 
 
 of Britain. 
 Alf. This cannot be. Thou, for thy state, I 
 
 know 
 
 Dost homage j but thy brother Anarawd, 
 Who rules the territory of Northern Wales, 
 Long persever'd to hinder it, and from us 
 Withheld his aid in the destructive war 
 The Danes and we have waged ; yet 'twere, in 
 
 truth, 
 What both our interests alike required. 
 
 Merv. Then will they meet no farther op- 
 position. 
 
 The Danish fleet, that hover'd round his coast, 
 Held him in awe, and to this cause is ow'd 
 The involuntary silence he preserves, 
 And has regretted long. On thy success, 
 (Commission'd secretly from him I ^speak,) 
 He holds himself from henceforth, and his king- 
 dom 
 Subjected to thy mild and just dominion. 
 
 E. Sold. Long live great Alfred, the first king 
 of Britain ! 
 
 G
 
 Q 8 TH BATTLE f 'Act III. 
 
 v' *" 
 
 M,erv. Prepar'd to take thy message, I attend 
 The instruction of thy tongue. What punishment 
 Does Alfred mean to award to lawless bands,. 
 Who long have wasted every fertile plain ; 
 And mark'd their steps with blood ? 
 
 Alf. Such punishment 
 As Christian justice asks. 
 
 Merv. Speak then ; what is it ? 
 
 Alf. Different degrees of favour must be 
 
 shewn, 
 To various worth. 
 
 Merv. 'Twere worthy Alfred's wisdom. 
 
 Alf. Then, since our mild religion teaches us 
 To love, and to forgive our enemies, 
 I shall not hesitate. To every Dane 
 I grant his liberty. 
 
 Mew. His liberty ? 
 
 Alf. And to- all those who will embrace our 
 
 faith, 
 
 And leave their pagan, gods, to such I give 
 Sufficient lands, with honest industry, . 
 Spread through the middle counties of our realm, 
 To thrive in peace. 
 
 Merv. So merciful a conduct, 
 Was oft thy noble p'olicy ; but now,
 
 Act ///.] OF EDDINGTON. 99 
 
 While prostrate at thy feet the foe is seen, 
 And 'tis no longer needful, dost thou hold 
 The deed is wise ? 
 
 Alf. 'Tis just, and therefore wise. 
 
 Merv. I swiftly bear these tidings, which will 
 
 soon 
 
 O'ercome their minds with unexpected goodness ; 
 And, if I augur right, no truer subjects 
 Their gratitude will leave to upbraid their honour. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 SCENE XX. 
 Alfred, Attendants, E. and I. Soldiers. 
 
 Alf. You, men of Ireland, rest protected here, 
 Awhile our subjects, till the Danish force, 
 Enfeebled now by this our victory, 
 Rouze your brave countrymen to free themselves 
 From an oppressive yoke. In after times 
 I trust the nations will preserve with care 
 Their ancient friendship, and all foreign lands 
 Envy the fortune of the British Isles. 
 G 2
 
 1OO THE BATTLE [Ad HI. 
 
 /. Sold. Long live great Alfred, patron of the 
 
 Irish! 
 jE. and I. Sold. May Irishmen and Britons seem 
 
 one people ! 
 
 Alf. Our triumph to complete, it yet remains 
 That we diffuse the gladness where 'tis due. 
 I hasten to the queen : do you meanwhile 
 Resign yourselves to joy, nor let the harp 
 Speak of aught else but Britain's future glory. 
 
 [Exit into the cottage* 
 
 SCENE XXI. 
 
 Attendants, E. and I. Soldiers. 
 SONG. 
 
 Slow descending from the plains 
 
 Of liquid ether, and the peopled sky, 
 
 The converse of the bless'd resign' 'd, 
 
 Daughters of peace, th' inventive arts from high 
 
 Glance sweet on their remembered earth. 
 
 Floating on coloured clouds, they seek, inclin'd, 
 
 What guardian spirit, whence he reigns,
 
 Act ///.] OP EDDINGTON. 1Q1 
 
 With beckoning band, permitted from above, 
 And voice exulting, bade them speed, 
 
 Round -whom himself, and powers aerial love, 
 ( To win the noblest realm decreed) 
 Tbeir blessings wide t' extend, and wake their 
 fruits to birth. 
 
 Heavenly harbingers of joy, 
 
 Come, and below, enchanting nearer, smile, 
 Stored with the secret skill ye boast 
 
 Or wealth t' improve, or poverty beguile : 
 Come ; and the trackless desert sow 
 With autumn's waving pride ; but o'er the coast 
 Let commerce all her sons employ 
 
 T adorn, with glories of remotest lands, 
 IVlde cities, your stupendous work. 
 
 For all things own, with well-instructed bands, 
 Each others aid, ye grant to lurk 
 Unprais'd no genuine charm, no labour useless 
 grow. 
 
 Not the thought -inspiring stream 
 
 Offam'd Ilyssus, nor the sage's bowers ; 
 
 Not Tibiir's banks your steps attend ; 
 'Twas Britain's Genius, from the bordering 
 jiowers
 
 10* -THE BATTLE [Atf III. 
 
 Of limpid Thames that called so long 
 Your radiant beauty t -where in pride ascend 
 Augusta's toiver$, and neighbouring gleam ; 
 Or vtrdant paths divide the elms of Shene, 
 Or forests clothe the ~jainding~shore. 
 What splendour then shall raise the vivid scene > 
 When you refinement's gladness pour, 
 And virtue wider blooms around tfr expecting 
 throng. 
 
 1 Off. I wonder what the Intentions of the king 
 Are in this weighty matter, which must soon 
 Engage us, the formation of a state. 
 
 All who survive the battle of this day 
 Expect, I doubt not, here, upon the field, 
 Some declaration of important kind. 
 
 2 Off. It must be so ; for, ere the fight began, 
 'Tis said, he, with the hopes of liberty, 
 
 Of new and better laws, to fortify, 
 
 And to extend our rights, inspir'd their courage. 
 
 What it may be, I guess not ; if we credit 
 
 The voice of rumour, he intends to lay 
 
 Such privileges down, secur'd by law, 
 
 As common virtue scarcely could resign. 
 
 1 Off. 'Tis safer to distrust those wandering 
 tales;
 
 Act IHJ] OF EDD1NGTON.. 
 
 He means us good, but we shall see, if now 
 A youthful monarch at his reign's first outset. 
 Dare liberate subjects from undue dependence, 
 And give an earnest of regard to freedom. 
 
 SCENE XXIL 
 
 Attendants E. and I. Enter. Alfred ^ 
 
 covered, but pale, and Ednumd. 
 
 Alf. Soldiers and friends, the toil of battle past, 
 ''Tis now our business elsewhere to seek forth 
 Some better place of rest ; so long conderan'd 
 To bear the weather's worst inclemencies, 
 Or find, at most, in some half ruin'd hovel, 
 Or hut, a shelter from the raging storm, 
 Each will be lodg'd beneath his roof again, 
 And mansions which the Danes have long possess'd 
 Are open to receive us j there repose 
 Will be as just as welcome ; and yet no\r 
 Activity becomes us, and a work 
 Of lasting import asks the nation's efforts; 
 Nor shall I shrink from toil, or sacrifice 
 Of rights, in this revision of our laws.
 
 1O4 THE BATTLE, &C. 
 
 Oft in discourse ye hear of my intentions ; 
 What ye were told do I confirm ; and promise 
 To make you those concessions : on their base 
 (Destin'd, I hope, to be the pride of man) 
 The British constitution shall arise, 
 And may it last till time shall be no more ! 
 
 [They look on each other in admiration. Tbe 
 English, Scots, Welch, and Irish following 
 in procession, in their respective arms and 
 dresses, 
 
 [Exeunt omnts.
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Page 41. Think but of one Rome's sages, &c.~] 
 Cicero's praise of this form of government is known, 
 and Tacitus, though speaking in the style of objec- 
 tion, condemns it only as a fine theory, which had 
 attracted the attention of philosophers, but was 
 impossible to reduce to practice. 
 
 Page 48. When Arthur fill'd the island 
 throne."] Arthur, provoked to see the little ad- 
 vantage he had yet gained, and that victory yet 
 continued in suspense, drew out his Caliburn, and 
 calling upon the name of the Blessed Virgin, 
 rushed forward with great violence into the thick- 
 est of the enemy's ranks; of whom (such was the 
 merit of his prayers) not one escaped alive that 
 felt the fury of his sword." 
 
 Geoff ery of Monmontb. 
 
 Page 48. Chiefs prostrate lie.~] Catalina vero 
 longe a suis, inter hostium cadavera, repertus est, 
 paulum etiam spirans, ferociamque animi, quam 
 habuerat vivus, in rultu retinens. Sail. Bell. Cat.
 
 NOTES. 
 
 This is still more closely imitated by Rucelai 
 in his Rosmunda, in the following lines : 
 E morto ritenea quella fierezza 
 Ch'avea quand'era vivo, e quell 'orrore. 
 Page 48. For toils like these. ~] 
 
 Hac arte Pollux, hac vagus Hercules. Hor. 
 Page 49. Their names alike, (if such be praise. ~\ 
 
 Ossaque nomen 
 Hesperii in magna, si qua est ea gloria, signant. 
 
 Virg. 
 
 Page 86. Nor shall her sons of glory. ,] " Thy 
 sons of glory many." See Thompson, in his Sum- 
 mer ; to whose patriotism, displayed in the rest of 
 the paragraph, this fiction of Ossian's harp al- 
 ludes. 
 
 Page 102. Winding-shore. ~] The ancient name 
 
 of Windsor.
 
 ERRATA. 
 BATTLE OF EDDINGTON. 
 
 Page 28, last line, for Edm. read Editba. 
 
 33, line 4, for these, read those. 
 
 ' 38, i, for could, read couldst. 
 
 74, 6, for serpentining^ read serpentiz- 
 
 ing. 
 104, i, for hear, read heard. 
 
 ERRATA. 
 LETTERS ON THE DRAMA. 
 
 Table of Contents, Letter XL for Of the English 
 Stage, read Of the English Theatre. 
 
 Page 12, line 17, for claro scuro, read chiaro- 
 scuro. 
 
 23, 22, for The remarks, read He re- 
 marks, &c. 
 
 63, 2, for Of the English Stage, read 
 
 Of the English Theatre. 
 
 71* i> dele A.
 
 TRANSLATION 
 
 OF 
 RANIERI DI CALSABIGl's 
 
 LETTER 
 TO COUNT ALFIERI, ON 
 
 TRAGEDY. 
 
 WITH NOTES. 
 
 THE NOTES 
 
 BY J. PENN, ESQ. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED FOR ELMSLY, STRAND; FAULDEK, BOND- 
 
 STREET; SEWELL, CORNHILL ; AND OWEN 
 AND WHITE, PICCADILLY. 
 
 1797-
 
 ON TRAGEDY. 
 
 1 DO not know, my dear Count, whether I ought 
 rather to congratulate you, or Italy in general, upon 
 the four excellent tragedies which you have lately 
 printed j wherein you afford us the expectation of 
 seeing some other pieces published, as you declare 
 in the first volume with which you have favoured 
 me. 
 
 You have composed a rich treasure for us Ita- 
 lians, who have hitherto been so miserably poor in 
 tragedy, as well as for the English, who are equally 
 deficient with ourselves ; with the exception, not of 
 any entire plays, which are as bad as our own, but 
 of some sublime passages of the illustrious Shak- 
 speare. You will also be of use to the French 
 themselves, who, since they have lost Crebillon 
 and Voltaire, have sunk to a very low state, with- 
 out any immediate probability of rising from it. 
 
 B
 
 2 ON TRAGEDY. 
 
 If I may presume to make the assertion, my ho- 
 noured friend, 
 
 Dixisti insigoe, recens et adhuc 
 Indictum ore alio. 
 
 - New-born glories 
 Wake thy soul, inspire thy tongue. 
 
 BOSCAWEN. 
 . 
 How many writers will henceforth apply to you 
 
 for new and theatrical situations j for characters 
 drawn from the life, with a bold and masterly 
 pencil ; and for vigorous, energetic, and laconic 
 expressions. How many of your single thoughts 
 will be wiredrawn into enure periods, and even 
 entire scenes. You teach us, 
 
 Magnumque loqui, nitique cothurno ; 
 
 ' 
 The buskin'd actor with his spirit fraught, 
 
 To breathe with dignity the lofty thought. 
 
 COLMAN. 
 
 -' 
 
 You strip our Tragic Muse of the rags in which 
 has been hitherto shamefully clothed. You console 
 us for the wretched state of our theatre ; and you put 
 us in possession of that rich and elegant dress, clothed
 
 ON TRAGEDY. 3 
 
 in which we may shew ourselves not inferior to that 
 nation, which hitherto has justly looked upon us 
 with an eye of compassion, and deserved contempt. 
 If any one, my dear friend, will patiently attempt 
 to read those few Italian tragedies, which having 
 been separated from the immense number of their 
 deformed sisters, are printed with the haughty title 
 of select , and are proposed as models for imitation ; 
 if, I say, he makes an effort to peruse them from 
 beginning to end, what will he find ? Deformed, 
 complicated, perplexed, and improbable plans; 
 and an erroneous disposition of the parts ; useless 
 persons ; want of unity in the action, ill drawn 
 characters, gigantic or puerile conceits, languid 
 verses, captious expressions, unharmonious and 
 unnatural poetry; and the whole piece filled with 
 descriptions, comparisons out of their proper place, 
 idle rants of philosophy or politics, interwoven with 
 disagreeable amours, effeminate conversations, and 
 vulgar displays of tenderness, which meet us in 
 every scene. There is no appearance of tragic 
 vigour, of the opposition of rival passions, or of 
 the astonishing revolutions of the theatre : in vain 
 do we seek that which 
 
 B2
 
 ON TRAGEDY. 
 
 Pectus inaniter angit, 
 trritat, mulcet, falsis terroribus implet, 
 
 Can make me feel each passion 
 
 Enrage, compose, with more than magic art ; 
 
 With pity and with terror tear my heart. POPE. 
 
 We find nothing which interests us, instructs, amuses, 
 
 & 
 
 or charms us 
 
 Delectando, pariterque monendo. 
 
 Instruction and delight can blend, 
 Please with his fancy, with his moral mend. 
 
 COLMAN. 
 
 Every thing is reduced to a concatenation of bad 
 verses, in which 
 
 Acer spiritus ac vis, 
 Nee verbis, nee rebus inest. 
 
 it may be wrought 
 
 3 
 
 In style and subject, without fire and force. FRANCIS. 
 
 ' 
 
 In this manner, my dear Count, I have de- 
 scribed, perhaps with a little too much severity, 
 but certainly with truth, that which has been hi- 
 therto called Tragedy among us. The greatest 
 boast that can be made is, that it is composed, ac-
 
 ON TRAGEDY. 5 
 
 cording to the rules which Aristotle has laid down, 
 for Trissino having set the example in his Sofonis- 
 ba, nobody has hitherto presumed to depart from it. 
 
 But why, it will be said, have we confined our- 
 selves within these limits, which are so far removed 
 from the perfection of the drama ? why has no 
 Italian author produced a tragedy which may be 
 compared with the pieces of the Greek, or at least 
 of the French stage, since in every other branch 
 we have poets without number, or at least such as 
 are called so ? why, as if despairing of recovery, 
 have we returned back to those musical dramas; 
 which having become ridiculous in the last century, 
 have since been made more tolerable by Apostolo 
 Zeno, and afterwards perfected by Metastasio ; 
 leaving the buskin and laurel of tragedy to our 
 neighbours, without making farther attempts to 
 dispute it with them ? I will answer these questions 
 separately, as I flatter myself that I have discovered 
 the true solution. 
 
 Since the Sofonisba of Trissino abovemention- 
 ed, which was acted at Rome ; and since some other 
 tragedies (our first attempts in the art) represented - 
 at Florence and Ferrara ; we have, indeed, nevei
 
 6, ON TRAGEDY. 
 
 wanted poets, who have continued to write new 
 pieces, and have succeeded in producing them 
 upon the stage. But what kind of stages were 
 these? sometimes theatres belonging to the court, 
 but most commonly to private noblemen, who 
 caused them to be erected in their palaces and vil- 
 las. Upon these temporary stages, select tragedies 
 were represented a few times by the courtiers 
 of the prince, or by private parties of ladies and 
 gentlemen. Thus Italy having never had a perma- 
 nent tragic theatre, nor actors by profession, these 
 private representations could only be called tran- 
 sient attempts, from which the art received little or 
 no advantage. 
 
 It was worse when those companies of actors, 
 who have always reigned upon the Italian stage, 
 got possession of those more or less imperfect tra- 
 gedies, when they were made public by the press. 
 Every body knows of what absurd and aukward 
 buffoons those wandering troops are generally 
 composed. Every body knows that the greater 
 part of these barbarous actors, besides being taken 
 from the lowest and most uneducated part of the 
 peopk, is born in those provinces where our Ian-
 
 ON TRAGEDY, 7 
 
 guage is spoken with the least purity, both in the 
 grammar, and in the pronounciation. Therefore, 
 these actors, lisping a tragedy, produce the same 
 effect upon their hearers, as the tragedies of 
 Racine or Voltaire would produce at Paris, if they 
 were recited in the provincial brogue of Gascony 
 or Picardy. We all know to what ridiculous, ill- 
 dressed, aukward, and even ugly females, the su- 
 blime parts of the Phedra, Andromache, Semiramis, 
 and Zara, are given, to be torn to pieces in the 
 jargon of Bologna, Lombardy, or Genoa ; and to 
 be recited and acted without elegance or grace, in 
 the style of the beggar-women in the streets. 
 
 Thus the entire want of a permanent and well 
 conducted theatre, and the more important defi- 
 ciency of proper actors, hindered our poets from 
 applying themselves to the composition of real 
 tragedy ; and prevented the studious and judicious 
 part of the public from frequenting the theatre, 
 and all of us from placing importance in it, and 
 making it an object of national glory. 
 
 Moreover, Italy being- divided into so many 
 small states, never has had a great and central 
 point of union for Italian ambition. The Romans,
 
 8 QN TRAGEDY. 
 
 the Lombards, the Tuscans, the Piedmontese, the 
 Venetians, and the Neapolitans, considered each 
 other as having different interests, and as enemies, 
 or at least rivals, both in the sciences and in the 
 
 fine arts. In the art of painting, they certainly 
 
 _ 
 were so ; the different schools opposed and attacked 
 
 each other: the Roman painters endeavoured to 
 decry the Bolognese, these the Florentines, and 
 the Florentines the Venetians and the Neapoli- 
 tans. Each made a separate sect, to the great in- 
 jury of the nation in general. 
 
 The same happened in poetry. The absurd 
 critic^ms of that foolish set of writers upon the di- 
 vine poem of Tasso, are a proof of this assertion. 
 The books which were written by those coxcombs 
 against that immortal poem, would fill a large shelf. 
 Ranged under the banners of Signor Lionardo, 
 (instead of Leonardo, as more elegant) Salviati, 
 they endeavoured to demonstrate that the Gerusa- 
 lemme Liberata was a collection of nonsense. The 
 too irritable author, already rendered melancholy 
 by an unhappy passion, was driven to madness by 
 their attacks. They seduced the wretched praters, 
 who were envious of the sublime genius of Tasso ;
 
 ON TRAGEDY. 9 
 
 they had a short existence, like troublesome in- 
 sects ; after which they sunk into the oblivion w lich 
 they deserved. 
 
 From this pedantic generation arose the r dicu- 
 lous comparisons between the Orlando Furioso; 
 and the Gerusalemme ; ridiculous, because they 
 compared the Iliad with the Arabian Tales, and 
 the Eneid with the Romances of Chivalry. Thence 
 arose the puerile predilection for the Petrarchian 
 style of speaking and writing ; and the senseless at- 
 tempts at judging the mature language of the six- 
 teenth century by the grammar of the fourteenth, 
 which had hardly quitted its cradle. 
 
 The Italians being separated, as I mentioned, 
 both by interest and by rivalship in the sciences 
 and fine arts ; and each part, separately taken, not 
 being sufficiently powerful to establish and keep 
 up, during the whole course of the year, a national 
 tragic theatre ; they continued indeed to write tra- 
 geplies from time to time, but always on the model 
 of the first: they likewise printed them, but they 
 were nof able to bring them before the public on 
 the stage, a most essential trial of theatrical effect. 
 And is it, indeed, possible to compose a tragedy by
 
 1O ON TRAGEDY. 
 
 guess, without actual experiment ? The poet, left in 
 uncertainty, finds himself in the same doubtful si- 
 tuation in which a painter or sculptor would be, 
 who undertook to paint a picture, or to carve out a 
 group, without knowing whether it was to be placed 
 in a gallery or a public square, upon the front of a 
 triumphal arch, or of a church. Thus wanting the 
 knowledge of what can make an impression on the 
 mind of the spectator, and either interest him or 
 rouse him, the poet may probably compose a piece 
 according to the rules prescribed, and in an elegant 
 style, but it will be without force, languid, cold, 
 tiresome, and rugged. 
 
 Neither can this indispensable practice in tra- 
 gedy be acquired without frequenting the theatre 
 and meditating on it, with a previous provision of 
 all other kinds of knowledge necessary in the dra- 
 matic art. This experience being wanting, (which 
 is difficult to obtain, unless, together with the 
 knowledge of foreign languages, the theatres of 
 other nations, which are best provided with actors, 
 are diligently and attentively surveyed) no person 
 can make any great progress j in this most noble 
 branch of poetry. Those geniuses who, as it were
 
 ON TRAGEDY. $1 
 
 by inspiration, start up ready formed, are very rare: 
 and even these do not bring their art to perfection 
 at one stroke, but only point out the way to others. 
 Corneille, who derived assistance from Mairet, Ro- 
 trou, and other imperfect writers, formed Racine; 
 and these two formed Voltaire and Crebillon. 
 Thus among the. Greeks, Sophocles learnt from 
 Eschylus, and Euripides from Sophocles, with the 
 assistance of a permanent theatre. A poet who is 
 ignorant of the practice of theatrical effect, cannot 
 be striking in his tragedies, except in a few scenes 
 derived from his own warmth and enthusiam ; or 
 in the display of the tender passion, which insi- 
 nuates itself into the mind, and agitates and rouses 
 it with greater facility. 
 
 It is incontestable therefore, in my opinion, that 
 a fixed theatre principally forms both writers and 
 actors, and that both writers and actors acquire 
 perfection by change and variety. If therefore an 
 Italian sovereign should desire to introduce into 
 his dominions, an useful and pleasing species of 
 drama, it would be necessary to begin by estab- 
 lishing a permanent stage. Then he ought to col- 
 lect a number of the best actors which could be
 
 12 ON TRAGEDY. 
 
 found, selecting out of the itinerant troops those 
 few who pronounce well, who have a handsome 
 and genteel person, a good voice, or any other 
 perfection natural or acquired. It would be ne- 
 cessary above all, to collect those females in which 
 these talents are found together, and to deliver 
 them from the infamy to which, I know not why, 
 all those who appear on the stage are condemned 
 by us, without any difference on account of their 
 conduct and manners. A company thus selected 
 being well paid, and a judicious collection of tra- 
 gedies and comedies being formed, either out of 
 our own stock, or translated with vigour and ele- 
 gance, with a proper distribution of parts, they 
 ought to appear on the stage every day, as soon as 
 they are properly instructed by able teachers, in 
 judicious declamation, action, and theatrical ges- 
 ture. Young poets, by frequenting this well regu- 
 lated theatre, would insensibly acquire knowledge 
 with regard to the management of the passions, the 
 disposition of the scenes and subjects, and what- 
 ever else could contribute to the production of 
 excellent tragedies ; they would not run after the 
 effusions of an unregulated imagination ; they would
 
 ON TRAGEDY. 1$ 
 
 acquire the true and natural language of the theatre; 
 and by little and little they would arrive at that 
 degree of perfection, which at present is hardly 
 known in Italy. Our poets, ill provided with every 
 thing, and particularly with that most essential mir- 
 ror, a permanent theatre, in which may be seen 
 
 Quid sit pulchrum, quid turpe, quid utile, quid non. 
 
 the beautiful and base 
 
 Of vice and virtue more instructive rules ; FRANCIS. 
 
 nevertheless, to our great disgrace, attempt to 
 write tragedy. They think that they observe the 
 rules laid down, they do all that is necessary. Not 
 considering that they are pigmies, who madly strive 
 to wield the club of Hercules. They do not re- 
 flect, that 
 
 Non satis est dixisse, ego mira poemata pango. 
 
 'tis not enough to cry, 
 
 I can write poems to strike wonder blind. COLMAN. 
 
 they do not call to mind how difficult a task it is to 
 wrestle with Sophocles, with Euripides, and three 
 or four others, who fill up the immense void of 
 twenty-four centuries. They forget that all the
 
 14 ON TRACED*. 
 
 tragedies which have been hissed, ridiculed, and 
 despised, for this century past, have nevertheless 
 been written according to the rules : as if it were 
 sufficient to observe the unities, to arrive at per- 
 fection : as if the knowledge of men, of their cha- 
 racters and their manners, in all ages, in all kinds 
 of education, under all governments, in all coun- 
 tries, at all times of life, and in all different reli- 
 gions, were of little or no importance: as if the 
 difficult art of forming a proper plan, of dividing it 
 well, of distributing it into scenes, and of restrain- 
 ing it, so that the interest may increase instead of 
 diminishing, were of no use: and lastly, as if there 
 were no occasion for being endued with a poeti- 
 cal imagination, which is the principal cause of the 
 value of every species of poetry, with an easy vein, 
 with elegance of diction, with force and vehemence 
 of thought, with elegance and freedom of colour- 
 ing, and with what Horace summarily calls 
 
 ' Mens divinior, atque os 
 
 Magna sonaturum. 
 
 A mind partaking of divinity, and lips from %vhence 
 sublime sounds issue.
 
 ON TRAGEDY. 15 
 
 So many different talents, that nature and art ap- 
 pear to force themselves, when they join to pro- 
 duce them. 
 
 This is the reason, my dear friend, that having 
 no permanent tragic theatre, whilst in many cities 
 there was a musical stage almost constantly, we 
 have returned to this last, forming dramatic mon- 
 sters, for such are our musical plays, or at least 
 those of the greater part of theatrical poets. Apos- 
 tolo Zeno, to improve the plan, abandoned the 
 ridiculous subjects of the last age, and endeavoured 
 to form the opera upon the model of the French 
 tragedies. Thus we behold a prolixity, sufficiently 
 insupportable when declaimed, and much more so 
 when sung in recitative. We have iniroduced te- 
 dious narratives, complicated intricacies, actions 
 void of simplicity, tiresome displays of science, 
 and other frivolities, all erected after the same de- 
 sign. We have added of our own, the Gothic 
 invention of similes, noisy uproars, everlasting de- 
 bates on morality, war, politics, and government, 
 which agree with the theatre just as well as a Harle- 
 quin's coat with the divine statue of the Vatican 
 Apollo. I am well aware, that this plan has not
 
 l6 ON TRAGEDY. 
 
 been adopted without a motive. With such mate- 
 rials for filling up, it is very easy to get forward. 
 All the characters have always a great deal to say, 
 for even the confidantes and captains of the guard, 
 are represented as crossed in love. And if any 
 scenes are still deficient in matter, we have a great 
 store of philosophical remarks and comparisons 
 with which we can fill up the vacancy. 
 
 But on the other hand, if we regard the rule of 
 simplex et unum ;* if we confine ourselves to the 
 number of persons which the action requires, with- 
 out augmentation; if these only speak according 
 to their characters and their passions; in this case, 
 to furnish three or five interesting acts completely, 
 with the language of the heart, and not of the 
 fancy, is a task which 
 
 Pauci, quos sequus amavit 
 
 Jupiter, atque ardens evexit ad aether a virtus, 
 Dis geniti, potuere. 
 
 To few great Jupiter imparts 
 
 And those of shining worth and heavenly race. 
 
 DRYDEN 
 
 * Simple and one.
 
 ON TRAGEDY. 17 
 
 In the musical drama, every thing passes off with- 
 out difficulty; the poetry is the part of it which is 
 the least regarded ; nobody either reads it, or listens 
 to it ; and with justice. The audience wait for 
 the airs, and in the mean time converse, scold, 
 chat, and make love, with so little moderation, that 
 in our theatres the observation of Horace, respect- 
 ing those of his own age, is perfectly verified; 
 
 Qua: pervincere voces 
 
 Evaluere sonum, referunt quern nostra theatra? 
 Garganum mugire putes nemus. 
 
 Where's the voice so strong, as to confound 
 The shouts with which our theatres resound ? 
 Loud as when surges lash the Tuscan shore, 
 Or mountain forests with a tempest roar. FRANCIS. 
 
 Such being our respectable custom, modern poets 
 may flatter themselves with the expectation of ob- 
 taining a name, of no very great duration, and in 
 other countries, attended rather with censure than 
 with praise ; they may vaunt of their performances, 
 and give congratulation and applause to each other ; 
 and, proceeding in the same track, where little ge- 
 nius, and less labour, is required, they may obtain 
 
 C
 
 l8 ON TRAGEDY. 
 
 the praises and predilections of the fair sex, in 
 every situation of life. 
 
 According to the observation of Horace, my 
 dear Count, 
 
 Iliacos intra muros peccatur, et extra j 
 
 Trojans and Greeks- 
 
 Offend alike. FRANCIS. 
 
 So that if I turn my eyes from our wretched theatre 
 towards the English stage, I shall not find much 
 greater subjects for commendation in any depart- 
 ment. That illustrious nation, which affects to think 
 and act differently from the rest of the world, a 
 nation of liberty and lofty spirit, has extended its 
 desire of singularity to the theatre. It has adopted 
 a peculiar constitution of its drama, as well as of 
 its government ; it is contented with, and even vain 
 of it, in spite of the clamours of other nations. Ac- 
 cording to the famous Shakspeare, the author of 
 this new constitution, the unities are chains fit only 
 for slaves, and probability is the invention of a dull 
 imagination. He either knew not, or did not wish 
 to know, the treatises and tragedies of the Greeks, 
 as our Metaitasio asserted that he had never read
 
 ON TRAGEDY. 19 
 
 the French poets, in order to avoid imitation. Shak- 
 speare, therefore, soared without any foreign assist- 
 ance. He produced monsters, but they were ori- 
 ginal monsters ; he introduced characters without 
 number. With battles, with the poison of assassins 
 and tyrants, with death and murder, he mixed the 
 buffoonery of pretended fools, who frequently 
 really were such. In his plays we are often made 
 to laugh in the next scene after a dreadful mas- 
 sacre. He did not endeavour to embellish nature ; 
 he shewed her such as she really was when he lived, 
 rough, fierce, and savage. But to say the truth, the 
 characters of his pieces were savages, and so per- 
 haps were those who formed his audience. He 
 made great use of spectres and ghosts, and in my 
 opinion with great judgment. They are (whatever 
 people say) by far the most effectual instruments 
 of terror, and were very well adapted to the su- 
 perstitious and credulous minds of his countrymen. 
 It is likewise possible that a simple violent death 
 had no great effect on the minds of men of that 
 composition : Shakspeare therefore multiplied mur- 
 ders to a disgusting length. He endued his assas- 
 sins with sanguinary rage, brutality, and scornful 
 
 C2
 
 2O ON TRAGEDY. 
 
 cruelty. And if these horrors were not sufficient 
 to interest his audience, he applied to hell for new 
 powers to move their obdurate souls. He mixed 
 prose and verse, the sublime and the ridiculous, 
 with such success, that his buffoonery is exactly 
 that of the lowest populace, while his sublimity K 
 in the style of Longinus. His successors, the flow- 
 ery, elegant, and poetical Dry den, the tender Rowe, 
 (tender, as far as the character of his nation al- 
 lows) the warm but incoherent Otway, the politi- 
 cal and thoughtful Addison, cold, except in the 
 soliloquy of Cato, 
 
 Deliberata morte ferocior ; 
 
 Fearless by reflection grown, 
 
 greatly thus to end Bo sc A WEN. 
 
 all attempted to imitate their master. They seldom 
 succeeded, especially in his peculiar walk of the 
 grand, the sublime, the picturesque, because he 
 did not possess his genius : so that old Shakspeare, 
 the English Eschylus, remained master of the stage, 
 and still continues to domineer there, and to make 
 the hair of the audience erect with terror, even 
 though they are aware and acquainted with what
 
 ON TRAGEDY. 21 
 
 they hear : for when this singular poet designs to 
 terrify, by his forcible, strong, and energetic ex- 
 pressions, he destroys every precaution, and over- 
 comes all resistance. England did not advance 
 beyond this father of her tragedy : the British Es- 
 chylus was not followed by a Sophocles or an 
 Euripides. The Tragic Muse, at the death of 
 Shakspeare, appears to have exclaimed, 
 
 Thus far extend, thus far thy bounds, 
 O English stage. 
 
 The French theatre, which I now am about to exa- 
 mine, is undoubtedly the best which exists. But 
 it must be acknowledged, that its faults are by no 
 means few. It has too much narrative and decla- 
 mation, and too little business and action : the cha- 
 racters who appear upon it, are modelled after the 
 French fashion, and all pretty nearly resemble each 
 other : they think and speak a la mode de France, 
 and make love like the shepherds in Fontenelle. 
 Greek, Roman, Scythian, and Asiatic passions are 
 seldom met with, although heroes of those nations 
 are represented on the stage. 
 
 The sublime sentiments of those free souls, those 
 virtuous constitutions of antiquity, are seldom seen :
 
 22 ON TRAGEDY. 
 
 every thing is of the present age. The French 
 theatre is confined within the bounds of imaginary 
 decorum. The style of the conversations is al- 
 most always elegant; but also generally consists of 
 amorous disputes, arranged in syllogistic order. 
 The heroic epistles of Ovid, and the elegies of 
 every love-sick poet are adopted, and dressed up 
 in their own manner. As a proof, I will take the 
 first tragedy which occurs on opening the book, 
 the Andromaque, one of the finest of the immortal 
 Racine's. The scene which lies before me, is the 
 fourth of the first act, between Pyrrhus and An- 
 dromache ; a scene of a hundred and thirty verses; 
 in length, which entirely consists of a long formal 
 dispute, in which it is debated, whether the widow 
 of -Hector, may or ought to marry the son of 
 Achilles; of that Achilles who slew her husband, 
 and dragged him behind his chariot, round the 
 walls of Troy. The same Pyrrhus of whom Vir- 
 gil says, 
 
 Primoque in limine Pyrrhus 
 
 Exultaf telis, et luce coruscat ahena. 
 
 Before the gate stood Pyrrhus, threat'ning loud 
 With glittering arms, conspicuous in the crawd. 
 
 ' DRYDEN.
 
 .ON TRAGEDY. 2g 
 
 The poet compares him to a serpent, 
 
 mala gramina pastus ; 
 
 Restored with poisonous herbs; DRYDEN. 
 
 then to a river, which having broken its banks, 
 
 Cum stabulis armenta trahit ; 
 Sweeps the cattle and the cots away. DRYDEN. 
 
 And when he makes him speak, he makes him say, 
 in an insulting tone, to the respectable old Priam, 
 while he is murdering him : 
 
 Referes ergo haec, et nuncius ibis 
 
 Pelidje genitori : 
 
 To my father my foul deeds relate ; DRYDEN 
 
 
 
 and in the act of killing a defenceless old man : 
 
 Nunc morere .... altaria, ad ipsa trementem 
 
 Traxit. 
 
 Implicuitque comam Iseva ; 
 
 Ac lateri capulo tenus abdidit ensem. 
 
 Now die 
 
 Hauled from beneath the violated shade, 
 And on the sacred pile the royal victim laid
 
 24 ON TRAGEDY. 
 
 His right hand held his bloody falchion bare ; 
 
 His left he twisted in his hoary hair, 
 
 Then, with a speeding thrust, his heart he found. 
 
 DRYDEN. 
 
 (remark this frantic excess, abdidit ensem}. r, 
 
 Let us now see with what Parisian gallantry, this 
 Pyrrhus, who is drawn in this manner by the first 
 poet in the world, is made by Racine to address 
 the weeping Andromache : 
 
 Me cherchiez vous, Madame ? 
 
 Un espoir si charmant me seroit il permis ? 
 
 May I, madam, 
 
 Flatter my hopes so far as to believe, 
 
 You come to seek me here ? PHILIPS. 
 
 He goes on, and says : 
 
 Peut on hair sans cesse, et punit-on toujours ? 
 Que vos beaux yeux sur moi se sont bien exerces! 
 Brule de plus de feux que je n'en allumai, .... 
 Tant de foi, tant de pleurs, tant d'ardeurs inquietes. 
 
 And does one always hate, and always punish ? 
 Oh ! how are those bright eyes revenged 011 me ! 
 More fired by love, than Troy was by my rage 
 Such constancy, such ceaseless tears, such ardour. 
 
 I will desist from transcribing any more verses,
 
 ON TRAGEDY. 25 
 
 as I think these are abundantly sufficient to prove 
 what I have asserted. Certainly these tender 
 speeches, these amorous addresses, these little con- 
 ceits, do not agree with the character of Pyrrhus.* 
 
 * In Mithridate, that king, complaining of the passion 
 which he feels for Monimia, whom he suspects to be 
 enamoured of his favourite son Zifares, laments in the 
 following manner: 
 
 J'ai su, par une longue et penible Industrie, 
 Des plus mortels venins prevenir la furie : 
 Ah ! qu'il cut mieux valu, plus sage ou plus heureux, 
 Et repoussant les traits d'un amour dangereux, 
 Ne pas laisser remplir d'ardeurs empoisonnees 
 Un coeur deja glace par le froid des annees ! 
 These verses are quoted by Voltaire with national com- 
 placency, and are given out as worthy to serve for a 
 model. He ought, however, to have told us what those 
 poisonous ardours .are ; perhaps those of the robe which 
 Dejanira gave to Hercules, or Medea to Creusa. He 
 ought to have justified the conceit which is so very ob- 
 servable in the last two verses, in which the poet trifles 
 with a play of words, about those poisonous ardours, and 
 a heart frozen by the cold of years. In my opinion, 
 such a coldness is degrading. Add this to that verse of 
 Pyrrhus, which he has quoted out of Andromaque : 
 More fired by Ipve, than Troy was by my rage ;
 
 26 ON TRAGEDY. 
 
 ^ '_ 
 
 To shew that we are not unjust in fixing upon 
 
 a single example, let us consider how that monster 
 
 | 
 
 and some other passages which I could find in Racine ; 
 and it will appear, that the French ought to have ab- 
 stained from imputing with so great contempt the defect 
 of concetti to our Tasso, and from giving the name of 
 clinquant to his immortal poem, in the words of Boileau, 
 who was no painter-poet. I do not believe that two 
 viler conceits than these, can be found in the Gerusalemme 
 Liberata. If the French had had this moderation (as, 
 to say the truth, the sublime Voltaire frequently had), 
 they would not have deserved Horace's reproach : 
 
 Cum tua pervideas oculis male lippus inunctis, 
 Cur in amicorum vitiis tarn cernis acutum r 
 
 Wherefore while you carelessly pass by 
 
 Your own worst vices with unheeding eye, 
 
 Why so sharp-sighted in another's fame, 
 
 Strong as an eagle's ken or dragon's beam ? FRANC. 
 
 These little defects do not take away my high admiration 
 of the great Racine ; but when one quotes verses out of a 
 poet, it ought to be done with circumspection, for fear 
 of exposing oneself to reprehension. I will here quote 
 some verses of Racine, which surpass every thing that is 
 most poetical, most picturesque, and most animated in
 
 ON TRAGEDY. 2/ 
 
 Nero speaks in Britannicus; and we shall receive 
 an additional proof, of what I have undertaken to 
 
 any tragic poet, ancient or modern. Such are those 
 which Clytemnestra pronounces, at the moment when 
 she believes her daughter to be sacrificed: Scene IV. 
 Act. V. of Iphigene : 
 
 Quoi ! pour noyer les Grecs et leurs mille vaisseaux, 
 
 Mer, tu n'ouvriras pas des abimes nouveaux ? 
 
 Quoi ! lorsque les chassant du port qui les recele, 
 
 L'Aulide aura vomi leur flotte criminelle, 
 
 LQS vents, les memes vent, si long temps accuses, 
 
 Ne te couvriront pas de ses vaisseaux brises ? 
 
 Et toi, Soleil, et toi, qui dans cette contree 
 
 Reconnois 1'heritier et le vrai fils d'Atree, 
 
 Toi qui n'osas du pere eclairer le festin, 
 
 Recule, ils t'ont appris ce funeste chemin ! 
 
 Mais cependant, 6 ciel ! 6 mere infortunee ! 
 De festons odieux ma fille couronnee 
 Tend 1a gorge aux couteaux par son pere appretes ! 
 Calchas va dans son sang .... Barbares, arretez ! 
 C'est le pur sang du Dieu qui lance le tonnere .... 
 J'entends gronder la foudre, et sens trembler la terre; 
 Un Dieu vengeur, un Dieu fait retentir ses coups. 
 O divine enthusiasm ! O model of eloquence, inimi- 
 table in any age* or nation ! I am impartial, but the 
 French writers ought to render equal justice to us.
 
 28 ON TRAGEDY. 
 
 demonstrate. Thanks to Tacitus and Suetonius, 
 Nero is as well known in our days, as he was in 
 Rome, during his abominable reign. In Britanni- 
 cus we find him chatting, through an hundred and 
 sixty verses, with that imaginary Junia, who is 
 introduced -to please the ladies of the court. The 
 obstinate Mithridates 
 
 Adversis rcrum immersabilis undis, 
 
 In perils plunged, the patient hero 
 
 FRANCIS. 
 
 i 
 
 converses in the same style of gallantry with the un- 
 happy Monimia. The Turk Bajazet talks in the same 
 tender language to Attalide : and so does the half 
 tamed Hippolytus, the enemy of love, to the fabu- 
 lous Aricia, and the amorous Titus to his faithful 
 Berenice. No person who has read these tragedies 
 will accuse me of malignity in asserting, that all the 
 heroes of the French stage are formed upon the 
 same model. 
 
