RICHARD THE THIRD. As altered from SHAKESPEARE by CIBBER.

CRITICISM is undoubtedly the moſt elaborate and ungracious of all literary compoſi⯑tions: paſſing cenſure muſt ever be painful to a liberal mind, and has no palliation, no balancing pleaſure but contraſted praiſe; however, the ge⯑neral advantages ariſing from candid inveſtiga⯑tion, equally ſeparated from partial indulgence, or malevolent ſeverity, deſerve ſome degree of honeſt approbation, and ſtrengthen the feelings to undertake with becoming reſolution ſo hazard⯑ous a taſk,

Dramatic compoſitions are of a nature too nice and complicate, for all admirers of the ſtage to conſider with that attention which is neceſſary to underſtand them properly; hence much of [2] the true reliſh and ſolid improvement derivable from them is loſt, and often changes the theatre from what it literally may be, a profitable ſchool of moral inſtruction, to the ſphere of uſeleſs or prejudicial diſſipation.

This conſideration has given riſe to the fol⯑lowing work, in which the various opinions are diffidently ſubmitted to, not dogmatically ob⯑truded upon our ſeveral readers; where we ſtrike out new and uſeful lights, we doubt not being allowed ſome credit for them; where we appear fallible, indulgence is hoped for; ſince however we may err in the extenſive ſcene before us, our warmeſt wiſhes are to be right.

The hallowed ſhrine of Shakeſpeare every friend of intrinſic merit muſt approach with re⯑verence; yet why, amidſt the meridian blaze of his brightneſs, ſhould we decline diſcovering and pointing out thoſe dark ſpots which his ge⯑nius ſhares in common with the ſun; implicit admiration, as well as implicit faith, argues a narrowneſs or ſycophancy of mind, which we hope ourſelves free from; and ſhall, as much as poſſible, follow that excellent maxim, to extenuate nothing, nor to ſet down aught in malice.

To purſue all the nice and intricate diſtinctions of claſſical criticiſm, would occaſion prolixity; appeal only to the judgments of learned readers, and therefore be totally incompatible with our deſign; which is merely to try each drama as [3] a picture of nature, at the bar of nature; and the manners of thoſe nations where the ſcene of each is laid.

Well knowing how inſipid prefatory matter generally is, thus much only is offered by way of Introduction; and we hope the candid reader will from hence ſuggeſt whatever elſe may ſeem eſſential.

Of all thoſe various ſubjects which have en⯑gaged the Tragic Muſe, none are of equal force and dignity to hiſtorical ones; from a multiplicity of great and intereſting events, they rouſe and command more paſſions than any other; of this Shakeſpeare was a moſt com⯑petent judge, and happily availed himſelf; I ſay happily, becauſe he not only thereby gained a wide fruitful field for the exertion of his amaz⯑ing talents; but in a political ſenſe did honour to his country, by delivering faithfully many memorable events, in a much more ſtriking manner than any hiſtorian could poſſibly do; he has alſo thereby indulged that commendable na⯑tional vanity which makes Britons fond of ſee⯑ing Britons diſtinguiſhed on the theatre of life.

RICHARD THE THIRD, as acted, tho' eſſen⯑tially Shakeſpeare's, is much indebted for its variety, compactneſs, and ſpirit, to the late Colley Cibber, whoſe thorough acquaintance with the Stage, well qualified him for regula⯑ting a plot, and arranging of ſcenes, which is [4] indeed no more than a kind of dramatic mecha⯑niſm, yet indiſpenſibly requiſite.

The laureat has been blamed for mutilating other plays of beautiful paſſages to enrich this; but, tho' we admit it to be literary depradation, we muſt rather vindicate than cenſure him; there is little, if any diſhoneſty in ſtealing jewels merely to ornament the juſt owner; beſides it ſhews what Cibber was never accuſed of, modeſty,—by avoiding ſtudiouſly the inſertion of his own in⯑adequate ſtuff.

This play opens with well-imagined pro⯑priety, as a plain, ſimple introduction is the beſt preparative to a ſucceſſion and climax of inte⯑reſting events; expectation ſtrained at the be⯑ginning moſt commonly produces a faint unaf⯑fecting cataſtrophe; the previous character of Henry, and the mode of his introduction, pre⯑judice us in his favour; his philoſophical re⯑flections are ſuitable to his depreſſed ſituation, as well as his turn of mind; and Treſſel's pa⯑thetic narration not only ſerves to raiſe our ten⯑dereſt concern for an unhappy king and father, but prepares us with great judgment for what we muſt expect, to find in Gloſter, which de⯑ſcription naturally ariſing out of the cir⯑cumſtance, has far greater merit than thoſe lugged in headlong merely for ſake of expla⯑nation.

Notwithſtanding ſome good critics have con⯑demned ſoliloquies in general as unnatural; yet [5] we muſt venture to contend for their propriety; ſince nothing is commoner than for people in private life, warmly poſſeſſed of any ſubject, to talk as if in converſation, tho' alone: in this light, Gloſter is very juſtly brought to view, and I doubt if by any other means ſo ſtriking and copious a picture could have been given of his whole heart in a firſt appearance; nor could any other character have given ſo happy a de⯑lineation of him as he does of himſelf.

The firſt act concludes properly with putting a period to Henry's life, which indeed could not have been preſerved any longer with ſuitable im⯑portance; and Richard gives an extended idea of his ambitious remorſeleſs principles in a very characteriſtic ſoliloquy.

The ſhort ſcene with which the ſecond act begins is a juſt preparation for the funeral of Henry; and thoſe obſequies being partly ſhewn, keep the unfortunate monarch in our remem⯑brance till more buſtling events ſuperſede him; Lady Ann's introduction is affecting, but her yielding to him whoſe hands are ſtill red with the blood of her huſband, and father, ren⯑ders her future misfortunes rather juſt puniſh⯑ment than motives for pity; however, the ſcene is wrought up in a very maſterly manner; and in the performance gives ſcope for capital acting; the concluding part of this act introduces the duke of Buckingham, the Queen-dowager, and acquaints us with king Edward's death: Ri⯑chard [6] alſo unveils part of his deſign relative to prince Edward, whoſe approach and deſtination to the tower he announces.

The young King and his brother, the duke of York, make a moſt pleaſing apppearance in the firſt ſcene of the third act: that ſolid good ſenſe diſcoverable in one, and the ſhrewd, pregnant ſimplicity of the other, are admirably ſtruck off; after their departure for the tower, Richard's ear⯑neſt diſcloſure of his views to Buckingham opens a wider field for expectation; and his method of ſecuring his couſin to his intereſt ſhews Gloſter an able politician, fit to avail himſelf of Buck⯑ingham's weak, venal diſpoſition.

Lady Ann's treatment in the ſucceeding ſcene manifeſts her huſband's brutality more ſtrongly; yet, as we have already hinted, ſeems no more than a juſt conſequence of that unpardonable vanity which led her into ſuch an unnatural connection.

Buckingham's illuſtration of the method uſed by him to work on the citizens, and his treat⯑ment of them when they enter, ſhow him verſed in court chicanery; particularly throwing in a remark, 'tis hard—The mayor ſhould loſe his title with his office, Richard's hypocriſy is here painted in a capital manner; and is moſt admi⯑rably aſſiſted by the aſſumed paſſion of his cou⯑ſin on one ſide, with the ſycophantic credulity of the citizens on the other; his reluctance and their perſuaſions, like well adapted lights and ſhades, engage and pleaſe the attention; which [7] is well varied by Richard's ſudden tranſition to a ſtate of ambitious exultation, and from thence to a ſtruggle with conſcience, which appears to lodge a conſtant thorn in his breaſt.

In the beginning of the fourth act, our feel⯑ings are turned upon objects of real ſtrong pity; our tears which have ceaſed ſince the firſt, are here called forth again judiciouſly in behalf of an unhappy mother, and her helpleſs infants; the characters introduced to furniſh freſh matter for concern are well brought forward, and the Queen's grief is wrought up in an affecting manner; however, we muſt be of opinion, that the ſcene is not near ſo intereſting as it might have been made; that lady Ann and the dutcheſs of York are here mere non-eſſentials, that the chil⯑dren do not affect us as they ought, and that all the Queen's ſpeeches, except the laſt three, are far too unimportant for her heart-rending ſitua⯑tion.

Richard, now diſcovered as King, works up⯑on Buckingham, by diſtant inſinuation, to effect his main purpoſe, that of deſtroying the chil⯑dren; his cautious earneſtneſs, and the duke's conſcientious diffidence, are extremely well con⯑traſted; the King's impatience at Buckingham's coldneſs, his indifference at the news brought by lord Stanley, his enquiry after, and remarks on his wife Ann, with his ſubſequent contemptuous treatment of his lukewarm couſin, exhibit great and maſterly diverſification of action.

[8]The ſcene between Tirrel, Dighton, and Foreſt, ſhould for two reaſons have been made longer; firſt to have raiſed our pity more, even by the immediate murderers; next, to have given Richard more time for his appearance at the Tower: there are but ten lines from going to meet Tirrel in his cloſet, before that impious tool comes on with his followers quite prepared: had he mentioned the premium and the King's favour to lull their ſcruples, the buſineſs would have been conducted more conſiſtently.

The King's ſoliloquy is maſterly; anxious hope and guilty ambition quiver in every ſylla⯑ble; nor is the ſucceeding ſcene leſs characteriſ⯑tic; Cateſby's entrance is well contrived, and gives a good opportunity for that fiery ſpirit breaking out, which ſo much animates the remain⯑der of the piece; Richard's interview with the la⯑dies, tho' not eſſential, in ſome meaſure deſerves its place, as in it the tyrant is devoted to deſtruc⯑tion by a mother's curſe: the following part of this act is as rapid, and as well a conducted ſeries of intereſting events as ever was exhibited in any drama, and it concludes with a very bold, ſtrik⯑ing climax of paſſion.

The three firſt ſcenes of the fifth act are merely preparatory to what follows, and therefore ju⯑diciouſly ſhort; Richmond ſhews himſelf ſuf⯑ficiently, and ſtands well contraſted to his anta⯑goniſt. Richard's ſcene in the tent is as well imagined, to engage the feelings of ſpectators, and to ſhew the power of action as poſſible; nor [9] could ghoſts ever be more juſtifiable than here; however we muſt offer a doubt whether ſuch falſe creations of the brain ſhould ever be called to view; ſince it is moſt certain that they play upon our paſſions in flat and abſurd contradiction to our rea⯑ſon; let this point be determined as it may, Cibber ſhewed juſt critical judgment in rejecting the ſecond introduction of thoſe imaginary exiſtences, which we find in Shakeſpeare's Richard; becauſe in repre⯑ſentation one would have flattened the other, and both muſt have conſequently palled. After many martial excurſions, in which the leading character is very happily exhibited, the cataſtrophe is wrought up to a moſt pleaſing event in his death; a circum⯑ſtance as conſonant to ſtrict poetical juſtice, as it is to hiſtorical truth. Richmond's concluſive ſcene diſplays a generous, patriotic diſpoſition, and is as agreeable as the place it ſtands in will admit.

Having thus given a general delineation of the plot and arrangement of ſcenes, it becomes ne⯑ceſſary to enquire for the moral, without which no dramatic piece can have intrinſic worth; in hiſto⯑rical plays we cannot expect much ſocial inſtruc⯑tion, as they chiefly appeal to national tranſactions; however, from Richard the Third we may draw this uſeful concluſion, that no degree of ſucceſs and grandeur, no gratification of lawleſs ambition, however ſplendid, can ſtill the voice of conſcience; which, though unheard by the world, ſpeaks in thunder to the guilty wretch, who bears ſuch a painful monitor in his boſom.

[10]The characters of this piece are many in num⯑ber, yet exhibit no great variety of contraſt, after Richard, Henry, Richmond, the Queen and Chil⯑dren; all the reſt are of a ſimilar complexion: Richard is truly in point of figure, ſentiments, lan⯑guage, and conduct—himſelf alone; however hiſtorical relation admits doubts of that monarch's perſonal deformity, it was certainly well judged to make his external appearance on the ſtage, emblematic of his mind; and for ſake of ſingu⯑larity dreſſing him only in the habit of the times may be defenſible; but what excuſe can be made for ſhewing him, at his firſt entrance, in as ele⯑gant a dreſs as when king, I am at a loſs to ſuggeſt; does he not, after his ſcene with Lady Ann, profeſs a deſign of ornamenting his perſon more advantageouſly? Macbeth, when king, is always diſtinguiſhed by a ſecond dreſs, why not Richard? a ſtill greater breach of propriety ap⯑pears in putting mourning upon none of the per⯑ſons at court but the ladies and the children; though Richard pays all other external reſpect to the circumſtance of his brother's death.

Through three acts Richard appears the cloſe diſſembling politician, and affords no great variety of action; indeed his ſoliloquies are ſo long and ſo frequent, that very few who attempt to repreſent him avoid falling into an inſipid ſameneſs.

In the fourth and fifth acts he breaks out like a flame which has been long ſmothered; and through the impetuoſity of agitating circumſtan⯑ces [11] betrays many performers into the error of out-heroding Herod.

The Public have ſet up Mr. GARRICK as a ſtandard of perfection in this laborious, difficult part; and if we conſider the eſſentials, his claim to ſuch diſtinction will immediately appear indiſputa⯑ble; a very deformed perſon never riſes above, and ſeldom up to the middle ſtature; it is gene⯑rally attended with an acuteneſs of features and ſprightlineſs of eyes; in theſe three natural points our Roſcius ſtands unexceptionable; variations of voice, and climax of expreſſion, in both which he ſtands without an equal; graceful attitudes, ner⯑vous action, with a well-regulated ſpirit, to ani⯑mate within natural bounds every paſſage, even from the coldeſt up to the moſt inflamed.

Mr. GARRICK alſo preſerves a happy medium, and dwindles neither into the buffoon or brute; one, or both of which this character is made by moſt other performers: it is true, there are many paſſages which have a ludicrous turn, yet we may reſt aſſured, that he who occaſions leaſt laughter is moſt right; in reſpect of marking particular places with peculiar emphaſis, ſome ex⯑ceptions may be taken, or doubts raiſed againſt every perſon we have ever ſeen in the part; how⯑ever, tracing minute lapſes of this kind, which after all may be mere matter of opinion, would occaſion too great a digreſſion; we ſhall there⯑fore only mention three which ſtrike us moſt: the firſt is,—I am myſelf alone—which words are [12] often expreſſed in a tone of confident exultation, as if he was ſingularly above the reſt of mankind; whereas adverting to his own unhappy compoſi⯑tion, it ſhould be uttered with heart-felt diſcontent; and indeed the three preceding lines, which ex⯑clude him from all ſocial intercourſe, ſhould be expreſſive of concern.—The ſecond paſſage is, where Buckingham ſolicits Richard for his pro⯑miſe, and Richard meditates in theſe lines;

The laſt line is often ſpoke without a tone of continuation to the word, perhaps, which is moſt evidently intended; the third place is in theſe lines;

It is uſual to ſpeak this couplet in one continu⯑ed climax of paſſion; whereas the two words marked in Italics, ſhould be uttered in a lower tone, expreſſive of mental agony—Conſcience being the conſtant diſturber of his peace, and a great bar to his reſolution, the latter part of the line riſes to a kind of triumphant exultation, which not only varies, but gives force to the expreſſion.

Having placed Mr. GARRICK far before all other competitors in this character, as ſupporting every ſcene throughout the whole with very capi⯑tal merit; it would be ungenerous not to acknow⯑ledge, that Mr. MOSSOP diſplays great powers, [13] Mr. SHERIDAN much judgment, and Mr. SMITH conſiderable ſpirit; but had the firſt more deli⯑cacy, with leſs labour; the ſecond more harmo⯑ny, and leſs ſtiffneſs; the third more variation, with leſs levity, their merit would riſe ſeveral de⯑grees beyond what it is.

Henry's character is compoſed of pathetic dig⯑nity; in repreſentation it ſhould be ſtudiouſly re⯑membered, that his griefs, tho' a diſtreſſed king and father, ſhould not be blubbered like thoſe of a ſchool-boy, but ſhould paint feeling wor⯑thy the monarch and the man—The part is ad⯑mirably drawn, and highly finiſhed; yet we can⯑not remember any performer doing it tolerable juſtice except Mr. DIGGES, who is now, we believe, retired from the ſtage.

Richmond requires little more than a good fi⯑gure, free deportment, with ſmooth, ſpirited ex⯑preſſion; yet our theatres have not often filled it with ability: the late Mr. PALMER, tho' no trage⯑dian, came neareſt the idea we can form of it.

The Queen, tho' not wrought up to the pitch her circumſtances ſeem to admit, is a character of much reſpect and attention; Mrs. PRITCHARD did more for it in action, than the Author in wri⯑ting; it is now given to ſecond and third rates, for what reaſon is hard to ſay, as there never was, nor perhaps ever will be, an actreſs of higher eſti⯑mation, than the lady juſt named; what ſhe did not think beneath her is certainly equal to any exiſting merit, and the public have an undoubted [14] right to expect capital performance wherever it can be introduced; nor ſhould the ridiculous word, conſequence, deter managers from fulfilling this point of duty.

The ſentiments and verification of this tragedy are rather familiarly-nervous, than flowing and affluent; however, the language all through is uniformly characteriſtic, unleſs we object to a per⯑ſon in Henry's ſituation ſtepping aſide to the al⯑luſions of froſty Caucaſus, and December ſnow. Since it is treſpaſſing upon probability and nature, to make a character deeply diſtreſſed, or torn with paſſion, vent poetical ſimilitudes; for which reaſon alſo we muſt condemn thoſe lines in the laſt ſpeech of the fourth act, tho' the thought is really fine, that ſpeak of the fever worn wretch; they are generally omitted, but more, we imagine, to re⯑lieve the actor's utterance, than from any idea of impropriety.

Upon the whole, RICHARD appears much bet⯑ter calculated for repreſentation than peruſal, as indeed every buſtling piece muſt be; however, taſte and judgment will not by any means hold it light in the cloſet.

THE STRATAGEM. A COMEDY. By FARQUHAR.

AS Mr. Pope declared an honeſt man the nobleſt work of God, ſo Mr. Addiſon pronounced a good tragedy to be the nobleſt work of man; whether he advanced this opinion from intending to raiſe ſuch a maſterly and permanent monument to his own reputation upon the ſtory of Cato; or if he did, how much he failed in the great attempt, we ſhall not at preſent pretend to determine, but ra⯑ther yield to Dryden's aſſertion, that an epic poem is undoubtedly the moſt arduous and comprehen⯑ſive effort of human genius.

The tragic muſe confeſſedly claims great pre⯑eminence over her ſiſter the comic; yet if we con⯑ſider, that a knowledge of ourſelves and the world are the beſt poſſeſſions of our minds, the laughing lady, tho' ſhe muſt yield precedence to dignity, may certainly, upon juſt principles, boaſt a greater ſhare of utility; the elevated paſſions and inci⯑dents with which we are treated by the former may warm, melt, and aſtoniſh our feelings; while the latter, playing with fancy in its natural, or ſome other familiar ſphere, exhilarates our ſpirits, puts judgment in good humour, and pleaſantly pre⯑pares us to receive ſome occaſional neceſſary laſhes of correction, applied to our vices or follies.

[16]There is one remark relative to the dramatic ſiſters well worth notice; that, as the elder is leſs general, ſo ſhe is more laſting; her characters and paſſions are the ſame through ages; while the younger is forced to draw exiſting peculiarities; which, when their parent faſhion vaniſhes, diſ⯑appear with her, and become obſolete; thus the comedies of Shakeſpeare and Ben Johnſon exhibit maſterly genius; yet as the originals they took their pictures from are unknown, their force and beauty are in a great meaſure loſt. When Mr. Garrick's Fribble was firſt played, a ſmall hat helped conſiderably to mark the petiteneſs and in⯑ſignificancy of his figure; what ſort of a hat muſt he wear now to diſtinguiſh him from the preſent Liliputian head-covers.

We are told, that Wilkes played all his fine gentlemen in full-bottomed wigs, as Cibber did the fops alſo; how ſtrange would any thing of that kind appear at preſent, when even biſhops wear crop-eared bobs; the coxcomb and fine lady of every ſeven years vary conſiderably in al⯑moſt every point of converſation and deportment, as they do every ſingle year in regard of dreſs; wherefore the writer of the preſent day, if he has genius ſuitable, muſt have great advantage of his predeceſſors, prevailing manners and originals being on his ſide.

There have been inſtances of men, very little converſant in life, writing tolerable tragedies; but we do not remember one, nor do we believe an inſtance can be given, of any perſon writing [17] a comedy of merit, whoſe intercourſe with, and knowledge of, ſociety has not been pretty exten⯑ſive.

Unities of time and place are, ſtrictly applied, critical trammels, ſerving no purpoſe but to check the nobler flights of genius; the ſame lati⯑tude of imagination, which can move us from a chamber to a ſtreet, and thence to a grove, may undoubtedly reconcile much greater tranſitions; avoiding this very allowable liberty has made moſt of our modern tragedies ſo barren of incident, that they are heavy and palling to a degree; but tho' moderate freedom is contended for, poetical licen⯑tiouſneſs ſhould be avoided; a child to be born in the firſt act, and appear ſixteen or ſeventeen years old in the fifth, as we find in the Winter's Tale, throws contempt upon probability, and over⯑ſtrains the utmoſt ſtretch of credibility; ſuch a lapſe of time is totally unwarrantable; indeed as come⯑dy is a delineator of familiar life, the unities ſhould be much more punctually obſerved in her compo⯑ſitions than thoſe of tragedy.

Thus much premiſed, let us proceed to the in⯑veſtigation of Mr. Farquhar's laſt production; an odd, yet it is hoped, not very blameable com⯑poſition for a dying author, whoſe genius, like an expiring taper, has here thrown out ſeveral ſtronger flaſhes of light, than when in a perfect ſtate of exiſtence.

The STRATAGEM, more properly ſo called than Beaux Stratagem, takes its name and birth from the declining circumſtances of two genteel [18] ſpirited young fellows, who, from their own ac⯑count, have ſpent their fortunes, and rather choſe to retire from the circle of gay life, before neceſſity ſubjected them to contempt; having ſeen many examples of worthy, ſenſible men, who, wanting full pockets, were not only ſhunned, but publicly ridiculed by coxcombs of their former acquain⯑tance, whoſe finances remained ſtill unimpaired.

The deſign of our adventurers travelling to re⯑pair fortune in the matrimonial way, tho' not ſtrictly honourable, is no way chimerical or impro⯑bable; and laying the firſt ſcene in a public-houſe, gives an opportunity of opening the play, and its general deſign, with humour as well as propriety.

The buſtle of Boniface, and the pertneſs of Cher⯑ry, are extremely characteriſtic, nor can any thing be better ſupported than the forward, ſelf-ſuffi⯑cient, talkative landlord is, with his gueſts in the firſt ſcene; the praiſe of his beer, his punctuality reſpecting its age, its killing his wife, with the help of uſquebaugh, his reſignation upon that circumſtance, his tranſition to the characters of lady Bountiful, the other ladies, and Mrs. Sullen, is a well-expreſſed chain of connected, humorous nothingneſs, which is not a little enlivened by making every perſon old Bonny mentions, a ſub⯑ject of appeal to the tankard; his curioſity in ſounding Archer about his maſter, and Archer's whimſical reſerve work a comic effect.

The ſcene of explanation between Aimwell and Archer ſeems rather eſſentially the effect of their ſituation and ſcheme, than merely a deſigned infor⯑mation [19] to the audience; and Boniface comes in happily to prevent its being tedious; the converſa⯑tion concerning ſupper is well wrought up, and Archer's objections to pig and onions judiciouſly thrown in, whether we conſider them as involun⯑tary ones, forgetting his aſſumed ſtation, or as a deſign of giving Aimwell a better opportunity of ſhewing himſelf the maſter.

Boniface's comments and conjectures upon the money which Aimwell commits to his care, are ſuch as might be expected from ſuch a perſon, who appears, under cover of ſpecious, open bluntneſs, to be a rogue himſelf, and an encourager of other rogues—Cherry's diſlike of his principles recom⯑mends her—but when ſhe recals the words, my fa⯑ther! and ſays— ‘"I deny it—my mother was a good free-hearted, generous woman; and I can't tell how far her good-nature might have tended for the good of her family,"’ —ſhe treſ⯑paſſes too much upon the bounds of delicacy.

Archer's enſuing dialogue with her is ſpirited, pleaſing and natural; females of an inn are deem⯑ed lawful game both for genteel and ſervile tra⯑vellers; what he ſays to her is common-place flat⯑tery, therefore well-adapted to a gallant footman; her replies are the right drain of bar-maid ſmart⯑neſs and wit; her catching at a ſlip of expreſſion, when he ſays— ‘"There's a ſwarm of Cupids, my little Venus, which has done the buſineſs much better,"’ —that being rather above the reſt of his ſtile—is well thrown in, and his confuſion upon the unexpected queſtions reſpecting his [20] name, pariſh, &c. not only gives Cherry a plauſi⯑ble reaſon for viewing him as a dubious character, but alſo affords him a very good opportunity of exhibiting equivocal looks and expreſſion; the ſhort ſubſequent repartees are extremely pleaſant; their concluding with a ſecond kiſs, and Boniface's calling Cherry, give a timely termination to the firſt act.

At the beginning of the ſecond act, Mrs. Sullen, a married, and Dorinda, a ſingle lady, are intro⯑duced; by their converſation we find, that the former has been bred up in, and is fond of town-life; that the latter has paſſed her time in, and is reconciled to rural retirement, or at moſt a coun⯑try town.

Mrs. Sullen, after rallying country pleaſures, and giving no very favourable idea of her lord and maſter, in a deſcription as inconſiſtent with decen⯑cy, as his behaviour is with good-nature and good ſenſe, approaches the ſquire on his entrance, with becoming affability, to which he makes very brutal returns; indeed Sullen appears to have no manner of buſineſs here but to draw his own picture when ſober, as he does afterwards when drunk; on ordering Scrub to get ready for ſhaving his head, the lady throws out a moſt ſhameful hint concerning his temples, which, to make it more groſs, is in repreſentation twice repeated: this gives Scrub, who catches her meaning, an op⯑portunity of raiſing a gallery-laugh, by the mean, p [...]iful, pantomimical action of repreſenting his [...] horns with two fingers; this piece of [21] behaviour ſhews the lady to be void of ſenſe as well as modeſty; a ſervant, and ſuch a ſervant as Scrub eſpecially, is a ſtrange confidant for ſuch an explanation. We heartily wiſh the ſtage-ladies would omit the paſſage, and go directly to ‘"Inve⯑terate ſtupidity! Did you ever know,"’ &c.

The remainder of this ſcene has ſpirit, yet offers but a very faint exculpation for Mrs. Sullen's mode of thinking and ſpeaking; except in that line where ſhe ſays to Dorinda, ‘"if I go a ſtep beyond the bounds of honour, leave me;"’ the mention of going to church immediately after ſuch a converſation is, I believe, not at all unna⯑tural in a fine lady.

The ſhort enſuing ſcene is of very little conſe⯑quence, except containing ſome very juſt and keen remarks upon the impreſſion that Aimwell's exter⯑nal appearance is likely to make; the ſatire, tho' only pointed at a country congregation, might be as juſtly applied to many thouſands in this metro⯑polis, who are equally devoted to outſide ſhow, and unmeaning curioſity.

Gibbet's account of his plunder is pleaſant and ſatirical; Boniface's mention of his two gueſts na⯑tural, and their joint endeavours to ſound Archer, with his evaſive anſwers, are truly comic; the in⯑troduction of Cherry, with her childiſh repetition of love's catechiſm, preſerves a flow of ſpirits— we could wiſh the queſtion where love goes out had been omitted; the diſcovery of Archer not being a footman is well thrown in, and the girl's pro⯑poſition of marriage, tho' ſomething forward, by [22] no means unnatural; how ſhe ſtands poſſeſſed of two thouſand pounds immediately at her own diſ⯑poſal admits ſome doubt; Archer's heſitation falls well in; Cherry's taking it as a confirmation of his ſuperior rank juſtifies her diſcernment; and the friendly hint concerning her father ſhows her heart in a very favourable light.

Archer's ſoliloquy is very pertinent, pleaſant and lively, but ſomewhat ungenerous; where ſpeaking of one who has offered ſo ſubſtantial a proof of confidence and regard; he ſays— ‘"if the wench would promiſe to the when the mo⯑ney were ſpent—egad one would marry her;"’ this may be gallant, but it is mean and mercenary alſo. Notwithſtanding rhimes or tags, as they are called, appear peculiarly abſurd in comedy, we are willing to forgive the four following for that good ſenſe they exhibit, and that certain truth they ſo agreeably convey in verſe almoſt as eaſy and natural as proſe.

The ladies again preſent themſelves, and inform us that the ſingle one has received one of Love's inſtantaneous lightening-winged darts from Aim⯑well's eyes while at church; Mrs. Sullen's raillery in this ſcene is extremely ſuitable both to charac⯑ter and occaſion.

There is great judgment in reſerving one cha⯑racter or more, to the third, nay even the fourth act; this reinforcement Farquhar has moſt happi⯑ly [23] availed himſelf of in the parts of Scrub and Foigard; the former of whom is moſt certainly a child of whim, yet ſo near nature, and ſo fraught with laughter, that he muſt pleaſe; the latter is as much within the rules of critical propriety as poſſible, and an object of real entertainment.

Scrub's packet of news, concerning the ſtrange gentleman, cannot be unfolded properly without having a powerful effect; the conjectures he re⯑lates, and his own, of Aimwell's being a Jeſuit, becauſe his footman talks French, muſt dilate even the rigid muſcles of ſtoiciſm.

Love, like neceſſity, being a parent of inven⯑tion, we muſt admit the young lady's ſending Scrub to cultivate an intimacy with Aimwell's footman as a natural piece of policy; ſervants being in general a communicative index to the fortune, family, connections, and qualities of their maſters and miſtreſſes, which Archer in his con⯑verſation with Scrub ſeems well acquainted with, and profits by; as we ſhall find upon coming to that ſcene.

Aimwell and Archer ſupport different feelings in their ſucceeding ſcene becomingly; the former ſpeaks of his miſtreſs with all the rapture of real paſſion; the latter dwells upon their original view, her fortune; yet ſteps ſomewhat aſide, and, with much pleaſantry, mentions his own adventure with Cherry; his burleſque heroics

[24] Are not only a juſt reproof to Aimwell's roman⯑tic alluſions, but alſo a laughable ſatire upon thoſe poetical writers, who appropriate high flown ſtrained images and pompous verſification to the moſt trifling circumſtances.

Boniface's diſpoſition of introducing his gueſts to each other, is truly that of a country landlord; and his attempt to find out Aimwell, when he re⯑plies to his invitation of Gibbet— ‘"who ſhall I tell him, ſir, would"’ —is very conſiſtent with impertinent curioſity and low cunning.

Gibbet's ruſty appearance, and aenigmatical mode of converſation, are certainly well adapted to his character; Aimwell's queſtions are ſuitable, and hint a juſt ſuſpicion of the pretended captain; Boniface's preparative for Foigard's appearance, in a blundering affectation of knowing men and languages, is very laughable; and the Prieſt's joining company enriches the ſhort ſcene he is concerned in very conſiderably.

Archer and Scrub are now exhibited in a di⯑verting ſtate of familiarity; the droll ſimplicity of the latter is a well drawn contraſt to the polite ſhrewdneſs of the former, who artfully feels the ſimpleton's pulſe, and, under friendſhip's aſſumed veil, winds into the ſubject he has in view; this whimſical tete-a-tete never fails, even with indif⯑ferent performace, ſetting the riſible faculties at work. Scrub's terrible ſecret of being in love with Gipſey is a moſt forceable ſtroke of low humour; and the chain of explanation which ariſes from it, concerning the French Count, the Prieſt and Mrs. [25] Sullen is extremely natural; opening part of the plot ſeemingly without any deſign of the author; the tranſition to Scrub's various employments very properly puts a ſtop to the converſation, and the ladies appear in very fit ſeaſon.

Mrs. Sullen's throwing down her fan by way of lure to a footman, tho' a ſmart agreeable fellow, ſhews her in the light of a giddy-headed coquette, or ſomething worſe; it would have been an allow⯑able method of beginning converſation with a gen⯑tleman, but to a ſervant in livery violates decorum; beſides it does not anſwer the intention, for Scrub is forced to act as maſter of the ceremonies at laſt.

Archer in his converſation with the ladies, uſes judiciouſly that ſtrained ſtile of expreſſion which we may ſuppoſe a coxcombly valet would be fond of; and lady Howd'ye's meſſage is as poignant a piece of ſatire upon the unconnected jargon, and unintelligible lumber of words, a faſhionable foot⯑man's ſcull is loaded with, as ever was penned; his reply to Mrs. Sullen's ſurprize at his not being better provided for, came from the author's heart, though now commonly omitted— ‘"I was offered a lieutenant's commiſſion, but that's not provi⯑ſion for a gentleman."’ This ſeems a contempt thrown on ſubaltern gentlemen, but FARQUHAR felt the forceable truth, having been in that ſtation himſelf; if it was too little forty years ago, what is it now, when every article of life is advanced above a third? and yet military pay remains un⯑augmented, though judges, and ſeveral officers of ſtate, who had ſalaries large enough before, have [26] been conſiderably increaſed. Reader, excuſe this ſhort digreſſion, ſtrong feelings for a very reſpect⯑able and ſerviceable ſet of gentlemen have forced it from us.

Dorinda's information that Archer probably is a companion of my lord's in diſguiſe, rather palli⯑ates her ſiſter's favourable diſpoſition towards him; but Mrs. Sullen, true to the unbluſhing principles of a vicious heart, throws off all reſerve in theſe words;— ‘"I choſe the count to ſerve me in a de⯑ſign upon my huſband; but I ſhould like this fellow better in a deſign upon myſelf;"’ —after ſuch an explicit declaration, who can ſay that this lady deſerved a better huſband than Sullen? ne⯑glect on one ſide, long acquaintance, frequent inter⯑views, and very engaging qualifications, might warp even virtue at an unguarded ſeaſon; but at firſt ſight, and ſuch inferior rank, it is literally too groſs.

Sullen's behaviour is ſuch as we may expect from him; after his exit, a deſign is mentioned, which as the play is performed, cannot poſſibly be diſcovered, for it never comes to action nor expla⯑nation; the author is not to blame, for by means of the Frenchman, Mrs. Sullen means to awaken her huſband's jealouſy; but that character being totally omitted, that matter remains in the dark, unleſs ſomething can be picked up from what Foigard ſays afterwards; but how a ſpectator is to know that for the project here hinted at, we can⯑not tell.

Lady Bountiful's character is amiable, and Aim⯑well's feigned ſickneſs well contrived to gain ad⯑miſſion [27] to his miſtreſs; the buſtle occaſioned by his miſtake is well conducted; but there is a line frequently introduced to create laughter in the up⯑per regions, which occaſions us to wiſh Shake⯑ſpeare's excellent rule was more enforced by ma⯑nagers, and better obſerved by performers— ‘"let your clowns ſpeak no more than is ſet down"’ — or if this is too ſtrait a limitation for the miniſters of Momus, we would at leaſt have them conſult decency in their own additional wit, nor ſacrifice it for a little ſmuggled applauſe. We have heard what follows frequently ſpoke;— ‘"you ſhall taſte my water, 'tis a cordial I can aſſure you, and of my own making,"’ which Scrub facetiouſly enforces, by ſaying, ‘"do taſte it, ſir, for my lady makes very good water;"’ another ſtroke of Mrs. Sullen, for which we muſt criminate the Author, is very offenſive; when Archer ſays, ‘"I find myſelf very ill at this minute;"’ ſhe replies (aſide indeed) with this emphatic obſervation; ‘"I fancy, friend, I could find a way to cure you."’

Aimwell's introducing his footman to the ladies, is what I believe no peer or commoner ever did in ſimilar circumſtances, notwithſtanding the apo⯑logy of his underſtanding pictures.

Foigard's converſation with Gipſey, entirely ap⯑pertains to the under plot of introducing the Count into Mrs. Sullen's cloſet; the prieſt is herein well characterized, too many we fear of that fraternity having made a very bad uſe of their influence over Families.

The picture ſcene between Mrs. Sullen and Ar⯑cher, if we can reconcile the lady's amorous con⯑deſcenſion, [28] contains many pleaſing alluſions and delicate compliments, particularly comparing the duke of Marlborough, then in the zenith of glory, to Alexander; the hint of his own diſguiſe, thrown out in Jupiter's approach to Leda, and aſking the lady if ſhe did not ſerve the painter who preſumed to draw her breaſts, as Jupiter did Salmoneus, for imitating his thunder, are well imagined, tho' in a romantic ſtrain: what follows reſpecting the bed-chamber is as extraordinary a coup-de-main of gallantry as can be met with, conſidering the cir⯑cumſtances of ſuch different rank, ſo ſlight an ac⯑quaintance, time of the day, and company at hand; if the attack be truly Britiſh, as Archer inſinuates, then are Britons Lions in love. Scrub's entrance is critical and lucky; his confuſed manner of tell⯑ing the prieſt's plot, humourous and natural.

The comparative view of compliments from their lovers, for Mrs. Sullen honeſtly owns Archer ſuch, between her and Dorinda is very ſpirited; but both the ladies rather call a bluſh upon the cheek of modeſty, when one ſays— ‘"you can't think of the man without the bed-fellow, I find."’ To which the knowing young lady replies, ‘"I don't find any thing unnatural in that thought; while the mind is converſant with fleſh and blood, it muſt conform to the humours of its company?"’ Another paſſage not very defenſible, is— ‘"mine ſpoke the ſofteſt moving things—mine had his moving things too?"’ This reply is generally de⯑livered with ſuch an illuſtrative emphaſis, that there needs no ghoſt to tell what the character, or [29] at leaſt the actreſs, means; we wiſh this arch mode of expreſſion, as it is called, was reformed all together; and it ſoon would be, if public reſent⯑ment, inſtead of applauſe, attended it.

In the latter part of this ſcene the author labours, and with ſome effect, to make Mrs. Sullen apolo⯑gize for herſelf; when ſhe ſpeaks of her own heart, and the violence done her feelings by a brutiſh, in⯑ſenſible huſband; ſome rays of partiality will break in upon us for her unhappy ſituation; yet her relapſe in theſe lines baniſh them all— ‘"to confeſs the truth, I do love that fellow—and if I met him dreſs'd as he ſhould be—and I un⯑dreſt as I ſhould be—look ye, ſiſter, I have no ſupernatural gifts—I can't ſwear I could reſiſt the temptation—though I can ſafely promiſe to avoid it, and that's as much as the beſt of us can do;"’ —a very pretty compliment truly— not reſiſt temptation! then where is virtue? Avoid⯑ing what may endanger it, is moſt certainly pru⯑dent; but reſiſting ſolicitation, and curbing our own paſſions, prove integrity—the chaſtity of a Nun, locked up within grates and walls, is no me⯑rit; but if the ſame perſon, amidſt the gay world, guides her ſteps in the right path, this is poſitive virtue, which we believe a great majority of the fair ſex are capable of, and riſes far above that degree of mere negative virtue, which Mrs. Sullen palms upon her ſex, having no other principle herſelf.

Archer who ſeems to have no real honeſty from the beginning, confirms it by his remark upon [30] Aimwell's ſaying, when he ſpeaks of Dorinda, ‘"'tis a pity to deceive her, nay, if you ſtick to thoſe principles, ſtop where you are;"’ Foigard's prevarication, and Archer's detection, are whim⯑ſically droll—the prieſt's catch at Tipperary, and ſaying he went to ſchool at Kilkenny, is as natu⯑ral and pleaſant a blunder as we have met with.

The ſhort ſcene between Boniface and the rob⯑bers, is only introduced to let the audience know the deſign on Mr. Sullen's houſe.

A new character, Sir Charles Freeman, with⯑out whom the cataſtrophe could not have been brought about, makes his appearance at the be⯑ginning of the fifth act, and not only from the landlord, but from the ſquire's perſonal appear⯑ance and converſation, gains a confirmation of the diſpoſition of his hopeful brother-in-law.

The ſcene between Archer and Mrs. Sullen is ſupported with great warmth and vivacity; the eclairciſſement is wrought up to a ſtrong pitch of paſſion, and becomes very critical, when Scrub's fright, in a very convenient and laughable manner, interrupts it; but Archer's remark upon his diſ⯑appointment, is groſs to the laſt degree, and ſhould never be ſpoke— ‘"the very timorous ſtag will kill in rutting time."’ Scrub's miſtaking him for one of the thieves is a natural effect of fear, and varies the dialogue pleaſingly —The ſeizing of the robbers, and the diſpoſal of them, fall well in; Gibbet's remark, that he muſt ſave ſome part of his money to bring him off at the ſeſſions, is a keen juſt ſtroke of ſatire againſt that [31] vile perverſion of juſtice, which, for bribes, pro⯑tects rogues who can pay well.

Archer's availing himſelf of a ſlight wound to draw lady Bountiful and Mrs. Sullen aſide, that Aimwell may addreſs Dorinda to more effect, gives the plot a probable progreſs; Dorinda's generous objection to a haſty marriage, and its delicate ef⯑fect upon her lover, are very agreeable incidents, not a little heightened by Foigard's diſſatisfaction at being ſo often called to no purpoſe. Archer's reproach to Aimwell ſhews him in a very unfa⯑vourable light—The unexpected intelligence, brought by Sir Charles Freeman, of Aimwell's ſucceeding to his brother's title and eſtate, opens our views to a favourable concluſion, which till this remains judiciouſly doubtful; Archer's con⯑fuſion, upon hearing of Sir Charles's arrival, ſhows commendable and nataral ſpirit; Dorinda's next change is very well imagined, and the reaſon ſhe aſſigns for it ſhows refined generoſity, which is, that as Aimwell had candidly acquainted her with his poverty, ſhe thinks it her duty to let him know his good fortune before their marriage.

Archer's immediate demand of half the lady's fortune is mean and unmannerly; and Aimwell's replies are ſomewhat ſtrange for the ſituation of things. As this comedy is played, we find Foi⯑gard moſt abſurdly introduced to ſpeak of the robbery as being told to him, tho' the audience has already ſeen him in preſence of the ſame cha⯑racters placed as a guard over the thieves; this, by the author, was put into the Frenchman's [32] mouth; however, a ſlight alteration may bring propriety to the prieſt; only making him enter with—Arra, ſure there has been another robbery— then the mention of Boniface falls in aptly.

Cherry's billet-doux ſhows honeſt attachment, and ſure never was ſo contemptible a return made for generoſity as Archer's diſpoſing of ſuch a girl, with two thouſand pounds fortune, to be Gipſey's ſucceſſor in Dorinda's ſervice.

The ſcene of ſeparation between Sullen and his wife has a peculiar degree of humour, and deli⯑neates both the characters pleaſantly: upon Sul⯑len's refuſing to refund his lady's fortune, Archer makes a moſt extraordinary propoſition; firſt, with reſpect to the ten thouſand pounds Aimwell reſigns in his favour, then by putting the ſquire's bank notes and writings into Sir Charles's hands; theſe bank notes, &c. we find, were taken by Mr. Gibbet; how Archer came by them we do not ſo clearly perceive, unleſs he picked his pocket when firſt ſeized; but allowing he does, as may be juſti⯑fiable, what right does that give him over the pa⯑pers, that he ſhould lay ten thouſand pounds mortgage on them? and how amazing a com⯑pliance is the ſquire's acquieſcence to ſuch a de⯑mand? Inſtead of ſaying his head, we think he ſhould reply, ‘"my pocket aches conſumedly;"’ but all of a ſudden, he grows the beſt natured brute imaginable, and invites them to be as merry as they pleaſe in his houſe, and at his expence.

If wit be an eſſential of comedy, this piece is certainly deficient in that point; for we find ſcarce [33] any of thoſe unſtudied flaſhes of imagination which claim that title; however, the dialogue is eaſy, ſpirited, and natural throughout, well varied, and well adapted to the ſeveral characters; the hu⯑mour forcible, and maintained without deſcending too low; the characters well grouped, and the ſcenes arranged with judgment; yet it is to be lamented, that there are few moral ſentiments, that the plot is in many places reduced to pitiful expedients for ſupport; that the principal man and woman are deſpicable wretches; that human nature is ſhewn in a very unfavourable light; that ſeveral paſſages raiſe groſs ideas; that the volun⯑tary divorce is abſurd; that Archer and Mrs. Sullen are left in a very unſatisfactory, or offen⯑ſive ſtate; that the whole piece is totally without a moral; and that the four following concluſive lines have no meaning at all, or elſe a very bad one;

Thus Mr. Farquhar diſſolves the marriage-knot, with as much eaſe and expedition as Alexander did the Gordian of old; one would think his method had been pretty generally inculcated, and is well received among the great world at preſent.

In reſpect of characters we perceive, that Ar⯑cher is a gay, ſenſible, gallant, but unprincipled, young fellow; whoſe chief wiſh is to repair a ſhat⯑tered fortune, and obtain pleaſure at any rate, ha⯑zarding honeſty for the one, and ſocial, as well as [32] [...] [33] [...] [34] moral obligation for the other; his attack upon Cherry may paſs, but his romantic one upon Mrs. Sullen is abſurd as well as vicious; the view of gain, one main point, is in no ſhape anſwered there; yet, notwithſtanding theſe objections, he is a very agreeable, and therefore dangerous dra⯑matic object; vices ſhould never be dreſſed up in pleaſing colours; however, ſuch he is drawn by the author, and now we ſhall merely conſider him in the mode of action.

The attributes for ſupporting this part, are viva⯑city of deportment, ſignificancy of look, and pert volubility of expreſſion; every one of which Mr. GARRICK poſſeſſing, it is no wonder his perfor⯑mance ſhould be capital; the ſcenes in which he particularly outſtrips competition, are thoſe with Cherry—where he delivers lady Howd'ye's meſ⯑ſage, and the picture ſcene with Mrs. Sullen.

Mr. SMITH is very ſprightly, agreeable, and characteriſtic; nor is Mr. LEE without conſider⯑able merit; but ſtill we muſt inſiſt that Mr. GARRICK, both as footman and gentleman, main⯑tains his uſual great ſuperiority, tho' not ſo much as where more forceable powers are wanting.

We have been ſo unfortunate as to ſee Mr. SHERIDAN walk through this character; and have heard of Mr. MOSSOP's undertaking it; but the report cannot be true, as it muſt nearly reduce him to the ſtate of the King of the Antipodes in Cronon, that is, making a topſy-turvy part of it, and ſtanding upon his head.

Aimwell, who is only a plain, unaffecting gen⯑tleman, found better ſupport by far from Mr. [35] Ross, and the late Mr. PALMER, than from any other perſon we have ſeen; Sullen is well enough in the hands of Meſſ. GIBSON and BURTON; but was indeſcribably better in poſſeſſion of Mr. QUIN, nay of Mr. LUKE SPARKS; Mr. LOVE exhibits the ignorant, jocund effrontery of Boni⯑face, equal to any one we recollect; and Mr. MOODY is extremely characteriſtic in Foigard; yet we muſt be of opinion, that if criticiſm would enjoy a feaſt of originality from the Hibernian prieſt, it muſt be found in the performance of Mr. SPARKS, now at Drury-lane.

Scrub is a very marked and ſtriking character; ſimple, yet cunning; forward, tho' timid; a tat⯑tler, affecting ſecrecy; and a fool, aſſuming wiſ⯑dom: his ſituations are happily groteſque, and pregnant with much pleaſantry; a performer muſt have very faint comic powers, who cannot keep an audience in good humour with this part; and yet ſome very capital ones have run wild; Mr. THE. CIBBER gained applauſe, but entirely from making droll faces; Mr. WOODWARD took the ſame path, with ſome variations for the bet⯑ter; Mr. SHUTER alſo has the fault of being ra⯑ther too comical; while Mr. WESTON, by an admirable naiveté of performance, moſt certainly ſtands unrivalled in the part, and throws all ela⯑borate, mechanical acting far behind.

As to the ladies, the old one is a very good wo⯑man, but neither here nor there in action; Mrs. Sullen has been ſufficiently animadverted on to ſhew that ſhe is very cenſurable, yet ſhe muſt al⯑ways [36] gain attention and reſpect from an audience; Mrs. PRITCHARD and Mrs. WOFFINGTON had each great merit in this part, but undoubtedly preference was due to the former; who, with a figure leſs happily adapted, and leſs vivacity, ſtill preſerved the character, without rendering the licentious paſſages ſo offenſively intelligible; or dwindling ſo much into the affected coquette; of living performers we can only ſay, that Mrs. BARRY gives ſatisfaction upon very juſt princi⯑ples; yet muſt own a wiſh to ſee Mrs. ABINGTON, who is happily devoted to comedy, and that alone, in poſſeſſion of this part; firſt becauſe her attri⯑butes are extremely ſuitable; and next, becauſe the ſmall number of characters ſhe plays does not often enough gratify the public deſire of ſeeing her: in reſpect of Mrs. LESSINGHAM, who per⯑forms it at Covent-garden, we wiſh her a better income off the ſtage than ſhe makes on it; and ſhould be very glad to ſee Mrs. BULKLEY fill up her preſent caſt; which, tho' confined, is of too much conſequence to be dallied with.

Dorinda is amiable, but not intereſting; what could be made of her was to be found in the pla⯑cid, modeſt ſenſibility of Mrs. PALMER, who, tho' ſhe never could equal great undertakings, always made ſeconds of this kind pleaſingly re⯑ſpectable: every thing we wiſh for in Cherry Miſs POPE furniſhes; but Miſs WARD, tho' ſhe means well, is far too faint.

HAMLET. Written by Mr. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

THE opening of this tragedy is extremely well deviſed; the time of night, the place, the characters, and what they ſpeak, all moſt natu⯑rally concur to raiſe an awful preparatory appre⯑henſion for the appearance of that ſupernatural agent on whom the main action totally depends; and indeed ſo artfully has Shakeſpeare wrought upon his great patroneſs, nature; ſo powerfully does he engage our paſſions upon this occaſion, that even thoſe who laugh at the idea of ghoſts, as old womens' tales, cannot avoid lending an eye and ear of ſerious attention to this of Hamlet's father.