 Those of Corneille, indeed, are less tender and 
 less whining : his genius was of a loftier kind. He 
 was too full of lofty conceptions to descend to those 
 amorous follies : and when he does so, he represents
 
 ON TRAGEDY. 29 
 
 Polyphemus toying with Galatea. But it must be 
 observed, that all his characters resemble each other 
 in their gigantic rudeness. Corneille almost always 
 goes beyond nature ; his figures are always massy 
 and excessive. He often makes use of the senten- 
 tious vigour of Lucan, and the rhetorical language 
 of Seneca, and frequently, in his endeavour to imi- 
 tate them 
 
 Nubes et inania captat. 
 will despise 
 
 The words of earth, and soar into the skies. FRANC. 
 
 And when he strives to adorn his heroes with the 
 passion of love, as he describes it without feeling 
 it, he soon discovers his deficiency. 
 
 Crebillon, his admirer and disciple, is always 
 gloomy, and indeed too much so ; and his style is 
 defective and inelegant. Voltaire neglects his sub- 
 jects, by which means he frequently runs into im- 
 probability. Of this assertion his Semiramis is a 
 sufficient proof: upon the too improbable plot of 
 which, a judicious and unanswerable critique was 
 lately published in London. Neither has he com-
 
 3<5 ON TRAGEDY. 
 
 pletely avoided the defect of declamation, nor that 
 of dressing his characters in the French style. I 
 will not enlarge upon the evidence of this, least I 
 should be tedious. But in spite of whatever weak 
 and defective passages may be discerned by the eye 
 of criticism in the tragedies of these four sublime 
 poets ; they are nevertheless the best in the world- 
 They equalled the ancient Greeks in many things, 
 in some they surpassed them. If they had imitated 
 nature more closely, if they had yielded less to the 
 frivolous taste of the times in which they lived, 
 (when the true and majestic ideas of antiquity were 
 scorned and abhorred) they would have fixed the 
 ne plus ultra of tragedy for future poets. But per- 
 fection is above the reach of man : that which has 
 fewest faults in every science and fine art, is the 
 best. 
 
 Optimus ille est, 
 
 Qui minimis urgetur. 
 
 the best 
 
 Is he, who with the fewest is oppress'd. FRANCIS. 
 
 Such are these illustrious tragic poets of France. 
 When I reflect upon the celebrated observation 
 of Horace,
 
 ON TRAGEDY. 3t 
 
 Ut pictura poesis. 
 Poems and pictures are adjudged alike ; COL MAN. 
 
 I am induced to believe that it is more significant 
 and mysterious than is commonly imagined. It ap- 
 pears to me, like an oracle, to contain hidden mean- 
 ings, the interpretation of which requires much at- 
 tentive meditation. Suffer me, my dear Count, to 
 display to you my ideas upon these few words ; I 
 am authorized to propose my sentiments, such as 
 they are, by my long experience in theatrical mat- 
 ters. 
 
 I think then, that a tragedy ought to consist of a 
 series of paintings, which the subject will supply to 
 the imagination and fancy of one of those excellent 
 painters who deserve to be distinguished by the 
 appellation, not very frequently obtained, of paint- 
 er-poets. This opinion of mine will be better ex- 
 plained by an example. 
 
 Let us suppose, therefore, that any one of these 
 painter-poets who excelled in composition, as Ru- 
 bens, Julio Romano, Tintoretto, or any of their 
 rivals, were commanded by some sovereign prince 
 to paint the sacrifice of Iphigenia in a large hall : it
 
 g2 ON TRAGEDY. 
 
 is clear that this story or fable must be divided inta 
 several pictures, which should display it from the 
 first beginning until the catastrophe or conclusion. 
 
 Having formed his plan in his mind, the painter 
 should select the most splendid and interesting si- 
 tuations which present themselves to his judgment. 
 He should assign a separate picture to each of 
 these : in which I allude to the acts of a tragedy. 
 Those situations would certainly be preferred by 
 the painter, which are most proper to lay open the 
 characters of the persons introduced, with the pas- 
 sions by which they were agitated, and which fur- 
 nish the most business to his pencil, because those 
 situations likewise occasion greater delight, curio- 
 sity, surprise, and interest, in the minds of the spec- 
 tators. 
 
 The first picture should represent the Grecian 
 fleet lying at anchor in the harbour of Aulis, with 
 the flag^r-and ensigns unagitated by the wind; and 
 the soldiers and sailors upon the shore, idle and 
 unemployed. In the foreground, on one side, he 
 should paint the royal tent of Agamemnon, in 
 which some of the leaders should be consulting 
 Calchas, upon the most proper means to appease
 
 ON TRAGEDV. 33 
 
 the gods, and to obtain a wind to waft them to the 
 Trojan shore. Calchas ought to be the principal 
 figure in this picture, who declares the wrath of 
 the gods with astonishment, and pointing to a dis- 
 tant temple upon a lofty promontory, exhorts them 
 to have recourse to the oracle of Apollo ; to which 
 proposition Agamemnon and the Grecian heroes 
 appear to consent. 
 
 The second picture (which may likewise form a 
 part of the first act) should be the solemn arrival at 
 the camp, of Clytemnestra the wife, and Iphigenia 
 the daughter, of Agamemnon, who is betrothed to 
 Achilles. The princesses, descending from a su- 
 perb chariot, are received by Agamemnon, the 
 Grecian leaders, and Achilles. Their attendants, 
 and those of the heroes (whom I consider as the 
 chorus of a tragedy) express the general approba- 
 tion of, and satisfaction at, the approaching nuptials. 
 Achilles, Iphigenia, Clytemnestra, and Agamem- 
 non, appear excessive in their joy. 
 
 In the third picture, an altar should appear at a 
 distance, towards which the happy pair are advan- 
 cing, for the celebration of the nuptial. ceremony, 
 
 together with Agamemnon, Clytemnestra; and the 
 
 D
 
 34; ON TRAGEDY. 
 
 principal commanders of the Grecian host. Spec- 
 tators, male and female, crowned with flowers, 
 sing the epithalamium, to the sound of numerous 
 instruments. This assemblage should occupy one 
 side of the picture ; on the other Calchas, accom- 
 panied by priests and sacrificers, presents himself, 
 with a menacing aspect. The attendants of the 
 bride arid bridegroom should stop short before him : 
 Agamemnon and Glytemnestra should appear dis- 
 turbed, and she, ready to faint, should be supported 
 by two of her attendants ; Iphigenia, dismayed, 
 should lean on Achilles ; that hero, in threatening 
 guise, should appear inflamed with anger and rage; 
 the leaders who accompany them should appear 
 astonished ; whilst Calchas, beckoning, should pro- 
 nounce the oracle, and brandish the sacred steel at 
 Iphigenia, to shew that she is the victim which the 
 gods demand. 
 
 In the following picture should be painted 
 Achilles, mad with rage, in the attitude of un- 
 sheathing his sword against Calchas and Agamem- 
 non. At the feet of Achilles should appear Cly- 
 temnestra, prostrated amidst a company of weeping 
 maidens; Iphigenia should be painted in tears.
 
 ON TRAGEDY. 35 
 
 iround them should be depicted the Grecian he- 
 :s, plunged in thought, and hesitating between 
 compassion for the princess, and religious terror. 
 Ulysses should hold back the arm of the menacing 
 Achilles. The populace, with a different passion 
 represented in every face, should fill up the re- 
 mainder of the piece. 
 
 In another picture, amidst priests led by the fierce 
 Calchas, accompanied by fanatic soldiers, Iphigenia 
 should appear in the act of being torn by force from 
 the arms of the vainly raging and supplicating Cly- 
 temnestra. Calchas, in a fit of religious zeal, should 
 be represented in the act of encouraging his satel- 
 lites to perform their cruel task, shewing them that 
 is the will of the gods. The open space qf the 
 picture should be filled with scattered assemblages 
 of the princess's maidens, some struck dumb with 
 terror, others weeping, and others attempting to de- 
 fend Iphigenia. 
 
 In the last picture, whilst at the altar, prostrate 
 before the statue of Diana, the wretched Iphigenia 
 appears, crowned with flowers, pale, and hardly 
 alive : whilst Clytemnestra, who is held at a dis- 
 tance by the guards, should be drawn in the atti- 
 
 D 2
 
 36 ON TRAGEDY. 
 
 tude of rushing towards her daughter, whilst the? 
 cruel Calchas already appears to stretch out the 
 sacred knife : the furious Achilles should be paint- 
 ed sword in hand, catching hold of the priest's right 
 arm, and at the point of slaying him. His myrmi- 
 dons, on one side, should appear already levelling 
 their lances, whilst the Grecian bands, on the other, 
 appear prepared to oppose them. Agamemnon 
 should be painted amidst the Grecian leaders, with 
 his face covered ; but Diana, in a cloud, with a 
 hind at her feet, should seem to descend towards 
 
 the altar, satisfied with their obedience. At a dis- 
 
 * 
 
 tance, the ensigns of the ships should be waving in 
 the air, whilst some of the sails should swell with 
 the breeze, the sailors being employed in mending 
 those which are torn : evident signs of the gods 
 being appeased, the life of Iphigenia secured, Achilles 
 contented, Agamemnon and Clyteninestra consoled, 
 and the action brought to a happy conelpsion.* 
 
 * I have imagined six pictures : in painting, the situa- 
 tions may be multiplied at pleasure. The painter is not 
 confined to the unity of time, he may wander from if 
 whenever he pleases. He is at liberty to call his work 
 4 tragedy, if he will compress, into five pictures, the
 
 ON TRAGEDY. 37 
 
 It is discoverable at first sight, all the action 
 <which this celebrated fable affords to the imagina- 
 tion, may be compressed into these six pictures. 
 The painter, who is a poet without words, being 
 unable to make his characters speak, is necessitated 
 to make them act. Here nothing draws us aside, or 
 misleads us : every thing serves to represent to us the 
 passions of those heroes, on that eminent occasion. 
 It appears to me, that if a series of such pictures, 
 forming a painted tragedy, were w.ell designed and 
 coloured with fire and spirit, by a first rate master, 
 they would leave in the mind of the spectators both 
 terror and compassion, with greater sentiment, 
 energy, and quickness, tran a tragedy composed 
 on the same subject, and either read, or represent- 
 ed on the stage. 
 
 If you will follow my idea, my dear Count, and 
 will examine the best drawn tragedies which are 
 known, you will find, I think, that they agree per- 
 fectly well with it, and so much the better, as they 
 are better designed and disposed. So that I con- 
 story or fable, which he attempts to paint. He may call 
 it a history, if he thinks proper to extend it beyond that 
 number.
 
 $ ON TRAGEDY. 
 
 ceive the imperfections of many of them to arise 
 from their not having been formed in this mecha- 
 nical manner. The less declamatory the fuller 
 of business, and the more picturesque are tra- 
 gedies so much are they more interesting and 
 more perfect : they likewise furnish the fancy with 
 richer and more interesting subjects for painting ; 
 which is the case, above all other epic poems, with 
 the divine Gerusalcmme of Tasso, whence have been 
 drawn a million of paintings, sketches, and designs. 
 
 All this being true, as appears to me incontest- 
 able, we have the true key to judge of the merit of 
 every species of poetry, and particularly of tragedy, 
 and to form both the most perfect plotj and the most 
 interesting disposition of the scenes. 
 
 The pantomimes, I mean those of the ancients, 
 with postures, attitudes, and gesticulations, animated 
 the figures or personages of those whomnhey en- 
 deavoured to imitate : they characterized them, and 
 led them from scene to scene by degrees, placing 
 themselves in those forms, and situations, which 
 they supposed would make the greatest impression 
 on the spectators. Thus they conducted any ac- 
 tion, either tragic or comic, from beginning to end,
 
 ON TRAGEDY, 39 
 
 without speaking a word. Pylades and Bathyllus, 
 I believe, thus denominated their representations. 
 The effect of those pantomimes, which the ancients 
 called Saltationes, was wonderful, as Lucian and 
 Apuleius write, together with all the ancients, who 
 have given any account of this kind of spectacle. 
 To avoid prolixity, I will not enter on the dis- 
 cussion of this obscure subject, the dilucidadon of 
 which would require a complete dissertation. I 
 will content myself with citing the verses of Juvenal, 
 which relate to the effect produced hy these word- 
 less spectacles, upon the spectators : 
 
 Cheironomon Ledam molli saltante Bathyllo, 
 Tuccia vesica? non imperat. 
 
 One sees a dancing-master capering high, 
 
 And raves, &c, DRYDEN. 
 
 And those of Manilius, who pronounces the fol- 
 lowing panegyric upon one of those eminent pan- 
 tomimes. 
 
 Omnis fertunx vultum per membra reducet j 
 
 cogetque videre 
 
 Prassentem Trojam, Priamumque ante ora cadentem ; 
 Quodque aget, id credes, stupefactus imagine veri.
 
 4P ON TRAGEDY. 
 
 In one short view they shall present to sight 
 Whole crowds : 
 
 Before the pleas'd spectators Troy shall lie 
 
 J 
 
 In ruins, and the wretched Priam die. CREECH,. 
 
 Referring the curious to the authors abovemen- 
 tioned, for more ample intelligence, I desire them 
 
 to reflect upon the rage of the public for these 
 , ,r . b t 
 
 theatrical representations, and upon the parties, 
 
 ' 
 
 which became so noisy and vehement for Pylades 
 
 j / 
 
 and Bathyllus, or for Has and Pylades, that Augus- 
 tus and other succeeding emperors found them- 
 selves obliged to repress them. That then, which 
 chiefly moves, agitates, terrifies, and rouses the 
 spectator, in a tragedy, is not the words. This is 
 observed by Horace, who says, 
 
 Segnius irritant animos demissa per aurem,, 
 Quam quas sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus. 
 Gold is the tale, distilling through the ear, 
 Filling the soul with less dismay and fear, 
 Than where spectators view, like stai.ders-by, 
 The deed submitted to the public eye. COLMAN. 
 
 The interest is hurt by too much wandering in the 
 discourses, by declamations, and by dissertations. 
 It is likewise evident, that the poet, by causing his
 
 ON TRAGEDY, ^J. 
 
 characters to prate, only removes farther from the 
 primary object of the tragedy. 
 
 This being true, as I flatter myself that I have 
 proved, the evident result is ; that every subject for 
 a tragedy is defective in which there is too much 
 speaking and too little action ; that in order to 
 reach the perfection of the art, it is necessary to cut 
 off xinbitiosa ornamenla ; and that by forming the 
 plot itself, like a series of pictures, as I have propos- 
 ed, (pictures, which will restrain the conversation 
 to that small quantity which is indispensibly neces- 
 sary to characterize the persons, and to conduct ' 
 them into those picturesque situations which strike 
 and affect the minds of the spectators), an author 
 will be able to make the best distribution of every 
 theatrical subject, and the most lively, interesting, 
 animated, and moving tragedy which can be writ- 
 ten. It is not, however, in the power of every one 
 to dispose the plan of a tragedy in this manner ; 
 the disposition of the scenes, which arises from 
 these separate paintings, is very difficult to perform : 
 and that disposition is the part, which at present is 
 the least studied. Careless of probability, our 
 writers abandon themselves to chance. And yet,
 
 4* ON TRAGEDY^ 
 
 .* 
 
 upon this disposition, they absolutely depend for a 
 copious supply of materials, towards the composi- 
 tion of the scenes, and for the final success of the 
 tragedy itself. 
 
 In writing your plays, my dear friend, you have 
 had in mind something similar to what I have here 
 laid down. I observe that you have constantly 
 endeavoured to make yourself a painter-poet, to 
 put, as it were, every thing into action. If, somev 
 times, you have suffered yourself to be led away 
 from your usual practice, and have abandoned to 
 narrative the most vigorous and energetic parts of 
 the action ; you have, however, been careful not 
 to wander long ; like Racine, who dormitat * in the 
 account of the death of Hippolytus, which he 
 causes Theramenes to deliver to Theseus : an ac- 
 count now struck out of that beautiful tragedy, 
 which formerly terminated in exciting disgust, in- 
 stead of moving compassion. I will now deliver 
 my opinion upon every play in your first volume, 
 with which you have favoured me. 
 
 The action of Filippo is single, well distributed, 
 and naturally conducted. The argument is not 
 abstruse : the spectators understand the subject in 
 * Sleeps.
 
 ON TRAGEDY. 43 
 
 the first scene. The characters are truly drawn : 
 that of Gomez, a courtier, and of that horrible 
 court, is excellent. Philip is painted to the life; 
 the Spanish Tiberius is recognized by every body; 
 from him we hear suspensa semper , et obscitra ver- 
 ba :* in him we see the man sine miseratione, sine 
 ira :t we always find him obstinatum clausiimque, ne 
 quo affcctu perrumperetur^ masterly strokes of the 
 character of Tiberius, vigorously expressed by Ta- 
 citus. Leonardo is a hypocrite worthy of such a 
 master; Perez is a rare example of virtue, among 
 a set of villains, by way of chiaro-oscuro contrast. 
 Isabella is imprudent, ingenuous, and affectionate; 
 and Carlos is such as he is described in the se- 
 cret history of that reign of wickedness, craft, 
 poison, and blood ; he is inconsiderate, impetuous, 
 because he is exasperated; but very unlike his 
 cruel father, and therefore not treated like a son. 
 
 The suspicions of the royal tyrant are prominent 
 on the stage ; they are put in motion and managed 
 
 * Expressions always dark and doubtful, 
 t Without pity, without anger. 
 $ Close and reserved, with a perfect command of 
 himself.
 
 44 ON TRAGEDY. 
 
 in a masterly manner; they are the knot which 
 perplexes and unravels the action, as in the Mi- 
 thridate of Racine. 
 
 But in this latter, the king degrades himself, by 
 too vulgar an artifice, in order to penetrate into 
 the breast of the too affectionate and incautious 
 Monimia ; he proposes to her to espouse his son 
 Zifares, with whom she is in love ; a passion which 
 Mithridates suspects : he makes this proposal to 
 her, almost immediately after he has been exagge- 
 rating his own passion for her, and has declared 
 the near approach of his own marriage with her. 
 Monimia has therefore many motives to distrust 
 the king's complaisant proposal; for which reason 
 J think it an error of judgment, to make her fall 
 so immediately into the net which he spreads for 
 her ; a net which she ought certainly to have seen : 
 neither is there an insensible gradation from his 
 passion already known, and just before newly ex- 
 pressed to -Monimia, to his condescension in offer- 
 ing to give her up to another, by which an excuse 
 might be formed for so great a piece of simplicity. 
 This simplicity, considering the character of Mo- 
 nimia, is not founded on nature, but merely adopt-
 
 ON TRAGEDY. 4$ 
 
 fed by the poet for his own convenience.* Philip's 
 artifice is much better imagined: he does not pro- 
 pose to Isabella to yield her up to his son Carlos, 
 but only consults her on his conduct ; whence sus- 
 picion and diffidence do by no means so naturally 
 arise in her mind : nor in the attempt which Phi- 
 lip makes on her heart, in spite of her beloved 
 Carlos, does she open herself with so much ho- 
 nesty, as Monimia in Racine, to the jealous Mi- 
 thridates. Some of her involuntary motions may 
 serve indeed to increase his jealous suspicions, but 
 they are not strong enough to amount to a compe- 
 tent proof of the love, which she bears the prince. 
 This discovery is reserved for the deceitful, cun- 
 ning, and crooked Gomez, in the terrible moment 
 when he assures her, that sentence of death is pro- 
 nounced upon her lover ; which he laments with 
 
 * Observe that Mithridates, speaking of his love to 
 Monimia, adduces his declining years and his misfor- 
 tunes, in proof of the greatness of his passion ; after- 
 Wards he changes his style, and gives them for proper 
 motives, which force him to resign her to his son. This 
 alone would have been sufficient to inspire the fair one 
 with distrust.
 
 46 OK TRACED?, 
 
 such hypocrisy and malice. This artifice is both 
 natural and probable. 
 
 I could have wished, however, that the accusa- 
 tion which the king brings against his son, of hav- 
 ing designed to murder him, had been better ex- 
 plained: we do not find clearly, whether it is 
 founded on truth, or whether it is a mere pre- 
 text of the king's to render his son odious and de- 
 testable. If it is a mere invention, it does not seem 
 to me sufficient, that Perez should demonstrate its 
 falsity. Carlos ought to have denied and rejected 
 it with horror, when he was charged with it by 
 Philip, instead of recurring to extraneous evidence. 
 The declaration of his innocence would have 
 served to render more odious the character of his 
 cruel an'd perfidious father. 
 
 From Polinice, I observe that you are very 
 skilful in composing tragedies without love ; a 
 difficult enterprize, especially for our modern poets, 
 whose little collection of babyish conceits would 
 be quickly exhausted, if they were debarred from 
 using this copious subject. The story of Polinice 
 is one of the most tragical of all antiquity, and no- 
 body has managed it better than yourself. The
 
 ON TRAGEDY. 47 
 
 characters are truly drawn ; that of Poll nice is 
 considerably better than that of Eteocles ; which is 
 very proper, as Eteocles, by breaking a solemn com- 
 pact, occasioned the hatred and war between the 
 brothers. Jocasta and Antigone have exactly the 
 characters which history has given to them. Creon 
 entangles the action by his ambitious and deceit- 
 ful character ; he stirs up his nephews to strife an(J 
 hatred ; he plots and betrays ; he endeavours to 
 get rid of the two princes, and to obtain their 
 throne. The scene of the oath is very beautiful ; 
 that between the mother and her sons is not less 
 so. The plot is simple, and runs rapidly towards 
 the catastrophe ; that is terrible, and strikes the 
 eyes of the spectators. 
 
 Some, perhaps, will think the object which Creon 
 has in view in inflaming the resentment of his two 
 furious nephews, not sufficiently decisive. Can he 
 with any probability expect to obtain the disputed 
 sceptre, by the death of both of them at the same 
 time ? The expectations of reigning which he can 
 form, seem too weak to induce him to display such 
 a detestable character, and to meditate so many 
 crimes. But, however, as he is so wicked, we may
 
 48 ON TRACEDf. 
 
 attribute to him the design of making away with f hd 
 survivor of the brethren privately, and of openly 
 contesting the succession to the crown with the son 
 of Polinice, who certainly would be the lawful 
 heir in every case. Antigone gives us to under- 
 stand that Creon's views are directed towards the 
 throne, but I could have wished that he himself had 
 given us the same information in a few words. 
 
 I likewise think, that the motive assigned to 
 Eteocles, for suffering his brother to escape out 
 of his hands, and to return in safety to his own 
 camp, whilst, as he observes, he might easily have 
 had him murdered, being in his power, and in his 
 own palace ; I think, I say, that this motive is not 
 sufficiently just to serve as a foundation for the ca-< 
 tastrophe of the play. His motive is, that his hatred 
 of his brother cannot be satiated by his death, un- 
 less he himself accomplish it. You will say that he 
 is blinded by his passion. But can that blind him 
 to such a degree as to make him hazard his own 
 life ? Can he be certain of killing his brother, who 
 is quite as resolute and stout as himself? Is he 
 prudent in abandoning to chance both his own re- 
 venge, and the sceptre which he may secure to
 
 ON TRAGEDY. 49 
 
 himself by causing Polinice to be murdered? Can 
 any obstacles to this assassination, which he can na- 
 turally foresee, (obstacles depending on the tender- 
 ness of the mother, and the affectionate vigilance 
 of the sister), in any manner excuse such an im- 
 probable resolution? It would be more justifiable, 
 if Eteocles could point out to us these probable 
 obstacles, arising from the sharp-sightedness of Jo- 
 casta and Antigone. 
 
 I do not know any subject on the tragic stage, 
 more single, more simple, or more simply disposed, 
 than that of Antigone, which you have been able to 
 confine to four persons. The love of Antigone and 
 Hemon is truly tragic. The stage does not possess 
 female tenderness more affecting than that of Argia, 
 nor cruelty more shocking than that of Creon, who 
 tramples even upon paternal affection. So many 
 opposite passions allow room for wonderful events, 
 and sentiments of heroism; as in the second scene 
 of the third act, between Antigone, Hemon, and 
 Creon, and in the following scene between the two 
 last. In act the fifth, scene the fourth, where 
 Creon (whose hatred of the princess is truly fran- 
 tic) orders that she shall not be carried to be buried 
 
 E
 
 50 ON TKAGEDY. 
 
 alive, as he had commanded, but that she shall 
 be carried back to prison ; this alteration in a 
 fierce, determined, and relentless heart, like his, ap- 
 pears too sudden, and built upon too slight consi- 
 derations. But the departure of Antigone, towards 
 the place of her punishment, occasions the meet- 
 ing between her and Argia, and their tender sepa- 
 ration. And I think that the cause of Creon's new 
 resolution is sufficiently done away, by the apology 
 which he himself makes for it, in the fifth scene of 
 the fifth act. 
 
 In the same manner it may be said, that in the 
 third and fourth scenes of the fourth act, too much 
 confidence is placed in Hemon by his inhuman 
 father. I do not say that he ought to have any ap- 
 prehensions of him, on his own account ; his son's 
 virtuous disposition may fully quiet him on that 
 score : but having formed a cruel and unrelenting 
 resolution of putting Antigone to death, against his 
 son's "Will, through motives of hatred and revenge, 
 and reasons of state, it appears improbable that he 
 should suppose that Hemon will not endeavour 
 with all his might, to deliver her from the jaws of 
 death ; and the more so, as he takes no precaution
 
 ON TRAGEDY. gl 
 
 against an attempt which is easy to foresee. Creon 
 cannot safely found his own extravagant confidence 
 upon the magnanimity of Hemon, nor will his son 
 be less virtuous, in some respects, if with that force 
 of which he is allowed to make use, he save his 
 mistress from death, and prevent his father from 
 committing a new and odious crime. 
 
 I now come to the last tragedy. Although, as I 
 have observed, the three first appear to me to be 
 very beautiful, I am inclined to give the preference 
 to the last. It is full of the true education, and 
 true Roman spirit of that age. You have not fallen, 
 my dear Count, into that common mistake of other 
 poets, the making characters of one period think 
 and talk like those of another. Corneille appears 
 to me, to have run into this error in his Horaces, 
 as he attributes to the Romans, then subjected to a 
 king, the patriotism and public energy of the age 
 of the Gracchi. 
 
 In your Virginia, I feel myself transported to 
 the times of the Decemvirs. Your Romans, of 
 both sexes, are they who could not bear even the 
 shadow of slavery; they are 
 
 Devota morti pectora liberae. 
 E2
 
 Otf TtfAGEDt. 
 
 Heroes, that death in freedom's cause defied. 
 
 and they think and reason upon this principle, 
 The portraits which you have designed and co- 
 loured, are grand and natural. Icilius, a tribune, 
 who predominates in the popular assemblies, dis- 
 plays from the first, the licence of his office, allow- 
 ed by law and by custom, and bearing a higher 
 value on account of his love of Virginia, and his 
 hatred of the patricians. Virginius, educated in the 
 camp,ncU in the forum, and accustomed to military 
 discipline, is more moderate towards those, who by 
 existing laws are possessed of command ; but when 
 liberty is at stake, is as bold and as resolute as Icilius. 
 Virginia and Icilius love each other, but in the 
 Roman manner ; their softest effusions partake of 
 the characteristic qualities of their country. We 
 do not see in them the effeminate expressions, not 
 Roman but romantic, of the Marcias, Servilias, 
 Vitellias, and Sabinas with whom we meet in the 
 musical dramas. Appius is what he ought to have 
 been, in order to become the object of hatred to 
 the Romans, and the just cause of the magnani- 
 mous resolution which they took to abolish the
 
 ON TRAGEDY. 53 
 
 Decemvirate. He is drawn in a manner which 
 excites abhorrence : he is ambitious, partial, and 
 malignant : he abuses the laws and his authority : 
 he is haughty as being a patrician, and still more 
 as being of the Claudian family, the characteristic 
 of which -was pride. But on the other hand he is 
 intriguing, cunning, eloquent, and able to seduce 
 the multitude, and to direct it towards his own in^ 
 direct and crooked ends. . 
 
 From the unbridled lust, and excessive wicked-,- 
 ness of Appius, from the virtuous passion of Vir- 
 ginia, from the free and headstrong love of Icilius, 
 from the paternal affection of Virginius, arises 
 the opposition of the passions, which reign in per- 
 petual heat and agitation throughout the whole 
 piece. 
 
 The addresses which these characters make to 
 the people, according to the sensations which each 
 experiences, and the principles and maxims which 
 they deliver to their hearers, are all grand and ad- 
 mirable. We are transported by them into the fo- 
 rum, to the very tribunal of the infamous decemvir : 
 we are interested by the trial ; we are terrified at 
 the design of the venal accuser, and the snares of
 
 r^ ON TRAGEDY. 
 
 the unjust judge. We wish to see Virginius tri- 
 umph, and the instruments of his terrible and af- 
 flicting situation undergo the punishment which 
 they deserve. 
 
 The third of the third act is a sublime scene of 
 love ; but of Roman love, between the father, mo- 
 ther, daughter, and lover; their expressions pene- 
 trate to the quick. In the fourth scene of the 
 fourth act, in which Appius endeavours to seduce 
 'Virginia, her momentary weakness is introduced 
 with great judgment, least her character should ex- 
 ceed nature. Virginia is a Roman, but tender and 
 affectionate : she appears to yield for an instant, 
 but education and the virtue of her country sud- 
 denly regain their predominance. The catastrophe 
 is grand, and what I value above every other beau- 
 ty, is present : the reader is agitated by terror and 
 compassion ; how much more so must the spec-; 
 tator* be ? I do not know a catastrophe more theatri- 
 cal than . this. The forum, the tribunal, the de- 
 cemvir, the Jictors, the soldiers, the people, so many 
 characters operating at the conclusion, must in my 
 opinion, produce a much greater effect than tha 
 which is much and so justly admired in the Rodo-
 
 ON TRAGEDY. 5 
 
 gune of Corneilie. I am certain that this assertion 
 will be verified by experience. 
 
 Having thus dispatched the plans of your tra- 
 gedies, my dear friend, I shall now mention what 
 particular passages and touches in them have chiefly 
 struck me. To begin with the first, all the crafty 
 discourses of Philip in the second and fourth scenes 
 of the second act, in which his gloomy jealousy ap- 
 pears through the cloak of dissimulation, with 
 which he endeavours to hide it, produced a great 
 effect upon me. It is wonderful with what dex- 
 terity and ambiguity of expression, he mingles re- 
 proaches with expressions of love, with the black 
 design of calling forth into the faces of the sad 
 lovers, the hues of their hidden passion. 
 
 In Polinice, almost all the scenes are sprinkled 
 with such elevated, though natural sentiments, that 
 I should condemn the profusion of them if it were 
 a defect. They have produced such an effect upon 
 me, that in reading them I always feel that quiver- 
 ing sensation which a poet only knows. 
 
 It is commonly imagined, that to know whether 
 a poem be really sublime, it is necessary to translate 
 it into another language : if when deprived of the
 
 6 ON TRAGEDY. 
 
 ornaments which it derives from its own native dress 
 it sustains itself by the single support of majestic, 
 true, and appropriate expressions ; if we still find 
 in the translation 
 
 Disjecti membra poetz, 
 *- the scatter'd poet's limbs j 
 
 FRANCIS. 
 
 . 
 
 it may safely be pronounced truly sublime. In 
 proof of this assertion, J annex some passages of 
 Polinice, translated into French, as well as I am 
 able lo do it. Judge whether they be equally su- 
 blime, equally beautiful in one as in the other lan- 
 guage. Here is the answer of Jocasta to Polinice, 
 act the second, scene the fourth. The son, to justu 
 fy the war which he is waging against his brother, 
 declares that he is unwilling to fall into the general 
 disesteem of Greece ; the mothec answers : 
 
 " O la belle vertu ! la Grece doit done t'es- 
 " timer parcequetu n'est pas plus mechant que ton 
 " frere ! L'objet le plus cher a ton coeur est done 
 " le trone. Tu ne songes done pas quel malheur 
 " c'est d'etre roi. Regard tes a'ieux : quel d'entre 
 ' eux regna dans Thebes sans crimes ? Le trone ou
 
 ON TRAGEDY, 57 
 
 " CEdipe fut assis est en effet bien illustre! Crains- 
 ** tu que la terre ignore qu'CEdipe eut des enfans ? 
 " Es-tu vertueux ? laisse le couronne aux parjures. 
 " Veux-tu te venger de ton frere ? veux-tu qu'il 
 " devienne 1'horreur de Thebes, de la Grece, du 
 " monde entier ? laisse-le regner. Moi-meme, le 
 "front orne du diademe, malgre son vain eclat, 
 tf n'ai-je pas vu couler mes tristes jours dans les 
 w larmes? n'ai-je pas porte-envie a 1'etat le plus 
 " vil ? O trone ! tu n'es qu'une ancienne injustice, 
 " qu'on a toujours toleree et toujours detestee.* 
 
 * This invective against the character and dignity 
 ~of royalty, is here placed with infinite propriety and 
 judgment in the mouth of Jocasta, in order to disgust her 
 son -with it, and to terminate the quarrel between the 
 brothers, and is one of the most sublime passages in the 
 tragedy. Why then is it blamed with so little judgment 
 and reflection, and so much ignorant malice ? 
 
 Demetri, teque, Tigelli, 
 
 Piscipularum inter jubeo plorare cathedras. 
 
 Begone, Demetrius, to thy lovesome train 
 
 Of minstrel scholars, and, in sighing strain, 
 
 With soft Hermogenes these rhymes deplore. FRAN.
 
 58 ON TRAGEDY. 
 
 " Funeste honneur ! plut aux dieux que le sort m'en 
 " cut toujours eloignee! je ne serois pas la mere et 
 "la femme d'CEdipe : perfides! je ne serois pas 
 " votre mere," 
 
 I will add the speech with which Jocasta ends 
 the tragedy. 
 
 " Que vois-je ? un abyme immense s'ouvre sous 
 " mes pas ; les royaumes effrayants de la mort se 
 " prcsentent a mes yeux ! ... Ombre pale de 
 " Lai'us, tu me tends les bras ! . . . . a ta criminelle 
 " epouse ! Quel horrible spectacle ! .' . je te vois per- 
 " ce de coups! tes mains, ton visage, sont ensan- 
 " glantes ! Tu pleures, malheureux ! tu cries ven- 
 " geance ! Quel fut 1'impie qui dechira ton sein ? 
 
 <c quel fut-il ? . . . . ce fut CEdipe, cet 
 
 " CEdipe ton fils ..... que je re9us dans ton lit 
 " fumant encore de ton sang. Mais quelle voix 
 " prononce mon nom ? . . . J'entends un bruit af- 
 " freux qui remplit d'horreur les enfers . . . un 
 
 " cliquetis d'armes et d'epees O fils de mon 
 
 w fils ! 6 mes fils ! ombres feroces ! 
 
 "... 6 freres! . . . vos fureurs durent done encore 
 " aprcs le trepas ! . . . . Accours, Lai us ; c'est a toi 
 " de les separer .... Maisj'apper^ois a leur cote
 
 ON TRAGEDY. (J 
 
 " ces infames Eumenides. Vengeresse Alecton, 
 " c'est moi qui suis leur mere ; tourne vers moi ton 
 " pale flambeau; lance sur moi tes viperes. Voici, 
 " voici le flancincestueuxqui enfantaces monstres. 
 " Furie! que tardes-tu? . . qu'est-ce qui t'arrete? 
 " Je vole vers toi . . . . Je , . , , meurs." .... 
 
 In Antigone, the scene of the recognition be- 
 tween her and Argia, the widow of Polinice, is 
 very interesting; all the sentiments in it are both 
 sublime and tender. The second scene of the third 
 act is equally beautiful, in which I admired the 
 energetic answers of Antigone to Creon, who offers 
 to spare' her life, upon condition of her espousing 
 Hemon. The following scene between Hemon 
 and Antigone, who love each other, but with a 
 flame adapted to their different passions, is equally 
 touching. That command of the princess to her 
 lover, who wishes to avenge himself on his father 
 by killing himself: 
 
 Vivi Emon, te'l commando. E' in noi delitto 
 L'amarci tal, ch'io col morir lo ammendo, 
 Col viver tu.
 
 6O ON TRAGEDY. 
 
 and that laconic dialogue between Creon and An- 
 tigone : 
 
 Creonte. Scegliesti ? 
 Ant. Ho scelto. 
 Creonte. Emon ? 
 Ant. Morte, 
 Creonte. L'avrai. 
 
 is worthy of Sophocles. The dignity is admirable 
 in which Antigone clothes her just and deserved 
 hatred of Creon, when in the second scene of the 
 same act, she sharply reprimands Hemon for for- 
 getting the duty of a son towards his father. The 
 parting of the two princesses in the third act, brings 
 tears into my eyes. In the Virginia, I am pleased 
 and interested with every thing: the open -elo- 
 quence of Icilius, the crafty speeches of Ap- 
 pius, and the tender conversation between the fa- 
 ther and the daughter. The third scene of the 
 third act, between the mother, the father, the 
 daughter, and the lover, deserves to be much me- 
 ditated upon. Among the surprising strokes of 
 which it is full, I observed a masterly touch of the 
 pencil, which alludes to the catastrophe, and was 
 struck at it: it is the following:
 
 ON TRAGEDY; t 
 
 Virginia. Oh donna ! Oh di quai prodi 
 Perisce il seme, col perir di queste 
 Libere, altere, generose piante ! 
 
 Icillo. Ben altrimenti piangere dovremo, 
 Se fosser nati i figli. A duro passo 
 Tratti saremo or noi Svenarli, o schiavi 
 Lasciarli Ah ! schiavo il sangue mio ? Non mai 
 Padre io non son ; se il fossi 
 
 Virginia. Orribil lampo 
 
 Mi fan tuoi detti traveder Deh ! taci, 
 Taci per or. 
 
 This scene appears to me to be a model for tragic 
 poetry, and the most beautiful which is contained 
 in the four tragedies. 
 
 I foresee, my dear friend, that having read these 
 observations of mine thus far, you will consider me 
 as too partial to you. By no means : truth has dic- 
 tated these praises to me : truth likewise forces me 
 to mention, what I could still wish to find in your 
 tragedies abovementioned. 
 
 I have already made some reflections, in the 
 proper place, touching the conduct of the plot. I 
 said freely, in a friendly manner, what came into my 
 mind; I hinted at a defect, perhaps erroneously;
 
 2 ON TRAGEDY. 
 
 I defended it, perhaps unnecessarily. At present 
 what I have to say, may deserve a more serious at- 
 tention. In the first place, in Virginia I am not 
 contented ; when I read it over with the catastrophe, 
 Virginia is slain by her own father ; the people re- 
 volts : but the wicked Appius, after so many odious, 
 and execrable misdeeds, after having, by his tyran- 
 nical lust, raised up in a father, who had deserved so 
 well of Rome, a desperation so necessary and mer- 
 ciful; after having been displayed to us through- 
 out the whole piece, as worthy of the abhorrence 
 of every one, and having excited that sensation in 
 our minds, he not only does not undergo, by his 
 death and punishment due to his crimes, in con- 
 formity to history, but he even triumphs, and me- 
 naces the unhappy Virginius, and the tumultuous 
 people : and nothing can be deduced from -his last 
 impudent harangues, except that be remains at 
 least unpunished. This unexpected catastrophe, 
 which is contrary to the laws of tragedy, and more 
 so to the desire which you have insinuated into 
 the minds of the spectators, in so masterly a man- 
 ner, by penciling with vigour the odious charac- 
 ter of the Decemvirs, must necessarily send them
 
 ON TRAGEDY. 63 
 
 back dissatisfied and 'disappointed, at seeing this 
 abhorred personage triumph, and virtue afflicted 
 and oppressed. In my opinion, to end the play 
 well, you ought to make him die on the stage ; you 
 may bring this about in a very small number of 
 verses. 
 
 Perhaps also the close of Antigone may not be 
 satisfactory to every reader. I know very well 
 that the vile character of Creon is such, that the 
 death of an only son would not drive him to des- 
 pair. But the few verses by which he ends the 
 play, would lead us to think that the death of his 
 son is a matter of indifference to him, although he 
 has shewn himself to be sufficiently affectionate to- 
 wards him, during the course of the tragedy, and 
 he has tried every method to satisfy his passion : 
 neither his reproaches nor his menaces, have been 
 able to induce him to take the least prudential pre- 
 caution. Paternal love then is predominant in the 
 mind of Creon ; but when Hemon kills himself un- 
 der his eyes, he views with coldness and indiffe- 
 rence the chastisement of Heaven. 
 
 In the play of Philip, I could have wished that 
 ihat tyrant, at the end of the last scene, would have
 
 64 N TRAGEDY. 
 
 sent Gothez away, and would have remained alontf 
 to feed with horrid delight, worthy of his character, 
 upon the miserable spectacle of his son and wife 
 lying dead : and that in a few ferocious expressions 
 of contempt for them, he would have satiated his 
 monstrous vengeance with delight and complacency j 
 declaring their innocence, and that he had made 
 this sacrifice to his cruel jealousy alone. In this 
 manner, I think, the last touches ought to have 
 been given to his horrible character; he would 
 have excited a general and expressive abhorrence 
 in the representation, as he deserves. It will be said 
 that I suffer myself to be led away by the example 
 of Shakspeare, and that what I would have inserted 
 in Philip, would occasion a sensation of horror in 
 the audience against the poet. But in performing 
 this, I should conceive myself to have reached the 
 end, which every tragic writer ought to propose to 
 himself. 
 
 Every poet, as every painter, has his own pecu- 
 liar style. Sophocles, Euripides, Corneille, and 
 Racine have each his own. Each of these two 
 modern poets has formed a separate school : that of 
 the first tends towards the grand, the sublime, the
 
 ON TRAGEDY. 
 
 majestic, the turgid : the second inclines towards 
 the beautiful, the elegant, the accurate, the exact. 
 Both have had their followers, and their partizans : 
 Crebillon distinguished himself in the school of 
 Corneille : in that of Racine I have not observed 
 any tragic poet of great reputation. Voltaire 
 formed an appropriate style for himself; he endea- 
 
 voured to imitate both the one and the other : he 
 
 
 
 likewise abandoned himself to his own genius, and 
 rendered himself original. Shakspeare has an ex- 
 travagant, rough, and savage manner, but he draws 
 the character and passions of his personages after 
 nature. We have no tragic poets : you could not 
 imitate therefore any of our writers. Neither do I 
 see that you have constantly imitated either the 
 Greeks or the French : to describe you, I will 
 make use of the expression of Tiberius, respecting 
 Curtius Rufus 
 
 Curtius Rufus videtur mihi ex se nat'us. 
 