Introducing him previouſly to ſome of the in⯑ferior characters, brings him with double force upon the principal one; and Horatio's determi⯑ning to acquaint the prince with ſo ſtrange and alarming a circumſtance is very natural.

The ſingularity of Hamlet's appearance as a mourner, when all the reſt of the court are in a ſtate of feſtivity and congratulation, raiſes our idea of his filial affection and concern; his indifferent, contemptuous replies to the King, and his catch⯑ing ſo eagerly at the word ſeems, uſed by his mo⯑ther, are a happy commencement of his character. Laertes's ſoliciting leave to travel ſeems merely [38] calculated to keep him out of the way, and to learn fencing againſt the fifth act.

The firſt ſoliloquy of Hamlet is particularly ſtriking and eſſential, as it lays open in a pathetic, beautiful manner, the cauſe of his melancholy, and paints his mother's frailty with ſtrong feeling, yet preſerves a delicate reſpect.

The ſcene which introduces Horatio, &c. to communicate the circumſtance of the preceding night ſucceeds naturally; and the broken mode of converſation, in lines and half-lines, is ſo art⯑fully contrived, is executed in ſo maſterly a manner, that the ſpectators, tho' they previouſly know the ſubject, are yet agreeably lured on to hear it re⯑lated, and thoroughly ſympathize in the tranſi⯑tions of Hamlet, whoſe interrogations concerning the awful ambaſſador of heaven are ſuch, as give us a ſtronger feeling of the Ghoſt than even his appearance does; on the prince's determination to watch, notwithſtanding his violent agitation, he might have uſed a phraſe leſs cenſurable than the following:

Laertes's ſhort advice to Ophelia is pregnant with affection and good ſenſe; as Polonius is in⯑troduced to haſten his ſon on board, we could wiſh thoſe excellent maxims for youth in the firſt ſcene of the ſecond act, and which are always omitted in repreſentation, were tranſpoſed to this place, and given perſonally by the father to his ſon; ſuch a treaſure of uſeful inſtruction ſhould upon no ac⯑count [39] be loſt to the ſtage. Polonius's obſerva⯑tions to Ophelia are prudent, and deſcriptive of paternal affection.

The remarks of Hamlet and his friends, when entered upon the platform, are very politically thrown by the author upon a far different ſubject from what has brought them there; and with the intervention of a flouriſh of martial muſic, uſher in the Ghoſt with as much, or more effect, than at his firſt appearance.

The prince's addreſs begins with becoming awe, yet we apprehend riſes too ſuddenly into ex⯑preſſions ill applied to the venerable, well-known, beloved figure then before him; terror does in⯑deed confound reaſon, but ſeldom gives birth to a paſſionate, preſumptive effuſion; wherefore we muſt be hardy enough to offer an objection againſt the following lines, as to their import:

Nor can we by any means acquieſce in opinion, that a heart ſo fluttered and affected as Hamlet's is, could poſſibly dictate multiplied images; moſt certainly we diſcover much more of the poet and fancy than ſuitable feeling in,

[40]Beſides, in the ſtrictneſs of obſervation, it is worthy notice, that Hamlet in one line calls the appearance in view a ſpirit, and immediately materializes him, by mentioning the corporeal appurtenance of bones; the concluſion of this ſcene is admirably compoſed of broken ſentences; ter⯑ror, paſſion, and aſſumed reſolution.

In the ſucceeding ſcene, a narration of a very affecting nature is delivered by the Ghoſt, in lan⯑guage worthy that inimitable author, who created characters from the force of imagination, and, from the ſame inexhauſtible ſource, furniſhed a peculiar mode of expreſſion from each.

The Roman catholic opinion of purgatory is inculcated through the whole of this interview; and funeral rites, or preparatives thereto, parti⯑cularly mentioned in this line: ‘Unhouſel'd, unanointed, unaneal'd.’ But whether Shakeſpeare may thence be deemed a favourer of popiſh principles, remains a matter of much doubt; and the determination, could we come at it, would be of no conſequence to our preſent purpoſe; however, let the religious bent be what it may, we muſt admit the Ghoſt's ſtimu⯑lation to revenge furniſhes a very groſs idea of immortality, which ſhould be freed from the paſſi⯑ons and remembrances of clay; nor does the pal⯑liative diſtinction, which forbids any violence againſt the Queen, take off the imputation of mortal frailty, hanging about an exiſtence merely ſpiritual; an abrupt departure, and thoſe beauti⯑ful lines with which the Ghoſt diſappears, are a [41] very happy concluſion to the ſcene, which, ſpun out to a greater length, would have loſt much of its force and beauty.

Hamlet's enſuing ſoliloquy is very natural, and highly expreſſive of the impreſſions left upon him; his converſation with Horatio and Marcellus is judiciouſly evaſive, for the circumſtance juſt learned of his father's death, does not admit in policy of communication, and if it did, a repeti⯑tion would pall the audience; however, tho' this ſcene altogether has the merit of pleaſing pro⯑priety, we can by no means, unleſs Hamlet here aſſumes his frenzy, commend the light expreſſions to his father's ſhade—Truepenny—working in the cellarage—old mole—worthy pioneer—eſpecially as he is calling upon his friends, in a moſt ſolemn, ſenſible manner, for a promiſe of ſecrecy.

Thus ends the firſt act, which is ſo full of buſi⯑neſs, and that of ſo important a nature, that per⯑haps no author but Shakeſpeare could have pro⯑duced any thing after, relative to the ſame ſtory, worthy of attention; yet what follows ſhews us the poſſibility and executive power.

Polonius commences the ſecond act with Ophe⯑lia, who, in a very pictureſque manner, makes her father and the audience acquainted with the prince's diſtraction, which the ſly old ſtateſman imputing to Hamlet's paſſion for his daughter, determines to avail himſelf of with the King, as appears by his reading a letter and commenting upon it in the next ſcene; which, with the Queen's admitting love as a probable cauſe of her ſon's [42] phrenzy, determines them to feel his inclination upon that point. Polonius, like a buſy, uſeful courtier, undertakes this, and encounters Hamlet, whoſe pretence of not knowing him, occaſions much pointed ſatire, and ſeveral agreeable repar⯑tees; from whence, Polonius, not being able to deduce any thing uſeful, retires, and makes way for two other court-ſpies, who, under a veil of friendſhip, endeavour to worm out the ſecret; but he evades their deſign in a different and more maſterly manner; there could not be a more pregnant, rich, and philoſophical diſſertation upon the mode of his own mind, and the excellence of human nature, than the following elegant piece of poetical proſe delivered by Hamlet:

‘"I have of late, but wherefore I know not, loſt all mirth; foregone all cuſtom of exerciſe, and indeed it goes ſo heavily with my diſpoſition, that this goodly frame, the earth, ſeems to me a ſteril promontary; this moſt excellent canopy, the air, this majeſtical roof, fretted with golden fire; why it appears to me nothing but a foul and peſtilential congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is man? how noble in reaſon! how infinite in faculties! in form and moving, how expreſs and admirable! in action, how like an angel! in apprehenſion, how like a God! the beauty of the world! the Paragon of animals!"’

In the foregoing paſſage we have as conciſe and beautiful a delineation of human nature as thought can conceive, or words expreſs; and the imme⯑diate [43] tranſition to mention of the players, who, tho' ſeemingly intruders, are material agents for the plot, is excellently contrived by the author; ſince Hamlet, as we may juſtly ſuppoſe from his proceedings, immediately ſuggeſts that uſe for the Actors in their profeſſion, which ſoon after he makes of them.

When Polonius enters to tell him of the come⯑dians, the Prince again aſſumes his ſtile of equi⯑vocal repartee, and indeed is pleaſingly witty with the verboſe old ſtateſman; his welcome to the players is well adapted to the mode of behaviour he has put on; but his hint to the lady of her voice ‘"like a piece of uncurrent gold, being cracked in the ring,"’ is not commendably de⯑licate; requiring a taſte of their quality, and making a miſtake in the firſt line of that paſſage he points out reſpecting Pyrrhus, are pleaſing and natural circumſtances, though of the minute kind.

From the imagery of thoſe ſpeeches which the player repeats, it appears plainly that they, and the ſcene in the third act, are not only intended as preparatory means to convict the King of guilt, but are alſo meant to realize the characters of the main action; therefore the matter, manner, and action, are evidently propoſed as a contraſt of fiction to what it is neceſſary the audience ſhould think truth.

There is no ſentiment in the whole character of Hamlet, nor indeed any other more worthy a good heart and great mind, than his reply to Po⯑lonius, who ſays, he ‘"will uſe the players as they [44] deſerve."’ ‘"Much better—uſe every man according to his deſerts, and who ſhall 'ſcape whipping? Uſe them after your own honour and dignity; the leſs they deſerve, the more merit is in your bounty."’

At the beginning of the ſoliloquy which con⯑cludes the ſecond act, Hamlet gives himſelf addi⯑tional force and reality, by alluding to the player's fictitious feelings, compared with his own ſubſtan⯑tial cauſe of grief; the deſign of rouſing conſcious guilt in his uncle, by a repreſentation ſimilar to the murder of his Father, is politic and well in⯑troduced; for a million of inſtances furniſh indu⯑bitable proof

His remarks that the ſpirit he has ſeen may be a devil, and that the devil may have power to aſ⯑ſume a pleaſing ſhape, ſavour very ſtrongly of a weak, ſuperſtitious mind, and give us no exalted idea of the prince's head, however favourably we judge of his heart.

In the firſt ſcene of the third act, we find the King eager to get the cauſe of his Nephew's ſup⯑poſed frenzy; the play being mentioned, and an invitation for the court to ſee it, his Majeſty, from political reaſons, agrees; and Ophelia is left to try what explanation ſhe can bring her lover to—the celebrated ſoliloquy—to be, or not to be—is he e introduced, and exhibits a beautiful chain of moral reaſoning; the objection thrown in againſt ſuicide, ‘—The dread of ſomething after death,’ is conciſe, perſuaſive, and highly conſonant with [45] the true principles of moral philoſophy; critics have, with juſtice, pointed out the inconſiſtence of that parentheſis, which ſtiles the future world

Notwithſtanding the maſter-ſpring of this very play is ſuch a traveller; therefore a palpable, flat contradiction to the above aſſertion; the author no doubt meant a corporeal traveller, but it is ſtretching indulgence very far to admit ſuch a latitude of expreſſion.

The converſation between Hamlet and Ophelia is finely imagined to puzzle the ſpies who watch his words and actions; and tho' it exhibits mad⯑neſs, yet as Polonius remarks of a former ſcene— there is method in it. Shakeſpeare, in all his pieces, ſeems to have had great regard to the capital cha⯑racters, both as to ſtrength and variety; the feigned madneſs in this piece tends greatly to the latter, and gives much ſcope, particularly in this ſcene, for powerful action—the King's propoſi⯑tion of ſending the prince to England, though a ſtrange ſcheme, ſhews the apprehenſion which con⯑ſcious guilt fixes on his mind.

Hamlet's advice to the players is as juſt and ſenſible a lecture upon ſeveral theatrical excellen⯑cies and errors, as ever was penned; but few who perform the part have a right to deliver it, being in many inſtances guilty themſelves of thoſe very abſurdities which they recommend a reformation of.

Hamlet's behaviour in the ſcene of the play is extremely characteriſtic; his ſportive replies to [46] Ophelia, and his ſatirical taunts to the King, ſuit the ſtate of things happily; indeed the mock re⯑preſentation, and every other circumſtance, are very well conducted towards the grand point; and his majeſty's abrupt retreat ſufficiently evin⯑ces his guilt; the enſuing convention with Ro⯑ſencraus and Guildenſtern, plainly ſhews the juſt opinion Hamlet entertains of court ſycophants, and his playing upon Polonius is pleaſant, as well as poignant.

The King's ſoliloquy is a moſt finiſhed piece of argumentative, pathetic contrition, and furniſhes a very inſtructive picture of a guilty mind; of Hamlet's, which immediately ſucceeds, we can⯑not ſpeak favourably, as it greatly derogates not only from an amiable, but even a common moral character.

Revenge, when moſt provoked, rather vio⯑lates human feelings; however, as in ſome in⯑ſtances, the heart cannot decline it, and what more provoking than the death of a father? yet life for life is the utmoſt that can be required; for a mor⯑tal vice, or failing, premeditately to plunge the perpetrator into a ſtate of infinite miſery, had we power, would be giving nature a diabolical bent; therefore, when Hamlet reſolves upon taking his uncle in ſome peculiar act of ſin, that his heels may kick at heaven, he certainly forms a deſign, and utters ſentiments more ſuitable to an aſſaſſin of the baſeſt kind, than a virtuous prince and a feeling man.

In that excellent ſcene of the cloſet, where the Prince ſo beautifully and ſo powerfully remon⯑ſtrates [47] to his mother upon her guilty and ſhameful ſituation, there appears an incident which rather caſts another ſhade upon our hero's character, that is the death of Polonius; it happens evi⯑dently through a miſtake, ſuppoſing him the King; yet when the miſtake is diſcovered, he has not common humanity enough to regret taking the life of an innocent, inoffenſive old man, nay the father of a lady too for whom he profeſſes a regard; but by the following lines ſeems to hold the matter light:

In the concluſive ſpeech of the act, it is true he ſeems to feel, but we apprehend too ſlightly; and making himſelf the vindictive miniſter of heaven, is arraigning providence, for influencing puniſh⯑ment where no guilt has appeared; by the ſame mode of argument every raſh, or bad man, may palliate the moſt inordinate actions.

Indeed why Polonius ſhould be killed, in flat contradiction to every degree of poetical juſtice, is rather myſterious; if meant merely as a cauſe for Laertes's reſentment, and Ophelia's madneſs, we muſt aſſert that both might have been brought about on a better principle, as will appear from ſome general ſtrictures on the plot.

The Ghoſt's appearance gives great force to, and raiſes a very beautiful climax of paſſion in this ſcene; and it is impoſſible to form an idea of any thing better calculated for actors to ſtrike, or an audience to feel in; the circumſtances and ex⯑preſſion [48] are ſo highly deſerving of each other, that the performance muſt be languid indeed, and feelings totally benumbed, if both eyes and hearts are not much intereſted.

The King's reſolution of ſending Hamlet to England ſeems juſtly precipitated by the unjuſti⯑fiable event of Polonius's death; the ſcene in which the King enquires for the body, contains ſome pointed expreſſions, and the Prince's depar⯑ture is of that unaffecting nature, that we doubt whether one ſpectator out of a thouſand ever ſaid I hope he will come again, though from ſuch a voyage ſo late in the piece it ſeems very doubtful.

Ophelia's diſtraction is an extreme pretty varia⯑tion of action, and is deſcribed with a forceable delicacy, worthy of Shakeſpeare's pen; Laertes is uſhered in with a ſtrange inſinuation, importing no leſs than a propoſition to chuſe him King; how this became neceſſary, or is reconcileable, we cannot ſee, as in a preceding ſcene, the King ſays, that he cannot enforce any law againſt Hamlet on account of the murder committed, becauſe

Nay ſpeaking of the matter afterwards to Laer⯑tes, the King delivers himſelf thus:

[49]Now if Hamlet was ſo extremely popular, how is it poſſible to ſuppoſe that Laertes, by complain⯑ing of a private injury, ſhould ſuperſede him in the people's favour, and gain their voices to the prejudice of his birth-right; beſides Laertes's at⯑tack upon, and language to a monarch, without knowing a ſyllable of the matter he contends about, makes him an abſolute Drawcanſir, equally the foe of juſtice, reaſon, and decorum; indeed the author ſeems to have been ſenſible of this, making the king ſay

Ophelia's ſecond introduction relieves and gives ſome ſparks of life to a converſation full of falſe fire and impotence, wherein one party appears a bluſtering fool, and the other a daſtard villain; as to the conſpiracy againſt Hamlet's life, it ſeems the ne plus ultra of a forced cataſtrophe; a plan which, by approving it, ſhews Laertes to be as much an intentional murderer as the king.

There is a degree of deteſtation mingled with contempt, and that diſagreeble feeling both theſe characters raiſe; the Queen's account of Ophelia's mournful end is juſtly admired; and tho' the lady, while in her ſenſes, ſaid very little to affect us, yet here the poet teaches us to feel for the event which has deprived her of life.

Notwithſtanding Mr. Voltaire's objections to the firſt ſcene of the fifth act, as being inconſiſtent with the dignity and decorum of tragedy, are in a great meaſure true, yet the characters are ſo finely [50] drawn, ſuch pointed ſatire, and ſuch inſtructive moral ſentiments ariſe, as give it great eſtimation, and raiſe it far above inſipid propriety; ſome ex⯑preſſions of the grave-digger, in anſwer to Hamlet's queſtion, how long a corpſe will be in the ground before it rots, however true, are offenſively indelicate.

The funeral of Ophelia is indeed a maimed, and to me, an irreconcilable piece of work. She is we find allowed Chriſtian burial, is attended by the king, queen, and whole court, yet the clergy⯑man refuſes funeral ſervice, ſuppoſing her death doubtful, tho' the queen in the foregoing act im⯑putes it, without reſervation, to an accident; and we venture to preſume there is no medium be⯑tween admiſſion to conſecrated ground, with all uſual ceremonies, and a total excluſion from the whole; but the author ſeems to have been in a ſtate of difficulty;—he would have a grave, and made the beſt apology for it he could.

The encounter of Hamlet and Laertes is ſup⯑ported with an exceſs of ſpirit on both ſides; and, if we conſider the real ſtate of things, rather blame⯑ably on the part of the former; he has killed the father, and in conſequence deprived the ſiſter of her ſenſes; yet, when a grieving, injured bro⯑ther and ſon, vents an explanation, very excuſable in his ſituation; the prince, even at the interment of a woman he pretends love for, indulges a moſt outrageous degree of paſſion, interrupts a ſacred ceremony, and offers his leſſon in ſtile of a chal⯑lenge to Laertes; nay, after moſt inſulting beha⯑viour, [51] when ſeparated—he retorts accuſation upon the challenged perſon in the following irri⯑tative taunt:

There is indeed a palliative excuſe made by Hamlet to Laertes, for this inconſiſtent behaviour at the beginning of the laſt ſcene—where he ſays;

Now if it be conſidered, that this madneſs has been but aſſumed, this appears a mean prevarica⯑tion to a man whom he has moſt deeply injured, and who, to his knowledge, never meant him wrong; to ſay that this paſſion was put on to de⯑ceive the court, weighs but little, as we find in the action, diſhevelled hair, ungartered ſtockings, &c. are laid aſide for a compoſed appearance; and immediately after the bluſter we perceive him not only regular in converſation with a coxcomb meſſenger of the king's, but punctual in the terms of the challenge, and coolly ſenſible in fulfilling it before the court, without any deſign more than the credit of victory in view.

Another faint apology is made in a ſcene with Horatio, where the prince ſeems to be ſorry that the bravery of Laertes's grief ſhould ſo far pro⯑voke [52] him; but all this ſcene, except a very few lines, is left out in the repreſentation; and indeed, tho' meant to account for Hamlet's coming back, it draws ſuch a ſtrange picture of his getting at the kind's diſpatches, and forging others, to turn the deſign of his death upon Roſencraus and Guil⯑denſtern, that we may lament ſuch low chicanery in a character of dignity; one who had no occa⯑ſion, but much to the contrary, to appear a volun⯑teer in his uncle's propoſition of ſending him to England; however, as the tranſaction of his ſpeedy return ſhould be accounted for, we wiſh ſomewhat more like a narrative was preſerved in action.

Oſtrick is a whimſical muſhroom of fancy, and tho' Shakeſpeare preſents his audience with a Daniſh beau, he took the conſtituent parts from Engliſh court-butterflies of his days, and even furniſhes him with the equivocal punning ſtile which took its riſe and faſhion from that ſecond Solomon, James the firſt, whoſe pedantry, and hatred of witches, were equally conſpicuous.

The laſt ſcene, if there are two good fencers, (which by the bye ſeldom happens) muſt pleaſe the eye conſiderably; yet ſuch a ſlaughter of cha⯑racters muſt cloy the moſt ſanguine critic that ever thirſted for theatrical blood-ſhed, and pity muſt extend very far indeed, to attend even the expiring hero of this piece with any degree of patience.

Having thus progreſſively delineated the plan, it becomes neceſſary to make ſome general ſtric⯑tures upon the whole, to juſtify thoſe occaſional remarks which have been made.

[53]At the opening of the play, we find that a very remarkable apparition has been ſeen by the palace-guard two nights together; yet ſo reſolute and ſecret have theſe ſoldiers been that no mention is made of it, except to Horatio, who diſbelieves the ſtory; but on his watch the third night, is con⯑vinced by ocular demonſtration; upon which he very naturally determines to mention it to Hamlet in particular, as ſeemingly moſt intereſted in the appearance; this, in conjunction with Bernardo and Marcellus, he does the next morning; here it ſeems a little irreconcileable, that Horatio, the par⯑ticular and intimate friend of the prince, ſhould be in Elſineur two days, or more, as we muſt ſup⯑poſe from circumſtances, before he paid reſpects to his royal patron; theſe, we confeſs, are minu⯑tiae, yet claim notice in the ſtrictneſs of criticiſm.

Hamlet's aſſumed madneſs might undoubtedly have been made the inſtrument of ſome important ſecret purpoſe relative to his father's murder, and his own juſt reſentment; yet, as it now appears, anſwers no other end than merely cajoling the King, diſtreſſing the Queen and Ophelia, bam⯑ming Polonius and the courtiers, and giving great ſcope for capital acting; which laſt article ſeems much more the author's intention through this piece, than decorum and conſiſtence.

The King not being able, either by his ſpies, or even condeſcending to be a liſtener himſelf, to find out the bottom of this frenzy, which, through conſcious guilt, to him looks terrible, forms a re⯑ſolution of ſending Hamlet to England, under [54] pretence of receiving tribute; but, as appears afterwards, that the complaiſant Engliſh monarch ſhould put to death the heir of the Daniſh crown upon mere requeſt.

Strange! that he who found means to deſtroy his own brother, in the plenitude of power and popular eſteem, ſhould take ſuch a round-about method to diſpoſe of a nephew he ſeems to fear; and full as ſtrange is it, that Hamlet, who has ſo much cauſe to ſuſpect his uncle's intention, and who has ſuch powerful motives for ſtaying at home, ſhould tamely, without objection, go upon the voyage.

On returning, we do not find him taking any ſtep towards puniſhing the murderer; nay, moſt politely undertakes to win a wager for him; how unworthily for him then does the cataſtrophe come about! when wounded with a poiſoned weapon himſelf, when he hears of his mother's being poiſoned, then and not before, urged by deſperation, not juſt revenge, he demoliſhes the king of ſhreds and patches, as he properly ſtiles his uncle in the third act.

From this view it is with all deference appre⯑hended, that, after his detection at the play, if his majeſty, upon the principle of ſelf-defence, had formed a deſign of taking the prince off by inſtru⯑ments at home; if that deſign had been made known to the Queen; had ſhe, through maternal affection, put Hamlet on his guard; and had that prince taken meaſures worthy the motives of ſti⯑mulation, a tyrant of ſome conſequence and uni⯑formity [53] would have been ſhewn in Claudius; a tender mother in the Queen, and a hero in Hamlet: the innocent characters, Polonius and Ophelia, might have been ſaved; and death prevented from ſtalking, without limitation, at the cataſtrophe: as it ſtands, no leſs than eight of the characters are diſpoſed of that way, four in view at one time upon the ſtage.

In reſpect of characters, we are to lament that the hero, who is intended as amiable, ſhould be ſuch an apparent heap of inconſiſtency; impe⯑tuous, tho' philoſophical; ſenſible of injury, yet timid of reſentment; ſhrewd, yet void of policy; full of filial piety, yet tame under oppreſſion; boaſtful in expreſſion, undetermined in action; and yet, from being pregnant with great variety, from affording many opportunities to exert ſound judgment and extenſive powers, he is as agreeable and ſtriking an object as any in the Engliſh drama.

In the performance of this character we muſt, as in RICHARD, place Mr. GARRICK far before any other competitor; his reception of, and ad⯑dreſs to the Ghoſt; his natural, pictureſque atti⯑tude, terror-ſtruck features, low, tremulous ex⯑preſſion, riſing in harmonious gradation, with the climax of his ſpeech and feeling, all give us the moſt pleaſing, we had almoſt ſaid, aſtoniſhing ſenſibility; in all the pointed parts of the dialogue his matchleſs eyes anticipate his tongue, and im⯑preſs the meaning upon us with double force; no man ever did, nor poſſibly ever will, ſpeak he⯑miſtics, broken ſentences, and make tranſitions with ſuch penetrating effect; in this lies the in⯑diſputable [56] ſuperiority of our modern Roſcius; that where other performers, and good ones too, paſs unnoticed, he is frequently great; where an author is languid, he gives him ſpirit; where powerful, due ſupport; out of many inſtances we ſhall ſelect only two: Firſt, where Hamlet ſays to his interpoſing friends—I ſay, away—then turning to the Ghoſt—Go on—I'll follow.—His variation from extreme paſſion to reverential awe, is ſo forceably expreſſed in eyes, features, attitude, and voice, that every heart muſt feel; the ſecond is in the third act, where the Queen ſays, the Ghoſt is but the coinage of his brain; his turning ſhort from looking after the apparition with wild⯑neſs of terror, and viewing his mother with pathe⯑tic concern, is moſt happily executed.

Mr. BARRY gave conſiderable pleaſure in Ham⯑let, which was, however, chiefly derived from a fine figure and muſical voice; but declamation and originality were wanting.

Mr. SHERIDAN, under the diſadvantage of a moderate perſon, and ſtill more moderate voice, by the effects of ſound judgment undoubtedly ſtands ſecond; in the lighter ſcenes, he wants, it is true, eaſe and levity; but in the ſoliloquies, and the third act cloſet ſcene, he is, or has been, truly excellent.

Mr. ROSS has the eaſe of a gentleman and dig⯑nity of a prince, but wants weight for the decla⯑mation, poignancy of expreſſion for the ſpirited parts, and variation of countenance for the vehe⯑ment paſſions; however, he might juſtly gain more critical applauſe if he would forget the au⯑dience, [57] glow with his character, and be more aſſi⯑duous in the ſupport of every ſcene, not drop ſome, as if unworthy his notice.

The whole part of the King, except his ſolilo⯑quy, is truly wretched for an actor; and, to ſay the truth, we never ſaw one who did not make a very inſipid figure in it, the late Mr. SPARKS ex⯑cepted; he was great in the forementioned ſolilo⯑quy, reſpectable in every paſſage of the leaſt re⯑gard, and ſo peculiarly happy in falling, when ſtabbed from the throne, that we may truly ſay, a good end apologized for a very bad character.

Polonius is drawn with ſome tint of the whimſi⯑cal, yet we cannot ſuppoſe him meant for that laughing-ſtock, that buffoon of Tragedy, he is generally repreſented; wherefore we muſt be bold to aſſert that Mr. MACKLIN, who, while his capabilities laſted, ſhould never have been ſepara⯑ted from the ſtage, was far the beſt of many we have ſeen; he ſhewed oddity, grafted upon the man of ſenſe, and, as we remember, retained moſt of that ſcene at the beginning of the ſecond act, which good ſenſe, and Shakeſpeare's friends, muſt lament the general omiſſion of.—Mr. SHUTER, whom nature conceived and brought forth in a fit of laughter, may mean extremely well, but in this character, his literally happy countenance plays rather againſt him. Mr. TASWELL and Mr. ARTHUR ſteered a medium courſe, which, if it did not reach capital propriety, yet deſerved conſiderable praiſe.

Laertes is a character no way remarkable, un⯑leſs as contributing to the cataſtrophe; unleſs by [58] joining in, and executing, a villainous device for the deſtruction of Hamlet; Mr. LEE, whoſe abi⯑lities ſtrengthened many ſecond and third parts, while they marred principals, made more of Laertes conſiderably than any other performer has done for ſeveral years.

The Ghoſt is moſt admirably written; and ac⯑cording to the idea we form of ſupernatural utter⯑ance, adapted to ſupernatural appearance. Mr. QUIN has never been excelled, nor by many de⯑grees equalled; ſolemnity of expreſſion was his excellence in tragedy, and, if we may be allowed the remark, his fault. Tho' not directly to our purpoſe at preſent, we cannot help obſerving that Shakeſpeare's fame, as an actor, was diſputed only becauſe he wrote, as plainly appears from the mode of ſpeaking Mr. GARRICK, by moſt excellent example, has eſtabliſhed; he certainly, as a judge and lover of nature, deſpiſed the titum-ti, mono⯑tonous ſing-ſong, then faſhionable, and indeed equally admired, till within leſs than theſe laſt thirty years; for this reaſon, he was judged to be but a middling performer, except in the Ghoſt; and there, with propriety, no doubt, he aſſumed pompoſity, which, on other occaſions, leſs com⯑mendable, would have rendered him a very popu⯑lar actor. Want of action in the Ghoſt throws a damp on the narration; if a ſpirit can aſſume corporeal appearance, there can be no reaſon to ſuppoſe imaginary arms motionleſs, no more than imaginary legs; however, ſome peculiarity in this point, as well as the tones of expreſſion, ſhould be obſerved.

[59]Horatio is the only amiable man in the piece, yet, except his firſt ſcene, is very inconſiderable; what could be made of ſuch a character, Mr. HAVARD ſhewed in full; and it would be wrong⯑ing Mr. HULL's ſenſibility, for ſuch feelings as actuate Hamlet's friend, not to acknowledge he does him great juſtice.

The grave-digger was never in better preſerva⯑tion than with Mr. YATES. The Queen ſhould be an object of deteſtation, or pity, yet is neither, but an odd compound of both. Mrs. PRITCHARD here, as in many others much more intereſting— when ſhall we ſee her like again. Ophelia found a great friend in Mrs. CIBBER, and has no reaſon to complain of her intimacy with Miſs MACKLiN.

As to the verſification and dialogue of this piece, they are flowing without monotony, poetical with⯑out bombaſt, eaſy without flatneſs, and always ſpeak to the heart, where there is opportunity or occaſion. To tranſcribe all the beautiful paſſages would ſeem a deſign to fill up, and to produce only few, where there is abundance, muſt be deemed partiality; wherefore we refer to the reader's taſte and the piece itſelf, preſuming to conclude our remarks on it with one general ob⯑ſervation, which is, that no play can afford more entertainment on the ſtage, or improvement in the cloſet, tho' abounding with ſuperfluities and inconſiſtencies; ſeveral of the former are omitted in performance, moſt of the latter muſt remain; all the moral we can deduce is, that murder can⯑not lie hid, and that conſcience ever makes a coward of guilt.

THE RECRUITING OFFICER. A COMEDY. By FARQUHAR.

THE opening of this comedy is peculiar in two reſpects; firſt, as no other begins in the ſame manner, and next, as its title is verified in the firſt ſcene; there is one eſſential towards drawing cha⯑racters in a maſterly manner, a ſtrict intimacy with, and a thorough knowledge of the ſtation of life repreſented; this requiſite Mr. Farquhar thorough⯑ly poſſeſſed in the piece under conſideration; the military life he not only liked, but was himſelf immediately connected with; therefore we may naturally ſuppoſe his portraits drawn from ſtriking likeneſſes, and are highly finiſhed; however, as examination will prove this point, either for or againſt the author, better than ſuppoſition, let us proceed to a candid trial.

The character of a good recruiting ſerjeant is as complicate for low policy, or more ſo, than any other; he muſt have ſmoothneſs and volubility of tongue, ſeeming generoſity, profeſſed good-nature, pliable compliance to flatter different tempers, unbluſhing confidence, unbounded lies, a ſtill conſcience, and an unfeeling heart; theſe qualifi⯑cations muſt be the teſt of Kite's character.

The firſt ſpeech of this non-commiſſioned officer to the mob, is a maſterly piece of military elocu⯑tion; it touches with ſtrong propriety upon thoſe [61] points moſt likely to impreſs the ſimple, the idle, and the diſſolute; introducing himſelf to Coſtar Permain, by offering his cap to try on, and the countryman's apprehenſions of ſuch an experiment are highly in character; the ſerjeant's account of the bed of honour, the recruit's diſguſt at being ſaluted by the title of brother, and his being ſoothed into good humour by ſome compliments thrown out upon the importance of his figure, render this ſcene highly pleaſing.

Captain Plume is well introduced, as hearing his own drum; but he appears to have a ſtrange idea of ſmart riding and expedition, when he ſpeaks of one hundred and twenty miles in thirty hours; in the enſuing ſcene, Kite preſerves his character of humour, and throws out ſome excellent ſtrokes in mentioning the recruits he has picked up; one in particular conveys juſt ſatire, tho' perhaps not ge⯑nerally underſtood; ſpeaking of a Welſh parſon he has enliſted, the captain aſks, ‘"Can he write?"’ to which Kite replies, ‘"Hum—he plays rarely upon the fiddle;’ this alludes to a ſcandalous circumſtance then common, and we fear now to be met with too often among curates in Wales; we mean ſtipends ſo low as ten pounds a year, which occaſioned many to work as day labourers; but the moſt uſual method of eking out ſuch pitiful allowances was to keep hedge-alehouſes, and every ſunday-afternoon, in particular, to amuſe their pariſhioners with ſome tunes on the fiddle: the circumſtance of Mrs. Molly at the Caſtle, ſeems to have no connection with the piece, except to [62] ſhow ſome part of Plume's character, and to give a hint of the ſhadows which frequently fill up military muſter-rolls.

Worthy, whoſe name is no otherwiſe exempli⯑fied in his character, than as a tame, and we may add, a ſimple lover, opens the important ſecret of his being in love; and Plume, with much plea⯑ſantry, rallies the romantic ſwain, throwing out ſome uſeful obſervations upon love policy; but whatever juſtice there may be in the following piece of advice, it is very unbecoming the due re⯑ſerve of a ſtage; the captain, ſpeaking of what he would do to win a coy miſtreſs, ſpeaks thus ‘"the very firſt thing that I would do, ſhould be to lie with her chambermaid, and hire three or four wenches in the neighbourhood to report I had got them with child;"’ nor is a paſſage ſome lines after more juſtifiable, where mentioning Sylvia, the honourable captain declares he would have debauched her if he could, and continues— ‘"ſhe was a pert, obſtinate fool, and would loſe her maidenhead her own way."’ The anecdote of Sylvia's ſending ten guineas to Mrs. Molly does credit to her feelings, and places her in eſteem of the audience before ſhe makes her appearance.

In the next ſcene the ladies are very well con⯑traſted, Melinda's affectation of refined notions is very genteelly repulſed by Sylvia, who pleaſingly blends good ſenſe with vivacity; if any double entendre is allowable, the following would cer⯑tainly appear ſo, but for the luſcious intimation of theatric expreſſion, and the groſs enforcement of Melinda's reply—Sylvia ſays, ‘"I can do every [63] thing with my father but drink, and ſhoot fly⯑ing; and I am ſure I can do every thing my mother could, were I put to the tryal;"’ —to this her friend, without much delicacy, rejoins ‘"you are in a fair way of being put to it, for I am told your captain is come to town."’ Another paſſage in Melinda's part of this ſcene is to me highly cenſurable; to Sylvia's declaration of being tired of her ſex, the expective lady replies, ‘"you are tired of an appendix to our ſex, that you can't ſo handſomely get rid of in petticoats, as if you were in breeches"’ —the ſucceeding alterca⯑tion between the female friends is extremely well deviſed, and ſupported with much vivacity—the retorts ariſe naturally from each other, and run into pit-pat dialogue, which, adequately perform⯑ed, cannot fail to pleaſe.

Sylvia's retreat is well timed to prevent exceſs, but a remark of Lucy's after ſhe goes off is in⯑famouſly groſs. Melinda propoſes this queſtion, ‘"did you not ſee the proud nothing how ſhe ſwelled upon the arrival of her fellow?"’ to which ſhe receives the following anſwer from her maid, who ſeems replete with the ſame ideas as her delicate miſtreſs: ‘"her fellow has not been here long enough to occaſion any great ſwel⯑ling;"’ yet this, and the other exceptionable paſſages I have pointed out, might be very eaſily ſoftened, or if entirely omitted, would be no loſs in point of wit or humour.

Juſtice Ballance, who opens the ſecond act with Plume, ſpeaks in the true Engliſh ſtile, for it is certain that the people of this iſland, in general, [64] bear the taxes, occaſioned by war, with great ſpirit, when their fleets and armies furniſh the news-papers with a violent effuſion of blood, which ſome may interpret as a mark of national inhumanity, but rather appears to be the effect of a noble ſpirit, which pants for ſuperiority in the fields of fame, and ſacrifices weaker feelings to principles of glory.

Plume's frequent mention of Sylvia interrupts the juſtice's political bent pleaſingly; and when Ballance ſpeaks of a diſhonourable deſign upon Sylvia, as no more than ſimilar to what he once had himſelf on a country gentleman's daughter; the captain's diſtinction between a friend and a ſtranger ſhews gratitude with delicacy of prin⯑ciple, but flatly contradicts his declaration to Worthy, already noted, which avows the deſign he here diſclaims.

Sylvia is well introduced, and the juſtice called upon conveniently to leave her with Plume; their encounter is polite and delicate; but tho' the author ſeems to have meant a refined compliment in the circumſtance of the captain's will, we can⯑not conſider it as any other than a very ſuſpicious one: had it been ſent to her on the eve of the battle, proviſionally, it would have been what ſhe calls it; but to be the bearer of it himſelf, to make perſonal mention, takes off much of the obligation. The lady's hint, of his little boy at the caſtle, is arch and pleaſant, and Plume's fol⯑lowing confuſion very natural.

Juſtice Ballance, after ſpeaking of his ſon's death, addreſſes his daughter with much inten⯑tional [65] affection, and prudent propriety; intimating, that as her fortune is increaſed, from fifteen hun⯑dred pounds only, to twelve hundred a year eſtate, he expects her views ſhould be more extended; and deſires her to think no more of captain Plume. When we ſay that the juſtice here ſpeaks with propriety, we only mean as a man of the world, for it is plain that the vanity of family connections chiefly influences him, which many a father ere now has miſtaken for happineſs; beſides, if, as he ſays, he could like Plume as a mere ſon-in-law, to receive fifteen hundred pounds portion, it is mean and mercenary to think him unworthy the ſame lady with twenty thouſand; nor can we conceive what idea he muſt have of his daughter's mind, to ſuppoſe ſhe could from ſuch principles ſhake off regard for a man ſhe has entertained upon favourable terms—the favour aſked, that Sylvia will never marry without his conſent, and his promiſe never to diſpoſe of her without her own, are ſtrokes which give agreeable ſenſations to a feeling mind.

Melinda's letter, which ſhe hints at the end of the firſt act, ſtarts ſome motives of perplexity, by alarming the juſtice with apprehenſions of Plume's deſign upon his daughter, and the old gentleman's ſentiments, in conſequence of it, are very ſpirited; but we apprehend there are two intruſions upon decorum in the ſcene with Worthy; firſt, Bal⯑lance's charging him with privacy to Plume's diſhonourable intentions, and then refuſing his author, which is cruelty to an innocent perſon; nor does it appear from the letter that he is en⯑joined [66] ſecrecy; next Worthy's deſcending to ſuch a pitiful diſcovery as picking up a bit of a torn letter; undoubtedly if a man of ſpirit heard an injurious report raiſed, he would becomingly inſiſt upon an explanation; if the matter did not claim ſuch ſerious procedure, the ſame ſpirit would ſet him above peeping into fragments of paper; the explanation ariſing from the matter, makes Me⯑linda's letter rather an excreſſence than eſſential to the plot.

Kite, and the two recruits, ſucceed very happily to enliven the latter part of this act, which we muſt conſider as rather dull in the preceding ſcenes; the ſong, the deſcription of a ſoldier's importance, giving the recruits titles of dignity, and introducing the liſting money under colour of being the king's picture, are all admirably well imagined; the ſerjeant's explanation of Carolus too, is truly laughable; Plume's joining in their mirth, and the countryman's ſpirit of keeping on his hat to ſhew independency, are ſuitably in cha⯑racter; Kite's roughneſs before his officer, on their mention of going home, and the captain's interpoſition on the ſide of Pearmain and Apple-tree, is a true piece of recruiting policy; which, while it promotes humour in the ſcene, carries on ſucceſsfully the deſign of ſecuring the men as vo⯑lunteers; the fineſſe of giving them their choice, to go or ſtay, after chaſtiſing the ſerjeant, is ex⯑cellent; as is alſo the ſtroke of ſetting Cofter to inveigle his ſimple companion.

The merit of this ſcene lies in a very judicious, humorous contraſt of characters, who well know [67] life, playing upon the ſimplicity of thoſe who do not; and it is ſo much in nature, that a thorough acquaintance with it among young fellows in the country, would certainly much impede the ſucceſs of recruiting men-catchers.

Plume and Worthy commence the third act with a ſcene, no further worth notice than as it ſhews Plume to have a commendable indifference for a woman, whom he ſuppoſes altered in her affection by a freſh acquiſition of fortune; and his gallanting the country market girl, Roſe, to prove his freedom of heart, is a very pleaſing, pretty incident; indeed every one of the characters contribute to heighten and aſſiſt each other, and the ſtory which Kite trumps up to engage Bul⯑lock's attention, while the captain takes off his ſiſter, is a circumſtance of high wrought humour; Bullock's complaint to the juſtice, concerning Roſe, furniſhes a very laughable ſcene.

The policy of introducing new characters in the third act, which was remarked upon in the STRATAGEM, is here uſed to very good purpoſe; Bullock and Roſe have been already brought for⯑ward, as ſeaſonable enliveners of the action and dialogue; a third now appears, the facetious Cap⯑tain Brazen, for whom we doubt not there were many originals in Farquhar's time, and we could point out ſeveral of very ſimilar features at the preſent day.

This military ſprig, whoſe peculiar leading cha⯑racteriſtic appears to be unlimited effrontery, is exhibited at his firſt entrance, and through the ſcene, with much judgment, with ſuch ſtrong out⯑lines, [68] as plainly evince a greater ſhare of origina⯑lity than imagination; his rapid addreſs to Wor⯑thy, his pert obſervation of the juſtice, the for⯑ward introduction of himſelf to that gentleman, his turning the word laconic, through ignorance, into a proper name, and his diſcuſſion upon that name, are ludicrouſly whimſical.

The affectation of a general acquaintance, the boaſt of courage, and the rhapſodical, ſpirited narration concerning Frank Plume, of Northamp⯑tonſhire, are excellent ingredients to characterize the empty, opinionated coxcomb; and Brazen's departure, ſo conſonant to his entrance, diſmiſſes him with glee.

Roſe exhibits a very natural picture of that ſim⯑ple pride and pleaſure which, we may ſuppoſe, poſ⯑ſeſſes the heart of an unſuſpecting country girl, upon being addreſſed by ſuch a man as Plume; and her ſpirited attempts at improved behaviour before the juſtice are extremely pleaſant; as is alſo the captain's attack upon her without ſeeing Ballance, from whence an agreeable confuſion ariſes, which terminates the ſcene laughably.

Modeſt Mrs. Melinda, and her modeſt maid Lucy, next make their appearance; the former, in her ſecond ſpeech, utters a ſentiment which we may pronounce the eſſence of infamy,— ‘"Flan⯑ders lace is as conſtant a preſent from officers to their women, as ſomething elſe is from their women to them;"’ and the latter replies in a very knowing ſtrain, which her miſtreſs takes care to enforce by explanation; in ſhort, as this ſcene has no tendency but raiſing offenſive ideas, we [69] wiſh and recommend the omiſſion of it. Brazen, in his addreſs to the lady, and rhodomontade de⯑clarations, preſents a diverting peculiarity of cha⯑racter; and Melinda's encouragement of him, to mortify Worthy, ſuits well a coquettiſh heart.

Plume's tipſy condition varies the action and dialogue of his character ſeaſonably, giving him an additional ſupply of ſpirit and humour; but Worthy's ſetting on Plume to recover Melinda from his rival, and ſheering off, as if afraid to plead his own cauſe, ſhew that gentleman in a very ſtrange light, either fool or coward at leaſt; the encounter between Plume and Brazen is whimſically imagined, and generally gives ſatis⯑faction; the ſighing ſwain comes in conveniently to take off his condeſcending miſtreſs, who kindly flies to him when apprehenſive of danger, and without any other retreat for ſafety.

Sylvia appears at this point of time metamor⯑phoſed into the appearance of a young fellow, a circumſtance not very conſiſtent with delicate re⯑ſerve, nor even common modeſty, tho' authorized by many examples in private life, and frequently adopted on the ſtage. When Shakeſpeare wrote, no woman appeared on the ſtage, therefore Roſa⯑lind, Imogen, Portia, &c. were well calculated; but at preſent we imagine plots might be carried on upon more probable principles of deception; in this ſtate, however, Sylvia makes a very agree⯑able figure, and plays upon the rival officers with great archneſs; in their ſeveral offers we find the author exhibiting keen ſatire againſt the army, when Brazen ſays, ‘"you ſhall receive your pay, [70] and do no duty;"’ the lady makes this very poignant return,— ‘"then you muſt make me a field officer;"’ and a little lower there is a moſt excellent ſtroke againſt making men of little edu⯑cation, and leſs religion, military chaplains.

Kite's method of introducing and recommend⯑ing himſelf to the ſuppoſed recruit is highly artful; and taking her off while the captains are engaged, a good method of terminating the rencounter without bloodſhed; as to Plume's diſtinction of fighting for a man, and not for a woman, it ap⯑pears to us irreconcileable; an affront is the ſpur to honour, and to a man of ſpirit comes with equal force from every quarter, and, without an affront, no one of real courage will draw his ſword.

Roſe's communication of her intereſt with Plume to Sylvia in the firſt ſcene in the fourth act, is well introduced to alarm that lady with jealouſy; and her method of ſounding Plume's real diſpoſition, towards the girl, is natural; Bullock, tho' he has but a ſmall ſhare of the dialogue, greatly enlivens it with three or four humourous remarks. We could wiſh Sylvia's reply to Roſe, when ſhe ſays, will ‘"you be ſo kind to me, ſir, as the captain would,"’ was more conſiſtent with the character of a young lady; Plume's explanation of his de⯑ſign, in gallanting Roſe, is ſatisfactory to his miſ⯑treſs, and exculpates him from a blameable inten⯑tion upon unſuſpecting innocence. Sylvia again goes too far, when ſhe ſays to Plume, ‘"lie with a common ſoldier! would not you rather lie with a common woman?"’

Melinda and Lucy, in their ſhort ſcene, drop [71] ſome expreſſions ſimilar to thoſe we have remark⯑ed upon already. Worthy, who, as it appears, ſhewed a little reſentment when the lady put herſelf under his protection, comes poſſeſſed with the ſame feeling, and plays upon her paſſion with ſome degree of good ſenſe, which draws her into the dilemma of behaving like a virago, and pro⯑duces an unexpected, undeſigned reception to Brazen, which is the only material circumſtances ariſing from the interview between the lady and her two lovers.

Kite's appearance, and conduct as a fortune-teller, is a moſt ſatyrical burleſque upon the cre⯑dulity of thoſe weak minded perſons who believe in the predictive knowledge of ſuch gentry; his appropriation of the ſun, moon, and deities, to terreſtrial circumſtances and ſtations, is a whim⯑ſical bam upon heathen mythology and aſtrology; that ſucceſſion of characters the author originally brought forward in this ſcene is now much, and very properly, curtailed in repreſentation; to con⯑feſs the truth, except ſome little uſe to the plot, and a joke or two about the Devil under the table, there is nothing deſerving notice in what remains.

Plume's diſcovery of Melinda's being the cauſe that Sylvia was ſent into the country, occurs agree⯑ably; and the compliments he pays the fair ſex for having entertained an injurious opinion of her, deſerves rather a better epithet than pretty; how⯑ever we could wiſh they had not been twiſted into rhime, but Mr. WILKES loved to ſpeak an epilogue to every act, and, as he pleaſed the audience, Far⯑quhar thought it a duty to pleaſe him.

[72]At the beginning of the fifth act we find Syl⯑via in cuſtody, and brought before the juſtice, as it appears, for ſeducing Roſe; her intimacy with military weddings is not very characteriſtic for a young lady of fortune and genteel education; and when ſhe ſpeaks of paying whores, with a pinch, it is ſtill a greater treſpaſs on due bounds; indeed the whole ſcene means little, and but for honeſt Bullock would be very inſipid.

Melinda and Worthy, according to conjuror Kite's prediction, meet, when after ſome alterca⯑tion, in which he charges her with cruelty, and ſhe him with baſe deſigns upon her virtue, which he repents not having put in practice, they patch up a ſtrange, unprincipled accommodation; the three enſuing ſcenes contain ſmall matter of entertain⯑ment, nor is that of the juſtices and recruits much to be admired. Sylvia's behaviour before the bench, is conſiſtent with her deſign of provoking them to preſs her; yet ſome of her remarks might as well have been omitted, particularly that when the conſtable charges her with a rape, and receives this reply; ‘"is it your wife or daughter, booby? I raviſhed them both yeſterday."’

Brazen's rencounter with Worthy, their fero⯑cious intentions, their battle and no battle, with Lucy's method of diſſipating the ſtorm, ſhew the author hard ſet to accompliſh his cataſtrophe, which is ſtill more plainly evinced by Ballance's ſhort interview with his ſteward: the remainder of this act hurries on without any manner of ſpirit, humour, intricacy, or ſurprize.

[73]To conſider the plot of this comedy in general, we ſhall find it vague, unconnected, and depending on very low ſhifts, the fragment of a torn letter being a main inſtrument; one remarkable incon⯑gruity is, that Silvia ſhould appear in a ſuit of her brother's cloaths before her father without diſco⯑very, though we find, on the ſteward's bare men⯑tion of thoſe cloaths, he immediately ſees into the deception; Silvia's contrivance of being given to Plume as a recruit, is a pitiful, equivocal method of keeping her promiſe given in the ſecond act, that ſhe would never give herſelf away without her father's conſent; Ballance's way of ſounding, whe⯑ther Plume is privy to the ſcheme, and the cap⯑tain's generous method of diſcharging the ſuppoſed recruit, to oblige his friend, are circumſtances of merit. All the under-plot of Lucy is a mere make-ſhift, and utterly contemptible.

Plume is an agreeable well drawn character; ſen⯑ſible, eaſy and ſpirited; poſſeſſed of courage with⯑out being fond of ſhewing it; feeling to love yet free from amorous weakneſs, gallant but not vicious; liberal in ſentiment, unaffected in expreſſion, and diſengaged in action; a credit to his author, and a compliment to the army; conſidered in this amiable light it is not to be wondered that ſo few performers hit him off happily in repreſentation; the eaſe of an accompliſhed gentleman, and the milder virtues are much more difficult to exhibit pleaſingly, than low humour, ſtrong paſſions, or faſhionable vices—a very humane honeſt man may aſſume ſucceſsfully the tyrant, or villain, in full contraſt to his own na⯑ture; [74] but it is impoſſible to put on the port and de⯑meanour of a gentleman, unleſs the actor is really one, at leaſt in external appearance; the late Mr. PALMER was much reſpected in this part, and in⯑deed for the drunken ſcene deſerved extenſive ap⯑plauſe; but in all the reſt, had far too great a taint of the coxcomb, which was ſo very natural to him in private life, that he could hardly ever ſhake it off on the ſtage. Mr. RYAN, under the heavy diſad⯑vantages of advanced years, and a moſt unfavourable voice, ſupported the captain with characteriſtic ſpi⯑rit, but we muſt give Mr. SMITH an undoubted ſuperiority for uniform eaſe, elegance, and ſuitable vivacity; being the unaffected gentleman in private life, he is neceſſarily ſo on the ſtage; and it may with critical juſtice be ſaid, that he is both as much and as little of an actor, in this part, as any one who ever undertook it.

Mr. LEE figured Plume extremely well, and had conſiderable merit in performing it; but from la⯑borious attempts, which are uſual with him, to make more of the character than the author intended, he abated much of that pleaſure the propriety of more ſpontaneous action muſt give in this part.

Brazen is very happily contraſted to his brother-officer; free without eaſe, talkative without ſenſe, vain without conſequence, full of falſe fire, yet not without ſome ſparks of real courage; Farquhar in drawing this military coxcomb, has preſerved due reſpect for the army; he has indeed rendered him ridiculous, but not contemptible; we may laugh at his follies, but cannot frown at his vices; for un⯑leſs [75] ſome few harmleſs invaſions of truth, to flatter his own vanity, may be deemed vice, he does not appear to have any; as a gallant, he appears more venal than affectionate, as a companion, more di⯑verting than rational, and as a man, more made up of unpremeditated whim, than ſubtle deſign.

THE. CIBBER was by no means inſipid in this part, but he often pleaſed upon wrong principles, particularly here; as he ran into the evident abſur⯑dity of adding Abel Drugger's grimace to the ele⯑gant deportment of Foppington; both which are totally inconſiſtent with Brazen, and utterly incon⯑gruous to each other; the ſmart and the beau are each a diſtinct ſpecies of foppery, and ſhould be carefully marked.

Mr. WOODWAED, as in every thing he does, diſ⯑plays much pleaſantry; yet, like the laſt mentioned gentleman, makes us laugh in contradiction to judg⯑ment, by uſing a ſententious quaintneſs of expreſ⯑ſion inſtead of the precipitate, ſnip-ſnap, rhapſodical mode of utterance, as is plainly intended for the character; we muſt alſo lament, as we ſhall often have occaſion to do, that ſo many of Harlequin's miſplaced, pantomimical beauties ſhould be tranſ⯑planted with ſuch unlimited luxuriance into the chaſter ſcenes of comedy.

After ſaying thus much of two capital comedi⯑ans, I hope it will not be thought partial to remark, that Mr. O'BRIEN's perſon, manner, and executive powers diſplayed the true je ne ſçais quoi of acting; and that criticiſm had very little left to wiſh for [76] even on his firſt appearance, though a more tickliſh part never fell to the lot of a young beginner.

Balance is a conſiſtent, ſenſible, worthy country-gentleman, and, as drawn, much more becoming a commiſſion of the peace than many real magi⯑ſtrates; in performance, no peculiar excellence can be expected; however, Mr. QUIN made him ex⯑tremely reſpectable, and Mr. SPARKS was ſeveral degrees above any preſent competitor; many parts aſſiſt the actor, but this is one of a larger num⯑ber which lie heavy on him; therefore doing it juſtice claims the greater merit.

Serjeant Kite, with moderate executive abilities, muſt pleaſe, as he ſpeaks to the feelings in every line; there appears little difficulty in repreſentation, and yet moſt who have undertaken him vary from ſtrict propriety; ſome turn him into a noiſy bully, and others into a ſubtle ſycophant; that he is part⯑ly compriſed of both we own, yet they ſhould be ſo blended that neither may viſibly predominate; his cunning ſhould ſoften his conſequence, and ſelf-ſufficiency render his art plauſible. Mr. BERRY— a good actor in ſome things—was here heavy to a degree; Mr. ANDERSON quite inſipid; nor is Mr. MORRIS, though nearer the mark by far, what we could wiſh.

Bullock need not ſeek for a more adequate friend than Mr. DUNSTALL; as to the Recruits, they are laughable ſimpletons, that ſeldom fail of proper ef⯑fect; to diſtinguiſh any in theſe parts, where all we have ſeen are ſo much upon a level, would be partial, [77] and ſetting down the whole would be giving an un⯑neceſſary catalogue of names, moſt of which are but little, and ſome not at all known.

Worthy, who in no degree deſerves his name, be⯑ing void, as far as we ſee, of virtue as well as vice, is ſuch an unſeaſonable water-gruel, tame, pitiful lover, that he muſt be an eſtimable performer who ſhields him from abſolute contempt, which by a well-adapted placidity of performance, Mr. HULL agree⯑bly effects, having judgment to inform him where mediocrity is merit.

Sylvia, the capital lady, has ſpirit and ſenſe; but the former runs her into female quixotiſm, and the latter often dwindles into licentiouſneſs; her diſ⯑guiſe, and the ſituation it conſequently throws her into, is very indelicate; the ſcheme by which ſhe ob⯑tains her wiſhes, wild, improbable, and culpable— yet while Mrs. WOFFINGTON filled this character, there was not a more agreeable one on the ſtage, equally degageé in the female and male ſemblance, ſhe raviſhed in both; rendering even abſurdities pleaſing by the elegance of her appearance and vi⯑vacity of her expreſſion; as far as her figure would admit, Mrs. PRITCHARD was excellent: at preſent, Miſs MACKLIN juſtly enjoys a conſiderable ſhare of reputation in it, having ſpirit of expreſſion, ſenſibi⯑lity of look, delicacy of emphaſis, and gentility of deportment.

Melinda is a vicious heap of inconſiſtencies, with a ſhallow head and bad heart, without a ſingle cir⯑cumſtance or ſpeech worth notice, except ſome which call for cenſure; we never ſaw any body ex⯑hibit [78] her who deſerved the leaſt mention in criti⯑ciſm; Lucy is an obſcure, worthleſs engine of the under-plot—Roſe is a pleaſing, well-drawn picture of rural innocence and humorous ſimplicity; in performance, we ſhall ſay juſt the ſame of her as of Cherry in the Stratagem.

The unities of time and place are tolerably well preſerved in this comedy; but the plot has no trace of a moral, and the cataſtrophe is huddled up with⯑out any degree of poetical juſtice—Sylvia, by the bye, a dangerous leſſon for young ladies—in con⯑ſequence of hazarding her virtue, obtains her wiſhes—Melinda gains the man ſhe has uſed infa⯑mouſly, and Worthy gets the woman he would have debauched; while poor, inoffenſive Brazen is left, unrepining, to ſolace himſelf with twenty recruits in⯑ſtead of twenty thouſands pounds: in ſhort, it ap⯑pears that our author, whoſe dialogue is unaffected and pleaſant, conſidered entertainment more than inſtruction; ſo that I ſhall venture to affirm, the Recruiting Officer, though it makes us merry, both in the cloſet and on the ſtage, will never leave any uſeful impreſſions from either.

MACBETH. Written by SHAKESPEARE.

PReternatural beings afford the wideſt, moſt lux⯑uriant field for genius to ſport, and ideas to vege⯑tate in; of this being truly ſenſible, and willing to give his muſe of fire unlimited ſcope, Shakeſpeare has in ſeveral pieces availed himſelf, but in none more powerfully than the tragedy now before us; how⯑ever though critically we muſt admire that characte⯑riſtic peculiarity of ſentiment, and expreſſion, which diſtinguiſh the Witches, it is nevertheleſs neceſſary to remark, that exhibiting ſuch perſonages and phan⯑toms as never had any exiſtence but in credulous or heated imaginations, tends to impreſs ſuperſti⯑tious feelings and fears upon weak minds; for which reaſon, we conſider every dramatic piece which treats the audience with a ghoſt, fairy, or witch, as improper for young, unexperienced ſpec⯑tators in particular; if, as is well known, old wo⯑mens ſtories of ſuch, impreſs a timidity upon every child who hears their terrifying tales; a timidity which laſts to the concluſion of life; may we not infer apprehenſions of their having a more forceable effect from being realized on the ſtage.

It may be ſaid, that interdicting ſuch poetical auxiliaries would cramp genius, and deprive us of many unparalelled beauties; to this the anſwer is plain, that nothing which has not a good effect, or [80] at leaſt an inoffenſive tendency, ſhould be deemed beautiful, or ſtand eſtimation.

From what is thus premiſed, we hope no other charge will be laid againſt Shakeſpeare, than the barbarous and credulous taſte of the times in which he wrote, and to which he ſubmitted, with poſſibly an oblique deſign of flattering the favourite opinion of James the firſt; yet allowing this to be really the caſe, it cannot exculpate his preternatural beings, as ſuch, from rational cenſure, for the reaſons aſſigned above; notwithſtanding the author had hiſtorical tradition to countenance his introduction of them; after this general, and we hope, juſt objection againſt the weird ſiſters, we are to take the piece as it ſtands, and conſider diſtinctly its ſeveral component parts.

Macbeth commences with all the apparatus of terror—a ſtorm! a deſart! and three withered hags of little leſs than infernal appearance; their ſhort conference is full of meaning, and a kind of oracu⯑lar obſcurity; their ſudden diſappearance gains a deſire in the ſpectators to ſee them again, and to know in what ſort of buſineſs ſuch extraordinary agents are to be employed; but we know not why they ſhould ſink under the ſtage, immediately after pronounc⯑ing theſe words, ‘"Hover through the fog and filthy air."’

The King's appearance to hear an account of the battle; that account, related by a wounded officer, with ſuch energy of deſcription, and ſo much to the honour of Duncan's generals; are good pre⯑parations to poſſeſs us of the heroic part of Mac⯑beth's [81] part of Macbeth's character—but why this expreſs of victory ſhould be ſent by ſo imperfect a meſſen⯑ger as one, whoſe wounds, yet green, wanted the aſſiſtance of a ſurgeon, we cannot think; if the whole relation had come from Roſſe, it would have been rather more ſuitable, and would have given his character ſomewhat more importance.

The witches, at their next meeting, queſtion each other concerning their ſeveral employments, and the replies ſhew them pregnant with that diabolic ma⯑levolence which is charged againſt them; the threats vented againſt the ſailor, whoſe wife had refuſed one of them cheſnuts, ſtrike every feeling mind with ſympathetic terror; their preparation for Macbeth has ſomething myſtically ſolemn in it.

The notice taken of theſe odd oppearances by Banquo, is ſuch as would naturally occur to a man of ſenſe and ſpirit; and their alternate climax of congratulation to Macbeth much in character; him they hail in plain and poſitive terms of prophecy, which throws him, very judiciouſly, into a ſtate of ſilent and confuſed reflection; the author well knew, that no words at this period would equal the more ſuitable ſpeech of countenance and action; therefore makes Banquo, whoſe open, diſintereſted heart takes no alarm, fill up a well-adapted pauſe of the principal character, by queſtioning the ſiſters concerning himſelf; their replies to him are flatter⯑ing, but aenigmatical, and ſeem to rouſe Macbeth to a curioſity of further information, which, how⯑ever, is properly checked for this time, by the de⯑parture of the Witches: in his ſpeech to them there [82] appears an obſervation inconſiſtent with what is mentioned in the preceding ſcene; Macbeth ſays,

An unſucceſsful rebel taken priſoner, as Caw⯑dor muſt be, by Duncan's ſentencing of him to death, could not juſtly be called proſperous, eſpe⯑cially by the general who has lately overthrown him, but this is by no means a material lapſe; what we find a little further on, ſhews more ſtrange con⯑fuſion, when Macbeth obſerves, that Cawdor lives, and aſks, ‘Why do you dreſs me in his borrow'd robes?’

Angus makes this reply,

It is worthy of remark, that Angus was preſent when Roſſe particulariſed Cawdor's rebellious con⯑duct to the king, notwithſtanding he here expreſſes ſuch ignorance of the cauſe of his impeachment.

Macbeth's feelings upon this unexpected acqui⯑ſition, verifying in part the prediction which has been ſo lately pronounced to him; the dawnings of ambition which break out upon his unconnected me⯑diation, are extremely natural: but his adverting to murther, for obtaining the ſtate of royalty in [83] view, ſhew him much too ſuſceptible of villainous impreſſions.

There are many circumſtances and events to bring about the moſt unthought of changes in hu⯑man affairs, wherefore that man who premeditates the worſt means at firſt, muſt have by nature a deep depravation of heart; and ſuch Macbeth will appear infected with, from the whole of that ſpeech which begins ‘"Two truths are told,"’ &c. notwith⯑ſtanding ſome what like palliation is offered in two or three lines; indeed his concluſion ſeems to baniſh what he beautifully ſtiles fantaſtical murther; but cannot baniſh from ſpectators his barbarous ideas ſo ſuddenly conceived; we have dwelt upon this cir⯑cumſtance to ſtrengthen our opinion, that the au⯑thor meant to draw him a deteſtable monſter, which ſome critics have rather diſputed, allowing him a generous diſpoſition, which we find no inſtance of; even the conſcientious ſtruggles which we ſhall pre⯑ſently find him engaged with, might ariſe in the moſt villainous nature—he who does a bad action preci⯑pitately, or without knowing it to be ſuch, may ſtand in ſome meaſure excuſable; but when a man has ſcrupulouſly weighed every relative circumſtance in the niceſt ſcale of reflection; and after all deter⯑mines upon what nature, gratitude, and juſtice, would avoid, he muſt be compoſed of the worſt ma⯑terials.

To coroborate the general idea of Macbeth's cha⯑racter, which we have here offered, and which will be enlarged upon when we go through the whole piece, let us view him in the very next ſcene, where, [84] after a moſt cordial reception from the king, with unbounded promiſes of future favours, he is ſo poſ⯑ſeſſed of his baſe purpoſe, that, void of even com⯑mon gratitude, he replies, upon Duncan's appoint⯑ing Malcolm prince of Cumberland,

From this paſſage it appears, that not content with the ſimple idea of regicide, he determines to cut off the whole family, in return for being loaded with honours by royal favour; and at the very in⯑ſtant, when this unſuſpecting monarch, and friend, places himſelf upon his hoſpitable reception; if this does not prove Macbeth an exception to the ſatiriſt's remark, Nemo repente fuit turpiſſimus, we know not what can.

Lady Macbeth, and her huſband's letter, are ju⯑diciouſly introduced; but ſure ſuch ſympathetic bar⯑barity was never in nature, as ſuddenly, on the in⯑ſtant, breaks out in theſe words,

What follows accuſes Macbeth of a milky ſoft⯑neſs in his nature, of which he does not ſeem at all poſſeſſed, for unſucceſsful ſtruggles of conſcience cannot juſtly be called ſo; however, that he may not have the whole load of aggravated guilt to bear alone, our author has made this matchleſs lady— we lament ſo deteſtable, though a poſſible, picture of [85] the fair ſex—exert uncommon talents of tempta⯑tion; on hearing of the king's viſit, with moſt un⯑relenting precipitation of thought, ſhe dooms the royal viſitant—Her invocation to ſpirits of evil in⯑fluence is worthy of a powerful imagination, and Macbeth's interruptive entrance extremely well timed; but we muſt offer ſome doubt, whether the word blanket of the dark, does not convey a low and improper idea.

Macbeth's mention of Duncan's approach with⯑out making any previous reply to his wife's cordial reception, is a natural effect of what ſits neareſt his heart; and her coming to the main point at once, is well deviſed for working him up to her great purpoſe; her confining the ſentiment of mur⯑ther in leſs than a line, and warning him to diſ⯑guiſe thoſe looks which appear too intelligible, im⯑preſs us with a ſtrong idea of her policy, as does her ſecond hint of Duncan's death, and promiſing to take a great part of the dreadful buſineſs on herſelf.

The ſhort ſcene before the caſtle has nothing ma⯑terial in it, except the following truly poetical re⯑mark made by Banquo:

Lady Macbeth's ſtrained compliment to the king has alſo merit, as being natural, no truth being [86] more certain, than that treacherous hypocriſy ever ſtrives to wear the faireſt ſmiles.

In ſuch a ſtate of guilty perturbation as Macbeth now appears, no mode of expreſſion could be ſo ſuitable as that of ſoliloquy; it were to be wiſhed, however, that our great author, purſuing energy, had not in ſome ſentences bordered upon obſcurity, eſpecially if we conſider thoſe paſſages as only re⯑peated on the ſtage, where the ear muſt inevitably be too quick for reception: in an alteration of this play, which has been often performed, there are ſome attempts to render the lines we ſpeak of more intelligible, but, like moſt other paraphraſes, they deſtroy the eſſential ſpirit.

The reflection, that if he could but gain eaſe even in this life, he would jump the life to come, is ra⯑ther wildly impious; but the inevitable temporal puniſhment of a conſcience, loaded with guilt, is very well and commendably inculcated; the arguments for declining the murther are ſo forcible, that no⯑thing but the moſt hardened heart, under ſuch con⯑viction, would proceed—Where he perſonifies pity, and mounts her aſtride on the blaſt, fancy takes a very vigorous flight, nor does expreſſion fall be⯑neath, yet we are afraid they leave propriety behind; the following lines are in our opinion very excep⯑tionable:

[87]To embody intention, that ambition may be a ſpur to prick its ſides, leans towards the burleſque; and then turning the ſpur into another body, that it may vault over, inſtead of gaining the ſaddle of intent, corroborates this idea; indeed this ſpeech ſhould always end at ‘The deep damnation of his taking off.’

For pity—heaven's cherubim and ambition, all upon the full gallop, are ſtrained figures at leaſt; not at all adapted to a man deliberating upon one of the fouleſt, moſt important murthers he could commit.

Lady Macbeth comes to ſpeak in rather plainer terms; yet, unleſs we allow great latitude of ex⯑preſſion, what follows evidently admits of objec⯑tion:

Suppoſe we paſs over the literal acceptation of hope being drunk, ſurely we muſt blame a lady of high rank for deſcending to ſuch a vulgar and nau⯑ſeous alluſion as the paleneſs, and ſickneſs, of an in⯑ebriated ſtate; nor is her compariſon of the cat, in the adage, much more the effect of good breeding.

Macbeth's reply to the very groſs rebuff he has juſt received, is as conciſe, ſignificant, and noble a one as ever was uttered; but his bloody-minded virago's next ſpeech, towards the concluſion, wounds humanity with ſuch a ſentiment as no wo⯑man ſhould utter, nor any rational being hear; [88] yet that ſtrange, horrid picture of daſhing a ſmil⯑ing infant's brains out, and laying a plan for com⯑plicated deſtruction, occaſions Macbeth to ſay

Should he not rather have ſaid,

If it ſhould be urged, that ſuch characters have been, and may be, we ſtill contend, that they are among the frightful deformities and eſſential con⯑cealments of nature, which ſhould be excluded from the ſtage.

The midnight interview of Macbeth and Banquo, at the beginning of the ſecond act, very properly uſhers in the dreadful buſineſs then in agitation; that prophetic heavineſs of heart, mentioned by the former, his preſenting a freſh mark of favour from the king to lady Macbeth, his ſpeaking of the three weird ſiſters, and Macbeth's affecting to ſlight the remembrance of them, tho' not very obvious, are yet conſiderable beauties; we could heartily wiſh this paſſage did not occur,

What a poverty of idea and expreſſion! yet we alſo find the ſtars called candles by our author in his Romeo and Juliet—how much more worthy of himſelf, and of his ſubject, is what Lorenzo ſtiles them in the Merchant of Venice, pattens of bright gold?

[89]In Macbeth's ſoliloquy, where a viſionary dagger ſtrikes his mind's eye, the abrupt introduction of that alarming object is very judicious and beauti⯑ful; nor can any thing be more natural than the effect it has on Macbeth, which is moſt admirably deſcribed, and ſtrongly impreſſed by a nervous ſucceſſion of breaks, which, for a dozen or four⯑teen lines, riſe into a powerful climax of confuſion —the momentary pauſe of unclouded reaſon which relieves imagination from her painful load, and the quick return of coward conſcience diverſify the ſen⯑timent and action in a moſt intereſting manner; the picture of midnight, as favouring witchcraft, rapes and murther, concludes this inimitable ſoli⯑loquy with a due ſolemnity of terror; a ſoliloquy of ſuch unſpeakable merit, that, like charity, it may apologize for a multitude of faults.

Lady Macbeth, at her entrance, gives us a piece of information not very defenſible, unleſs it is meant as ſome palliation of her character—the falſe fire of liquor, for which ſhe ſeems to have very little occaſion, muſt be, in her ſituation, rather a dangerous reſource: the remainder of her ſpeech is happily disjointed by earneſt expectation and jealous apprehenſion.—The remark, that a likeneſs of her father in Duncan's ſleeping appearance, prevented her from doing the buſineſs herſelf, lets in a gleam of humanity upon this female fiend.

The entrance of Macbeth, his high-wrought confuſion, and every ſyllable of the enſuing ſcene, exhibit an unparalelled combination of judgment and genius, calculated to awake the drowſieſt feel⯑ings, [90] and to alarm the moſt reſolute heart—the picture of the grooms crying out in diſturbed dreams—one ‘"Heaven bleſs us,"’ and ‘"amen"’ the other, with the inimitable deſcription of ſleep, and the idea of nature's general friend being mur⯑thered in that ſleep, are aſtoniſhing efforts of men⯑tal ability, and, for ſo much, certainly place Shakeſpeare beyond any degree of comparative merit.

The refuſal of Macbeth to go again into the ſcene of blood, is an apt ſtroke of well-timed re⯑morſe; indeed his bringing the daggers from the place they ſhould have been left in, is an extreme well-judged mark of confuſion; however, we would rather have forfeited that inſtance of judgment, than have heaped ſuch ſavage inhumanity upon the female; her boaſt of having hands crimſoned like thoſe of her huſband, carries the offenſive colour⯑ing ſtill higher: what ſucceeds, on the interrup⯑tion of knocking, is expreſſed very characteriſti⯑cally.

To what end Shakeſpeare could introduce ſo in⯑congruous a character as the porter, who is com⯑mendably omitted in repreſentation, we believe no mortal can tell; at ſuch an intereſting period to turn the moſt ſerious feelings into laughter, or ra⯑ther into diſtaſte, by a ſtring of ſtrained quibbles is an inſult upon judgment, and muſt fill the imagi⯑nation with chaos of idea.—Some more ſuitable pauſe might have been made to give Macbeth time for compoſing his ruffled figure; the ſhort ſcene between him, Macduff, and Lenox, is well calcu⯑lated; [91] Lenox's remarks upon the night are very conſiſtent with thoſe ſuperſtitious principles on which this play is chiefly founded; and Macduff's exclamatory entrance diſcovers Duncan's murther properly.

The ſucceſſive entrances and exits of various characters, the real grief of ſome, and the feigned ſorrow of others, Macbeth's apology for his poli⯑tical ſtroke of killing the grooms, by an affecting picture of Duncan's ſituation, and the rapid reſolu⯑tion of enquiring judicially into ſo unaccountable an event, are all well arranged and happily expreſſed; but the amazing precipitate flight of Malcolm and Donalbain, without any apology, except the paltry one of inſtantaneous fear, places theſe ſprigs of royalty in a contemptible light, and its effect on the ſtage proves the juſtice of this remark; for when one ſays, ‘"I'll to England,"’ and the other comi⯑cally replies, ‘"To Ireland I,"’ nine times out of ten the audience are thrown into a horſe-laugh.—we could wiſh this circumſtance was altered, as it eaſily might be, by giving a few ſpeeches of ſpirit and du⯑tiful affection to one or both the princes, expreſſive of their particular determination to diſcover and re⯑venge their father's death; which might be over⯑ruled by Macduff's repreſentation of the danger they ſtand expoſed to, and that for their greater ſecurity it would be better to retire, till the unavoidable con⯑vulſions of ſtate were ſubdued, or till proper mea⯑ſures could be taken to eſtabliſh the legal ſucceſſion; this, we apprehend, would have carried them off with ſome grace, whereas in their preſent diſpoſi⯑tion [92] they make ſuch a wretched figure that we can ſcarce forget it, when Malcolm appears to aſſert his right at the head of an army.

The continuation of omens between Roſſe and the old man ſeems to have little meaning unleſs to keep reflection in an unremitted ſtate of terror; and un⯑uſual events are carried to a very ſtrange pitch in⯑deed, when Roſſe aſſerts that he was eye-witneſs of Duncan's horſes eating one another.

Macduff's account that Macbeth is already named and gone to Scone to be inveſted with royalty, is a great treſpaſs on time, there being but twenty lines, or thereabouts, from the ſtealing away of the princes, as it is properly phraſed, and his ac⯑count of every thing being thus ſettled in conſe⯑quence of their ſuppoſed criminal eſcape.

Introducing the witches at the end of the ſecond act is a very ſeaſonable relief to a feeling mind, from the painful weight of horror which ſome pre⯑ceding ſcenes muſt have laid upon it; and, in ſuit⯑able muſic, they continue the ſtory predictively as a kind of chorus; their rejoicing in the miſchief al⯑ready done, and that which yet lies in the womb of time, ſhews a diſpoſition worthy ſuch agents as the ſubordinate fiends of darkneſs.

Banquo's reflections, with which the third act be⯑gins, are well adapted to the circumſtances; and all his doubts of Macbeth's elevation, by honourable means, natural; as is alſo his adverting to the pro⯑phecy in favour of his own poſterity; the new king's freſh profeſſions of friendſhip to, and hoſpi⯑table invitation of, his former colleague and friend, [93] fix, if poſſible, a deeper ſtamp of baſeneſs on his character; but at the ſame time exhibit ſtrength of policy; and the ſucceeding ſoliloquy points out, nervouſly, motives for a freſh inſtance of barba⯑rity; the firm untainted dignity of Banquo's na⯑ture, joined to the prediction of his children's ſuc⯑ceſſion to the throne, are ſtrong motives of jea⯑louſy to rouſe the blood-ſtained uſurper's unrelent⯑ing diſpoſition, which takes the ſure, though meaneſt method of removing his fears by aſſaſſination.

In reſpect of Macbeth's ſcene with the murderers, we apprehend he uſes too much circumlocution, eſpecially as we perceive, by what he ſays at their entrance, that thoſe ruffians have been made ac⯑quainted with a main part of the affair, Banquo's oppreſſion of them; being poſſeſſed of this, does it not ſeem more natural, that the tyrant would after this line, ‘"We are men, my liege,"’ immediately come to, ‘"Both of you know, Banquo is your enemy;’ than run into the uneſſential, digreſſive, though juſt compariſon of men and dogs? we know it may be urged, that murtherous intentions are communicated with ſlow and jealous caution; this is undoubtedly the caſe in particular characters and circumſtances.—It is maſterly to make king John wind about the diſpoſition of Hubert gradually, he being a perſon of ſome conſideration and doubtful principles; but for Macbeth to expatiate ſo much at large, with ſuch fellows as he ſeems to pick out, appears a waſte of words: had there been any paſ⯑ſage to indulge the author's fancy, or to favour the performer's action and utterance, then a little ſu⯑perfluity [92] [...] [93] [...] [94] would ſtand particularly excuſeable with an audience, and find ſome indulgence even from a cri⯑tical reader; as the ſcene ſtands, we have ever ob⯑ſerved it to pall in repreſentation.

What ſucceeds between Macbeth and his lady is well adapted to their unavoidable perturbation; but would have fallen in better as a continuation than making two diſtinct ſcenes; Macbeth's exit, after the murtherers have left him is ſuperfluous; every thing he advances, in this ſhort conference, ſhews a ſtriking, poetical, yet natural picture of mental gloom and heart-felt agony; his invocation of night, and deſcription of its ſolemn approach, are pleaſing effuſions of genius.

The ſcene of the murtherers, Banquo's fall, and Fleance's eſcape, is partly trifling, partly ſhocking, and ſeldom fails of proving laughable; we wiſh ſomething better had been ſubſtituted, and the cir⯑cumſtance referred to a relation of it by the mur⯑therer; we could alſo wiſh that decorum had not ſuffered by ſuch a ragamuffin's entrance into a room of ſtate, amidſt the whole court; and apprehend no neceſſity for this, therefore are induced to blame it.

Conſidering the place, hurry of ſpirits, &c. are bold to cenſure all the following ſpeech, except the firſt hemiſtich, and the laſt, marked in Italics; they are certainly as much as any man, ſo ſituated, would have ſaid, therefore what comes between is ſuperfluous.

Had the affair been communicated in a proper place, the diſapointed uſurper might have thrown out much more extended, ſpirited remarks on the ill-boding failure of his foremoſt wiſh; reproaches on the murtherer for executing his charge imper⯑fectly; execrations againſt fortune, for throwing any painful rubs in his way; with other matters which might have been ſuggeſted, would have ad⯑ded much, at leaſt to the acting merit of his cha⯑racter.

Banquo's ghoſt, which, without being too ludi⯑crous, we may call the raw-head-and-bloody-bones of tragedy, is nevertheleſs well introduced to throw Macbeth into thoſe violent agitations which nature muſt feel, and ſuch as furniſh extenſive powers an almoſt unlimited ſcope to ſhew themſelves; the words of both Macbeth and his lady are beautifully applicable through the whole ſcene, which con⯑cludes, ſo far as the ghoſt is concerned, with as forceable a climax of impaſſioned terror as ever any author penned; the reflections which follow, in the concluſive part of the ſcene, are ſuch as na⯑turally ariſe from the ſubject, and are nervouſly ex⯑preſſed; Macbeth's determination to conſult the witches, plainly indicates the agitation and weak⯑neſs [96] of a guilty heart and a ſuperſtitious head; we ſhould be glad to know how he is ſo well acquainted with their places of rendezvous, as to know exactly the ſpot of conſultation.

The witches receive, in the following ſcene, a ſharp rebuke from their ſuperior, Hecate, for dealing in any miſchief which did not originally ſpring from her; ſhe delivers herſelf in a fanciful ſtile, and opens with propriety their buſineſs at the pit of Acheron.

That remarkable incantation which begins the fourth act; the myſterious ceremony practiſed; the emblematic ingredients collected for enchant⯑ment, and the arrangement of them, ſhew a more peculiar luxuriance of fancy than any other author ever compacted into ſuch narrow bounds; the mu⯑ſic alſo, as in two former ſcenes, has a very juſt and pleaſing effect.

Macbeth's mode of addreſſing the witches ſeems too much of the compulſive; influenced by, and giving credit to ſuch beings, we may naturally enough ſuppoſe his approach would have been in a milder ſtrain; however, he brings to view a number of ſtriking images reſpecting their power.

A number of ſtrange, indeed very ſtrange appa⯑ritions, or ſucking ghoſts, preſent themſelves, and deliver flattering, dubitable predictions, well cal⯑culated to miſlead credulity; and Macbeth's eager⯑ly catching at the moſt favourable interpretation, ſhews coward conſcience, like a drowning man, catching at every broken reed for ſupport; the long train of ſhades, repreſenting the ſucceſſion of royalty, is well enough calculated to impreſs addi⯑tional uneaſineſs upon the tyrant; but ſuch a ſuper-abundance [97] and variety of ſpectres palls even terror, fatigues imagination, and offends ſight: a dance is very well introduced here to relieve attention.

One would naturally ſuppoſe, that Macbeth had enjoyed a full ſufficiency of ſuch agreeable company, yet we find him rather diſpleaſed that they are gone; the intelligence of Macduff's flight to Eng⯑land is well thrown in to give ſpirit and an opening of buſineſs; his wife and children being devoted to deſtruction in conſequence, we might reaſonably expect from what has been already ſhewn of Mac⯑beth's jealous, impatient cruelty.

The next ſcene of Macduff's lady and ſon, where murtherers come and demoliſh the latter in view of the audience, is, if we can be allowed the phraſe, farcically horrid; as diſgraceful an oddity as ever invaded Shakeſpeare's muſe, and therefore with great juſtice omitted in repreſentation.

The ſcene between Malcolm and Macduff is very happily conducted; a politic ſuſpicion makes the former reprobate himſelf, that he may come more perfectly at the thane of Fife's real diſpoſition; whoſe honeſt patriot principles muſt ever warm and pleaſe attention; thoſe reflections he throws out on vices, which ſhame and endanger royalty, are inſtructive and beautiful; his ſhort picture of the late king Duncan and his queen, to rouſe the prince, their ſon, to emulation, nobly pathetic; and this, prov⯑ing the key to unlock Malcolm's reſerve, ſhews great judgment.—A doctor, brought in merely to introduce mention of Engliſh Edward's power to cure by a touch—that very dubitable circumſtance [98] of tradition—is at beſt trifling, or a paltry compli⯑ment to the then reigning monarch, nothing at all to the matter in queſtion, and only breaks in abruptly upon a very intereſting continuation, we mean, the heart-felt intelligence that Roſſe brings of the fatal tragedy acted in Macduff's family; his firſt ſpeaking of general griefs, the miſeries of Scotland, is a well-judged preparative for a more confined and peculiar concern, relative to one of the characters preſent; indeed, Macduff's enquiry for Scotland, before his wife and children, ſhews great magnanimity of mind; and Roſſe's diffident man⯑ner of revealing their lamentable fall is ſenſibly hu⯑mane; hence the ſcene, by degrees of moſt exact proportion, preſents a climax of grief which never fails to work a general and ſuitable effect, and con⯑cludes with a pleaſing, ſpirited denunciation of re⯑venge againſt the blood-ſtained uſurper; thus the fourth act terminates, leaving, as every fourth act in particular ſhould do, an impatient expectation impreſſed upon the audience for what muſt follow.

Lady Macbeth's phyſician, and one of the ladies of her bed-chamber, begin the fifth act, with a few preparatory and pertinent ſpeeches, for a circum⯑ſtance not expected; the tormenting effects of a thorny conſcience galling that female fiend beyond all power of diſguiſe or compoſure, a circumſtance the more pleaſing, as it approaches us unawares, and beautifully vindicates the juſtice of providence, even here upon this bank and ſhoal of time.

Walking and ſpeaking, while actually aſleep, has been verified by many hundred inſtances, therefore [78] her lady ſhip is brought to view in as juſtifiable and affecting a ſituation as could poſſibly have been imagined—her disjointed mode of ſpeaking, the imaginary ſpot on her hand—the confuſed appre⯑henſions of Macbeth's timidity, ſimilar to what ſhe expreſſed at the time the action was really com⯑mitted, and the explanation thrown in by the at⯑tendants are admirably combined; we may alſo ven⯑ture to pronounce the heavy ſigh ſhe vents, on de⯑ſpairing to clear herſelf of blood, a ſtriking effu⯑ſion of a guilty heart; her departure is finely and moſt naturally precipitated by acting over again the confuſion which aroſe from knocking at the gate.

Four loyal leaders appear next, as on their way to join the lawful prince; their converſation has little material in it, ſave properly acquainting the au⯑dience that the tyrant coops himſelf in Dunſinane caſtle, beleaguered with his crimes more painfully, and cloſely than by his foes.

Macbeth's expreſſions, at his entrance, moſt plainly evince a diſturbed brain and forced reſolution; fly⯑ing for ſafety to the prediction of the witches is a well-timed, additional proof of that ſuperſtitious weakneſs, which, ſtimulated by ambition, has hur⯑ried him into all his guilt and conſequent misfor⯑tunes.

The expreſſions he uſes to the ſervant, or officer, who enters with intelligence of the Engliſh army, are low and groſs, far beneath even a private gentleman; and why Shakeſpeare ſhould make a monarch run into ſuch vulgariſms is not eaſy to gueſs; for the rage or grief of a king ſhould always preſerve pe⯑culiar [98] [...] [78] [...] [100] dignity, without which the author cannot boaſt a chaſte preſervation of character; the follow⯑ing ſpeech, however, makes full amends for a thou⯑ſand venial ſlips; the breaks in the two firſt lines afford a beautiful variety of action of tones of voice, and countenance—thoſe which ſucceed are as fine declamatory reflections ariſing from the conſciouſ⯑neſs of guilt and general diſlike, in a ſenſible man as the ſevereſt criticiſm could reliſh; nor is it eaſy to determine which claims preference, the ſentiment or verſification.

Macbeth's reply to the phyſician on hearing of his lady's ſtrong mental indiſpoſition, is no leſs worthy of capital genius, no leſs ſatisfactory in ſpeaking, hearing, or reading:

Nothing could be more happily introduced from the morals they inculcate, and the pauſe they give [101] to Macbeth's rage, than the two foregoing ſpeeches; they are a timely relief to the performer's expreſ⯑ſion, which otherwiſe muſt have been kept too much on the ſtrain, and a delicious treat to every intelligent mind amongſt an audience.

The ſcene which follows, ſo indeed every inter⯑mediate ſcene of this act appears, only ſerves to bring the cataſtrophe nearer to view, and to cir⯑cumſcribe the principal character within narrower bounds, that expectation of his fate may take wing amongſt the audience—they expreſs a firmer, tho' not ſo outrageous a ſpirit in the aſſailing party, and therefore appear as a natural contraſt to the de⯑fenſive ſide.

Macbeth, at his next appearance, again breaks out with flaſhes of falſe fire, vaunting the im⯑pregnable ſtrength of his fortreſs.—Notwithſtand⯑ing we have expreſſed, and really entertain a diſlike of frequent quotation, yet ſo ſtrong a temp⯑tation lies here in our way we cannot reſiſt it; and the more readily give way, being ſenſible that every reader of refined conception will rather thank us, than paſs any cenſure.—Beſides, having pointed out ſeveral paſſages which, we apprehend, of a contrary nature—it ſeems a neceſſary point of juſtice to the author.—Upon hearing a ſcream of women, Mac⯑beth obſerves,

The foregoing ſpeech has the firſt principle of intrinſic merit to an eminent degree, moral inſtruc⯑tion; an equal number of lines never yet exhibited a fuller, more compleat picture of the vanity of human life; and our author has, with great ad⯑dreſs, again uſed the method of realizing his cha⯑racter, by making Macbeth ſpeak of the player as a fictitious, tranſitory repreſentative—The tranſition upon a meſſenger's entrance, who mentions Birn⯑ham-wood as moving, is truly fine; Macbeth has reſted his ſecurity upon the ſandy foundation of equi⯑vocal promiſes, and now, the broken reeds falling away one by one, he plunges gradually into the rage and depths of deſperation; his reſolution to ſally out ſeems rather the effect of fatal, inevitable deſtruction than real courage.

The buſineſs now encreaſes, and juſtly hurries on to a rapidity of material events; the tyrant is, as himſelf aptly expreſſes it, tied to a ſtake, and therefore through compulſion muſt fight; as to [103] the combat, wherein that unfledged warrior, young Siward, falls, it ſeems to have very little buſineſs in the piece, unleſs to encreaſe a torrent of blood already exceeding all due bounds.

Macduff's encounter with Macbeth raiſes expec⯑tation to the very top of its bent, and juſtice ſits trembling in every humane boſom for ſo eſſential a ſacrifice to her as the tyrant; the introduction of Macbeth's ſole remaining hope, that of being in⯑vulnerable to any perſon born of a woman, ſhews great judgment, and his feelings, on being told the fallacy of his charm, are expreſſed in very apt terms.—Why the author choſe to execute ſo great a culprit behind the ſcenes, thereby depriving the audience of a moſt ſatisfactory circumſtance, is not eaſy to imagine; death certainly is made, in this inſtance, too modeſt; and the bringing on a head defeats every trace of the author's new-born falſe delicacy—the preſent mode of repreſentation is much better.

What follows Macbeth's fall is, like the remain⯑der of every tragedy when the plot is revealed, and the principal characters are diſpoſed of, a mat⯑ter of very little conſequence; therefore is con⯑fined, as it ought to be, within the bounds of ju⯑dicious brevity; Malcolm, however, gives a piece of hiſtoric information concerning the firſt inſtitu⯑tion of earldoms in Scotland, which a tythe of every audience would not elſe know.

As Macbeth, in repreſentation, dies before the audience, it appeared neceſſary, according to dra⯑matic cuſtom, to give him ſome concluſive lines, [104] which Mr. GARRICK, as we have been told, has happily ſupplied, as nothing could be more ſuitable, or ſtriking, than to make him mention, with dy⯑ing breath, his guilt, deluſion, the witches, and thoſe horrid viſions of future puniſhment, which muſt ever appall and torture the laſt moments of ſuch accumulated crimes.

It has been already hinted, and may be laid down as an irrefragable maxim, that moral ten⯑dency is the firſt great and indiſpenſible merit of any piece written for the ſtage; in which light I am afraid the tragedy before us, though a fa⯑vourite child of genius, will not hold a very diſtin⯑guiſhed place; fate, neceſſity, or predeſtination, has embarrraſſed the moſt inquiſitive philoſophers, the moſt painful theologiſts, and ſtill remains matter of much perplexity to thoſe who endeavour to devel⯑ope it; SHAKESPEARE therefore, who was, no doubt, an able moraliſt, ſhould have declined any ſubject which glanced an eye that way, yet we find his Macbeth ſtrongly inculcates power of prediction, even in the worſt and moſt contemptible agents; inculcates a ſupernatural influence of one mortal be⯑ing over another: It is but a very weak defence to ſay he only wrote according to the accepted notions of thoſe times from whence he drew his plot—ad⯑mitted—but whatever tends to weaken reaſon, to miſlead the underſtanding, and intimidate the heart, ſhould not be uſed as a ſubject for dramatic compo⯑ſition, which adorns fiction with her moſt perſuaſive charms; weak minds are ever more liable to re⯑ceive prejudicial than advantageous impreſſions; [105] wherefore any character, incidents, or ſentiments, which may work the former effect, ſhould be in⯑duſtriouſly avoided; if the ſtage, upon ſome occa⯑ſions, does not improve, it ſhould at leaſt leave an audience no worſe than it finds them, equally avoid⯑ing vice and credulity.

That we do not charge our author with pro⯑mulging principles of fataliſm without reaſon, let us produce two paſſages, excluſive of the prophe⯑cies, which are derived from that ſource—at the end of Lady Macbeth's firſt ſoliloquy, ſhe ſays

Macbeth alſo, juſt before the murtherers are intro⯑duced to him in the third act, expreſſes himſelf thus

The very word fate, if it has any meaning at all, can boaſt but an unfavourable one to moral fitneſs; it is a term crept into common uſe, and eſtabliſhed by cuſtom; how frequently do we hear, upon the accidental or violent death of any perſon, this ab⯑ſurd remark made—it was his or her fate—a mi⯑nute inveſtigation of this point would run us into an unpardonable digreſſion from our propoſed ſub⯑ject, wherefore I have only ſtarted ſome hints for abler critics to elucidate, or ſet aſide, as may ſeem fit; and ſhall only add, that the plot of Macbeth, though the unities of time and place are much in⯑fringed upon, does not ſtrike in repreſentation with any offenſive ideas of improbability; but riſes by [106] very juſt degrees to a cataſtrophe, which is well wrought up; the moral is the ſame as that of Richard the Third, ſhewing that a guilty conſcience is a conſtant tormentor, and that a royal, as well as a private murderer, is obnoxious to puniſhment.

Among the natural characters, if Macbeth and his lady deſerve ſuch an epithet, there is very little va⯑riety or contraſt; all the men, except the principal, are tolerably honeſt; as to the heroine, ſhe ſtands alone.

To delineate Macbeth is not eaſy; the author ſeems like Prometheus, to have made a man of his own, but to have ſtolen his animation rather from Hell than Heaven: by the account we hear of him, previous to his entrance, magnanimity and courage appear conſpicuous in his conduct; yet, no ſooner does he preſent himſelf, but with all the weakneſs of unpractiſed youth, he receives a ſtrong impreſ⯑ſion from old womens' prognoſtications; and with all the aptneſs of a ſtudied villain ſuggeſts the moſt pernicious practices, which from that moment, with a very few ſlight intervals, take entire poſſeſſion of his heart; from his future proceedings, we perceive him more actuated by jealous apprehenſions than ſound policy, more influenced by rage and deſpe⯑ration, than any degree of natural reſolution; cre⯑dulous, impatient, vindictive; ambitious without a ſpark of honour; cruel without a gleam of pity— in ſhort, as compleat a tool for miniſters of tempta⯑tion to work upon, as ever fancy formed, and too diſgraceful for nature to admit amongſt her works.

[107]However, conſidered in the view of theatrical action, there is not one perſonage to be found in our Engliſh drama which more ſtrongly impreſſes an audience, which requires more judgment and greater powers to do him juſtice; many paſſages are intricate, ſome heavy, but for the greater part, pow⯑erfully impaſſioned; the mental agitation he is thrown into, requires expreſſion peculiarly forcible, of action, look, and utterance, even ſo far as to make the hearts of ſpectators ſhrink, and to thrill their blood; indeed, every aſſiſtance from externals is given the actor, ſuch as daggers, bloody hands, ghoſts, &c. but theſe muſt be treated judiciouſly, or the effect, as we have ſometimes ſeen it, may take a ludicrous turn.

Through all the ſoliloquies of anxious reflections in the firſt act; amidſt the pangs of guilty appre⯑henſions, and pungent remorſe, in the ſecond; through all the diſtracted terror of the third; all the impetuous curioſity of the fourth, and all the deſperation of the fifth, Mr. GARRICK ſhews uni⯑form, unabating excellence; ſcarce a look, motion, or tone, but takes poſſeſſion of our faculties, and leads them to a juſt ſenſibility.

As SHAKESPEARE riſes above himſelf in many places, ſo does this his greateſt and beſt commen⯑tator, who not only preſents his beauties to the imagination, but brings them home feelingly to the heart: among a thouſand other inſtances of almoſt necromantic merit; let us turn our recollection only to a few in the character of Macbeth; who ever ſaw the immortal actor ſtart at, and trace the imaginary dagger previous to Duncan's murder, [108] without embodying, by ſympathy, unſubſtantial air into the alarming ſhape of ſuch a weapon? Who ever heard the low, but piercing notes of his voice when the deed is done, repeating thoſe inimitable paſſages which mention the ſleeping grooms, and murder of ſleep, without feeling a vibration of the nerves? Who ever ſaw the guilty diſtraction of fea⯑tures he aſſumes on Banquo's appearance at the feaſt, without ſacrificing reaſon to real apprehenſion from a mimic ghoſt; who has heard his ſpeech, after receiving his death wound, uttered with the utmoſt agony of body and mind, but trembles at the idea of future puniſhment, and almoſt pities the expiring wreteh, though ſtained with crimes of the deepeſt die?

Theatrical performance to moſt ſpectators ap⯑pears a mechanical diſpoſition of limbs, and a pa⯑rotted mode of ſpeech; ſo indeed it really is too often, but intrinſic merit ſoars far beyond ſuch nar⯑row, barren limits, ſhe traces nature through her various windings, dives into her deepeſt receſſes, and ſnatches ten thouſand beauties which plodding method can never diſplay; the dulleſt comprehen⯑ſion may be taught to enter on this ſide or that; to ſtand on a particular board; to raiſe the voice here, and fall it there; but unleſs motion and ut⯑terance are regulated by a cultivated knowledge of life, and ſelf-born intelligent feelings, no greater de⯑gree of excellence can be attained than unaffecting propriety; like a fair field whoſe native fertility of ſoil produces a beauteous luxuriant crop of ſponta⯑neous vegitation, which art can only regulate, not [109] enrich; Mr. GARRICK's matchleſs genius not only captivates our ſportive ſenſes, but alſo furniſhes high reliſhed ſubſtantial food for our minds to ſtrengthen by.

Mr. QUIN, whoſe ſole merit in tragedy was de⯑clamation, or brutal pride, was undeſcribably cum⯑berſome in Macbeth; his face, which had no poſ⯑ſible variation from its natural grace, except ſtern⯑neſs and feſtivity, could not be expected to exhibit the acute ſenſations of this character; his figure, was void of the eſſential ſpirit, and his voice far too monotonous for the tranſitions which ſo frequently occur; yet, wonderful to be told, he played it ſe⯑veral years with conſiderable applauſe.

Mr. SHERIDAN ſhewed more variety of acting in this part than any other, and made an aſtoniſhing good uſe of his limited powers; without any ex⯑aggeration of compliment to that gentleman, we muſt place him in a very reputable degree of com⯑petion with Mr. GARRICK, in the dagger ſcene; and at the ſame time confeſs a doubt, whether any performer ever ſpoke the words, ‘"this is a ſorry ſight,"’ better—as to the third, fourth, and fifth acts, his meaning well, was all we could ever perceive to recommend him.