 Curtius Rufus appears born from himself. 
 You are born from yourself, and have created 
 a manner entirely your own, and I foresee that 
 your style will become our first school. If, how- 
 ever, after an attentive consideration, I \vish to 
 
 F
 
 66 ON TRAGEDY. 
 
 find some one with whom I may compare you, 
 
 i i 
 
 it appears to me that, in some places, in energy, 
 
 brevity, and vigour, you resemble Shakspeare more 
 
 . 
 
 than any other. As a proof of this, permit me to 
 transcribe some passages of this poet, which I for- 
 merly* translated into verse and prose, without any 
 object, merely for my amusement. I flatter my- 
 self that from these you will be convinced, that my 
 opinion is not far from the truth. 
 
 . 
 
 Richavd the Third, in the fifth scene of the fifth 
 act of the tragedy which bears his name, awaking 
 suddenly from sleep, in which he had dreamed that 
 ruin and death were denounced against him, by all 
 those whom he had formerly murdered, speaks in 
 the following words. 
 
 Presto un altro destrier . . . Le mie ferite 
 
 Presto fasciate . . . O Dio, pieta ! . . . Ma . . . piano . . . 
 
 Fu sogno . . . Oh come mi contristi in sogno, 
 
 O coscienza codarda ! . . . Un fosco lume 
 
 Tremola nelle faci ; . .-. a mezzo il corso 
 \ 
 
 Non e la notte . . . Gelido sudore 
 
 Mi scorre so'pra le aggricciate carni . . . 
 Perche ? . . . Temo di me ? . . . Io son qui solo . . . 
 Riccardo ama Riccardo ... Ed io ... son io . . . 
 Y'e qul un sicario ? . . . No . . . Si . . io vi soao . . .
 
 ON TRAGEDY. 6/ 
 
 Dunque fuggiam . . . Che ... da me stesso? ... Si, 
 
 Da me stesso. Perche ? . . . Perche vendetta 
 
 Non faccia . . . Come ! . . in me di me ? lo m'amo . . . 
 
 M'amo ? per qual rag^dn ? per qualche bene 
 
 Ch' io mi sia fatto ? Ah ! no : m' odio piu tosto 
 
 Per mille abbominevoli, odiosi 
 
 Delitti che ho commesso . . . Un scellerato 
 
 Io son . . . Mento . . . Nol sono. O stolto, meglio 
 
 Parla di te ; . . non adularti, o stolto . . . 
 
 La mia coscienza ha mille lingue ; ognuna 
 
 Fa il suo racconto, e ciaschedun racconto 
 
 Condanna me di scellerato ed empio . . . 
 
 Spergiuro, . . e quanto esser si pub spergiuro; 
 
 Ed assassino, il piu atroce di quanti, 
 
 Sian stati mai. Tanti delitti miei, 
 
 E orrendi tutti, al tribunal son tutti, 
 
 Gridando : E reo, e reo . . . Son disperato .... 
 
 Niun fra' viventi m' ama : niun, s' io moro, 
 
 Avra di me pieta. Come 1'avrebbe, 
 
 S' io di me stesso in me pieta non sento ? 
 
 Tutjti gli spettri di color ch' io uccisi, 
 
 Veder mi parve alia mia tenda, e tutti 
 
 Minacciarmi vendetta al nuovo giorno ; &c. 
 
 In the same tragedy, Queen Elizabeth, widow 
 of Edward IV. makes the following answer to 
 Richard, who demands her daughter in marriage, 
 
 F2
 
 68 ON TRAGEDY. 
 
 and asks how he may be able to deserve the love 
 
 of the princess: 
 
 i 
 
 Mandale, per colui che i suoi.fratelli 
 Empio svenb, due sanguinosi cori ; 
 E siano in essi i nomi lor scolpiti. 
 Ella allor piangera ; tu le presenta 
 In quell' istante insanguinato velo, 
 Che degli amati suoi germani il sangue 
 Bevve, e comanda a lei che se ne asciughi 
 Gli occhi bagnati in pianto. E se non basta 
 Questo tuo dono, e di te degno dono, 
 A far che t'ami, ancor le scrivi ; tutte 
 Le glorie tue a lei racconta, e dille 
 Che svenasti i suoi zii, i suoi congiunti 
 Tutti, per amor suo . . . etc. 
 
 In the fourth scene of the fifth act of Romeo 
 and Juliet, Romeo speaks thus to his mistress, 
 whom he believes to be dead in the tomb, before 
 he drinks the poison : 
 
 c< Oh amor mio ! oh mta sposa ! La morte, che 
 " ha succhiato il mele de' tuoi fiati, non ha ancora 
 " acquistato potere sulla tua bellezza ; no, ancora 
 " non sei vinta dalla morte ; ancora 1' insegna della 
 c belta spiega le sue porpore sulle tue guance e sullc
 
 ON TRA.GEDY. 69 
 
 " tue labbra, e la pallida bandiera della morte fin 
 " la ancora non s' inoltra .... Ah cara Giulietta ! 
 " perche sei ancora cosi bella ? . . . lo voglio sem- 
 " pre rimanerteco, e non partirmai da qtiestonero 
 " albergo. Qui fermar voglio il mio sempiterno 
 Cf riposo, e scuotere il giogo delle avverse stelle, che 
 <f son stanco di sofFrire. Occhi miei, saziate i vos- 
 " tri ultimi sguardi ; prendete, o mie braccia, i vos- 
 " tri amplessi estremi ; e voi, mie labbra, voi portc 
 " della vita, con un pudico bacio sigillate il mio 
 " eterno contratto colla morte." 
 
 If this tragic spirit of Shakspeare, my dear Count, 
 has passed into you, as I think it has, it is much 
 improved by your more extensive knowledge, and 
 that of the age in which we live. In you, therefore, 
 we find that which the English poet did not pos- 
 sess, the art of restraining his irregular fancy, and 
 of confining it within the bounds of probability and 
 propriety, so as to produce perfect and admirable 
 tragedies. 
 
 Nothing remains but to speak of the poetic style 
 of your productions. I have already said that style 
 is the colouring of poetry ; it is equally so of tra- 
 gedy. Tragedy also has its own poetic beauties ;
 
 7O ON TRAGEDY. 
 
 its own warmth. In certain places and situations 
 we may say of writers in tragedy : 
 
 Fervet immensusque ruit. 
 
 Foaming through his course, 
 Rolls onward with resistless force, 
 His full, his deep-mouth'd song. Bo sc A WEN. 
 
 We ought to be able to give the style of tragedy 
 the appellation of figurative,* impetuous, sonorous, 
 and flowery : 
 
 Monte decurrens velut amnis. 
 
 As swoln by floods the river's tide. BOSCAWEN. 
 
 This flowing, harmonious, and concatenated style, 
 
 * The style which I call figurative, is that in which 
 the greater part of the words impress some image on the 
 mind of the reader. Virgil possesses this picturesque 
 style above all other poets : I shall therefore draw ex- 
 amples from him in a larger quantity. 
 
 Telumque imbelle sine ictu 
 Conjecit, rauco quod protinus asre repulsum 
 Extreme clypei nequicquam umbone pependit. . . . 
 
 Validis ingentem viribus hastam 
 In latus ihque feri curvam compagibus alvum
 
 ON TRAGEDY. 71 
 
 ' 
 
 atones for the want of rhyme in those who write in 
 
 .... j ; 
 
 blank verse ; no trifling want in our modern poetry, 
 
 Contorsit. Stetit ilia tremens, uteroque recusso 
 Insonucre cavae gemitumque dedere cavernac .... 
 
 Ponto nox incubat atra : 
 Intonuere poli, crebris micat ignibus asther .... 
 
 Insequitur cumulo praeruptus aquas mons .... 
 
 Furor impius intus 
 Sasva sedens super arma, et centum vinctus ahenis 
 
 4. * 
 
 Post tergum nodis, fremit horridus ore cruento .... 
 
 
 Ter sese attollens cubitoque adnixa levavit, 
 
 _ 
 
 Ter revoluta toro est, oculisque errantibus, alto 
 
 Quaesivit coelo lucem, ingemuitque reperta .... 
 
 
 Obstupui, steteruntque comas, et vox faucibus haesit . . . 
 
 Sibila lambebant linguis vibrantibus ora. . . . 
 The following examples of the same kind of orna- 
 mented style are from Horace : 
 Jam fulgor armorum fugaces 
 Terret equos, equitumque vultus . . f . 
 
 Hinc tibi copia 
 Manabit ad plenum benigno 
 Ruris honorum opulenta cornu .... 
 
 Obliquo laborat 
 
 
 Lympha fugax trepidare rivo .... 
 
 -
 
 72 ON TRAGEDY. 
 
 for without rhyme its character can hardly be poe- 
 tical. I have admired this style in many parts of 
 
 : 
 
 Scimus ut impios 
 Titanas, immanemque turmara, 
 Fulmine sustulerit caduco, 
 Qui terrain inertem, qui mare temperat 
 Ventosum, et umbras regnaque tristia. 
 
 The following are from Tasso : 
 
 SeBben 1'elmo percosso, in suon di squilla 
 Rimbomba orribilmente, arde, e sfavilla. . . , 
 
 In gran tempesta di pensieri ondeggia . . . , 
 
 Treman le spaziose atre caverne, 
 E 1' aer cieco a quel rumor rimbomba. 
 
 And from Ariosto : 
 
 E nella face de' begli occhi accende 
 L'aurato strale, e nel ruscello ammorza, 
 Che tra vermigli e bianchi fiori scende .... 
 
 Se non vedea la lagrima distinta 
 Tra fresche rose e candidi ligustri 
 Far rugiadose le crudette pome ; 
 
 E 1'aura sventolar 1'aurate chiome .... 
 
 
 
 Sta su la porta il re d'Algier, lucente 
 Di chiaro acciar, che il capo gli arma e il bustoj 
 Come uscito di tenebre serpente. etc.
 
 N TRAGEDY. J 
 
 your tragedies, to some of which I have pointed 
 above ; but I ingenuously confess, as a friend, that 
 
 These are from Camoens, that every nation may have its 
 
 due praise : 
 
 Debaixo dos pes duros dos ardentes 
 Cavallos, treme a terra, os valles sonao .... 
 
 As mays, que o som terrivel escutarao, 
 Aos petos os filhinhos appettarao .... 
 
 And speaking of the sound of the trumpet ; 
 Pellas concavidades retumbando .... 
 Os ventos brandamente respiravaon 
 Das naos as vellas concavas inchando .... 
 
 Subitas trovoadas temerosas, 
 Relampagos que o ar em fogo acendem, 
 Negros chuveiros, noites tenebrosas, 
 
 Bramidos de trovoens, que o mundo fendem. 
 
 . 
 
 f n tragedy, the following examples are taken from Se- 
 neca: 
 
 Mihi gelidus horror ac tremor somnum excutit ; 
 Oculosque nunc hue pavida, nunc illuc ferens, 
 Oblita nati, miserum quaesivi Hectorem : 
 Fallax per ipsos umbra complexus abit .... 
 
 En alta muri decora congest! jacent 
 Tectis adustis, regiam flammae ambiunt ....
 
 ij OK XRACEOY. 
 
 in geneFal, in my opinion, you have neglecte4 it. 
 'You have attended to the sentiments without caring 
 to dress them handsomely, 
 
 Diripitur ardens Troja, nee caelum patet 
 Undante fumo: nube ceu densa ot situs, 
 Ater favilla squallet Ilia. a dLs. 
 
 I have thought proper to transcribe so great a number 
 of examples, in order to give a clearer idea of this fgura-, 
 
 - 
 
 five style of poetical expression, which paints whatever 
 it describes, and excites in the pupils of the Muses .an 
 ardent desire of imitati n, This style continually pre- 
 sents to the fancy, new objects and unexpected beauties, 
 and puts into tjhe mouths of the personages introduced, 
 that kind of eloquence v\ hich is proper to their situa- 
 tion, their characters, and their passions. 
 
 Without this style, tragedy, like every other species of 
 poetry, will-be, heavy, and will have a faded, appearance : 
 although it be well designed, drawn, and disposed, it 
 will only appear like a mere design, which however ex- 
 cellently and exactly it may be delineated, yet, through 
 the want of the attractive power of colouring, will never 
 produce the admiration, pleasure, and delight, which 
 arises from a picture of Titian, or of Paul Veronese. 
 
 The verses of such a tragedy, hqwever elegant and 
 full of sentiment, will only appear as prose, divided into 
 lines of eleven syllables. They never can produce in the
 
 ON TUAGED'Y, 75 
 
 I agree that Horace says in one place : 
 
 Et tragicus plerumque dolet sermone pedestri ; 
 The tragic hero, plunged in deep distress, 
 Sinks with his fate, and makes his language loss. 
 
 COLMAK. 
 But in another he teaches us : 
 
 Effutire leves indigna tragoedia versus. 
 Stern tragedy rejects too light a vein. COLMAN. 
 I observe that throughout you have a predilec- 
 tion for the pencil of Michael Angelo, neglecting, 
 as it were, that of Corregio and Albano : and when 
 an elegant gracefulness naturally presents itself to 
 you, you avoid it, and prefer a strong, harsh, and 
 even rugged, expression, in the style of Dante. 
 
 mind that transport and rapture, which arises from 
 flowery and high-coloured poetry ; and tragedy in prose 
 is a wretched invention of the present unpoetical age. 
 
 But young poets ought to be careful, not to be too pro- 
 digal of this picturesque style, for fear of falling into the 
 bombastic. The moderation which I recommend, is 
 not easily put in practice : it is necessary to restrain the 
 imagination, to force our self-love ; neither can it always 
 be said when or where it ought to have place. This 
 kind of knowledge is reserved for great poets alone.
 
 76" ON TRA.GEDY. 
 
 In Philip, for example, in the second scene of 
 the second act, you write, 
 
 Basso terror d'infame tradimento 
 A re, che merti esser tradiio, lascia. 
 
 This transposition of the verb renders the sense 
 somewhat obscure at first sight : I doubt not, that 
 you see that you might. have said with greater clear- 
 ness, and perhaps with greater elegance, 
 
 Basso terror.di tradimento infame 
 Lascia ad un re, cie meni esser tradito. 
 
 In Polonice, act the fourth, scene the first, I 
 find, 
 
 Ma il sospettar, natura 
 Fassi in chi regna, sempre : 
 
 Perhaps you might have written with greater 
 clearness, 
 
 Ma il sospettar diventa 
 
 Natura sempre in quel che regna. 
 
 . 
 
 I desist from quoting other passages, because you 
 will observe them yourself much better than I can : 
 but I must observe, that this hardness and ambiguity 
 is frequently prejudicial to the sentiments them- 
 selves, which are noble, sublime, and often new.
 
 ON TRAGEDY. 77 
 
 Corneille is certainly more majectic, and more 
 energetic than Racine : but Racine, through the 
 elegance of his diction, and the flowing sweetness 
 of his poetry, is always superior upon the stage. 
 Apostolo Zenoismore theatrical, more grave, more 
 sentimental, and more various* than Metastasio ; but 
 Metastasio reigns, and Apostolo Zeno is entirely 
 excluded from the stage ; an evident proof of the 
 great consequence of sweetness, melody, and beau- 
 ty of style. 
 
 Michael Angelo's picture of the last judgment 
 is looked upon with admiration by painters ; they 
 draw from thence foreshortenings, postures, atti- 
 tudes, and delineations, as studies : but the paint- 
 ings of Rubens, Titian, Corregio, and Guido, 
 charm alike painters and connoisseurs, the ignorant 
 and the skilful. 
 
 You have endeavoured, with great assiduity, to 
 form your style upon our ancient models : Dante 
 principally has seduced you, and you have imitated 
 him perfectly. But the audience before whom your 
 admirable tragedies must be represented, is not that 
 of the age of Dante. Our language at that time 
 stammered in its childhood; now that it is arrived
 
 78 CW TRAGEDY. 
 
 at maturity it declaims with eloquence, majesty, and 
 gracefulness. Do you suppose tb&t if Dante lived 
 in our age, he would write now as he wrote then, 
 
 Or mentre io gli cantava cotai note, 
 O coseienza, o dolor che il mordesse, 
 
 . 
 
 Forte springava con ambo le piote ; 
 
 and a hundred other similar oddities ? No, surely. 
 It is certainly praise-worthy to imbibe the majestic 
 sentiments of Dante, to imitate his forcible images 
 and nervous expressions; but I am of opinion, that 
 they ought to be translated into the more cultivated 
 and more flowing language of the present day. 
 Who, at this time, will make, use of his Florentin- 
 isms, and his grammar ? Certainly nobody. And 
 he, who 
 
 Quasdam nimis antique .... pleraque dure, 
 Dicere credit eum, ignave multa fatetur, 
 Etsapit, et mecum facit, et Jove judicat aequo ; 
 
 that sometimes their style uncouth appears, 
 Or their harsh numbers rudely hurt our ears, 
 Or that full flatly flows the languid line 
 tfewho owns this, has Jove's assent and mine. 
 
 FRANCIS.
 
 ON TRAGEDY. 79 
 
 Generally the omission of the article, as : 
 Patria apprender cos' e . . . . 
 
 and : 
 
 Mie angoscie .... 
 
 and : 
 
 II dubitar di quanto re ti afFerma ; 
 renders the verse harsh and scabrous. 
 
 The frequent insertion of a superfluous io t or 
 the contraction of it, as : 
 
 Ne a mi tu aprirlb 
 Dovevi mai, ne posso io udir .... 
 
 and : 
 
 In petto i' mi sent' io : 
 renders it hard. 
 To say, 
 
 Del re non temi : 
 instead of, 
 
 Non temere del re : 
 and, 
 
 Ne tu men chiedi 
 Ragione ; 
 
 instead of, 
 
 Non me ne chieder ragione.
 
 8O CN TRAGEDV. 
 
 likewise the use of too complicated phrases, as i 
 
 Arbitro tu mi danna 
 A qual piu vuoi castigo. . . . 
 
 O trista 
 Deplorabil dei re sorte! 
 
 also the addition of an unnecessary si, as ; 
 
 Reo non s'e fors'egli ? 
 and the expression : 
 
 Tu hai per hai ; 
 as; 
 
 La mia t' hai tu ; 
 
 and such like antique obsolete elegancies, cause 
 ambiguity and equivoque, and force those who re- 
 cite or read them aloud to contract their lips, in 
 order to pronounce the verse. 
 
 I am persuaded, my dear friend, that all these 
 modes of expression, which you have adopted, and 
 which you might have avoided with so little trouble, 
 are of infinite prejudice to the great beauties of 
 your tragedies; and I wish I were able to per- 
 suade you to take them away. 
 
 In truth, neither Ariosto nor Tasso, (great and 
 respectable names) nor Guarini, nor Redi, nor Fi- 
 licaja, nor Guidi, nor Chiabrera, nor Testi, nor
 
 ON TRAGEDY. 8i 
 
 Klarini, nor any other celebrated poet ever wrote 
 in this style : and to say the truth, I should prefer, 
 in their company, the rejection of these affecta- 
 tions of the days of the Guelphs and the Ghibel- 
 lines, to the imitation of them, under the banners 
 of the divine Dante, who certainly was divine for 
 that age ; but, tell me ingenuously, would he be so 
 at present? A question which I think is already 
 answ'ered. Certainly, if so great a poet should be 
 born in our days, and should obtain the title of di- 
 vine for his poetry, he would never acquire it for 
 his language. 
 
 For these friendly observations upon the style 
 of your tragedies, as well as for some remarks 
 which I have made upon the conduct .of them, I 
 have already given Horace's excuse. Where per- 
 fections and beauties are so numerous, trifling 
 faults (if they really are so), do not take away the 
 prize. 
 
 They are moles (if you will), but moles upon 
 limbs of divine formation. 
 
 I finish, my dear Count, with two verses of Ho- 
 race:
 
 82 ON TRAGEDY. 
 
 Si quid jnovisti rectius istis, 
 
 Candidas imperti ; si non, his utere mecurrt. 
 
 Farewell ; and if a better system's thine^ 
 Impart it frankly, or make use of mine. 
 
 FRANCIS.. 
 
 I have shewn my respect for you too much in 
 this letter, to render it necessary to renew the pro- 
 testations of it in this place; I content myself 
 therefore to remain your obedient servant. 
 
 RANIERI DE' CALSABIGI. 
 
 Naples, 
 
 \ f 
 
 August ; 20 1783-
 
 NOTES. 
 
 PAGE t. The English are equally] This opi- 
 nion, entertained by a foreigner, of the state of our 
 theatre, may perhaps justify an attempt to restore it* 
 to credit abroad ; and shew that however it may 
 meet with obstacles from prejudice, it ought rather 
 to find favour generally, as public spirited, than be 
 disregarded as presumptuous. 
 
 Page 4. That it is composed according^ Gra- 
 vina exposes the pedantic absurdity of the* followers 
 of Trissino j not, indeed, in their adherence to the 
 unities, but in a real pedantry, their forming their 
 plays exactly upon the model of certain ancient 
 ones (as the CEdipus for instance) ; and imitating 
 their situations, merely because Aristotle praises 
 them. 
 
 Page 5. Why as if despairing] The reason is, 
 that following, the example of Politiano in his 
 
 G 2
 
 84 NOTES, 
 
 t 
 
 Orfeo, Italy has not chosen to walk in the steps of the 
 Greek poets, in composing for songs and recitative. 
 I enlarged upon the subject of the material of imi- 
 tation in one of some Letters on the Drama, lately 
 published ; jn which the two modes of introducing 
 theatrical music are distinguished, and it is shewn 
 ' which is the corrupt, and which the genuine. I 
 shall now add my opinion, that the Greek play, 
 improved upon its own principles, is that form of 
 serious drama, which is alone necessary to be cul- 
 tivated, either in France, Italy, or England ; either 
 where the piece is declaimed, or sung. In the first 
 place I will observe, that whichever of these modes 
 is adopted, its form and essence still remains. Now, 
 
 if we inquire the opinion of professors in the art 
 
 . 
 
 of music, we may find that an eminent one, Dr. 
 Burney, has sufficiently, for our purpose, described 
 what sort of composition would give effect to mu- 
 sic. In Vol. I. p. 171. of his History of Music, 
 he speaks favourably, and I think elsewhere more 
 so, of the probable effect of tragedies set to music ; 
 and in Vol. IV. p. 13. says, that narrative poetry 
 is improper for songs, but that short effusions, such 
 as those exhibited in the ancient tragedies, or mo-
 
 NOTES. 85 
 
 dern operas, are most fitted for them ; and that Vol- 
 taire's objection to them, in the opera, was ill- 
 founded. Does it not, therefore, follow, that a 
 play upon the ancient model would have many 
 qualities, if not every one, that even the musical 
 critic could desire ? It is not to the purpose here 
 to decide whether tragedies ought to be spoken or 
 sung, as that acute critic Bishop Kurd has re- 
 commended : this must be regulated by the per- 
 haps variable customs of different countries. Me- 
 tastasio tells us, that his dramas were well received 
 in whichever way they were acted; and I have 
 myself, at Florence, been a witness of this. 
 
 This principle of the ancient play evidently ex- 
 tends to comic pieces, and those of* the most tri- 
 fling sort. It may not be improper here to men- 
 tion a circumstance, which must be deemed curious 
 by the philosophical critic, if he reflects upon it. 
 Owing to the 'theatrical prohibitions which have 
 been established by our laws, however abstract 
 reasoning may condemn them, there seems an op- 
 portunity afforded of seeing parts of English plays 
 performed in recitative ; for the necessity of not 
 interfering with the summer theatre, forces upon the
 
 86 NOTES. 
 
 inferior theatres in the suburbs the use of recita- 
 tive ; without which, and without curtailing the 
 pieces, this sort of exhibition would be found ob- 
 jectionable. Whether if such an experiment were 
 made, this new entertainment would grow too at- 
 tractive to be longer winked at, I cannot say. The 
 poetical form of our tragic pieces seems sufficiently 
 to suit recitative : but comedy would perhaps best, 
 for this purpose, be written in that kind of verse, 
 which is adopted in compositions of similar charac- 
 ter, with so much judgment, and with so striking 
 an effect, by Mr. Anstey. 
 
 If/for the sake of variety,'Or any other reason, 
 this use of recitative, should somewhere or other 
 obtain among us, the poet who composes for it 
 might do well to attend to a remark dwelt upon by 
 those critics who have written on the opera. They 
 observe, that there is a greater probability in music 
 considered as the language of the gods, or heroes 
 of fabulous times, than as that of such characters as 
 are generally introduced in tragedy. Perhaps ad- 
 vantage might be taken of this effect, and recitative 
 invariably adopted in some such compositions as I 
 alluded to in the fourth letter on the Drama ; which,
 
 NOTES. 87 
 
 whether* called mask, opera, or by any other ap- 
 pellation, might be allowed to exceed the bounds 
 of regular tragic probability, if it delighted by rais- 
 ing wonder. I do not infer from the criticisms of 
 musical writers, that they would think improper the 
 form of drama here' recommended, to be acconv 
 panied by music. 
 
 If, however, too little of the effect of music 
 should be attainable with it, the French opera has 
 not those abrupt transitions from long to short 
 verses, and from blank verse to rhymes, which pro- 
 duces the same effect on the ear, as the mixture of 
 prose and verse, and are by no means analogous to 
 the varied expression even of the most opposite 
 sentiments in nature. I had. this more rational 
 form of opera, as a poetical composition, in my 
 thoughts, in the sixth letter on the Drama, when 
 I spoke of varying the verse according to the 
 prevailing temper of mind. 
 
 Page 5. Perfected by Metastasio.~] It will 
 follow from the circumstance of their being radi- 
 cally defective, that they can never be perfected. 
 The Greeks, it is true, as has been remarked by 
 Metastasio (see the sixth letter on the Drama), set
 
 og NOTES. 
 
 an example to the Italians, of their mode of impro-. 
 perly changing the metre ; but that is, where they 
 wandered from the true principles of their own 
 drama, which had in it the seeds of perfection, 
 while the Italian opera is incapable of producing 
 k. But the laws of the former would, as I have 
 intimated in the twelfth letter, be observed to more 
 effect, and in fuller perfection, by writers in a lan- 
 guage that Dr. Burney remarks, partly from its own 
 nature, and partly from the skill of Metastasio, has 
 shewn itself, beyond others, proper for music. 
 
 The discovery which, I presume, the reader now 
 may acknowledge both to be a real one, and not 
 exhibited to the world before, is the only one that 
 appears from the first edition of the Battle of Ed- 
 dington. It was suggested by simple reflection, 
 as deducible from the nature of dramatic composi- 
 tion ; and did not, till the second edition, appear 
 jointly with another, the result of observation 
 and diligent study of dramatic effect, during the 
 few years that intervened after the first, and before 
 the second edition. This was the only one which 
 could have attracted notice in the play, when it was. 
 criticized by the Monthly Reviewers.
 
 Page 6. Most commonly to private noblemen'] 
 Private theatres, in which every one is either able 
 or willing to be pleased, are excellent places to 
 have the more famous works represented, which are 
 found too declamatory, and possessed of too little 
 business, to entertain a mixed audience, and on that 
 account, to become patterns, in every respect, of 
 .dramatic composition. 
 
 Page 6. Those companies of. actors'] I con- 
 .ceive that when extreme effect, as far as is consis- 
 ,tent with chaste writing, shall be more studied by 
 dramatic authors, excellent acting, however desi- 
 rable, will be less necessary to support a theatre, 
 for the very reason that the decision of a mixed 
 .audience is not always that of delicate taste. 
 
 Page 11. Begin by establishing^ Unless it is 
 
 a country that, like England, possesses a capital 
 i 
 
 both populous, and having theatres 'open every 
 night in the year, every expence being borne to 
 assist the representation ; and not only at carnivals, 
 or for a small portion of time; it will not be in 
 the power of a prince to establish such a theatre, 
 as will teach a poet the real demands of an au^ 
 Alienee. He will not be able to procure the opi-
 
 $3 wot* ST. 
 
 nion of a large body of people, who, free to judge, 
 habituated to observe; and unprejudiced by no- 
 velty, will applaud according to that degree of ef- 
 fect which is attainable. 
 
 Page 15. A musical stage almost constantly] 
 Thus had Polidano employed his great musical 
 and poetical talents, in composing plays on the 
 ancient plan for music, instead of inventing the 
 opera, tragedy might have had that support in Italy, 
 which was transferred to another composition ; and 
 we might at this day have seen, at the Haymarket, 
 plays of the ancient sort, acted nearly in the ancient 
 manner. It might interest lovers of literature to 
 try the experiment of setting to music, and acting 
 some of those already written in the Italian Ian-: 
 guage. 
 
 Page 15. Debates on morality] Moral and po- 
 litical reflections give a relief to epic composition, 
 and are there proved compatible with good sense 
 and poetry. In the drama they are equally pleasing 
 and instructive, to those who can, and who cannot 
 be delighted with such qualities. Why, therefore, 
 introduced .with the same judgment, are they less 
 proper? Political sentiments often harmonize with 

 
 NOTESt <)1 
 
 that pomp of spectacle, from which tragedy derives 
 advantage ; its characters are those, in whose 
 mouths such sentiments are natural ; and the au- 
 dience delights in hearing modes of policy men- 
 tioned with praise, which are congenial with their 
 government and education. Shakspeare, and the 
 Greek tragedians, no less than Corneille, intro- 
 duce political topics. 
 
 Page 18. In spite of~\ Whether Johnson's 
 judgment in this point of criticism, as well as in 
 others, be worthy of his strong mind, let the public 
 determine. Adhuc sub judice Us est. I have been 
 led very much to exhibit my dramatic opinions in 
 the present form, because it will shew how a per- 
 son, divested of the prejudices of an Englishman, 
 and therefore placed, as it were, in a different point 
 of-view, may consider the present state of the Eng- 
 lish stage. 
 
 As to that universal singularity, here attributed 
 to our nation, k is more problematical. This im- 
 putation seems an echo of Voltaire's, who applies 1 
 to us, in this sense, the 
 
 Et penitus toto divisos orbe Britannos.
 
 NOTES. 
 
 the Britons 
 
 A race of men from all the world disjoin'd. 
 
 DRYDEN, 
 
 Page 19. We are often made to laugh] I have 
 attempted to prove, both why this is tolerated on 
 our stage, and why it is improper. It is an illegi- 
 timate sort of stage effect, and it is possible to have 
 a legitimate one. 
 
 Page 20. He mixed prose and vtrse~] Those 
 who do not, as I confess myself to do, experience, 
 in a degree, both interruption and disgust, while 
 setting or reading out modern plays so written, may 
 think the custom worthy of being kept up. 
 
 Page 20. They seldom succeeded] It might 
 have been prudent for Rowe or Otway, to have 
 aspired to be the first regular, instead of the second 
 irregular tragic writer. Foreigners then might have 
 thought them more upon a par with the French 
 poets. 
 
 Page 2p. Still continues to domineer] This is 
 of course true : and -yet fine as he is, and possess- 
 ing variety from his faults, an audience does not 
 find in every part of him that degree of stage effect 
 which they require. It is not that they feel any
 
 NOTES. . 93 
 
 tedium at the representation of his plays ; for the 
 universal veneration he is held in, and the familia- 
 rity of most people with his works, make an au- 
 dience enter thoroughly into their spirit. Happen- 
 ing to be once in company with a principal actor, 
 I heard him remark this, saying, that Shakspeare's 
 flights of poetry would not now be well received at 
 the theatre, if it were not that almost every body had 
 them by heart. It seems strange, that Shakspcare 
 should have any thing in his faults in common with 
 the most regular tragedians ; but it is a fact, and 
 may prove, that when a theatre has not been long 
 established, and constantly resorted to, all the re- 
 quisite knowledge cannot have been acquired by 
 the dramatic poet. ' 
 
 Page 30. They are nevertheless the best in the 
 "world~\ After having so justly and so forcibly dis- 
 played the imperfections of the French stage, it may 
 seem more extraordinary that the writer should 
 appear to prefer'the poets he has been describing to 
 Shakspeare. We rnay see in this the prejudices 
 of a scholar, who knows so well the value of rules 
 of composition, that he is less easily pleased where 
 they are transgressed; but Dr. Warton observes
 
 p^ NOTES. 
 
 well, that the declamation of the former is no less 
 opposite to the true nature of tragedy than the in- 
 troduction of comic scenes by the latter. 
 
 Page 31. Of a series of paintings] This is the 
 most useful definition of tragedy there can be, for 
 it perpetually summons the poet to the employment 
 which is most necessary, that of increasing the bu- 
 siness of the play; and in consequence, by keeping 
 up attention to the spectacle, preventing any dimi- 
 nution of the interest. But though it be the most 
 useful description of tragedy, it is a less complete 
 one than Dr. Warton's, who says, that it should be 
 made up of action and pathos. A picture may dis- 
 play pathos, but pathos may be represented on a 
 stage, where it could not be in a picture. For in- 
 stance, Raphael could never communicate to the 
 spectator, the effect of those wofds of Jane Shore, 
 which Dr. Warton quotes as so peculiarly pathe- 
 tic. This definition, therefore, is more complete, 
 as it takes in the quality of tbe words. It, how- 
 ever, takes in only the quality of those words which 
 express or excite passion, and not of any interesting 
 sentiments whatsoever. Perhaps these may be in- 
 cluded in the definition, as remotely contributing,
 
 &OTES. 95 
 
 by their connection with the rest of the piece, to in- 
 fluence or characterize the more impassioned parts. 
 But if they are to be supposed subordinate to them, 
 upon the principle laid down by critics, that the spit 
 object of tragedy, is to move the passions, then ac- 
 tion too is a subordinate part of it : and I think it 
 plain that sentiments are calculated to form the 
 subject of genuine poetry, and as welcome to the 
 audience as any thing else. I therefore, allowing 
 jthe two first to be of the greatest consequence, 
 should consider tragedy as made up of action, pa- 
 thos, and sentiment. 
 
 When a large company is invited to a feast, the 
 custom is not to provide only the greatest delica- 
 cies, though disagreeable to many guests, but to 
 suit, if possible, the taste of every one. This ex- 
 ample ought to be followed. The mode of drama- 
 tic composition it is my object to recommend, is 
 that which draws many of its principles solely from 
 practice. Very noble theories have been formed 
 by the critics, and which modified as daily obser- 
 vation may enable us gradually to do, are calcu- 
 lated to produce perfection both in dramatic poe- 
 try, and dramatic criticism. But I must ever think,
 
 that no writer has attained that perfection ; artel 
 that in England there would be the greatest scope* 
 for improvement in this branch of literature, did 
 not the impediments to the reception of pieces 
 at the theatres royal stand a good deal in its 
 way. 
 
 A satirical poet,* who possesses a very pure dra- 
 matic taste, has supposed the managers to be obliged 
 to bring forward compositions without merit, in or- 
 der to gratify the taste of the audience. As I was of 
 the same opinion, before I made the drama my 
 study, I cannot wonder at it. The truth is, that an 
 English audience, in respect of the quantity of ta- 
 lents displayed in a piece, is no judge ; while in 
 respect to the quality of them, and the question, 
 whether they are exerted as they ought, it is a su- 
 preme judge; and its de'cisions, when uninfluenced 
 by friends or enemies of the poet, to be generally 
 abided by. It condemns a piece, good or bad, ac- 
 cording as it is deficient in thk quality ; and on the 
 other hand, it extols and delights in one, whatever 
 its merit, which is possessed of it. Thus b) exact- 
 ing more effect from the poet, it may render 
 
 * See the notes of the M xvkd
 
 NOTES* 97 
 
 tragedy in future, a more energetic, and animated 
 species of composition. 
 
 Forming, sometimes, no less than my readers, a 
 part of this audience, so often undervalued, I can- 
 not help thinking myself interested in excusing it, 
 where it ought to be excused, and in not letting 
 the blame, when due to the managers, fall on us. 
 I am persuaded, that the two kings for the time 
 being may have been led to encourage the national 
 hatred of what is Athenian ; and everybody can wit- 
 ness, that there have been plays composed with 
 thought, and therefore having some chance of suc- 
 cess, rejected; and that others equally devoid of 
 good sense and variety, have been brought on, 
 and damned. This, no doubt, arises greatly from 
 the amiable partialities of private friendship ; but 
 my purpose is only to shew its effect upon the even- 
 ing entertainment of the public, as well as upon 
 the dramatic art. 
 
 Taste is allowed to be the result of knowledge. 
 If two sets of people consider an object, acquaint- 
 ed in different degrees with its properties, that ob- 
 ject is not, in fact, the same to both; though if the 
 knowledge of the informed were transferred to the 
 
 H
 
 98 Noffcs. 
 
 ignorant persons, they might prove, that it was nof 
 for want of understandings equally respectable with 
 the others, that their j udgments were more erroneous. 
 
 It is indeed certain, that no absolute harm can 
 result from this discouragement of the drama. 
 The bigotry and attachment to system, ridiculed in 
 the Apothecaries by Moliere, might have been at- 
 tended with the loss of health, nay, of life. But the 
 manager may purge the passions, after his own 
 manner, without any similar terrible consequence. 
 I flatter myself, however, that in the course of 
 these notes, I shall enable the reader to calculate 
 taste, and to pronounce on the dramatic decisions 
 of a manager, or a reviewer, by a reference to the 
 simplest rule in arithmetic. 
 
 Page 31. To paint the sacrifice of Ipbigenia~] 
 In my Letters on the Drama, it will be seen I had 
 then read this part too hastily to form a right judg- 
 ment of what the author meant by the story of Iphi- 
 genia ; But I knew this made no difference in the 
 argument, and should not have hazarded any thing 
 that could mislead. 
 
 Page 40. That then wbicb agitates, &c. is not 
 words'] I should in prudence here call the reader's
 
 NOTES. gg 
 
 attention to this passage, in support of my system ; 
 and also to the subsequent quotation from Horace, 
 on which it is founded. I ask two questions ; first, 
 has any scholar disputed that opinion of Horace ? 
 and secondly ; if now called upon either to approve 
 or condemn it, which will he do ? 
 
 Page 42. To put, as it were, every thing into ac- 
 tion] When these tragedies came out, I did not 
 peruse the publication, as will be seen by the last 
 note, with the attention I have since paid it. I had 
 then only read the Virginia, and the Brutto Primo, 
 of all the tragedies which appeared in that second 
 edition. I could not, therefore, form ajudgment how 
 far the author had realized the idea this ingeniou^ 
 critic had, of tragedy. It will accordingly appear* 
 that I readily and joyfully gave him credit for every 
 improvement attributed to him by his friend ; and 
 conceived that the example of the poet exactly 
 tallied with the precept of the critic. 
 
 But though the Count writes in a style, which, 
 whatever fault real, taste may find with it, it must * 
 be gratified by, as simple, eloquent, and energetic ; 
 and though he has made an improvement in the 
 drama by more diligence in presenting -single pic- 
 
 H 2
 
 1OO NOTES. 
 
 tures (especially in the catastrophes) to the eye, and 
 banishing from the stage the character of the con- 
 fidante; yet his tragedies do not present a -series of 
 more pictures, nor, in other words, display more 
 action , than others have done. On the contiary, 
 the French poets, -whom the present treatise men- 
 tions as deficient in it, have, I believe, upon the 
 whole, discovered more : and this I attribute t.:> 
 the advantage they had, of a permanent theatre ; 
 and which the Count had not to assist him. 
 
 Since my Letters on the Drama were published, it 
 occurred to me, that an increase of the action must 
 necessarily be attended by an increase in the number 
 of scenes. For though action is produced by va- 
 rious means during the course of a scene, this me- 
 thod cannot singly be relied upon. I now find this 
 to be the only way Voltaire has increased the ac- 
 tion of his tragedies ; whose scenes I was surprised 
 to find perhaps less numerous than Racine's, in his 
 best plays : though he has properly applied himself 
 to the easier method of producing effect by more 
 broken speeches. But a tragedy has seldom, if 
 ever, had its full complement of plot. I thought, 
 however, there was no doubt, from the character
 
 NOTES. 1O1 
 
 of them in this letter, that I should find it in the 
 Count's tragedies; the scenes of which, as well as 
 of all the principal ones existing, I had the curio- 
 sity to calculate; and can mention nearly what 
 they were. The GEdipus Tyrannus of Sophocles 
 has about twenty. Samson Agonistes somewhat 
 fewer. Corneille's best plays hardly amount to 
 thirty scenes. Those of Voltaire, Racine, and 
 Crebillon have between thirty and forty ; but I 
 think the two latter of these contain the greatest 
 number. Elfrida has somewhere about twenty ; 
 but Caractacus has as many as the latter French 
 tragedies. Though I have not seen this play acted, 
 I should think its not being sometimes well re- 
 ceived must be owing to two circumstances. First, 
 its songs, like those of Elfrida, and the Greek plays, 
 are much too long to please upon the English stage. 
 Though songs are every day found rather to in- 
 crease than diminish dramatic effect, yet being 
 prolonged, they must displease, after a time, just in 
 the proportion tlrey were able to strike at first. I 
 have found nothing in the Battle of Eddington un- 
 acceptable to an audience, except the length of 
 {he choruses ; but though this was only when the
 
 1OZ NOTES. 
 
 music was Confined to a single harp upon the stage, 
 or a common country band ; and though they are 
 beyond comparison shorter than those I have men- 
 tioned, yet were any alteration necessary for stage 
 effect, it would be to curtail them. Secondly, as a 
 means of disposing of so much song, part of the 
 odes is recited. When I first observed this, after 
 having remarked the dislike of the audience for 
 any thing it was not used to, I could not help 
 wondering that this play ever succeeded. But 
 were the songs to be only in part sung, (as, for in- 
 stance, suppose the song beginning at " Hark ! 
 heard ye not," &c. were to have all omitted ex- 
 cept the first, second, and last stanzas, which might 
 be connected by altering a few letters, and putting 
 the word " Haste," instead of " No," at the begin- 
 ning of the last) and were the speeches only a little 
 broken, it might be far from unacceptable. For, 
 indeed, in violating the unity of place on our stage, 
 we have hot communicated much more action to our 
 plays. Had that been done, it would have interest- 
 ed sufficiently-without any departure from that rule. 
 The favourite plays of Rowe and Otway do not 
 contain many more scenes than the French plays ;
 
 NOT??-- 
 
 ancTin but a few of the popular ones does the num- 
 ber approach fifty. I am not here speaking of old 
 or historical plays, which may be so long, as that 
 the scenes, however numerous, may be too ex- 
 panded to increase the action : but I speak merely 
 of plays of an ordinary length, containing fifteen 
 hundred lines, more or less. 
 
 The scenes in the Count's plays never amount 
 to so many as those in Corneille's ; and in general 
 they are in number about the same as those in El- 
 frida. The Count, in his description, in answer to 
 this letter, of the sort of tragedy he aimed at writ- 
 ing, says, it was rapid as far as could consist with 
 the display of the passions ; for this necessarily re- 
 quired some pause in the action. But an elegai l 
 writer, in particular, is apt to mistake his sublime 
 and harmonious dialogue, for that more dramatic 
 style of writing, which is alone in place in a tra- 
 gedy. There should be sufficient pauses to pro- 
 duce this desired effect ; but there is no danger 
 that it should be otherwise. The fear is rather, 
 that opportunity should be given for useless dis- 
 course, however well expressed. We do not cer- 
 tainly want for an authority to recommend dramas,
 
 104 NOTES. 
 
 as dramas, \vhich prefer thoughts to words : Aris- 
 totle has gone at least as far as critics would do 
 now-a-days in this preference, when he affirms the 
 fable to be the principal consideration in a tra- 
 gedy. And perhaps, indeed, from the use, if not 
 the dignity of action, it is in tragedy, what Demos- 
 thenes is reported to have said it was in oratory; 
 not only the first, but the second, and the third 
 quality. 
 
 Nor is it of much less use in comedy; only here 
 the plot ought to thicken, as it were casually, and 
 without any forethought in the characters : for it 
 seems that neither deep contrivance, nor villainy, 
 ought to have place in it, without an adjunct of 
 manners so striking, as to put them almost out of 
 view. Mr. Murphy's play of " All in the Wrong," 
 which, excepting in the last act or two, is an ex- 
 tremely pleasing comedy, is said in the Biographia 
 Dramatica, to be one of our busiest plays ; but I 
 think it an- excellent instance of this comic action. 
 The incidents of- it, by no means apising from design 
 in the characters, arise, on the contrary, in spite of 
 it, and by mistake. The same may be said of Mo- 
 Here's short play from which it is taken. For, as Dr.
 
 NOTES, 1O5 
 
 Hurd justly observes, balconies and ladders are 
 not properly introduced (at least in the way sup- 
 posed) in comedy. Portraits, letters, and the fur- 
 niture of a room, however, are much more closely 
 allied to manners; -and, & series of comic pictures, 
 such as those of Hogarth, for instance, though nu- 
 merous, might not displease, especially if rendered 
 distinct by adherence to the unities. 
 
 By such a mode of writing, all might be content 
 to have the. spirit of farce banished from gepteel 
 comedy; as critics have wished it should be. What 
 would ever recommend it, would be its powerful 
 assistance in amusing every rank ; especially the 
 lowest. And if this could not be otherwise done, 
 there might be an excuse for resorting to it, if we 
 reflect upon the reason for making, of the drama, a 
 separate species of composition : this seems to be 
 the nature of society; which uniformly, in every 
 country, proves the call there is for this sort of en- 
 tertainment, collecting men of all orders in the 
 state, as its spectators. Unless, therefore, an equal 
 effort be made to please all, the drama hardly ap- 
 pears in character. 
 
 Voltaire boasts of die difficulty, which he himself
 
 K)6 NOTES* 
 
 and the other -French poets had surmounted, of 
 filling tragedies of the usual length with incidents, 
 and yet being circumscribed, in their means, by the 
 unities. But when there is so much additional ac- 
 tion, that the scenes amount in number to between 
 sixty and seventy, this particular difficulty is al- 
 most doubled. 
 
 Page42. Every pi ly in your first volume] These 
 plays are among those numerous ones, which, 
 agreeably to the precept of Aristotle, and the prac- 
 tice, in consequence, of many poets, end unhappily. 
 But, if the propriety of this be philosophically con- 
 sidered, it may be .found that those which end hap- 
 pily, may strike exactly as much as the others, 
 previous to the catastrophe, but that they superadd 
 another pleasure, viz. that of having the mind set at 
 case, and its ease rendered delightful, in propor- 
 tion to its former pain. Nor is it clear, that the 
 moral effect is thereby weakened. But as I think 
 Mr. Pye has made a real dramatic discovery by 
 consulting the feelings of an audience, in this re- 
 spect, instead of acquiescing in positive rules, I 
 shall refer the reader to the note, at the 259111 page 
 of his Commentaries; part of which expresses so
 
 NOTES. 
 
 fully my ideas upon the subject, that I need add 
 no more. 
 
 Page 47. Strikes the eyes of the spectators'] The 
 catastrophe very properly, and with great effect, at 
 the end of the play, brings the dying persons upon 
 the stage ; but part of it is previously related at 
 large j which was some deviation from the author's 
 usual mode. 
 
 Page 64 . To feed with horrid delight^ I f it be a 
 fault for a tragedy to end unhappily, the aggravat- 
 ing nature of this proposed conclusion would in- 
 crease that fault. 
 
 Page 64. By the example of Shahs peare~\ C re- 
 billon, rather than Shakspeare, has been thought 
 the poet of horror. 
 
 Page 70. T/je appellation offguraitie~] As the 
 critic has used, in one of the preceding notes, the 
 expression of 'painter-poet, in finding fault with Boi- 
 leau, I am induced to warn the reader to keep two 
 principles separate. The picturesque style he is 
 here speaking of, is a truly admirable one; but it 
 is necessary not to confound this with the dramatic 
 picturesque, which has to do simply with the out- 
 ward senses j which is comprehended equally by
 
 1O8 NOTES. 
 
 the learned and the illiterate; and which this trea- 
 tise has much merit in unfolding. He seems to have 
 been led by the resemblance of the two qualities, to 
 rank them under one head : though had he only 
 enforced his advice concerning style, by another 
 precept of Horace, he would have placed his gene- 
 ral doctrine in a still clearer light ; since he would 
 have kept it more in view. Care certainly should 
 be taken to steer as free as possible from defects in 
 style ; but upon the whole, in this respect, the fol- 
 lowing passage may tell us, what is more immedi- 
 ately necessary r 
 
 Cui lecta potenter erit ret, 
 
 Nee facundia deseret hunc, nee lucidus ordo. 
 
 He who his subject happily can choose, 
 Wins to his favour the benignant Muse ; 
 The aid of eloquence he ne'er shall lack, 
 And order shall dispose and clear his track. 
 
 COLMAN. 
 
 This I conceive to be a precept no less useful, than 
 that which is virtually one, and which I have men- 
 tioned as the most useful definition of tragedy. 
 The merit of it, in teaching dramatic style, arises 
 from its drawing the attention from style, and fixing
 
 NOTES. 
 
 it upon subject. The essay and notes have dwelt 
 so long upon this main principle of the critic, that 
 I shall say no more of it, except in producing an 
 instance to prove, that the introduction of a cho- 
 rus may contribute to this dramatic picturesque. 
 Having some idea of publishing my play with prints, 
 the subjects of which might have proved accept- 
 able to the lover of his country, I requested Mr. 
 Smirke, with this view, to give me his opinion. As 
 the latter parts of every tragedy have greater ani- 
 mation, I expected one would have been recom- 
 mended from those parts of mine ; but I found he 
 chose one, in preference, from the first act, and it 
 is the eleventh scene of that act ; the cottager being 
 represented kneeling. A very important part of the 
 group must be the chorus. 
 
 But the picturesque style the critic treats of in 
 this passage, is not what he discovers originality in 
 pointing out; it having frequently before been 
 spoken of with praise. Algarotti and Winkelmann, 
 prejudiced either by the love of antiquity or sys- 
 tem, hardly allow the talents proper for this style 
 to our unclassical latitude. Winkelmann thinks 
 that the sublimity of Milton, is more owing to his
 
 NOTES. 
 
 filling the ear, than presenting pictures to the mind. 
 This opinion is so evidently founded in error, that, 
 rather than attempt to disprove it, I shall only take 
 occasion to remark, that as poetry in a manner 
 unites the effects of painting and music, there may 
 be a danger least, in imitating the Greeks too 
 closely, in one respect, we should deviate too far 
 from their practice in another. Their harmonious 
 language too, ought especially to warn us, not to 
 think allowable an harsh, incorrect versification j 
 but to make the least possible sacrifices of melody. 
 If Pope may have missed one or two opportunities 
 of shining as a painter, he has surely made ample 
 amends, by never failing to delight as a musi- 
 cian. 
 
 Page 75. In the style of Dante] I do not 
 dispute his reasoning: in Gray's Memoirs is 
 likewise a sort of controversy on the subject of 
 dramatic style. When the demands of an au- 
 dience, and in consequence the nature of a really 
 just drama, are by experience thoroughly known, it 
 will then be for such masters of style as Gray to be 
 tnore exclusively consulted in dramatic matters. 
 Critics much inferior have often made remarks upon
 
 NOTES. Ill 
 
 the mode of writing proper to please an audience. 
 They have thought the lines must be of unequal 
 lengths, and harmony avoided in the same degree 
 as the unities are violated ; and the poetical se- 
 cond person singular, and the familiar second 
 person plural, in verbs, seem both to have their 
 partizans. But when objections are made, found- 
 ed upon such opinions, I am convinced they will 
 be soon, to all intents and purposes, silenced, merely 
 by infusing fresh action into the piece. 
 
 Page 77. An evident proof of the great conse- 
 quence^ I do not know how well, upon examination, 
 this will agree with the inattention he observed, 
 page 17, to every thing, except the airs. To judge 
 from what we know, it might be that declamation 
 which he observes, page 15, Apostolo Zeno had 
 introduced, in imitation of the French. Metas- 
 tasio's airs likewise might produce a greater musical 
 effect. 
 
 Page 77. Charm alike painters, &c.^ May 
 not this be, especially in ignorant minds, in a great 
 measure owing to the subject ? 
 
 When the Battle of Eddington first came out, it 
 was received by the Monthly Reviewers in the
 
 NOTES; 
 
 manner I have mentioned in my Letters on the 
 Drama. Till some time after that period, I was ig- 
 norant of the degree of calmness with which they 
 gave their opinion, but having then perused many 
 of their criticisms on the drama, and finding them 
 sincere advocate's for dramatic irregularity, in more 
 points than any persons I had met with, possessed 
 of learning ; I thought the advantage resulting to 
 literature from the discussion which opposite opi- 
 nions might call forth, would render it worth my 
 while to take the same notice of them, as they had 
 done of me. They are the critics, of all others, 
 who are entitltd, for the public good, to take up 
 the gauntlet which I threw down ; and if they can 
 succeed, with every weapon of learning, I shall 
 not repine at an issue of the contest, from which 
 public benefit is to be derived. I will therefore 
 explain the nature of that enterprize they may per- 
 haps choose to undertake. 
 
 As this play was the only attempt, in the first 
 edition, to render the introduction of theatrical 
 music uniformly rational ; so it was the only 
 .one, in the second, by increased action, to sup- 
 ply the want of variety constantly perceived in
 
 NOTES. 
 
 plays of a more regular cast. Critics, for want of 
 this offal of action, to appease the many-headed 
 terror in the gallery, have seemed awed into a 
 forgetfulness of their own natural sensations, and 
 induced to think that propriety and correctness 
 were not of themselves agreeable to the spectator 
 or reader, but useless restraints, which it was ad- 
 viseable for the poet to shake off. I made, there- 
 fore, the experiment which was thus untried, and 
 found it succeed far beyond expectation. How 
 demonstrable my success was, the letters published 
 soon after sufficiently shewed. 
 
 Yet since that, a critic who professed himself 
 willing to recommend the play, mentioned at the 
 same time nothing favourable of it, as a composition. 
 In spite of the difficulty of an attempt to write at 
 once for the most ignorant and the most learned, 
 and in spite of my apology for the consequence, he 
 has remarked only the faults of its style. His cri- 
 ticism has been similar of the Essay, though merely 
 letters ; and when one considers that it is not only 
 replete with close reasoning, but wholly bept on 
 developing a neu> system, one may perhaps smile 
 
 I
 
 114 NOTES- 
 
 at the aptness with which those lines of Pope might 
 be quoted : 
 
 Others for language all their care express 
 
 Their praise is still the style is excellent : 
 The sensty they humbly take upon content. 
 
 It will therefore better become me now, than it 
 would have done before, to mention in what par- 
 ticulars this tragedy has any claim to praise. As a 
 national play, it may be said of it, that among the 
 poetical works intended to celebrate Alfred as the le- 
 gislator of England, none have taken advantage of 
 the friendly disposition of the sister kingdom towards 
 us, at that time ; though it has by no means, since, 
 constantly increased. The same may be said of 
 Wales and Scotland. This remarkable concur- 
 rence, therefore, of circumstances had not yet 
 struck any writer. The subjects of the choruses 
 fall in with this general plan. The first is in praise 
 of attachment to our country, and to its laws ; the 
 second is in praise of Wales in particular ; the third 
 of Ireland ; the fourth of Scotland ; and the last 
 of England, and the British empire. As a play, ob- 
 servant of the rules of criticism, it may be said of
 
 NOTES. 115 
 
 it, that besides adapting much more business than 
 the French writers do to all the laws of their drama, 
 it obviates the objections made to them, by con- 
 tributing to prove, that they do not necessarily oc- 
 casion the faults observed. It has been said, that 
 because the place ought always to be suited to the 
 succession of actions in a tragedy, that therefore 
 one place is improper for them all ; and instances 
 have been adduced of the impropriety of certain 
 scenes on this account, when compared with those 
 preceding them. But in the Battle of Eddington, 
 there is a particular reason (which was not neces- 
 sary) for the place even of the first scene ; as it is 
 represented a strong post, in which the only house 
 near stood, and which was necessary to be carried. 
 The queen comes to the spot unavoidably, as a 
 place of shelter. Ceoluph and Alfred afterwards 
 naturally come to a place so marked, according to 
 appointment. I pass over, as obvious, the reasons 
 for the intermediate entrances, and proceed to that 
 of Mervin ; who may easily be supposed detached 
 by Alfred for the security of the queen, while he 
 himself is pressing the enemy. Afterwards- uncer- 
 tainty concerning her induces him, when the vic- 
 
 I 2
 
 Il6 NOTES. 
 
 tory is gained, to hasten to the spot. The reason 
 why Ceoluph enters is, that being wounded, he is 
 brought to a house so near, in preference to being 
 detained in the open air, and on the ground; but 
 just as they are entering, he finds his wound too 
 painful to move farther. What faults in other re- 
 spects may be perceived, I take upon myself as the 
 poet, and by no means allow they are naturally at- 
 tached to \hzpoetry. I have exhibited in the present 
 publication a new sort of demonstrative proof, in 
 poetry (no less than absolute arithmetical proof), 
 that a work may at least "be curious, and worthy the 
 attention of the learned, from its novelty. It is 
 now quite impossible that this should escape those 
 who wish to recommend mine both in deed and 
 words ; and who really approve of its sentiments. 
 The difference between this and all former ones of 
 the sort, as it consists in the much greater number 
 of its scenes, is to be proved by calculation. 
 
 Since -there is a circumstance so remarkable as 
 this to attract attention, I confess I flatter my self that 
 the public will think it fair to suspend its judgment, 
 and not allow that the splenetic decision of any pe- 
 riodical critic shall have determined the just value
 
 NOTES. 
 
 of this proposed improvement, till it has been well 
 and generally considered. Perhaps, too, those who 
 profess themselves of the Aristotelian, or those who 
 are either of the Johnsonian, or more than John- 
 sonian school (among which last are the Monthly 
 Reviewers), may have made up their minds so per- 
 fectly to their respective systems, that they will find 
 it difficult, for that very reason, to conceive such an 
 improvement. I therefore rely more upon the rising 
 generation for that credit which it claims. After he 
 has acquired a just relish for the classics, and ap- 
 proved of the simplicity of the Greek poets, as well 
 as the remark of Horace concerning the 
 
 oculis subjecta fidelibus ; 
 
 The deed submitted to the public eye ; COLMAN. 
 l he young scholar will find, upon more commerce 
 with the world, that so far from having their precepts 
 any longer at variance with the practice of the thea- 
 tre, those authors, in some way or other, teach every 
 general rule necessary to interest an audience. This 
 must have an influence on his taste, as it must like- 
 wise tend to increase the respect paid to learning. 
 
 He will clearly understand the nature of this 
 sort of drama, and perceive that no development
 
 NOT*i. 
 
 of character, nor display of pathos, or even elo- 
 quence, is prevented by it ; only the trouble is saved 
 to managers of cutting out unnecessary speeches ; 
 which practice has done more honour to their judg- 
 ments than any thing else. He will see neither the 
 meagreness of the French, nor the grossness of the 
 English play : a grossness acquired by the violation 
 of laws. He will confess some obscurity must still 
 hang about that regularly irregular form of play, 
 recommended by Johnson and Lord Kaims (such 
 as the Mourning Bride), when compared with this 
 now under consideration ; an instance of which 
 may be the CEdipus of Sophocles; and when the 
 whole action is not supposed to take up above two 
 or three hours, he will find the story unfolded with 
 a more brilliant perspicuity. He will think it by 
 no means wonderful, that the chorus introduced 
 carelessly as such, by Mr. Mason, should revolt on 
 the stage, while decried from prejudice against the 
 ancients: that it should afterwards appear there 
 (first in the plays either of Mr. Colman, or some 
 other person who may claim that honour), its cha- 
 racter judiciously estimated, but its name and 
 country unknown to its introducer, and vehemently
 
 NOTES, 
 
 and prudently, disavowed from that ignorance : and 
 finally, that its powers of pleasing having been 
 proved, it should, on that account, be now intro- 
 duced the second time without disguise, and be 
 well received. He may, however, permit to poets, 
 who do not wish dramatic laws relaxed, merely be- 
 cause they dislike to obey them, not to attempt to 
 guide others, but to reject, themselves, every kind 
 of restraint that cramps their genius. He may even 
 think it adviseable that the reins should be fully 
 given to the taste of the gallery, and the poet 
 obliged to accommodate himself to its wildness, if 
 not its proper animation, should be hurried too fast 
 to doze after the French manner. 
 
 I do not know whether the word superficial may 
 be repeated, in criticising my system ; but it would 
 be more to the point, to remark any thing of that 
 nature, if it overthrew my arguments. It is only ne- 
 cessary for me to read effects in their causes, and to 
 discover knowledge enough to serve as the basis of 
 my system. Besides observing that no fault of this 
 sort has been yet specified, I shall only add, that it 
 has never been objected to the mathematician, as 
 such, that he was ill versed in ancient languages.
 
 12O NOTES. 
 
 At a time when every opportunity for expressing 
 political sentiments discovers, in the kingdom, an 
 increased and increasing bias towards the French ; 
 when every instance of favour towands the arts, is 
 esteemed in them, the mark of a great people and 
 the first nation in the world; but the cultivation 
 of them in us, meets frequently with disrespect 
 as inconsistent with those more lucrative pursuits 
 to which we are accustomed to confine our- 
 selves, and which are thought to bear exclusively 
 the stamp of good sense ; I do not know how an 
 attempt to improve our literature may be received. 
 I acknowledge, indeed, that the great body of 
 people, which, though too often awed to silence, 
 sometimes shews its old English spirit by coming 
 forward, as it has done lately, to assist the country, 
 is not willing that we should be considered as mere 
 Helots ; but the noisy and the persuasive, though a 
 small, may prove a dangerous part of the commu- 
 nity. At present it is too true, that the tendency of 
 public opinion augurs ill, not only to literary efforts 
 like these, but even to the balance of power ; the 
 real friend of which would desire, that political en- 
 thusiasm should be equal in the two countries. I
 
 NOTES. lit 
 
 shall not, however, be deterred by this from avow- 
 edly priding myself on my discovery, though it is 
 daring to emulate French spirit in attention to gene- 
 ral improvement. My presumption may, I own, be 
 thought the greater, when it is considered that the 
 French have valued themselves, above all things, on 
 the extreme finish and correctness of their plots, 
 and on this account spoken contemptuously of our 
 unrivalled poet. But if it be found, that super- 
 added to such correctness, increased action gives a 
 due energy to the tragic drama, even in point of 
 art they will not have attained the utmost degree of 
 excellence ; and future examples may, probably, 
 prove my researches to have contributed to the 
 dramatic triumphs of my country.
 
 POETICAL MISCELLANIES. 
 
 INCLUDING 
 
 TRANSLATIONS 
 
 FROM 
 
 PETRARCH, 
 
 BY J. PENN, Es<i. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED FOR ELMSLY, STRAND; FAULDER, BONO' 
 
 STREET; SEWELL, CORN HILL ; AND OWEN 
 
 AND WHITE, PICCADILLY.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 1 H E following Poems which are, in effect, though 
 not strictly speaking, all now published for the first 
 time, are, in different Ways, the produce of that 
 leisure which, though coming unsought for by 
 the lover of literature, tends equally to multi- 
 ply proofs of the natural bias of his mind. Part 
 of them are much to be attributed to the oc- 
 casions which apparently called them forth; but 
 the generality (especially the translations from ori- 
 ginals written in the ancient languages) are owing 
 also, more or less decidedly, to a desire I had of 
 exemplifying some points of criticism, and of pos- 
 sessing a sort of memorial of those judgments, 
 which the pursuits I was engaged in had from time 
 to time led me to form. As these opinions, there- 
 fore, bear rather a close relation to the poems, col- 
 lectively considered, I conceive that to refer to the
 
 il PREFACE. 
 
 former, in treating of the latter, will not only be 
 thought sufficiently to the purpose j but that by af- 
 fording new matter of reflection, it will seem to 
 apologize to the reader for calling his attention 
 twice to the same compositions. 
 
 Before I specify any one in particular, I have 
 only to observe concerning them all, that a finished 
 and correct style has been attempted, perhaps in 
 some respects successfully ; and that the example 
 of certain innovations in the structure of the verse,^ 
 and in the form of the expression (though I cannot 
 say that they have yet prevailed generally) has been 
 diligently guarded against. Instances of these are 
 first, where an affected or improper stress is laid 
 upon the third syllable in the verse; as if it began 
 in this manner : 
 
 The glad beam brightens 
 
 Our Iambic, indeed, allows a degree of stress to be 
 laid upon the third syllable, which often improves 
 the effect. We find in every page verses like, 
 
 Of man's first disobedience 
 
 And, 
 
 In these deep solitudes 
 
 And Pope likewise cautiously, and where the sense
 
 PREFACE. ill 
 
 supports him, introduces verses running in the 
 manner even of the first of these three examples ; as, 
 
 The green reed trembles, and the bulrush nods. 
 
 Another mode of poetical expression, novel when 
 its frequent and marked use is taken into consi- 
 deration, is where the verb precedes the nominative 
 case. The best poets have likewise used this, es- 
 pecially where the freedom of blank verse gave it 
 greater propriety. We may bear possibly, 
 
 Resounds the living surface of the ground ; 
 
 but it seems used in such instances as the ne plus 
 ultra of poetical licence. From the remarks here 
 made, the public will judge whether the desire I 
 have shewn is commendable, that poets writing in 
 rhyme should be called back to the versification 
 and phraseology of Pope and Dry den. 
 
 The Squire's Tale may perhaps be considered 
 as Chaucer's principal poem. In modernizing it, I 
 have adhered more closely to the original than has 
 been heretofore the custom in this species of writ- 
 ing ; though I have deviated somewhat more frorr 
 it than, in my opinion at least, would suit the cha- 
 racter of mere translation. A few copies of a pub-
 
 IV PREFACE. 
 
 lication containing the present poem, the imitation; 
 of Persius,and one of the translations that follow it, 
 have gone into the world; and a Re viewer has per- 
 ceived something forced in the connection between 
 these three compositions. But it certainly had an 
 object; which was to exhibit the distinct characters 
 of three modes of writing, visibly allied to each other. 
 Whether to modernize, be any thing more than 
 to translate imperfectly ; whether he who professes 
 to invent at all, ought not to rely much on him- 
 self; and whether the success of some poets may 
 not have recommended a route of fancy to others, 
 who, possessing less dexterity, might more wisely 
 refrain from following their steps ; I do not pretend 
 to determine : but it appears to be esteemed more 
 necessary to render the precise thought of the ori- 
 ginal, in translating a standard author, such as, for 
 instance, one of the classics, than in shewing the 
 ideas of those ill-fated geniuses, whose style is des- 
 tined to become obsolete, clothed in the language 
 of the day. It has been usual, in doing this, not 
 only to add, and to omit, but even to alter the plan 
 of the poem. And perhaps, where the object is 
 merely to exhibit instances of the poetry of an.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 obscure age, or an inferior poet, this mode of com- 
 position may have its use (though certainly this end 
 would be, if less easily, yet more perfectly attained 
 by translation). But I have been fearful of violating 
 the respectable relics of the father of English poe- 
 try ; and indeed, when it is observed how para- 
 phrastically this poem has been, among the rest, m6- 
 dernized, in the collection of the Canterbury Tales 
 published by Ogle, the reverential regard for them 
 I have discovered, in departing so little both from 
 ihe general and particular sense of the original pas- 
 sages, will appear in a stronger light. With a very few 
 alterations and additions, my poem perhaps might 
 become a translation; that is to say, belong, I 
 think, to a more valuable kind of composition. 
 
 If this poem be of a kind that does not deserve 
 sojmuch to be said in its praise, as translation, that 
 which follows is of a different one, and which unites 
 the restraint, and consequent difficulty of transla- 
 tion, with at least as much opportunity for original 
 thought as the other. The name of Imitation may 
 have discredited it in the opinion of many, being by 
 Horace, in one instance, connected with the idea of 
 servility : but if we estimate the task it imposes oti 
 
 B
 
 VI PREFACE. 
 
 the poet, who meets all its difficulties, by multiply- 
 ing those parallelisms which form its essence, to the 
 degree which its nature requires, and to a greater 
 than they have yet been multiplied ; and by letting 
 no proper name, nor interesting passage in the au- 
 thor imitated, be passed over, without providing 
 others of equal consequence to match them with, 
 we may be induced to allow, that it would require 
 in him some compass of thought at once to do this, 
 and to do it to the satisfaction of his readers. 
 Though in the best writings of this sort there may 
 be discovered powers which have grasped more ob- 
 jects, and thereby shewn the all-sufficiency of ge- 
 nius, they have not taken in every one of these, nor 
 derived every possible advantage from art. And 
 unless such inventive powers are perceivable in 
 this looser kind of Imitation, that will appear which 
 ought never to do, and which renders the sort of 
 composition faulty which I have just censured ; 
 namely, that the author who cultivates it, does so 
 merely to save himself labour, and to benefit by the 
 labour of others. But the Imitation is no ex- 
 crescence of literature, bestowing upon him who 
 first produced it a praise unreasonably claimed,
 
 PREFACE. Vii 
 
 as has sometimes happened. The use of it will, on 
 the contrary, be evident, when we consider how 
 peculiar and distinct it is from eve'ry other literary 
 labour, and what an inexhaustible source of variety 
 the lapse of time provides for it, by the private and 
 public events of all sorts which must in future 
 happen. The same satire that is imitated, in one 
 century, in ever so good a manner, may in the 
 next be furnished with new characters and events, 
 in order to form as good, or, possibly, better pa- 
 rallelisms. For these reasons, I think that when 
 Johnson said this " was a kind of middle composi- 
 tion between translation and original design, '' he 
 said too little in its favour. Though the qualities 
 it requires may not be all of them equal in dignity 
 to all that are called forth in composing an epic 
 poem, yet it admits of genuine eloquence and true 
 poetry, and allows the display of the utmost degree 
 of originality. 
 
 The same writer, considering this subject in an 
 historical view, attributes the invention to either 
 Oldham or Rochester ; but says no more. Now 
 if he is right, it appears to me almost demonstrable, 
 from the different ages of the poets, as well as from 
 
 B 2
 
 Vlll PREFACE. 
 
 the dates of the composition and publication of 
 their poems, that the honour of it is due to Roches- 
 ter. If it be so, certainly his time has been by few 
 other things so profitably employed. The honour 
 appears the greater, when we read Johnson's re- 
 mark, or rather candid confession, that " perhaps 
 few Imitations will be found, where the parallelism 
 is better preserved,'' than in his Imitation of Ho- 
 race on Lucilius. 
 
 Among the odes there is one which formed a 
 chorus in the first edition of the Battle of Edding- 
 ton. I thought it did not sufficiently adhere to the 
 rule in Horace, forbidding 
 
 Quod non proposito conducat et hereat apte. 
 
 Odes between the acts, that seem 
 
 Unapt, or foreign to the general theme. COLMAN. 
 
 I likewise thought the correspondence of the rhymes 
 might not be sufficiently perceptible. Yet I recol- 
 lect a wish I at the same time made, that the rage 
 for novelty would spend itself upon rhymes, instead 
 of altering the simplicity of language. Except the 
 ode now republished, every thing that I could at 
 all wish recommended to attention in the first, will
 
 PREFACE. IX 
 
 be found in the second edition of the Battle of 
 Eddington. 
 
 Upon the subject of Elegy, which a poem in that 
 line leads me next to consider, I by no means, I 
 believe, differ singly in opinion with that unequal 
 though valuable critic, Dr. Johnson, where he 
 treats of the metre* proper for it; and observes > 
 that " the quatrain of ten syllables" has not an 
 elegiac character, and was thought by Dryden to 
 be the most sonorous of all metres. It may be said 
 in answer, that Dryden had not seen its effect 
 tried ; that, at least, such an elegy as the Country 
 Churchyard was not in existence to manifest it; 
 and that the elegy may in a degree be sonorous. 
 But that in any metre pauses may be so contrived 
 as to vary the effect, blank verse in the hands of 
 different poets will prove. If, in this metre, ac- 
 cordingly, the pauses are not sufficiently often at 
 the close of the lines, the more irregular structure 
 of these, may take from the calmness and solemnity 
 necessary for elegy, and produce an effect similar 
 to that perceived by Dryden ; though his example 
 in adopting this metre has not been followed by sub- 
 
 * Life of Hammond.
 
 X PREFACE. 
 
 sequent poets in the epic line. Shenstone observed, 
 <f the public ear, habituated of late to a quicker 
 measure, may perhaps consider this as heavy and 
 languid ; but an objection of that kind may gra- 
 dually lose its force, if this measure should be aU 
 lowed to suit the nature of elegy." Whatever may 
 be the cause, whether custom or its own merits, 
 this metre now seems generally preferred in elegy. 
 And in either case it may be preferred justly : for 
 even supposing the advantages of one sort of verse 
 over another to be in a great measure imaginary, 
 and habit and custom the chief recommendations 
 of any ; yet the peculiarity of this tends to dis- 
 tinguish this species of poetry in a degree propor- 
 tionable to its dignity, and thus to arrange our 
 literature in a more beautiful and convenient 
 manner. 
 
 In order to enforce his argument, Johnson re- 
 presents " gentleness and tenuity" as the character 
 of the elegy. The works of Tibullus are certainly 
 much marked with this character ; but I do not 
 know whether this is allowed to be a full descrip- 
 tion of it. M. de Marmontel observes there are 
 three sorts of elegy; that of Tibullus, or the tender ;
 
 PREFACE. XI 
 
 that of Propertius, or the impassioned ; and that 
 of Ovid, or the graceful and elegant (gracieux). 
 The elegy of Gray is marked with calmness, but 
 not with the qualities Johnson mentions ; which 
 hardly consist with that philosophical dignity, and 
 those solemn, and even sublime ideas, which prevail 
 in many parts of it. The same critic, who. was not 
 struck with Shenstone's argument abovementioned, 
 concerning metre, sufficiently to discuss it, never- 
 theless praises his notion * of the nature of elegy ; 
 which he describes to be " the effusion of a con- 
 templative mind, sometimes plaintive, and always 
 serious, and therefore superior to the glitter of false 
 ornaments." This seems a more complete charac- 
 ter of it than the other; though, if we judge of 
 elegy by the remains of the ancient elegiac poets, 
 and by Horace's account of it in these lines ; 
 
 Versibus impariter junctis querimonia primum . 
 
 Post etiam inclusa est voti sententia compos ; 
 
 Couplets unequal were at first confined 
 
 To speak in broken verse the mourner's mind ; 
 
 Prosperity at length, and free consent, 
 
 Jn the ~ame numbers gave their raptures vent ; 
 
 * Life of Shenstone.
 
 XII PREFACE, 
 
 we shall not think invariable seriousness necessary 
 to it. But we have perhaps adhered more closely 
 than the later ancients, to the primary idea of elegy. 
 We might not, for instance, rank as belonging to 
 it such a poem as the beautiful one of Tibullus 
 on Sulpicia. And it seems, indeed, that poetical 
 lamentation is capable of calling forth the peculiar 
 beauties of each of the three Roman poets. But 
 we permit elegy to exceed its limits so much, that 
 " thoughtfulness" may as truly as any thing be 
 called, its character, though the derivation of the 
 name, and its original office, may bias us to prefer 
 " grief" to it. For our elegy either displays parti- 
 cular, or general grief, in other words, melancholy, 
 which produces a thoughtfulness and regularity 
 of style, and requires a verse adapted to itself. 
 But even in such verse any thing light or sportive, 
 as in the poem on Sulpicia, hardly seems to us 
 elegiac, unless we superadd some cause of grief, 
 though equally light and sportive. And this is the 
 nature of the poem which gave occasion to these 
 reflections. 
 
 The Sonnet, though of modern invention, has 
 engaged the attention "of Boileau, and other critics.
 
 PREFACE, 
 
 Jt has been, and is still in different countries often 
 employed in celebrating trifling occurrences, which 
 form proper subjects for occasional verses, but do 
 not admit of much of the spirit of poetry; but I must 
 confess I am most struck with the opinions of those 
 who consider it as a species of elegy. 1 1 seems to me, 
 full as much as elegy, equal to a display of the pomp 
 of numbers :. and I have often admired the gran- 
 deur of its march, with its attendant rhymes. Itseems 
 to have been well employed, as it has lately been, 
 in describing particular places; especially when 
 some interesting event of past times has happened 
 in a beautiful spot : for this is a proper subject for 
 elegy. The sonnet is too, by its brevity, fitted for 
 the traveller, who is always on the point of visiting 
 some new place, and receiving new impressions-that 
 will efface the old ones. It is calculated to express 
 a single and general elegiac sentiment, before other 
 thoughts connected with it have been suggested by 
 the subject; and as there is the greater unity where 
 a composition is not held together by transitions, 
 and forms itself only one sentiment, the close re- 
 lation of its parts by means of rhyme, seems to en-
 
 XIV PREFACE. 
 
 force this unity, as well as to distinguish the sort 
 of poem. Boileau thinks repeated rhyme so ne- 
 cessary to the sonnet, that he makes that its defini- 
 tion, though he gives no reason for its necessity. 
 
 As the translations are principally from Petrarch, 
 and both in considerable number, and selected up- 
 on a regular plan, I think it necessary to mention, 
 that a great part of these are owing to a cause su- 
 peradded to that stated in the beginning of the Pre- 
 face. Having been obliged by my affairs to reside 
 some years in a country at a great distance from 
 my own, and having settled myself in a romantic 
 retirement, not far from a considerable city; I 
 found, in my situation, so whimsical a resemblance 
 to that of the poet, that this, together with his fond- 
 ness for descriptions of rural solitude, first induced 
 me to think of translating some of his poems. But 
 after I returned home it occurred to me, in reading 
 the Memoires de Petrarque, not only that a diffi- 
 culty I had supposed in literature might be sur- 
 mounted, but that I might, without much addi- 
 tional labour, effect that desirable purpose. To 
 translate all of Petrarch must be allowed, by those
 
 PREFACE. XV 
 
 who have read him, to be a task truly Herculean. 
 This, therefore, was not to be thought of; but to 
 form an interesting whole, of parts of his works 
 properly selected, was attended by the difficulty 
 which seemed deserving of an attempt to remove. 
 A selection with a similar object had been made ; 
 but though praise is due to one or two publications 
 of this sort that have appeared, yet a plan to answer 
 every desirable end was yet unformed : and this will 
 not be doubted, when it is considered that almost all 
 those poems of Petrarch which eminent critics have 
 esteemed his best, have been omitted by his transla- 
 tors. But in pursuing my design, I thought I saw, that 
 I should not only make Petrarch known, but should 
 also necessarily trace out a general plan of selection, 
 which those who collect poems for publication might 
 judge of, and see whether it was not an eligible mode 
 of ridding the reader, and the writer, at such times, 
 of poetry which may have already lived long enough, 
 and which tends only to disappoint the one, and to 
 mislead the other. A collection of poets might thus 
 become a work, not very voluminous, and perhaps 
 by means of one or two poems, some part of most 
 of the poets would be preserved. My scheme was
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 founded upon this idea, that a composition became 
 justly an object of attention, in an inferior degree, 
 from its subject, as well as from its own excellence ; 
 so that as it is usual to preserve other poems besides 
 those of the very greatest merit, it would be well to 
 prefer such inferior ones as, by communicating 
 some information, in a manner compensate for their 
 deficiencies ; and thus to make history unite with 
 poetry for the instruction as well as the amusement 
 of the reader. Agreeably to this method, I have 
 chosen the order in which the poems are arranged 
 by the author of the Memoires, being that in which 
 he shews them to have been written, and different 
 from that in which they have descended to us ; 
 and, as his work is formed upon the plan of a 
 selection from Petrarch's writings, in order to let 
 him be, as much as possible, his own historian ; 
 so the translations I have made are chiefly from a 
 part only of those selected poems ; that he may, in 
 a general indeed and imperfect manner, but still 
 as fully and as pleasingly as the poems alone will 
 permit, be singly his own historian. With this 
 view, I judged proper to translate first, those odes 
 which have been esteemed, in different ways, the
 
 PREFACE. XVll 
 
 masterpieces of Petrarch; secondly, just so much 
 marked by his peculiar faults, as would enable me 
 to shew the character of his style ; and thirdly, 
 whatever he wrote upon occasions that threw any 
 light upon his life, excepting where the occasion 
 was likely, either alone, or together with that 
 quaintness and singularity of style he so often 
 adopts, to make him too little interest either as a 
 man or as a poet : for the same balance should be 
 preserved between what is favourable and unfa- 
 vourable in the character, represented by the 
 verses, as in that which is collected from all the 
 documents we are enabled to consult. 
 
 In undertaking this work, I was necessarily to 
 be regulated by certain ideas I had formed of the 
 nature of translation. I observed, the precept most 
 frequently inculcated and dwelt upon was, that the 
 translator ought to express his author's thoughts, in 
 the same manner that he would have done, if writ- 
 ing in the same language. But as this manner can- 
 not very readily be known, the precept, though in- 
 tended to guard against that want of freedom, 
 which very close translations frequently exhibit, 
 may give too great a latitude to writers, who 'not
 
 XVU1 PREFACE* 
 
 being enthusiastic lovers of art, are averse from 
 that finish and exactness which its perfection, in 
 principal points at least, requires. Where literal 
 translation is faulty, it is not because it resembles 
 the original too much, but (quite the contrary) be- 
 cause bv a laboured resemblance of the words and 
 
 4 
 
 sentences, the whole, including the spirit and man- 
 ner, is even rendered the more unlike. The per- 
 fection of a translation would be that the words, 
 spirit, and manner, should be exactly the same as 
 in the original, and that there should be neither 
 more nor less eloquence and harmony in the one 
 than in the other. A translator is like a person 
 who is sent out by some public body to travel into 
 distant unexplored regions, in order to benefit his 
 employers by new discoveries. If such a one de- 
 viate in any degree from the truth in the accounts 
 he gives; if he introduce in his pictures a foreground, 
 for the sake of embellishment, which could not have 
 been in nature; or if he represent in them a strik- 
 ing assemblage of mountains, rocks, and torrents, 
 where the country was of a tame and cultivated 
 kind, he may furnish amusement, from his own ima- 
 gination, to the purchasers of his book j but he
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 cannot be said to have acted consistently with the 
 character he had assumed. So the translator is 
 bound, to the utmost of his power, faithfully to re- 
 present the merits and demerits of the original. 
 But it may happen that, with a little variation of 
 the phrase, a resemblance may be obtained in the 
 frame and structure of the thought, and in the 
 effect produced upon it by metre : however, this 
 ought to be attempted with caution, nor ought the 
 author's sense to be either more expanded, or more 
 compressed, in the translation. It was with this 
 view I chose stanzas exactly, I thought, of a proper 
 length to translate an alcaic ode, by which an 
 English stanza might be allotted to a Latin one 
 through the whole poem. But in modern lan- 
 guages, in which metre depends upon rhyme, a rule 
 seems to me to grow out of the nature of transla- 
 tion, possessing strong claims for regard. If one 
 may, by observing the same order of rhymes, and 
 length of lines, convey to the reader instantaneous- 
 ly, an idea of the appearance the original makes 
 to the eye, why should one wantonly choose in 
 preference different ones, and withhold a piece of 
 history of however small consequence from him?
 
 This rule I have observed, in spite of the nume- 
 rous rhymes, by which Petrarch has rendered it 
 no slight task, even in his odes, which do not ne- 
 cessarily require a repetition of them. 
 
 There are, however, exceptions to this rule j for 
 were the French tragedians to be translated, ought 
 they to be translated in rhyme? certainly not: for 
 an English tragedy in rhyme, is a defective com- 
 position, and therefore does not properly represent 
 a French one in rhyme, which suits the genius of 
 the language in which it is written. 
 
 There is something, nevertheless, to say on both 
 sides, on the subject of the verse proper to trans- 
 late an Italian epic poem : for, in the first place, 
 the ottava-rima is not so disgusting in the epic, 
 as rhyme is upon our stage ; and in the second, we 
 are not ourselves determined, in spite of Milton's 
 poem, whether rhyme or blank verse be proper for 
 epic poetry; so that we are prepared, perhaps, to 
 allow one advantage in the verse of Fairfax j namely, 
 that it is an index of Italian manners. 
 