Mr. BARRY, as a capital actor—indeed a very capital one in his proper caſt, made, in our com⯑prehenſion, but a lukewarm affair of Macbeth, his amorous harmony of features and voice, could but faintly, if at all, deſcribe paſſions incident to a ty⯑rant in ſuch circumſtances as he is placed; his commanding figure, and other requiſites, preſerved [110] him from being inſipid, though far beneath himſelf.

Mr. POWELL—light lie the aſhes of the reſpect⯑able dead—was beyond doubt, partially received in this tragedy; the requiſite force of expreſſion, and a proper diſpoſition of features, were wanting; after the murder, his feelings dwindled into a kind of boyiſh whimpering, and his countenance rather deſcribed bodily than mental pain; in the third act, he ſeemed unequal to the arduous taſk of de⯑ſcribing extreme horror, and in the fifth, Macbeth's weight of deſperation bore him down; even the ſo⯑liloquies appeared too ſententiouſly heavy for his ex⯑preſſion; as his playing the part was certainly matter of choice, we are ſorry he ever miſtook his own abilities ſo much, notwithſtanding he met with public indulgence; a compliment, in ſome meaſure, due even to the failings of a performer, who diſ⯑played ſo much intrinſic merit as he did on more ſuitable occaſions.

Mr. HOLLAND, that induſtrious, uſeful, labo⯑rious, imitative actor, idolized his great inſtructor too much to be any thing original; in Macbeth we deem him particularly unhappy; aiming to be great, he frequently loſt all trace of character: un⯑tunably ſtiff in all his declamation; mechanical in action; ungracious in attitude; affected in feeling; unharmonious in tones; irregular in emphaſis; and wild in paſſion; yet having an agreeable perſon, ſignificant aſpect, and powerful voice, he often pleaſed his audience, and kept attention awake, [111] while judgment was obliged to ſlumber, or ſeek ſafety in ſilence, from popular prejudice.

Among many theatrical circumſtances much to be lamented, is that terrible neceſſity which forces Mr. SMITH into an undertaking ſo oppoſite to every one of his requiſites, except figure; we are confident his good ſenſe agrees with us, that ſad⯑dling him with the part is an impoſition upon that good nature and integrity which ſtimulate him to work through thick and thin, for the ſupport of Covent-Garden houſe.

Macduff is a part of no great action, except on diſcovery of the King's murder, and the fourth act ſcene; Meſſrs. RYAN and HAVARD both did him great juſtice, yet we muſt be of opinion that Mr. REDDISH depicts him with ſuperior ſtrength and beauty: his feelings are manly, yet tender; ſpirited without exceſs; and to us convey whatever an au⯑thor intended, or an audience can wiſh.

Banquo's chief merit is as a ghoſt; here Mr. ROSS made the moſt ſtriking, pictureſque appear⯑ance we have ever ſeen, and with peculiar grace even beautified horror: All the reſt of the men in this play are unworthy notice.

Lady Macbeth, as to the deteſtable compoſition of her character, has been ſufficiently animadverted on, therefore little more is neceſſary than to ob⯑ſerve, that though there does not appear much call for capital merit, yet ſeveral firſt-rate actreſſes have made but a languid figure in repreſenting her.

Notwithſtanding Mrs. WOFFINGTON was ex⯑tremely well received, and really did the part as [112] well as her deplorable tragedy voice would admit; we muſt place Mrs. PRITCHARD foremoſt; who made a very juſt diſtinction in the ſcene where Banquo's ghoſt appears, between reproving Mac⯑beth's behaviour with paſſion, or the anxiety of ap⯑prehenſion, leſt he ſhould betray his guilt; this lat⯑ter method ſhe happily purſued, and here, as well as in the ſleeping ſcene, gained manifeſt ſuperiority. Mrs. YATES, at preſent, comes neareſt the point of praiſe, but certainly diſplays no very conſpicuous merit in the character; and to mention Mrs. BARRY would be to injure her, as it certainly does not at all coincide with her capabilities.

The witches we ſhould take no notice of, but for a ſuppoſed amendment in ſpeaking and dreſſing thoſe characters at Covent-Garden; as beings out of the courſe of nature, SHAKESPEARE fur⯑niſhed them with a peculiarity of ſtyle; why then ſhould we not ſuppoſe he meant a peculiarity of deportment and utterance? He certainly did, as much as for Caliban; a languid propriety of na⯑tural expreſſion deſtroys in them, pleaſing and characteriſtic oddity—as to dreſſing them in the Sybillic taſte, it makes them rather Roman than Scots witches, and ſacrifices eſtabliſhed national ideas, at the ſhrine of falſe decorum, for did appearance, ugly features, and advanced age, dub any female a witch in the times of credu⯑lity; even now, a very diſagreeable woman, bent with age, and wrapped in filthineſs, is ſtigmatized with that title, though not ſo ſeriouſly, north of the Tweed; nay, Macbeth himſelf ſtiles them filthy [113] hags, moſt certainly alluding to perſonal appear⯑ance. —If an alteration of dreſs is to take place in this play, we could wiſh the characters were dreſſed in habits of the times, which would be pleaſing, and, we apprehend is neceſſary.

Macbeth, for its boldneſs of ſentiment, ſtrength of verſification, variety of paſſions and preternatu⯑ral beings, deſerves to be eſteemed a firſt rate tra⯑gedy, containing a number of beauties never ex⯑ceeded, with many blemiſhes very cenſurable; dan⯑gerous in repreſentation, as has been ſaid, to weak minds; unintelligible to moderate conceptions in ſe⯑veral places, upon peruſal; therefore chiefly cal⯑culated for ſound underſtanding, and eſtabliſhed re⯑ſolution of principles, either on the ſtage or in the ſtudy.

THE BEGGAR's OPERA. Written by GAY.

NOtwithſtanding we confeſs a partiality for mu⯑ſic when it is compoſed of ſweet, ſignificant and perſuaſive ſounds, yet the Opera, ſerious or comic, but eſpecially the former, is a ſpecies of the drama not at all defenſible; it carries abſurdity in its front, and abſolutely puts nature out of counte⯑nance; to prove this would be ſuperfluous, as we cannot pay any reader ſo bad a compliment as to ſuppoſe that a ſingle hint does not bear ſatisfactory conviction.

Shocked as every man of real taſte, feeling and genius muſt be, at the predominance of thoſe dear-bought, uneſſential exotics, Italian operas, Gay re⯑ſolved to exerciſe his unbounded talent of ſatire againſt them; and that good ſenſe, a little embit⯑tered, might go down with more faſhionable gout, as apothecaries gild pills, he called in muſic to his aid, and ſuch muſic too as was reliſhable by, not caviare to the million; thus, as we have read of an army, who defeated their enemies by ſhoot⯑ing back upon them their own arrows, ſo he ſtruck deep wounds into the emaciated ſignori of that time, by ſhewing ſuch ſterling wit and humour as they were unacquainted with, decorated with the reigning taſte of the day—the thought was happy, [...] [...]ion equal to the deſign, and the ſucceſs [...].

[115]In the very name of this piece, the author ſeems to have iſſued a keen ſhaft of ridicule, and making the author a beggar is a noble ſarcaſm on fortune and public taſte, which have ſuffered moſt excellent ta⯑lents to pine under a thouſand diſadvantages, of un⯑merited periury and even contempt: no one knew better than Gay the neglect which too commonly attends literary merit; he experienced, felt, and with great poignancy of expreſſion declared it.

This piece opens with Jonathan Wild, the reign⯑ing thief-maker and thief-taker of that time, under the title of Peachum, peruſing his tyburn-regiſter; his ſong, in eight lines, contains more of the ſpirit of truth and ſatire than would animate ſome poems of eight ſcore; the ſucceeding ſcene with Filch ex⯑hibits many excellent remarks, and his account of the gang, when looking out for proper ſacrifices, is not only an admirable, but a very uſeful picture to the profligate; Mrs. Peachum's expreſſions of plea⯑ſure, that there has been no murder committed for ſome time recommend her to favour; and Peach⯑um's replies ſhewing what money will do in criminal proſecutions, is, we are afraid, too juſt; mention of Macheath naturally falls in, and the ſpectators are prepared to receive him, at leaſt, as an agreeable highwayman: his attachment to Polly comes aptly into the converſation, and the plot very pro⯑perly begins to dawn.—Speaking of Polly's being in love, Peachum diſcovers a very ſuitable ſelfiſh⯑neſs, and where he remarks of what ſervice ſhe may be to him, by acting on political principles, the ex⯑preſſion, as well as ſome preceding ones, glows [116] with ſatiric meaning— ‘"My daughter to me ſhould be, like a court-lady to a miniſter of ſtate, a key to the whole gang."’

Mrs. Peachum's ſcene with Filch has nothing but ſome ſtrokes of low humour to recommend it, yet in that light is very ſatisfactory, and always works a very laughable effect.

Polly is introduced by her father under ſuch cir⯑cumſtances as engage favour; her mother's vio⯑lent entrance is much in character; the fainting too, and the remedy for it, are powerful burleſques on ſimilar incidents to be met with in graver pieces; the daughter's ſilence on her marriage being diſ⯑covered, is a very probable effect of confuſion and apprehenſion, nor does a word of the conſequent dialogue fail of due influence; the impatience of the parents, one through pride, the other through intereſt, give a fine opening for Polly's delicate, in⯑tereſting apology, of a ſincere paſſion, for the man ſhe has married; and Peachum's deſign of taking off his new ſon in-law, ſeems the growth of a mind fortified againſt any feelings of humanity.

It is matter of wonder how ſeveral of our gay ladies and fine gentlemen can hear the following ſpeech without bluſhing conſcious guilt; ‘"If ſhe had had only an intrigue with the fellow, why the very beſt families have excuſed and huddled up an affair of that ſort; 'tis marriage, huſ⯑band, that makes it a blemiſh."’ What Peach⯑um replies has a luxuriancy of merit, ‘"But mo⯑ney, wife, is the true fuller's earth for reputa⯑tions; there is not a ſpot or ſtain but what it can [117] take out;"’ what brilliant, what general, what compacted ſatire! mounted on the unſhakable ba⯑ſis of truth, does this ſhort ſentence contain? How eſſentially ſuperior to an aſſimilation of the ſame ingredients and Mr. Foote's pleaſantry, in the pre⯑lude to Mr. Colman's Man and Wife, which dif⯑ference is only mentioned here to ſhew how much the happy thought of one man of genius may be enervated by paſſing through the imagination of another.

The parents endeavouring to perſuade their daughter that an impeachment of the man ſhe loves, and is her huſband alſo, muſt recommend her to their favour, has ſomething in it ſhocking, yet affords a very engaging, pathetic tranſition in Pol⯑ly's character; and her ſoliloquy upon hearing, un⯑ſeen, the plan for Macheath's deſtruction, deſerves much better delivery, much more expreſſive fea⯑tures than it is in general favoured with—the breaks are fine, the ſentiments tender, the deſcription lively, all dreſſed in a naiveté of language, which finds a paſſage to the heart, by nature's aid alone.

The hero is brought forward with great advan⯑tage, the bold ſpirited ſymphony which introduces him, has a ſimilar effect to thoſe flouriſhes of mar⯑tial muſic in ſome tragedies, and he comes very op⯑portunely to give the firſt act additional life towards its concluſion; Polly's diſtreſs for his preſent danger, very naturally diſappears at the ſight and affectionate addreſs of her huſband, but with equal propriety ſoon returns again, with a varia⯑tion which pleaſingly touches the audience; his reluctance to fly, and her tender reſolution to part [118] for a time rather than hazard his ſafety, raiſe deli⯑cate feelings.

As only the firſt ſong has been particularized, it may be neceſſary to obſerve, that to avoid repeti⯑tion as much as poſſible, all the muſical part will be taken notice of in our general view of the piece, on cloſing the remarks.

In the firſt ſcene of the ſecond act we are pre⯑ſented with a ſet of characters not at all reſpectable by profeſſion, yet amuſing, and ſomewhat inſtruc⯑tive from their converſation, which however we deem too full of ſound ſenſe, and genteel, keen ſatire for ſuch perſonages—beſides there are ſome ſo⯑phiſtical juſtifications of highwaymen, rather dan⯑gerous for diſſolute minds; in the drama this ſhould be rarely meddled with, as natural vice gains more confirmation from deluſive ſhew and falſe ar⯑guments, than natural virtue does from moral in⯑ſtruction —however, placing even thieves above courtiers in friendly attachments, as the author has judiciouſly done in what follows, muſt conſiderably palliate the objection we have raiſed: one ſays, ‘"Who is there here who would not the for his friend?"’ another replies, ‘"who is there here who would betray him for intereſt?"’ To which a third returns, ‘"Shew me a gang of courtiers who can ſay as much."’ 'Tis very plain from this, and many other inimitable paſſages, that our author knew courtiers in general exceeding well, whatever his knowledge of thieves might be.

Macheath's ſhort interview with his gang means nothing more than acquainting them with the rea⯑ſon [119] of his diſappearance for ſome time, by Mat o'the Mint's mentioning Moorfields as the place of their rendezvous, we may learn that part of the town was then as reputable as ſome other ſpots of it are at preſent.—What ſucceeds this ſcene, pre⯑vious to the introduction of the ladies, and their converſation, however natural, are by no means proper for public repreſentation; the dialogue has great ſpirit, and is enlivened by ſeveral ſmart repar⯑tees, but the ſubject of action, and the characters are ſo much founded upon licentiouſneſs, as not to be defenſible; improper prejudicial ideas muſt ariſe, and we heartily condemn the whole from this prin⯑ciple, that vice is never more dangerous than when ſhe ſmiles, covering her deformities with a veil of pleaſantry.

Indeed, apprehending Macheath in the midſt of his jollity, by the treachery of two proſtitutes, may convey good warning to ſome who aſſociate with ſuch wretches; yet we are apt to think this ſcene is more apt to inflame the paſſions than to correct the conduct of youth; and delicate taſte muſt be offended at many ſentiments too groſs for its tender reliſh.

Lockit's reception of Macheath, and his re⯑marks upon the fetters at different prices, ſhew the gaoler in true, humourous, yet ſhocking colours; it being a miſerable perverſion of juſtice to treat culprits not according to the enormity of their crimes, but ſtrength of their pockets—the per⯑plexity of Macheath ariſing from his apprehenſion of Lucy's reproaches, falls well in, and her timely [120] appearance confirms his fear; however, we muſt again paſs cenſure upon our author for making Lucy ſpeak of her load of infamy, from a promiſe of marriage, and her jealouſy of Polly Peachum, the plot might have been ſufficiently wrought up with⯑out alluſions ſo very ſenſual, we mean with reſpect to the audience; Macheath's endeavouring to ſooth her into a good humour that they may ſerve his particular purpoſe, though ungenerous, is polite and in character; the words which Lucy ſpeaks at go⯑ing off, ‘"I long to be made an honeſt woman,"’ are a ſtrong and pleaſant ſtroke of ridicule againſt thoſe who vainly imagine that virtue is comprized in any external ceremony, and that a mere com⯑pliance with eſtabliſhed cuſtom can ſanctify vice.

The ſatires which occur between Peachum and Lockit concerning their accounts, are maſterly; and the ſong, which we cannot avoid quoting, inimitable:

We have heard a ſhort anecdote of Sir Robert Walpole, againſt whom Gay chiefly brandiſhed his pen, in reſpect of this ſong, which ſhewed an agreeable and politic preſence of mind; being in the ſtage-box, at the firſt repreſentation of the opera, a moſt univerſal encore attended Lockit's ſong, and all eyes at the ſame time were fixed on Sir Robert, who, noting the matter, joined heartily in the plaudit, and encored it a ſecond time with his [121] ſingle voice; which not only blunted the poetical ſhaft, but gained a general huzza from the au⯑dience.

The thief-taker and gaoler quarrelling upon a principle of honour, is alſo admirably ſarcaſtical upon thoſe known ſcoundrels who pretend a jea⯑louſy for reputation, and who inſolently quarrel up⯑on principles they are totally unacquainted with— nothing is commoner than for proſtitutes to com⯑mence vehement burleſque altercations about virtue, and gamblers about honeſty.

Lucy's interpoſition with her father in favour of her gallant, and his obdurate refuſal, manifeſt a ſtrict knowledge of nature, as does her determina⯑tion to effect the captain's freedom at any rate; no incident ever fell in more opportunely than Polly's entrance at this critical point of time; it reduces Macheath to a peculiar dilemma, and con⯑traſts the ladies very agreeably; their different feel⯑ings are expreſſed with a degree of very nice diſtinc⯑tion, tenderneſs is well oppoſed, by vehemence of affection, and the whole ſcene furniſhes extreme agreeable action.—Polly's patience ſo long under ſuch circumſtances, and at laſt breaking out into womaniſh reſentment, is a good delineation of a female mind, under ſome reſtraint of delicacy, yet ſuſceptible of provocation upon tender points; the quarrel is well conceived, judiciouſly conducted, and wrought into a humourous climax; the timely intervention of Peachum prevents actual hoſtilities, and cauſes a pleaſing touch of the pathetic; while Lucy's reſolution of ſtealing her father's keys to give [122] Macheath his liberty, puts expectation into a freſh degree of ſuſpence, and concludes the ſecond act at a critical period.

A ſuppoſition of his daughter's connivance at the captain's eſcape, gives riſe to Lockit's treating her ſomewhat roughly at the beginning of the third act; but, in the true ſpirit of corruption, which we may ſtile ex officio, indeed the effect of his nature as well as place, he enquires for the per⯑quiſite, and is not a little chagrined at finding the girl poſſeſſed of generoſity.—In the ſhort ſubſequent ſcene, where Filch is introduced, we can by no means approve his groſs anſwer to Lockit's obſer⯑vation, that he looks like a ſhotten herring, it is certainly only fit for the meridian of St. Giles's.

The character of a highwayman is well preſerved in Macheath's making a gaming-houſe his firſt aſy⯑lum after enlargement, and fitting him up with oc⯑caſional finery of external appearance, ſhews the author not only a judge of nature, but the ſtage; for ſuch ſort of collectors general aim at making a gallant figure, to appear what they are not, and change of dreſs often gives an actor ſome novelty with the audience; this ſcene, however, imports little more than to ſhew the diſſipated turn of our hero.

Peachum, Lockit, and the tally-woman, Mrs. Dye Trapes, furniſh us with a diſh of converſation cenſurable throughout, though it always pleaſes by the force of action; the ſubject is too mean for the public ear, the characters mentioned too deſpicable for notice, except from the police, and the old [123] lady's ſecrets, of her abominable trade, infamous; we would therefore recommend ſome other means of diſcovering Macheath, and heartily wiſh a total omiſſion of ſuch ſtuff as no perſon can learn any⯑thing from, which it would not be better to be ig⯑norant of.

The deſign of poiſoning Polly, in a glaſs of ſtrong waters, renders Lucy a right Newgate bird, and makes her, though the fact is not perpetrated, an object of deteſtation; and we apprehend unne⯑ceſſarily, unleſs we carry the idea of burleſque conſtantly in view, and conſider the author as ri⯑diculing the poiſoned bowls of tragedy, ſo often needleſsly adminiſtered, and ſo often miraculouſly eſcaped; another Billingſgate ſentiment we find furniſhed to Lucy in this ſcene, it comes imme⯑diately after theſe words, ‘"I vow, Polly, I ſhall take it monſtrouſly ill, if you refuſe me."’

Macheath's appearing in cuſtody, ſurprizes and alarms attention; his interview with the real and wou'd be wife is very expreſſive of the circum⯑ſtance, and good performance may call forth ſome drops of pity for a very unworthy object.—The different applications of the females, to their ſeveral fathers, call up tender ſenſations, but, we apprehend, they are rather miſplaced; for as Polly is certainly the leading character, and offers the moſt pathetic addreſs, hers ſhould have come laſt by way of cli⯑max.

The ſenſible reſolution, and commendable, tho' divided, tenderneſs of Macheath, in his ſong as he goes off to the Old-Bailey, recommend him conſi⯑derably [124] to favour, and are therefore artfully thrown in.

As Italian operas depend a good deal on dancing merit, we find Gay has a ſtroke even at that, by introducing a hop among the Newgate-gentry, to which, by way of making a ſtrange, yet ſatirical medley, the condemned hole immediately ſucceeds; and, like other great men in ſome ſerious pieces, the captain ſings through all weathers—high ſpirits, low ſpirits, love and deſpair; he has no leſs than ten airs to go through ſucceſſively, yet ſo judiciouſly varied that he muſt be a bitter bad vocal performer, in⯑deed, who palls his audience with them; the fol⯑lowing ſhort ſcenes between him and his friends, and that with the ladies, claim no great ſhare of praiſe, nor do they merit any cenſure.

That very unexpected turn the cataſtrophe takes is thus apologized for by the beggar, ‘"In this kind of drama, 'tis no matter how abſurdly things are brought, about—ſo you rabble there, run and cry a reprieve."’ —Thus, by a kind of poetical, or rather operatical legerdemain, hey! paſs! miſery is gone, and leaves joy and chearful⯑neſs in its place.

To examine the plot of this piece by ſtrict rules of criticiſm, as the author does not by any means pretend to regularity, would be too ſevere; yet the unities are not groſsly intruded upon, ex⯑cept in one place—there are but three-ſhort ſpeeches and a dance between Macheath's being taken to trial and his appearing in the condemned hole, which could ſcarce happen till a day after at leaſt, [125] as priſoners, though found guilty, are not put there till after ſentence.

The dialogue of this opera has great eaſe, ſpirit and correctneſs; the ſentiments are always juſt, though ſometimes blameable; the ſatire inimitable, and the ſongs without one exception, bating that of Mrs. Trapes, an unparalelled treaſure of brilliant alluſions, inſtructive ideas, ſhrewd tendency, fa⯑miliar expreſſion, and unaffected verſification: they have the plain outward ſemblance of common bal⯑lads, yet teem with a luxuriance of imagination, truth and policy, moſt amazingly compacted into an incredible narrow compaſs, which, in our eſti⯑mation, entitles them to be ſtiled the quinteſſence of merit.

Yet after offering this impartial tribute at the ſhrine of Gay's genius, it gives us concern to be under a neceſſity of remarking, that a moral was the laſt point in his view, if it entered there at all; and, in this reſpect, a gloomy cloud caſts its dark ſhade over the ſhine of praiſe he muſt otherwiſe have commanded: if young minds, which indeed the muſic helps, leave a theatre untainted with any prejudicial impreſſion after ſeeing the BEGGAR's OPERA; if no fooliſh young perſon of either ſex admires Macheath as any other than a diverting ſtage-character; if his ſhew and falſe courage do not delude the one ſex, nor his gallantry attract the other, then the piece may ſtand as inoffenſive; but we fear it does not often work an effect of ſuch mediocrity, therefore are bold to call it a compoſi⯑tion [126] made up of ingredients much more noxious than ſalutary, ſo pleaſingly reliſhed, ſo flatteringly gilded, that ſcarce any eye or taſte can reſiſt the powerful, dangerous temptation; it ſtands, like light and heat, alluring paſſions, which play like moths around it, till they fall a prey to the delu⯑ſive object of their delight.

In reſpect of characters, the men are all arrant ſcoundrels, and the females, except Polly, vicious jades; neceſſarily there can be but a very faint de⯑gree of light and ſhade, which undoubtedly con⯑ſtitute not only a great part of dramatic beauty but propriety; for all angels, or all devils, is but a very partial, uninſtructive picture of human nature; but indeed our author's choice of characters would not admit of much variety, wherefore we heartily lament his proſtituting ſuch exquiſite talents to ſo unedifying, or rather immoral a ſubject.

Macheath has ſomething ſpecious, but not one valuable ſymptom in his compoſition; his profeſ⯑ſion is not only to rob men of their property, but females of their characters and peace; there is an appearance of courage, without a ſpark of reality; for at the trying moment, we find he applies to the true reſource of a coward, liquor; in ſhort, he is a contemptible knave, yet an agreeable gallant, and therefore, as we have already obſerved, the more dangerous and cenſurable for public exhibition.

In the performance of this part, ſpirited bold⯑neſs of figure, flaſhy gentility of deportment, and an expreſſive, not a refined taſte of ſinging, are [127] neceſſary, under this idea of requiſites, we cannot ſay that any performer within our knowledge has repreſented him in a capital manner; Mr. BEARD's appearance and manner of ſinging were all that could be wiſhed, but his ſpeaking was intolerable, and he appeared too much of the gentleman; Mr. LOWE's voice was more happy, but his expreſſion leſs characteriſtic, and his ſpeaking, if poſſible, worſe; Mr. VERNON's muſical knowledge is ex⯑tenſive, his merit in acting great, but his figure ra⯑ther inadequate, and his voice totally ſo; Mr. MATTOCKS is far too faint in appearance and every degree of expreſſion.

If the managers of Drury-lane would do them⯑ſelves and the public juſtice, Mr. BANNISTER, who looks, walks and ſings the part, take all together, —better than any who have been mentioned, ſhould undoubtedly be put in poſſeſſion of it; and indeed of many others, which are miſerably mutilated by the preſent poſſeſſors.—Mr. DIGGES, whom we mentioned in our remarks upon Richard the Third, was not without great merit in the captain.

Peachum and Lockit are admirably drawn for their ſtations, and with a very natural diſtinction; the former being more in the world, has more ex⯑tended ideas, more ſhrewdneſs, and is a knave of greater latitude; Mr. MACKLIN and Mr. YATES were indiſputably ſuperior to any competitors in theſe parts; but for general dryneſs and a juſt cy⯑nical turn of humour, Mr. MACKLIN ſtood, in [128] our opinion foremoſt, at preſent it does not de⯑ſerve notice at either houſe.

Lockit is obvious and eaſy to hit, yet all we have ſeen never exceeded mediocrity; ſome ſink him into an abſolute black-guard, which there is no reaſon for; and others ſoften the natural gloom of his ſtation too much; the late Mr. BERRY was, we apprehend, the moſt tolerable of any perſon for ſeveral years.—Filch is well deſribed by the au⯑thor, and never was, nor never need be, better ex⯑pired than by Mr. PARSONS of Drury-lane, who, if it would not ſeem an aukward compliment, looks, deports, and ſings the pickpocket to per⯑fection.

Polly is an agreeable young woman, imprudent, yet delicate, and conſtant in affection; ſhe com⯑mits a breach of filial duty, 'tis true, in point of her ſecret marriage, but ſuch parents as hers appear to deſerve little confidence; no character in the drama has furniſhed ſo many young adventurers as this, ſeveral of whom have made ample proviſion for themſelves through her introduction into life; and, upon the whole, there never was a part in which ſo many unequal performers made a tolera⯑ble ſtand; out of a large number in our recollec⯑tion, the following ladies deſerved conſiderable praiſe, Miſs NORRIS, Miſs FALKNER, and Mrs. CHAMBERS.

Mrs. PINTO ſung it better, and brought more money, by far, than any perſon ſince the firſt ſeaſon of exhibition; Mrs. ARNE alſo had great muſical [129] merit, but neither of them poſſeſſed a ſhadow of act⯑ing—Mrs. CIBBER, was to the eye, heart and ear, worth all we have mentioned, and the only ſenſible ſpeaking female ſinger that we remember—were the underſtanding to be pleaſed with ſenſibility of countenance, emphaſis, and ſound, we could wiſh to ſee Miſs MACKLIN do the part at preſent.

Lucy is a character, who, through weakneſs of vice, has forfeited her virtue, ſhe is compoſed of violent paſſions, and, as we have ſhewn, of a bad heart; yet, even with moderate merit, muſt pleaſe in acting; Mrs. CLIVE, though ſhe ſqualled the ſongs, did the part more juſtice than any body elſe. We preſume Mrs. MATTOCKS would ſhew more character and ſpirit in it than any one now on the ſtage.

Mrs. Peachum was extremely well repreſented by Mrs. MACKLIN, and does not ſuffer injury from Mrs. VINCENT; but, we apprehend, would be much better in poſſeſſion of Mrs. GREEN; as to Mrs. Dye, and the other ladies, we ſhall take no notice of them, as we cordially wiſh they were never to be ſeen again.

From obſervations already made, we have ſhewn that there is ſcarce any moral deducible from the BEGGAR'S OPERA; that it is, upon the whole, a loathſome, infectious carcaſe, cloathed in an angelic garb; that it is ſounded upon ſo⯑lid ſenſe and ſatiric truth, yet riſes into a ſuper-ſtructure of licentiouſneſs; that it is highly en⯑tertaining, not at all inſtructive; that it is an ex⯑quiſite burleſque upon Italian operas, and not a [130] little ſo upon virtue; that it is inflammatory with humour, and vulgar with elegance; in ſhort, it is one of thoſe bewitching evils, which offended reaſon muſt wiſh had never been brought to light, while delighted taſte muſt lament the very idea of its annihilation.

OTHELLO. Written by SHAKESPEARE.

IT is very much to be wiſhed that tragic writers would rather bend their thoughts to familiar cir⯑cumſtances in life, than thoſe which concern ele⯑vated feelings and abſtract paſſions; the latter may indeed furniſh matter to genius of a dignified na⯑ture, but the former moſt effectually appeal to ge⯑neral inſtruction; thus we may ſafely aſſert, that though our author's Julius Caeſar is equal to any piece, ancient or modern, for importance of ſub⯑ject, greatneſs of character, and liberality of ſenti⯑ment, yet feebler efforts of genius carry in their nature and compoſition a greater degree of ſocial utility; not that we conſider the noble ſpirit of pa⯑triotiſm, as too great or copious for any Britiſh bo⯑ſom, at leaſt any honeſt one; but it is not ſo re⯑lative to common domeſtic concerns, as many other feelings which work eſſential advantage, or over⯑bearing miſery.

Thus much we premiſe in favour of this tragedy, founded on that fever of the mind, jealouſy, which Doctor Young moſt emphatically calls ‘"the Hydra of calamities;"’ a paſſion often ariſing in every ſta⯑tion of life from ſparks of inflammation, at firſt ſcarce perceptible, into ‘"a conflagration of the ſoul."’

OTHELLO commences with a ſcene between Ro⯑dorigo and Iago, deſigned to let the audience know that the latter is chagrined at his general, the Moor, [132] for not promoting him according to his deſire, and that the former has a very affectionate tendre for the commander's new married lady; it appears plain that the amorous ſimpleton is made an abſo⯑lute tool to the deep deſigns of Iago, who, not caring to appear himſelf as the Moor's enemy, ſets on the glib-tongued coxcomb to alarm Brabantio with the elopement of his daughter; this ſcene is well written, but the paſſages, hereafter pointed at, are egregiouſly offenſive, and if performers will not voluntarily omit them, ought to be condemned into obſcurity, at leaſt from the ſtage, by public re⯑pulſes.—Iago's ſecond ſpeech to Brabantio under the window, beginning, ‘"Sir, you are robb'd,"’ is moſt groſsly conceived; and what immediately ſuc⯑ceeds theſe words of the ſame character, if poſſible, worſe, ‘"becauſe we come to do you ſervice, you think us ruffians."’ Iago's departure, and leaving Ro⯑dorigo to be the old Senator's guide, is very politic.

Upon appearing, with Othello we find the dou⯑ble-dealing Ancient, working into Othello's confi⯑dence by ſpecious profeſſions of attachment to his inclination and intereſt; which prepares us for his future inſidious tranſactions, while the Moor's con⯑tempt of Brabantio's reſentment ſhows that true dignified ſecurity of mind which conſcious inno⯑cence beſtows—the following ſcenes, till the appears before the ſenate, are rather trifling, ſave that a meſſage from the ſtate ſaves Othello the diſgrace of going as a priſoner.

The ſenate ſcene has ever been deemed an impor⯑tant one, and indeed with conſiderable juſtice; [133] the paternal feelings of Brabantio, and the generous confidence of Othello, are well ſupported; but the charge of gaining Deſdemona by ſpells and medi⯑cines, however conſonant to a Venetian law, againſt ſuch practices, we could wiſh had been rejected by our author, for the ſame reaſon we have urged againſt witches; the great probability of ſuch characters, and chimerical notions impreſſing irrational ideas up⯑on weak minds; indeed Brabantio's reaſon for ſup⯑poſing that his daughter could not have been won by any fair means to a match ſo ſeemingly prepoſt⯑erous, is ſtrong, but not a ſufficient apology for his charge, which ſhows him, like ſome modern ſe⯑nators, to be none of the wiſeſt—King James wrote a book of Demonology, but can any man in his ſenſes call it a rational, though a royal production.

In his firſt addreſs to the ſenate, we perceive the Moor apologizing with all the ſmoothneſs and flow of eloquence for his deficiency in that reſpect, he is nervous, conciſe, and figurative, therefore his modeſt opinion of himſelf ſeem ſtrong ſymptoms of affecta⯑tion, we find Brabantio in his reply poſſeſſed with the true old womaniſh, credulous obſtinacy, ſtick⯑ing cloſe to conjuration, which indeed the duke very properly reproves.

Othello's narration, though literally fine, ſub⯑jects him to an imputation of ſelf-ſufficiency; that he might relate his ſtory for the entertainment of Deſdemona, and that ſhe might conceive an affec⯑tion for one concerned in ſo many great and intereſt⯑ing events, is very conſiſtent with him as a polite warrior, and with her as an admirer of military [134] atchievements, riſing almoſt into the ſtrain of ro⯑mance; but for the Moor to aim ſo much at reca⯑pitulation of what muſt be known to moſt, if not all of the ſtateſmen who employed him as a general ſhews as if Shakeſpeare unbridled fancy, and ſtudied more giving the performer a fine ſpeech, than pre⯑ſerving delicacy of character, yet whatever objec⯑tion we raiſe is much, if not entirely ſoftened, by the great pleaſure it always gives in recital.

Deſdemona's appearance, and candid declaration in favour of the Moor, gives a very ſatisfactory re⯑futation to her father's myſterious allegations; what follows, concerning Cyprus, we can by no means ſee any neceſſity for; as every part of the plot might have been preſerved with equal force, by keeping the characters all through at Venice; we have de⯑clared ourſelves ſo unclaſſical as not to be the friends of ſtrict limitation, but cannot countenance the introduction of a ſea-voyage, where there is no occaſion for it: Othello might have appeared as much in his military capacity, by receiving orders to make diſpoſitions at home againſt a Turkiſh in⯑vaſion, as by going abroad.

The enſuing ſcene between Iago and Rodorigo ſhews the former in a more extended light of knave⯑ry, and his manner of working upon the ſhallow ſopling is happily executed; however we can by no means approve ſuch a character as Rodorigo in tragical compoſition; he is only to be laughed at, and that cannot be deemed a proper feeling for ſerious pieces; beſides, through the whole, he is literally a non-eſſential, and as he ſays himſelf, [...] that he is not a hound that hunts, but one that [135] "fills up the cry;"—would he were ſtationed more ſuitably, not only becauſe he diſgraces more important concerns by his levity, but alſo becauſe his conferences with Iago are upon an offenſive ſub⯑ject, and furniſh many nauſeous ideas, ſet forth in groſs expreſſion.

Iago's ſoliloquy, which concludes the firſt act, is a maſter-piece of villainous machination, finely written for a judicious actor, and very artfully throws out his chief motive of reſentment againſt the general; but if his expreſſion of jealouſy had been more obliquely worded, it would have been more commendable.

It is very judicious to retrench conſiderably thoſe trifling ſcenes at the beginning of the ſecond act; but why the following ſpeeches of Montano and a gentleman ſhould be omitted I know not, ſince a ſtorm is mentioned, nothing could be put in their mouths, as ſpectators of diſtracted elements, more natural, or more conſiſtently poetical, than theſe lines;

[136]Had the preceding paſſages belonged to capital characters, they would have been carefully retained; but in theatrical paring it ſeems a rule, to render the ſmaller parts as inconſiderable as poſſible, from a paltry, ſelfiſh notion, that thereby they become a better foil to the principal ones; this makes prompters books ſuch miſerable, multilated objects, as they are in many places, and at the ſame time wrongs both the author and public taſte; beſides, the preceding ſpeeches are abſolutely eſſential to raiſe a preparative anxiety for the ſafety of Othello.

Iago's treatment of Aemilia, and his reflections on wives in general, not only before ſtrangers, but even before Deſdemona, is brutally unpolite; a mi⯑ſerable ſhift to give time for Othello's arrival; be⯑ſides, the line after this, ‘"Nay, it is true, or elſe I am a Turk,"’ admits no juſtification; yet is retained in ſpeaking by the ſame wiſe authorities which exclude the above quotation, ſo pregnant with beautiful propriety.—The laſt line of a former ſpeech is alſo fulſome; it comes after this, ‘"Saints in your injuries—devils being offended;"’ and all the ancient's poetical reflections have a moſt plenti⯑ful lack of deſirable meaning; they do indeed ve⯑rify his own remark of coming forth brains and all; to be plain, the whole of this ſcene, till Iago's remarks on Deſdemona's freedom with Caſſio, is either trifling or abominable; what depravity of imagination could tempt Shakeſpeare to introduce the words in Iago's ſide-ſpeech after theſe, ‘"Your fingers to your lips,"’ it is impoſſible to con⯑ceive; for they are not only indecent, but other⯑wiſe improper, as they imply an uneaſineſs at the [137] favour ſhewn Caſſio, which ſhould rather pleaſe him, as it apparently works for his purpoſe.

Othello's entrance relieves and charms attention after ſo inſipid an interval; the rapture of meeting ſafe, after mutual danger, is expreſſed equal to every idea ariſing from affection of heart, and fire of imagination, and the interview gives more ſatis⯑faction to the ſenſibility, by being made judiciouſly ſhort.

Licentiouſneſs of ſentiment again prevails unpar⯑donably between Iago and Rodorigo, even ſo much as to ſhame quotation; indeed, to do the ſtage juſ⯑tice, this ſcene is much and commendably curtailed in repreſentation; Iago's policy and method of working up Rodorigo, to quarrel with Caſſio, ſpeak an able genius for miſchief; his ſubſequent ſoliloquy offers ſome palliation of his baſeneſs, by harping again upon the ſtring of jealouſy, and opens his future views more at large; upon his going off the author has introduced a herald to proclaim feſti⯑vity, and we preſume not improperly, however the theatres reject him.

Bringing Othello and Deſdemona, for no other reaſon than to give Caſſio charge of the court watch, which a general never does in ſuch a manner to his inferior officer, is trifling with the Moor's impor⯑tance, and makes his return during the quarrel, too improbably ſudden; Iago's inflammatory ſpeeches to Caſſio reſpecting Deſdemona, and the conſum⯑mation of the Moor's nuptials, are far too luſcious for eſſential public reſerve, or even delicate privacy [138] —the manner of working up the quarrel, the quar⯑rel itſelf, and the drunkenneſs of Caſſio, are violent intruſions upon the decorum of tragedy.

Caſſio, like a tame gudgeon, ſwallows the bait laid for him, as eaſily as any deſigning knave could wiſh, and makes as fooliſh a figure as any hot-headed in⯑ebriated fool we have met with: we don't ſay that nature's bounds are at all violated, but we con⯑ceive ſuch pictures unworthy the more delicate and maſterly beauties of this piece: if any thing can pal⯑liate critical reſentment, it muſt be the reſpectable figure that Othello makes in ſuppreſſing the riot; Iago's able hypocriſy, which artfully criminates the friend he ſeems to excuſe; and Caſſio's inimitable reflections when he is, rather miraculouſly, reſtored to reaſon; Iago's urging him to ſue for his place again, through Deſdemona's influence, is a deep and ſenſible train laid, full of ſeeming advantage, fraught with perils and death; his turning the eaſy, bene⯑volent diſpoſition of Deſdemona into the materials of ruin for herſelf and Caſſio, is the very eſſence of diabolical contrivance,—Rodorigo's entrance ſeems calculated for no other purpoſe than to keep him in ſome degree of remembrance, but Iago's conclu⯑ſion of the act, ſhews intricate complication, and great depth of deſign.

From ſeveral ſcenes ſcattered through our author's plays, we are apt to imagine he trifled with propri⯑ety to relax his genius, what elſe could give birth to what we meet at the beginning of the third act, a clown, bandying ſtrange quibbles, and quaint con⯑ceits, [139] with ſome ſerenading muſicians: if Shake⯑ſpeare's audience abſolutely required ſuch pitiful dia⯑logue ſuch puppet-ſhew wit, taſte muſt have been in a very gothic ſtate truly; and the queſtion natu⯑rally follows, how the admirers of ſuch peddling dia⯑logue, could reliſh the ſublimer flights of his geni⯑us; we might as well ſuppoſe one ear to be equally delighted with a ſolo by Giardini, and the braying of an aſs, the picking of a grindſtone, or whetting of a ſaw, This act therefore, now very judiciouſly begins in repreſentation with Deſdemona, Aemilia, and Caſſio, who we find has preferred his petition, and is promiſed countenance.—His diffident retreat upon Othello's entrance, is the natural, delicate ef⯑fect of a ſenſible, ingenious mind, conſcious of tranſgreſſion, and Iago's ſhort remark upon that circumſtance, is exquiſitely imagined; Deſdemona's unlimited generoſity of temper beams forth in her warm method of importuning the Moor in favour of his lieutenant, and while it recommends her to public favour, gives Iago's ſiniſter deſigns addi⯑tional force; Othello's compliance with her re⯑queſt, though cordial and affectionate, yet ſupports by its delay the conſequence and reſentment of an offended commander; an inſtantaneous pardon would have ſhewn too much pliancy in him, and muſt have debilitated the plot greatly.

Nothing can exceed Othello's beautiful exclama⯑tion on his wife's going off; it ſeems the involun⯑tary effuſion of abundant affection, which his ſenſe and ſincerity enough rather to vent its rap [...]ures in [140] the beloved object's abſence, than weakly or flat⯑teringly to her face; Iago's diſtant, ſubtle entrance upon the grand part of his deſign, is admirable, as is indeed the whole progreſs of this ſcene, wherein Othello ſhews much openneſs of temper and warmth of heart, both which his inſidious ancient works on with great judgment and propriety; the doubs he raiſes with ſuch hypocrital diffidence are judici⯑ouſly ſuggeſted, and Othello's impatient curioſity extremely natural; Iago's reflections upon the ſu⯑perior value of a good name, to riches, are ſo well known, that quoting them would be ſuperfluous— his picture of jealouſy alſo is amazingly ſtriking, and Othello's generous diſdain on being ſuppoſed ca⯑papable of ſo illiberal a paſſion, moſt nobly expreſ⯑ſed—how peculiarly pleaſing, nay inſtructive, is his ſpeech to that purpoſe? we muſt preſent it to the candid reader:

The incloſed paſſage is generally omitted on the ſtage, and we apprehend properly—every thing which follows riſes by ſuch juſt degrees, and ſuch com⯑pleat artifices are uſed to improve upon the Moor's unſuſpecting nature, that though we muſt pity, we can hardly blame the agitation he is thrown into —the introduction of Deſdemona, to interrupt the ſcene already long enough, both for the audience and performer, is very judicious; and the little circumſtance of the handkerchief very well con⯑ceived; Iago's making it, though aparently in⯑ſignificant, an inſtrument of importance, proves the author well acquainted with the nature of jea⯑louſy; indeed, it is aſtoniſhing how any critics could cavil at this incident, as ſome have done, af⯑ter the following unanſwerable apology for it:

Any perſon unacquainted with Shakeſpeare's aſtoniſhing ideas and unlimited expreſſion, would ſuppoſe Othello had reached the top of his bent in his conference with Iago, already mentioned, yet we find him returning, filled with ſeven-fold rage, firſt againſt the perſon who has made him acquaint⯑ed with his miſery, and next, againſt his unhappy, injured wife—There never was, amidſt many other unparalelled beauties, a more luxurious, figurative [142] climax of paſſion than what follows, and quite juſti⯑fiable, though poetical; for Othello being ena⯑moured of fame, and the military character, which he ſuppoſes his preſent diſgrace will render him un⯑fit for; it naturally ariſes, that they ſhould occur even in the very whirlwind of rage, which, on his ſeeing Iago, riſes ſtill higher, and carries the human heart as far as it can go upon ſuch an occaſion.

We could wiſh the two firſt lines, marked by Ita⯑lics, had not conveyed an indelicate idea, which, if poſſible, is leſs allowable in tragic than comic compoſitions, though Shakeſpeare has unhappily loaded this excellent play with ſuch.

Iago's ſubtle affectation of chagrin at Othello's boiſterous treatment of him, and his blunt method of expreſſion, are refined ſtrokes of policy to recal the Moor's calmer reaſon; and at the ſame time plant the dagger ſtill deeper in his heart—After this line of Iago's, ‘"But how, how ſatisfied, my lord?"’ we would adviſe him to go forward into [143] next ſpeech, by which a wretched breach of decen⯑cy would be avoided; his expreſſion we cannot ven⯑ture to quote, and in that ſpeech alſo his mention of goats and monkeys, &c. ſhould undoubtedly be re⯑trenched.

Where he is deſcribing Caſſio's dream, the pic⯑ture is drawn in much too glaring colours; the painting need not have been ſo ſtrong for a man of Othello's apparent quick conception and delicate ſenſibility; the handkerchief is extremely well in⯑troduced, and Othello's dreadful reſolution, what might be reaſonably expected from a precipitate, vindictive temper, perplexed with ſuch violent ex⯑tremes; however, we cannot approve the aſſimila⯑tion of his reſolution to the Pontic ſea, which never feels an ebb; though the thought is beautiful it ſuits not the circumſtance of character.

Why Aemilia, in the ſhort ſcene with Deſdemona, where Shakeſpeare has again produced his facetious, word catching clown, ſhould throw out a hint of Othello's being jealous, or why his wife ſhould ſuggeſt a thought of jealouſy of him, merely for loſing an handkerchief, though a particular one, is not eaſy to account for; the re-entrance of Othello, teeming with confirmed rage, fills us with anxious expectation, and his being confined to the ſingle circumſtance of the handkerchief ſhows that our author knew how to make the ſmalleſt matters im⯑portant; yet we know not for what reaſon magic ſhould be placed in the web of it, unleſs to ſtartle Deſdemona, and to give the author an opportunity of indulging his fancy in ſome fine lines; Deſde⯑mona's [142] [...] [143] [...] [144] urging Caſſio's ſuit at ſuch a time is excel⯑lently contrived to inflame her huſband ſtill more; and his preſſing the point, that he ſuppoſes her afraid to hear through guilt, ſhews judgment equal to any other paſſage in the play.

The following ſpeech of Aemilia is liable to two objections; as the firſt line ſeems unneceſſary to proclaim a groſs breach of time, and next as thoſe which come after exhibit a nauſeous alluſion.

As to the inference drawn from the firſt line by ſome critics, that it places Othello's nuptials ſo far back as one of the periods therein mentioned, is, we apprehend, a ſtrained interpretation; for, if the lady who plays Aemilia lays any emphaſis on the two marked words, and expreſſes the laſt moſt forceably— ‘"'Tis not a year or two ſhews us a man,"’ —then the ſenſe is obviouſly this; How can you, who have been ſo ſhort a ſpace married, think of knowing the turns of a man's temper, which requires even years to explain? The fol⯑lowing ſcene, where Iago and Caſſio are concerned, has nothing material in it, unleſs ſhewing more goodneſs of heart in Deſdemona and more hypo⯑criſy in Iago, who artfully ſeems to wonder at the ſtorm himſelf has raiſed.

After this ſcene, which properly concludes the third act, as it is played, Shakeſpeare brings in a mere excreſcence of the plot, Bianca, Caſſio's cour⯑tezan, [145] of whom, being totally excluded from the ſtage, we ſhall ſay no more than expreſs wonder how the author could incumber his piece with ſuch a deſpicable non-eſſential.

As if the Moor had not been ſufficiently wrought up, which certainly he has been Shakeſpeare, for ſe⯑veral pages at the beginning of the fourth act, la⯑boriouſly, and from ſeveral paſſages we may add, in a beaſtly manner, endeavours to throw freſh fuel on his flames, extending the matter to ſuch a length as action could not render ſufferable, and in many places tending to the ridiculous; wherefore, we would recommend omiſſion of every line which pre⯑cedes—"Get me ſome poiſon, Iago;" the ſpace of time ſince we have ſeen Othello before, and the temper he laſt appeared in, ſufficiently juſtify his coming on here, fixed in the reſolution of ſacrificing his wife.

Lodovico appears, deputed by the ſtates of Ve⯑nice on a very odd errand, no leſs than diſplacing Othello from the government of Cyprus, and ſub⯑ſtituting Caſſio in his room; our author knew little of, or would not underſtand any ſort of, mili⯑tary regulation, when he could raiſe a ſimple lieu⯑tenant at once to be governr of an iſland, which was thought worthy the care of the general in chief, as we have reaſon for ſuppoſing Othello to be; indeed, we can perceive no uſe for the new character of Lodovico; however the ſcene, where he firſt comes on, gives great ſcope of natural and powerful action in Othello, whoſe jealouſy pre⯑dominates over every other conſideration; Iago's [146] giving a bad impreſſion of him to Lodovico, is much in character.

Othello's ſounding of Aemilia is very ſuitable, and his following interview, with Deſdemona, melt⯑ingly pathetic. Iago's viperous heart is rendered, if poſſible, more odious by his pretended concern for Deſdemona's pitiable ſituation, and the miff between him and Aemilia riſes well, to ſhew her reſiſtive ſpi⯑rit in contraſt to the gentleneſs of her miſtreſs.— After Deſdemona has made an intereſting exculpa⯑tory appeal to Heaven, the ladies give place to Ro⯑dorigo, who, finding himſelf dallied with, upbraids Iago with ſiniſter dealings; as we wiſhed from the beginning, not to ſee this diſgraceful muſhroom of tragedy, we ſhall only ſay of this ſcene, that it ſerves the intended purpoſe well enough.

The Moor is preſented to view, at his next en⯑trance, in quite a different mode of behaviour, he is determined on his great revenge, the plan is laid, and therefore very naturally, he wears a partial calm, in external appearance, which is like that ge⯑nerally proceeding the elementary ſhock of an earth⯑quake, the prologue of more aſſured and terrible deſtruction; if Deſdemona was to chaunt the la⯑mentable ditty, and ſpeak all that Shakeſpeare has allotted for her in this ſcene, an audience, as Foi⯑gard ſays, would not know whether to laugh or cry; and Aemilia's quibbling diſſertation on cuckold-making, is contemptible to the laſt degree.

The fifth act commences with Iago appointing Rodorigo to the honourable poſt of an aſſaſſin, which we think ſomewhat like placing a ſerpent's [147] ſting in the tail of a butterfly; a ſtrange jumble of events enſue, amidſt which Iago plays at bo-peep with murder, and ſecures the poor coxcomb he has robbed, by privately ſtabbing him; the introduc⯑tion of Othello at a window is quite ſuperfluous, and indeed all theſe tranſactions might have been re⯑ferred more properly to narration, which would, nay does, fall very naturally in at the unravelling of the plot: we own ourſelves deſirous of having the fifth act begin with the bed ſcene; and what Aemilia leaves untold of the fray, would come extremely well from Caſſio: If the whole was done as SHAKE⯑SPEARE wrote it, and Bianca produced howling over her gallant, the ſcene would be intolerable; even as it is, much ſhortened, it rather intrudes up⯑on material feelings.

There is ſomewhat affectingly ſolemn in Deſde⯑mona's ſituation, and Othello's appearance when ſhe is in bed; pity never received a more powerful call than to ſee ſleeping innocence at the brink of deſtruction; nor did her tender ear ever catch ſounds more pathetically intereſting, than Othello's reflec⯑tions previous to her waking; every ſoft ſenſation is put into a tremulative ſtate, and the ſuſceptible ſpectator muſt feel an exquiſite ſhare of painful pleaſure, to ſee a determined murderer, who moves us more to compaſſion than deteſtation, which lat⯑ter ſhould attend ſuch actions, ſhews that our author had when he pleaſed, an almoſt magic power over the human heart, and could place the paſſions up⯑on reaſon's throne.—No converſation was ever more in nature, than what paſſes between the Moor and [148] his wife: every half line, for brevity of expreſſion, is moſt judiciouſly adopted, and recommends him to our favour, without making her leſs pitiable.

The act of murder is ſucceeded by a moſt beau⯑tiful wilderneſs of confuſion; nothing could be more happily fancied than Aemilia's approach at ſuch a criſis; the ſcene with her alſo is carried on with pe⯑culiar ſpirit and propriety—the revival of Deſde⯑mona from a ſtate of ſuffocation, and her expiring without any freſh violence, we apprehend to be ra⯑ther abſurd, therefore highly approve Othello's ſtab⯑bing her with a dagger, after the words—"I that am cruel," drawing blood accounts naturally for gaining power of ſpeech, and may yet be mortal— ſpeaking of Caſſio's freedom with his wife, the Moor uſes ſome very groſs expreſſions—all the re⯑mainder of this act exhibits an intereſting train of explanations, which, though already known to the audience, pleaſe, as they lead to ſtrict poetical juſ⯑tice; however, Othello's violent exclamation, be⯑ginning, ‘"whip me ye devils,"’ is rather bombaſ⯑tical and profane—Aemilia's death is quite unne⯑ceſſary, as it cannot tend to render Iago more de⯑teſtable than he is already, nor has ſhe done any thing to merit puniſhment—wherefore it ſeems as if SHAKESPEARE's tragic muſe determined, like Re⯑nault in Venice Preſerved, to ſpare neither ſex nor age, and rejoiced, as Mr. Cumberland has it in his inimitable prologue of all prologues to the Bro⯑thers, to appear ‘From ſhoulder to the flank all drench'd in gore.’

[149]Notwithſtanding ſuicide is a real act of coward⯑ice, an irrational and an irreligious eſcape from men⯑tal pain, yet we can hardly blame Othello for apply⯑ing that deſperate remedy to ſuch complicated woes; and there is ſomething very noble in reminding the ſtate of Venice with almoſt his laſt words, that he finiſhed his life in the ſame manner which he had once uſed to vindicate the public honour of his maſters; Iago is moſt properly denoted to utter contempt as well as abhorrence, and reſerving him for legal puniſhment in its utmoſt ſeverity, is more conſonant to poetical juſtice, than adding him to the heap of the ſlain would have been; it was ex⯑tremely judicious alſo to wrap up the whole in one ſpeech after Othello's death.

This tragedy, upon the whole, contains many paſſages ſublimely beautiful, a number very trifling, ſome abſurd, and too many licentious, we mean as written by Shakeſpeare—except tranſporting the characters from Venice to Cyprus, which might have eaſily been avoided; the plan is ſufficiently regular, pleaſingly progreſſive, and well calculated to touch moſt ſenſibly the feelings of horror and pity; the perſonages are well contraſted, and co⯑operate properly to the main action, though Rodo⯑rigo, Bianca, and the clown, diſgrace their company much; the ſtage, however, has baniſhed two of them, and if the third was conſigned to oblivion, it would be for the author's credit.

Indeed it is to be wiſhed, that inſtead of ſo many ſyllable hunting editions of Shakeſpeare as have ap⯑peared; a committee of able critics had united their [150] abilities to ſtrike out the inſignificant and offenſive paſſages which ſo often occur; this would bring his merit into a more compact, uniform view, and con⯑ſiderably leſſen the heavy public tax, ariſing from extending his works, at leaſt three volumes more than are creditable to himſelf, or uſeful to his readers; ſuch an edition regulated by all thoſe already pub⯑liſhed, without the incumbrance of multiplied, con⯑jectural notes, unleſs there are very obſcure alluſions, if prepared by impartial ability, would be an accep⯑table offering to delicate taſte, and muſt, we appre⯑hend, meet what it would certainly deſerve, general ſucceſs—ſuch a work we could cordially recommend to Mr. GARRICK, and ſuch ſuitable aſſiſtants as his extenſive connexions in the literary world muſt eaſily procure him—we hope what is here offered will be conſidered as a hint only, founded on united regard for the father of the drama, the delicate dignity of the ſtage, and the morals of readers as well as auditors.

Othello, though he does not require all the powers of tragical expreſſion, certainly calls for ſeveral of the greateſt—he is open; generous, free, ſubject to vio⯑lent feelings, not, as himſelf expreſſes it, eaſily jea⯑lous, yet rouzed by that pernicious paſſion above all violent reſtraint; weak in his confidence, partial in diſcernment, fatal in reſolution—if we may venture to ſay, that any performer ever was born for one part, in particular, it muſt have been Mr. BARRY for the Moor; his figure was a good apology for Deſdemona's attachment, even if ſhe had not ſeen a fair, inſtead of black viſage in his mind, and the [151] of his voice to tell ſuch a tale as he deſcribes, muſt have raiſed favourable prejudice in any one who had an ear, or heart to feel.

There is a length of periods, and an extravagance of paſſion, in this part, not to be found in any other, for ſo many ſucceſſive ſcenes, to which which Mr. BARRY appeared peculiarly ſuitable, he happily ex⯑hibited the hero, the lover, and the diſtracted huſ⯑ſband; he roſe through all the paſſions to the ut⯑moſt extent of critical imagination, yet ſtill appear⯑ed to leave an unexhauſted fund of expreſſion be⯑hind; his rage and tenderneſs were equally inte⯑reſting, but when he uttered theſe words, ‘"rude am I in my ſpeech,"’ in tones, as ſoft as feathered ſnow that melted as they fell, we could by no means allow the ſound an echo to the ſenſe—though we are not at all fond of this gentleman's action in general, yet, reſpecting both it and attitude, particularly when called by Aemilia after the murder, he was in this character extremely agreeable.

Mr. QUIN—we are ſorry to mention him ſo often diſadvantageouſly—was—though Othello is in the vale of years, not a very probable external appear⯑ance to engage Deſdemona; his declamation was as heavy as his perſon, his tones monotonous, his paſ⯑ſions bellowing, his emphaſis affected, and his under ſtrokes growling—we remember once to have ſeen this eſteemed performer play the Moor, in a large pow⯑dered major wig, which, with the black face, made ſuch a magpye appearance of his head, as tended greatly to laugher; one ſtroke, however, was not [152] amiſs, coming on in white gloves, by pulling off which the black hands became more realized.

Mr. ROSS and Mr. POWELL were pretty much on a footing in this part; the former figured it bet⯑ter, and ſpoke moſt of the paſſages as well; but the latter appealed more to the heart, and wore the paſ⯑ſions with natural grace; however, both were very far ſhort of that capital merit a London audience have a right to expect.

If it was poſſible for ſpectators to be pleaſed with meaning alone, uttered through very ungracious, inadequate organs, Mr. SHERIDAN might ſtand high in public eſtimation; but execution being as neceſſary as conception, we can only afford him the praiſe of barren propriety.

Iago is excellently drawn as a ſlow, ſubtle, iraſci⯑ble villain, dead to every good, or tender feeling, mean, hypocritical and vindictive, baſe enough to do any bad action underhand, but void of reſolution to avow or vindicate his wickedneſs—to paint this complicate, we may add monſtrous, character hap⯑pily in repreſentation, is by no means eaſy; Mr. RYAN in his plauſibility and eaſe was very com⯑mendable, but uppeared greatly deficient in deſign: Mr. SPARKS was heavy and laborious, Mr. SHERI⯑DAN is excellent in the ſoliloquies, but void of eaſe and inſinuation in the dialogue; Mr. HOLLAND hunting after a meaning he never found, and Mr. LEE crowds in a multitude of meanings the author never intended; thus we introduce Mr. MACKLIN to an indiſputable pre-eminence for underſtanding the part as well, and expreſſing it through the whole [153] with more equal and ſuitable merit, than any other performer we have ſeen; and this we do not ad⯑vance upon private opinion, but from comparative views of the effect wrought by him and others upon various audiences: to couch our praiſe in very odd terms, he has got the indiſputable, involuntary ap⯑plauſe of as many curſes in Iago, as in Shylock.

Caſſio is a very amiable, but, except his drunken ſcene which we eſteem diſgraceful to tragedy, a very unintereſting perſonage: the late Mr. PALMER did him great juſtice, and the preſent Mr. PALMER, a riſing young actor, does not fall much behind in execution; to which is added the advantage of a much more ſoldier-like appearance, a perſon much better framed to make women falſe.

The babbling hound Rodorigo receives conſide⯑rable pleaſantry from Mr. DYER; but if it is not proſtituting Mr. KING's ſterling merit, to mention him firſt in ſuch a part, we muſt give him the lead, and ſay, that if the reptile can be made ſuffer⯑able, it is by his performance; which, equal to ſome very arduous taſks, can nevertheleſs when occaſion calls condeſcend agreeably, and make trifles intereſting; this is no ſmall point of praiſe, for many capital actors, thinking a character beneath their dignity, throw contempt on it and the audience; but Mr. KING's great good ſenſe and reſpect for the public, prevents him from ſo ridiculous a ſtart of vanity—I wiſh every theatrical gentleman would follow the excellent example, and, comparatively ſpeaking, take as much pains with two or three lengths, as two or three and twenty.

[154]Brabantio, while concerned, is of ſome importance though his complaint is rather childiſh; yet even the weak tears of a father claim reſpect, and call upon general ſympathy, as they ſpring from the fair foun⯑tain of paternal affection: Mr. BERRY, though blub⯑bering in grief was his characteriſtic fault, ſtood well in this part; we have had the anxiety to ſee Mr. ANDERSON murder, and the pain to hear that coſ⯑tive tragedian Mr. LOVE growl it forth, but never wiſh to feel ſuch intellectual miſery again.

Deſdemona is a part of no ſhining qualifications, every point of ſatisfaction that can ariſe from her unvarying gentleneſs, and more than criticiſm could claim, may be enjoyed from Mrs. BARRY, who looks and expreſſes it much better than Mrs. YATES, to whom alſo we muſt prefer, ſome years ago, Mrs. BELLAMY in this character.

Aemilia has much more life than her miſtreſs, and ſhews a well contraſted ſpirit; Mrs. HOPKINS does not fall ſhort of our wiſhes, and we remember to have received ſome pleaſure from that uncultivated genius Mrs. HAMILTON in repreſenting her.

To offer a general opinion of this tragedy, we deem it, properly retrenched, a moſt noble enter⯑tainment on the ſtage, and a luxurious, yet whole⯑ſome feaſt for the cloſet; it rather wants buſineſs, and therefore in ſome places lies heavy on action, but it keeps an excellent moral in view, and forceably inculcates it all along; the fatal effects of jealouſy; by well wrought paſſions, elevated ſentiments, and a dreadful cataſtrophe, ſhewing the very dangerous [155] conſequences of indulging, even upon the moſt probable proofs, ſuch pernicious, ungovernable pre⯑judices in the human heart.

Having, through unaccountable lapſe of me⯑mory, forgot to mention Mr. MOSSOP, both in this tragedy and Macbeth, it is hoped the reader will accept our opinion of that gentleman here, though not in the regular courſe of our plan—no performer in our remembrance poſſeſſes a voice of more ſtrength and variety than Mr. MOSSOP, and we believe he underſtands his author as well as any one, yet an inſuperable aukwardneſs of action, and a moſt irkſome laboriouſneſs of expreſſion, render him peculiarly offenſive to chaſte judgment in Macbeth; a number of unlucky attempts at attitude, ungrace⯑ful diſtortions of feature, an overſtrained affectation of conſequence, and many ill-applied painful pauſes, baniſhing nature, loudly proclaim the mere actor— in Othello, though liable to ſeveral of the ſame objections, we deem him much happier; the Moor's wildneſs of paſſion he deſcribes extremely well, and under all diſadvantages moſt certainly ſtands ſecond to, though far beneath, Mr. BARRY.

LOVE IN A VILLAGE. An OPERA, by Mr. BICKERSTAFF.

THOUGH as advocates for nature, we have declared critical war againſt operatical compoſitions in general, (an inſtance of dangerous reſolution at preſent) we only mean to try ſuch pieces as they appear, conſidering the ſongs as part of the dialogue. The piece now before us has met with very un⯑common ſucceſs, from what cauſe it has ariſen, whe⯑ther indulgence of the town, merits of performance, or excellence of the author, may probably appear from inveſtigation.

This opera has ſuffered heavy charges of pla⯑giariſm, many we know to be true, but the greater part, we hope, are falſe; however, ſuppoſe every imputation juſt, the author might at leaſt make the defence a young clergyman did, who being re⯑proached with preaching one of Tillotſon's ſermons, replied, ‘"Sir, if you know this matter, not one in a hundred of my congregation does; I am cer⯑tain, it is much better than any thing my own head could produce; and I hope you will allow I do my flock more juſtice by borrowing elſe⯑where, than palming my own ſtuff upon them."’ Far be it from us to ſuppoſe this abſolutely our au⯑thor's caſe, we only mention the matter in a friendly way to ſhew that if it really was, he has a very modeſt and good defence to offer.

[157]This piece opens with an air between two ladies, wherein the pictures of hope are moſt amazingly diverſified—in the firſt verſe ſhe is mentioned as a nurſe, a fairy, a painted vapour, a glow-worm fire, and a temperate ſweet—in the ſecond ſhe comes upon us, a ſoft ſoother, a balmy cordial, a bright proſpect, and a ſure friend—in the third we find her a kind deceiver, a dealer out of pleaſure, and a proprietreſs of dreams; now admitting every one of theſe alluſions juſtifiable, though I doubt whether a kind, or any other deceiver, can be the ſureſt friend—yet certainly there never was ſuch a figura⯑tive heap crammed into ſo narrow a compaſs by any other writer—ſtrong effect of luxuriant fancy!

The enſuing dialogue of this ſcene, which is plea⯑ſant and natural enough, lets us agreeably into ſome light concerning the ladies themſelves, the old juſ⯑tice and his maiden ſiſter; but I am ſorry our bard ſlipped by decency to make two well-bred young ladies ſpeak in the following words— ‘"this libidi⯑nous father of yours, he follows me about the houſe like a tame goat,"’ to which the magi⯑ſtrate's daughter, rather knowingly replies— ‘"I'll aſſure you he has been a wag in his time."’ Ro⯑ſetta's ſpirit of freedom in love is pretty, and the reaſon ſhe aſſigns for her occaſional elopement very ſatisfactory. Lucinda's touching upon young Mea⯑dows' paſſion for her falls well in, and extends our view of the plot in a pleaſing manner; it gives Ro⯑ſetta alſo ſome ſcope of acting in her feigned reſent⯑ment at the ſuppoſition.

[158]Young Meadows, in his ſoliloquy, by account⯑ing for his diſguiſe in the ſame manner Roſetta has done, rather anticipates ſuſpence, by obliquely and too ſoon ſhewing, that they are the perſons deſigned for each other; his ſong expreſſes affection tolera⯑bly, in the uſual paſtoral ſtrain of feeding ſheep to⯑gether; what enſues between him and Roſetta has a great deal of merit—the would and the would not on both ſides being very well expreſſed—her ſong in the midſt of ſeeming reſiſtance ſlips out an ac⯑knowledgment of love in this line ‘"To my heart its eaſe reſtore,"’ a moſt natural lapſe, and Mea⯑dows' perplexity ariſing from pride is very well ſet forth both in his ſoliloquy and ſong.

Hawthorn's jovial, diſengaged, ſong at entrance, beſpeaks him public favour, and his blunt, ſpirited obſervations upon the ſalutary effects of exerciſe to the old gouty juſtice are very much in character; his third ſong too, beginning ‘"The honeſt heart,"’ &c. has juſt ſentiment agreeably expreſſed—Hodge's relation of the difficulties he encountered, in accom⯑pliſhing Lucinda's meſſage, diſplays well-drawn, low, ruſtic humour, which is generally remarkable for a roundabout ſtory, and making much of a little; his freedom too with Lucinda, ariſing from the con⯑fidence ſhe places in him, is very well conceived, and the ſelf-ſufficiency, expreſſed in his ſong, divertingly ſuitable; Lucinda's ſong at the end of this ſcene we much approve for generoſity of principle, though there is nothing new in either the thoughts or language.

[159]The epiſode, as we may ſtile it, of Hodge and Margery, deſerves ſome commendation, as it ſprinkles the piece with laughable materials; but we think it would have been better if their quarrels had ariſen from jealouſy in the girl, merely as a ſweetheart, rather than have made her intimate the abſolute ſacrifice of her virtue; and the clown's charge againſt her of a baſtard by another perſon is unneceſſarily groſs, which idea is blameably con⯑tinued in the laſt verſe of Margery's ſong; the coun⯑try ſtatute, though not at all eſſential to the piece, is an agreeable ſcene, and furniſhes a ſpirited conclu⯑ſion to the firſt act.

Lucinda and her lover Euſtace, from whom Hodge brought a letter of appointment, begin this act, when he propoſes taking the advantage of every body being from home to elope, which the lady with prudent delicacy declines; her comparing wo⯑men in love to weak Indians, who barter intrinſic value for tinſel toys, conveys a ſenſible, inſtructive idea; the converſation between theſe two true lovers is as water gruel, as the intercourſe of ſuch charac⯑ters general proves to be, and therefore judiciouſly made ſhort. We cannot agree in point of diſcretion with that ſentiment in Euſtace's ſong which ſays,

Since ten thouſand inſtances prove that repentance ofteneſt comes from precipitation; but the expreſ⯑ſion certainly ſtands excuſable in Euſtace's ſituation, [160] we only offer a hope that no young perſon will re⯑ceive it as a prudential maxim—the four laſt lines of the ſong terminate in a ſtrange aukward jingle— beſt, coſt, bleſt, loſt.

The entrance of juſtice Woodcock is very charac⯑teriſtic, affords a good variation of circumſtance, and throws the lovers into an unexpected dilemma; Lucinda's device to impoſe upon the old gentleman, though not at all new, is at leaſt well adapted; the ſelf-ſufficient magiſtrate's abrupt treatment of Eu⯑ſtace, before he knows any thing of him, is a natural conſequence of ignorant pride buoyed up with a commiſſion of the peace; and that very pride mak⯑ing him enter into a contradictory altercation with his preciſe ſiſter, produces very humorous effects, and indeed uſeful ones to the young pair who are ſheltered by the very pains Mrs. Deborah takes to defeat their happineſs; this is making a whimſical, and very natural uſe of the juſtice's oddity; if any perſon would wiſh a more laughable ſcene than this their riſible faculties muſt be unuſually rigid—how⯑ever, we muſt blame Lucinda for mentioning five brats at a birth, in her ſong to the old maid, it is not within the pale of delicacy; when Woodcock gives a ſpecimen of his ſinging, I wiſh ſo groſs a depredation had not been committed upon Damon and Phillida; beſides, tho' ſung by a humouriſt, I don't think it very ſuitable to his daughter's pre⯑ſence, what follows after the old man's departure between the lovers means very little, except to men⯑tion that his obſtinacy is a circumſtance much in [161] their favour—in their reciprocal declaration of un⯑changing conſtancy a line which might be cenſured creeps in:

The paſſion could not be very laſting which only continued till night ſhrouded creation, which, to our view, it does once every four and twenty hours; at which time the ſun ceaſes to ſpread his light, and the ſtars very frequently ſeen to leave their orbits; if this alludes to nature's diſſolution, as we ſuppoſe, the expreſſion ſhows too great a ſtretch of poetic li⯑cence: in ſhort, the whole ſong, though imitative of, is infinitely beneath that of Handel's Suſanna, whoſe tune it has borrowed.

Roſetta's ſoliloquy, examining into the ſtate of her heart, is pretty enough; the enſuing ſcene be⯑tween her and Young Meadows, alſo has a ſhare of ſpirited natural pleaſantry; that reciprocal pride which agitates the lovers, and throws them into fret⯑ful altercation, is juſtly conceived, and by no means ill-expreſſed; nor does the ſpirit evaporate by being drawn out too far; the juſtice's appearance falls in well, and occaſions them to huddle up a kind of re⯑conciliation.

Juſtice Woodcock's amorous attempt upon Ro⯑ſetta is laughable enough; but we wiſh the young lady had not diſcovered ſo ſtrong an idea of his pur⯑poſe, as to let fall theſe words, ‘"if ever I was to make a ſlip, it ſhould be with an elderly gentleman"’ —indeed all the remainder of this ſcene, though arch, [162] has much too ſtrong a taint of indelicacy; Hawthorn however changes it for the better with his blunt agreeable raillery—Sir William Meadows's letter for⯑wards the plot—Woodcock's ſelf-ſufficiency in ſup⯑poſing himſelf ſo wiſe that none of his children would do an indiſcreet thing is whimſical, and Haw⯑thorn's vindication of youth ſenſible. But of all the poetical thefts ever committed, of all inſtances of mending things for the worſe, as my countryman has it, ſure nothing is equal to what we ſhall pro⯑duce; Hawthorn ſings as follows:

The word thing at the end of the firſt line, tho' juſ⯑tified by Virgil's noted mention of woman, is a moſt ſtrange expreſſion adapted to a favourite miſtreſs; and however ſummer maybe allowed to glow on the cheeks of beauty, yet we preſume it too glaring a figure for the eye, which is not here ornamented with ſparkling vivacity, but the meridian blaze—mark now what follows—aſſimilating his miſtreſs's boſom to autumnal ripeneſs, by which we find the fair thing was arrived at, or paſt, the full bloom of life, ſure ſuch a compliment was never paid before; but our author having begun with ſpring, was determined to lug in the four ſeaſons ſucceſſively at any rate.

[163]The beautiful ſong which gave birth to this ſtrange imitation runs thus in the Village Opera:

If we conſider this as ſung by a Gardener, the al⯑luſions appear ſtrikingly characteriſtic, though com⯑paring the eyes to daiſies does not convey a very obvious or juſtifiable idea; however, it is impoſſi⯑ble upon the whole to imagine how any writer could ſtumble upon ſo inadequate an imitation, without any manner of neceſſity for ſo doing, unleſs mere barrenneſs of invention, and a reſolution to make Hawthorn ſing at all events, in a plaintive ſtrain too, quite different from what he commendably preſerves through the reſt of the piece.

In the ſcene between Hodge and Madge we find more brutality breaking out from the clown, than humour from either of them; however, his ſong is not without merit; Roſetta's intervention creates a kind of buſtle tolerably agreeable, and throws Hodge into a whimſical dilemma; the reflections and ſong of Roſetta upon his behaviour to Margery are ex⯑tremely pretty, exhibiting indiſputable truth, and ſome uſeful hints to the fair ſex; her compaſſion for the deluded girl ſpeaks ſenſibility and goodneſs of heart—Madge's ſudden deſign of trying London [164] to repair her misfortunes, is not at all unna⯑tural though it ſeems ſtrangely abrupt.

The converſation between Lucinda and Roſetta furniſhes information, that a plan is laid for the former to elope with Euſtace.—Hawthorn, though the occaſion of his entrance appears dubitable, is judiciouſly introduced, as what he ſays not only raiſes an agreeable curioſity in the young ladies, but the audience alſo; ſome ſenſible remarks up⯑on marriage, and the qualifications of a huſband, enſue, which concludes the ſecond act with a ve⯑ry pleaſing and ſpirited trio, ſupported adequately by the ſeveral characters.

Sir William Meadows, a hearty, plain old gentleman, begins the third act with Hawthorn, their ſcene means nothing more than to throw ſome glimmering of light on the plot; indeed the ſong with which it concludes has conſiderable merit, per⯑haps the moſt, for ſolid ſenſe and natural expreſſion, of any in the whole piece; Roſetta's change of dreſs ſeems to have no meaning except to pleaſe the vanity of external appearance, ſo incident to moſt ladies on, and indeed off the ſtage; her confeſſion of love for young Meadows, even in his ſervile capa⯑city, is ingenuous; and her pride, objecting to rank only, ſhows commendable ſpirit, by Hodge we find that Lucinda's ſcheme of elopement is diſcovered by her aunt, Mrs. Deborah, this gives an agree⯑able turn of ſympathetic concern in Roſetta, who generouſly feels for a friend, though her own con⯑cerns are in ſo proſperous a line of direction.

[165]The old maid's haughty rigid treatment of her niece is very characteriſtic, and the diſplay of her own houſewifely diſpoſition truly humourous; her reflections upon the ill effects of reading are the na⯑tural produce of a narrow mind, uncultivated by education, yet vain of its defective powers; Lucinda at laſt ſets her aunt at defiance, but upon what prin⯑ciple, or what the thought is ſhe hints at, we know not.

Hodge's ſoliloquy means very little unleſs to ac⯑quaint us with his hopes of Roſetta's favour, which, from the great change in her appearance, and her behaviour to him juſt before, we think he has little right to expect; the ſong is a very ſtrange inſignifi⯑cant jumble of ruſtic licentiouſneſs, containing ſome truth, little ſenſe and leſs humour.

Young Meadows, with as unmeaning a change of dreſs as Roſetta's now appears, and expreſſes un⯑eaſineſs ſuitable to an anxious lover at his miſtreſs's delay; the ſimile in his ſong, which likens beauty enſhrining merit to a curious caſket containing gems, deſerves rather a better epithet than pretty, but the verſification is not ſo eaſy as it might have been; the lover's ſurprize at ſeeing his father inſtead of the lady is a well conceived circumſtance, and what follows does much credit to his honeſt diſintereſted feelings; Sir William's aſſumed diſpleaſure works up the converſation pleaſingly, and Hawthorn is a good medium to keep up the deſign of coming at young Meadows's real inclinations.

[166]Roſetta is introduced at a happy point of time, and the diſcovery that the young people's inclina⯑tions, and their parents intentions exactly coincide, is very well unfolded: in the midſt of her own hap⯑pineſs remembering Lucinda's perplexed ſituation, and intereſting her friends for that young lady, throws freſh light on Roſetta's character, and re⯑commends her to an increaſe of favour.—Haw⯑thorn's reſolution, expreſſed in his ſong, of not giving up his rural enjoyments for the buſtle, ſmoke and noiſe of London, is the juſt effuſion of a diſ⯑engaged mind tolerably expreſſed.

The next ſcene, though ſhort, contains conſider⯑able humour; the oddity of Woodcock and his ſiſter is extremely well preſerved, and well play'd upon by the lovers; the dialogue runs judiciouſly into a pit-pat ſtrain, and introduces the cataſtrophe pleaſantly. Sir William's character of Euſtace juſti⯑fies his claim to Lucinda, and making the juſtice's obſtinate contempt of Mrs. Deborah's underſtand⯑ing a motive for agreeing to his daughter's marriage, cloſes the piece as an audience would wiſh, without any forced incident.

The unities of time and place are well enough obſerved in this piece; the plot is regularly carried on, and though it is rather too ſimple can⯑not be objected to as unintereſting or tedious; the ſcenes are ranged in an agreeable ſtate of connec⯑tion, without ſuperfluity or ſcantineſs; the dia⯑logue has eaſe and ſome gleams of ſpirit, but not a ſpark of wit; the ſongs in general exhibit the [167] moſt trite, hackneyed ſentiments, in aukward verſification, with ſeveral ſlips of grammar, and not a ſhadow of genius; as to the eſſence of dra⯑matic merit, a moral, there is no trace of it to be diſcovered—the young ones very romantically run away from their parents, and for ſuch a notable breach of filial duty they have their wiſhes fulfilled; Lucinda does all ſhe can towards an elopement, and gets her lover too; though there are no very pernicious inferences ariſing from theſe incidents, yet they recommend indiſcretion, and are void of any uſeful tendency; and brings them at beſt under the inſipid denomination of merely inoffenſive.

With reſpect to characters, the juſtice is a well drawn, opinionated, ignorant, poſitive old cox⯑comb, moſtly in the wrong without any ill mean⯑ing, and when in the right, void of ſenſible in⯑tention; Sir William Meadows a pliant, good humoured baronet, in whom ſome peculiarity is attempted, without the leaſt degree of ſucceſs, un⯑leſs a moſt palling repetition of ‘"let me never do an ill turn,"’ lays any claim to merit.—Young Mea⯑dows is a mere loving milkſop, with nothing but diſintereſtedneſs to mark him, and yet Euſtace is much more a cypher; Hodge is a clown mo⯑derately well depicted; Roſetta and Lucinda, two young ladies of independent principles, who think they have an excluſive right to pleaſe themſelves, without the leaſt appeal to parental juriſdiction, and Mrs. Deborah a formal antiquated virgin, vain of judgment which ſhe has not, and mali⯑ciouſly [168] fond of preventing that happineſs in others ſhe never has enjoyed herſelf, and deſpairs of ever taſting.

The part of Woodcock was doubtleſs deſign⯑ed for Mr. SHUTER, and I preſume it will be admitted that no author ever judged an actor's capability better; there is a ſtrong peculiarity of humour moſt happily hit off in performance; the character owes its commanding influence much more to features happily laughable, and expreſſion truly comic, than the writer's genius; and without exaggeration it may be ſaid that Mr. SHUTER, in this whimſical juſtice, muſt have force enough to dilate even the rigid muſcles of methodiſm; if it was poſſible to tranſplant a groaning congregation from Moorfields, or Tottenham-court, into Covent Garden, even while their ears tingled with a fire and brimſtone harangue, they muſt unbend their gloomy brows, and ſmilingly obey the irreſiſtable force of matchleſs humour.

Young Meadows has very little acting merit, therefore is well adapted to that faintneſs of ex⯑preſſion ſo diſcoverable in Mr. MATTOCKS, who nevertheleſs ſupports the ſongs, and even ſpeaks better than Mr. DUBELLAMY, a gentleman we never wiſh to hear ſpeak in public, both in juſtice to himſelf and to the audience: Mr. DODD of Drury Lane did this part much better than either of the performers above mentioned;—there is an agreeable manner and a ſenſible vivacity about him, that the others are entire ſtrangers to.

[169]Hawthorn, as he lived, ſo we may ſay he died with that truly great intelligent Engliſh ſinger Mr. BEARD; who expreſſed open hearted glee with amazing pleaſantneſs and propriety; every perſon in this light of compariſon appears to great diſ⯑advantage; however, Mr. MORRIS is far from con⯑temptible, indeed gives a much better idea of the character than any other perſon we have ſeen.

That inoffenſive perſonage, Euſtace, finds very tolerable accommodation with Mr. DYER; and it is no ſmall degree of merit to preſerve ſuch an un⯑ſeaſoned character from the charge of inſipidity. Mr. DUNSTALL's Hodge deſerves a great deal of praiſe, and yet we cannot help thinking if Mr. KING was often ſeen in the part he would diſcover conſiderably more of critical humour. Sir William Meadows may be done by any body without much chance of praiſe or cenſure.

Lucinda has too little acting for Mrs. MAT⯑TOCKS, who makes as much of the ſpeaking as it will admit, and ſupports the ſongs agreeably—Mrs. PINTO's Roſetta, as to the ſinging, unexception⯑able; but for the reſt, mercy deliver us! the part will not readily appear more delicately pleaſing throughout than by Mrs. BADDELEY's performance, whoſe figure, voice, and manner, all happily concur to feaſt both eyes and ears—of the country girl, we can only ſay that Mrs. BAKER makes a very pretty Madge.

The general merit of Love in a Village we muſt confine merely to being inoffenſive as to its tenden⯑cy, [170] with ſome ſpirit, an agreeable ſhare of eaſe and regularity; moſt of the characters ſpeak as they ought, and the circumſtances are well connect⯑ed; but if we look for ſterling ſenſe, brilliant wit, with keen uſeful ſatire, which ſo much abound in the Beggar's Opera, we muſt ſay that this piece is nothing more than ſhowy baſe metal, favoured with a very indulgent ſtamp of public favour, to give it a kind of critical currency; to which, we appre⯑hend, ſelect muſic, adapted with real taſte, contri⯑buted not a little;—any perſon who reads the Vil⯑lage Opera may ſoon perceive what uſe Mr. Bickerſtaff has made of it.

ROMEO AND JULIET. Altered from SHAKESPEARE by GARRICK.

AS we have already hinted, it is a matter of aſtoniſhment how Shakeſpeare could be ſo negli⯑gent of uniformity, or ſo ſervile to depraved taſte, as to incumber ſcenes, which reach true ſublimity, with others that may juſtly be ſtyled poetical bab⯑bling; and it is equally odd, how the audiences which reliſhed one, could poſſibly digeſt the other; however, we have ſelf-evident proof of this lament⯑able inequality in moſt of his beſt pieces.

Romeo and Juliet, in which our author has taken very unuſual, and very ſucceſsful pains with his female character, has many weeds in its ori⯑ginal ſtate to choak up ſome beautiful flowers of genius; we may venture to ſay, without prun⯑ing, it would have made but an aukward appearance in repreſentation. Otway, a moſt excellent painter of the tender paſſions, ſaw its luxuriance in that point, f [...]lt and tranſplanted whole ſcenes into his plot of Caius Marius, which was an act of gothic depredation, producing a moſt unnatural connec⯑tion which only ſerved to prove, that endeavouring to keep pace with Shakeſpeare he fell far beneath himſelf.

We have ſeen an alteration of this tragedy by Mr. Theophilus Cibber, which was not void of [172] merit; and we recollect ſome tolerable endeavours of Mr. SHERIDAN for that purpoſe, but Mr. GAR⯑RICK appearing our author's moſt capable friend, we ſhall ſtick to what he has enriched the ſtage, and oblige the public with.

Notwithſtanding a quarrel among domeſtics, in conſequence of animoſities which prevail in the ſeveral families they are employed by, is highly na⯑tural, we can by no means countenance even that ſmall part of the ludicrous ſcene with which the play now begins; nothing can be expreſſed in more characteriſtic terms, but we think it an ungracious commencement, nay unneceſſary; for the enmity of the Capulets is ſufficiently made known without ſuch mobbiſh ſcuffling; wherefore, we cannot but be of opinion, that the neceſſity of ſome ſtrolling companies, which, for want of number, obliges them to cry, ‘"down with the Capulets, &c."’ behind the ſcenes, forces them to an amendment. Benvolio and Montague ſhould certainly appear firſt, and their ſhort ſcene, which contains many beauties, would be a delicate opening, indeed what precedes is a far⯑cical prelude to grave events, not unlike a merry andrew ſkipping before a funeral.

Romeo's abſtracted diſpoſition of mind is prettily introduced through Montague's affectionate con⯑cern; and Benvolio's friendly feelings, which appear ſo amply verified in the courſe of the play, not only recommend himſelf, but the perſons ſpoken of, to favour. Capulet and Paris are only intro⯑duced to ſhew that the latter is encouraged as a [173] ſuitor to Juliet, conſequently their brief interview offers nothing worth a particular remark.

Mercutio, that peculiar offspring of ſpirited ima⯑gination, even at his entrance ſtrikes out the path of whim; Romeo's entrance, and the queſtions occa⯑ſioned by it, ſhow much natural eaſe; the breaks in that ſpeech where he aſks about the fray, and men⯑tions his love, are maſterly; but we apprehend his coming to the ſubject, thus at once, is no way con⯑ſiſtent with that impenetrable ſecrecy charged againſt him in a former ſcene; indeed, concealing it from his father is not ſurprizing, but after avoiding Benvolio, when ſingle, to communicate the point immedi⯑ately before another perſon, and ſuch an humouriſt too, (from whom he can expect little but ridicule) rather o'erſteps, as we ſuppoſe, the bounds of na⯑tural propriety.

A touch of ſuperſtitious weakneſs we find thrown into Romeo's character, in the mention of a dream; but as it introduces ſo beautiful a deſcription of the queen of dreams, her equipage and various influence upon various characters, we muſt rather be pleaſed than offended: tranſcribing Mercutio's whole ſpeech would infringe too much on our reſolution of very limited quotation, and yet we ſcarce know how to decline it;—examining the proportions, how⯑ever, is not diſpenſible, for though we may admire general beauty, it would be wrong to paſs unnoticed what appear to us particular lapſes.

Poetry, in her deſcriptions, ſhould not only delight the imagination, but, if requiſite, ſhould bear optical [174] examination upon canvas: now let us view Queen Mab, ſhe is deſcribed as being the ſize of an agate⯑ſtone, which, as it is for the fore finger of an alder⯑man, cannot be ſuppoſed very minute; indeed her chariot, the ſhell of a hazlenut, confirms this Idea; yet ſhe, her waggoner, waggon and chariot, by the by, are ſtrangely confounded, the vehicle and all are drawn by a team of little atomies; whoſe number, by the word team, is limited to ſix or eight; though five hundred of thoſe ſame atomies, ottomites I have heard them called, would not make up her majeſ⯑ty's conſiſtence alone—the traces of a ſmall ſpider's web may do well enough; but how it happens that the collars, which in harneſs are the moſt ſubſtantial part, ſhould be reduced to watry moonſhine beams, we cannot ſay—this may be deemed word catching, but if we conſider that fancy, in her moſt whimſical flights, may without fear of limitation take judgment to her aid, it follows that any deviation, however ſlight, however ſurrounded with beauties, ſhould be pointed out, and for that reaſon only the above hints have been ſuggeſted: as to Mab's operation upon the parſon, lovers &c. nothing can be more humorous or ſenſible, affording the beſt original for dreams; thoſe thoughts and wiſhes which moſt impreſs our waking imaginations—before I paſs from this celebrated ſpeech, I cannot avoid mentioning an extraordinary circumſtance which plainly tends to ſhew that men of very ſound underſtanding often do very weak things.

Mr. SHERIDAN, when he did, or attempted to do Romeo, an undertaking he never ſhould have diſ⯑graced [175] himſelf with, ſome three or four and twenty years ſince in Dublin, by an amazing ſtroke of in⯑judicious monopoly annexed this whimſical picture to his own ſighing, loveſick part; and what carries ſurprize ſtill higher is, that he ſhould do ſo when it was extremely difficult to ſay which ſhewed moſt abſurdity, his taking the ſpeech, or his pedantic manner of ſpeaking it.

Taking Romeo to Capulet's ball, by way of di⯑verting his imagination, and that proving the means to enflame his paſſions, are well deſigned incidents towards opening and carrying on the plot.

Lady Capulet and Nurſe appear next; however great a favourite the loquacious old dame may be with the majority of an audience, criticiſm and taſte unite in the wiſh that no ſuch perſonage had appear⯑ed—indelicacy is very natural to nurſes, but why the reformer of this play ſhould have retained ſwear⯑ing by her maidenhead we cannot think—Juliet's introduction has a degree of pleaſing ſimplicity in it, and we apprehend a very agreeable uſeful ſcene might have been ſtruck out between the mother and daughter, on the ſubject of marriage, far preferable to Mrs. Nurſe's trifling rhapſody of circumſtantial nothingneſs; which, though extremely natural, means nothing but to raiſe ſome laughs, which we deem highly diſgraceful to the nature, bent and dignity of tragic compoſitions; beſides, the old lady's hint of Juliet's falling backwards, is only fit for the ears of a parcel of goſſips who have wiſhed decency good night and locked the door upon her.

[176]Gregory's familiar, low comedy meſſage which concludes the ſcene, is totally inconſiſtent with com⯑mon Engliſh decorum, much more the pride and diſtance of Italian quality; Nurſe, from her ſtation, may claim ſome liberty, but ſuch headlong behavi⯑our from other ſervants is very cenſurable.

Capulet, in welcoming the gueſts to his maſque⯑rade, ſpeaks to the ladies of their corns in a manner which may be jocular, yet it is not polite; but I ſup⯑poſe having their faces covered is his apology; the little diſpute about time between the old fellows is well ſuggeſted; Tibalt's fiery temper ſhews itſelf properly upon diſtinguiſhing Romeo's voice, and he is reſtrained from violence upon very hoſpitable and juſt principles by Capulet, who manifeſts com⯑mendable ſpirit—Romeo's addreſs to Juliet is modeſtly affectionate, and her replies cordially deli⯑cate; however, with reſpect to the liking ſhe takes, we muſt ſuppoſe love flies with lightning's ſwifteſt wings into her breaſt; it rather indicates feelings of forward ſuſceptibility—it is judicious to ſeparate the lovers after a ſhort interchange of words, and Juliet's method of finding out who was her new favourite very proper.

At the beginning of the ſecond act, Romeo pre⯑ſents himſelf in a ſtate of amorous penſiveneſs, view⯑ing the manſion of his miſtreſs; and upon going off is ſought for by his two friends, one of whom, Mer⯑cutio, in the flow of raillery, throws out ſome ex⯑preſſions highly exceptionable; we heartily wiſh he had conjured no further than the lady's foot and [177] leg; and that he had mentioned ſome other place for raiſing a ſpirit, than what he points at in the next ſpeech—two paſſages more unpardonably groſs than thoſe hinted are ſcarce to be met; they call loudly for obliteration; it is not what ſuch a man as Mercutio might probably ſpeak we are to con⯑ſider, but what is fit for readers to peruſe, or ſpec⯑tators to hear.

In the next ſcene Romeo, who has romantically leaped the garden wall of a known foe, without any leave or aſſignation from the lady, is by the poet's unlimited power brought to a ſight of Juliet; who, by a happy effort of imagination, is made to re⯑veal her love for Romeo, not ſuſpecting his pre⯑ſence; her juſtification of him from the quarrel of their families is ſenſible and fanciful; nor do we know any thing better conceived than his ſudden reply upon mentioning that his name is the only im⯑pediment to her wiſhes and his own.

The diffident turn of expreſſion he uſes on being charged with an abrupt approach is extremely beautiful, and Juliet's apprehenſion for his coming into ſo hazardous a place very natural; indeed the whole ſcene is ſo intereſtingly tender—that we think even a deſpairing old maid could not ſee it without ſome ſympathy: to trace all its beauties would force us into a tedious repetition of multiplied eulogiums and leave us little to ſay on the following parts of the piece; therefore let it ſuffice to obſerve that the lovers expreſs mutual affection, and exchange their vows in a moſt becoming manner; the interruption [178] by nurſe cauſes a fine agitation of ſpirits, and diſ⯑jointed eagerneſs of expreſſion; if in ſuch a glare of beauties, there be one more ſtriking than another, it is that of Juliet's forgetting, or pretending to forget why ſhe called Romeo back.

Fryar Lawrence is introduced with a juſt degree of benign, moral dignity; and his ſhort diſſertation on the contraſte qualities of particular herbs, which he aptly compares to thoſe ſeeds of virtue and vice, which inhabit the human breaſt, is not only beautiful, but pregnant with much ſolid ſenſe and edifying truth; in nothing is providence more de⯑lightfully manifeſted than in the vegetable world; nor can any ſubject lead ſpeculation into a more captivating maze; the aſſimilation of grace and rude will, to poiſon and medicine is nervouſly philoſophi⯑cal, luxuriantly inſtructive; having ſaid thus much in favour of the Fryar's ſololoquy, we muſt la⯑ment, as abſolute foes to dramatic rhimes, the mode of verſification adopted, indeed the meaſure is not ſo monotonous for a ſpeaker, as jingle in general is, yet we apprehend blank verſe would ſuit nature, the author's ſentiments, and the performer's utterance much better, by way of encouraging ſome abler pen to undertake ſo deſirable an alter⯑ation we diffidently ſubmit what follows to can⯑did taſte.

What paſſes between the Fryar and Romeo is ſuitable and pleaſing; we muſt be of opinion that the change of affection from Roſaline to Juliet is judiciouſly omitted, as it certainly ſerved no pur⯑poſe but throwing an imputation upon Romeo's conſtancy, which tainted, muſt make him leſs the object of approbation and pity; there is a moſt com⯑mendable prudent paternal tenderneſs in the expreſ⯑ſions of Lawrence.

Benvolio and Mercutio appear, ſtill upon the hunt for Romeo, when the latter indulges his odd hu⯑mours in as odd expreſſions; his picture of Tibalt, who appears a man of mere fire and quarrel, ſeems [180] not to bear a juſt reſemblance; bullies are for the moſt part cowards, but very ſeldom coxcombs; com⯑paring Romeo to a dried herring wanting its roe is a very low pun, and moſt pitiful quibbling conceit; the ſcene with nurſe and her ſimpleton attendant, is an extraordinary jumble of matter contemptibly ludicrous; her meſſage concerning Juliet has relation to the plot, but we wiſh it had been delivered in a more ſuitable manner, than by this comic ambaſſa⯑dreſs.

As if what we complain of was not more than ſufficiently farcical, ſtage policy, to pleaſe the up⯑per regions, generally preſents Peter as bearing an enormous fan before his miſtreſs; ſkipping alſo and grinning like a baboon; the beating which he gets for not reſenting Mercutio's raillery, is a very mean, pantomimical, yet ſure motive of laughter.

The impatience expreſſed by Juliet to hear the conſequence of her meſſage is expreſſed in lines charmingly poetical, without any violence to nature or ſtrain of imagination; and the nurſe's behaviour in what follows natural but we wiſh ſhe had not mentioned Romeo's climbing a bird's neſt ſoon, nor that Juliet muſt, bear the burden ſoon at night.

In the next ſcene, where Juliet ſhould have been allowed more time to appear, we find Fryar Law⯑rence has agreed to marry the young couple, and ſeems tenderly intereſted, but drops a very ungener⯑ous inſinuation when he concludes the act thus

Which conveys an idea of ſuſpicion without any [181] cauſe, for the lovers don't hint at retirement, but ſeem impatient for his benediction.

At the beginning of the third act we meet Mer⯑cutio again fraught with quaintneſs and quibble; his quarrel with Tibalt is ſuch as might be expected from ſuch blades, and taking Romeo's quarrel upon himſelf ſhews ſomething of generoſity; after receiv⯑ing his death wound he utters a ſtrange incoherent rhapſody, and ſo much preſerves uniformity that his death commonly proves a very laughable inci⯑dent: it is reported as an expreſſion of Shakeſpeare's that he was obliged to kill Mercutio in the third act, to ſave himſelf; whatever he may have thought of the character or whatever has been thought ſince, if he never had been brought to light in this play, though a fine effort of genius would have been waved, pro⯑priety muſt have been much better preſerved; it may be ſaid leſs ſpirit would have been the conſe⯑quence, we can't grant this, but Shakeſpeare's muſe on ſuch a ſubject could never have wanted more in⯑tereſting matter.

Romeo's engagement with Tibalt ſhews great ſen⯑ſibility of friendſhip; we have heard him bear reflec⯑tions, and of a ſevere nature vented againſt himſelf with philoſophic reſolution, but, rouſed by Mercutio's death, he takes revenge which occaſions conſequences of a very ſerious nature, whence the plot takes an important turn.

I remember to have heard an anecdote relative to the part of Tibalt, which, though trifling, I cannot omit; an itinerant barn-ſpouting hero, who had ſhip⯑ped too much beer aboard, performing it, forgot that he was to be killed; and thereupon fought [182] Romeo furiouſly for near ten minutes, nor would give up the conteſt till his lady cried out with tre⯑mendous voice from behind—Dennis, Dennis,— curſe the fellow why don't you die,—her tongue, to him the emblem of thunder laid him flat immediate⯑ly; on coming off he was ſaluted with many re⯑proaches for having forgot himſelf; forgot myſelf, no ſays he, I knew what I was about, and conſidered that Tibalt was a ſtout young fellow who would take a great deal of killing. To ſay truth the remark was not amiſs; for we may ſuppoſe, as he is drawn, Tibalt himſelf ſeems to think ſo.

After a ſeries of ſcuffling the prince preſents him⯑ſelf—indeed ſuch a prince was never ſeen; a juſtice of peace or a high conſtable to interfere where riots happen in the ſtreet is well enough, but for a ſov⯑reign, however petty, to appear ſo often upon ſuch occaſions is a ſtrange proſtitution of dignity—be⯑ſides in the firſt ſcene, where no miſchief is done, he threatens their lives upon any future breach of the peace; yet in this, where two have loſt their lives one of them his own kinſman, he good natured⯑ly talks of fines for puniſhment—we apprehend ſo much tilting and the purport of this ſcene would have been much better in relation than action, Benvolio's account, though fine at preſent, would have had more merit if otherwiſe introduced—and the play would have been freed from a monſtrous incumbrance of multiplied battles.