 The author of the Memoires very justly passes 
 strictures upon the Sestina, as being of a species of 
 writing without dignity, and not approving of any
 
 PREFACE. XXI 
 
 that Petrarch wrote, he has for that reason trans- 
 lated none. I perfectly agree with him in opinion 
 concerning the degree of merit perceivable in the 
 Sestina, and for that reason, I should have follow- 
 ed his example; but thinking that though the ori- 
 ginal poet was only a poet, yet the translating poet 
 was likewise an historian, I have judged it right 
 to give an example of one ; as also to translate one 
 ballad, and one madrigal : that every species of 
 writing found in Petrarch might have a place in 
 the collection. 
 
 The plan of translation is as little extended as it 
 could well be, to answer the end I had proposed 
 myself. I was strongly tempted not to separate 
 from the famous ode at Laura's fountain, its sister 
 ode. I would have added the three odes, called 
 the Graces, upon Laura's eyes ; a subject that must 
 seem the more natural, as the poet lived nearer 
 times when " Bright eyes rain'd influence, and 
 judged the prize:" and that may, assisted by poeti- 
 cal merit, furnish a sufficient instance of Petrarch's 
 peculiarities, and yet compensate for their want of 
 pleasing effect. I would likewise have translated the 
 ode on the Crusades, and that on the troubles of Italy. 
 
 C
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 With more time and labour, a more comprehen- 
 sive plan might be struck out ; such as to add those 
 sonnets and other poems, by which, as well as by 
 the poet's letters, his biographer shews the state of 
 his mind at different times, with respect to his love, 
 and how the behaviour of Laura, and other circum- 
 stances, operated upon it. After this, the mere Eng- 
 lish reader might be almost as well acquainted as he 
 could hope to be with the writings of Petrarch. 
 
 The translation of the twelfth Pythian ode, (which 
 its shortness, unity, and poetical spirit recommend- 
 ed,) was owing to an opinion I had formed, that 
 consistently with the spirit of the rule I mentioned 
 above, the strophe, antistrophe, and epode, might be 
 used to translate out of a Greek lyric poet with re- 
 markable propriety ; but were improper for original 
 poems in English. They may shew the style of 
 writing formerly in Greece, just as the order of 
 rhymes may shew that now in foreign countries; 
 but when we recollect what strong reasons cus- 
 tom then furnished, for choosing stanzas so mutu- 
 ally connected, our spontaneous use of them, has 
 in it something secondary and imitative. The 
 stanzas ought certainly to correspond, but it is not
 
 PREFACE. XXlll 
 
 necessary for this, that they should be of more than 
 one species, in an ode : and this accords with Gray's 
 ideas, who thought some of those in ternaries at too 
 great a distance from their corresponding ones. * 
 Stanzas with a less perceptible correspondence of 
 the verses, seem vastly well to distinguish the 
 greater from the lesser ode. 
 
 The Sapphic ode was chosen as one which had 
 not been yet translated, and which was strongly cha- 
 racteristic of a favourite poet. I did not use a stanza 
 of sufficient length fully to render a Sapphic stanza ; 
 and therefore erred against the rule, I since laid 
 down for myself. This translation was owing to a 
 judgment I had formed of the celebrated one of 
 Philips, which made me observe one point in which 
 he adhered to nice propriety in this less essential part 
 of composition, and two in which he erred against 
 it. The first was in his closing the first stanza 
 with a short line, which has an affinity to the 
 terminating verse in the original: the other two 
 were, first, in his adopting afterwards a different 
 one (which changed the ode improperly into an 
 irregular ode) ; and secondly, in his adopting one 
 
 * Mem. Sect. 4. Letter 20. 
 C 2
 
 XXIV PREFACE. 
 
 which, however much in use, seems hardly to de-* 
 serve the name : for if the pause at the end of a series 
 of lines be sufficient to produce the effect of a 
 stanza, what occasion is there ever for any varied 
 disposition of the rhymes ? An ode made up of 
 such stanzas may be said to be, in part, composed by 
 the printer ; in whose power it is frequently, by 
 making its lines all equidistant, to convert it into a 
 familiar epistle. 
 
 I have dwelt more upon these inferior conside-^ 
 rations in composition, because there appears to 
 exist some prejudice, especially in the drama, 
 against a close attention to rules of criticism ; as 
 well as a seeming opinion, that good sense, simpli- 
 city, arid universal correctness, are incompatible, 
 *nstead of being naturally connected with higher 
 qualities. As I have, in some Letters on the Dra- 
 ma, published last year, attempted to shew the dif- 
 ference between a minute and delicate taste, the 
 former of which attaches the utmost consequence 
 to trifling beauties, which it alone can relish, and 
 the latter is just attracted by them from that excess 
 of sensibility which renders it tremblingly alive 
 to beauties of a higher sort, I shall only add, that
 
 PREFACE. XXV 
 
 I conceive my observations applicable to other 
 kinds of writing also, and that even exact rhymes 
 are, as far as they go, a recommendation to poetry 
 when considered generally, and not in a particular 
 instance. If the bad consequence of their restraint 
 were, in any particular poem, to be made appear, 
 they would be then, and by that poet, to be avoid- 
 ed. But however learned a critic may be, his judg- 
 ments are not respectable, either of finished or un- 
 finished composition, if he forms them by a cold 
 reference to rules, without entering into its spirit, 
 and thus prejudges the author. There are cer- 
 tainly instances of happy, negligent rhymes ; and 
 if the poet does not think he has facility enough 
 to produce such as are unaccompanied by de- 
 fects, he ought not when they occur to reject 
 them. But no walk of genius is so respectable, 
 that it makes any other despised. Though many 
 painters shew undoubted talents in sketches, 
 who, when they proceed to form finished pictures 
 of them, gradually do away the effect they were 
 able to produce ; yet it is not their custom to in- 
 veigh against the use of colours. And if we look 
 beyond the limits of the fine arts, we shall see tha 11
 
 PRIfACJt. 
 
 a Cromwell, though he could not parcel out his 
 thoughts in an admirable manner, in words, yet is 
 allowed the character of a great man : but that we 
 are not led, on this account, to hold in less esteem 
 the impressive, though elaborate, eloquence of a 
 Tully.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 FAGB 
 
 The Squire's Tale - . - 27 
 
 Imitation of Per sins' s sixth Satire - 52 
 Odes - - 66 
 
 Elegy - 80 
 
 Sonnets - - - 86 
 
 Epigrams - 89 
 
 Translations. Petrarch, Part /. 98 
 
 . Petrarch, Part II. - 132 
 
 The Twelfth Pythian Ode of 
 
 Pindar 139 
 
 Latin Ode by Gray - 142 
 Latin Ode by the same - 145
 
 POETICAL MISCELLANIES. 
 
 THE SQUIRE'S TALE. 
 
 - Call up him, that left half told 
 
 The story of Cambuscan bold, 
 
 Of Camball, and of Algarsife, 
 
 And who had Canace to wife, 
 
 That own'd the virtuous ring and glass, 
 
 And of the wondrous horse of brass 
 
 On which the Tartar king did ride ; 
 
 And if aught else great bards beside 
 
 In sage and solemn tunes have sung * 
 
 Where more is meant than meets the ear. 
 
 Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career. 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 IN Sarra's city once, in Tartary, reign'd 
 A king, who war with Russia's tribes maintain'd ; 
 By which there fell in arms, of splendid fame, 
 Full many a knight ; Cambuscan was his name.
 
 28 THE SQUIRE'S TALE. 
 
 Far through the world his merits were renown'd, 
 And none, in aught, so excellent was found. 
 In various virtue kingly, as in birth, 
 He made his office honour'd through the earth, 
 Firm in the faith which he profess'd to hold, 
 Of wealth conspicuous, and as wise as bold ; 
 Rigid in truth and justice, yet inclined 
 To soft compassion, and of nature kind ; 
 His person comely, fortunate his doom, 
 So well could he the royal part assume, 
 So much his qualities the observer strike, 
 All own'd they never had beheld his like. 
 
 This Tartar without peer, this valiant king, 
 Saw its fair fruits from happy marriage spring ; 
 The younger hope, by Elfeta, his wife, 
 Camballo call'd, the elder Algarsife. 
 
 He had, besides, the youngest of the three, 
 A daughter fair, whose name was Canace. 
 But, to pourtray the beauties of the maid, 
 In vain were aptest eloquence essay 'd. 
 At least my language in the attempt were vain, 
 And matchless charms. my pencil rude restrain 
 Whose full idea rhetoric must impart 
 With glowing colours, and the stores of art.
 
 THE SQUIRE'S TALE. $ 
 
 'Tis mine, more humble than the skilful tribe, 
 Truly to speak, but plainly to describe. 
 
 It chanced, since first Cambuscan bore the sway, 
 When twenty winters now had pass'd away, 
 (As was, I deem, his custom every year) 
 He caused, through Sarra's streets, in accent clear, 
 A feast to be proclaim'd, whose lawful mirth 
 Might fitly celebrate his day of birth , 
 The appointed time, the last of March's ides. 
 Sol now, his station changed, with Mars resides, 
 Mounted in Aries, from whose angry sign 
 His burning beams with stronger influence shine. 
 Changed by his warmth, the temperate gales impart 
 Forgotten rapture to the cheerless heart : 
 And as the verdant hues more vivid grow, 
 Or cloudless skies the coming season show, 
 With shrillest melody the quires of air, 
 On wing, the abundance of their joy declare. 
 As if protections they had now obtain'd, 
 Nor fear'd his tyranny, though winter reign'd. 
 
 Presiding at the feast, Cambuscan bore 
 His crown aloft, and royal vestments wore, 
 Seen through the hall, at its exalted part, 
 And graced a banquet, plann'd with matchless art.
 
 30 THE SQUIRE'S TALE, 
 
 Of which to tell the order and array, 
 It sure 'would occupy a summer's day. 
 Nor could it add to* my relation force, 
 To trace the plan of each succeeding course. 
 I to the narrative shall close adhere. 
 And so it chanced that while, the tables clear, 
 And, with its dainties, the third course removed, 
 The ravish'd king his minstrels* art approved, 
 In at the entrance was perceived to pass 
 A knight full sudden, on a steed of brass. 
 An ample mirror in his hand he held, 
 And on his finger was a ring beheld : 
 Unsheath'd beside him hung his shining sword, 
 Accoutred thus, he sought the royal board; 
 And, young and old in silence wondering, all, 
 Their eager eyes pursued him through the hall. 
 Full richly dress'd, this knight, unseen before, 
 All, save his bead, with armour cover'd o'er, 
 King, queen, and lords, in order due, salutes ; 
 And his expression so his subject suits, 
 That did old Gawain * come at our command, 
 And leave his residence in Fairy land, 
 
 ** Nephew of King Arthur, and esteemed a model of 
 knightly courtesy.
 
 THE SQUIRE'S TALE. 31 
 
 His courteous fancy could not mend a word. 
 Nor he, his preface o'er, his tale deferr'd ; 
 But with a manly voice, and faultless speech, 
 Observant of the rules professors teach, 
 To suit our action to our changing phrase, 
 Enforced the impressive thoughts a thousand ways, 
 I do not hope to imitate his art, 
 But the mere matter of the harangue to impart. 
 
 He said, " Both India's and Arabia's king, 
 " Whose gifts to you this solemn day I bring, 
 " Not unin^tructed 'tis your natal day, 
 " Sends me his tribute of respect to pay. 
 " On yo'u this brazen steed has he bestow'd, 
 " Which, with strange power, transports 'its living 
 
 " load, 
 
 " Where'er commanded, in a day and night, 
 " And safe through showers directs its rapid flight. 
 " He, a sure safeguard in the realms of air, 
 " Unharm'd will carry you through foul and fair : 
 " Or should you wish your airy course to change, 
 " And lofty regions, wing'd by eagles, range, 
 " Not less securely would you cleave the skies, 
 " (Though stealing sleep o'ercame your watchful 
 " eyes)
 
 j2 THE SQUIRE'S TALE. 
 
 " While, when you chose, and rightly moved a pin, 
 " Your journey back would, undelay'd, begin. 
 
 " This shining mirror, which my hand sustains, 
 " Gives the rare privilege, with little pains, 
 " To see, reflected by its surface true, 
 " Each ill impending o'er your state and you; 
 " Reveal'd to see your real friend and foe, 
 " Nor less in love the turns of fortune know. 
 " If some bright lady of your court has borne 
 " Its tender pains, her lover late forsworn, 
 " This will detect, howe'er conceal'd ft be, 
 " His fickle soul's dissembling subtlety. 
 
 " But that this mirror, and the mystic ring 
 " I bear, alike commission'd from the king, 
 c< Another mark of his regard, be kept, 
 " He prays that Canace will these accept, 
 
 " This ring interprets, with the truth of words, 
 " Each meaning latent in the tones of birds ; 
 '" And, to their sense enlarged, conveys again 
 " Adapted language from the mouths of men. 
 " Whether the hand wear this, or purse contain, 
 " To such as rankling wounds oppress with pain, 
 '-* It points what aid the stores of nature yield, 
 " And shews each useful simple of the field.
 
 THE SQUIRE'S TALE. 33 
 
 " This naked sword, that glitters at my side, 
 ** To all were dreadful who its powers defied, 
 r( And irresistibly would pierce its stroke 
 " Through mail, whose thickness match'd the 
 
 spreading oak. 
 
 " Vain all attempts to heal the wound it made, 
 " Till you shall o'er it gently draw the blade. 
 " While yet the gifts by you possess'd remain, 
 " Such various virtues shall they still retain." 
 
 Thus having spoke, the knight directs his steed 
 Back through the assembly, and alights with speed. 
 The steed, reflecting the refulgent beams, 
 Stands in the court, and without motion seems : 
 The knight is led to a refreshing meal, 
 Eased of the incumbrance of his coat of steel. ; 
 Pursuant to his will, what presents may 
 Are duly borne, and without toil, away : 
 The sword and mirror to a lofty tower; 
 To Canace her ring, of equal power: 
 She, sitting at the feast, receives the gift ; 
 But none may hope the brazen horse to lift. 
 No strength can, equal to the load, be found, 
 Nor crane, nor pulley, force it from the ground. 
 They wait, as they must needs, the knight's return, 
 From him the secret, you shall hear, to learn.
 
 34 tfi SQUIRE'S TALE* 
 
 Now mighty throngs, attracted by report, 
 To see the wondrous beast o'erspread the court, 
 Intently gazing, and discoursing much ; 
 Such is his size, and his proportions such ! 
 So well his height is suited to his length ! , 
 He seems with nags of Lombardy in strength 
 To vie, in briskness with the Apulian breed. 
 For 'tis, by each spectator near, agreed, 
 Nor art, nor nature can increase its store 
 Of excellence, nor add one beauty more. 
 But their conceptions far it did surpass 
 How it could move, and yet be made of brass. 
 That 'twas a fairy work to some it seem'd ; 
 But different some its origin esteem'd. 
 The notions, bandied in discourse by these, 
 Sounded like murmurs from a swarm of bees. 
 They love the tales they read of to rehearse, 
 And talk of Pegasus, described, in verse, 
 Like him to spurn the ground, and cleave the air : 
 
 Or 'twas the horse of Sinon, they declare, 
 
 * t 
 
 By wicked demons to this day preserved, 
 
 To make them feel the fortune Troy deserved. 
 Some on the wondrous things their comments 
 
 made, 
 Shewn^by that mirror, to the tower convey'd,
 
 THE SQUIRE'S TAL*. 35- 
 
 Surmising, all its virtue was derived 
 
 From angles and reflections well contrived. 
 
 Some speak their wonder of that sword, at large, 
 
 Which arm'd the champion for so fierce a charge. 
 
 They call to mind the memorable gash 
 
 Of royal Telephus, and spear of ash, 
 
 His foe Achilles hurl'd ; though when its rust 
 
 Was scraped, it heal'd him with the scatter'd dust* 
 
 The nature of the weapons seem'd allied. 
 
 Now dwelt their thoughts on every method tried 
 
 To temper steel, and harden best its edge; 
 
 The time and art that its success would pledge* 
 
 These are unknown, be it confess'd, to me. 
 
 They notice next the ring of Canace ; 
 
 Framed by such new, inexplicable art. 
 
 Thus talk the gather'd crowds, ere they depart. 
 
 'Tis yet agreed on, by another class, 
 Our skill produced, from simple ashes, glass; 
 But glass and ashes were unlike, in all; 
 Hence rash surmise might into error fall. 
 For, till the cause of floods we can explore, 
 Of tides alternate, or the ocean's roar, 
 Or nature's works, in gossamer and mist, 
 Much on its strangeness do we still insist.
 
 6 THE SQUIRE'S TALE. 
 
 /x 
 
 Thus they indulged in various talk, nor ceasecf> 
 Till the king, rising, left the finish'd feast. 
 The sun his rapid course had downward bent, 
 The royal lion noticed in ascent, 
 When brave Cambuscan, from the exalted place 
 Where stood his table, moved, with stately pace, 
 Descending to the pavement, from its floor; 
 Whence, through the hall, the minstrels march'd 
 
 before. 
 
 Thus to his presence-room the guests retire, 
 While music speaks the full-resounding quire. 
 Unnumber'd instruments their powers unite, 
 And with the raptures of the bless'd delight. 
 
 Now gladdest summons to the dance obeys 
 Each votary gay of Venus, who surveys, 
 On high from Pisces*, her congenial sign, 
 Courtiers and dames, the adorers of her shrine. 
 With beating breasts the signal they await. 
 The king o'erlooks them from his chair of state, 
 There, as he sits to view the sprightly ball, 
 The knight's returning steps his thought recall. 
 
 * In the old astrology, Venus was supposed to exert 
 its strongest influence in this sign of the zodiac.
 
 THE SQUIRE'S TALE. 37 
 
 He bows, approaching, and exults to see 
 His partner doom'd the beauteous Canace. 
 The faint resemblance of the mirth to catch 
 In those who saw not, ere they traced the sketch, 
 Powers of uncommon excellence would ask, 
 And youth or love must prompt them in the task. 
 Who could describe the dance's varying form, 
 Or grace unequall'd, though with rapture warm? 
 Who the coquette's dissembled look askance, 
 Lest kindling jealousy should blame the glance? 
 Launcelot * alone possess'd a suited store 
 Of language apt, and he is now no more. 
 While yet the dance detains, the steward's voice 
 Hastens supplies of wine and spices choice. 
 The squires and ushers his injunctions hear, 
 And straight the spices and the wine appear. 
 Lest, by fatigue o'ercome, their spirits sink, 
 The wish'd refreshment brought, they eat and drink. 
 Then, in the house of prayer their duty done, 
 They sup, illumin'd by the rising sun. 
 At a king's banquet, plenty, well they know 
 The portion is of all, both high and low. 
 
 * An eminent knight of the round table, possessing all 
 the accomplishments of a courtier and man of gallantry. 
 
 D
 
 g8 tHE SQUIRE'S 
 
 This it was now, with excellence of fare 
 Much beyond all I can imagine rare. 
 
 The supper o'er, the noble king goes out 
 To view the steed, and a resplendent rout, 
 Ladies and lords, whom courtly forms oblige; 
 Nor, since old Ilium's memorable siege, 
 Had any horse such general wonder caused, 
 Nor- less discourse, in praise of any, paused. 
 The king implores the knight, when they arrive, 
 The theme, with more precision, to revive 
 Of those rare qualities the beast display'd, 
 And laws, in rest or motion, it obey'd. 
 
 'Twas then the horse alertly, o'er the ground, 
 Touch'd by the knight, began to skip and bound. 
 Who said, " This only will suffice, dread sire, 
 " Whate'er the adventurous journey you desire, 
 " That in his ear a secret pin you turn, 
 " Which from my mouth you shall in private learn ; 
 " And, this perform'd, the country's name declare, 
 " 'Tis then you wish to visit through the air. 
 
 " Nor needs a safe return invention wrack ; 
 " Another pin, so moved, will bear you back , 
 " And wheresoe'er the ponderous beast alight, 
 " Fix'd 'twill remain, in strength's ahdart's despite.
 
 SQUIRES TALfi. 39 
 
 * r Should you command it, and this pin be stirr'd, 
 
 tf Twill vanish straight, obedient to a word, 
 
 " And at a word return, if those they he 
 
 " Which you shall instantly be taught by me* 
 
 " And trust, none else, his journey long or short,' 
 
 " Will boast conveyance of a readier sort/' 
 
 When from the knight the king enough had 
 
 gain'd 
 
 Of wish'd instruction, and no doubt remain'd, 
 With joyful heart, and of his present proud, 
 He sought, expected, the carousing crowd. 
 The bridle straight is. in the tower inclosed, 
 Where jewel heaps of costliest kind reposed; 
 But the horse vanishes ^1 know not how, 
 Nor shall I dare describe ; but suffer now 
 The revel's rnirth the enliven'd guests to absorb, 
 Till the sky blush with day's returning orb. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 COMPOSING sleep, digestion's healthful nurse, 
 Winks on the band, and warning, lest, averse 
 From her dull presence, they her aid dismiss, 
 Salutes them, yawning, with a sluggard's kiss. 
 D 2
 
 40 THE SQUIRE'S TAL. 
 
 The o'erheated blood, they hear the power sug- 
 gest, 
 
 Asks instant care, and calming hours of rest. 
 Thankful they hear, and one by one with- 
 drawn, 
 
 Confess her prudence in a drowsy yawn; 
 Her salutary call convenient judge, 
 Nor, when unsafe, the dregs of pleasure grudge. 
 
 The floating fancies of repletion's brain 
 To tell at large, were simple as 'tis vain; 
 Dreams uninspired, of light effect and cause. 
 Each from late sleep prolong'd refreshment draws; 
 But not fair Canace: ere this at eve, 
 She of her father took her custom'd leave, 
 Unwilling, as becomes the modest fair, 
 Pale dissipation's harass'd looks to wear. 
 Early she rose, no morning slumber sought, 
 For the loved presents still engaged her thought, 
 The wondrous ring, and mirror deem'd so strange. 
 Oft did her cheek with blushing rapture change, 
 Nor even in sleep, from pleasing care exempt, 
 The fair one only of her mirror dreamt. 
 Hence, ere the sun was high, till waking heard 
 The matrons, to her service proud preferr'd,
 
 THE SQUIRE'S TALE. 4.1 
 
 She call'd: obedient they attend, but say, 
 
 None yet is stirring, and 'tis hardly day. 
 
 " Weaned with sleep, 'tis my desire," she cries, 
 
 " Straight to walk forth, and instant I would rise." 
 
 With busy thought, assured of her resolve, 
 
 How best to do her pleasure they revolve. 
 
 The train are trooping at her call survey'd; 
 
 Nor later shines, attired, the royal maid 
 
 Like the bright sun that, free from clouds, displays 
 
 As now, in Aries, more refulgent rays. 
 
 Thin vapours only o'er its surface spread, 
 
 To sense enlarged, a ruddy light it shed, 
 
 When she, in habit for the season fit, 
 
 Few of her train, prepared the house to quit. 
 
 Along the shady park her way she took, 
 
 Fill'd now with joy, where'er she chanced to look, 
 
 By every charm that graced the gaudy spring; 
 
 Now struck with wonder at the magic ring, 
 
 By which to her the sylvan quire express'd 
 
 Their inmost thoughts, yet only sooth'd the rest. 
 
 To shun the likeness of a style prolix, 
 And with no story vain digression mix, 
 Will profit him who undertakes to rule 
 The passions, less obedient when they cool.
 
 42 THE SQUIRE'S TALE. 
 
 Lest in my tale description I should waste 
 On wearied spirits, to its end I haste. 
 
 High on a tree, beside whose root the sod, 
 With sportive joy, the beauteous princess trod, 
 A falcon perching sent a plaintive sound, 
 That pierced afar the shadowy region round. 
 With either wing it smote its breast, that bore 
 The vestige of its beak, in gushing gore. 
 By nature's laws had tears distressful flow'd 
 From eyes of brutes, that inborn feeling shew'd, 
 No furious tiger had the sight withstood, 
 Nor any ruthless rover of the wood. 
 For to the man who best the merit knew 
 Of falcons, praise had never, seem'd so duej 
 Nor thus could any shape or plumage boast, 
 It seem'd some present from a distant coast. 
 So fast the blood distill'd from every wound, 
 This falcon nearly with its loss had swoon'd, 
 And tottering, as it clung, with feeble feet, 
 Scarce on the branch maintain'd its lofty seat. 
 The king's fair daughter, Canace, who brought 
 Not only means to explain her secret thought, 
 But power sufficient, in the ring she bare, 
 To hold discourse with every bird of air,
 
 THE SQUIRE'S TALE. 43 
 
 The meaning of its mournful accents knew, 
 And, wkh a look of pity, nearer drew. 
 Below the tree she stretch'd her pendent skirt 
 To save in such a fall its limbs from hurt, 
 When next it fainted, (which might soon arrive, 
 The falcon scarce, with loss of blood, alive), 
 There long she stood expecting ; but express'd 
 At last the sympathy that sway'd her breast. 
 " What is the cause, instruct me," said the fair, 
 " Why you these unexamojpd sufferings bear, 
 " Thrilling each ear with piteous plaints the while? 
 " Is it some favourite's death, or lover's guile ? 
 " For of all ills, to feeling breasts, the chief 
 " Are these, and sources of the bitterest grief. 
 " No other tale, I know, have you to tell, 
 " Who, your own passion's victim, prove full well 
 " That selfish terror wakes not your regret, 
 " Nor have I seen a foe your safety threat. 
 " Shew to yourself some pity, I implore ; 
 ".Else whither will this tend? for ne'er before 
 " One instance have I view'd, with troubled thought, 
 " Of bird or beast that thus its sorrow sought. 
 " My heart these symptoms of misfortune wring. 
 " Ah! leave yon bough, and truly, as I spring
 
 44 THE SQUIRE'S TALE. 
 
 " From royal parents, if the power be mine, 
 
 "" And the sad cause appear why you repine, 
 
 " Ere night the ill its remedy shall find ; 
 
 " (So help me, heaven, as I have this in mind !) 
 
 " And I, that pain no longer may disturb, 
 
 " Will to your wounds apply each healing herb.*' 
 
 Then, in the saddest accent, since her birth, 
 The unhappy falcon shriek'd, and fell to earth. 
 She seem'd, as senseless as a stone, to fall ; 
 When, bent life's wonted functions to recall, 
 The beauteous princess, pitying her mishap, 
 Transferr'd the mourner to her friendly lap. 
 There laid, and cherish 'd, from her trance she 
 
 woke, 
 And in the mother tongue of falcons spoke. 
 
 " That tender hearts are best prepared to know, 
 <c From their own pain, the extent of others 
 
 " woe, 
 
 " Both by the opinions which the wise maintain, 
 " And wide example's daily proof, is plain. 
 " All gentleness from gentle hearts proceeds ; 
 " And yours, I see, for my affliction bleeds, 
 " Enchanting Canace, and ills which vex 
 " Feels with the promptness of your softer sex.
 
 THE SQUIRES TALE. 45 
 
 ** 'Tis not my hope your proffer'd aid to earn, 
 *' But wish that you, what you inquire, may learn, 
 " And in my sad experience be supplied, 
 * f A useful lesson, and a certain guide." 
 
 While one thus speaks her grief, the other hears 
 Oppress'd with thought, and deluged with her tears. 
 At length the falcon bade the princess pause, 
 And, sighing, thus declared her sorrow's cause. 
 
 " Here was I bred (the recollection shocks) 
 " And our nest poised on yonder ridgy rocks. 
 " Each tender treatment which the unfledged re- 
 
 " ccive, 
 
 " I had, and knew not what it was to grieve, 
 " Till first abroad I dared direct my flight : 
 * c There a young hawk attracted soon my sight. 
 c< All mildness, as I fancied, he appear'd, 
 " Nor thoughtless love his treacherous falseness 
 
 " fear'd : 
 
 " So did he wear humility's disguise! 
 " Such shew of truth, such fondness met my eyes, 
 " So freely youth's gay pleasure he enjoy'd, 
 " So lively was his grief, when ills annoy 'd, 
 " None dream'd deceit had in his actions part; 
 " But what seem'd greater worth, was deeper art.
 
 46 , THE SQUIRE'S TALE. 
 
 " Even as a snake his form in flowers conceals, 
 
 " Till he who passes, late his risk reveals; 
 
 " Even so this bird, in tenderness a dove, 
 
 " Feign'd soft obedience, and attentive love, 
 
 " And lavish of professions soon bslieved, 
 
 " This artless breast, in luckless hour deceived. 
 
 " As on some tomb rich sculpture we survey, 
 
 cc But putrid lurks below the unsightly clay ; 
 
 " Such was the hawk, and thus his purpose screen'd, 
 
 <c That none could search it, save the inspiring 
 
 " fiend, 
 
 " And he so press'd a suit, the task of years, 
 " With kind upbraidings, and with treacherous tears, 
 " That my poor heart, which well he knew to move, 
 " Lest love so violent his death should prove, 
 <c Granted whatever, protesting truth, he craved, 
 " And only from the wretch my honour saved; 
 " This point agreed, our union's single bond, 
 " His should I be, as he was truly fond, 
 " His should each thought, within my bosom hid, 
 " Each claim of lawless gallantry forbid. 
 " Heaven knows this promise I required as just ; 
 " But leagues, with treacherous falsehood, who can 
 
 "trust?
 
 THE SQUIRE'S TALE. 47 
 
 v Soon as the tiger-hearted suitor found 
 " Love Had his wishes, unresisting, crown'd, 
 
 T 
 
 " Our vows exchanged, a master in deceit, 
 
 " He fell, with seeming reverence, at my feet. 
 
 " With gentle manner, and with soft address, 
 
 t( Much joy pretending at his new success, 
 
 " In art even Jason, fortunate beheld 
 
 " Through love, and Trojan Paris he excell'd. 
 
 f< Nor, since two wives to Lamech link'd, began 
 
 " First to display the roving bent of man, 
 
 " Nor even since him, the father of mankind, 
 
 " Such depth of guile could observation find. 
 
 *' Rank'd by their art, beneath him those of old 
 
 " Deserved not menial offices to hold. 
 
 " None cduld with thanks so winningly requite. 
 
 " To mark his manner was a heavenly sight ; 
 
 " And none more shew'd, of all the race of birds, 
 
 " How graceful gesture dignifies our words. 
 
 "If full of truth he seem'd, his merit such, 
 
 " The thought unjustly would be deem'd too much, 
 
 " I to his interest spared, with wakeful zeal, 
 
 " Used, like my own, his slightest woes to feel. 
 
 -" In all, his honour'd will to mine gave law, 
 
 " Save- where obstructed I my duty saw.
 
 48 THE SQUIRE'S TALE. 
 
 " The worth that makes obedience sweet had he : 
 " Not power itself possess'd such charms for me. 
 
 " Two years and more this heavenly dream en- 
 
 " dured, 
 
 " And of his fondness I was well assured ; 
 " But fortune had resolved that he, at last, 
 " Should leave the scene of our enjoyment pass'd. 
 tc To tell my sorrow were superfluous pain, 
 " And all my power in such a labour vain ; 
 " But this I can affirm (nor waste my breath), 
 " Now do I know what are the pangs of death. 
 
 " He took his leave one inauspicious morn, 
 " Seeming constraint, in accent so forlorn, 
 " That when I hear'd him speak, in plaintive tone, 
 " I thought his grief as poignant as my own. 
 " Yet, such had seem'd his truth, I fear'd no 
 
 " more, 
 
 " Nor dreamt of harm, his urgent business o'er. 
 " Till 'twas dispatch d, enduring what must be, 
 " I made a virtue of necessity. 
 " My grief, dissembling, though by him unshared, 
 <f Near him I stood, and, solemnly declared, 
 " By holy John, as to our tie was due, 
 " My future life should, as my past, be true.
 
 THE SQUIRES TALE, 49 
 
 " I need not, what he answer'd, here rehearse : 
 " None better speaks than he, and none acts 
 
 " worse. 
 
 " At length he bent his flight to distant fields. 
 " When rest full leisure to reflection yields, 
 " This dangerous adage ruled, I deem, his mind, 
 " ' All are on earth attracted to their kind.' 
 " Perhaps 'tis noticed by the race of man ; 
 " And change and novelty no less its plan. 
 xc For birds in cages sumptuously are fed, 
 " Their floor below with softest covering spread ; 
 " And. servants store, as waiting on their lorci, 
 <f Of honey, sugar, milk, and bread, accord ; 
 " But, when the unfasten'd slider is drawn up, 
 " The joyous prisoner spurns his brimming cup ; 
 " Swift to the woods escapes, in folly firm ; 
 " And dainties leaves, contented with a worm. 
 " No sense of interest, and no sacred tie t 
 " Can with variety's allurement vie. 
 " Such proved my faithless mate, accursed the day ! 
 " Though sprung from generous sires, and young, 
 
 " and gay, 
 
 " Comely in person, humble, yet not shy. 
 " He saw a kite, of winning figure fly ;
 
 SQUIRES TAL, 
 
 " He saw and loved ! and with relentless haste 1 , 
 " His falcon's image from his mind effaced. 
 " His love now honours the detested kite, 
 " And I in vain deplore my ravish'd right." 
 
 Fast, as she ended, from the falcon flow'd 
 Her tears : she fell again, a senseless load. 
 Whom, in her lap, fair Canace receives. 
 The train attendant, with the princess grieves, 
 Prompt each attention to the oppressed to shew, 
 And shrill resounds the voice of female woe. 
 Homeward they bear the falcon, faint and weak, 
 And -bind the wounds inflicted by her beak. 
 
 .The princess herbs from fields adjoining bears, 
 And salves, the pride of housewifery, prepares, 
 To heal her bird, and, form'd with care its shed, 
 Suspends it anxious at her couch's head : 
 *Tis painted all within of sober blue, 
 Unchanging constancy's peculiar hue ; 
 But green denotes a fickle bent without, 
 Where every bird y whose faith is held in doubt, 
 Titmice, and hawks, and owls, appear to stand, 
 And the pie hops, with ceaseless noise, at hand. 
 Her presence, still importunate observed, 
 Like chattering censure, shew'd what they deserved.
 
 THE SQUIRES TALE. 5! 
 
 Here will I leave the falcon, day and night 
 Tended with care by her protectress bright ; 
 Nor more describe the wonders of the ring, 
 Till I may show the reconcilement spring 
 From good Camballo's offices benign, 
 And the wild hawk his lawless- love resign. 
 
 Now I proceed to speak of battles dread, 
 Where, fired with glory, valiant Tartars bled ; 
 And strange adventures, filling with amaze, 
 Of fame, unequall'd in all former days. 
 
 First will I tell you of Cambuscan brave, 
 To whom proud conquest many a city gave ; 
 Next him, who Theodora had to wife, 
 In battle won, the valiant Algarsife, 
 Condemn'd through danger to delight to pass, 
 And only rescued by his horse of brass ; 
 Then will I tell you with what champion fought 
 The adventurous brothers, who the princess sought, 
 The beauteous Canace ; thus hard to win : 
 And still, where I left off, will next begin.
 
 P E R S I I 
 
 SAT. VI. 
 
 ADMOVIT jam bruma foco te, Basse, Sabino ? 
 Jamne lyra, et tetrico vivunt tibi pectine chordae ? 
 Mire opifex numeris veterum primordia vocum, 
 Atque marem strepitum fidis intendisse Latinse, 
 Mox juvenes agitare jocos, et pollice honesto 
 Egregios lusisse senes. mihi nunc Ligusora. 
 Intepet, hybernatque meum mare, qua latus ingens 
 Dant scopuli et muha littus se valle receptat. 
 ** Lunai portum est operx cognoscere, cives.' r 
 Cor jubet hoc Enni, postquam destertuit esse 
 Maeonides Quintus pavone ex Pythagoreo. 
 Hie ego securus vulgi ; et quid praeparet Auster
 
 PERSIUS, 
 
 SIXTH SATIRE, 
 
 IMITATED. 
 
 TO THE REV. MR. MASON. 
 
 ARE Aston's hearths yet summon'd to supply 
 The needful heat autumnal days deny ? 
 O skill'd to draw from British harps anew 
 Those martial sounds that fear of death subdue, 
 Or soothing, shew the sufferings love can cause, 
 The grief of shepherds, and the garden's laws ; 
 With storms already, Mason, rings my shed, 
 And sullen fogs o'er Thames's banks are spread, 
 O'er the proud castle, and the forest shade, 
 " By godlike poets venerable made." * 
 For so the bard in whom we all admire, 
 And own, transfused, the mighty Homer's fire. 
 Careless of critic tongues, I shape the soil 
 With changeful fancy, and uncertain toil ; 
 
 * Windsor Forest, ver. 270. 
 E
 
 54 PERSIUS, SAT. 
 
 Infelix pecori ; securus et angulus ille 
 Vicini nostro quia pinguior; et si adeo omnes 
 Ditescant orti pejoribus : usque recusem 
 Curvus ob id minui senio, aut ccenare sine uncto, 
 Et signum in vapida naso tetigisse lagena". 
 Discrepet his alius. geminos, horoscope, varo 
 Producis genio. solis natalibus est qui 
 Tingat olus siccum muri vafer in calice empta, 
 Ipse sacrum irrorans patinae piper, hie bona dente 
 Grandia rriagnanimus peragit puer. utar ego, utar : 
 Nee rhombos ideo libertis ponere lautus, 
 Nee tenuem solers turdarum nosse salivam.
 
 IMITATED. 55 
 
 Careless 1 hear the rai'ny winds resound, 
 Or wait their influence on my flocks around. 
 And if the trite complaint, that upstarts proud 
 Rise o'er our heads, and every parish crowd, 
 Assail me, littk it disturbs that I, 
 Fallen from a sire's and grandsire's dignity, 
 Equal those older ancestors alone, 
 Whose guiltless eminence the shire will own. 
 Must I, for this, grow gray before my hour, 
 Or hail with rapture compound interest's power; 
 Hoard at the expence of comfort, meanly dine, 
 And drink the cheapest, and the worst, of wine ? 
 But turns are different : of two twins, the one 
 Will, save on feast days, all indulgence shun, 
 Then, for himself, he cooks his treat of sauce, 
 And follows custom with the lightest loss : 
 The other, gallant spirit, heaps his board 
 
 (With meats the richest only can afford. 
 But, if I would not, angry that they shine, 
 Toil lest their wealth be reckon'd more than mine, 
 So neither would I rival their expence. 
 Scarce 'twere in me a bearable pretence 
 With turtles fresh my servants' hall to cheer, 
 Or use my taste to every dish that's dear. 
 
 2
 
 Ij6 FERSIUS, SAT. VI. 
 
 Messe tenus proprii vive : et granaria (fas est) 
 Emole. quid metuas? occa. et seges altera in 
 
 herba" est. 
 
 Ast vocat officium. trabe rupta, Bruttia saxa 
 Prendit amicus inops : remque omnem, surdstque 
 
 vota 
 
 Condidit : lonio jacet ipse in littore, et una 
 Ingentes de puppe Dei : jamque obvia mergis 
 Costa ratis lacerae. nunc et de cespite vivo 
 Frange aliquid : largire inopi, ne pictus oberret 
 Caerulea in tabula. n Sed coenam funeris haeres 
 " Negliget iratus, quod rem curtaveris : urnae 
 " Ossa inodora dabit ; seu spirent cinnama surdum, 
 " Seu ceraso peccent casiae, nescire paratus. 
 " Tune bona incolumis minuas ?" sed Bestius urget 
 Doctores Graios : ita fit, postquam sapere urbi 
 Cum pipere et palmis, venit nostrum hoc maris 
 
 expers, 
 
 Foenisecae crasso vitiarunt unguine pultes. 
 Hzc cinere ulterior metuas ? at tu meus haeres,
 
 IMITATED.^' 57 
 
 Our bounds are clearly traced : our incomes shew 
 
 How far the wants of moderation go. 
 
 Empty your barns ; next year they will be stored. 
 
 Perhaps, 'tis duty warns, our aid implored. 
 
 Some friend a gainful voyage hopes, till, mark ! 
 
 Blown on the rocks of Scilly, splits his bark : 
 
 His all is lost, and to the distant eye 
 
 The shiver'd wreck, emerging, points on high, 
 
 AVherc sea-gulls haunt, amid the ocean's roar : 
 
 He gains with labour Cornwall's dreary shore. 
 
 That he may save some portion of renown, 
 
 Nor bear a mean petition through the town, 
 
 " Can we not sell ?" Cries one, " with acres part! 
 
 " I know whose heir would take it much to heart. 
 
 " Scarce would his funeral decently pass off: 
 
 " At promised pomp the nettled squire would scoff. 
 
 " What! with impunity the estate impair!'' 
 
 JBut philosophic Gray would little care, 
 
 And, by the forty sages unperplex'd, 
 
 Hold, such degenerate wants our nation vex'd 
 
 Since they taught wisdom, who long taught to dance, 
 
 And to ape Reason, was a mode from France. 
 
 Then let us fearless look beyond the grave. 
 
 But you, strange heir, a word with you I crave.
 
 58 FERSIUS, SAT, 
 
 Quisquis eris, paulum a tnrba seductior, audi. 
 O bone, num ignoras ? missa est a Caesare .laurqs 
 Insignem ob cladem Germanae pubis, et aris 
 Frigidus excutitur cinis : ac jam postibus arma, 
 Jam chlamydas regum jam lutea gausapa captis, 
 Essedaque ingentesque local Caesonia Rhenos. 
 Dis igitur, Genioque duels centum paria, ob res 
 Egregie gestas, induco : quis vetat ? aude.
 
 IMITATED. 5Q 
 
 Suppose you claim, as mine, this mansion fair 
 Past to heirs general^ or the Lord knows where, 
 I now would whisper. In the glorious cause 
 Of Gallic freedom, and of Nature's laws 
 A junto firm, who well their lords obey, 
 Write of their sure successes from Vendee : 
 The prompt Convention every line repeat. 
 Now sans-culottes in Reason's temple meet. 
 Gay civic feasts with patriot kisses join ; 
 For soon we read of triumphs on the Rhine. 
 Of these the stage takes charge, and, o'er the scene, 
 Ennobled generals stir the people's spleen. 
 Rank's ermined train in all their pride advance, 
 And sovereigns arm'd the warlike pomp enhance. 
 But what are such when Liberty's alarm 
 Swells her loud voice, and lifts her thundering arm ? 
 She proves her sons, as on this festal night, 
 Brightest in virtue, boldest in the fight. 
 Can any doubt of Gallic freedom's bliss ? 
 But, not to keep you, what I mean is this. 
 Whoe'er, of oratoric powers, command 
 The applause, in clubs, of the reforming band, 
 Since the millenium seems no more remote, 
 Shall, on my banker, have a general note
 
 6O PERSIUS, SAT. VI. 
 