Juliet's ſoliloquy beginning ‘"gallop apace"’ is a little in the extravagant ſtyle, but her ſituation and violent affection ſomewhat apologize for her flights; nurſe's entrance gives an alarming turn of paſſion, [183] and pity puts on her plaintive countenance for the young lady's painful ſituation; this ſcene is wrought up with moſt maſterly judgment—Juliet's ſuppoſi⯑tion that Romeo's dead, is fine, then hearing that a kinſman is killed by her huſband, and that in conſequence he is baniſhed—her charging Romeo with a ſavage ſpirit, and curbing nurſe for caſting reproach on him, though ſhe herſelf has done it, are circum⯑ſtances happily imagined; and nothing can exceed the climax of impaſſioned expreſſion in which Juliet deſcants upon her misfortune; the gleam of comfort given in expectation of ſeeing her huſband, concludes the ſcene well, and unbends the ſympathetic feelings good acting moſt unavoidably raiſe in an audience.

Romeo's ſcene with his ghoſtly father is an effort of genius equal to any degree of praiſe, and affords powerful expreſſion a very copious opportunity of diſplaying itſelf, ſo as to work irreſiſtably on the human heart; the Fryar's prudent advice is well contraſted to the diſtreſſed lover's frantic ravings; and his whole behaviour ſhows active, cordial good⯑neſs of heart.

The garden ſcene, for that between Capulet and Paris contains nothing but appointment of Juliet's marriage-day with the latter, is poetical and pret⯑ty, but as we apprehend, cut rather too ſhort in repreſentation; on account perhaps of relieving the performers; which is a point ſhould always be conſulted yet not ſo far as to omit any beau⯑ties that may pleaſe and ornament; the alternate deſires and fears of Romeo's ſtaying are natural effects of wiſhing, and intimidated affection.

[184]The following interview between Juliet and her parents places her in a very compaſſionable ſitua⯑tion; while Capulet exerts a degree of parental au⯑thority, too common we fear, which reflects no great credit upon his head or heart—Juliet's appeal to nurſe as her ſole remaining friend is pathetically pret⯑ty, but the unfeeling wretch's reply deteſtable.

What paſſes between Juliet and the Fryar at the beginning of the fourth act is expreſſive of affecting ſolemnity; a criſis of the utmoſt importance is ar⯑rived; grief aſſails her on one ſide and apprehenſion on the other, while weeping love caſts tear-filled eyes alternately on both; in this perplexity her ap⯑plication to the Fryar is very natural, nor can we blame, in her circumſtances, thoſe expreſſions of deſpair ſhe lets fall; however we think ſome argu⯑ments againſt the very idea of ſuicide would have fallen ſuitably and with force from her holy, tender hearted confeſſor; what he propoſes of having her buried alive, to eſcape Paris is as wild and romantic a device as ever entered into any drama, it might do in a novel, but in a repreſentation of nature, is no way juſtifiable; however we are apt to forgive even abſurdity, when it contributes to ſuch an affecting cataſtrophe.

We cannot help thinking that all through this act Juliet's entrances and exits are crouded upon one another too much; there are but three lines ſpoken between her leaving the Fryar's cell and appearing in her father's houſe; the ſoliloquy ſhe ſpeaks pre⯑vious to drinking the contents of her phial, is beau⯑tiful [185] beyond deſcription; terror and pity are alter⯑nately called upon in a moſt forceable manner.

In the next ſcene Capulet not only appears a mere old wife, but alſo blunders ſtrangely; the cur⯑few-bell is an Engliſh inſtitution by William the con⯑queror; therefore improper for an Italian to mention; beſides that bell rings at eight in the evening, yet he ſpeaks of three o'clock in the morning, and the ſe⯑cond cock; this might be eaſily rectified by ſaying the matin bell: Nurſe's remarks before ſhe attempts to wake Juliet are contemptible, at ſuch a criſis; and commonly make an audience laugh when they ſhould cry—what the parents and the Friar ſay, after the ſuppoſed death is diſcovered, may paſs without the cenſure of flatneſs, but merits no degree of praiſe; it deſerves note, that from what Capulet here ſays, great preparations have been made for the wed⯑ding; though in the third act he declared it ſhould be private, on account of his kinſman Tibalt's recent death.

Though not abſolutely eſſential, nothing could be better deviſed than a funeral proceſſion, to render this play thoroughly popular; as it is certain that three-fourths of every audience are more capable of enjoying ſound and ſhew, than ſolid ſenſe and poetical imagination; ſtage-pageantry cannot be very pleaſ⯑ing at any time to judicious taſte, but, if at all commendable, it is upon this occaſion.—The dirge as it ſtands at preſent we diffidently conceive liable to ſome objections.—In the firſt chorus, ‘"diſmal moan,"’ favours much of the ballad ſtile; in the ſucceeding air, comparing Juliet's eyes to [186] breaking day, is but paying an awkward compli⯑ment of brightneſs, and makes her, like the morn, grey-eyed. In the third air, ‘"look down below"’ is a tautologous mode of expreſſion, though ſome⯑what countenanced by cuſtom; for it is impoſſible to look down, without looking below; or to look up without looking above.

Romeo pleaſing himſelf with ſatisfactory dreams is very natural, and a good preparation for that material change of feeling, which Balthazar's heart-rending intelligence occaſions.—The tranſition to aſtoniſhment of grief is amazingly fine; and his diſmiſſion of the melancholly meſſenger by broken ſentences, very natural.—Nothing was ever depict⯑ed better in the whole ſcope of poetical painting, than the apothecary and his ſhop; yet we muſt think Romeo's recollection too coolly minute for a perſon in his diſtreſſed ſtate of mind; what paſſes between him and the apothecary contains ſome uſe⯑ful, pathetic reflections.—What occurs between the friars John and Lawrence, is merely to acquaint the audience that a letter to Romeo of Juliet's ſituation has miſcarried.—We do not perceive any particular material uſe in bringing Paris to the monument, un⯑leſs to ſacrifice him in view of the audience, without having committed any crime to merit death; con⯑ſidered as a rival, he is ſo unknown to himſelf, and ſeems to have been ſincere in his regard by viſiting the grave of his intended bride.

Romeo's ſpeech upon approaching the monu⯑ment, has much tenderneſs, aſſumed policy, and real fire; the brief, yet cordial farewel he takes of [187] a faithful domeſtic, we have always conſidered as truly affecting.

Though Paris's appearance gives room for ſome good acting, we apprehend the ſcene would have been more uniformly ſolemn without him; diſco⯑vering Juliet in her inanimate ſtate, by breaking open the tomb, catches the eyes, and Romeo's re⯑flections previous to drinking the poiſon, arreſts the hearts of ſpectators; nature is brought to her moſt critical feelings at the moment Juliet awakes, and her huſband's affectionate tranſports, forgetting what he has done, fills the audience with a moſt cordial ſympathy of ſatisfaction, which is ſoon daſhed in both by the poiſon's operating.—Romeo's diſtraction and her tenderneſs are ſo excellently wrought up, that we cannot ſuppoſe any heart ſo obdurate as not to be penetrated.—Her behaviour after his death, catching as it were his frenzy, and paſſing from grief to diſtraction, is a maſterly va⯑riation in Juliet; what follows her paying the debt of nature, is judiciouſly contracted into a narrow compaſs; indeed we will venture to affirm, that no play ever received greater advantage from alteration than this tragedy, eſpecially in the laſt act; bring⯑ing Juliet to life before Romeo dies is undoubtedly a change of infinite merit.

The whole dying ſcene does Mr. Garrick great credit, as being worthy the matchleſs author he has furniſhed it to, and we muſt venture to affirm, that his prejudice in favour, even of Shakeſpeare's faults, was the only reaſon why he did not retrench [188] and add more, which in particular places he ought certainly to have done.

The plot of Romeo and Juliet is romantic and irregular; the characters oddly conceived and ſtrangely jumbled; the ſcenes very unequal in mat⯑ter—ſome extremely inſignificant, others enchant⯑ingly beautiful; the unities are violently, yet not offenſively broken, and the cataſtrophe, which hangs in the balance of ſuſpenſe, as long as it ſhould remain doubtful, is equal, if not ſuperior, to any in the Engliſh drama, as it now ſtands; in reſpect of moral, ſome very inſtructive leſſons may be drawn from this piece, firſt from the lovers, that diſobedience in children, or doing what they know is totally againſt parental inclinations brings a train of perplexities, and produces the moſt fatal conſe⯑quences.—Parents may learn that family quarrels are not only unſocially abſurd, but pregnant with miſery to them and their offspring; they may alſo perceive, that compelling youth in the article of marriage is an unnatural, dangerous exertion of authority; and duelliſts may infer from Tibalt's fall, that the ſword of fate hangs ſuſpended by a cobweb-thread over a turbulent diſpoſition.

The hero of this piece is veſted with very warm paſſions, with much love, and what in that caſe may well be expected, little prudence; he fixes his affections upon a particular object, and determines to have her at any rate: the two valuable qualifica⯑tions of courage and friendſhip he ſeems happily poſſeſſed of, but, upon the whole, ſhews rather an amiable than a great mind; ardent in affection, [189] vehement in rage, poignant in grief; thus equip⯑ped, and ſo circumſtanced as he is, no wonder he affords capital talents a fine opportunity of diſplay⯑ing themſelves; and a character upon the ſtage was never ſupported with more luxuriant merit than this by Meſſ. GARRICK and BARRY, or BARRY and GARRICK; for when thoſe inimitable performers conteſted it ſixteen or ſeventeen years ſince, it was extremely difficult to ſay who ſhould ſtand firſt; we ſhall offer a compariſon upon ſtrict impartiality, and leave deciſion to the unprejudiced reader.

As to figure, though there is no neceſſity for a lover being tall, yet we apprehend Mr. BARRY had a pecu⯑liar advantage in this point; his amorous harmony of features, melting eyes, and unequalled plaintiveneſs of voice, ſeemed to promiſe every thing we could wiſh, and yet the ſuperior grace of Mr. Garrick's at⯑titudes, the vivacity of his countenance, and the fire of his expreſſion, ſhewed there were many eſſential beauties in which his great competitor might be ex⯑celled: thoſe ſcenes in which they moſt evidently roſe above each other, are as follow —Mr. BARRY the Garden ſcene of the ſecond act—Mr. GARRICK the friar ſcene in the third—Mr. BARRY the garden ſcene in the fourth—Mr. GARRICK in the firſt ſcene, deſcription of the Apothecary, &c. fifth act—Mr. BARRY firſt part of the tomb ſcene, and Mr. GAR⯑RICK from where the poiſon operates to the end.

Having ſeen this play three times at each houſe, during the contention, and having held the critical ſcale in as juſt an equilibrium as poſſible, by not only [190] my own feelings but thoſe of the audience in gene⯑ral, I perceived that Mr. GARRICK commanded moſt applauſe—Mr. BARRY moſt tears: deſirous of tracing this difference to its ſource; I found that as dry ſorrow drinks our blood, ſo aſtoniſhment checks our tears; that by a kind of electrical merit Mr. GARRICK ſtruck all hearts with a degree of in⯑expreſſible feeling, and bore conception ſo far beyond her uſual ſphere that ſofter ſenſations lay hid in wonder.

After two ſuch truly capital performers we can ſcarce mention any other adventurer with patience; however, to ſpectators who never had ſeen them, Meſſrs. POWELL and ROSS might have given conſiderable ſatisfacttion; their figures and voices ſuited well, but powers, countenances, and judg⯑ment to execute the moſt intereſting ſcenes, were greatly wanting; Mr. SMITH, at preſent, buſtles through the part with moſt inexpreſſive monotony at Covent-garden, and Mr. CAUTHERLY, without one requiſite whatever of a principal performer, hobbles through it at Drury-lane; ſuch an attempt is hardly to be conceived under the diſadvantage of awkward deportment, limbs void of ſymmetry, action without meaning, voice without power, and features of moſt defective expreſſion.

Mercutio never was nor never will be in better hands than Mr. WOODWARD's: Grimace and at⯑titude, which ſo often diminiſh that gentleman's merit in other characters, are here of ſingular ad⯑vantage, and the peculiarity of ſtile is admirably ſet forth by his peculiarity of expreſſion; eſpecially in [191] the capital ſpeech relative to Queen Mab—notwith⯑ſtanding Mr. MACKLIN was extremely well received, yet we cannot apprehend him in any ſhape qualified for the part; a ſaturnine caſt of countenance, ſententi⯑ous utterance, hollow toned voice, and heavineſs of de⯑portment, ill ſuited the whimſical Mercutio; they might have done for what Otway has ſtrangely met⯑amorphoſed him to, a mere cynic; but tended to mar Shakeſpeare's intention; however the author's ſenſe was critically preſerved in this, as well as all other characters by the theatrical neſtor; Mr. OBRIEN undoubtedly ſtood ſecond, and the late Mr. PAL⯑MER was not without conſiderable merit: as to Mr. DODD we conceive him totally inadequate.

Mr. HAVARD rendered the friar extremely re⯑ſpectable, nor was Mr. RIDOUT far behind; the former had more of characteriſtic placidity, the lat⯑ter ſhewed more neceſſary weight of expreſſion, Mr. HULL, whoſe propriety of ſpeaking is at all times unqueſtionable, wants ſomething of ſolemnity, not through defect of judgment or knowledge of nature, but a limitation of powers, which often check, in that gentleman, very eminent degrees of capital me⯑rit—Mr. LOVE—why have I occaſion to mention ſuch a murderer of blank verſe, ſuch a coſſac of tragedy— who bolts from a ſonorous, rumbling, untuneable throat, the ſmooth, philoſophic, generous ſentiments of the friar in a mode exactly reſembling the harmo⯑nious notes of a Newgate turnkey brow-beating un⯑happy priſoners; we muſt however allow him the me⯑rit of a figure and countenance very well adapted—Mr. [192] BANNISTER would do the play credit in this part; indeed too much as it is now patched together.

Capulet had great juſtice done him by Meſſrs. SPARKS and BERRY, but is at preſent wretchedly off, whether we view him in that moſt tragical of all tragedians Mr. GIBSON, or the leſs offenſive though water-gruel, Mr. BURTON—Benvolio ſuffered no damage from Mr. MOZEEN, though a very poor creature, but makes a better figure repreſented by Mr. PACKER; as to that ſmirking ſelf-impor⯑tant figure of an actor, Mr. DAVIS, who ſpeaks as he walks, by a kind of inſtinct, and whom to mention is a waſte of words, we wonder how even conſummate ignorance with its conſtant companion could make him think of the ſtage; or how any manager could ever uſe him in any other light than as a dumb eunuch in ſome of the Turkiſh plays—the other male characters in this piece we preſume not worthy remark.

Juliet, bating too quick a ſuſceptibility of love, is a moſt amiable lady; ſhe is tender, affectionate and conſtant; poſſeſſed of liberal ſentiments and deli⯑cate feelings; rather romantic in ſome notions, but juſtifiably ſo from age and ſituation of mind; ſenſi⯑ble of filial duty, yet not firm enough in oppoſing it to paſſion; her circumſtances are deeply affecting and her cataſtrophe ſpiritedly affectionate, though as an act of ſuicide not very moral.

The competition between Mrs. CIBBER and Mrs BELLAMY, who had both great merit in this cha⯑racter, ſeemed nearly to admit the ſame ſtate of compariſon as we have adopted for the contending [193] heroes; one excelled in amorous rapture, the other called every power of diſtreſs and deſpair to her aid; Mrs. BELLAMY was an object of love, Mrs. CIB⯑BER of admiration; Mrs. BELLAMY's execution was more natural, Mrs. CIBBER's more forceable; in the former there were traces of nonage; in the latter too much of the woman.

Lady Capulet is no body, yet we once ſaw Mrs. PRITCHARD make her reſpectable; miſtreſs nurſe, to whom we have objected, as a character incon⯑ſiſtent with tragedy, though highly finiſhed from nature; was moſt admirably repreſented by Mrs. MACKLIN, and we think her petulant impertinence is very well ſupported by Mrs. PITT; upon the whole, this play is in a truly deplorable ſtate of action at preſent in both houſes; and as, ſixteen years ago, it was hard to ſay which company excelled moſt, the contention now ſeems to be, who are moſt con⯑temptible.

Romeo and Juliet, though it exhibits none of the towring flights of genius, yet has many poetical beau⯑ties, expreſſed in ſmooth, nervous, agreeable ver⯑ſification; and takes, in ſeveral places, tender poſ⯑ſeſſion of the paſſions; it conveys very inſtructive admonitions, riſes by juſt degrees to a ſtriking con⯑cluſion, and muſt be allowed the candid praiſe of great merit, whether ſeen in public or peruſed in private.

THE PROVOK'D HUSBAND. A COMEDY. Altered from VANBURGH by CIBBER.

THE Laureat, in his preface to this play, has taken conſiderable pains to do Sir John juſtice, by attributing the plan and moſt of the characters ori⯑ginally to him; however, a compariſon between the PROVOK'D HUSBAND and Vanburgh's Journey to London will prove, that Cibber ſhewed great judgment and taſte in the uſe of thoſe materials which fortunately fell into his hands.

Though ſoliloquy is perhaps not the moſt com⯑mendable opening of a play, yet what Lord Town⯑ley offers at the beginning of this comedy, lets an audience well into the grounds of that uneaſineſs which ſits heavy on his mind; the alarm he ex⯑preſſes at the danger his wife's reputation is in from her courſe of life, conveys a very inſtructive intimation to ladies in the gay world; and his chuſing calm meaſures firſt to effect a reformation, ſhews a generous, prudent, tender caſt of mind. —The ſcene with lady Townly exhibits much ſpirited gentility, the debate is carried on with great good manners on both ſides, and a happy preſervation of temper is maintained; for though his lordſhip warms a little, yet it is like a man of ſenſe and rank; his mode of preſenting the bill is delicate, and her manner of receiving it pleaſantly [195] whimſical, as is indeed all ſhe ſays through the re⯑mainder of the ſcene.

The ſhort converſation between lord Townly and lady Grace is well conducted, and mention of Manly falls in aptly, of whom both give a good preparative character; I cannot, however, help being of opinion, that this gentleman rather ſeems too forward in adviſing rigid treatment, when lord Townly aſks his advice; nevertheleſs, it occaſions a ſenſible and inſtructive altercation between him and lady Grace, who argues againſt her own opinion, that ſhe may come more effectually at his.—This ſcene takes a very agreeable turn, where Sir Francis Wronghead and his family are mentioned, of whom Manly gives a ſatirical and laughable ac⯑count, ſhewing that he has a generous concern for their welfare, though he cannot avoid deſpiſing their folly.

If introducing ſuch a perſon as John Moody in⯑to the preſence of a nobleman and his ſiſter can be juſtified, it may be truly ſaid, that he gives great life to the ſcene, both from peculiarity of dialect and ſentiment; as to the propriety of his appear⯑ance, we cannot think there is any breach of de⯑corum; Lord Townly being poſſeſſed of a ſenſible affability, and having his curioſity raiſed by Man⯑ly's picture of the Wronghead family, might very well wave general diſtinctions in favour of honeſt John; who ſeems one of thoſe unpoliſhed, natural productions well worth inveſtigation; if quality, which is too often the caſe, never ſtoops to a view of the lower ranks of life, but, like a lion, with [196] ſupercilious abſtraction, ſtalks only in its own cir⯑cle, it muſt be very deficient in a moſt eſſential branch of knowledge.—Human nature is a volume of great variety, and he who ſtudies it moſt, is moſt likely to be practically wiſe; wherefore we heartily join with lady Grace, in ‘"loving nature let her dreſs be never ſo homely."’

Moody's familiar ſalutation of Manly, his inti⯑mation that his lady is in great good-humour from a free circulation of caſh; his account of the equi⯑page; the diſpoſition of the younger children at Joan Growſe's; the misfortune of the coach, its contents of live lumber within, and non-eſſential lumber without; the cargo of proviſions, the ſucceſſion of croſs events, and the ſuperſtitious ſtreſs he lays on Childermas-day, are ludicrous to the higheſt degree, and as highly a finiſhed piece of dramatic painting, as we have ever met with; nor can any thing be more in character than where John gives himſelf ſuch ſuperiority over his maſter, as a ſhrewd and reſolute huſband; indeed every line of this ſcene ſhews a rich vein of uniform hu⯑mour.

After John's departure, the other characters are called off in an eaſy, commendable manner, by lady Grace's propoſition of cards, which occurs from the diſcourſe without any appearance of de⯑ſign.—Manly's ſhort ſoliloquy contains ſome deli⯑cate remarks, and any where but concluding an act of a comedy, we ſhould ſay the following lines had merit; but rhime on the ſtage is certainly abominable, except in prologues and epilogues.

One of thoſe worthy gentlemen, ‘"whoſe oc⯑caſional chariots,"’ according to the count's own phraſe, ‘"roll upon the four aces,"’ is pre⯑ſented to us at the beginning of the ſecond act, with an old lady who lets lodgings; the ſharper, like all of his kind, from a duke to a link-boy, ſeems bent upon his own emolument at any rate; from his recommending Sir Francis's family to lodgings calculated for that purpoſe, and his con⯑verſation with Mrs. Motherly, a very inſtructive leſſon may be drawn, of the caution which ſhould be obſerved with reſpect to placing confidence of a ſerious nature in perſons who are only externally known to us; the Count's intrigue with Myrtilla is mentioned with a proper degree of impatience by her aunt, but if ſhe had left out, or ſoftened the following remark, it would have been better: when the Count ſays he will marry her neice, the reply runs thus,— ‘"Very likely!—If you would not do it when ſhe was a maid; your ſtomach is not ſo ſharp ſet now, I preſume."’ The ſcheme ſtruck out between theſe worthy perſonages is infamouſly politic, and I believe entirely conſiſ⯑tent with a depravation of nature too frequent in life.—Baſſet's ſhort ſcene with Myrtilla only con⯑firms her imprudent conduct, and conveys rather groſs ideas.—Her ſoliloquy contains truth, but not very proper to be told upon a ſtage.

[198]Lady Wronghead's ignorant affectation of po⯑liteneſs is extremely well deſcribed in her firſt ap⯑pearance; and Sir Francis's ruſticated obſervations upon introducing his ſon and daughter are an ex⯑cellent preparation for a more intimate acqaintance with his character; nor are the young ſquire and his ſiſter leſs ſucceſsfully delineated in what they ſay.—The unpoliſhed roughneſs of the boy, coun⯑tenanced through ſympathy by his father; and the pert, pettled forwardneſs of the girl, equally ſup⯑ported by the mother, exhibit a moſt diverting picture of parents fooliſhly indulgent, and children conſequently abſurd.

Manly's ſcene with Sir Francis is pregnant with genuine humour, and ſhews the baronet in a very entertaining view of ſtupid ſelf-ſufficiency; his ſcheme of repairing his fortune by parliamentary connections, both juſtifies his title to the name of Wronghead, and gives a very keen ſtroke of ob⯑lique ſatire to that abominable practice of proſtitut⯑ing the legiſlative capacity to mercenary private views; it is impoſſible for any thing to be better applied, or if rightly taken, more uſeful than the ridicule here thrown in a maſterly manner upon both the knaves and fools of policy; Manly's ob⯑ſervations are all poignant without the leaſt degree of ſuperfluity, and lead Sir Francis into a whimſi⯑cal, involuntary explanation of his deſigns; his treatment of Baſſet ſhews the gentleman and man of penetration; while the gambler's unmeaning familiarity exhibits contraſted an empty, imperti⯑nent coxcomb.—Agreeable, however, to thoſe ſu⯑perficial [199] notions of gentility, formed by her ſhal⯑low ladyſhip.—His conſcious feeling of Manly's ſuſpicion is very natural to an unprincipled raſcal, and his retreat well-timed.

Thoſe remarks made upon Manly by Miſs and her mama are extremely ſuitable to weak females, who too often miſtake plain-dealing for rudeneſs and ill humour; her ladyſhip's contempt of pe⯑cuniary expectations is alſo very conſiſtent with a vain heart, elevated by viſionary greatneſs, and her intention of throwing a rub in the way of Manly's marriage with lady Grace, manifeſts a miſchievous bent, which littleneſs of mind is ever prone to. Dick's impatient call of appetite, the introduction of a full tankard, the conſequent remarks, and John Moody's account of the misfortune their coach has met with, all happily concur to give this ſcene peculiar ſpirit.—But we wiſh John had not retained the carter's expreſſion of ‘"kiſſing,"’ &c. —The young ſquire's advice of bringing him be⯑fore the parliament, is an admirable ſting to the perverſion of privilege.

Lord Townly and lady Grace begin the third act with ſome juſt remarks on faſhionable exceſſes; from which their converſation, by an eaſy tranſition, turns upon Manly, when we meet with the effect of lady Wronghead's policy in a letter concerning that gentleman; lady Grace's communication of it to her brother is commendable, and his ſlowneſs to entertain a bad opinion without better grounds, added to his remark, that ‘"unknown friends for the [200] moſt part prove ſecret enemies,"’ ſhews not only goodneſs of heart, but a knowledge of life alſo: the ſequent interview between lady Grace and Manly is a piece of colloquial delicacy much to be admired; the explanation which the lady is in want of, riſes upon her by very juſt degrees; the gallant juſtifies himſelf upon the principles of conſcious in⯑nocence, which occaſions an eclairciſſement that a⯑greeably embarraſſes his miſtreſs.—Her ſoliloquy af⯑ter he goes off, contains ſentiments worthy of vir⯑tuous ſenſibility.

Lord and lady Townly are well introduced by Truſty's account of them; they are both warmed by difference of opinion, and ſupport their ſeveral arguments with characteriſtic ſpirit; ſhe takes the lead in juſtifying her own diſſipated life, and he very pathetically refutes her flimſy aſſertions, which gives riſe to a ſerious turn of repartee; it appears, greatly to his lordſhip's credit, that neither the pre⯑judice of his own circumſtances, nor the ſolitary life he leads, weighs ſo much with him as a jea⯑lous apprehenſion of his lady's reputation; feeling ſtrongly, as we may ſuppoſe, Caeſar's excellent maxim, that a wife ſhould not even be ſuſpected; that critical point of reſentment to which the alter⯑cation riſes, parting from her, carries him off the ſtage with reſpect, and leaves her in a kind of maze, but inſenſibility coming to her aſſiſtance, ſoon ba⯑niſhes uſeful reflection.

Lady Grace's appearance gives the fine lady a freſh opportunity of indulging her flow of ſpirits, [201] which ſhe does in a vein of great pleaſantry, by de⯑ſcribing what ſhe ironically calls the comforts of matrimony; her pictures of life, and raillery of lady Grace's grave turn, are as entertaining effuſions of a volatile imagination, as any our Engliſh dra⯑ma affords; and inſtruction is very well mingled with mirth in the prudent remarks delivered by the ſingle lady to the married one.

Lord Townly, calmed from the occaſional impe⯑tuoſity we ſaw him touched with lately, appears in conference with his friend; after a full and ſatisfac⯑tory explanation of lady Wronghead's mean device to prejudice Manly's character; his Lordſhip aſſures that gentleman of his ſiſter's affectionate eſteem, and ratifies Manly's wiſhes with his own warm approba⯑tion.

There is ſomething very generous, after ſuch de⯑ſigned injury upon ſo tender a point, in Manly's re⯑ſolution of ſaving the Wronghead family from ruin, even againſt their own inclinations—there is alſo a turn of conſiderable natural beauty at the concluſion of this ſcene, where lord Townly adverts to his own ſituation, and mentions Manly's proſpect of ſuperior happineſs; we think the act would have ended bet⯑ter without the couplet, which is tagged to it, though pretty enough—for the ſubject and ſenti⯑ment are compleated with theſe words— ‘"how much the choice of temper is preferable to beauty."’

Mrs. Motherly and her niece informs us at the beginning of the fourth act, that worthy Count Baſſet has palmed a forged note of five hundred [202] pounds upon them, the detection of which has oc⯑caſioned the latter to let Manly into the plan that is laid againſt Sir Francis: what follows between Mir⯑tilla and the young Squire, is commonly omitted in repreſentation, not we apprehend through a de⯑ficiency of merit, but to curtail the piece which cer⯑tainly exceeds uſual, and deſirable bounds.

Sir Francis, filled with freſh importance from having been at St. Stephen's chapel; diſplays his conſequence, perſeverance and patriotiſm, in very diverting colours to Mrs. Motherly, who in the true ſtile of ſuch obliging ladies, echoes every thing the baronet advances with moſt courtly admiration; Manly's entrance gives riſe to a ſcene of infinite merit—a ſcene we could wiſh read every morning after prayers in the houſe of commons; though if it had as ſlight an effect as the devotion has, it may as well be let alone; it is impoſſible to deſcribe a picture more ſtrongly ſatirical than Sir Francis's in⯑terview with the miniſters; chimerical hopes of pre⯑ferment, from a ſqueeze by the hand, and to a member of ſuch importance, who ſcarce knew, like many others, what ſide he voted on, are ſubject both for laughter and pity—a man wading beyond his depth not able to ſwim, and catching at twigs for ſupport, is highly emblematic of Sir Francis, whoſe ignorance lays a ſnare to entrap himſelf.

The ladies and their gallant attendant count Baſſet, change the converſation to more detached matters; his intruding himſelf a ſecond time upon Manly, who in a former ſcene treated him with contempt, [203] ſhows palpably the ſervile coxcomb: Sir Francis's blundering miſconception, eſpecially reſpecting the ſharper's courage, is admirably rallied by Manly; Miſs breaks out, with an excellent ſpecimen of her city improvement, in the rhapſodical journal of proceedings, which ſhe repeats; Sir Francis's re⯑mark on Jenny's ſnappiſh behaviour to her mama— ‘"there's your fine growing ſpirit for you, now take it down an you can,"’ is a very juſt reproof to the ridiculous indulgence which has encouraged it; the jealouſy conceived againſt the daughter, ſhows her ladyſhip to be vicious as well as vain and ſilly— her laying hold of the promiſe, Sir Francis fancies he has got of a thouſand a year, is very natural; and produces a whimſical altercation, concerning the expences ſhe has already run to; Squire Richard's conſtant attention to eating, is characteriſtic and ſeems an inheritance from his wiſe father: we appre⯑hend the following ſpeech of the baronet's, upon his lady's propoſing to buy ſome lace as fine as a cob⯑web, is an excellent ſtroke of political ſatire, and forced feeling: ‘"Very fine, here I mun faſt, till I am almoſt famiſhed for the good of my country, while madam is laying me out one hundred pounds a day, in lace as fine as a cobweb, for the honour of my family! ods fleſh, things had need go well at this rate."’

The concluſive ſcene of this act, relates to Baſſet's plot of ſecuring Miſs Jenny, to which the young lady herſelf ſeems moſt forwardly conſenting—Mirtilla who has hitherto appeared in a light of [204] pity, ſtands here an object of cenſure; but we muſt conſider what ſhe ſays, as calculated to draw her deceiver more deeply into the ſnare laid for him; what he ſays of wanting to be buſy with her again, and her reply, that he will ſoon have one to find him ſufficient employment, are ſentiments not ſtrict⯑ly delicate.

The Count's diſſertation in ſoliloquy, upon aſ⯑ſumed rank and ſharping principles, is admirable; we heartily wiſh what follows, was conſpicuouſly hung up, in every capital gaming houſe throughout the kingdom— ‘"Since our modern men of quality, are grown wiſe enough to be ſharpers; I think ſharp⯑ers are fools that don't take up the airs of men of quality."’

The converſation which paſſes between Manly and lady Grace, at the beginning of the fifth act, gives us a good and neceſſary idea, of the intereſting criſis his lady's conduct has brought things to in lord Townly's family; and their mutual deſire of miti⯑gating matters, furniſhes a favourable picture of their friendly feelings.

Sir Francis's ſcene very judiciouſly ſhows a ſenſe of error, urging its way upon his dull comprehen⯑ſion, and Manly's laying hold of the opportunity to point out his frightful ſituation in its real colours, ſhews good ſenſe, and a generous mind—the poor well-meaning baronet, is involved in ſuch a heap of dilemma's, that even the laughter which his ignor⯑ant confuſion raiſes, muſt be mingled with ſome touches of concern; the means of his extrication [205] are very artfully left in ſuſpence at the end of the ſcene.

What paſſes between lady Townly and Truſty at the toilet, manifeſts the very eſſence of faſhionable inſenſibility, a vacant head, and a callous heart— the deſcription of what paſſed the night before is inimitable—taking the money from Poundage, ſhews a diſhoneſt meanneſs which an infatuation to gaming, and a want of money will ſubject the high⯑eſt, as well as loweſt claſſes of life to; it points out too, moſt ſatirically, the light in which tradeſmen, and their circumſtances are held in, by many of the gay world, who, being unprincipled themſelves, think none of inferior rank in life have any right to, or occaſion for punctual integrity.

The ſquabble between Poundage and the mercer, is moſt happily imagined, for bringing lord Townly on with the true dignity of an honourable nobleman; which is far above a right honourable knave; and an injured huſband; one provocation is excellently grafted upon another, to juſtify the violent agitation he appears in; and his firſt reproach to the lady, ſtrikes home at one mainpoint of diſgrace, her diſſipa⯑ted folly brings on him; his arguments are keen, yet conſiſtent with decorum, and ſpirited without being outrageous; while her replies, conſiſting of faint ſallies of falſe wit, evidently ſhow the badneſs of her cauſe, and give his lordſhip ſuch openings for con⯑viction, as afford reaſon, triumphant admiſſion to bear down all her principles, but ſome embers of pride, which light into a ſhort flame.

[206]The criſis to which matters are brought when Man⯑ly and lady Grace appear alarms attention, and even throws ſome gleams of pity on the character of her infatuated ladyſhip; here the pathetic truly riſes upon us, and while we tremble for the unhappy wife, we muſt applaud and ſympathize with the determined huſ⯑band, who paints the guilt, and pronounces ſentence with all the tender firmneſs of a juſt and humane judge.

Lady Townly's feelings of remorſe advance up⯑on us in a pleaſing, becauſe an unexpected manner, and ſo much as we have blamed her errors, we are alſo prepared to receive her ſenſible recantation, which works that happy, agreeable effect upon his lordſhip it muſt do upon every generous mind; as indiſcretion is the higheſt crime chargeable againſt her, the arguments of exculpation ſhe offers are very admiſſible, and the effect of reconciliation is, I preſume, to the wiſh of every auditor; in ſhort, this turn of affairs, ſo gradually, and with ſuch probability brought about, is far ſuperior to Sir John Vanburgh's original ſuggeſtion of turning the lady out of doors.—The huſband's authority is well maintained as the piece now ſtands, without any exertion of hardening ſeverity, which may ſtartle, but generally renders vice more obſtinate.

Though the firſt part of the maſquerade ſcene is, for ſake of reducing the play to more bearable compaſs, uſually omitted, yet it contains many ex⯑cellent ſtrokes of ſatire; what follows deſerves particular attention and praiſe; in reſpect of thoſe [207] moſt irrational and prodigal aſſemblies, lady Grace, ſenſibly obſerves,— ‘"Of all public diverſions, I am amazed that this, which is ſo very expenſive, and has ſo little ſo ſhew for it, can draw ſo much company together;"’ to which lord Townly re⯑plies,— ‘"Oh, if it was not expenſive, the better would not come into it; and becauſe money can purchaſe a Ticket, the common people ſcorn to be left out of it."’

Baſſet's choice of the maſquerade for perpetrat⯑ing his baſe deſigns, is not only natural to ſuch a character, but alſo points out the danger of ſuch a rendezvous, where vice or villainy may play their game under cover; Manly's ſcheme of friendly detection is judiciouſly laid, the Wronghead family are well reſcued, and ſtrict poetical juſtice is done by obliging the ſharper to marry one he has de⯑bauched, and would have impoſed on an unſuſpect⯑ing country lad.

The laſt ſcene, which is indeed but merely a concluſion, contains nothing more than a more for⯑mal exchange of matrimonial engagements between lady Grace and Manly; as it was neceſſary to in⯑troduce the ſerious characters once more, we appre⯑hend thoſe lines which Lady Townly ſpeaks at the end of their reconciliation ſcene, would have been much better reſerved to the laſt; indeed thoſe rhimes which at preſent conclude the piece, are only an enlargement of the ſame thought.

[208]This comedy, though not ſtrictly conformable to the niceſt rules of time and place, is neverthe⯑leſs ſufficiently regular; the ſcenes are well ar⯑ranged, the ſerious and ludicrous happily mingled; the plot well digeſted, and the cataſtrophe much to be admired; the language of the polite characters is eaſy and nervous, of the lower ones humorous and ſpirited: the ſentiments are adequate and in⯑ſtructive, ſeldom treſpaſſing upon delicacy, and the moral is a moſt excellent one, ſhewing how follies of a different nature involve domeſtic concerns in dif⯑ferent perplexities.

Lord Townly is a character of very amiable qualifications, ſenſible, polite, generous, tender and reſolute, preferring indulgence, till he finds pernicious effects ariſing from it; his provocations are intereſting and often repeated, yet all borne with patience, till the honour and dignity of a huſband ſeem too much endangered, and every trace of diſcretion, on the female ſide, vaniſhes.

From this view it is eaſy to perceive, that his lordſhip cannot be well repreſented by the requiſites of mediocrity; from a great variety of perfor⯑mers we have ſeen, Mr. ROSS muſt be ſelected, as manifeſting much ſuperiority in this character; his figure, deportment, and expreſſion are happily ſuited: in the ſcences of leaſt importance, he ſhews poliſhed eaſe, in thoſe of conſequence, pathetic feeling and ſpirited reſentment; he remonſtrates, reproves, chaſtiſes and forgives with dignity.—Mr. BARRY is not without conſiderable merit, but as freedom, either in action or expreſſion, never ap⯑peared [209] about this gentleman in comedy, he cannot ſafely become a competitor with one poſſeſſed of both; where tears are mingled with embraces, he muſt be allowed to ſtand foremoſt.—Mr. RYAN received and deſerved much praiſe, but he made lamentable uſe of the ſing-ſong manner, and tra⯑gedized a great part of it abominably; Mr. SHE⯑RIDAN was as ſententiouſly pedantic as any ſuper⯑cilious fellow of a college in Chriſtendom, unva⯑rying and inſipid through the whole; Mr. MOSSOP haughty as a baſhaw, vulgar as a ſtage-coachman, boiſterous as a tavern-keeper, and awkward as a country dancing-maſter; pumping up every ſen⯑tence from the bottom of the ſtomach; ſtalking backward and forward, like a Jack-tar on the quar⯑ter-deck, and clenching his fiſts, as if lady Town⯑ly was every moment to feel the effects of them.— Mr. POWELL had ſenſibility, and was not void of eaſe; but he wanted much of the nobleman, and fell very ſhort of the character, except in the laſt ſcene; Mr. HOLLAND was a perfect type of prim Stiff, the mercer from Ludgate-hill, both in utter⯑ance and appearance; we never wiſh to ſee ſuch a paſteboard peer again; Mr. SMITH has freedom and elegance; but a moſt lamentable ſameneſs of expreſſion hangs intolerably heavy on the ears of an audience in his performance of this part; in the eſſential of dignity he labours under a ſimilar de⯑fect with Mr. POWELL.

Manly appears poſſeſſed of a ſound underſtand⯑ing, is friendly, conſtant and diſcerning, ſarcaſti⯑cal and rather rigid in his opinions: careful of his [210] own principles, and cautious of other peoples; Mr. SPARKS, whoſe figure and voice were both unfavourable to him for ſuch a part, had neverthe⯑leſs a manner ſo ſignificant that we have been at a loſs ever to find his equal; in thoſe ſcenes where Sir Francis is made his butt, he threw out his inſinua⯑tions with ſuch forceable meaning, that while ſpectators laughed at one, they could not avoid ſmiling with the other; in the third act ſcene where lady Grace ſhews the letter ſhe has received to his diſadvantage, he ſupported a degree of gen⯑teel delicacy very little to be expected from his ge⯑neral mode of performance; and indeed ſuperior to any other perſon we have ſeen.

Meſſ. CLARKE and PACKER wanting eſſential cha⯑racteriſtic ſhrewdneſs and cynical pleaſantry, only reach that inſipid medium which juſt avoids cenſure, yet never can reach praiſe; Mr. REDDISH would certainly do either this part or lord Townly much better than they ſtand at preſent in either houſe.

Sir Francis Wronghead is an admirable portrait of falſe conſequence, ignorant ſelf-ſufficiency and undiſcerning good-nature; a tame huſband, a fool⯑iſh parent and a credulous friend; poſſeſſed of a genteel independency, yet vainly graſping at ima⯑ginary promotion, to the great prejudice of his real circumſtances. — Mr. MACKLIN, beyond all doubt, filled the author's ideas of this part, and conveyed them to the audience admirably; conſe⯑quential ſtupidity ſat well painted in his counte⯑nance, and wrought laughable effects without the paltry reſource of grimace; where he affected to be very wiſe, a laborious, emphatic ſlyneſs marked [211] the endeavour humorouſly; while the puzzles be⯑tween political and domeſtic concerns occaſioned much food for merriment.

Mr. YATES purſued the ſame track, but with much fainter execution; in him there was a kind of unaffecting petitneſs which much reduced the ſterling value of propriety.—Mr. ARTHUR moved in a ſimilar line of direction, but ſtill further on the decline.—Mr. SHUTER, forgetting every trace of character, burleſques it with ten thouſand un⯑meaning tranſitions of countenance, and as many ill-applied breaks of voice; Mr. LOVE is as in⯑ſipid as the laſt mentioned gentleman is wanton; the former ſhews an uncultivated luxuriance of hu⯑mour; the latter an abominable narrowneſs of conception, united to a matchleſs dryneſs of utterance.

One general deficiency, which all the performers we have mentioned, labour under in this part, is making very imperfect attempts at the Yorkſhire dialect; from which, for the moſt part, they are as different as if they were ſpeaking the Iriſh brogue.

Count Baſſet, a ſuperficial, forward, gambling, faſhionable raſcal, poſſeſſed of cunning enough to form the knave, but void of judgment to hide it; gaping like a hungry pike for prey, and ſnapping at every thing till at length he hooks himſelf; pert without wit, and ſhewy without elegance; Mr. WOODWARD uſed to do him ſtrict juſtice, nay, indeed, make more of him than could be ex⯑pected; Mr. DYER and Mr. DODD repreſent him without leaving any material wiſh of criticiſm un⯑ſatisfied.

[212]Squire Richard is an ill-educated, headſtrong, brainleſs boy, taking advantage of the indulgence which has ſpoiled him, and following his own wild inclinations, without aſking why or wherefore; he cannot complain of his intimacy with Mr. HAMIL⯑TON at Covent-garden—but is much better in poſ⯑ſeſſion of Mr. WILLIAM PALMER at Drury-lane, who poſſeſſes conſiderably more of the natural vis co⯑mica, in ſuch a caſt, than any other performer on either ſtage.

John Moody, a very natural, well drawn ruſtic; not without ſenſe, yet poſſeſſing leſs than he imagines; a kind of humouriſt, fond of his own jokes, which he paſſes without reſerve, from a freedom allowed him by his maſter; his bluntneſs is pleaſing, and his caricature painting, ſhews maſterly though un⯑poliſhed ſatire; Mr. DUNSTALL hits off the manner and appearance of this character extremely well, but dialect is wanting in all the John Moody's, as well as Sir Francis's we have ſeen; Mr. SPARKS makes an Hibernian, and Mr. BURTON, nothing at all of him.

Lady Townly is drawn a female of peculiar ſpirit, poſſeſſing good qualities, which however are all ſwallowed up in a vortex of faſhionable follies; yet not abſolutely vicious, though verging cloſe upon vice; a laughable yet melancholy; an entertain⯑ing though a pitiable object; miſtaking elegance and vivacity for more valuable qualifications; deſ⯑piſing any conceſſion to the authority of a huſ⯑band, yet a perfect ſlave to her own capricious inclinations—Mrs. WOFFINGTON had a moſt ſuit⯑able appearance, and mode of expreſſion; but ra⯑ther indulged too much coquettiſh pertneſs in the [213] latter, and ſomewhat of affectation in the former; for which reaſon we muſt prefer Mrs. PRITCHARD, as preſerving the true woman of faſhion much better; both of theſe ladies, however, were remarkably de⯑ficient in the tender part of the reconciliation ſcene: Mrs. CIBBER and Mrs. BELLAMY, each made ro⯑mantic attempts upon her ladyſhip, being moſt in⯑ſipidly unvariable till the fifth act, where indeed they had both merit—Mrs. CLIVE gave criticiſm an idea, that lord Townly had married his cook-maid, vul⯑gar in the polite ſcenes, and diſſonant in the pathe⯑tic one; Mrs. YATES is a mere fifth act lady; Mrs. ABINGTON all but the fifth; and Mrs. BARRY more conſiſtent through the whole than any one we have mentioned.

Lady Grace appears a moſt amiable and pleaſing contraſt to her volatile ſiſter; poſſeſſed of reſerve without prudery, and ſolid ſenſe without formality; willing to partake reaſonable pleaſures, deſpiſing extravagant, pernicious and irrational ones; the de⯑licate eaſe and modeſt ſenſibility of this character, were never better repreſented than by Mrs. ELMY, whoſe merit ſeemed almoſt totally confined to her, and Selima in Tamerlane; Mrs. BULKLEY's very ami⯑able appearance, eaſy deportment, and unaffected delivery of her ladyſhip's inſtructive ſentiments, have given us, and we doubt not the public, very ſingular ſatisfaction; as to all others within our knowledge, ſilence is the greateſt favour we can ſhew.

Lady Wronghead is a bounce-about, clumſey imi⯑tator of polite life, without a ſingle requiſite for that [214] ſphere, ignorant to a degree, yet aſſuming know⯑ledge ſuperior to her important lord and maſter; vain, poſitive, and not of very rigid virtue; an im⯑pertinent wife, a goſſiping companion, and a fool⯑iſh mother—this odd compound never appeared more diverting, than in the perſon and manner of Mrs. MACKLIN, who exhibited petulant buſtling affectation, with infinite humour— Mrs. CLIVE looked and ſpoke many of the paſſages, particular⯑ly thoſe where contempt is thrown upon Sir Francis, with a very eminent degree of merit, in which ſhe is cloſely traced by Mrs. GREEN; nor does Mrs. PITT fall far behind; as to Mrs. HOP⯑KINS, ſhe wants both ſpirit and humour.

Miſs Jenny is a very natural ſprout from the old ſtock already deſcribed; talkative, pert, ſilly; fond of herſelf and credulous to flattery; a moſt ex⯑cellent object for any ſmooth-tongued coxcomical, fortune-hunting blade to make a prey of; with juſt wit enough to play unbecomingly on the ſufferance of her father, and folly enough to ruin herſelf; this vacant Hoyden, who certainly ſhould have ſpoke Yorkſhire, as well as her brother, ſits with a very pleaſant por⯑tion of eaſy humour upon Miſs POPE; Miſs MI⯑NORS, ſince Mrs. WALKER, was happy in this, as well as the whole girliſh caſt; but for Miſs WARD! —we heartily wiſh ſhe was well provided for off the ſtage; why ſuch languid dawnings of merit, eſpecially in the female ſex, ſhould be plunged into ſo precarious and difficult a ſtate of life, is not eaſy to be accounted for; eſpecially where there is a parent, who knowing the advantages, ſees alſo, perhaps feels, the reverſe.

[215]To Mrs. PRITCHARD's great praiſe be it ſpoken, ſhe never gave her children encouragement to a theatrical ſtation, though ſhe had reached eminence ſo conſpicuouſly herſelf, and ſupported it ſo well to the laſt, that like an evening ſun, her ſetting, though not ſo reſplendent, was full as agreeable as her me⯑ridian rays of excellence: Mrs. PALMER's own ſtrong inclination for the drama overcame, not at all unhappily, her mother's prudent prejudice.

This Comedy, if not abſolutely firſt, yields pre⯑cedence to very few on the Engliſh ſtage, whether we conſider its language, characters, humour, ſpirit or moral; and however Mr. POPE, who never could write a play himſelf, and therefore envied CIBBER, might anatomize that gentleman; we very much doubt whether any play he ever wrote, deplumed of fancy and harmonious numbers, contains more uſeful inſtruction, than this play which the Laureat, with ſo much taſte and judgment, fitted for the theatre; upon the whole, we are bold to recom⯑mend the Provok'd Huſband, as a very entertain⯑ing, valuable compoſition, both in repreſentation and peruſal.

CYRUS. A TRAGEDY by Mr. HOOLE.

THIS piece is the offspring of a virgin modern muſe: the word modern is introduced to apologize previouſly for any deficiency in the nobler flights of genius which may appear. Public taſte has been impregnated with ſuch Gallic frigidity for twenty years paſt, that the glow of a warm imagination would be rejected as too powerful; wherefore moſt, if not all the tragedies, within the date mentioned, have been, as Aaron Hill emphatically obſerves, elaborate eſcapes from genius; cold, creeping tales, dragging a plot unaffectingly along, through five tedious ſleep-inſpiring acts: mere correctneſs is the poor equivalent for that noble enthuſiaſm which Shake⯑ſpeare in particular, and ſome other dramatic au⯑thors, treated their ſympathizing audiences with, and at preſent offer to thoſe who are not embarraſſed with the enervating falſe delicacy of criticiſm—yet hold: let us not even ſeem to hint that the play now under notice comes under ſuch a charge, but candid⯑ly examine, and impartially decide.

Mr. Hoole does not wiſh to deny ſome obliga⯑tions to that great Italian dramatiſt Metaſtaſio, how he has availed himſelf of ſuch an original, is not within our plan; ſince we only profeſs examining and illuſtrating pieces as they appear, unleſs where [217] one is profeſſedly called an alteration of another— our criticiſms are meant to be as plain and uſeful as poſſible; our deſire being much more bent upon ſhew⯑ing a knowledge of nature, and an intention of pro⯑moting ſocial welfare, than pedantically to diſplay learning in multiplied conjectures, upon immaterial paſſages, which from being temporary, become obſcure.

CYRUS opens with Mandane, daughter of Aſty⯑ages; and Aſpaſia, daughter of Harpagus; the for⯑mer, who loſt a ſon, and thought him murdered twenty years ago, mentions, that ſhe expects within the day to ſee her child; her impatience at his deli⯑berate approach is well expreſſed, and paints a mo⯑ther's feelings, ſo ſituated, in juſt colours—from what paſſes we find, that Aſtyages, his grandfather, who had devoted this Cyrus to death, while an in⯑fant, now ſeems to countenance his public appearance: the old monarch's determining to ſacrifice the young prince, even before his birth, becauſe of a dream which portended his uſurpation of the kingdom, ſhews him ridiculouſly ſuperſtitious, and unpardon⯑ably cruel.

In the firſt ſcene we alſo learn, that Cambyſes was baniſhed to prevent Mandane's having any more chil⯑dren; however, we think Aſpaſia's mentioning what the princeſs had known ſo very long, and ruminated on ſo much, is merely making her a tool for opening the plot; we are told too, that Mandane, though her ſon counts twenty, is herſelf but thirty-two: this may pleaſe a capital actreſs, as few ladies like to ac⯑knowledge [218] even that age, till a dozen or fourteen years older; but is at any rate a very trifling circum⯑ſtance to mention. Aſpaſia alſo tells Mandane ano⯑ther circumſtance already well known to her, and much better mentioned afterwards; indeed it is ſome introduction to Harpagus, but we wiſh the plot did not open ſo mechanically.

By Harpagus it appears, that Cyrus is arrived up⯑on the borders of the kingdom, but muſt not paſs them till Aſtyages's permiſſion is ſignified; this very juſtly ſtimulates maternal impatience, and occaſions Man⯑dane, as it is improper for her to appear in perſon, to ſend Aſpaſia for intelligence of who the prince re⯑ſembles; if, however, ſhe had only mentioned a likeneſs of his father, without remembring herſelf, the ſtroke would have been more delicately natural—beſides the choice of her meſſenger is not, we apprehend, quite juſtifiable; as things are circumſtanced, Har⯑pagus would certainly have been much fitter than his daughter: however, he ſtays to give the princeſs ſome gleams of double joy, the return of her huſ⯑band, as well as ſon, which he only hints; and for what reaſon ſuch obſcurity is aſſumed, we cannot perceive, unleſs the ſtateſman ſuppoſes Mandane in⯑capable of keeping a ſecret, however important to herſelf; or thinks happineſs better adminiſtered by halves: the lady nevertheleſs is ſatisfied with the bare ſuggeſtion, nor aſks once after probability, tho' Harpagus aſſigns no reaſon for his myſterious re⯑ſerve.

[219]The ſtateſman in his ſoliloquy intimates, that re⯑venge for a murdered ſon enflames his breaſt, and that he wears an outſide ſhow of loyalty to make ven⯑geance more ſecure. We could have wiſhed that the uneſſential obſolete Scotticiſm ken, though admitted by ſome leading authors, had not been uſed in the laſt line: to imitate the beauties of capital writers is very commendable, but peculiarities are much better left to themſelves.

We find from what Cyrus mentions at his en⯑trance, that Mithranes, his ſuppoſed father, has made him acquainted with his real origin; here a queſtion obviouſly ariſes, why the old man ſhould ſo ſoon dicloſe this ſecret, which it ſeems ſo neceſ⯑ſary to keep; ſince we cannot perceive that commu⯑nicating it tends at all to forward the prince's hap⯑pineſs, nay rather unneceſſarily changes his tran⯑quil ſtate to agitated perplexity; a piece of uſeful information, however, accrues, which is that an im⯑poſtor has uſurped his name, and is ready to impoſe upon Aſtyages; the dream of that old monarch is told by Cyrus to Mithranes, who knew it, and the conſequences, before his birth; this again ſeems ſtrange fiſhing for revelation of a plot; but what fol⯑lows from where Mithranes takes up the ſtory is moſt agreeably imagined, and ſuitably expreſſed; the reception of Cyrus in his infant ſtate, doomed to death by a ſavage parent, is pathetic, with beauti⯑ful ſimplicity; and the prince's deſire of paying ſome tributary drops to the memory of her, who adopted and took care of him as a ſon, ſpeaks ten⯑der [220] laudable gratitude; the following part of this ſcene apologizes for a cautious, underhand method of working, by repreſenting the affected contrition of Aſtyages ſuſpicious, as a proof of which, his ſa⯑crificing Harpagus's ſon, upon ſuppoſition, that the father had ſaved Cyrus, is very judiciouſly of⯑fered; that ſpeech wherein Cyrus ſeems eager to aſſert his right, ſhews a pleaſing glow of ſpirited imagination, and the two laſt lines of it contain a ſentiment of intrinſic merit.

This is a truth no man can deny; but leaſt reſo⯑lution ſhould become raſhneſs, and firmneſs obſti⯑nacy; a monarch ought, without the aid of falla⯑cious courtiers, to know the exact barrier of ſepa⯑ration between his own royal prerogative, and juſt popular privileges; filial duty ſeems to make a ſtrong impreſſion upon the young prince; an impa⯑tient, natural deſire of ſeeing his unknown parents animates, but the cool advice of Mithranes checks him into a prudent and ſolemn promiſe to keep himſelf concealed under the name of Alcaeus and his ſon, till fit occaſion ſerves.

Where the old man touches upon reproof, and retracts, as being no longer in the character of a parent, with Cyrus's grateful, tender reply, are beautiful paſſages, as is alſo what follows;

There is nothing more becoming of human na⯑ture than a juſt, reverential reliance on providence: to begin every deed with heaven, is worthy a ſound underſtanding, a great mind, and a pious heart; therefore the author who inculcates ſuch a principle, without the leaſt taint of enthuſiaſm; who expreſſes it, with ſuch a noble engaging ſimplicity as Mr. HOOLE has here done, commands the approbation of religion, morality and taſte.

In the firſt ſpeech of Harpagus, which acquaints us, that Aſtyages has ſent him to enquire whether his grandſon is arrived, we find an unpardonable grammatical ſlip.

‘To learn if Cyrus yet approach the borders’ approach plural, for approaches ſingular, we would gladly have preſumed this an error of the preſs, but that the meaſure ſays otherwiſe; wherefore we would recommend a change, ſuppoſe thus, ‘To learn if Cyrus touches yet the borders.’

By this tranſpoſition and change of a word concord is preſerved, without rendering the ſenſe weaker, or the verſification leſs harmonious.

From the converſation of Mithranes and Harpa⯑gus it appears, that Aſtyages bears his grandſon no great good will, wherefore they determine that an impoſtor, who has uſurped his name, ſhall fall in the way of thoſe perils aimed at the real Cyrus; the remark which Harpagus makes, that Media's [222] heir has been trained up to virtue in her ſafeſt ſchool, an humble ſtation, is pretty, but not de⯑fenſible; becauſe the virtues to adorn and ſupport a throne require practical knowledge of life; he who knows not vice, nor has any opportunity of running into it, can poſſeſs but negative virtue at beſt; to be ſurrounded with temptation, yet ſtill to ſoar above it, is the true purity of mind; a man who cannot get ſtrong liquors claims no merit from ſo⯑briety, nor a female locked in a cloiſter from cha⯑ſtity; poſitive virtue is the child of free election, and, we apprehend, whatever pleaſing pictures may be drawn from education totally abſtracted, not one in a hundred of ſuch characters would make a tolerable king, or even a uſeful member of ſociety; ſpeculation preſents us with many ideas very pleaſing, which practice immediately proves chimerical.

The approach of Cambyſes is again intimated, and they ſeparate, leaſt from the king's jealous temper of mind ſome dangerous conſequences might ariſe.

At the beginning of the ſecond act, Mithranes expreſſes apprehenſions for the abſence of Cyrus, but is interrupted by the appearance of Cambyſes, whom he knows, though in diſguiſe, yet does not ſeem to know; the ſtranger ſolicits guidance to Aſtarte's altar, where a grand annual ſacrifice is that day to be held, which the old man promiſes, and mentions the expected appearance of Cyrus; ſome explanation ſeems approaching, when the ſudden [223] appearance of Aſtyages makes it neceſſary for Cambyſes to retire.

The gloomy monarch ſounds Mithranes's attach⯑ment on the principle of gratitude, which is ac⯑knowledged.—On mention of Cyrus's being pre⯑ſerved, Mithranes takes an extraordinary alarm; we ſay extraordinary, becauſe there is no reaſon to imagine, from his cordial beginning, that Aſtyages means any other than the fictitious character of Cy⯑rus; indeed, he explains it immediately after; the liſtening of Cambyſes is a moſt pitiful condeſcen⯑tion in any perſon of his rank; though miſappre⯑henſion of Mithranes's accepting the murtherous charge gives riſe to ſomewhat intereſting afterwards. The old man's mentioning Cyrus under the name of Alcaeus, to perpetrate the monarch's command, is natural and politic.

The paternal impatience of Cambyſes which hur⯑ries him into the path of deſtruction on his ſon's ac⯑count, is affectionate and noble; his appearance, and the danger conſequent thereto, muſt agitate feeling ſpectators conſiderably; the circumſtance of being taken priſoner affords him a good opportu⯑nity of ſhewing an invincible ſpirit, which cauſes a diſcovery of his real character, and furniſhes him with reproaches of a very ſtinging nature againſt his cruel father-in-law.

As tyrannic guilt is ever trembling for its own ſafety, his threats of fatal nature might reaſonably be expected, as alſo Cambyſes's contempt of them. —The charge of aſſaſſinating Cyrus is well levelled and ſtrikes home alſo: the hint he throws out of [224] vengeance hanging over the royal perſecutor is well imagined; in ſhort, both characters are ex⯑cellently contraſted through the whole ſcene, con⯑fident innocence buoys up one, cumbrous guilt ſtaggers the other.

Cambyſes departs with becoming ſpirit and moral dignity, leaving Aſtyages pregnant with appre⯑henſion of lurking dangers.—In about fifteen lines after her huſband's being carried off a priſoner, Mandane appears poſſeſſed of his diſagreeable ſitua⯑tion, which ſeems a violent breach of probability; being abſent twenty years, ſhe but thirteen when he was baniſhed, how does the princeſs ſo ſuddenly, amidſt ſuch buſtling circumſtances, know him? Or, if he was pointed out to her as the perſon, is it poſſible to imagine but after ſo long an abſence ſhe would have forced an interview with him for an exchange of mutual tenderneſs; as it is, we muſt ſuppoſe ſhe has flown by him without taking the leaſt notice; a paſſage in the third act intimates ſhe has not ſeen him; if not, who has told her ſo ſuddenly of his ſituation? The application to her father is of a very tender, perſuaſive nature, much in favour of capital performance, and conduct⯑ed without running into bombaſtic extravagance, like that of Almeria in the Mourning Bride, when ſhe pleads for Oſmyn in the fourth act of that play.

Aſtyages endeavours to alarm her feelings as a daughter, by acquainting her of the danger he ap⯑prehends ſurrounding him, yet grants ſecurity of life to the priſoner, in compliance with her tears; but expreſſes a firm reſolution of renewing his ba⯑niſhment.—The king no ſooner departs than Cyrus [225] appears, whom Mandane charges with breaking importunely on her grief—the word importunely we can by no means approve.

Cyrus's apology for ſo unceremonious an ap⯑proach, is danger which courſes him at the heels; dangers which ariſes, according to his own ac⯑count, from ſelf-defence; the ſympathy of blood is hinted at in Mandane's firſt ſpeech to the ſtartled prince, who tells the circumſtance of having re⯑ſcued Aſpaſia from threatened violation, in terms be⯑comingly modeſt; his narration is interrupted by the appearance of that lady, who urges informa⯑tion how he eſcaped with life from the danger her ſafety had involved him in.

Cyrus continues his tale with unadorned truth, and ſignifies, by a pleaſing degree of natural painting, his antagoniſt's fall; the name of Man⯑dane being mentioned, her ſon, as we might expect, is ſtruck with amaze; at this very critical period an officer and guards are introduced, who give the ſcene quite another turn, by arreſting the real Cyrus for having killed the uſurper of his name. Thoſe beams of pity which ſo lately lightened over Man⯑dane's breaſt, now turn to the clouds of rage a⯑gainſt him who appears the murtherer of her ſon; Cyrus's ſolemn oath to Mithranes prevents his re⯑vealing himſelf; ſtrong grief ſways the mother, anxiety for her perturbation agitates the ſon, while Aſpaſia feels commendable, grateful concern for the unhappy ſituation of her deliverer.

Mandane, unable to expreſs or bear her compli⯑cated miſeries, hurries off with a ſpeech expreſſing [226] ſome touches of frenzy; Aſpaſia's open, unre⯑ſerved declaration of apprehenſion for Cyrus's ſafety, ſhews much generoſity of temper, even admitting what ſhe herſelf, after he is gone, hints at, love for his perſon; this lady's ſoliloquy con⯑cludes the ſecond act, with tolerable ſpirit, but we muſt be of opinion, that the ſcene throughout is much more intereſting from its circumſtances than expreſſion; the former have too great a ſimilitude to Merope, and the latter falls far beneath the im⯑paſſioned ideas of that tragedy; though Mr. Hoole has happily avoided the ſtrained, metaphorical ver⯑ſification, which incumbers Aaron Hill's brilliancy of imagination.

At the beginning of the third act, Mithranes, dreading Mandane's reſentment againſt Cyrus as Alcaeus, informs her of the ſecret ſo long kept from her; but at the ſame time warns againſt an indulgence of thoſe tranſports which might diſco⯑cover it to her father; maternal joy for having found a ſon ſo long loſt, and ſo lately to all appear⯑rance killed, is conſiderably damped by the ſitua⯑tion of Cambyſes; from ſome breaks it appears, that Mithranes's prudent reſtriction is neceſſary to re⯑ſtrain Mandane; the heart violently agitated is ever prone inadvertently to diſcloſe, what undiſturbed caution would teach it to conceal; wherefore in ſuch caſes a friend's aſſiſtance becomes eſſential.

Aſtyages, true to his villainous principles, ſeems much pleaſed at, and grateful for, the death of him he ſuppoſes his grandſon; this affords Mi⯑thranes a good opportunity to conſult the ſafety of [227] Cyrus, as Alcaeus, which the king promiſes.— tyrant-like, in his ſoliloquy, he determines to ſacrifice thoſe who have contributed to his murderous pur⯑poſes; hence ariſe freſh fears for the prince, on whom death ſeems to have conceived innumerable and almoſt unavoidable attacks.

Harpagus comes in ſeaſonably to avert ſome im⯑pending ills from our hero, by ſhewing himſelf warm in his attachment to Aſtyages; Aſpaſia's ſup⯑plication in favour of Alcaeus works an alarm in her father's breaſt; introducing Cyrus to Aſtyages as a priſoner ſerves no purpoſe that we can per⯑ceive, except giving riſe to a ſpeech beautifully ſenſible: when Aſtyages makes a favourable remark on the prince's perſonal appearance, the ſtateſman thus emphatically replies;

Harpagus's ungracious addreſs to Cyrus, when he approaches the king, is alſo politically calculated to turn aſide any ſuſpicion of a diſguiſed character; but why Aſtyages ſhould call the ſon of Mithranes a perſon of lowly birth, or why Aſpaſia, in her ſoliloquy at the end of the ſecond act, ſhould hint pride's placing her above the offspring of a man who, it appears, had formerly been in favour at court, and obtained the rural retirement he wiſhed from royal patronage, is hard to ſay: Mithranes, though a voluntary exile from grandeur and buſt⯑ling [228] life, by no circumſtance appears a mean cha⯑racter, therefore ruſticity of birth ſhould not be charged againſt Alcaeus.

Harpagus's diſguiſe of his real ſentiments after Aſtyages goes off, even to Aſpaſia, ſhews cautious integrity; he hints prudently alſo his ſuſpicion of love in the warmth of his daughter's ſolicitation, and warns her of a paſſion attended by unſeen danger. —Upon her departure, we find the loyal ſtateſman paying cordial homage to his prince; quere, whe⯑ther freeing Cyrus from his chains does not break in upon the cautious plan he has before purſued; for ſuppoſe the king was to ſee or hear of ſuch an indulgence ſhewn to a priſoner, even by the perſon who a few minutes before has rather behaved harſhly to him, muſt it not wake ſlumbering ſuſ⯑picion to a ſtate of dangerous activity?

Paying ſome tributary tears to the memory of his own ſon, and Cyrus's generous ſympathy are pleaſing tranſitions; when Harpagus repreſents private griefs as below the notice of royalty, he draws as fine a declaration of noble humanity from the prince as ever fell from any pen.

The prince's concern for his father's impriſonment, and his mother's grief, is well adverted to, and occa⯑ſions [229] Harpagus to renew the charge of ſecrecy firſt given by Mithranes; this creates a perplexity in the following ſcene with Mandane, where ſhe owns him as her ſon, and he ſhuns her tender approaches, which terminates the act in a critical and intereſting man⯑mer: however, we cannot help thinking Cyrus's be⯑haviour to a tender mother, when it appears ſhe has been informed of his identity; a punctuality too ri⯑gid for nature and probability, his myſterous reſerve naturally throws her into a ſtate of dubitation bor⯑dering on amazement.

Act the fourth begins with Mandane alone—we have a ſtrong objection to that paſſage in her ſolilo⯑quy which ſtiles ſuſpenſe, life's deadlieſt calm; in the firſt place we know not any calm that can be deadly, unleſs the ſleep of death be ſtiled one; and what re⯑lation ſuſpenſe has, either to deadly or calm, is not eaſy to perceive: ſuſpenſe we apprehend to be an agitated ſtate of thought poſſeſſing the mind, where reflection hangs in a medium between hope and fear; if the former is confirmed, joy takes place of ſuſ⯑penſe —if the latter, deſpair may come, and that in⯑deed deſerves the epithet deadly; but in each in⯑ſtance every idea of a calm vaniſhes, for pleaſure is as tumultuous as grief.

That affectionate tranſport which a faithful couple, ſo long parted as Cambyſes and Mandane, might be ſuppoſed to feel, is interrupted by the former's ſup⯑poſing his ſon newly ſlain; however, he is informed otherwiſe, and mutual ſatisfaction again diſplays pleaſing beams. The following deſcription of Cy⯑rus [230] by his father, is as poetically expreſſed, as it is fancifully conceived:

The turn which enſues from Cambyſes's hearing that Mithranes has informed Mandane of her ſon's exiſtence is truly fine, as thereby the plot gains an alarming intricacy; having heard Mithranes pro⯑miſe the aſſaſſination of Cyrus to Aſtyages; he very naturally ſuppoſes, that the old man, through ambitious views, wants to palm his own ſon upon a wiſhing, and therefore a credulous mother; of this Mandane is the more readily convinced by re⯑flecting upon the unintelligible behaviour of the young man in his late interview with her.

The reſolution of Cambyſes to take revenge on his own ſon in the character of Alcaeus, ſets every tender fear of nature at work; when Cyrus ap⯑proaches —by the bye—he appears too quickly—his mother's change of looks very juſtly alarms him, and in his turn he ſolicits for an exchange of mater⯑nal and filial tenderneſs, which occaſions a power⯑ful conflict of paſſion in her breaſt; but viewing him both in the light of an impoſtor and her ſon's murderer, ſhe uſes a kind of deceit, and for ſake [231] of a more ſecret conference, the prince appoints her at that very part of the wood where Cambyſes has fixed on to make him a ſacrifice.—Mandane's ſoliloquy is in a disjointed ſtile, well ſuited to her ſituation; but how ſhe ſhould hint the grief of Alcaeus's mother, on ſeeing him bathed in blood, we cannot reconcile, as the death of Barce, Mi⯑thrane's wife, he himſelf being well known at court, could ſcarce eſcape her knowledge.

Aſpaſia's mention of Alcaeus, like water upon flames, makes Mandane's fury blaze the higher; and carries her off teeming with the bitterneſs of revenge.—What paſſes between Aſpaſia and Har⯑pagus appears only calculated to give ſtrong feel⯑ing a neceſſary pauſe: however, it is not with⯑out ſeveral pleaſing ſentiments, agreeably ex⯑preſſed; the lady's dutiful condeſcenſion to her kind father's cordial advice, even though that ad⯑vice counteracts impaſſioned inclination, furniſhes the idea of a moſt amiable mind.

Mandane, it appears, has ſought out Mithranes, and for ſome time diſſembles her rage, to make it burſt forth with trebled fury, which naturally throws the guiltleſs old man into aſtoniſhment; nothing can be more ſtrikingly imagined than the princeſs's miſtaken triumph, in ſuppoſing ſhe ſhall have ſon for ſon; Mithranes's diſtracted confuſion to think the prince ſhould be in ſuch danger, and by a father's hand, fills the humane breaſt with terror; this whole ſcene is wrought up in a moſt maſterly man⯑ner, and every ſpeech, pathetic, ſupplicative re⯑monſtrances [232] on one ſide with furious, unbelieving obſtinacy on the other, ſpeaks moſt forceably to the heart, which muſt throb with terror and an⯑xiety.

When Mithranes goes off, Mandane's mind is thrown into a very different ſtate of convulſion, we have lately ſeen her filled with rage almoſt ſavage, but behold her now, on Harpagus's aſſurance that Alcaeus is really Cyrus, plunged into the utmoſt poignancy, nay diſtraction of grief, which barely leaves her power to ſpeak the place and impending miſchief; this ſends off Harpagus on the wings of loyalty for prevention; her ſoliloquy is beau⯑tifully wild, and we may venture to ſay, that no fourth act ever hung an audience more in ſuſpence at its concluſion, than this does, which we deem a point of infinite merit; if there is any fault, it muſt be, that there is no increaſe of feeling left for the ſcenes which are to come.

The fifth act preſents us at its commencement with Mandane wandering, ſhe knows not whither, under the impulſe of diſtracted agitation; to her Mithranes enters, after a fruitleſs ſearch for Cyrus; the mention of whoſe name occaſions an increaſe of his unhappy mother's frenzy; on the return of reaſon, ſhe knows Mithranes, and ſends him to Aſ⯑tarte's fountain; Cambyſes's appearance with his ſword bloody, ſtrikes every tender idea with appre⯑henſion, that he has effected the deſtruction of his ſon; and totally overbears afflicted Mandane; Cyrus's entrance, however, gives a freſh turn, though nature ſtill trembles for his danger from a [233] miſtaken father's rage: the lady's ſituation ſhould certainly have claimed ſome aſſiſtance from her huſband, previous to every other conſideration; when unaſſiſted revival enables her to ſpeak, an ec⯑clairciſſement enſues of a very tender and pleaſing nature; yet in expreſſion we rather deem it faint; the play ſhould undoubtedly have been ſo planned as to have concluded here, yet we find a great deal of buſineſs to enſue; Aſtyages comes unawares upon Cambyſes and his daughter, the former of whom is again made priſoner; on being informed of a rebellious tumult by Harpagus, the king's rage threatens the late happy couple with death; but they are preſerved by a lucky thought of the ſtateſ⯑man.

Cyrus next appears meditating prettily on his change of fortune, and reveals himſelf to Aſpaſia; this whole ſcene muſt be deemed non-eſſential, and very flat after what has preceded; the prince's de⯑termination of aſſiſting his endangered grandfather ſhews dutiful tenderneſs, and a very generous mind; Harpagus, after long ſmothering revenge for a murdered ſon, now openly attacks Aſtyages, and as the event ſhews they are reciprocally wounded; the royal monſter dies, with ſome gleams of re⯑pentance, yet ſtrangely languid when compared to his enormous guilt; Harpagus expires recommend⯑ing his daughter to Cyrus: Cambyſes and Man⯑dane now appear; it is to be lamented that, after all her ſufferings, a father's death ſhould render her happineſs imperfect.

[234]Aſpaſia's being totally unprovided for is a great imperfection; Cyrus only recommends her coldly to his mother for comfort, though, in the pre⯑ceding ſcene, when ſhe mentions his exaltation, he replies,

Upon a general ſurvey of this tragedy, we find the plot pleaſingly intricate, agreeably regular, and pregnant with many affecting circumſtances to the concluſion of the firſt ſcene of the fifth act; what follows is a mere ſacrifice to partial juſtice, which, we apprehend, might have been effected with more brevity and merit by ſome very practicable tranſ⯑poſitions of incidents.

The characters of this piece are in no reſpect ſtriking; Aſtyages is a moſt unnatural tyrant, more known by what is ſpoken of him, than by any thing he ſays himſelf; he is hateful to the au⯑dience, without any acting merit to aſſiſt the per⯑former; he is moſt inſipidly vile, timorous, cruel and credulous.—Mr. CLARKE is much to be pitied when burdened with ſuch an ungracious load; what can be done for the deſpicable monarch in action, he does, and certainly deſerves the author's thanks.

Cambyſes is a very odd mixture of ſomebody and nobody—here—there—and no where; brought from his exile to do nothing—taken priſoner—ſet at liberty in a moſt unaccountable manner; taken [235] priſoner again; enlarged again merely for a happy cataſtrophe; he ſeems to have ſome traces of a good huſband and a good father, but no other marking qualification whatever; nor has he above half a dozen ſpeeches which deſerve notice:—Mr. SMITH's performance gave him tolerable ſpirit, and ſtrug⯑gled ſucceſsfully with an inconvenient ſituation.

Cyrus is amiable, and utters many ſentiments worthy a virtuous, well-cultivated mind; yet upon the whole we muſt deem him as unſeaſoned a hero as ever gave name to a dramatic piece; ſome interviews with his mother are, in reſpect of the uneſſential ſecrecy preſerved, ridiculous; and throughout the piece, he ſeems too much an en⯑gine of the plot.—Mr. POWELL's pleaſing appear⯑ance and ſuitable powers raiſed the prince far above that degree of mediocrity, in which the author has placed him; had there been more favourable opportunities for execution, we are perſuaded, it would not have been wanting; but reaching even the languid term of praiſe, agreeable, was as much as any performer could hope to arrive at.

Mr. WROUGHTON has of late been moſt cruelly obtruded on the public in this part; cruelly for himſelf and the audience, ſince even thoſe who force him to the undertaking muſt admit, that his abilities are as much beneath even the languid Cy⯑rus, as Mr. POWELL's were beyond him; but it ſeems to be a received managerical maxim at pre⯑ſent, to give the public neck-beef where they have a right to expect veniſon; no very grateful return for that amazing encouragement which is afforded.

[236]Harpagus appears to be a ſtateſman of com⯑mendable principles; he feels juſt reſentment for the murder of a ſon, yet ſuppreſſes his revenge till a regular train of events comes to place Cyrus on his grandfather's throne; his diſſimulation with Aſtyages is very defenſible, and his character equal throughout; his death is not quite con⯑ſiſtent with poetical juſtice, but neceſſary; Mr. HULL, though better calculated for exhibiting amiable and tender feelings, than any which bor⯑der upon gloomy and ſanguinary deſigns, repreſents Harpagus with merit at leaſt equal to any other male character in the piece.

Mithranes's loyal and parental attachment to Cyrus; his anxious concern for the prince's ſafety, and the evident pains he has taken to inſtil princi⯑ples worthy that elevated ſtation his royal pupil ſeems deſigned for, render him highly eſtimable; he is thrown into very intereſting ſituations, and has a manifeſt advantage over every other cha⯑racter, except Mandane; it would be injuſtice not to allow Mr. BENSLEY conſiderable praiſe in the performance of this part; yet, we apprehend, the play would have been much better caſt at firſt, if Mr. POWELL had done Mithranes, Mr. SMITH Cyrus, and Mr. BENSLEY Cambyſes; it ſhould at preſent undoubtedly ſtand thus; Mr. SMITH Cyrus, Mr. BENSLEY Cambyſes, and Mr. HULL Mithranes—though, by the bye, ſo rich is Co⯑vent-garden in merit, we know not an apology for Harpagus, to ſupply ſuch a change, except Mr. GIBSON, who might much more reaſonably be [237] truſted with the murder of ſuch a part, than Sif⯑fredi and many others he ſtands in poſſeſſion of; beſides getting rid of Mr. WROUGHTON at any rate is much to be wiſhed.

Conſcious of Mrs. YATES's very forceable ex⯑preſſion, the author has endeavoured, and not unhappily, to furniſh her ſeveral opportunities of diſplaying capital talents; through every change of tenderneſs, rage, fear, affection and diſtraction, ſhe ſhews powers which muſt work ſtrong and na⯑tural feelings upon the audience; tears, apprehen⯑ſions, and even a degree of aſtoniſhment wait on her Mandane; judicious tranſitions of voice, hap⯑py variations of countenance, and pictureſque atti⯑tudes unite to make this the moſt finiſhed piece of female action we remember to have ſeen, except Mrs. CIBBER's Alicia and Conſtance; indeed it is ſo much beyond what we behold at preſent in general, that it is not ſurpriſing to hear people ſay, inſtead of ‘"We are going to ſee Cyrus,"’ We are going to ſee Mrs. YATES.

Aſpaſia is a very inoffenſive, though unneceſſary young lady, very loving and very dutiful, intro⯑duced we know not why; diſpoſed of at laſt we know not how; no abilities could make any thing of her in performance, therefore Mrs. MATTOCKS, whom we cannot admire in tragedy, is as ſuffera⯑ble as any one elſe.

The plot of Cyrus is in many places wrought up with pleaſing perplexity, but falls into a patched-up cataſtrophe; the firſt, ſecond and fifth acts are lan⯑guid; the third and fourth ſtriking and ſpirited; the [238] language, abating ſome few ſlips, chaſte; the ſenti⯑ments juſt, though not very poetical, and the ver⯑ſification unaffected, but nerveleſs; in ſhort, Mr. Hoole has ſucceſsfully availed himſelf of a good original to fabricate a piece that acts prettily; with⯑out being in any ſhape great, it is in many reſpects pleaſing.

The ſtrong ſimilarity to Merope and Douglas, with a compariſon, leſſen its merit; as it wants the ſentimental, pathetic dignity of the former, and the paſtoral, pictureſque ſimplicity of the lat⯑ter: public opinion has run much in favour of this piece in repreſentation, and the managers have ſubſtantial reaſon to call it a good play; but we dare believe neither one ſide nor the other will con⯑tend for much merit in peruſal.

THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. A Comedy. By Meſſ. GARRICK and COLMAN.

WE have either obſerved, or meant to obſerve, that ſpirit and propriety of character, vivacity of dialogue, wit, and variety of incidents, are the conſtituent parts of a good comedy; many of late have got into the ſtile of mere ſentiment, and chit-chat picked up from novels, which they are vain and idle enough to ſuppoſe compleat dramas; if ſuch authors are right, Ben Johnſon, Wycherley, Congreve, Farquhar and Cibber, were undoub⯑tedly wrong; licenciouſneſs, 'tis true, has diſap⯑peared, but in general it ſeems as if wit and plea⯑ſantry, who were too long united with ſo bad a companion, had followed their old ally; how far the child of poetical partnerſhip now before us has fallen into or avoided the faſhionable languor let candid conſideration declare.

Fanny, merchant Sterling's youngeſt daughter, is acquainted by the maid Betty, at the opening of the play, that her huſband is juſt come from Lon⯑don; as Fanny is fearful that any hint of her ſecret match with Lovewell ſhould eſcape, ſhe ſtrives to check, but with little effect, the maid's bab⯑bling impatience, whoſe frequent mention of what ſhe is deſired to be ſo cautious of, ſprinkles the ſcene with laughter; but we apprehend, however natural in private, the pregnant ſtate of Fanny [240] need not have been ſo much inſiſted on.—Love⯑well finding Fanny in tears, occaſioned by her ap⯑prehenſive ſituation, ſooths her in terms becoming⯑ly tender.—She preſſingly urges making their mar⯑riage public, which he objects to, both on account of her ſiſter's approaching nuptials with Sir John Melville; the mercenary, vain diſpoſition of her fa⯑ther, and the ignorant ambition of her aunt Mrs. Heildelberg: however, he promiſes to make the diſcovery ſoon, and conceives favourable hopes from his affinity to lord Ogleby: this ſatisfies the lady, who, on going out, is met by her father.

The merchant charges Lovewell with following his daughter, and upon the young man's mention of himſelf as a huſband for her, Sterling, citizen-like, hints a deficiency in pecuniary qualification; Lovewell's arguments of perſuaſion are all an⯑ſwered and defeated, by his not having the recom⯑mendatory ſtuff; Sterling's peculiarity through this ſcene is entertainingly expreſſed, and the confuſion that Lovewell is thrown into by urging him to a promiſe of mentioning the matter no more, is very natural; his eſcape from the dilemma is alſo well conceived in promiſing that things ſhall go no far⯑ther.

On being informed of lord Ogleby's ſpeedy ap⯑proach, after ſome humorous remarks on the peer's letter, Sterling breaks out with purſe-proud ſufficiency reſpecting his own taſte and ability for entertaining perſons of the firſt rank; ignorant oſtentation is here ſhewn in glaring colours, and the whole ſcene is agreeably ſuſtained; the ſoliloquy [241] of Lovewell opens his deſign of making Sir John Melville a confidant; that through him Lord Ogleby's approbation and conſent may be ob⯑tained.

The enſuing ſcene between Miſs Sterling and Fanny, exhibits a ſtrong contraſt of diſpoſition, the former ſhews coquettiſh extravagant vivacity; the latter modeſt ſenſibility; the ladies are ſupported in their different lights with conſiderable merit, and Miſs Sterling's raillery of her grave ſiſter, gives great ſpirit to the ſcene; her notions of gay life are very happily expreſſed, and one of her ſatirical ſtrokes is excellent; ſpeaking of her finery, ſhe lets fall this tart and pleaſant ſarcaſm, on the folly and profuſion of licentious gallantry— ‘"The jeweller ſays I ſhall ſet out with as many dia⯑monds as any body in town, except Lady Bril⯑liant, and Polly—what d'ye call it—Lord Squan⯑der's kept miſtreſs."’

Mrs. Heidelberg's entrance, produces a freſh vein of humour; her opiniated conſequence, igno⯑rant vulgariſm of expreſſion, and impertinent buſtle, mark her character ſtrongly; her abrupt behaviour to Fanny, and her partiality for Miſs Sterling, ſhew further what we are to expect from the old lady; from their converſation, we may perceive that the favourite niece entertains ſome doubt of her lover, Sir John Melville, which Mrs. Heidelberg endea⯑vours to ſet aſide by interpreting his coldneſs polite delicacy; this occaſions the young lady to give a pleaſant ſketch of Lord Ogleby's amorous tendency.

Sterling's anxiety about the elegance of his enter⯑tainment; his ſiſter's inſtruction for polite beha⯑viour, [242] and Canton the Swiſs domeſtic's appearance, all co-operate to end this act in an agreeable prepa⯑rative manner for what is to come.

The ſecond act opens in an apartment adjacent to Lord Ogleby's bed-chamber; Bruſh, the noble⯑man's valet, appears gallanting Sterling's chamber⯑maid, in the true ſtrain of imitative quality; his coxcombry and the girl's coming ſimplicity are ex⯑tremely well ſupported.

Nothing can be more happily imagined, or better conducted than the introduction of Lord Ogleby, whoſe figure and manners make irreſiſtable appeals to laughter; nor is the Swiſs ſycophant Canton any way unequal to the ennobled oddity, his maſter; Canton's inſinuation that both the Miſs Sterlings ſeem attached to his Lordſhip, is not only a fine attack upon the peer's weak ſide, but works up Ogleby to a moſt ludicrous opinion of his influence amongſt the ladies; the merchant's praiſe of the accommodation his houſe affords, and his inten⯑tion of hurrying the feeble peer from one ſpot to another, for ſake of viewing what he preſumes taſteful improvements, keeps up the dialogue with much pleaſantry.

Sir John Melville's entrance is only to draw Lovewell into a private conference, which might have been effected, as we apprehend, much better without neceſſitating the baronet to come upon ſuch a trifling errand—Sterling's inadvertent attack upon Ogleby's conſtitution and appearance, ſhews plainly the forward, unreſerved trader, who will ſpeak his joke at any rate; a circumſtance plainly irkſome to his Lordſhip, though he ſeems to paſs it off agreeably.

[243]The enſuing unfiniſhed ſcene between Sir John Melville and Lovewell, ſeems a mere excreſſence, the lopping off which would make no gap nor any way mutilate the piece; in that between my lord, the merchant, Mrs. Heidelberg, and the two young ladies, we apprehend Sterling's clumſineſs of taſte is rather too much diſplayed; the humour ſeems to confeſs a ſtrain upon that point, but takes an agreeable turn when his lordſhip's vanity inter⯑prets the preſent of a noſegay from Fanny as love, and that of another from Miſs Sterling as jealouſy; the ſilent ſituation of Sir John and Lovewell through ſo long a ſcene, might, and undoubtedly ſhould have been avoided; for though Sir John's explanation affords ſome little grounds for action in Lovewell, when he finds the baronet's affection placed on his wife; yet the converſation is much too long for what it turns upon, and rather damps that ſpirit which happily enlivens moſt other parts of this piece.

Sir John's interview with Fanny, ſhews that gentleman in no favourable point of view, as there⯑by he diſcovers inconſtancy to one ſiſter, and rude⯑neſs to the other; this ſcene alſo is heavy, though the lady ſhews good ſenſe and commendable feel⯑ings —Miſs Sterling's appearance gives an enliven⯑ing turn; her reſentment hurries off the falſe gallant in terms of natural confuſion, and falls in heavy reproaches on her innocent ſiſter, whoſe perplexed ſituation and delicate reſignation, render her an amiable object of favour and pity with the audi⯑ence; her ſoliloquy at the end of this act leaves matters in a ſtate of tender ſuſpenſe.

[244]According to that excellent rule of variety, practiſed in a particular manner by Congreve, the introduction of new characters in each of the three firſt acts, we are preſented with the lawyers who are to ſettle marriage contracts, &c. at the begin⯑ning of the third act of this piece, their ſcene is an extreme pleaſant and ſevere ſatire upon thoſe maggots of the law, as Farquhar emphatically ſtiles them, who breed and live in the rotten parts of it—there is ſomething peculiarly keen levelled againſt ſelf-important old practitioners, who pre⯑tend not to know young ones, where Flower ad⯑dreſſes Freeman, concerning the length of his prac⯑tice at the bar: Sterling's conſequential boaſting of his wealth, and the ſerjeant's methodical particu⯑larity, concerning the marriage articles, are highly characteriſtic.

Sir John Melville's entrance, demanding a private audience of Sterling, ſends off the lawyers, and brings on a converſation in which the baronet gra⯑dually diſcovers his affection for Fanny; a circum⯑ſtance which naturally ſurprizes her father; how⯑ever, by a proper application to his intereſted diſ⯑poſition, that is by abating thirty thouſand pounds of the fortune propoſed with Miſs Sterling, he ob⯑tains the citizen's conſent; this point is effect⯑ed in a natural and laughable manner; Sir John appears to have no idea of delicacy where paſſion is concerned, nor the citizen of honeſty, when gold preponderates the oppoſite ſcale; a doubt ariſes about Mrs. Heidelberg's conſent, and the merchant appears anxious to keep the tranſ⯑action a ſecret from her—it is impoſſible for any [245] thing to be more characteriſtic than Sterling's ſoli⯑loquy, which ends with the following very ſenſible, a truly ſatirical remark, ‘"Well, thus it is that the children of citizens, who have acquired for⯑tunes, prove perſons of faſhion; and thus it is that perſons of faſhion, who have ruined their fortunes, reduce the next generation to cits."’

In the following ſcene we perceive, that Miſs Sterling has fanned the flames of her aunt's paſſion, by relating the diſcovery ſhe made of Sir John and her ſiſter; the old lady's reſentment breaks forth in a torrent of whimſical expreſſions; the baronet's appearance occaſions the young lady to retire, when he is warmly reprehended by Mrs. Heidel⯑berg for ſlighting her elder neice in favour of the younger; Sterling makes his appearance, and is thrown into a diverting ſtate of confuſion, by be⯑ing charged with his giving conſent to the affair juſt mentioned; this ſcene is executed with remark⯑able ſpirit, and Mrs. Heidelberg's declaration at going off, that ſhe won't give the family a far⯑thing, is a ſevere ſting to the citizen, who appears quite ſubſervient to his ſiſter's influence from pe⯑cuniary conſiderations; which makes him paint the matter to Melville as of great conſequence; who propoſes to obtain lord Ogleby's intereſt in his favour; here the act concludes, leaving the audience again in a very agreeable ſtate of dubitation.

Mrs. Heidelberg, Miſs Sterling, and the mer⯑chant, open the fourth act with the old lady's de⯑clared intention of ſending Fanny to town, which Sterling diffidently oppoſes, but is treated in a very [246] cavalier manner by his purſe-proud ſiſter, which draws from him a ſoliloquy of merit concerning the tyranny of females, where they can ſafely uſurp power; at the concluſion of it we find this juſt remark—"So abſolute with her money!"—but ‘"to ſay truth, nothing but money can make us abſolute—and ſo we muſt even make the beſt of her."’

Lord Ogleby and his Swiſs confidant appear next conferring upon the circumſtance of Fanny's being ſent to town, which occaſions his lordſhip to make ſome humorous remarks upon all the family but her, whom, as it appears, he thinks more than tolerable, ſuppoſing ſhe has a tender for him; Canton's adulation and the peer's laughable vanity are moſt humorouſly diſplayed.

The following ſcene between Lovewell and his wife conſiſts of a propoſition from him to make lord Ogleby acquainted with their marriage, as the moſt probable method of removing their perplexi⯑ty; his lordſhip appears, and the lady is left by her huſband to open the affair.—For ſome time their converſation is all preparatory for the main point, and the amorous nobleman, from the lady's very natural confuſion, draws ſome favourable conclu⯑ſions concerning his influence upon her; the expreſ⯑ſions he throws out aſide ſhew a rich vien of hu⯑mour; the mention of Sir John's addreſſes occa⯑ſions a pleaſing miſconſtruction, as Ogleby's folly cauſes him to think that the lady's diſlike proceeds from an attachment to him.—Canton's interruptive entrance is very well conceived to divide the ſcene, [247] which, we deem, to be highly and uniformly fi⯑niſhed.

His lordſhip's ſoliloquy alſo is worthy of what precedes it.—In his conference with Sterling and Miſs, the miſconſtruction is made excellent uſe of on both ſides; particularly as appearances deceive one party, while vanity miſleads the other from real truth; lord Ogleby's manner of opening his deſign of marrying Fanny to her father is executed with great judgement; and the following ſcene with Lovewell is a moſt intereſting continuation of that miſapprehenſion, which furniſhes ſuch entertaining materials to this act.

There is a very artful and regular climax of hu⯑mour, which riſes with every freſh character, and keeps the peer, for an uſual length of dialogue, ſo far from palling that even at the end of the act, we wiſh for more of him; his triumph over Sir John's pretenſions to Fanny gives a moſt agreeable variation of pleaſantry, and we are doubtful if any dramatic character was ever better ſupported ſo long together.

The fifth act begins with Lovewell and Fanny at the criſis of their anxiety, dreading a diſcovery, which nevertheleſs it now appears abſolutely neceſ⯑ſary to make; by Mrs. Betty we are informed, with her uſual circumlocution, that they are in dan⯑ger from ſome eaves-droppers; her taking miff is very ſuitable to one whom confidence makes pert.

Fanny, upon returning from a look-out, requeſts Lovewell to retire, which he obligingly complies with; Miſs Sterling, full of envious jealouſy and [248] ſuſpicion, begins the next ſcene with her aunt, on whoſe affectionate feelings ſhe works by an artful appearance of violent grief; it appears, that ſhe ſuppoſes Sir John Melville to be in Fanny's cham⯑ber, lodged there with a deſign of running away with her next morning; the approach of Bruſh drives off theſe two ladies.

This gallant valet, elevated with liquor, pays addreſſes to the chambermaid, and ſpeaking of the wine he has been drinking, throws out coxcomi⯑cally this ſtroke of well-conceived ſatire, ‘"I am a little electrified, that's the truth on't; I am not uſed to drink port, and your maſter's is ſo heady, that a pint of it overſets a claret-drinker."’ —His cloſe attack upon the girl, and her apprehenſion of being detected, occaſion ſome mention of Miſs Sterling, of whom Mr. Bruſh expreſſes himſelf rather freely, and in her hearing, as ſhe happens to be upon the liſten; this, and his declaring an in⯑tention of entering Mrs. Heildelberg's apartment, if the chambermaid reſiſts, bring that old lady and Miſs Sterling forward, brimful of rage and re⯑proaches; Bruſh however ſcampers off, and leaves his ſweetheart to encounter them; ſuppoſing her in Fanny's plot, they brow-beat ſeverely, and examine her ſtrictly; however being totally ignorant of the matter, they only put her into an unavailing fright.

Mrs. Heidelberg goes off to rectify her head⯑dreſs, and leaves Miſs Sterling on the watch, who ſeeing Betty come out of her ſiſter's room, taxes her with having material ſecrets in her cuſtody; Mr. Sterling and Mrs. Heidelberg enter at this point of [249] time, the firſt enquiring why he is diſturbed, and the laſt acquainting him with the ſuppoſed villainy of Sir John Melville's being in Fanny's bed-cham⯑ber: this alarms the father, who is not willing, however, to have it made a public matter, by a⯑waking lord Ogleby and the whole family.

The citizen's deſign of making Sir John marry his youngeſt daughter privately in the morning, throws the eldeſt into ſo violent an agitation of ſpi⯑rits, that ſhe and her aunt break out, in ſpite of his interpoſition; their cries bring forth Canton and his lordſhip, the lawyers, &c. in very laughable appearances.

The ladies take great pains, on his lordſhip's cordial enquiry after Fanny's ſafety, to perſuade him that ſhe is on the point of running away with his nephew Sir John; however the peer's opinion of her being attached inviolably to him bars all the paſ⯑ſages of belief: his confidence even interferes ſo far as to call Fanny out of the chamber; juſt as he mentions his nephew as the concealed party, Sir John comes on at the oppoſite ſide, which invali⯑dates a main part of the charge.—Nothing can be more ſuitable than the lawyers making their remarks in terms of practice.

Betty now opens the door, and lets out her mi⯑ſtreſs in a great flutter of ſpirits, which operates ſo ſtrongly as to occaſion her fainting; this incident draws Lovewell from his retreat, who, in the warmth of anxiety, avows his regard for her, and after ſome altercation, the marriage is declared: this ſtrikes all with aſtoniſhment, and cauſes Ster⯑ling [250] to threaten them with being turned out of his houſe, from which rigid determination ariſes a moſt pleaſing ſtroke of generoſity in lord Ogleby's tem⯑per, which promiſes them an aſylum with him: the plot thus wound up to a criſis of explanation, the young couple are made happy by the father's conſent, the real good wiſhes of ſome, and the ſeem⯑ing forgiveneſs of all.

The language of this piece is ſpirited, and in ge⯑neral chaſte, though not elegant; the ſentiments juſt without brilliance, the incidents well ranged, the plot pleaſingly unfolded, judiciouſly conducted, and well wrought up to the cataſtrophe; as to wit, it traces natural converſation of the preſent day ſo cloſe, as not to have a ſpark throughout the five acts; and for moral, it has not the ſhadow of one, which the authors ſeemed conſcious of, when, in⯑ſtead of adverting to ſo eſſential a point, they a⯑dopted the pitiful, though claſſical, mode of conclu⯑ſion by begging applauſe from the audience; which is a little like Merry-Andrew's bidding his audience ſhout, when he has played tricks before them: in an epilogue, ſuch a ſugar-ſop may be dropped to ſweeten the acidity of critical opinion; but at the end of a play, it muſt certainly be deemed a piece of poetical ſycophantiſm.

Lord Ogleby, though pronounced a very near re⯑lation of lord Chalkſtone, is moſt certainly as much an original, and as much a child of laughter, as any character on the ſtage—harmleſsly vain, plea⯑ſantly odd, commendably generous; a coxcomb not void of ſenſe, a maſter full of whim, a lover [251] full of falſe fire, yet a valuable friend; poſſeſſed of delicate feelings and nice honour: the peculiarities of this difficult part are ſupported with eminent abili⯑ties by that moſt excellent comedian Mr. KING, who notwithſtanding his chief praiſe derives from being a chaſte delineator of nature, here ſtrikes out in the water colour painting of life, a moſt beautiful and ſtriking caricature, conceived with ſome degree of poetical extravagance, yet ſo meliorated by his execution, that thouſands who have never ſeen ſuch a human being as Lord Ogleby, muſt, amidſt invo⯑luntary burſts of laughter, allow, nay wiſh there may be ſuch a man, whoſe foibles are ſo inoffenſive.

If Mr. KING ſhews more merit in any one paſ⯑ſage than another, it is where Sterling ſays to the young couple ‘"Lovewell, you ſhall leave my houſe; and, madam, you ſhall follow him;"’ to which the peer with infinite good nature replies, ‘"and if they do, I ſhall receive them into mine."’—Though it does not always follow that what an actor feels moſt he can expreſs beſt; yet we may venture to ſay a kind of ſympathetic uniſon gives this ſhort ſentence pecu⯑liar force and beauty in Mr. KING's utterance.

Sir John Melville is chief confuſion-maker of the piece, of indifferent principles and inſipid qualificati⯑ons; eaſe and gentility of deporment, which are the only requiſites neceſſary for this gentleman, were equally wanting in the late Mr. HOLLAND, and the preſent Mr. AICKIN: however, tolerable propriety is as much as this water-gruel baronet deſerves, and ſo far he received no injury from theſe gentlemen.

[252]Sterling is a well drawn uniform character, mount⯑ed upon the ſtilts of property, aiming at and boaſt⯑ing of taſte he has not: grappling at pelf of which he has a ſuperfluity; ſelfiſh and poſitive, where he dare excerciſe authority; oſtentatious, methodical and ig⯑norant; thus compounded he gives conſiderable life to thoſe ſcenes where he is concerned, when aſſiſted by Mr. YATES's inimitable talents for ſuch cha⯑racters; but in the hands of Mr. LOVE ſinks beneath criticiſm, and ſeems only calculated to lull attention to ſleep; it is a great pity this monotonous gentle⯑man roſe any higher than Serjeant Flower; the florid unvarying importance of phyſiognomy he com⯑monly wears, being better adapted to a lumber headed lawyer, than any other character.