 Vae, nisi connives, oleum artrocreasque popello 
 Largior ; an prohibes i* die clare. " Non adeo," 
 
 inquis : 
 
 " Exossatus ager juxta est." Age, si mihi nulla 
 Jam reliqua ex amitis, patruelis nulla, proneptis 
 Nulla manet : patrui sterilis matertera vixit, 
 Deque avia nihilum superest : accedo Bovillas 
 Clivumque ad Virbi. praesto est mihi Manius haeres. 
 Progenies terrae ? quaere ex me, quis mihi quartus 
 Sit pater, baud prompte, dicam tamen. adde etiam 
 
 unum, 
 Unum etiam : terrae est jam films : et mihi ritu
 
 IMITATED. 6l 
 
 I mean the needy. Heavens ! how pale that face ! 
 Nay, storm not ; I can fancy a worse case. 
 Suppose I add the libellers to these. 
 " Good sir," you say " reflect sir, if you please, 
 " Should you reduce me to your country seat, 
 " Gravel, I own, is healthy, clean, and neat, 
 " Yet too much there, for such demands prevails ; 
 " Which ask a fertile mould that never fails." 
 Though now it seem some pretext claims respect, 
 'Tis plain, whate'er I do, you will object. 
 Know then, had you and friends no legal right, 
 'Twould be my anxious business, day and night, 
 To use my power, and a successor find, 
 As prudence, or perhaps caprice, inclined. 
 That will I now; nor need 1 travel long 
 Ere shine some open aspect in the throng : 
 Some petty freehold's lord shall boast a name 
 From royal licence, and be raised to fame. 
 How superciliously you note his birth! 
 But we are all inhabitants of earth. 
 Lo&k on our pedigree ; how short appears 
 That string of ancestors your pride reveres, 
 And knew we more, I possibly might see 
 This honest yeoman is allied to me.
 
 62 fIRSIUS, SAT. VI. 
 
 Manius hie generis prope major avunculus exit. 
 Qui prior es, cur me in decursu lampada poscis? 
 Sum tibi Mercuriqs : venio Deus hue ego, ut ille 
 Pingitur ;. en renuis ? vin' tu gaudere relictis ? 
 Deest aliquid summae: minui mihi: sed tibi totumest, 
 Quicquid id est. ubi sit tuge quaerere, quod mihi 
 
 quondam 
 
 Legarat Tadius : neu dicta repone paterna ; 
 Faenoris accedat merces; hinc exime sumptus. 
 Quid reliquum est? reliquum? nunc, nunc, impen- 
 
 sius unge, 
 
 Unge, puer, caules. mihi festa luce coquatur 
 Urtica, et fissa fumosum sinciput aure, 
 Ut tuus iste nepos olim, satur anseris extis, 
 Patriciae immeiat vulvas ? mihi trama figurae 
 Sit reliqua*: ast illi tremat omento popa venter ?
 
 IMITATED. 63 
 
 Cousins of every kind I next should trace 
 
 To Adam, father of the human race. 
 
 Our tie, you hold, is no conjecture vague : 
 
 Then why more plague me than even strangers 
 
 plague ? 
 
 By me, at least, you cannot fear to lose: 
 Take as you find me, or your chance refuse. 
 The fortune I received, though render'd less, 
 You, by the laws of England, will possess: 
 And do you ask, how much I mean to save 
 Of what a father, in his goodness, gave ? 
 Preach you retrenchment, in old-fashion'd strain, 
 And hope my capital may whole remain ? 
 But avarice works again : you sum the amount. 
 Presumptuous wretch! I'll settle this account. 
 Haste ye, my servants, to the city fly ; 
 Nor heed the price, but every dainty buy. 
 Bear round my cards; for I am wiser grown 
 At length: I will, I will enjoy my own. 
 Shall I abstain, that this low wretch, grown nice, 
 May seek the palm of fashionable vice? 
 May win new glory from successful bets, 
 Jn favours paid some noble beauty's debts? 
 Like a pale ghost, shall I appear; but he 
 Owe bloated looks to what he gains from me?
 
 64 PERSIUS, SAT. VI, 
 
 " Vende animam lucro: mercare; atq; excutc 
 
 solers 
 
 c< Omne latus mundi, ne sit praestantior alter 
 " Cappadocas rigida pingues plausisse catasta. 
 " Rem duplica." Feci ; jam triplex, jam mihi 
 
 quarto, 
 
 Jam decies redit in rugam. depunge, ubi sistam, 
 Inventus, Chrysippe, tui finitor.acervi.
 
 IMITATED. 65 
 
 " Consult our interest," would he whisper still. 
 
 " Go, sue for places you're unfit to fill. 
 
 " For these by turns give fiercest foes support. 
 
 " Beset the minister, and ply the court, 
 
 " Scorn'd while you cringe j and wean'dfrom power 
 
 " your heart, 
 
 " Lose independence, its far nobler part.'* 
 What must I? 'tis resolved; no more I blame. 
 You have me, humble, as befits, and tame. 
 One annual thousand, with all profits clear, 
 Ushers the thriving pensioner's career. 
 Now four are added. When content you'll tell. 
 Behold six more, and own 'twas managed well. 
 Still silent? now six more my arts obtain. 
 Not yet enough! To slave for you is vain. 
 Who to the limits of desires could reach, 
 Lax, as the logic of a patriot's speech?
 
 [66] 
 
 ODE 
 
 WRITTEN AT THE GERMAN SPAi 
 1782. 
 
 ELYS i AN scenes, that now, once more,' 
 Ere six revolving years are o'er, 
 
 Allure my voluntary feet 
 To trace the paths, thick branches shade, 
 Or near the rill, or in the glade, 
 Their pleasing toil repeat ; 
 
 I come not, tortured by disease, 
 To seek the boon of healthful ease; 
 
 At pitying Nature's bounteous hand ; 
 Nor, where yon crystal fount distils, 
 With real, or with imaged ills, 
 To join the eager band. 
 
 Grateful for blessings own'd, yet now, 
 O let me, on this shrubby brow, 
 Unnoted by the mirthful throng,
 
 ODES. 67 
 
 Pour, as the favouring Muse's fire, 
 And heaven's beneficence, inspire, 
 My solitary song. 
 
 Hygeia here perfumes the gales, 
 And o'er the labourer's pains prevails; 
 Here Science may her votary save, 
 Or Europe's statesmen life imbibe, 
 And lands their destiny ascribe 
 To the salubrious wave. 
 
 Yet, not to outward cures confined, 
 The body from the kindred mind 
 
 Full oft has borrow'd a resource; 
 And Fancy oft, successful, tries 
 The sweet enchantment of Surprise, 
 To instil returning force. 
 
 For not in vain such glories, sure, 
 
 Those towering oaks, these glooms obscure, 
 
 And mountains thus abrupt, are given, 
 Whose sides, with mossy cloathing brown, 
 The shatter'd torrent thunders down, 
 By Oreads headlong driven,
 
 68 ODES* 
 
 Discovering now its progress hoar ; 
 Now deadening behind rocks its roar ; 
 And now that, born, a silent stream, 
 Along the fertile valley, strays, 
 And clear o'er pebbles rolls its maze, 
 That trembles to the beam. 
 
 The beauties of the varied view, 
 
 * 
 
 The whispering air, the heaven's hue, 
 
 Of power to remedy may prove ; 
 The timid cuckow's distant call, 
 And, through each swell, and melting fail, 
 The music of the grove. 
 
 Each note is of a charm possess'd, 
 May sooth some rankling care to rest, 
 
 Or pleasure new, to heal, impart ; 
 On all the foliage magic hangs ; 
 And warbling brooks to bitter pangs 
 Apply their lenient art. 
 
 Far as the exalted eye beholds, 
 The Genius of the forest folds 
 
 With smiles, around, his verdant robe ;
 
 ODES. 69 
 
 And marshes dank, and wilds untrod, 
 Rejoicing, feel the present God 
 Re-animate the globe. 
 
 A tract, that, under Winter's sway, 
 Through all the dark, tempestuous day, 
 Fierce wolves astonish as they howl ; 
 Now leave, and into caverns go, 
 When whistling winds have ceased to blow, 
 And skies no longer scowl ! 
 
 Even while I sing, the entrancing sight 
 Casts o'er my soul a sudden light ; 
 
 The vital currents freer glide ; 
 And every damp oppression leaves 
 My bounding heart, that, glad, receives, 
 And sends, the genial tide : 
 
 Unwonted strength my members own ; 
 Languor recedes, and Toil is flown, 
 
 As round my raptured gaze I bear, 
 And see, beneath the sky serene, 
 Its fullest flowers and richest Green * 
 The Summer landscape wear. 
 
 * gay Green, 
 
 Thou smiling Nature's universal robe. THOMS. Spring. 
 
 F
 
 [70] 
 
 ODE 
 
 ' / i 
 
 TO H V- , ESQ. ON HIS EXPLOITS 
 
 AT ALGIERS. 
 
 Non hxcjocosa conveniunt lyrx. 
 
 V the adapted chords to explore 
 
 I hasten, pleased ; and yield applause, 
 Just to the worth that graces more 
 
 A noble cause : 
 
 Thy worth, that taught the lawless crew 
 
 What power may pass the midway flood : 
 What England's dreaded arms may do, 
 
 And gallant blood. 
 
 On the rich coasts Columbus show'd, 
 
 A V reap'd victorious praise ; 
 
 A V Lybia's squadrons strow'd 
 ' * - In later days.
 
 ODES. 71 
 
 Echoing sublimely through the air, 
 
 Those deeds may loftier bards inspire, 
 Nor doom to warlike themes, though fair, 
 
 The Lesbian lyre. 
 
 Rather be mine to trace aright 
 
 Thy hail'd return, than issuing course ; 
 Painting, in Love's attacks, the might 
 
 Of Battle's 'force ; 
 
 As to the city thee thy stars 
 
 Again, with fame augmented, brought, 
 And troubled, shewn the British Mars, 
 
 Each virgin's thought. 
 
 Long each thy grace enough approved, 
 
 Wavering; but pride new merits quell, 
 As numerous axes, soon removed, 
 
 The beeches fell. 
 
 Stern Courage, arm'd by Love, arose, 
 
 And Enterprize, that never rests, 
 Thy prompt reserve : too mighty foes 
 
 For tender breasts ! 
 Fa
 
 72 ODES* 
 
 O say, what Nymph's soft homage calls, 
 
 Whom haply her duenna keeps 
 Watchful, or less severe inthralls, 
 
 While Honour sleeps ? 
 
 Perhaps, her chamber near, at eve, 
 
 When all is rapture, or repose, 
 To notes, that in accordance grieve, 
 
 Thou tell'st thy woes : 
 
 The heavens, the placid moon, the strings 
 
 Her melted soul, consenting, try ; 
 And Love steals inward, on the wings 
 
 Of Harmony. 
 
 She mutters, " Love has known alloy 
 " Ere even sad Helen's act forbid : 
 " The scourge, that lash'd lamenting Troy, 
 
 " Now strikes Madrid. 
 
 " He sues, my slave, for favour, he 
 
 " Who binds imperious hearts in chains : 
 " For me the voice awakes, for me 
 
 " The lute complains.
 
 ODES. 73 
 
 " Those laurels that, from Algiers born, 
 
 " Aloft adorn'd his victor-brow, 
 " Cast at my feet, his chance to mourn, 
 
 "/Endear his vow. 
 
 " Strange ! that loud Strife, and War's alarm, 
 
 " And deeds of noon, Desire invite ; 
 " Desire, that wanton Whispers charm, 
 
 " And silent Night ! 
 
 " Strange ! that sore wounds, which writhe in pains, 
 
 * c And features we adore deform, 
 " The boiling current of our veins 
 
 " More inly warm ! 
 
 " Ye saints, in heavenly realms afar, 
 " Daily preferr'd, religious hosts ; 
 " That, in full ranks, the calendar 
 
 " Recording boasts ; 
 
 " Nor all your numbers from its lures 
 
 " To wrest this struggling heart avail : 
 <f My prayers mount fruitless, and, with yours, 
 
 " My efforts fail."
 
 C74 3 
 
 ODE 
 
 ON THE BACKWARDNESS OF SPRING, 
 
 WHY, rugged Winter, dost thou still 
 
 Thy transitory sway resume ? 
 Late, o'er the grove, and cheerless hill, 
 Did gentler winds our bosom fill 
 
 With rapture, and succeed thy gloom. 
 
 Late azure heavens appear'd around, 
 For snow, that veils the sable sky. 
 
 Rages in air, and heaps the ground ; 
 
 While herds and men, wherever found, 
 To refuge and to comfort fly. 
 
 Thus oft our eager purpose fails, 
 And Ardour fruitless ends pursues ! 
 
 But come, ye balmy breathing gales ; 
 
 Come, Zephyr, to the frozen dales ; 
 Come, simple ounds, and vernal views.
 
 ODES. 75 
 
 Crown'd with new leaves, shall instant Spring 
 To mute Despondence bear her aid ; 
 
 And as the woods responsive ring, 
 
 Her hues, o'er all, her odours, fling, 
 And beckon to the flowery shade : 
 
 Or, in the pastures while I stray, 
 
 Beneath green boughs will rivulets meet ;* 
 
 Where, shelter'd from the cloudless day, 
 
 The fisher waits his silvery prey, 
 Or cattle shun the noontide heat. 
 
 With the gay labours of the field, 
 
 The season hastes, restrain'd too long, 
 With joys, that lawns, that copses yield, 
 Love's flame, through Nature's bounds reveal'd, 
 And Hope, to elevate the song. 
 
 * Just in the dubious point, where with the pool 
 
 Is mix'd the trembling stream 
 
 There throw, nice judging, the delusive fly. 
 
 THOMSON.
 
 [76] 
 
 ODE; 
 
 BEING A CHORUS IN THE FIRST EDITION OF 
 THE BATTLE OF EDDINGTON. 
 
 LET Worth, let Patriot Zeal, with eye 
 
 Overflowing, and with drooping head ; 
 Let all who venerate the mysterious tie 
 
 Of wedded Love, or Power bemoan, 
 Chased to the refuge of the obscure retreat 
 
 By savage foes, o'er his dominion spread, 
 Respect the pathless marsh, where mingling meet 
 
 The stores of Parret and of Thone. 
 
 While,* heedless of himself, the Chief ' 
 But labour'd for his country's good. 
 
 There his loved partner long partook his grief, 
 Among a circling infant race. 
 
 There long, the cause of England to support, 
 His subject-squadron every bribe withstood 
 
 * Pharsalia, lib. 2. ver. 241.
 
 ODES. 77 
 
 Of Want, unblamed Misfortune taught to court, 
 And cherish undeserved Disgrace. 
 
 If e'er Repose, and hoped Success 
 
 Reward the battle-wasted bands ; 
 If e'er the counsels sage of Alfred bless 
 
 With promised law the impatient realm ; 
 Long hence the thoughtful Briton shall exclaim, 
 
 As on the 'bank, with folded arms, he stands ; 
 " Here -could not foes extinguish Virtue's flame, 
 
 " Nor growing Liberty o'erwhelm. 
 
 " Leaving this ambush, girt with reeds, 
 
 " Full oft our fathers, to the increase 
 " Of urging ills opposed adventurous deeds, 
 
 " And vengeance dreadful, though unknown ; 
 " Till happier triumphs teem'd, for wearied Woe, 
 
 " The friendly refuge, and.the fruits of Peace. 
 " Then near the pathless marsh still honour'd flow 
 
 " Ye streams of Parret and of Thone." * 
 
 * " The greatest inconvenience Alfred laboured under 
 " in this place arose from a scarcity of provisions, of 
 " which the following story, told by all the old historians,
 
 [78] 
 
 " is a proof. It happened one day during the winter, 
 " which proved uncommonly severe, that he had sent all 
 " his attendants out to endeavour to procure fish, or some 
 " kind of provisions ; so difficult was the enterprize es- 
 " teemed, that the King and Queen only were excused 
 " from the employment. When they were gone, the 
 " King, as was his custom whenever he had an oppor- 
 " tunity, took a book, and began reading, whilst Elswi- 
 " tha was employed in her domestic concerns ; they had 
 " not long continued thus engaged, before a poor pil- 
 " grim, accidentally passing that way, knocked at the 
 " gate, and begged they would give him something to 
 " eat. The humane King called to Elswitha, and de- 
 " sired her to give the poor man part of what provision 
 " there was in the fort : the Queen finding only one 
 " loaf, brought it to Alfred, to shew how slender their 
 " store was, at the same time representing the distresses 
 " the family would labour under, should they return from 
 " their foraging unsuccessful. The King, not deterred 
 " by this scanty view from his charitable purposes, but 
 " rather internally rejoicing at this trial of his humanity, 
 " cheerfully gave the poor Christian one half of the loaf ; 
 " consoling the Queen with this religious reflection 
 " That he who could feed five thousand with five loaves 
 " and two fishes, could make (if it so pleased him) that 
 " half of the loaf suffice for more than their necessities.
 
 [79] 
 
 ' When the traveller departed, the King returned to his 
 " reading, and felt that satisfaction which most surely 
 f results from a beneficent action. Nor was it long un- 
 *' rewarded, for his companions returned with so great a 
 " quantity of provisions, that they were not exposed to 
 w any similar inconveniences during their seclusion*" 
 Bicknell's Life of Alfred,
 
 [8o] 
 
 ELEGY 
 
 ON THE DEPARTURE OF MISS P AND J *' 
 
 CH FROM PHILADELPHIA IN 1783, TO 
 
 ATTEND THEIR MOTHER, INDI SPOSED IN THE 
 COUNTRY. 
 
 THE wintry gale through air its progress takes, 
 Deep-searching Delaware's arrested wave ; 
 
 On the bared oaks collected, icy flakes 
 Succeed the garb a milder season gave : 
 
 No flock, nor lowing herd, enraptured, feeds ; 
 
 Nor Nature's voice, and Love's, salute the grove, 
 While duty far the youthful sisters leads 
 
 To fields, whence late the gathering tempests 
 
 drove. 
 
 * 
 
 \ 
 
 With other objects, tinged by Summer's ray, 
 Resplendent pair, the general scene could charm,
 
 ELEGY. 8l 
 
 When he, who plaintive sings, an earlier day, 
 With you beheld, nor dreaded Griefs alarm. 
 
 Soft whispering breezes, as the bank we trod, 
 Moved here the stream, there shook the trembling 
 
 boughs, 
 
 And round your steps, on wing, and round their God, 
 The Loves, your captives vaunting, summ'd 
 their vows. 
 
 Then Life's glad face, and Vegetation's smiles, 
 Then cloudless heavens allured the admiring eye, 
 
 The river's surface smooth, its shaded isles, 
 
 And mineral springs * its distant shores supply* 
 
 Thus, when to poets old the vernal beam 
 
 Unveil'd each opening bloom, and checker'd 
 shade, 
 
 Fair Nai'ds, brightest guardians of the stream, 
 In rapturous vision near Ilissus stray'd. 
 
 Now Disappointment mocks the curious gaze ; 
 Nor all, as late, with female grace conspires, 
 
 * At Bristol.
 
 8* JJLEGY. 
 
 Or, with yourselves, exalting to due praise 
 Your kindred fair, e'en coldest bosoms fires, 
 
 No more, the station* sought, amused you note 
 Each group, slow-moving o'er the river's bed ; 
 
 Nor Verdure's charms delight, nor roofs remote, 
 Nor floating toils, with patient ardour spread. 
 
 Such pleasures vanish'd, other comforts, hid 
 Ere, man to bless, Refinement sways the earth, 
 
 By Time unconquer'd, and to fade forbid, 
 Even Winter soothe, with animating Mirth. 
 
 O'er wide stretch'd capitals, when Darkness reigns, 
 And longer waves, in keener air, her wing, 
 
 Art boasts of haunts that rival fragrant plains, 
 Nor leave a sigh for Daylight and for Spring. 
 
 See, from the winds secure, and drifted heaps 
 Of dreary snow, the social bands repose : 
 
 Pale Fear, his phantoms chased by tapers, sleeps, 
 And vanquished Night t to lone recesses goes. 
 
 * The ferry. 
 
 t Vincunt funalia noctem. VIR.
 
 ELEGY. 83 
 
 Shelter'd by lofty domes, a mingled troop 
 
 Confess, in mimic acts, Life's faithful draught; 
 
 The Passions fiercely rage, and sadly droop, 
 Or transient Follies feel the comic shaft. 
 
 To forms of native symmetry the dance 
 
 Gives motion here, and Posture's every grace; 
 
 Here choral notes the yielding soul entrance, 
 And in imaginary Eden place. 
 
 Here Reason raises, Wit relieves Discourse ; 
 
 Narration Wonder wakes, and still Suspense ; 
 Or Sentiment unlocks a calmer source; 
 
 Or Laughter recreates unbending Sense. 
 
 From these ye fled, fair Nymphs. Ye fled ! The lyre 
 Straight, at the word, in heavier measures moans ; 
 
 More sounds, for you first waked, its solemn wire 
 With deep vibrations, and with tardy tones. 
 
 More thrilling throes the voice, the hand, the heart 
 Of Anguish prompt, and frame the sorrowing song, 
 That hour to mourn, which saw you hence depart, 
 So late our pleasure, and our pride so long.
 
 84 ELJEGY* 
 
 Can equal joy, denied your presence, bless, 
 Or when Sol's ray the rapid sled directs ; 
 
 Or, in the illumined dome, adorn'd by dress, 
 When China's herb our nightly band collects ? 
 
 Nor small the pain, where Admiration warms, 
 To fly those hearts, become by worth our own ; 
 
 Witness the crowds that your attractive forms 
 Beheld enamour'd, and regretted groan. 
 
 But hark! new murmurs Friendship's voice pro- 
 claim. 
 
 (As Love, o'er Friendship boundless merits rule) 
 " Let not/' it cries, " though pure the virtuous aim, 
 
 " My vivid glow preceptive duty cool. 
 
 
 u Be own'd her honours ; be obey'd her laws : 
 
 " Still shall, where'er the zones * of heaven extend, 
 " From east to west, my name deserve applause, 
 
 " And Truth and Fable celebrate the Friend. 
 
 " Haste then, when Filial Love forbids no more 
 " The blameless deed, and will parental seals ; 
 
 * jEneid, lib. 8. ver. 225.
 
 ELEGY. 85 
 
 " True to the temperate flame that fired before, 
 " Here seek the enjoyment my adorer feels. 
 
 " Here (for from places whence ye flew I call) 
 " The enlivening objects wait, that round shall 
 rise, 
 
 " Welcomes sincere, the tribute due from all, 
 " And lighten'd bosoms, and rekindled eyes."
 
 [86] 
 
 SONNET 
 
 ON A VERY TAME PIGEON, WHICH HAD D1E0 
 FROM PICKING UP SOME POISONOUS SUB- 
 STANCE. 
 
 PRIDE of the race, once sacred held by Greece 
 
 To Love, and honour'd in the poet's strain ; 
 
 (Though now thy frolic flights, required in vain 
 Among these flowers, and check'd by Sickness, 
 
 cease, 
 Nor sound, with snowy plumes, the shades of Peace, 
 
 Eachhaunt of Leisure sought,his glance to gain) ; 
 
 Even Instinct's social tie shall Memory deign 
 To reverence, and from dumb Neglect release. 
 " Thine, 1 '* oft I said (nor hoped so near thy end) 
 " Are all things round ; the groves and cloudless 
 "sky: 
 
 " While cheers the enlivening ray, sport and en- 
 
 "joy. 
 " Thine are yon oaks, that o'er the stream impend, 
 
 " And rocks that, as I stray with musing eye, 
 " Or wonder from the shed, can never cloy." 
 
 * Anac. Ode 33.
 
 SONNETS. 87 
 
 SONNET 
 
 WRITTEN ON MOUNT MERLIN, IN WALES, 
 
 FAMED hill, that, as Tradition tells, wouldst show 
 To lonely Merlin, hence around display'd, 
 These varied beauties ; mountains with their 
 shade, 
 
 Far reaching, and meandering streams below ; 
 
 Thou, to whose summit, Fate's decrees to know, 
 Ere Love his footsteps to the lake * convey 'd, 
 High chiefs, 'tis sung, their eager journies made, 
 
 Now on such godlike gifts none faith bestow. 
 
 * - the Lady of the Lake, 
 Whom long he loved, for him in haste did send. 
 
 In the mean time, through that false ladies traine, 
 He was surprised, and buried under beare, 
 Ne ever to his work return 'd againe. 
 
 Fairie Queen, B. 3. c. 3. stanza 9. 
 
 G2
 
 88 SONNETS. 
 
 Yet though my country, for a thousand years, 
 Were taught its doom, what warning more desired, 
 
 Or truer, could from hallow 'd caverns sound, 
 
 Than this ; " unfriended by his faithless fears, 
 Baseness shall rue the boon his prayers acquired t 
 
 And Valour be, alone, by Fortune crown'd ?"
 
 EPIGRAMS. 
 
 EPIGRAM 
 
 ON THE RIGHTS OF WOMEN. 
 
 WHEN English law on new foundations rose, 
 And Alfred gloried in his realm's repose, 
 Justice, that saw, amazed, the finish 'd. work, 
 Broke forth, one fancied blemisli seen to lurk : 
 " And shall harsh rules devote the race's flower ? 
 " Nor Beauty's favourites boast an equal power? 
 " Here I condemn But hold j the rash complains, 
 " And still wise Providence aright ordains : 
 " Though part seem injured, all must win respect 
 " True; Man shall act, but Woman may direct." 
 
 EPIGRAM 
 
 ON THE FIRE AT THE OPERA HOUSE. 
 
 VANBRUGH, the roof to trills responsive falls, 
 And flames yield only to thy sturdy walls.
 
 gO EPIGRAMS. 
 
 Each noble's seat, who chanting chiefs approved, 
 Their palaces, though now, with groves, removed ; 
 The flutes, or strings, by whose assistant charms 
 They sooth'd with love, or terrified with arms ; 
 Their vestrrients, Rome's, or Persia's proud attire, 
 All seized alike by the relentless fire, 
 And females scared, and eunuchs, as they run, 
 Appease the shades of Pope and Addison. 
 
 EPIGRAM 
 
 ON THE 'IMPORTANCE OF A TRIFLE. 
 
 You paint great changes, come, in France, to pass ; 
 I think 'but of my loss- a spying-glass. 
 Yet v scarce more justly did the Cyclops sigh, 
 Spoil'd by Ulysses of his single eye. 
 
 EPIGRAM 
 
 . 
 
 ON A FAILURE OF STUCCO. 
 
 CALL'D to restore the structure's outward grace, 
 That plaster whiten'd, and its wrecks deface ;
 
 EPIGRAMS. gi 
 
 The artist asks, " which shed did time subdue ?" 
 " Which shed?" replies its owner, " 'tis the new." 
 
 EPIGRAM. 
 
 A CONSOLATION OF AVARIC5. 
 
 . .* 
 
 SPOUSE of unfetter'd heart, though now a wife 
 In wedlock's bands has fasten'd thee for life ; 
 Her features mean some good forebode thee still, 
 And looks repulsive, that with terror thrill: 
 To flattering crowds let tempted Beauty yield ; 
 Thy rights are guarded by a Gorgon shield. 
 
 EPIGRAM 
 
 ON A LOVE MATCH. 
 
 GHREMES, thy son with kindness still behold, 
 Though, warm to Beauty, Wealth confess him cold. 
 Beauty from Beauty springs : no more rebuke 
 Thy winning grandchild may espouse a duke.
 
 92 EPIGRAMS. 
 
 EPIGRAM 
 
 ON THE ILLUMINATIONS, IN CONSEQUENCE 
 OF HIS MAJESTY'S RECOVERY. 
 - 5 - * 
 
 A MONARCH'S health, suspended long, to greet, 
 And speak at once the joy of many a street, 
 As Darkness spreads, all London kindling soon, 
 The wheels are guided by the blaze of Noon. 
 Taste each gay form of order'd light surveys, 
 And Science every hue the prism displays. 
 
 EPIGRAM. 
 
 THE SUPPOSED REFLECTION OF ONE, WHO FAIL- 
 ED IN HIS APPLICATION FOR PREFERMENT 
 AT A GREAT COURT. 
 
 SCARCE could I think that rough address, and face, 
 A Courtier's, till refused my promised place.
 
 EPIGRAMS. 93 . 
 
 I 
 
 EPIGRAM 
 
 ON WINDSOR'S BECOMING THE RESIDENCE 
 OF THE COURT. 
 
 THE seat of Edward well be&ts the train, 
 Whose pomp adorns a prosperous Ruler's reign. 
 There, 'beneath forests, cherish'd Commerce stems 
 The untroubled waters of the silent Thames ; 
 And just the City's spires are seen, to grace 
 With suited majesty, the reverend place. 
 There too the field * of Freedom, at whose sight 
 John erst had shrunk, a Brunswick may delight. 
 
 EPIGRAM. 
 
 THE PROSELYTE. 
 
 YOU'VE preach'd away my notions vain 
 From texts in the Apostle Paine. 
 No longer unenlighten'd zeal 
 For England's glory do I feel ; 
 
 * Runnymede.
 
 4 EPIGRAMS. 
 
 No longer sum, with swelling heart, 
 Her feats in War, and wreaths of Art j 
 Her poets charming every age, 
 And truth unfolded by her sage. 
 The city long I wish'd to last, 
 Become as beauteous as 'tis vast : 
 But careless now, whene'er I can, 
 With clubbists hail the Rights of Man. 
 Discourse, still treating of the theme, 
 Shall prove, on this I think and dream 
 From morn till eve, from dusk till dawn : 
 Fear not but pardon if I yawn. 
 
 EPIGRAM. 
 
 A HUSBAND'S APOLOGY. 
 
 HOWEVER stoutly you maintain 
 That damages are solid gain, 
 My duel,- 1 contend, was right : 
 What are horns given for, but to fight ?
 
 EP-1GRAMS. 95 
 
 EPIGRAM 
 
 ON READING AN ESSAY UPON POLITICAL 
 JUSTICE. 
 
 BRITON, admonish'd of the fate 
 That threatens us, the ship of state 
 Rescue from danger, with all hands ; 
 Nor strike upon the G dw n sands. 
 
 EPIGRAM 
 
 ON SOME POEMS, AND A PAMPHLET, PUBLISH- 
 ED 'NEAR THE SAME TIME, BY THE SAME 
 AUTHOR. 
 
 YOUR rhymes are good, I own ; but, , 
 
 I cannot think your reasons valid. 
 
 EPIGRAM . 
 
 ON THE SAME SUBJECT. 
 
 YOUR prose, so fanciful and terse, 
 So just the doctrines of your verse;
 
 96 EPIGRAMS. 
 
 For profit we may read your rhyme, 
 And with your pamphlet kill the time. 
 
 EPIGRAM 
 
 - "/ - s 
 
 ON RECEIVING A GEM OF NEWTON, ENGRAVE& 
 FOR THE AUTHOR BY MARCHANT. 
 
 WELL hast thou, Marchant, toil'd to do thy part, 
 And grace the country with Athenian art. 
 Now Architecture plans, as George commands, 
 New wonders here, new praise in distant lands ; 
 Painting perceives her own no vulgar doom ; 
 And Sculpture's recent boasts astonish Rome. 
 Nor less the nicer skill, with pride, we see 
 Of old Pergoteles display'd by thee. 
 Arts banish'd, that on Louis fame bestow'd, 
 And to brute Force her only triumphs owed, 
 The works, whose merit rare no age disputes, 
 Let France purloin, while Britain executes.
 
 EPIGRAMS. 97 
 
 EPIGRAM 
 
 IF Austria e'er her tarnish'd fame deplore, 
 The royal Brothers shall be then no more : 
 Scarce danger Justice for a land affrights, 
 Which HONOUR rules, and for which COURAGE 
 fights. 
 
 EPIGRAM 
 
 THE vast Atlantic, that so wide 
 Once roll'd, the nations to divide, 
 Joins them, in happy hour allied.* 
 
 * And seas but join the nations they divide. 
 
 POPE. Windsor Forest.
 
 PETRARCH. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 POEMS DURING THE LIFE OF LAURA* 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 'TWAS that dim day* the Sun's relenting rays, 
 In pity of a God, their splendour veil'd, 
 When with firm chains all unaware assail'd, 
 
 Thy glances bound me, too intent to gaze. 
 
 No risk I dreaded from the treacherous ways 
 Of Love, bright fair, and arms that oft prevail'd, 
 Till, unsuspecting victim, I bewail'd, 
 
 Too late, the common doom, with vain amaze. 
 
 * The day is recorded as being at April 6th, 1327. 
 This concetto is imitated at the- opening of Milton's fine 
 ode on Christmas day, and by no means rendered less of 
 a concetto.
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 99 
 
 Love found me a disarm'd and helpless foe, 
 Swift at ray heart directing, through these eyes, 
 
 The shaft, that opes their sluices sad for life. 
 Nor was it valiant, sure, by mean surprise 
 
 My feeble and unguarded power to o'erthrow, 
 
 Yet from thy front retire, prepared for strife. 
 
 SONNET 
 
 TO STEPHEN COLONNA THE ELDER. 
 
 O GLORIOUS Column,* by whose strength arc 
 
 stay'd 
 
 Our ardent hopes, and Latium's name divine ; 
 That, from thy path, and Conduct's certain line, 
 Jove ne'er has daunted, by his storms dismay'd ; 
 t No palace, theatre, or porch's shade, 
 But, in their stead, a fir, a beech, a pine, 
 O'er the green turf, and heights, whose charms 
 adjoin, 
 
 * Alluding to the Italian word Colonna. 
 
 t Petrarch, when this nobleman was at Avignon, had 
 eagerly made inquiries of him, to which this alludes, 
 concerning the remains of ancient magnificence, at Rome, 
 which his patriotism made so interesting to him.
 
 1QO TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 And mounting, or descending, poets aid, 
 
 From earth to heaven here lift the ravish'd mind : 
 
 And the sweet nightingale, in thickest grove 
 That pours each eve her ditty, and complains, 
 
 O'ercomes the heart with thoughts of saddest love. 
 Only Joy's measure is by thee confined, 
 
 noble friend, whose absence Fate ordains. 
 
 SONNET* 
 
 ON PLANTING A-LAUREL, NEAR A RIVULET, IN 
 
 
 HONOUR OF LAURA, IN A SPOT WHICH SHE 
 
 FREQUENTED. 
 
 IF yet thdu glow'st, Apollo, with that fire 
 
 Which once in Thessaly thy breast inflamed, 
 And, for the bright-hair'd beauty's charms so 
 famed, 
 
 Hast not, at length, forgotten thy desire ; 
 
 * The resemblance, in their names, of the laurel tree 
 and his mistress, had so struck the imagination of Pe- 
 trarch, that, in his poems, Daphne, Laura, and the laurel, 
 become synonymous terms.
 
 TRANSLATIONS. !Ol 
 
 From the cold frosts, and wint'ry winds, whose ire 
 Is, when thou hidest thy majesty, proclaim'd, 
 Protect the sacred plant, with reverence named, 
 
 By which I too, ensnared, to Love aspire. 
 
 And, for that amorous hope, which sooth'd of old 
 
 Thy pain, and made thy life less sadly pass, 
 From this unhealthy moisture purge the air. 
 Soon with what wonder shall we both behold, 
 
 By her own arms, far reaching o'er the grass, 
 So proudly shaded, our much-honour'd fair ! 
 
 BALLAD. 
 
 I SEE the obtrusive veil (be it confess'd !) 
 Alike in sunshine and in shade, 
 Obdurate fair one, carefully display 'd, 
 Well prove thou know'st the secrets of my breast. 
 Ere yet the oppressive passion was reveal'd, 
 That daily dooms me to Affliction's load, 
 
 Relenting Pity soften'd in thy look ; 
 But, when thy power my agitation shew'd 
 Those locks admired were suddenly conceal'd, 
 And glances interrupted from me took 
 Relief, whose absence I but ill can brook. 
 H
 
 1O* TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Thus am I govern'd by a veil, 
 That from me, whether cold or heat assail, 
 Hides the bright eyes that have so often bless'd. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 WHENE'ER, among the comrades of the dame, 
 Bright Love approaches in her beauteous mien, 
 As much as each beneath her charms are seen, 
 
 Swells my desire, and grows the excited flame. 
 
 The place, the hour I bless, and happiest name, 
 
 When on Worth's height I gazed, with wonder 
 
 keen; 
 And say, " my soul, that such thy boast has been, 
 
 " To the kind gods unmeasured thanks proclaim. 
 
 " From her the love-created fancies spring, 
 
 " That point to Heaven's perfection, and calm 
 
 " Not the unworthy cares that man employ : 
 c< From her derived, do the pure raptures buoy 
 
 " Thy thought, and lift thee to the immortal ring ; 
 
 " Which yet I seek, on Hope's aspiring wing."
 
 f RANSLATIOttft 
 
 SEST1NA.* 
 
 To every animal that dwells on earth, 
 Unless those few that dread the blazing sun, 
 Fate has allotted, for their toil, the day ; 
 But, when the heavens are lighted by the stars, 
 Some hie to sheds for shelter, some to woods, 
 There to enjoy their wish'd repose till morn. 
 
 And I, as soon as I behold the morn 
 Dispersing round the dews and shades o'er earth, 
 And calling forth the beasts from all the woods, 
 Perceive no cheerful influence in the sun ; 
 Then, when I flaming see the nightly stars,. 
 I only weep, and languish for the day. 
 
 When dusky evening then succeeds the day, 
 
 * The lines of the Sestina terminate, in every stanza, 
 in the same words, of two syllables ; but, from the struc- 
 ture of an Italian^ verse, those words seem properly ren- 
 dered by a monosyllable in English. 
 
 H 2
 
 TRANSLATIONS: 
 
 V 
 
 "\Vithin this land, and makes another's morn, 
 pensive I gaze at the relentless stars, 
 That fashion'd me from much too feeling earth ; 
 And curse the day I first beheld the sun, 
 By which I seem a savage in the woods. 
 
 I truly think no beast has, in the woods, 
 Appear'd so terrible, by night or day, 
 As she I sigh for, where'er shines the sun ; 
 Nor do I pause for evening, or for morn ; 
 For, though I am a mortal piece of earth, 
 The strong desire I feel is from the stars. 
 
 :': .VKi,MSwfc fens , 
 
 Before I may ascend to you, bright stars, 
 Or seek below the lover's myrtle woods, 
 Leaving my body, then but mouldering earth, 
 May I obtain her pity ! Joy, one day, 
 Will balance years of pain, and ere the morn, 
 Content, announced me by the setting sun. 
 
 With her first witness'd by the setting sun, 
 Might I remain, and only see the stars 
 During one night, and might it ne'er be morn; 
 Nor might she, to that honour of the woods
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 105 
 
 Transform'd, escape my love, as on that day, 
 When Phoebus follow'd her below on earth. 
 
 But deep in earth, my coffin from the woods 
 Brought, I should lie, and day exhibit stars, 
 JEre such a glorious morn display the sun. 
 
 SONNET 
 
 ON SENDING TO A FRIEND A PAIR OF PIGEONS, 
 WHICH, BEING THEN FREQUENTLY EMPLOY- 
 ED IN FIELD SPORTS, HE HAD CAUGHTWITH 
 NETS. 
 
 FREE, at the foot of that well-peopled hill,* 
 On which the unrivall'd beauty had been born, 
 Ere him who sends us, captives thus forlorn, 
 
 She troubled, waking oft, and weeping still, 
 
 We pass'd our lives, and wing'd the air at will ; 
 Nor less had any creature cause to scorn 
 Its fate, nor any sign appear'd, to warn 
 
 Us, thoughtless wretches, of approaching ill. 
 
 But, after those enjoyments we possess'd, 
 
 * Where Avignon was situated,
 
 1O6 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Yet, at the rueful pass we have attained, 
 Awaiting Death, we still on Hope can revSt : 
 
 By the sweet prospect of revenge sustain'd, 
 We see our captor pining too, oppress'd 
 
 By Love, and by more fearful fetters chain'd. 
 
 SONNET 
 
 TRAVELLING THROUGH THE FOREST OF 
 
 ARDEN. 
 
 THROUGH this inhospitable, shaggy wild, 
 Even terrible to those begirt with armsy 
 I pass securely, whom my Sun alarms 
 
 Alone, Love's dreaded influence beaming mild; 
 
 And sing, in self-command a very child, 
 
 Her whom my fancy, blind to threaten'd harms, 
 Sees, with her comrades fair, supreme in charms. 
 
 The firs and beeches, by its force beguiled, 
 I think her train ; I hear her, when I hear 
 
 The branches rustle, the fond birds complain, 
 And rapid rivulets murmur through the mead. 
 Grateful with gloom and silence might appear 
 
 These lonely woods, and soothing to my pain, 
 Did I not now my Sun's glad presence need.
 
 TRANSLATION*. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 _ 
 THE loneliest fields, a pensive wanderer grown, 
 
 I tread, with solitary steps and slow, 
 
 And round my anxious eyes, inquiring, throw, 
 
 The tracks of men to avoid, wherever shewn. 
 
 No other means are to Invention known 
 From looks too curious to conceal my woe, 
 For in my secret breast what passions glow 
 
 Each gesture tells, and what I still bemoan. 
 
 Thus mountains now, methinks, and silent plains, 
 
 Thus woods, thus rivers, learn that rueful state, 
 Which I from every living witness hide : 
 Yet neither wild nor rugged path restrains 
 
 Intrusive Love, that, sent by cruel Fate, 
 Still walks, and still discourses, by my side. 
 
 SONNET 
 
 ON THE RECOVERY OF LAURA FROM A 
 DANGEROUS ILLNESS. 
 
 Now was the star of Venus in the east 
 
 Seen high, and that which could so jealous make
 
 1O8 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Imperial Juno, view'd its place to take 
 Among the northern fires, admired not least. 
 The industrious housewife, timely slumber ceased, 
 
 Her dress scarce huddled on, was bent to rake 
 
 The smother'd embers j nor less soon awake, 
 The Lover on his pleasing pain to feast ; 
 
 When my fair mistress, in her sad estate, 
 Enter'd my thoughts ; not by the accustom'd way, 
 
 Which Sleep kept closed, as Sorrow had bedew'd; 
 (How changed, alas, her looks !) and seem'd to say, 
 
 " Take heart, be hopeful of a better fate : 
 
 " These eyes by you will, as they wont, be view'd. 
 
 , ODE 
 
 TO STEPHEN COLONNA THE YOUNGER, MADE 
 SENATOR OF ROME FOR FIVE YEARS. 
 
 HEROIC spirit, that thy seat on high 
 Hast left, .to animate terrestrial clay, 
 
 And form a mortal, prudent, bold, and wise ; 
 
 * Before the publication of the Memoires de Pe- 
 trarque, it was supposed most generally to be addressed 
 to Ricnzi, the famous tribune.
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Since thou hast now attain'd the sovereign sway, 
 And canst in Rome the arts of empire try, 
 
 To bid it to its ancient honour rise, 
 
 On thee, I call ; for, save in thee, my eyes 
 Perceive not Virtue (which from earth seems flown) 
 
 Nor even the very shame that Vice inspires. 
 
 Howe'er now Italy a change desires 
 Or seeks, her state seems to herself unknown, 
 Decrepit, dull, and torpid grown. 
 
 Is she in everlasting slumber bound? 
 
 O might my vigour lift her from the ground! 
 
 No j she will never, from her slumber deep, 
 
 Grasp'd by her hair, at such a warning voice, 
 Be rouzed : such heaviness ensures her doom ! 
 
 But doubtless 'tis by Heaven's peculiar choice 
 That thou, whose efforts can dispel her sleep, 
 Hast, in thy care, her head, our honour'd Rome. 
 Firm in those venerable locks presume 
 
 To plant thy hand, that now dishevell'd* trail, 
 Till the raised sluggard on her feet be set. 
 I, that her sufferings day and night regret, 
 
 Hope only by thy labours to prevail. 
 
 * This alludes to the disunited state of Rome.
 
 J1O TRANSLATIONS, 
 
 If Mars's people do not fail 
 Their elevated aims revived to see, 
 That high advantage will be due to thee. 
 
 Those ancient walls, the pilgrim yet beholds 
 With pleasure and with dread, when times long 
 past, 
 
 ^.nd many splendid triumphs he revolves; 
 
 With tombs of those, whose actions will outlast 
 
 Even what man's perishable dust infolds, 
 Famed till the fabric of the world dissolves ; 
 And whate'er works one ruin now involves, 
 
 Warn thee Rome's ancient glories to renew. 
 Just Brutus, warlike Scipios, when, though rare, 
 One rules, who makes it, in these days, his care, 
 
 What joy shall, in the shades, descend to you ! 
 
 How, ravish'd at the tidings new, 
 
 Will old Fabricius triumph, and exclaim, 
 
 " My Rome again shall spread abroad its fame!" 
 
 And if ethereal spirits can endure 
 
 Their thoughts from scenes celestial to estrange, 
 And meditate on what is done below -, 
 Grieved at long civil feuds, from thee a change
 
 TRANSLATIONS, 
 
 They now expect, while, ever insecure, 
 To worship Heaven none unmolested go ; 
 And places, once so sacred, dwellings grow 
 
 Of violence, and seem but dens of thieves. 
 There entrance only is refused the good; 
 And, where the shrines and altars lately stood 
 
 So rich, the world new horrors plann'd per- 
 ceives, 
 
 He scarce, who knew the past, believes, 
 And bells excite to arms, that only hung 
 Aloft, the signal of Devotion, rung. 
 
 The weeping Female Train, with clamour loud, 
 Weak Age and Childhood, whom the light of day 
 
 Grieves, ^nd whate'er abhorr'd Existence shews; 
 Religious Brothers, white, and black, and gray; 
 
 And all, however by Affliction bow'd, 
 
 Call out, " O mighty Chief, relieve our woes!" 
 The wretches such unnumber'd harms disclose, 
 
 As, in a ruthless Hannibal, would wake 
 Pity for hated Rome : and, if we search 
 Around the fire that wraps the holy church, 
 
 Soon shall we see the fuel whence to take, 
 
 And how the blaze less powerful make ;
 
 112 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 The blaze of Passion, that so wide extends : 
 Do this ; Heaven's blessing on the deed attends, 
 
 Though bears,* wolves, lions, eagles, serpents, all 
 Shoved try against a marble Column born, 
 
 To shake it, ill their strength the attempt would suit. 
 That senseless rage see Rome afflicted mourn, 
 
 And on thy active virtue loudly call, 
 
 Poor plants, with ardour, from the soil to root, 
 
 Bless'd, in a thousand years, with little fruit. 
 
 Those lofty spirits are not now beheld, 
 That made her glorious, as she was before ; 
 O race, whose breasts, with anger I deplore, 
 
 Are now, against so great a mother, swell'd ! 
 
 But thou, her father, husband, held, 
 
 Thy succour bring; for such good deeds, by onet 
 She claims alike, will now be left undone. 
 
 * The bears mean the Orsini family, from the word 
 Orso. The rest are supposed to mean those families who 
 united with them, in opposition to the Column, Colonna. 
 
 t " The Pope," as Gesualdo explains in his note, 
 " who lives at Avignon, attentive to the spiritual go- 
 " vernment, and not the republic, and is quite given up 
 " to luxury, indifferent to the fate of Rome and Italy."
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Seldom it happens that, to high designs 
 
 Propitious, Fortune cares the just reward 
 Of Worth to allot, as she now seeks to do : 
 
 But favours, with her rule that ill accord, 
 Scarce granted thee, to pardon so inclines, 
 I see her wrongs with patience, though not few. 
 The worthies of whom history boasts, ne'er knew 
 
 A road so clear to everliving Fame; 
 For thou preparest the Monarchy's return 
 To former greatness, if I well discern 
 
 True merit, kindled by its generous aim. 
 
 How will this praise exalt thy name, 
 " Others, its youth assisting, raised the state ; 
 " He, while it totter'd beneath age's weight ?" 
 
 On the Tarpeian hill thou wilt behold, 
 My song, a Chief, all Italy esteems, 
 
 Of others' good more thoughtful than his own. 
 
 Tell him, that one, to whom he is unknown, 
 Save by applauding Fame, yet worthiest seems, 
 Thus says, " with tears, pour'd forth in streams 
 
 '* Through faded eyes, on thee does Rome, from all 
 seven famed hills, for just compassion call."
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 MADRIGAL.* 
 
 A FOREIGN beauty touch'd my heart, whose face, 
 Love's genuine badge, declared her of his train. 
 
 (All others seem'd less worthy of her place.) 
 Whom following along the verdant grass, 
 These words I caught, at distance utter'd plain. 
 
 " Thou with lost labour through the wood wilt pass 
 " On this pursuit." Then in the shade I stood 
 
 Of a tall beech, and mused awhile, till soon. 
 I saw around what dangers in the wood 
 
 Beset me, and return'd content at Noon.t 
 
 * Supposed the description of a warning, which he 
 thinks effectual, from his confessor, father Dennis ; who 
 wrote to him, that it was unbecoming to lose his time, by 
 the consequences of his passion. 
 
 t This allegory had been used by Dante. He means 
 by Noon, the age of thirty-five years, as being half the 
 age of a man, and likewise his own at that time.
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 SONNET.* 
 
 N A MINIATURE OF L AU R A, P AIN TE D FOR PE- 
 TRARCH BY SIMON, A DISCIPLE OF GIOTTO. 
 
 THAT master, Policletus, and the rest 
 
 Whom History boasts, exerting all their art 
 A thousand years, could only shew a part 
 
 Of the unrivall'd grace that fires my breast; 
 
 But, surely, Simon, in the regions bless'd, 
 
 Had seen the beauteous sovereign of my heart, 
 And thus, among the sons of earth, we start 
 
 To see her lineaments so fair express'd. 
 This face is of some being in the sky, 
 
 A semblance true ; not one, like us, whose soul 
 Is veil'd by cumbrous flesh from every eye : 
 
 My friend judged well, who could not form a whole 
 So various, where, less aided than on high, 
 
 The impediments of earth his sight control. 
 
 * This and the following sonnet, are those which Va- 
 sari speaks of, as a modern connoisseur would of Pope's 
 epistle to Jervis ; or, in other words, as a compliment 
 paid by an eminent poet to an indifferent artist.
 
 tl6 TRANSLATION*. 
 
 f 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 THE SAME SUBJECT. 
 
 WHEN Simon first the precious work design'd, 
 
 That proved the wonders of his art for me, 
 
 O that his pencil could have bid me see 
 The senseless form endued with voice and mind ! 
 My sighs less frequent I had joy'd to find, 
 
 Bereft of pleasure now, by Fate's decree ; 
 
 For, in this picture, cruel though she be, 
 She bears a countenance to peace inclined : 
 
 And when all wildly I address my speech 
 To her, she seems to listen without pain, 
 
 And grant due pity, as I then beseech. 
 
 How might, Pygmalion, the reflection teach 
 To thee content, who couldst for ever gain 
 
 What I, one moment, wish within my reach ! 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 SENNUCIO, let me tell thee how, kind friend, 
 I pass my days, and what a life is mine :
 
 TRANSLATIONS; 1I/ 
 
 I burn as I was wont, condemn'd to pine 
 For Laura, and with Passion's force contend ; 
 Here proud, here lowly, have I seen her bend 
 
 On me her eyes ; to harshness now incline, 
 
 And now to pity; and her looks divine, 
 Joyful or sad, to scorn or kindness tend. 
 Here did she sweetly sing ; here sate, and here 
 
 Was seen to turn, or sudden stop : here thrill'd 
 My soul with the bewitching look she gave : 
 Here spoke, or smiled, as I stood wondering near; 
 
 Or changed her air-^with such reflections fill'd, 
 Love day and night torments his hapless slave. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 / 
 
 HIS REASON FOR LOVING LAURA AT THIRTY, 
 WHEN HER BEAUTY WAS IMPAIRED. 
 
 HER golden locks were in the wind display'd, 
 That blew them round a thousand graceful ways, 
 While in her eyes an undiminish'd blaze 
 
 Still beam'd; though now by Time less vivid made ; 
 
 And pity, as I thought, her looks display'd, 
 But know not if, as true, it tempted praise : 
 
 I
 
 Il8 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 That youth then fired my bosom, can it raise 
 In any wonder, with such fuel's aid? 
 'Twas not the motion of a mortal's form, 
 But something heavenly, and her speech's sound, 
 
 Unlike to what we hear on earth below. 
 'Twas some pure spirit; a bright sun, around 
 Appearing then to beam its influence warm ; 
 
 Nor* can it heal the wound to unstring the bow. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 ON PETRARCH'S PICKING UP A GLOVE LAURA 
 HAD DROPPED AT AN. ASSEMBLY, AND WHICH 
 SHE HASTILY RECOVERED EROM HIM. 
 
 O BEAUTEOUS hand, that robb'st me of my heart, 
 Shewing whate'er I prize in narrow space ; 
 
 * This line was chosen, a century afterwards, for his 
 motto, by a king of Naples, on his queen's death. 
 
 " Le roi Rene apres la mort d'Isabeau de Lorraine, 
 " sa premiere femme, prit cette devise : 
 
 " Un arc turquois avec la corde rompue, et le dej-nier 
 " vers de ce sonnet : 
 
 " Piaga per allentar d'arco non sana." 
 
 MEM. DE PETRARQJJE.
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 To Form which, Nature in her work would place, 
 For her own fame, and Heaven's, her utmost art: 
 Clear, pearly whiteness that, o'er every part 
 
 Conspicuous, givest to killing fingers grace, 
 
 Know, Love consents my eager eyes should trace, 
 Beauties late hid, a destined joy to impart. 
 Thou snowy, fair embroider'd, graceful glove, 
 
 Yet mourn'd, where ivory shines and roses glow, 
 Too oft, who could an equal prize divine ? 
 Thus might the veil become a spoil of Love! 
 
 O strange vicissitude of things below, 
 I have possess'd the treasure yet resign. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 A SOLITARY life I ever sought, 
 
 (The fields, the woods, and rivers know it well,) 
 Flying those sordid souls, their stars compel 
 To lose the path by Heaven and Virtue taught: 
 And had my former project come to aught, 
 
 Far from soft Tuscan* air, I now should dwell 
 
 * About the time of Petrarch's birth, his family was 
 driven from Florence by an army of the French unc'er 
 
 I 2
 
 12O TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Where the wild hills around my river swell, 
 Sorga,* that nurses sad poetic thought; 
 But Fortune, always adverse to my views, 
 
 Keeps me where, uninspired, I sing, and grieve 
 To see my treasure, t in the mire is thrown. 
 Yet late my hand was destined not to lose 
 
 Its labour, but its full + reward receive, 
 By Love, and by myself, and Laura, known. 
 
 Philip le Bel, by whom it was proscribed, as well as, among 
 many others, the great Dante. Petrarch at seven months 
 old was carried across the Arno, as Camilla was carried 
 by Metabus, according to Virgil. 
 
 * He had by this time, as is here seen, established him- 
 self at Vaucluse ; the fountain of which has been poeti- 
 cally described on the spot by Sir William Jones, in his 
 Elegy on Laura. See his Poems. 
 
 t Meaning Laura in the vicious city of Avignon. 
 
 J I have translated this unintelligible passage conform- 
 ably to the idea of its general meaning, suggested by the 
 author of the Memoires de Petrarque ; supposing that 
 Laura had condescended to shake hands with her lover.
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 121 
 
 ODE* 
 
 WRITTEN AT LAURA*S FAVOURITE FOUNTAIN. 
 
 
 
 LIMPID, cool, untainted spring, 
 
 Where her limbs she often laved 
 Whom only I acknowledge fair ; 
 
 * The author of the Memoires argues very well to 
 prove, that it was not the fountain of Vaucluse, as it was 
 thought probably at the time Sir William Jones translated 
 .the ode with this opinion. As this therefore was, I be- 
 lieve, in his youth, it gives me a better excuse for trans- 
 lating it after one who, though he had a mind so com- 
 prehensive yet had an ear equally harmonious. I may be 
 excused, by the same reason, for seeing in some few parts, 
 however beautiful the rest, a want of absolute perfection ; 
 and, in particular, for remarking, that at the beginning, it 
 was not worth while to give the translation a sense oppo- 
 site to the original, in order to suggest the idea of warm 
 water. That the reader may completely judge of the 
 carelessness of Voltaire, alluded to by Sir William Jones, 
 in speaking of this ode, I refer him to the notes of the 
 Memoires de Petrarque, Vol. II.
 
 122 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Boughs, that to remembrance bring 
 
 Sadly, as ye bending waved, 
 How her reclining form ye bare ; 
 Turf, and, worthiest to wear, 
 
 Flowers that, plucking, she disposed 
 O'er her robe and bosom seen ; 
 Air, enchantingly serene, 
 
 Where Love my wounds afresh unclosed ; 
 O attend while I complain, 
 Assembled here, to my last dying strain. 
 
 If, while I with Love apace 
 
 Pine, Heaven still, unpitying, choose 
 To see me victim proved of Grief, 
 Do not, in this haunt, a place 
 
 To my ashes cold refuse. 
 For when the spirit's fled, belief 
 They shall here repose, relief 
 
 Will at my last moments yield: 
 
 Here possess'd of Peace, in port 
 
 
 Mariners sea-wearied court, 
 
 Preserve them, by some stone reveal'd, 
 Sad remains of one whom woes 
 Had harass'd once, but left in safe repose.
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Haply to her favourite spot 
 
 May the cruel fair return, 
 On whom all hopes I cherish rest; 
 
 And, astonish'd, then my lot, 
 
 Casting round her eyes, discern, 
 Where I that day, for ever bless'd, 
 Hail'd entranced : O then her breast 
 
 Love or Pity sure will touch, 
 And the soft, escaping sigh 
 Heard, to Heaven shall plead on high 
 
 For my long errors,* known too much ; 
 Drooping as the fair it spies, 
 And drying with her veil her beauteous eyes. 
 
 From the flaunting branches fell 
 
 Scatter'd leaves of many a flower 
 On her, who cast an angel's look, 
 Sitting, I remember well, 
 
 * The turn given to this passage is countenanced by 
 the commentary in Vellutello's edition. It is suitable 
 likewise to the poet's customary censure of his passion, 
 and to the spirit of his introductory sonnet, " Voi ch'as- 
 " collate in rime sparse," &c.
 
 124 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Cover'd with the amorous shower. 
 Some upon her robe they shook ; 
 Some their way to tresses took, 
 
 And as gems in gold appear'd.: 
 On the fountain's margent green 
 Some were, early, settling seen ; 
 
 While others, o'er the soil revered, 
 Frolic circles form'd above, 
 And seem'd to cry, " Here reigns almighty 
 " Love!" 
 
 Often did I then exclaim, 
 
 Awed by her sweet presence, c< Sure 
 " 'Tis one of the celestial band!" 
 So with air divine the dame, 
 
 With fair features, and the lure 
 'Of magic smiles that none withstand, 
 Born our wonder to command, 
 
 Recollection charm'd away, 
 That, unconscious, with a sigh, 
 
 " Whence," I said, " and where am I ?" 
 
 
 
 And. seem'd to Heaven convey'd that day. 
 Since it pass'd, no place can please 
 Save this ; here only I exist in ease.
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 125 
 
 If thou wert tuneful as sincere, 
 
 Boldly might'st thou quit, my song, 
 
 The woods, and mix among the courtly throng. 
 
 SONNET 
 
 EMBARKING ON THE PO, IN HIS WAY TO 
 VERONA. 
 
 WELL may'st thou bear these limbs, majestic Po, 
 
 At will, upon thy powerful, rapid waves; 
 
 But the free spirit that informs them braves 
 The strong compulsion of all power below, 
 And without need of skill, the way to show 
 
 To that, bless'd branch,* whose presence still it 
 craves, 
 
 Hastening, itself with outstretch'd pinions saves 
 From thee, though wind and oars thc-ir aid bestow. 
 
 Great king of rivers, proud, presumptuous 
 
 stream, 
 That thwart'stt the Sun, when he brings on the day, 
 
 
 * Of laurel, /. .e. Laura. 
 
 i The course of the Po being east, it moved towards 
 the sun, and from Laura.
 
 12O TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 And leav'st the West, though thence more n- 
 
 diance beam ; 
 Thou what is mortal of me may'st convey ; 
 
 But all the rest (nor thou, horn'd flood, misdeem) 
 By Love is wing'd, and homeward takes its way. 
 
 SOiNNET 
 
 TRAVELLING HOMEWARDS FROM ITALY, ON 
 
 THE BANKS OF THE RHONE. 
 
 
 
 O RAPID flood, that, from thy fountain hoarse, 
 Through Alpine deserts gnawing* whence thy 
 
 name, 
 Advancest night and day, our path the same, 
 
 Where Love leads me, thee only Nature's course ; 
 
 Roll on (for sleep thou stay'st not, the resource 
 Of human Toil) and ere the ocean's claim 
 Thou yield, delay where greener meads proclaim, 
 
 In a serener air, enchantment's force. 
 
 
 
 There shines my living Sun with favouring ray, 
 
 And gladdens, on thy left, the bordering flowers : 
 Perhaps (O chance desired!) she mourns my stay. 
 
 * Deriving it from the Latin and Italian, " rodere."
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Kiss her light feet, or hand, among those bowers. 
 Tell her (and let that kiss, like language, say) 
 
 * " My will is prompt, but tardy are my powers." 
 
 SONNET 
 
 ON THE GRIEF OF LAURA, SUPPOSED FOR 
 THE DEATH OF HER MOTHER. 
 
 I SAW a simple mortal shew, at will, 
 Angelic graces, so endow'd alone : 
 
 The recollection dear, though sad, is grown, 
 Nor can aught else the mind so justly fill. 
 Yes ; tears I saw from sparkling eyes distil, 
 
 That Sol might envy, in full lustre shewn ; 
 And potent plaints seem'd utter'd, in a tone 
 To make the mountains move, and streams stand 
 
 still. 
 Grace, Feeling, Prudence, Dignity, and Grief, 
 
 Lamenting then, a sweeter concert made 
 Than blesses man, when Music yields relief; 
 
 And so the air by Virtue's sound was sway'd, 
 It was attentive all, and not a leaf, 
 
 Stirring, one moment's careless pause betray'd. 
 
 * The scriptural expression is here softened.
 
 128 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 SONNET 
 
 ON A DISTINCTION SHEWN TO LAURA BY A 
 PRINCE, SUPPOSED TO BE CHARLES SON OF 
 THE KING OF BOHEMIA, AND AFTERWARDS 
 THE EMPEROR CHARLES THE FOURTH. 
 
 ON E of rare powers, as of a royal race, 
 Unclouded judgment, and a lynx's eye, 
 Full in whose view the future seems to lie, 
 
 Has proved how little deeds his fame disgrace ; 
 
 And, when gay dames assembled in the place 
 By mirth allotted for the occasion high, 
 Among so many beauteous, could espy, 
 
 Without confusion, the most perfect face. 
 
 The fair in crowds sought forth, polite as wise, 
 
 To Age and Rank superior, with his hand 
 He mark'd his wish, and with attentions due 
 Approaching, kiss'd her forehead and her eyes ; 
 
 An honour, praised by all the unbiass'd band ,- 
 But filling me -with envy at the view !
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 129 
 
 SONNET 
 
 ON A WATER-PARTY OF LADIES, AMONG WHOM 
 WAS LAURA, GOING DOWN THE RHONE IN A 
 BOAT, AND RETURN-IN-G IN A CARRIAGE. 
 
 * 
 
 TWELVE dames, with toil not unbecoming worn,- 
 
 Rather twelve stars, and in the midst a Sun, 
 
 I saw sit gaily in a bark, that none 
 Ere equall'd, on a buoyant current born. 
 Seeking that sheep now Finery had shorn 
 
 To load its dress,* not Jason enter'd one 
 
 So glorious, nor the swain, by whom undone 
 Troy is yet doom'd its cruel fate to mourn. 
 
 In a triumphal car where, with delight, 
 All listen'd ; then my Laura to the rest 
 
 Sung sweetly, seated from the troop not far, 
 As home they moved. O what a glorious sight ! 
 To steer the bark, how, Typhis, wast thou bless'd, 
 
 And thou Automedon, to guide the car. 
 
 * This is supposed to censure the fashions of the age.
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 THAT window where my Sun is often seen 
 
 Refulgent, and the world's at morning's hours ;* 
 And that, where Boreas blows, when Winter 
 *-,., lowers, - 
 
 And the short days reveal a clouded scene ; 
 
 That bench of stone where, with a pensive mien, 
 My Laura sits, forgetting beauty's powers; 
 Haunts where her shadow strikes the walls or 
 flowers, 
 
 And her feet press the paths or herbage green : 
 The place where Love assail'd me with success; 
 
 * These particulars are related of Laura's house: 
 Maurice de Seves, in 1540, says, that in the Fauxbourg 
 of the Cordeliers, a small ancient house, built with yellow 
 stone, was called Laura's house. It was watered by the 
 Sorga, and was the second house to the left in the Faux- 
 bourg, after passing the portail Peint. It adjoined to a 
 tavern called the Cheval Blanc, and which was in exist- 
 ence not long before 1764, the date of the Memoires dc 
 Petrarque.
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 134 
 
 And Spring, the fatal time that, first observed, 
 Revives the keen remembrance every year; 
 
 With looks and words, that o'er me have preserved 
 A power, no length of time can render less, 
 Call to my eyes the sadly-soothing tear.
 
 132 TRANSLATIONS 
 
 PETRARCH. PART II, 
 
 POEMS 
 
 AFTER THE DEATH OF LAURA.* 
 
 ODE. 
 
 IF thou would'st have me suffer, Love, thy yoke, 
 
 Again (thy wish I see) new power begin 
 
 To shew, and fame .unwonted win, 
 Lest at the trial I appear unbroke. 
 
 Fly to the sacred grave, and warm within 
 That heart, the seat of Virtue, and these eyes 
 Cheer with that mortal, fair and wise, 
 
 Whose loss now beggars, as she made me bless'd. 
 
 Yes ; if 'tis justly by the world confess'd 
 Thy power to Heaven, and to the dark abyss 
 
 Below extends, (alas! in tracts remote, 
 
 Or other worlds, if we but note 
 That power surmised, we feel its force in this !) 
 
 * The day is mentioned in 1327, when Petrarch first 
 saw Laura ; and she died on the same day, in 1348.
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 133 
 
 Snatch from the cruel King his beauteous prey; 
 Again thy banners where she looks display. 
 
 Kindle those matchless eyes, again to beam, 
 Which were my honour'd guide, and the soft 
 
 flame 
 
 That cheer'd the gloom of life, the same 
 That slumbering warms. How would it waking 
 
 burn? 
 
 Never the wearied hart so eager came, 
 Athirst, to sip the fountain or the stream, 
 As I sought forth the charms, I deem 
 Will oft to mournful Memory return. 
 
 For sad Experience from the past may learn, 
 My raving thoughts are deaf to Reason's voice; 
 
 As among wildering ways decoy'd, 
 We follow one, till soon it mocks our choice. 
 Now at thy call to come I do not deign : 
 Beyond thy power presume no more to reign. 
 
 Let me again the tones harmonious hear, 
 (Truly to hear) I still in fancy can, 
 Which, when their magic work began, 
 
 The Passions lull'd, confess'd the power of song; 
 
 K
 
 134 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 While thoughts distemper'd from the breast of 
 
 man 
 
 Were charm'd away, nor aught seem'd gloomy near. 
 By this my verse was made to appear 
 
 Above itself, ne'er since so sweet or strong : 
 
 And to the mind as faculties belong 
 To call up forms unreal, let my eyes 
 
 And ears their proper objects joy to find. 
 
 While others all, of every kind, 
 Are only near, my life I lightly prize. 
 
 Vainly dost thou thy singled victim doom, 
 
 While his first love is shrouded in the tomb. 
 
 Let the sweet glance returning bless my sight, 
 
 That soften'd my vain pride, as beams the snow; 
 
 And let my happy fortune show 
 Thee placed near her who sends them to my heart. 
 
 Swift take thy golden dart, and take thy bow ; 
 Bring her pronouncing words that wake delight, 
 And hearing which I learn'd aright 
 
 How stored with captivating charms thou art. 
 
 Bid not her tongue be still ; that winning part 
 Had baits around to lure me, and which still 
 
 I crave ; and plant on every side a snare
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 135 
 
 Within her light and curling hair : 
 I cannot without this thy power allow. 
 
 Spread with thy hands those tresses to the gales; 
 And then I may confess thy power prevails. 
 
 Ne'er might I from the golden snares be free 
 
 Of ringlets, left to charm with Nature's grace; 
 
 Nor from the influence of that face 
 Which with its sweet severity inlhrall'd, 
 
 And busy Fancy still delights to trace ; 
 Which kept for ever love unchanged in me ; 
 As close to many a fading tree, 
 
 Those plants, of Venus and Apollo call'd! 
 
 But, since the gift of Liberty, appall'd 
 I have beheld, presented me by Death ; 
 
 And thou canst find none else, whoe'er thou 
 choose, 
 
 To second thy ambitious views, 
 My pride may dare thee till my latest breath. 
 
 Thy day is pass'd ; if thou have lost the arms 
 
 I dreaded once, thy rage no more alarms. 
 
 Those arms were vivid eyes, whence tipp'd with fire 
 Darts show'ring, well-directed by thy hand, 
 
 K2
 
 136 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Which Reason could not e'er withstand, 
 Fulfill'd Heaven's will ; the charm of modest Mirth, 
 
 Or feeling Thought ; Silence ; or, at command, 
 Gay Laughter; courteous ways that awe inspire; 
 Chaste looks, and words we might desire 
 
 To banish Vice impure, as spells, from earth ; 
 
 An air, as seen in one of heavenly birth, 
 Mildly benevolent, and often praised ; 
 
 Grace, when she sate, or when she stood, in all 
 
 That doubt, which Memory can recall, 
 / What winning posture most enchanted, raised j 
 
 Possess'd of arms thus victory to insure, 
 
 Thou madest me yield ; but I am now secure. 
 
 O'er other souls Heaven gavethee power, to change 
 The object of their love in many ways ; 
 Mine, of a different mould, obeys 
 
 Another law, Heaven's varied works to show. 
 Yet howe'er gain'd, no joy does Freedom raise ; 
 
 But sad, I say, " O wont this region strange, 
 
 " Thy blissful mansion left, to range, 
 
 " What doom, pure spirit, plunging us in woe, 
 " Untimely call'd thee from the world below, 
 
 " Making regret arise from what we saw
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 137 
 
 cc Of lofty Virtue, never equall'd yet?" 
 
 I may not, Love, to thee submit, 
 Nor fear thy vengeance on my head to draw. 
 Thy bow thus strain'd, to pierce me vainly tries; 
 My safety's signal were her closing eyes. 
 
 Death has absolved me from thy laws, 
 
 Love, since, for her heavenly dwelling, she 
 
 1 mourn has left me sad and free. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 How often to my long-beloved retreat 
 
 Hastening, where calm and peaceful all appears, 
 As soft I sigh, beneath my feeble feet 
 
 The well known sod I drench with trickling 
 
 tears ! 
 How often, wandering from my lonely seat, 
 
 To the wood's wild recesses, free from fears, 
 My thoughts I rivet on that aspect sweet 
 
 Death veils, nor hence his stroke invited hears ! 
 Now, in the form of Nymph or Goddess fair, 
 
 From Sorga's waves emerging, while I gaze, 
 On the green bank I see her, seated there !
 
 1^8 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Now treading, as along the bank she strays, 
 The flowers, a beauteous mortal j and her air 
 Tells me, with pity she my state surveys ! 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 ZEPHYR returns, and the mild Season, seen 
 
 With herbs and flowers, his pleasing train, in 
 state ; 
 
 Procne is heard, soft Philomel her fate 
 Laments, and Spring's own colours grace the scene. 
 The laughing flowers delight, and heavens serene : 
 
 Jove on his fairest daughter looks elate : 
 
 All creatures warn'd, through space, obedient 
 
 wait 
 
 The will of Love, and own his impulse keen. 
 But, wretch, for me those sighs return alone 
 
 That with a wounded heart for her I send, 
 Who still in heaven retains it as her own : 
 
 And th'e sweet song of birds, and flowers that 
 
 blend 
 All hues, and woman's gentle manners, grown 
 
 Importunate, like deserts dread offend.
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 THE TWELFTH PYTHIAN ODE 
 
 OF 
 
 PINDAR. 
 
 TO MIDAS OF AGRIGENTUM, VICTOR ON THE 
 
 FLUTE. 
 
 1. 1. 
 
 PROPITIOUS hear, O happy seat 
 
 Of social Joy, the fairest * own'd 
 Of earthly towns, and Proserpine's retreat ; 
 
 That placed, as on the banks enthroned 
 Of Agragas, behold'st thy vallies gay 
 
 With flocks and many a mirthful swain 
 
 * Mr. Green has omitted in his translation, the piece 
 of history contained in the expression xxxY<* o1ta *-oXt; 
 but I thought that not an uninteresting one, which shewed 
 the general opinion of Agrigentum with respect to beauty, 
 probably just before the taste and policy of Pericles had 
 rendered Athens so unrivalled in the productions of art.
 
 14O TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Subject to thee, and prosper'd by thy sway; 
 
 With Heaven's and Earth's kind will receive 
 
 my strain : 
 
 Receive too, Midas, him it crowns, who bore 
 * From Greece that Art's respected prize, 
 Pallas (the Gorgon weltering in her gore), 
 
 Invented from the monstrous kindred's cries. 
 
 1. 2. 
 
 Sadly their voice the prostrate dead 
 
 Bemoan'd, when Perseus could subdue 
 One of the three fierce sisters, and her head 
 
 His trophy, with its serpents, view. 
 For feats regretted wide, the Chief arrived 
 
 At sea-girt Seriphus, his wandering ceased : 
 The race* of Phorcus high, of sight deprived, 
 
 And Polydectes,t shuddering at his feast, 
 His mother's charms a master's prize survey 'd, 
 
 Owed to the son of Danae, on that day, 
 Their mournful fate, when, safe through mightier 
 'aid, 
 
 He bore Medusa's features fair away. 
 
 * The surviving Gorgons, Stheno and Euryala. 
 t A tribute being expected by this king from his 
 guests, Perseus appeared, carrying the head of Medusa.
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 
 2. 1. 
 
 To him they owed it, sprung from Love 
 
 Celestial, and the golden shower; 
 But when his foe the Goddess, from above, 
 
 Sees vanquish'd by her heavenly power, 
 From plaintive sounds, that o'er a sister wakes 
 
 Euryala, while pleased her ears 
 Drink in their sweetness, lasting laws she makes 
 
 To rule the enchanting Art that mortals cheers. 
 Soon, perfect by her dexterous toil, conferr'd 
 
 On man, and hence an honoured art, 
 'Tis at the games, in winning accents, heard 
 
 To rouse with eager hope Ambition's heart : 
 
 2. 2. 
 Soft as the skilful breath is born 
 
 Through well wrought brass, and slender reeds, 
 That near the city * of the Graces, torn 
 
 From their old haunts, the beauteous meads 
 And woods, Cephisus laving moves along, 
 
 Are doom'd to witness festive joy and mirth 
 Jn the light dance, and in the fervid song. 
 
 Fame without toil is hopeless here on earth : 
 
 * Orchomenus, a city of Boeotia, sacred to the Graces.
 
 142 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Yet, unexpected oft, as late * to thee, 
 
 Success arrives, and, by Heaven's awful will, 
 
 While oft the vain their labour fruitless see, 
 New prospects sad Despair with comfort fill. 
 
 TRANSLATION OF A LATIN ODE BY 
 
 GRAY. 
 
 
 
 O DOOM'D the barbarous seats with me 
 To visit, where disturb'd we see 
 Strife's restless look, and hear his sound, 
 And the gownmen bustle round ; 
 
 Say, how much better, in trie shade 
 Of some old elm reposing laid, 
 In books all irksome thoughts to lose, 
 And invoke the friendly Muse ? 
 
 For oft I chase the thoughts away 
 Of Care, as o'er the fields I stray 
 
 * He had gained the victory, as the Scholiast says, af- 
 ter breaking his instrument.
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 143 
 
 In sweet poetic trance, and leave 
 Scarce the dewy scene at eve. 
 
 And in each hill, where'er I go, 
 Parnassus seems his woods to shew 
 Outstretch'd j and in each fountain clear 
 Aganippe cool appear. 
 
 Spring and the sportive Nymphs have smiled 
 To spy me in recesses wild, 
 Scenting the violets, that there 
 
 Load with sweets the morning air; 
 
 As, thrown at random on the grass, 
 I mark the playful current pass, 
 That, gently check'd by many a stone, 
 Sends a pleasing plaintive tone. 
 
 Thus, when the Season's earliest flowers 
 Were seen, I pass'd the artless hours, 
 As long as Zephyr to each eye 
 
 Free from clouds preserved the sky, 
 
 Nor yet I leave the fields, and ease ; 
 Nor Phcebus more would Clitie please.
 
 144 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 (Though now the winds are cold and rude, 
 
 And the summer changing view'd.) 
 / 
 
 For when on rural labours gay, 
 On plains and hills, he shoots his ray, 
 Tinging the East with gold afar, 
 And purple, from his radiant car ; 
 
 Wistful I mark his wondrous course ;* 
 Nor less when, with abated force, 
 He spreads, where Calpe's rocks aspire, 
 Sweet his temper'd hues of fire : 
 
 Till by degrees his lustre grown 
 More languid, scarcely now are shown 
 The gaudy clouds, nor shortly seen, 
 Fades at once the landscape green. 
 
 O happy were I (nor might then 
 My fortune be to rise again!) 
 
 * This poetical idea is in a rejected stanza of the 
 Elegy., 
 
 " Him have we seen 
 
 " With wistful eyes pursue the^setting sun."
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 145 
 
 If falling thus, in death so bless'd, 
 I could sink in peace to rest ! 
 
 No envy should I bear the God, 
 When by his steeds Olympus trod 
 Beheld him, with whole rays on high 
 Dazzle each admiring eye. 
 
 LATIN ODE 
 
 WRITTEN AT THE GRAND CHARTREUSE, BT 
 THE SAME. 
 
 THOU guardian of the solemn place, 
 Whate'er thy name, (for none, I deem, 
 
 Of import light art thou, whose trace, 
 
 By Time adorn'd with awful grace, 
 Thy groves declare, and native stream. 
 
 And clearer far the God is seen 
 
 O'er pathless rocks, the desert height, 
 
 Or where, the craggy steeps between, 
 
 Wild waves enliven all the scene, 
 
 And foliage spreads the gloom of night,
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Than had he, beneath roofs, forsooth, 
 
 From citron hewn, in gold the art 
 Of Phidias proved, and Sculpture's truth) 
 O hail ! and to a wearied youth, 
 That calls' thee, Quiet's balm impart. 
 
 Spots thus retired, and Silence sweet, 
 
 Should Fortune still my hopes deny ; 
 And toss'd again where billows beat, 
 Compel me other toils to meet, 
 Unwilling, and the haven fly : 
 
 At least, O Power, the days of Age 
 Give me to pass, from hind 'ranee free, 
 
 Where Nature sooths Reflection sage ; 
 
 And leave the loud dissentious rage 
 Of crowds, and life's anxiety. 
 
 FINIS.
 
 REPLY TO THE STRICTURES 
 
 OF THE 
 
 MONTHLY REVIEWERS, 
 
 IN FEBRUARY, 1797.
 
 REPLY TO THE STRICTURES 
 
 IN FEBRUARY, 1797, 
 ON THE TRAGEDY OF 
 
 THE BATTLE OF EDDINGTON, 
 
 BY J. PENN, ESQ.. 
 
 INCLUDING 
 
 BOTH AN ABSTRACT AND SUPPLEMENT OF HIS 
 
 CRITICAL WORKS ON THE DRAMA. 
 
 
 
 Juvat intcgros accedere fontes. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED FOR R. WHITE, PICCADILLY; 
 
 /.ND SOLD ALSO BY P. ELMSLY, AND D. BREMNER, 
 
 STRAND; AND R. FAULDER, BOND-STREET. 
 
 1797-
 
 A REPLY, 
 
 A VERY few years ago it is known to have been the 
 uncontroverted opinion of the generality of drama- 
 tic critics, and seemed to be the opinion of all, 
 that, whether from a defect of taste in the audience, 
 or from a want of adequacy to its object in the 
 species of exhibition, the simple tragedy, which 
 confines itself to a single place, and in which the 
 whole of the fable is supposed to take up a portion 
 of time no longer than twenty-four hours, could 
 not, with any hopes of success, be brought upon 
 the English stage. That it was a dull and heavy 
 sort of composition, necessarily deficient in that 
 variety which the drama required, and which was 
 imagined to result very naturally from a trans- 
 gression of all the unities, except that of action, 
 seemed the character it most frequently bore : nor 
 had any means been suggested of otherwise pro- 
 viding that constant amusement it was thought in- 
 capable of producing at the theatre, or of giving 
 
 B
 
 2 A REPLY TO THE STRICTURES 
 
 effect to the qualities peculiar to it, of extreme 
 simplicity and perspicuity. 
 
 Had this unexpected object been attained alone ; 
 had a play so written been received at the theatres 
 royal with applause, it would evidently deserve to 
 be considered and acknowledged a curious circum- 
 stance ; and the critics, who had held this sort of 
 play to be " sacred to sleep," and triumphantly as- 
 serted, that it had never succeeded, would be com- 
 pelled, if they were candid, to own the mistake 
 they were led into in attempting to foresee impos- 
 sibility of success, and in damping the ardour of 
 enterprise directed towards the improvement of a 
 liberal art. 
 
 But the Battle of Eddingion has not only done 
 this: it has confined its subject, not to twenty-four, 
 but to two or three hours. A fictitious action of 
 that length, and in one spot, is supposed (impro- 
 bably perhaps) a faithful reprevsentation of a real 
 one, of the same length, and in one spot ; the por- 
 trait is made strangely and unnaiurally like its 
 original. The difficulty of all this is far increased 
 by borrowing no assistance from love, which the 
 Samson Agonistes alone, of all our simple plays,
 
 OF THE MONTHLY REVIEWERS. 3 
 
 had before refrained from, The trial of its effect 
 was not at the winter theatres, where " the tones of 
 " an actor," or the advantages of good scenery, 
 might recommend it; but, unluckily for the 
 Monthly Reviewers, though not " in a barn," yet 
 " by strollers ;" and I agree with them, it was ],he 
 most perfect trial that could be had.* The only rea- 
 son I could have wished it acted at the winter 
 theatres, is the general prejudice in favour of plays 
 which have been so, and the celebrity which would 
 have been reflected by this on the really just prin- 
 ciples upon which it was constructed. 
 
 After this work of supererogation, I will not ask 
 the critics for that degree of approbation which has 
 even without it appeared due ; but, since something 
 ought to be decided upon, and since the discourage- 
 ment this tragedy experienced from periodical works 
 and newspapers of all sorts was such, while the sup- 
 port it received from friends was so trifling, if they 
 will say positively, that nothing has been done but 
 what had been foreseen by them -in the repeated 
 
 * The reason why it succeeded is obvious. It is only 
 declamation that depends much upon the ton'es of an actor ; 
 incident employs his thoughts ; and hence the worst will 
 often deliver himself pleasingly, because naturally. 
 
 B 2
 
 4 A REPLY TO THE STRICTURES 
 
 applause of an audience; that the favourable re- 
 ception of the tragedy was not contrary to the 
 opinions they had expressed; and that, in short, 
 their notion of the taste of a British audience must 
 not appear much less accurate since the performance 
 and publication of the Battle of Eddington. 
 
 What I have said, in my Letters on the Drama, 
 upon the subject of stage effect, seems twisted as 
 much as any thing, so as to place my system in an 
 unfavourable point of view. The caution with 
 which I explained every part, however great, could 
 not be supposed such as to preclude all possibility 
 of erroneous objection ; but rather than attribute to 
 it an approbation of frivolous stage effect, the cri- 
 tics ought to perceive its object is to create one 
 of a very different sort, which requires most respect- 
 able poetical talents to excel in. All that/ have done 
 is carefully to collect its neglected and misused 
 characters, to give them order and meaning, and 
 to fix them 
 
 Ne turbata volent rapidis ludibria vends.* 
 To write upon this plan, seems less consulting fri- 
 
 * Flitting leaves, the sport of every wind, 
 Lest thej disperse in air our empty fate. DRYDtN.
 
 OF THE MONTHLY REVIEWERS. 5 
 
 volous stage effect, than to change the scene dur- 
 ing a piece does ; which is not only to amuse by 
 decoration without any mental effort, but virtually 
 to confess that we avoid that mental effort, because 
 our imagination or our resolution, is unequal to it. 
 Favourite maxims and observations are known 
 to give the greatest satisfaction to a British au- 
 dience. These, it was my plan to transform to clas- 
 sical beauties, like the sentences of Lucan, to have 
 them introduced into the plot with the same judg- 
 ment as the incidents, and even by adapting them 
 with equal art to the characters, operate materially 
 on the fable. If it is objected, that I am deviating 
 from the true end of tragedy in this, I shall by no 
 means allow it, even upon the principles of the 
 objectors. Johnson observes, in speaking of Dry- 
 den's ode, that diamonds cannot string and hold 
 together diamonds. There must be some meaner 
 material made use of for this purpose ; and in few 
 of the dramas they could produce, will there be 
 found a considerable number of scenes, highly 
 wrought, whatever boast there may be of regard 
 for the more splendid dramatic qualities. Now it is 
 only the intermediate scenes I would wish any part
 
 O A REPLY TO THE STRICTURES 
 
 of devoted to this stile of writing, unless indeed 
 it could be happily introduced elsewhere. This 
 setting, therefore, may not be less proper to give 
 lustre to dramatic jewels of the first water, than or- 
 naments more precious, and nearer also to their na- 
 ture, though of ill-according figure and appearance. 
 But I am far from allowing, that the success of 
 my tragedy has been chiefly promoted, or its original 
 structure chiefly instanced, by the style here spoken 
 of. There is another part of the setting, which can 
 never subject the workmanship to like strictures. 
 Supposing, that not one passage had been of this 
 character, yet the reception of the piece would 
 have been very little inferior to what it was. It is 
 by laying the plot deeper than any other, that effect 
 has been, for the first time, given to simplicity ; and 
 that critics of delicate taste have at length a means 
 of seeing compositions, which possess nothing to 
 them disgusting, obtain the favour of the public. 
 The darts of censure which light upon that part 
 of stage effect (if such it can be called), which 
 results from action, cannot strike it singly, but 
 must pitch likewise upon that natural progress of 
 the fable, which is intimately interwoven with it.
 
 OF THE MONTHLY REVIEWERS. 7 
 
 It is by the course of events that situations are pro- 
 duced which form pictures upon the stage, and 
 which are often, too, pictures characterized by pity 
 and terror. Every tragedy must present to the 
 eye a certain number of these pictures ; and the 
 question of propriety is only relative to their num. 
 ber. It is even, I take it, by the greater frequency 
 of these, that the English drama has any peculiar 
 advantage, or contributed, in any respect, to the 
 advancement of the art : and this may appear evi- 
 dent on taking a survey of each of the theatres, 
 which have been distinguished by superior genius 
 in tragedy as well as comedy, and have been most 
 probably unequalled by the efforts of every other 
 nation, ancient and modern: I mean the Greek, 
 the French, and the English theatres. 
 
 I shall premise, that there are twoprinciplesof the 
 human mind, extremely necessary here to be taken 
 into consideration; one of which is the disposition 
 discernible in poets, to take pleasure in the expres- 
 sion of thought by words, from which they may be 
 taxed, like those who are loquacious in conversation, 
 with the love of hearing their own voices ; and the 
 other, that dislike of the labour of thought itself, which
 
 8 A REPLY TO THE STRICTURES 
 
 is common likewise to them, and people in every 
 situation in life. These principles obviously tend 
 to increase the quantity of declamation, and to di- 
 minish that of incident, in a tragedy. 
 
 In my notes lately published, on the Treatise of 
 Ranieri di Calsabigi, I have shown the number of 
 scenes in a regular playi to be pretty nearly in pro- 
 portion to the quantity of action in it. In a for- 
 mer critical work I have surmised, that it might be 
 owing in part to the pomp of theatrical apparatus 
 that the Greek play was well received, though (ac- 
 cording to this rule) so very declamatory, and I 
 have found no reason to alter my opinion. An- 
 other circumstance might be mentioned too, which 
 is the custom of varying the species of music, from 
 time to time^during the performance, so that a per- 
 son entering the theatre at any time, would be able 
 to find out, merely from the music, what part of 
 the play was at the time acting. It must be appa- 
 rent, that the natural heaviness of the Greek drama 
 would by these means be exceedingly relieved, and 
 the exquisite pathos of certain scenes would be 
 waited for without impatience ; but though, added 
 to all this, tlje poet's labour was spared, much, as I
 
 OF THE MONTHLY REVIEWERS. g 
 
 have supposed, to his satisfaction, yet a check was 
 given to improvement in the art, and the inert 
 splendour of the spectacle, co-operating \vith va- 
 ried melody, gave premature content to audiences, 
 which, had the same tragedies been represented 
 before them in the modern way, might gradually 
 have made good poets feel the necessity of being 
 obliged only for the effect of their pieces, in future, 
 to the respectable resources of the human mind. 
 For, indeed, it appears, that when a more natu- 
 ral mode of performing tragedies was established, 
 the French could not otherwise keep up attention 
 at the theatres of Paris, than by increasing the ac- 
 tion half as much again, or the scenes from about 
 twenty to above thirty. Even then many attempts 
 were made by Lamotte, and other literati, to dis- 
 credit and to decry the custom which prevailed of 
 following the example of simplicity the Greeks had 
 set ; but the great merit of authors who had pur- 
 sued that method, the learning, and even the dog- 
 matism which was naturally called forth in support 
 of it, in a country proud of the cultivation of lite- 
 rature, kept alive respect for propriety in the struc- 
 ture of the drama j and happily did so, since Eng-
 
 1O A REPLY TO THE STRICTURES 
 
 land was at the same time ensuring to the world 
 those advantages of experiment, for which opposite 
 dramatic opinions prepared the way.* 
 
 With the example of Shakspeare before them, 
 the English poets had but little motive to court 
 restraint. They nevertheless increased the ac- 
 tion of the drama, on discovering an easy method. 
 Reason presently suggested to those who might 
 still indulge their natural repugnance to labour, 
 that additional variety' being readily attainable, 
 was also desirable. They changed the scene, 
 in the course of a play, to any distant place, 
 where an interesting action, connected with the 
 subject, might be represented, and by these means 
 became more habitually attentive to the employ- 
 ment of shewing, than that of describing, what 
 Was done. One consequence of this was, by 
 shortening the speeches, to call off the eyes of the 
 spectators as little as possible, from what was pass- 
 ing; and a very striking difference between the 
 English and French theatres, which marks the im- 
 provement in the drama owing to the former, is a 
 
 * May their political experiments, for stlil stronger 
 reasons, be opposite *
 
 OF THE MONTHLY REVIEWERS. 11 
 
 superiority in the number of its scenes of nearly 
 half those of the latter. It is not our custom of 
 violating the rules of Aristotle, but these circum- 
 stances incident to it, of which we have any just 
 reason to boast. The change of scene may be 
 compared to the display of that. inert theatrical pa- 
 geantry, which satisfies an audience without ex- 
 pence of thought ; and which has been mentioned 
 as a probable reason why the drama at Athens did 
 not advance more rapidly towards perfection. 
 
 Few hints had been given, till of late years, for 
 making in this art the improvement which was ne- 
 cessary. There is nothing in the works of the an- 
 cients that points more towards it than those lines 
 of Horace ; 
 
 Segnius irritant animos demissa per aures 
 Quam qua? sunt oculls subjecta fidelibus.* 
 Dr. Warton, in slightly glancing at the subject 
 of the drama, has dropped a sentiment favourable 
 to it, where, condemning the declamation of the 
 French, he speaks of action, as what ought to be 
 
 * Cold is the tale 
 
 Filling the soul with less dismay and fear, 
 Than where spectators view, like slanders by, 
 The deed, &c.
 
 12 A REPLY TO THE STRICTURES 
 
 relied upon by the poet in preference. Voltaire, 
 who knew its general nature, and who loved tra- 
 gedy, if possible, better than deism, might perhaps 
 have exhibited it to the world, had he had a Bri- 
 tish audience to direct him : but though the ques- 
 tion seems to have been agitated in France, whether 
 the drama, which professes to represent the actions 
 of men, ought not to be more sparing of the ver- 
 bal expression of sentiments, Marmomel deter- 
 mines it in the negative. The French critics, 
 whose good sense deserves praise, seemed appre- 
 hensive, before the experiment was made, that 
 poetry and rational composition could no longer 
 have place in works of this sort, and that such new 
 performances must exclusively take possession of 
 their stage, as we find prevail upon ours; though, 
 as I have shown lately, their almost exclusive preva- 
 lence is not owing to their- authors, who, however 
 they may deserve little praise, have not deserved 
 discouragement. 
 
 For by their steady rejection of rule, they have 
 been at liberty to fish out and discover the taste of 
 an audience ; and this, especially with a full gal- 
 lery, I shall ever contend to be the taste of nature. 
 Let us only observe what has been esteemed pro-
 
 OF THE MONTHLY REVIEWERS. 13 
 
 priety in common conversation, and reason from 
 analogy ; we shall see, that what is first desired in a 
 companion, is an union of the strictest good sense, 
 with the gayest and most agreeable temper. In him 
 there is nothing to perplex our choice ; but how 
 will it be if the alternative be to assort either with 
 the serious talker, who rounds his periods well, and 
 shews sense, but is determined, in spite of the com^. 
 pany, to be its orator ; and the thoughtless buffoon, 
 who is good humoured and accommodating, with- 
 out any natural strength of mind ? I do not doubt- 
 that, after a pause, even the puns of one will be 
 preferred in mixed company, to the arguments of 
 the other. I have always, upon this principle, been 
 surprized, that themost flimsy farce, which promotes 
 good humour at the theatre, to which people go so 
 professedly for amusement, should not be pre- 
 ferred there to a heavy play, the production of. 
 which required much greater powers. That it is 
 the taste of nature, may be inferred too from its 
 long continuance. False taste in manners, and 
 in literature, is of short duration ; but the pro- 
 pensity of an audience to receive pleasure from 
 dramatic works erring against the rules of criti- 
 cism yet possessing effect, is not grown weaker
 
 14 A REPLY TO THE STRICTURES 
 
 since the days of Dryden, or even of Shakespeare ; 
 and how consistent this is with the disapprobation 
 of every thinking man who judges of many of 
 those works* as productions of human genius, is 
 pointed out in my notes to the translation of Ra- 
 nieri di Calsibigi's essay. 
 
 This ingenious critic has thrown more light than 
 any other person, upon the improvement of which 
 the drama stands in need. I was immediately 
 struck by his idea, that a' tragedy ought to be " a 
 " series of pictures (pictures which will restrain the 
 " conversation to that small quantity which is indis- 
 " pensably necessary to characterize the persons, 
 " and to conduct them into those picturesque si- 
 " tuations, which strike and affect the minds of 
 " spectators)." Frequent attendance at the theatre 
 after the perusal of this treatise, enabled me to form 
 a clear idea of the means necessary to produce such 
 a tragedy ; which I did ; and the novelty of it is 
 demonstrably proved by the extraordinary number 
 of the scenes, which is proportionate, to the extra- 
 ordinary number of the incidents. It must be 
 evident from this, that what I have mentioned as 
 the real improvement of the drama due to this 
 country, did not result from a rejection of critical
 
 OF THE MONTHLY REVIEWERS. 1 
 
 rules; for .the Battle of Eddington plainly proves, 
 that change of scene is by no means necessary to 
 enrich a tragedy with incidents, and makes it ob- 
 viously proper to say to the poet " quod petis hie 
 est ;"* and to warn him that it is acting more suitably 
 to his character, as a poet, to exercise his imagina- 
 tion than his memory. 
 
 I think it natural that some people of general 
 good taste should here make two remarks. 
 
 The first is : has not quantity of incidents been 
 sometimes censured as a departure from simplicity ? 
 how then can it be praised where simplicity is also 
 praised*? I answer, that by means of duplicity of 
 plot, irregularity of conduct, and change of scene, 
 incidents may have appeared too numerous, and 
 have been so w'th those assistances to confusion 
 and perplexity ; but I doubt whether, if a drama, 
 the fullest of incidents, had closely adhered to all 
 the unities, it could ever have appeared the worse 
 for their number. Such dramas may exist, but 
 have not existed hitherto. 
 
 The second is : must not a style of writing, 
 marked with a degree of pathos, employed in un- 
 folding characters, and though dwelling somewhat 
 * What you seek is here.
 
 l6 A REPLY TO THE STRICTURES 
 
 at length upon subjects, yet rendered delightful to 
 the reader by beautiful poetry, be banished finally 
 from the tragic drama ? I answer, yes ; but this 
 is the mere twilight of pathos ; and a lustre, artifi-, 
 cial, though equally agreeable to reason and nature, 
 must be called in, to direct our eyes with certainty 
 towards the objects presented to us. It may here 
 be said, " I will not then shut out a light so much 
 " to my taste ; nor forego the pleasure of contem- 
 cf plating this season of calmness ; 'tis then 
 
 ': . 
 
 " the pleasant time. 
 
 r 
 
 ". The cool, the silent, save where silence yields 
 " To the night- warbli ng bird, that now awake 
 
 "Tunes sweetest his love-laboured song." 
 
 . 
 
 I answer again, the leaning expressed towards 
 this calmness, or this sober melody, seems to argue 
 general good taste ; but like it for what it is, and do 
 not pretend to discover in it a striking splendour, 
 nor to see clearer in the dusky air. It is only the 
 intenser pathos that has any thing dramatic in its 
 character; and that which I contend prevails too 
 much in tragedy, however soothing, is only of an 
 elegiac temper. Those pathetic parts of their 
 dramas where our poets " higher sung," I think
 
 OF th Nl QNTHLY REVIEWERS. 17 
 
 deserving of the highest praise; but instead of the 
 rest, it cannot be thought unworthy of the greatest 
 poets, to substitute a happy combination of well- 
 imagined incidents, which, with the help of beau'y 
 and propriety of language, would give the utmost 
 force to the strokes of nature which may be scat- 
 tered over their tragedies. 
 
 It will be now I think acknowledged, that the 
 Battle of Eddington cannot be rated, as the Month- 
 ly Reviewers rate it, below the critical work which 
 it accompanies. To start a doubt concerning the 
 justness of an universal opinion, such as was this, 
 of the want of theatrical effect necessarily attached 
 to Greek simplicity, may, considered abstractedly, 
 indicate a love of singularity ; to give good reasons 
 in doing so, for entertaining that doubt, must pre- 
 vent such an imputation ; but by patient labour to 
 produce, at the same time, an example to prove 
 that the opinion was formed hastily, must be allow- 
 ed both a greater mental and moral exertion. Xor 
 does the phoenomenon only exist, but a reason is 
 given why it should be equal to the effects ascribed 
 to it. The Battle of Eddington, which has suc- 
 ceeded in a more complete manner than other 
 
 C
 
 l8 A REPLY TO THE STRICTURES 
 
 simple plays, shews a difference of structure pro- 
 portionate to, and explanatory of, the difference 
 of its reception. I was not likely to engage in a 
 controversy on this point, till I could rest my 
 arguments on demonstration ; and though the ma- 
 nagers, by standing firm, may withhold awhile an 
 interesting piece of knowledge from many lovers 
 of dramatic poetry, yet this play will at length, I 
 doubt not, be esteemed curious, because a single 
 instance of one exactly filled with action, in which 
 whatever is superfluous in language is lopped off, 
 and whatever is deficient in subject supplied. The 
 scenes of the ancient tragedy revived, amount* 
 upon an average, to thirty-five ; those of the Eng- 
 lish play to forty-five ; and those of the Battle of 
 Eddington to sixty : -three. This extraordinary num- 
 ber is the necessary consequence of a deep-laid 
 plot, such as it must be clear the nature of tra- 
 gedy requires. I know nothing more satisfactory 
 to me in this discovery, than the method it points 
 out to the man of taste and education, of rendering 
 his respectable compositions (even where the unities 
 are violated) as pleasing to every part of an audience, 
 as pieces destitute of merit, which are tolerated 
 for the* sake of the spectacle. If such a person
 
 OF THE MONTHLY REVIEWERS. 19 
 
 wish to know how his tragedy will be received, let 
 him cast his eye over it. If he find it broken 
 into scenes, to the degree here recommended, it is 
 very well : otherwise he must add and interweave 
 more incidents into it; for a tragedy formed upon 
 the principles of the Battle of Eddington, is, to the 
 same person, and done in the same manner, twice 
 the labour of one formed upon those of any that 
 has existed. But it is surely better for such a per- 
 son to produce one tragedy thaf will gain him uni- 
 versal applause, than two, that will be at all neg- 
 lected ; and it is better likewise for the public, that 
 compositions, in which good sense, and some vi- 
 gour, are perceivable, should occasionally take 
 place of such as are frequently performed, and are 
 devoid of any. It may be said here, as Mrs. Mon- 
 tague very justly observes, that, " that is the easiest 
 " part of every art perhaps (but in poetry without 
 " dispute) in which the connoisseur can direct the 
 " artist." This is a true character of the mecha- 
 nical part of dramatic poetry; but the Monthly 
 Reviewers may recollect, good critics also allow 
 that mechanical beauties give praise to the inven- 
 tor, and the Battle of Eddington has created those 
 
 C 2
 
 2O A REPLY TO THE STRICTURES 
 
 rules, to which it has been singular in its adherence. 
 Whether they will think that union of perspicuity 
 and force, which these rules communicate to the 
 action, an advantage, I cannot say : this is incon- 
 testible, that in the instance where they are ob- 
 served, if not by their means, the gallery have on 
 a sudden become the loudest in their applause of 
 a play, subjected to more rigid rules than Aris- 
 totle's ; and the literati, who did not in general con- 
 ceive this possible, may see reason to incline less 
 to theory, and more to practice. Nor is too great a 
 value set, in this public offering, on the base nature 
 of stage- effect; which is attempted only to be made 
 current by its admixture, in a just proportion, with 
 the pure ore of mental exertion. I may not, in my 
 building, have shown the happiest talent of com- 
 bining classical and beautiful forms, but I have 
 discovered such beauties to be in general separated 
 by too much dead wall t and have hit luckily upon 
 the right method of breaking it at intervals, and 
 throwing the just degree of light and shade upon 
 the complete front; so that the effect is wrought, 
 
 not by deviating from, but giving characteristic 
 
 _ 
 spirit to simplicity and unity. Let us only consi-
 
 OF THE MONTHLY REVIEWERS. 21 
 
 der, with this mechanical help, what a transcendant 
 and unrivalled creation a tragedy of Shakespeare's 
 might have been, confined to the few hours in 
 which Duncan's murder is planned and executed. 
 Suppose that he 'had arrived late at night, that the 
 murder had ensued, that the company had been 
 alarmed by it very early ; and that an immediate 
 punishment of the guilty had instanced the obser- 
 vance of poetical justice. That Shakespeare could 
 not (as reflection has taught me to think he could) 
 have provided situations, in this case, as striking 
 as any even in the play of Macbeth, can only be 
 affirmed by those whose genius is as comprehen- 
 sive as Shakespeare's was. This we must all allow, 
 that in such a drama the mind is led more easily, 
 and with less reflection, to seize what follows in the 
 order of time; and that a series of events, equally 
 interesting, must rush upon it with an irresistible 
 force. 
 
 One may infer from the above general reason- 
 ing, that the Greek and French plays might be 
 adapted to the taste of an English audience, and 
 become more truly dramatic, if they were reduced 
 with judgment in a contrary proportion to the 
 number of their scenes. For instance, the usual
 
 22 A REPLY TO THE STRICTURES 
 
 number of scenes in a tragedy of the common 
 length, properly filled, being between sixty and 
 seventy, the Greek play, which has twenty more 
 or less, might be reduced to about one-third of its 
 present length; and the French play, being thirty-five, 
 to near one half. But these plays so reduced, when 
 represented, would then have that advantage of bril- 
 liant taste and perspicuity, which only Mr. Mason's 
 plays, and some others of our own, could, by a si- 
 milar process, be made to exhibit on the stage.* In 
 the two last paragraphs of my Letters on the Drama 
 I had not yet perceived very strong reasons for 
 numbering both the scenes and the lines, which I 
 should certainly always do in future ; for it is by 
 the proportion which the former bears to the latter, 
 that the degree of action may be determined. If 
 the manager finds a play read decently, and per- 
 ceives that the scenes are to the lines nearly as six- 
 ty-five to fifteen hundred, it will most probably 
 be an animated spectacle. If the former bears a 
 much larger proportion to the latter, the incidents 
 would not have their true and natural play. 
 
 * Even Mr. Mason's golden clouds ought, at such times, 
 to undergo a temporary dispersion, to give force to his 
 
 % 
 
 golden sun. 

 
 OF THE MONTHLY REVIEWERS. 23 
 
 One consequence of dwelling with such an ap- 
 pearance of exactness upon the nature of this im- 
 provement, may, I hope, be that attention which its 
 universal use seems to merit ; for it is x7fip ? ; 
 a lasting acquisition (as far as it goes) to all nations 
 equally ; and not more calculated to purify the 
 drama of this country, than to invigorate that of 
 France and Italy. 
 
 The Monthly Reviewers have taken up this sub- 
 ject, in their last strictures upon the Battle of Ed- 
 dington, with that natural degree of prejudice, 
 which promises to the world aw accession* of new 
 light, struck out by the collision of opposite opi- 
 nions. Their character of the poetical and dra- 
 matic spirit prevailing in the piece, I shall not very 
 much at length contest ; but confine myself to cer- 
 tain remarks, and chiefly such as may tend to elu- 
 cidate my system. I have long observed, and 
 attributed to the declension of simplicity of taste, 
 as well as to other prejudices co-operating with it, 
 the character which marks many decisions of mo- 
 dern critics on poetical compositions, and has 
 perhaps, greatly tended to create a species of poe- 
 tical style which lately received a check from the
 
 24 A REPLY TO THE STRICTURES 
 
 severity of satire. The nature of this style was 
 then too well described in poetry for me now to 
 attempt it.* The cause, of it, however may in part 
 be traced to a contempt of those sterling qua- 
 lities of good sense, simplicity, and correctness, 
 which, while they appear infinitely heightened in 
 the great father of poetry, still ought to be allowed 
 uncommon attractions in the writings of Virgil and 
 of Terence. Praise is due to Johnson for his ori- 
 ginality in observing, that it by no means followed, 
 because judgment was great, that genius should ne- 
 cessarily be small ; nor the reverse : for there 
 seemed to have prevailed an opinion, that the 
 two qualities, like two buckets in a well, al- 
 ways acted contrarywise. In like manner, thought 
 and expression, fancy and correctness, seem sup- 
 posed eternally at variance. These 'notions may 
 
 * The original part of the satire alluded to, is where 
 that particular confusion of style is minutely described, 
 which seems owing chiefly to the bad taste imbibed from 
 books. I n the rest, doggerel, jargon, pastoral insipidity, and 
 other faults are satirized, which are not injurious to taste, 
 though they should appear, and may consist with good 
 but inactive judgment, as being the offspring of haste.
 
 OF THE MONTHLY REVIEWERS. 25 
 
 have influenced many criticisms I have seen; in 
 which a faultering verse has perhaps jogged the 
 critic out of his accustomed spleen, and delighted 
 him at the same time with the supposed means it 
 offered, of displaying both his benevolence and 
 judgment, in lenity towards failing, as in itself a 
 sufficient, and even the only, test of inborn ex- 
 cellence. I have, however, proceeded resolutely to 
 correct, and aimed at propriety, in spite of these 
 prejudices ; though I think it not improbable, that 
 deficient in merit as may be found the lyric parts 
 of the Battle of Eddington, they may still, some- 
 times, owing to these causes, have been under-rated. 
 Judgments formed of dramatic, as well as poeti- 
 cal excellence, may possibly, at the present day, be 
 sometimes marked with error. It appears to me, 
 jhat in general, English critics in tragedy toc> much 
 
 make the whole depend upon a part. 
 
 They are properly most struck by those bril- 
 liant passages, of which, perhaps, instances are 
 only to be found in the Greek and the English 
 poets; and where the language of nature and 
 of passion in a single situation, has so power-
 
 26 A KE*LY to THE STRICTURES 
 
 ful an effect upon the mind. But there are qualities 
 that, possessed in the highest degree, may confer 
 praise beyond those which they require, in one 
 somewhat inferior. The conduct of the fable, 
 which Mr. Mason, in his Letters on Elfrida, speaks 
 of as deserving greater attention, and which the 
 French have much excelled in, must require fer- 
 tility of imagination, in order to conceive a series 
 of closely connected incidents, not only sufficiently 
 natural to support a tragedy, but sufficiently striking 
 to shew the skill of a master. And the end of tragedy 
 is equally kept in view by an artful plot, as by hap- 
 pily imagined situations, provided the object be, in 
 both cases, to affect, in the sense used by Bishop 
 Hurd, or " not to affect, but to affect in the most 
 " pleasing manner/' in the sense I used it in my Fifth 
 Letteron the Drama ; meaning thereby to distinguish 
 the overpowering sensations commonly excited by 
 private distress, from those truly tragic ones, which 
 are in part produced by circumstances incidental to 
 the misfortunes of the great. It will be easily seen 
 when the poet is verging too far to the other 
 extreme of admiration ; but this ought not rashly 
 to be attributed to him, no more than to the painter,
 
 OF THE MONTHLY REVIEWERS. 27 
 
 who, in representing some grand historical event, 
 should value himself as much on the relief given to 
 the different groupes, as on the preservation of 
 the costume, by introducing marked and striking 
 objects peculiar to the scene ; so long as he made 
 those objects either assistant, or decidedly subordi- 
 nate, to the general design. His matbematical at- 
 tachment, too, to the strict rules derived from an- 
 cient works, may be as useful to him in pourtraying 
 tlw passions , as it was to Raphael. 
 
 But I have conceived, in truth, that though 
 sensible critics may have written who will never be 
 rivalled, yet that eve"n they had not attained a pef- 
 feet knowledge of the nature of the drama ; for that 
 none of any note had deigned to consider it so far 
 as it related to practice. All, -however opposite 
 their opinions, have praised or condemned accord- 
 ing to their respective theories ; and even repre- 
 sented attempts to please a whole audience, as an 
 unworthy condescension in a poet. Yet surely 
 there cannot be a more irrational supposition, than 
 that any work of man ovgbt to be ill- calculated for 
 the purposes for which it was designed. A con- 
 viction of this, discovered to me in a tragedy, a
 
 ? A REPLY TO THE STRICTURES 
 
 greater task than it has been commonly supposed ; 
 and in attempting to do that part which had not 
 been before undertaken, it is not wonderful that I 
 should have somewhat neglected that which had, I 
 had besides, another reason for giving a common 
 air to the language and flow of the verse ; and 
 while I was in effect taking great pains with the 
 plot, I conceived it would be generally attractive, to 
 drop, in the usual careless manner, upon sentiments, 
 and recall to mind compositions the least incum- 
 bered with thought. Still, however, I hoped that my 
 tragedy would be considered, by judges, like a statue 
 purposely deficient in the half tints, and even still 
 bearing the marks of the chizel, only that it might at- 
 tain its effect at a distance, where the populace could 
 contemplate it. Nor have I had much more reason 
 to complain,, than that it could not be judged of with 
 the advantages that were expected to recommend 
 it. I, in another place, took notice of the preju- 
 dicesofihe winter managers. As I thought, with 
 the Italian critic above quoted, that it was " impos- 
 u sible to compose a tragedy by guess, without ex- 
 " periment," to write and bring mine upon the stage, 
 were one and the same thing ; yet, in spite of this,
 
 OF THE MONTHLY REVIEWERS. 39 
 
 and though I esteem, in truth, the experiment made 
 (for the public good) at the Haymarket, a memorable 
 one, as opening the door at once to chastity of dra- 
 matic composition, yet ridicule was cast upon the ex- 
 pence it put me to, no doubt as so much more ruin- 
 ous, and less sagaciously incurred, than what arises 
 from electioneering, or games of hazard. I had little 
 encouragement from those who, having made up 
 theirmind upon the subject.had formed determinate 
 ideas of the drama from an imperfect consideration 
 of its nature, and whose literary turn confirmed their 
 favourite prejudices. Even those whose extensive 
 knowledge and sound judgment had enabled them 
 to consult and understand the best models, ancient 
 and modern, may, from having formed rather a 
 systematic notion of dramatic style and manner, 
 have revolted at the novelty of the work, as .a 
 whole. But I recollect a difference of opinion in 
 these judges, when they saw it, as they would a 
 statue, raised to a niche, though not sufficiently dis- 
 tant. When the play was performed, and they had 
 not to contemplate the language, as it appeared in 
 print, but had their attention drawn off by ob- 
 jects presented to the eyes, (which ought to be
 
 O A REPLY TO THE STRICTURES 
 
 principal in a tragedy), they felt and acknowledged 
 the effect of that body of incident^ which was for 
 the first time sufficient to support one; and which 
 at once avoided the confusion, and produced the 
 variety of the irregular drama. They perceived 
 then, that it was not those faint gleams of dramatic 
 talent, that the Monthly Reviewers are most in- 
 dulgent to, that were the most valuable part of the 
 piece ; but that the plot was its principal merit ; in 
 which there was to be found, in many respects, an 
 unequalled portion of the labour of art. Besides 
 instances which may be collected from what I have 
 said elsewhere, I will mention one in the use made 
 of the odes to carry on the plot, whereas the an- 
 cients were content with advising that they should 
 not be unconnected with the main story. Those 
 parts too, which were intended to produce an efferr, 
 by means of more dramatic situations, are of equal 
 use in carrying on the plot. 
 
 But on the other hand, among the judges origi- 
 nally favourable, I have thought I had many who 
 were amply enlightened by nature ; and in the first 
 place, gentlemen of education and strength of 
 mind, who having, since their youth, devoted little
 
 OF THE MONTHLY REVIEWERS* 31 
 
 time to the cultivation of literature, had acquired 
 no literary prejudices, and taking up the book, or 
 attending the performance, perhaps as a relaxation 
 from business, were, on many accounts, prepared 
 to penetrate into the texture of the fable, and es- 
 timate its component parts. Secondly, I have been 
 particularly favoured by the gallery, and that, as I 
 have proved, independent of stage effect, and by 
 the genuine, unimpeachable method of rejecting 
 verbosity ; concerning the merit of originality in 
 -which mode, let those speak, who judgefrom other 
 principles than the gout de comparaison. I do not 
 know how far fashionable singularity in dramatic 
 matters may be carried, or whether it is no longer 
 allowed proper, to conclude a tragedy with a 
 grand spectacle enforcing the character of the 
 catastrophe, as in the Rodogune of Corneille ; but I 
 am persuaded something of this is done in the last 
 scene of the Battle of Eddington, where, after every 
 political topic has been glanced at during the play, 
 which awakens the enthusiasm of all persons who 
 think they love the constitution, Alfred is exhi- 
 bited to the English people, as having just gained 
 the decisive victory over the Danes, to which they
 
 3 A REPLY TO THE STRICTURES 
 
 are indebted for that constitution ; as leading his 
 family out of a hovel, in order to inhabit a palace j 
 and as pointing out to his followers the happy 
 change in the situation of all orders, as well as so- 
 lemnly assuring them of his intention of engag- 
 ing in his grand work. His numerous auditors, 
 consisting of English, Scotch, Welch, and Irish, 
 each Well distinguished by a national dress, might 
 produce an interesting and characteristic, if not a 
 picturesque and striking effect. 
 
 'In their criticism on the Letters on the Drama, 
 the Monthly Reviewers represent them as liable to 
 the imputation of " talking about it and "about it ;'* 
 though, to be sure, so new and comprehensive a 
 system, explained in much less than a hundred 
 pages, can scarcely answer to such a description. 
 They honour me likewise, by comparing small 
 things with great, in remarking faults which the 
 Letters had, in common with the Greek critics. 
 If they allude to the treatise which is most in point, 
 the poetics of Aristotle, I cannot but think what 
 has been considered as a mere summary, and little 
 more than the heads of a critical work, must, with 
 equal impropriety, be said to " talk about it and
 
 OF THE MONTHLY REVIEWERS. 33 
 
 " about it." A person who thought otherwise, 
 might naturally set about the abridgment of an in- 
 dex. As to concatenation of ideas and precision, 
 they are real, and as evident as the copiousness of 
 the subject would permit. The order, which is the 
 result of reflection, is exactly such as I should still 
 prefer, to explain my general opinions to the 
 reader ; nor do I know any position, or sentence, 
 which an union of knowledge, and the attention 
 necessary to understand it, would not prove to have 
 a very determinate meaning. 
 
 The doctrine of dramatic deception, though, I 
 believe, rejected by the greatest part of writers, is 
 more natural to conceive, than the recipe to make 
 a poet by making a convert to it, on account of 
 the manifest tendency of a belief in it to increase 
 the powers of fancy in dramatic composition. But 
 this seems suitable to the prevailing idea of the 
 small value of common sense and right reason in 
 poetry. Yet, though the observation is true, that 
 an enlightened age sets a greater value upon the 
 finer strokes of imagination, than an adherence to 
 the rules of composition, it does not upon a depar- 
 ture from those rules, simply considered; nor should 
 
 D
 
 34 A REPLY TO THE STRICTURES 
 
 it be to flatter the vanity of the poet, but to please 
 ourselves, that we read his work. The literary epi- 
 cure, who sits down to one of the feasts of reason, 
 may be disposed to admire the skill of the cook; 
 but he will curse him for a coxcomb, if he finds it 
 owing to his self-sufficiency that he is ill and un- 
 comfortably served. 
 
 I am not at all staggered by the adherence of 
 the Monthly Reviewers to their opinion of tragi- 
 comedy, either as to what respects plot, or temper 
 of mind. Duplicity of plot in the drama, may be 
 compared to duplicity of gesture, in public speak- 
 ing, such as it appeared in the Roman orator Cu- 
 rio, who waved his body from one side to the other; 
 or as it has appeared in some modern orator, when 
 he could not speak without pulling about his hat; 
 in which cases, an affected motion of the limbs or 
 body has been superadded to the natural one. 
 They are both ungraceful and inelegant, and yet 
 both useful to those who resort to them ; for one 
 is assistant in the production of incidents, as the 
 other is in the production of arguments ; and I 
 have shewn quantity of incident to be as essential 
 in tragedy, as quantity of argument can be in ora-
 
 OF THE MONTHLY REVIEWERS. 35 
 
 tory. Both ought equally to be condemned in 
 themselves; and yet we should regret them if we 
 were to lose, at the same time, the fruit of those 
 talents they have been effectual in calling forth. In 
 like manner, dramas composed both of tragic and 
 comic scenes, are only to be defended by the de- 
 gree of genius which they possess. If any one has 
 at the beginning assumed a tragic tone, and a 
 comic part succeeds, if that ceases before the con- 
 clusion of it, the tragicum spirans is quite forgotten 
 in the poet, and we are employed too much in re- 
 collecting him, to be completely interested after- 
 wards. Sufficient reasons have been given to re- 
 commend dramatic simplicity ; but what is equal 
 to innumerable reasons, is this fact, that a method 
 is at length pointed out, for their obtaining general 
 favour ; by the help of which, if bad taste has for- 
 merly prevailed in criticism, good taste, no doubt, 
 in future, will ; nor do I think the managers will 
 be long able to reject a form of play against which 
 they are prejudiced, upon the old plea of its unfit- 
 ness for stage representation. 
 
 I have said nothing above upon the rational in- 
 troduction of music, on which I dwelt in the criti-
 
 36 A REPLY TO THE STRICTURES 
 
 cal works I have already published ; because it is 
 not so likely, as the due construction of a simple 
 drama, to attract general attention when the expe- 
 riment is made. Neither did the notion I had con- 
 ceived of it cost any, and still less equal, time and 
 labour; for the first idea of it occurred to me many 
 years before I made the drama my particular study, 
 and when, after lectures on the Greek tragedians 
 at the university, I was accustomed to attend the 
 opera during the vacations. My subsequent read- 
 ing and observation have only confirmed me in the 
 opinions I then imperfectly formed. 
 
 It cannot be said I have cajoled any critic or 
 person into an agreement with me in these diffe- 
 rent opinions ; since I have taken every fair means, 
 by refraining from such conduct, of provoking ob- 
 jection, and piquing prejudice, in order to subject 
 my system to the severest trial. The same desire 
 of making a curious experiment by its publicity, and 
 no wish of becoming my own panegyrist, may ap- 
 pear to have occasioned the claims I lay of any 
 share of that merit, in the Battle of Eddington, 
 which the Monthly Reviewers disallow, as well as 
 a few additional remarks now in explanation of it.
 
 OF THE MONTHLY REVIEWERS. 37 
 
 That they would rescind their unfavourable cha- 
 racter of the poetry, I never could presume to think ; 
 for though I should differ from them at all on that 
 point, I have rested all claims on demonstra- 
 tion ; but they must rescind their character of the 
 play as a heavy play (according to the usual accep- 
 tation of the term), because it is altered in a second 
 edition, so as to become one no longer ; and they, 
 and many other critics, may see reason for allowing 
 that it has put an end to one objection against the 
 regular drama, namely, the want of variety usually 
 experienced by an audience in its representation. 
 If it should be possible that this play, though jus- 
 tice were done in the acting, and management of it, 
 would ever displease a numerous one, consisting of 
 people of all ranks; yet the principles upon which it 
 is formed, are a new discovered spell, to secure 
 others who are but a little more expert than myself 
 in the use of it. It must be considered, that I have 
 endeavoured, not so much at composing a tragedy, 
 as at perfecting the form, and pointing out the na- 
 ture, of tragedy. But the piece in which I have 
 done this, will at length, and would now, I have the 
 greatest reason to think, be allowed that portion of
 
 38 A REPLY TO THE STRICTURES 
 
 value which utility confers, were utility in this in- 
 stance, known as clearly as it is in general sought 
 ardently. The prejudice which prevents its ap- 
 pearance at the winteY .theatres, forbids likewise, 
 the pleasure an audience would take in listening to 
 sentiments, in which almost all the topics interesting 
 to them as Englishmen, are, by a good deal of fair 
 labour, brought together j and in witnessing the 
 representation on the stage, of an event in our 
 history, naturally heightened, which gives beyond 
 all others to the natives of these islands, reasons 
 for just exultation. 
 
 If any resemblance is, on these accounts, re- 
 marked in it, to those dramas which rely on the 
 snares they fay for applause, I ask how the compa- 
 rison will hold good, when it is seen to adhere 
 more invariably to the rules, whether allowed real 
 or imaginary, of rational composition, than any 
 former tragedy ? It is true, that the same means 
 are resorted to, though divested of what made 
 them blameable, of attracting attention; and owing 
 too to that circumstance, the success of this new 
 mode could not much more discredit them, but 
 only institute a fair competition, in preventing
 
 Of THE MONTHLY REVIEWERS. 3^ 
 
 their almost total monopoly of the stage. However, 
 carefully, in a work of this sort, to guard against 
 any splendour in the spectacle, or any aptness of 
 allusion in the dialogue, which naturally offers 
 itself, is no more praiseworthy, than to aim at the 
 effect of introducing actors, with only part of their 
 cloathes on. Nature in this, as in other respects, is 
 the proper guide. All that I regret, in following 
 example, is, that I adopted too much in some 
 places, that usual carelessness of style, approaching 
 to baldness, and in attending to dramatic, too much 
 overlooked poetical effect; for I am now con- 
 vinced, action would have attained every end I 
 could desire. It is by this, that the scenes are not 
 only made to carry on the plot, but possess a sepa- 
 rate consequence, just as much as change of scene 
 from Europe to Asia and back again, could ever 
 give. For I in vain search with the Monthly Re- 
 viewers in the Gothic drama for those gigantic ef- 
 fors, and that grandeur of energy which they per- 
 ceive; and it seems to me like searching for a needle 
 in hay. Were only the most interesting point of 
 time in all the situations it presents to employ the 
 poet, an evident advantage must accrue ; for there 
 mav be those who mistake smoke for fire. The
 
 4O A REPLY TO THE STRICTURES 
 
 true English Gothic, in the drama, as in architec- 
 ture, is to be looked for only in England, where it 
 is confined to the plays of Shakespeare, being only 
 made delightful by his genius, while indeed it does 
 little honour to his judgment. In the German 
 play of the Robbers, the characters are drawn with 
 spirit ; but this merit is fully discovered towards 
 the beginning, before its frequent changes of scene, 
 and plainly existed independent of them. The 
 Monthly Reviewers themselves, observe in the play 
 of Fiesco, that " the interest is not always on the 
 encrease," (which does not do particular honour 
 to this species of drama,) and the Robbers seems 
 as little to defy criticism, for the nature, the deli- 
 cacy, and the terror unmixed with horror, of its 
 situations. Among other instances of its finding 
 no advantage in the liberty it is allowed, may be 
 mentioned, the interest not increasing sufficiently 
 towards the end. This has always struck me as 
 very natural, and proved so, not only by the falling 
 off of many modern plays towards the conclusion, 
 when a poet becomes tired of the work he has in 
 hand, but by the remark even of the oldest critic *, 
 who thereby shews nature to have been the same 
 
 y.w{. ARIST.
 
 OF THE MONTHLY REVIEWERS. 41 
 
 in all countries, and in all ages. Though, however, 
 these circumstances but little recommend the Gothic 
 drama, I would rather have the critic, in general, 
 lay much stress upon them, than the poet, who 
 ought to be allowed every liberty he thinks ne- 
 cessary, provided only his compositions possess 
 merit. 
 
 I think, after the above observations, the ques- 
 tion will appear reduced within a narrow compass, 
 and some degree of value may attach to the Battle 
 of Eddington, on one of two accounts; for, 
 
 Either it had more poetry to support it in a suc- 
 cessful representation, than the Monthly Reviewers 
 allow : 
 
 Or, not having more, it deserved praise for 
 judgment in the construction of its plot, (which 
 could thus alone procure it success contrary to the 
 universal opinion,) EXACTLY IN THE SAME PRO- 
 PORTION AS THE POETRY WAS DEFECTIVE.
 
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