Lovewell engages an audience by his tender ſenti⯑ments, and affectionate ſincerity; his ſituation affects, and his manners pleaſe us; Mr. POWELL never made a more agreeable figure in comedy, nor per⯑haps ſo good a one as in this part, which being placed in a ſtation of life that he himſelf had filled not long before; and being happily ſuited not only to his ex⯑ternal appearance, but his internal feelings alſo, he ſatisfied moſt agreeably every point of expectation; even Mr. CAUTHERLY, though far beneath the original, is not an inſufferable Lovewell.

The lawyers are drawn in a maſterly manner, and for the reaſon aſſigned above, we think Mr. LOVE had merit in the Serjeant—would he had never been removed; however, it muſt be allowed that Mr. BRANSBY is a worthy ſucceſſor, as he ſupports at leaſt the weight of the character with equal merit.

[253]Canton is an admirable delineation of a foreign ſycophant playing upon a vain Engliſh nobleman; the picture is inſtructive, and held to view in a very juſt advantageous point of light by Mr. BADDELEY, who breaks expreſſion well into the Swiſs Dialect, and cringes through the part in a very characteriſtic manner.

Bruſh is an excellent contraſt of the aſſuming Engliſh valet, and while in view, claims ſome notice —the late Mr. PALMER deſerved and met more ap⯑plauſe than could be expected to attend ſo ſhort a character, where tipſey he was highly laughable; his ſucceſſor and name-ſake if not quite ſo pleaſant; has nevertheleſs a conſiderable ſhare of merit.

As Farquhar ſaid in reſpect of Sir Harry Wildair, that when Mr. WILKS died or left the ſtage he might really go to the jubilee; ſo without exaggera⯑tion we may ſay that Mrs. Heidelberg was loſt to the public when Mrs. CLIVE retired; the igno⯑rant affectation, volubility of expreſſion, and happy diſpoſition of external appearance, ſhe was ſo remar⯑kable for, will render it difficult to find an equiva⯑lent; in many characters ſhe proved herſelf miſtreſs of a fund of laughter, but was in none more luxuri⯑antly droll than in this, every line of the author was very becomingly enforced, and many paſſages were much improved by emphatic illuſtration, in ſuch undertakings we have never ſeen her equal, and doubt if ever we may, Mrs. HOPKINS is ſcarce a ſhadow of her.

Miſs Sterling, a character quite unfiniſhed, ſays a good deal to very little purpoſe is eat up with am⯑bition, [254] and I am afraid, with envy: ſhe ſeems to have no commendable principles about her, her firſt ſcene indeed exhibits a conſiderable ſhare of harmleſs ſpirit though what follows rather ſpeaks malevolence.

She is left at the cataſtrophe in a moſt unde⯑termined, and we may add, notwithſtanding her foi⯑bles, an unſatisfactory ſtate; the authors have made ſomething of her at firſt, to drop her into nothing at laſt; in this view, ſhe muſt rather be a dead weight upon any performer; however, Miſs POPE, ſurmounting diſadvantages, renders the young lady rather more than tolerable.

Fanny has a manifeſt advantage of her ſiſter in ſimplicity of manners, diſintereſtedneſs of affec⯑tion, and delicacy of feeling; her ſituation alſo happily enforces the amiable parts of her character; Mrs. PALMER, the original in this part, ſpoke more both to the head and heart, than Mrs. BAD⯑DELY either does or can do; ſome lucky hits, with a more pleaſing figure, make her paſs off upon general opinion as well as her predeceſſor, but where criticiſm interferes, we muſt think much more favourably of the paſt than the preſent.

Betty will never again be performed with merit equal to the lady, who with much juſtice declined the inſertion of her name in the drama for ſo in⯑ſignificant a character; a character far below her capabilities, almoſt as far as it is above Mrs. LOVE's execution, of whom it was literrally cruel to make an actreſs—yet by ſome unaccountable fa⯑tality, [255] this unhappy lady is ſhoved on for many things, which would have been much better in other hands, and could not be worſe in any.—Why, why will managers ſo far miſtake the judgment of an audience, as to venture the intruſion of ſuch creatures as underſtand little, and expreſs leſs.

The chambermaid, according to what is ſaid of her, was as well figured and played as ever ſhe will be, by Miſs PLYMM.

To ſpeak of the piece in a complicate view, it certainly has a great deal of acting merit—a tho⯑rough knowledge of life and character is eſſential to draw comic ſcenes ſucceſsfully; of this the CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE is a pleaſing proof; however, ſome of the ſcenes are heavy, and a few trifling; the dialogue is not ſo ſpirited and eaſy as Farquhar's, nor ſo luxuriant and nervous as Con⯑greve's, yet agreeably diſengaged; the ſatire well pointed, and the ſentiments lively, though not ge⯑nerally inſtructive: if ſtanding the teſt of cloſet criticiſm be the faireſt and moſt eſtimable degree of merit, we muſt not venture to place this piece a⯑mong the foremoſt; but in repreſentation, we are willing to allow it every point of approbation, which the indulgent public has favoured it with, and much more than many others can claim, which poſſeſs thoſe very requiſites the CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE wants.

THE FAIR PENITENT. A TRAGEDY by Mr. ROWE.

THIS dramatic compoſition was wrote at a time when genius received nouriſhment from the beams of royal favour, ere the muſes of this iſle were germanized into ſtone; and ſtands to this day in eſtimation at leaſt equal to any except thoſe of Shakeſpeare. It opens with Horatio and Alta⯑mont, two perſons of rank in Genoa, from whom we learn, that it is the latter's bridal day; there appears to be ſtrong links of friendſhip between theſe two characters, and that Sciolto, a nobleman, father to Altamont's bride, has ſhewn particular marks of favour to Horatio, on account of being Altamont's brother-in-law and friend; his attach⯑ment to Altamont aroſe from a peculiar mark of filial duty ſhewn by him to a dead father, in yield⯑ing himſelf to priſon, that his father's corpſe, which had been arreſted by rigid creditors, might obtain the uſual rites of burial.

Sciolto at his entrance expreſſes himſelf in terms ſuitable to the feelings of a tender parent, on the day which diſpoſes of a favourite daughter according to his wiſhes, and as he imagines of her own; this ſcene is mere congratulation, except where Alta⯑mont mentions the coldneſs and concern of his bride; this the father naturally interprets to ariſe from the real or artificial coyneſs of her ſex, and [257] conducts them off with ſome lines of poetical, yet, we think, exceptionable expreſſion.

Lothario, a young lord of diſſolute principles, with his confidante Roſſano, appear next; from the expreſſions at firſt dropped by Lothario we find, there is a rooted enmity ſubſiſting between him and Sciolto's connections, chiefly on account of Caliſta, of whoſe unfortunate credulity, and his own triumph over her virtue, he gives a moſt fan⯑ciful, but highly cenſurable deſcription; vice is here adorned with irreſiſtable charms to an un⯑guarded mind, and therefore preſented to public view in her moſt dangerous garb: reaſon and judg⯑ment commiſerating the betrayed, muſt condemn the betrayer; yet we fear the luxuriance of fancy here works a quite contrary effect; leſs merit in the writing would have leſſened the danger, either in peruſal or repreſentation; groſs licentiouſneſs diſguſts, but the refined ſort, like palatable poiſon, introduces deſtruction unperceived.

Lucilla appears on meſſage from her miſtreſs Caliſta, and addreſſes the gay deceiver in pathetic terms; his replies are much in character, and the ſcene has conſiderable ſpirit in action; but we doubt whether delicacy and juſt reſerve are not too violently offended by the maid's proclaiming her miſtreſs's ſituation before a third perſon: Horatio's unexpected approach ſhortens their conference, and in the hurry of retiring, Lothario drops the letter juſt received from Caliſta by her maid.—This the friend of Altamont takes up, and though good [258] manners would have taught him to decline peruſal of it, as ſeeing the ſuperſcription—To Lothario— yet a curioſity ſtimulated by friendſhip occaſions him to examine the contents, which afford a moſt alarming and painful diſcovery, not only of Ca⯑liſta's previous but ſubſequent guilt, by ſoliciting an interview with him who has undone her, even with a man who is known as the determined foe of Al⯑tamont. —The ſoliloquy occaſioned by this fatal let⯑ter is well ſuited to a man in Horatio's critical and diſagreeable ſituation; reflection ſeems more to em⯑barraſs him, and he is wrapped in the perplexity of thought when his wife appears.

Lavinia at her entrance makes a very natural en⯑quiry, why Horatio has left even the marriage ce⯑remony; for this no apology is offered, as we do not perceive a reaſon to ſuſpect Caliſta before diſ⯑covery of the letter juſt found, nor any other cauſe for abſenting himſelf from the immediate celebra⯑tion of his friend's nuptials; the reſolution of not acquainting Altamont with the dreadful diſcovery is tender, generous, ſenſible and friendly.—La⯑vinia's concern at her huſband's confuſed, unin⯑telligible behaviour is prettily expreſſed, but we conceive an exception againſt the following paſſage; in the midſt of ſympathetic anxiety, which naturally ſpeaks to the point at once, ſhe utters the following ſuperfluous ſimile;

[259]Horatio's reſerve of a ſubject which ſeems to af⯑fect him ſo deeply, encreaſes the alarm which his wife has already taken, and occaſions her to touch him on the tendereſt points of affection, which, however, only draws from him warm declarations of regard without coming to any point of explanation; theſe operate properly upon Lavinia's good ſenſe, which declines farther enquiry, and change her re⯑queſt to his appearing amidſt the jocund proceed- of the day; this produces from Horatio ſome fine re⯑flections upon vicious and inconſtant women, whom he contraſts delicately to his wife, with which the firſt act ends.

Caliſta, ſwelled with perturbed agitation of mind, begins the ſecond act with refuſal of comfort from Lucilla, who offers, but in vain, ſome cordial ſen⯑ſible advice; the wretched bride, prepoſſeſſed a⯑gainſt her new huſband, indulges the moſt gloomy ideas and expreſſions of diſcontent; her deſcription of what ſhe ſhould deem an eligible abſtraction from the world, is extremely pictureſque, but too poetical; it breathes the air of romantic, rather than natural grief; the pride of heart, which had not power to check fatal deluſion and the loſs of virtue, yet ſoars above worldly cenſure, and urges her to entertain thoughts of death, rather than public ſhame; this, we believe, has been too often the caſe in reality, and is therefore a commendable picture held up to ſtartle young minds from ſimilar indiſcretion; infatuation is admirably depicted in her reſolution to ſee Lothario, though it forbids any [260] claim to the character of Penitent, and ſhews it is not ſo much a ſenſe of guilt, as an impatience of being croſſed in her wiſhes, that agitates her.—This is no doubt natural, but renders her much leſs an object of pity than real contrition would have done; female weakneſs, influenced by ill-grounded love, is finely and inſtructively deſcribed in this ſcene.

Upon Altamont's approach, Caliſta forms the reſolution of guarding her real thoughts from diſ⯑covery; the amorous bridegroom addreſſes her in terms of rapture, to which ſhe makes a cold and dubious return; and even goes ſo far as to tell him their union is not founded on the principles of hap⯑pineſs; Sciolto, replete with parental joy, gives di⯑rections for every mark of feſtivity, and pronoun⯑cing an emphatic nuptial benediction, retires with all the characters, except Horatio, who in ſoliloquy canvaſſes again the ſubject which ſits ſo heavy on his heart; he ſuppoſes and wiſhes the letter to be forged, but ſeems to draw very unfavourable con⯑cluſions from Caliſta's confuſed and gloomy de⯑portment; this occaſions him to throw out a ge⯑neral, and therefore illiberal reflection againſt the whole ſex, adverting to the ſtrained ſimilitude of original ſin in Eve.

Lothario now comes forward acquainting Roſ⯑ſano with his loſs of the letter, which villain-like he does not regret, as it may be the means of infamy and wretchedneſs to the unhappy woman he has ruined, but as he wants to make it an inſtrument of his antipathy againſt Altamont.

[261]Horatio here enters, as it appears, in ſearch of Lothario; their encounter is natural, and their diſ⯑pute is wrought up not only by juſt degrees, but in terms ſuitable to the dignity of thoſe who are diſputants; the cool determination of Altamont's friend, is beautifully contraſted to the petu⯑lant, oſtentatious impatience of his antagoniſt; the one reaſons like a man of ſenſe and virtue, the other prevaricates like an unprincipled cox⯑comb; when the charge of forgery is brought home, which Lothario only anſwers in the doubt⯑ful ſtile, Horatio utters a moſt beautiful ſarcaſm againſt him and all other pernicious reptiles of his depraved nature, which we cannot avoid quot⯑ing;

The word fond in the laſt line is not of very ob⯑vious meaning, unleſs to thoſe who know, that in Yorkſhire and ſome other parts of England, it im⯑plies ſilly; even in this ſenſe, we think, either the epithet of foul or baſe tales would have ſuited pre⯑meditate ſcandal much better.

In the progreſs of this altercation, Horatio ſhews himſelf not only a man of real courage, but alſo the active, warm friend; nor does Lothario fall [262] ſhort of commendable ſpirit, if exerted in a better cauſe; we think the ſtrength of Horatio's feelings rather hurry him to indiſcretion, when he mentions the matter before a third perſon; the challenge is well given, though we diſapprove Lothario's groſs reflection which provokes a blow from his antago⯑niſt; there is much dignity and cool determination in Horatio's brief acceptation of the ſummons: The concluſive ſpeech of this act, which conveys in ſome very beautiful lines excellent inſtruction to the fair ſex, is, we apprehend, exceptionable; not only from being run ſo much into rhime, but be⯑cauſe it neceſſitates the ſpeaker to ſtep out of cha⯑racter, and addreſs the audience, a circumſtance by no means defenſible.

At the beginning of the third act it appears, that Sciolto has diſcovered his daughter's ſullen beha⯑viour, and reproves it in terms of high diſpleaſure; the ſimile which cloſes his firſt ſpeech is ſtrained, and, like moſt others in dramatic compoſition, ſu⯑perfluous; his threats are of a very ſerious nature, and occaſion Caliſta to make ſome remarks upon the ſubordinate ſtate of her ſex, which her proud heart ſeems ill calculated to brook; Horatio ap⯑proaches, and intimates how critical the ſubject he comes upon is, therefore reſolves to enter upon it in the gentleſt manner; whatever juſtice may ap⯑pear in his deſign, we agree with Caliſta, that ſteal⯑ing upon her is a breach of decorum inconſiſtent with perſons of rank.

Caliſta's diſlike of Altamont is a very ſufficient reaſon why ſhe ſhould hold his moſt intimate friend [263] at diſtance; her inſinuation of this brings on the point in view; upon Horatio's delivering that ex⯑cellent ſentiment, ‘"To be good is to be happy,"’ and mentioning that ‘"Guilt is the ſource of ſor⯑row,"’ the author has ſhewn himſelf well acquaint⯑ed with conſcious feelings by making the lady kin⯑dle at the word guilt; it being certain, that thoſe who have done ill are moſt ready to catch at the im⯑putation of it; Horatio ſeizes this opportunity to preſs the matter cloſer, which only ſerving more to inflame Caliſta's rage, he, at length, as a proof of his aſſertion ſhews her the letter to Lothario; una⯑ble to reſiſt ſo palpable a conviction, ſhe tries a very natural effort of female policy, which is by tearing the letter, to diſarm him at leaſt of po⯑ſitive proof.

At this critical criſis, while ſhe is ſwelled with rage, and his friend covered with confuſion, Altamont comes forward, with freſh declarations of love, but takes a natural alarm at ſeeing his bride and Hora⯑tio in ſuch a ſituation; Caliſta here, by throwing inflammatory materials on the mind of her huſ⯑band, and urging a quarrel of fatal nature between the friends, ſhews herſelf highly capable of plung⯑ing into one degree of iniquity to ſcreen another, and that even a ſacrifice of blood is not too much for her ill-founded pride; this we allow to be ſtrict⯑ly in nature, but the grounds of an execrable cha⯑racter; at her departure ſhe rages in ſome very poetical rhimes.

The following ſcene between the friends takes a turn which may be expected; the prejudiced bride⯑groom, [264] who thinks the object of his wiſhes free from every criminal imputation, charges Horatio with ill behaviour, who to exculpate himſelf is be⯑trayed into an explanation reſpecting Caliſta, rather blameable; yet from a perſon in his agitation of ſpi⯑rits probable enough. Fired by the charge of guilt, levelled at her he loves, a charge merely ſupported by aſſertion; Altamont indulges violent reſentment, even ſo far as to throw off all traces of friendſhip; we have another blow given in this ſcene; as ſuch a cir⯑cumſtance generally creates laughter, and is at any rate diſgraceful to perſons of rank, we wonder an author of Mr. ROWE's delicacy, could repeatedly introduce it.

Horatio's reluctance to endanger the life even of an ungrateful friend, and adverting to a likeneſs of his father, are proofs of a great and tender mind, which urged beyond all bearing, at length acts on the eſ⯑ſential principle of ſelf defence. Lavinia's ſeaſonable interpoſition prevents fatal conſequences, yet cannot ſprinkle any drops of patience on Altamont's inflam⯑ed heart; who behaves with almoſt as much bru⯑tal roughneſs to her as he has done with ſavage fury to his friend; in ſhort we muſt deem Altamont, through this whole ſcene, both a fool and a mad⯑man; had Horatio been drawn with as little ſenſe and tenderneſs, poor well-meaning Lavinia muſt have brought herſelf into a moſt painful ſituation; however, the manly tenderneſs of her huſband balms in ſome meaſure the ſtings a brother's unkindneſs has planted in her heart, and ſhe returns it properly by an affectionate declaration of attachment, in the laſt ſpeech of the act, where, however, pleaſing [265] ſentiments and nature are again injured by ſimile and rhime; though had the latter been avoided, the former might have paſſed without objection, nay perhaps with ſome degree of praiſe.

A ſoliloquy begins the fourth act, wherein Al⯑tamont ſeems to ſtand ſelf-convicted of folly in quar⯑relling with his friend for a woman, who repays his raptures with coldneſs and diſdain; upon his exit Lothario and Caliſta appear; the gay gallant en⯑deavouring to ſooth his deceived and enraged miſ⯑treſs, who ſhews a juſt reſentment againſt the falſe⯑hood which has plunged her into miſery; his up⯑braiding her with having married the man he hates, is an artful ſtroke of exculpation relative to himſelf, and ſtimulates her rage conſiderably: Altamont's appearance at this period is well contrived, and what Caliſta ſays previous to his coming in view brings him forward in a ſtriking manner; Lotha⯑rio's fate is properly precipitated; his dying words ſuit the tenor of his paſt conduct, and he expires in the ſame character he has maintained through life.

Caliſta's deſperation at his fall, and the irreſiſta⯑ble proof of her own guilt, is a natural effect of ſtrong paſſions; Altamont's immediate confeſſion of forgiveneſs, ſhews him to have at leaſt as much weakneſs as humanity; the voice of Sciolto heard from without, ſtrikes his daughter with a freſh de⯑gree of confuſion; upon the old man's entrance, the traces of blood alarm ſuſpicion in him, which being confirmed by what Altamont replies, his fu⯑ry [266] breaking all ties of paternal tenderneſs aims at Caliſta's life, which is ſaved by her huſband's hu⯑mane interpoſition, even contrary to her ſtrong perſuaſive ſupplications for death at a father's hand; Sciolto's ſtart of phrenzy being paſſed off, he in⯑dulges reflection and reproach in a truly pathetic manner; the picture Caliſta gives of her own re⯑tirement, contrition, and mournful cataſtrophe is extremely affecting.

After ſhe diſappears, we are ſtruck with the idea of ſome fatal reſolution, and melted with the old man's tears; who, on hearing that Lothario's facti⯑on are aſſembled threatening ruin, ſeems pleaſed with an opportunity of carrying vengeance even among the friends of that young lord; after a ſoliloquy of Altamont's, which indeed means very little, La⯑vinia enters in confuſion, and lets us know, that ſhe has juſt been reſcued from a mob, with whom her huſband is ſtill engaged at hazard of his life.

Horatio ſoon enters to diſſipate her apprehen⯑ſions; but treats Altamont with that juſt and firm contempt his behaviour in the former act merited; the ſiſter pleads amiably for her brother, and the unhappy man makes very tender conceſſions.— Horatio, we think, highly blameable, for ſo groſs a reflection as ‘"an infamous, believing Britiſh huſ⯑band:"’ to taunt him with ſo cutting a misfortune is inhuman; and the ſtigma of Britiſh huſbands, though perhaps proverbial amongſt the Italians, is very illiberal; too much ſo to be adopted; Alta⯑mont is far too figurative in the ſpeech which [267] begins, ‘"I have wronged thee much,"’ and Lavi⯑nia's carrying on the alluſion with which it con⯑cludes, is an unpardonable treſpaſs upon ſerious feelings.

Altamont's tears touch Horatio with ſympathy, and it is to be wiſhed, that they alone had wrought the deſirable effect of tenderneſs; as the panto⯑mimical ſtroke of falling down is utterly contempti⯑ble; and the two ſpeeches occaſioned by it, rather laughable: this whole ſcene is very inadequate to the reſt of the play, and the characters are carried off with a jingling tag ſpoken by Lavinia, which has more ſound than meaning.

Notwithſtanding good language, ſtriking cha⯑racters, and a well conducted plot may diſdain the adventitious aſſiſtance of proceſſions, rooms hung with black, &c. we cannot help allowing that this latter decoration, with Lothario's body in view, gives a neceſſary ſolemnity to the fifth act, which Caliſta opens with a ſoliloquy of moſt maſterly compoſition; Sciolto's appearance at ſuch a time of night, in ſuch a place, and what he ſays, prepare us for a ſcene peculiarly intereſting; nor are our warmeſt expectations deceived in the progreſs of it; the father and daughter now lulled from the turbu⯑lence of paſſion, mutually unſluice their hearts, and, if the phraſe is allowable, let flow a ſpring-tide of ſorrow.

Here, in ſpite of guilt, we muſt feel for the un⯑happy fair one, and ſympathize with the hoary wretched fire. Who ſees him lift up the dagger [268] with unreſolved and trembling hand, but ſhudders? who hears his diſtraction at the thoughts of his daughter's taſting death, but feels pity vibrating in every nerve? however, recommending ſelf-deſtruc⯑tion to his child, is equally unworthy the Chriſtian, the parent, and the man.

Returning to the pleaſure her infant years gave him, and his forgiveneſs of her, are circumſtances thoroughly pathetic; his parting carries the climax of tenderneſs as high as it can well go; the ſucceed⯑ing ſcene between Altamont and Caliſta is extreme⯑ly languid, and ſeems to have little elſe in view, than giving a freſh inſtance of that amorous weak⯑neſs which ſo entirely rules the injured huſband.

Horatio comes with the melancholy information of Sciolto's being mortally wounded; which hurries Caliſta into the tremendous act of ſuicide; an ex⯑ample Altamont ſeems inclined to follow, but for the prevention of his friend; Caliſta lives to re⯑ceive the bleſſing of her expiring father, which is extended alſo to Horatio and his ſon; Caliſta makes ſome attonement to her huſband with her laſt breath; Altamont declares an indifference for life, and Ho⯑ratio concludes the piece by rhiming forth an evi⯑dent and very excellent moral.

The title of this tragedy has by many critics been deemed a miſnomer; for, ſay they, the lady's be⯑haviour in no ſhape entitles her to the character of a Penitent; this charge we cannot wholly admit, though we muſt in general; in ſeveral places ſhe ſpeaks of contrition, and very feelingly too, not⯑withſtanding [269] that pride and her firſt love fixed on Lothario ſeem to rule her heart: in the fourth act ſcene with him ſhe expreſſes herſelf thus;

After all, a lapſe in title, ſuppoſe one proved, is but a very ſlight object for criticiſm to fix on; it is like faulcons preying upon flies; eſpecially in reſpect of this piece, which exhibits a regular plot; ſcenes well arranged, characters happily delineated, elegant verſification, and inſtructive ſentiments.

Sciolto is a nobleman in principles as well as rank; apparently nice in his honour, delicate in his patronage, and warm in his parental affection; ea⯑ger for the happineſs of a darling daughter, and the ſon of a valued friend, whom he has married her to, on the moſt generous, diſintereſted principles; his miſerable diſappointment in ſuch a commendable expectation, places him in a ſituation that wakes the tendereſt paſſions.

Of all the performers we have ſeen in this cha⯑racter, Mr. POWELL ſtood eminently foremoſt; there was a degree of the pathos about this gentle⯑man in old men never ſurpaſſed in our recollection, except by Mr. GARRICK, who muſt have carried every line of Sciolto to the heart; however, the tranſitions of countenance, the breaks of expreſſion, and melting cadences of grief, were as happily ſup⯑plied by Mr. POWELL as public taſte could wiſh; [270] long, very long, will the parental parts in tragedy labour under the material deficiency of his untimely loſs.

Mr. BERRY uſed to blubber through the part from beginning to end, and Mr. SPARKS was moſt laboriouſly uncouth; Mr. AICKIN makes a very meagre figure in it at preſent in Drury Lane, wan⯑ting both characteriſtic ſpirit and tenderneſs; at Covent Garden there is not even a faint apology for the part.

Altamont is poſſeſſed of generous and ſincere, but very weak principles; ſo much the dupe of love that every other feeling gives way: he is introduced under ſuch unlucky circumſtances, and plays ſo much upon himſelf, that to an audience he appears much more languid, than the author intended, and for this reaſon, he is in general given to ſome actor as inſipid as they imagine him; this ſtamps him contemptible, and indeed lays him a dead weight upon the play; we remember Mr. BAR⯑RY, by exertion of ſingular merit, making him as reſpectable as any other character in the piece, though Mr. GARRICK did Lothario, and Mr. SHERIDAN Horatio, upon the ſame occaſion; in⯑deed he ſo much out-figured his competitors, in the race of fame, and illuſtrated ſo beautifully a character ſcarce known before, that he appeared to great ad⯑vantage; we have alſo ſeen Mr. ROSS with particular ſatisfaction, and undoubtedly, if his fits of negli⯑gence could be kept off, he has every requiſite to bear up Altamont agreeably.

[271]Mr. DYER, who ſhould never riſe above Treſſel, in tragedy, has been often ſhoved on for him, which has ever reminded us of a ſmart tavern wai⯑ter; full of himſelf, ſnip, ſnapping the harmonious lines of Rowe into fritters of poetry; we could name ſome others equally trifling, but not having words ſuitable to the wretchedneſs of their attempts, we ſhall paſs them as the managers ſhould have done, unnoticed.

Horatio is an amiable and valuable character, yet hurried by the zeal of friendſhip into trepaſſes upon decorum; his intention we approve, but his manner of accoſting Caliſta, and ſtigmatizing Alta⯑mont is very cenſurable; his reaſoning ſeems cool, yet his proceedings are precipitate: Mr. QUIN was greatly admired in this part, for what we cannot ſay, unleſs mere weight and pompoſity of expreſſion were deemed a meritorious contraſt to the ſpirited vivacity of Lothario; his perſon was no doubt ſuita⯑bly adapted, but a laborious formality of action of⯑fended the critical eye, and a monotonous cadence of voice palled the diſtinguiſhing ear—Rowe's golden lines hung heavy on his expreſſion, and by their meaſured harmony, led him into moſt weariſome recitative of tragedy.

One paſſage, for which he gained loud applauſe, deſerved nothing but laughter; we mean where he ſays to Lothario, "I'll meet thee there:" ſetting himſelf in a ſtudied poſition, to ſhew protuberance of belly in the moſt ſtriking point of view, he gathered his hands towards his ſides, and after a pauſe of ſome [272] ſeconds ſhoved them forwards very ungraciouſly to midwife his ſhort reply into Lothario's hearing; this gentleman had a fine level, and deep tone of voice, but miſapplied them ſo barbarouſly, that he growled with the one, and chanted with the other.

Mr. SHERIDAN whoſe voice and perſon, as we have before obſerved, rather ſpeak againſt him, eſpecially in points of importance; nevertheleſs made a more maſterly figure in this part than any perſon we have ſeen; he broke with chaſte judg⯑ment the lines into good ſenſe, without violating juſt harmony; he ſuſtained the ſedateneſs of the charac⯑ter, and the ſpirit of it, with equal propriety, and had the merit of much greater uniformity, than any competitor we ſhall, or can mention; cool without ſameneſs, firm without brutality.

Mr. MOSSOP, with an excellent voice, and a very juſt idea of his author's meaning, was nevertheleſs un⯑couth; painfully ſententious when calm, ungen⯑teely violent when warm, offenſively conſequential in deportment, abominably auſtere in feature, full of diſagreeable conſequence, and moved methodically by the affected rules of premeditate deportment; yet he too had his numerous admirers.

Mr. BARRY was never more miſtaken than in this character, which in his repreſentation wanted as much as a fine figure and a pleanſig voice would admit; he could not be diſagreeable, but was—what muſt he be now?—moſt egregiouſly faint and in⯑ſipid.

[273]Mr. BENSLEY is very inadequate to what might be wiſhed and expected, yet tolerable enough for the preſent wretched ſtate of capital acting, which ſinks below every idea even of moderate, indulgent criticiſm; if, where there are many others, we ſhould particulariſe one fault, it may be allowable to ſay that this gentleman is too fond of aiming at vehe⯑mence of expreſſion, without conſidering propriety of character, or the unſtrained extent of his natural powers; we wiſh him to conſider this as a friendly, not a ſevere or prejudiced hint.

Lothario is the moſt reproachable character our moral author ever drew, and indeed as dangerous a one as we know; like the ſnake with a beauteous variegated ſkin, which lures the unguarded hand to a poiſonous touch; this licentious gallant, gilds his pernicious principles with very deluſive qualifica⯑tions, eſpecially for the fair ſex, which cannot be more plainly evinced than by a declaration which has often been made at the repreſentation of this piece, by volatile, unthinking females; who have not ſcrupled ſaying, that they would rather be deceived by ſuch a pretty fellow as Lothario, than counte⯑nance ſuch a conſtant, paſſive, inſipid creature as Altamont; yet, upon examination, we do not find one trace of intrinſic merit in his compoſition; he is ſprightly, voluble, amorous and poſſeſſed of ſome courage; but the reverſe ſhews him vain, ſuper⯑ficial, inconſtant and malevolent; capable not only of ruining a credulous woman who loves him, but on pretence of reſentment againſt the man who has [274] married her, forward to expoſe her fatal weakneſs, and his own inhuman triumph over her unſuſpect⯑ing virtue.

Mr. GARRICK's execution of this part diſplayed very emphatic vivacity, and placed him as much a⯑bove competition, as the extent of the character would admit; Mr. BARRY was elegant, but want⯑ed fire; Mr. SMITH looks the gallant well, and does not ſpeak him much amiſs; Mr. HOLLAND miſrepreſented him in every particular; laborious in the declamatory ſcenes, turbulent in the ſpirited ones, and coarſe in thoſe of ſofter nature. Mr. REDDISH is by no means adapted to this tragedy coxcomb: figure and expreſſion are both much a⯑gainſt him; however, he has the ſatisfaction of over-matching any other male character in the play, as it ſtands at preſent in Drury-lane. We remember to have ſeen one Mr. LACY, a moſt luxuriant, uncul⯑tivated theatrical vegetable, ſhew great merit in Lo⯑thario; merely from expreſſive variety of voice, and a marking countenance; with perhaps leſs judg⯑ment to guide him than any perſon in a capital light ever poſſeſſed; it being abſolutely certain, that he ſtumbled upon great ſtrokes by a kind of inſtinctive impulſe, without knowing why or wherefore.

Caliſta is a lady of inſuperable pride and violent paſſions; eaſy of belief, warm in affection, precipi⯑tate in reſentment; ſhe appears in no favourable point of view, except from her credulity; and though we contend for her being a penitent, yet we readily admit ſhe is a reluctant one; ſhe is one up⯑on [275] compulſive, not voluntary principles; and there⯑fore, from circumſtances peculiarly diſtreſsful, alone excites pity; great powers, and deep feelings, are neceſſary to do her juſtice on the ſtage.

Mrs. CIBBER, beyond every point of diſpute, ſurpaſſed not only contemporary merit, but what has ſucceeded even to this day; the idea of haugh⯑tineſs ſhe rather failed in, yet her pungent and un⯑equalled diſtreſs made ample amends: in the firſt ſcene of the fifth act her countenance ſo aptly paint⯑ed horror and deſpair, her thrilling voice ſo pene⯑trated the heart, that we may ſay from experience, the height of critical pleaſure ſtrained nature into a degree of mental pain.

Mrs. BELLAMY wanted conſequence ſtill more than Mrs. CIBBER, was leſs expreſſive in features, and more limited in voice; yet the paſſages of ten⯑derneſs were well ſupported by her; of theſe two ladies we muſt make one general remark, equally chargeable to both; that is, having a ſtrong taint of the old faſhioned titumti utterance.

Mrs. WOFFINGTON, through an unaccountable turn of public caprice, was very well received in Caliſta, though all her merit was comprehended in elegance of figure; ſhe was a Lady Townly in heroics, and barked out the penitent with as diſſo⯑nant notes of voice as ever offended a critical ear; we allow ſhe was very pleaſing to the eye, but high⯑ly offenſive to cultivated taſte.

Mrs. YATES happily conveys the pride and vio⯑lence of Caliſta, but, as we apprehend, falls very [276] ſhort of her diſtreſs; in this character, as well as ſome others, we are to lament, that the lady juſt mentioned, ſhould indulge a maſculine extravagance of Frenchified action; that ſhe ſhould ſaw the air with her arms, and labour for attitude where it is rather ſuperfluous; this may pleaſe the million, but is no point of real merit, and can only be deem⯑ed a pitiful trap to catch proſtituted applauſe.

Mrs. BARRY, notwithſtanding the diſadvantage of an inexpreſſive, though engaging countenance, ſtands in our view next to Mrs. CIBBER; if ſhe is fainter in the pathetic than that lady, and leſs con⯑ſequential than Mrs. YATES, yet ſhe is certainly more uniform through the whole than either; and has a very evident advantage of both in figure and deportment.

Lavinia is a mere make-ſhift to eke out the piece; amiable; and what ſhe ſays is pretty enough; we don't remember to have ever ſeen her rendered more agreeable than by Mrs. STEPHENS; who, in this, as well as all other medium parts, marks the author's meaning with very juſt and agreeable ſenſibility.

The genius of ROWE ſeemed to conſiſt in rich⯑neſs of fancy, purity of language, juſtneſs of images, and harmony of numbers; but was undoubtedly too poetical for the drama, of which every piece he wrote, as well as this, is an evident proof; indeed, the abſurd manner of theatrical ſpeaking in his time might lead him to monotony in compoſition, and jingling rhimes at the end of acts; the only [277] cenſurable part of the FAIR PENITENT, we have pointed out in our animadverſions upon Lothario; if no prejudice is done by him to young minds, we muſt pronounce this one of our beſt tragedies, con⯑ſidered in the ſeveral lights, of character, ſentiment, regularity, plot, ſpirit, and pathos.

The MERCHANT of VENICE. Written by SHAKESPEARE.

WE have neither affixed the ſtile of tragedy, comedy, nor that of the mingled ſpecies to this piece, becauſe it does not properly come under any of thoſe denominations; at the opening, we are pre⯑ſented with Antonio, who, confeſſing himſelf low-ſpirited, is rallied by two friends, as being thoughtful on account of his merchandize, which charge, how⯑ever, he denies; Baſſanio, Lorenzo, and Gratiano en⯑ter upon their converſation; the latter alſo attacks An⯑tonio upon his gloomy viſage, and jeſts very plea⯑ſantly on the affectation of gravity, worn by ſome men as a ſemblance of wiſdom; the exit of this humoriſt is ſo whimſical and ſudden, that it would ſeem as if he was only brought on to teize the mer⯑chant with his rhapſodical lecture.

The manner of Baſſanio's diſcloſing his neceſſitous condition, is very pleaſing and ſuitable to confidential friendſhip; his aſſimilation of venturing a freſh proof of the merchant's kindneſs, after ſome he has alrea⯑dy made away with, to the ſchool-boy's ſhooting one arrow in ſearch of another, is fraught with beautiful ſimplicity; Antonio's reproof for his friend's uſing ſuch circumlocution is affectingly ge⯑nerous; as is the manner of promiſing aſſiſtance when he hears Baſſanio's deſign: to lend even when we have the means in immediate poſſeſſion is a very [279] liberal act; but to ſtrain credit for a friend, as Anto⯑nio here propoſes, lays an enormous weight of obli⯑gation upon gratitude.

The ſcene between Portia and Neriſſa is wrote with much vivacity and great good ſenſe; there is a pleaſing peculiarity of ſentiment, with pregnant brevity of expreſſion; from the converſation of theſe females we find, that Portia's father, by will, has fixed the determination of her marriage, upon chuſing right from three caſkets of gold, ſilver and lead; the fame of her riches, beauty, and the oddity of winning her by a kind of matrimonial lottery, has drawn many ſuitors; of all whom, ſeparately, Portia gives a very ludicrous and ſarcaſtical account, eſpecially of the Engliſh baron and the Scots lord; upon Neriſſa's mention of Baſſanio, her opinion ſoft⯑ens into the favourable.

Baſſanio and Shylock approach next; the former, as it appears, ſolliciting a loan of three thouſand ducats, on the credit of Antonio; as the Jew is a very peculiar character, SHAKESPEARE, according to the cuſtom of his unbounded genius, has furniſh⯑ed him with a peculiar mode of expreſſion; his pon⯑dering upon the hazards attending property at ſea is the uſurer to a hair—Upon Antonio's entrance, the Iſraelite makes us acquainted with his motives of antipathy againſt the merchant: the firſt of which, his lending out money gratis, ſhews Shylock to be flin⯑ty-hearted: indeed, hating his nation, and perſonally reviling him, lay a juſt foundation for diſlike; how⯑ever, we find, that, like a thorough-paced villain, he [280] accoſts Antonio with a fair face: when mention is made of neither lending or taking money upon advantage, Shylock enters into the defence of uſury by a ſcriptural alluſion. Here, our author, though he highly ſupports character, deviates from delicacy concerning the ſheep: in Antonio's reply there is a moſt veritable ſtroke of ſatire upon thoſe, who juſti⯑fy not only error, but infamy from holy writ;

Shylock, like other purſe-proud knaves, who take liberties with thoſe who borrow money of them, ra⯑ther rates the merchant, who by generous and ſpi⯑rited contempt, reduces the mercenary ſycophant to ſubtle fawning; the penalty he propoſes on the bond, ſhews him ſo provident a villain, that he pre⯑pares even for a poſſibility of wreeking his mortal hatred; there is ſomething very artful when Baſ⯑ſanio declares againſt the merchant's ſigning ſuch a bond, in Shylock's throwing an imputation of vil⯑lainy on Chriſtians, through their ſuſpicion of other men.

The ſecond act begins with a ſcene, omitted in repreſentation, but why we know not, between the prince of Morocco and Portia, as preparative to his trying the caſkets.

Launcelot, the Jew's man, in a very whimſical ſoliloquy, communicates an intention of running away from his maſter; the contention between his conſcience and the fiend, is truly laughable; old Gobbo's introduction means no more than to give [281] Launcelot an opportunity to diſplay his quibbling, word-catching humour; we wiſh the ſcene had a better tendency than mere whim: upon Baſſanio's entrance, the father and ſon attack him in a very odd manner, to take the latter into his ſervice, which he good naturedly conſents to; this piece of good luck occaſions a diſſertation upon the ridiculous ſtudy of palmeſtry, divertingly ſatirical.

When Gratiano comes to ſolicit the liberty of going to Belmont with Baſſanio, he is warned to check his ſkipping ſpirit, to which he makes a very ludicrous profeſſion of gravity.

When Launcelot appears, taking leave of Jeſſica, we do not approve the expreſſion of her "father's houſe being Hell, and he a merry devil," nor do we reliſh Launcelot's inſinuation of her being got by a Chriſtian: after he goes off, the young Jeweſs ſignifies her hopes of delivery from bondage, by the aſſiſtance of her lover Lorenzo; the next ſhort ſcene is nothing more than preparative for putting the ſaid deſign into execution.

In the ſcene between Shylock, Launcelot and Jeſ⯑ſica, we find the Jew ſo much alarmed at the idea of maſking in the ſtreets, that he gives Jeſſica a very punctual and poſitive charge to ſhut out even the ſound of ſhallow foppery, as he calls it—we wonder our author did not make the Jew mention having Antonio bound, which, with exulting hopes of get⯑ting the forfeit, would have made him much more reſpectable in this ſcene, wherein he is now rather [282] languid; telling his daughter the circumſtance, might have agreeably contraſted her humanity to his male⯑volence.

The introduction of a ſong by Lorenzo, under Jeſſica's window, affords her more ſuitable time for change of dreſs, than the author has allowed, and is pleaſing enough; yet we hold it rather inconſiſtent with the eſſential privacy of ſtealing her away; however ſhe gets ſafe into her lover's arms, well fur⯑niſhed with jewels and ducats: Morochius's trial of the caſkets affords ſome very noble flights of fancy, and plauſible, tho' fallacious reaſoning for his fixing on the golden one, which inſtead of the lady, furniſhes him with an excellent leſſon in the follow⯑ing lines.

In the ſhort ſucceeding ſcene, between Salanio and Solarino, an admirable deſcription is given of the Jew's diſtraction at his daughter's elopement; ſome hints are thrown out judiciouſly to wake our appre⯑henſion for Antonio's bond, and a moſt amiable picture is drawn of his unlimited friendſhip for Baſſanio.

The prince of Arragon appears next as a ſuitor of Portia; this ſcene, as well as thoſe of Morochius, is omitted in repreſentation, and we think very blameably, as the progreſſive regularity of deſign is thereby interrupted, and many excellent reflections [283] withheld from the audience on a train of ſophiſtical deductions; the firſt candidate perſuaded his erring judgment to fix on gold, the ſecond has ſenſe enough on reading the label, "who chuſeth me ſhall gain what many men deſire," to reject exter⯑nal oſtentation, yet is ſo vain as to think highly of his own deſerts, and therefore chuſes where the in⯑ſcription of the caſket runs thus, "who chuſes me ſhall get as much as he deſerves," preſuming that the lady only can be the reward of his exalted me⯑rit; the ſatire couched in his finding the portrait of an idiot is keen and comprehenſive.

At the beginning of the third act, Salanio and Solarino, acquaint the audience, with Antonio's loſs of a rich ſhip; Shylock, foaming with rage, joins them; never were tranſitions from one paſſion to another better ſupported than in this ſcene; diſ⯑traction, grief, and malevolence ſucceed and croſs each other admirably, nor can any thing be more happily conceived than the Jew's juſtification of his own cruelty upon the common rights and ſenſati⯑ons of nature, equally incident to his tribe and Chriſtians; upon Tubal's appearance, his agitation riſes ſtill higher, and every line that paſſes between them is excellently imagined to diſplay the united powers of action and utterance.

Baſſanio now appears as the third candidate for Portia, and has the advantage of her good wiſhes for his ſucceſs; his reflections, previous to fixing a choice, are moſt ſenſibly argumentative, and beauti⯑fully juſt; fancy and judgment form a cordial union [284] —he ſucceeds happily to himſelf, and agreeably to the lady, by rejecting the caſkets of glaring and mer⯑cenary ſhow; by fixing on humble and unpromiſing lead; this juſtifies the ſeemingly odd deſign of Por⯑tia's father, who it appears meant by the propoſed choice, to get her a huſband of ſolid underſtanding; the courtſhip of Gratiano and Neriſſa, is ſome⯑what odd; Portia's prejudice, in favour of Baſſanio, ariſes naturally enough from previous knowledge of him, but for the other couple to make ſo ſudden a matrimonial contract, ſtrains the bounds of proba⯑bility; and for Gratiano, who moves in the ſphere of a gentleman, ſo inſtantaneouſly to pick up a waiting woman for his wife, is rather a precipitate and unac⯑countable piece of match-making; however, a double wedding is fixed on, to the ſatisfaction of all parties —the introduction of Lorenzo and Jeſſica, before they could be aſcertained of Baſſanio's authority to entertain them, is rather exceptionable; however, the letter brought from Antonio, acquainting his friend with the ſtate of bankruptcy he is reduced to, gives a fine turn to affairs; Baſſanio's method of unfold⯑ing the lamentable caſe to Portia, is pathetically de⯑licate, and her deſire of paying the bond, even twenty times over, to avoid the fatal penalty, amia⯑bly generous; as is alſo diſpatching her deſtined huſband for the reſcue of his friend, even before marriage rites are celebrated.

The enſuing ſcene where Antonio ſollicits Shy⯑lock has nothing more in it than a confirmation of the Jew's unrelenting determination to abide by his [285] bond; we are certain our author might have very much improved both characters in this interview, had extending them occurred to his imagination; characters of importance ſhould never be brought on for trifling purpoſes.

The ſcene where Portia gives charge of her houſe and family to Lorenzo, that ſhe and Neriſſa may go to a monaſtery, during her huſband's abſence, is prettily deviſed, to keep the intended metamor⯑phoſe ſecret, and, at the ſame time, to apologize for her abſence; the intimation ſhe drops to her con⯑fidante, of aſſuming maſculine appearances, awakens curioſity in an audience, and at the ſame time leaves that curioſity in ſuſpence: there is an indelicate in⯑ſinuation at the beginning of Portia's ſpeech, when ſhe mentions the change of habit, which we wiſh was omitted; by the laſt line of this ſcene it ap⯑pears, that twenty miles will carry them to Venice; yet, upon Baſſanio's ſetting out for Belmont, we hear of his embarking on ſhip board; this ſeems one of the inconſiſtencies our author was very apt to ſlip into.

Launcelot's witticiſms with Jeſſica, are in a ſtrain of drollery, but his alluſion to Scylla and Charyb⯑dis, is rather too claſſical for ſuch a character, and his very impertinent behaviour is hardly juſtifiable in a ſervant; the circumſtance mentioned by Lo⯑renzo, relative to his amour with a Mooriſh woman, has no wit or humour to apologize for mentioning the matter before Jeſſica.

[286]On Shylock's being introduced to the court of ju⯑dicature, to which he has applied for the penalty of his bond, the duke pathetically interpoſes in the mer⯑chant's favour; to which the Iſraelite replies, with all the ſhrewdneſs of determined cruelty, urging his antipathy as a ſufficient reaſon, for caſting aſide every humane principle; perſuaſion only ſeems to invigorate his helliſh reſolution, which not even the offer of enormous pecuniary advantage can alter: when matters are at this criſis, the appearance of Portia as a lawyer, recommended by Doctor Bellario brings on the trial; however, Portia previouſly gives a moſt nervous and beautiful recommendation of mercy, which is ſo worthy the approbation and recollection of every individual that we ſhould be blameable in not quoting of it.

However we may admire the expreſſion and be⯑nevolent tendency of this ſpeech, yet an obvious ob⯑jection lies againſt the paſſage marked by italics; which, as it evidently refers to the Lords's Prayer, ought not to be even hinted at, where a Jew was in queſtion, as it would rather work an irritative than lenitive effect.

Shylock's ſervile and rapturous adoration of the ſuppoſed lawyer, for ſuſtaining the ſolidity of the bond, is inimitably expreſſed by exclamations; and the cauſe works up againſt Antonio to a very pathe⯑tic criſis; when a very natural and moſt agreeable turn of Portia's, defeats the Jew's blood-thirſty hopes, frees the merchant, and gives general joy: there is not any incident in any drama, which ſtrikes ſo ſudden and ſo powerful an effect; the retorts of Gratiano are admirably pleaſant, and the wretched ſtate to which Shylock is in his turn reduced, is ſo agreeable a ſa⯑crifice to juſtice, that it conveys inexpreſſible ſatiſ⯑faction to every feeling mind; the lenity of Antonio is judiciouſly oppoſed to the malevolence of his inex⯑orable perſecutor.

Upon the Jew's leaving court, Gratiano ſpeaks thus to him: "In chriſtening thou ſhalt have two godfathers, had I been judge thou ſhouldſt have had ten more, to bring thee to the gallows, not the font;" in this ſpeech our author has made a very cenſurable ſlip, by furniſhing Gratiano, who is a [288] Venetian, with an obſervation that refers to the En⯑gliſh mode of trial by jury, which the words quoted certainly imply.

What follows to the end of this act, is only a ſtra⯑tagem of the ladies to get thoſe rings from their huſbands, which they had made them ſwear not to part with; hence ariſes ſome matter to eke forward a piece which ſhould undoubtedly have ended with the trial, as no event of equal force could follow the merchant's acquittal.

At the beginning of the fifth act, Lorenzo and Jeſſica, in a ſtrain of tender dalliance, play upon the idea of a ſerene moon-light night very agreeably, till they are interrupted by a meſſenger, ſignifying Portia's return, and Launcelot roaring out in ſimple ecſtacy his maſter's approach; Lorenzo, however, willing to enjoy the beauty of the night, indulges fanciful ſpeculation in the following elegant ſtrain:

What follows upon Jeſſica's remark, that muſic does not make her chearful, we venture alſo to give [289] our readers as the ſubject of general approbation, a⯑mong the taſteful admirers of poetical excurſions.

Though the lines in Italics have been often quoted, and received, as conveying an irrefragable maxim, we muſt contend that there is conſiderably more fancy than truth in them, as experience ſufficiently proves, from a multitude of inſtances of bad ears being annexed to good hearts; let it ſuffice to ſay, that one of the greateſt writers one of the deepeſt ſcholars, one of the moſt moral and peaceable men of the preſent age, has ſo little reliſh for muſic, that being carried to hear Alexander's Feaſt, as ſet by HAN⯑DEL, he ſhook his head, and ſaid, the performance only convinced him, that inſipid, jingling ſounds, [290] might ſpoil the beſt written piece in the world; from hence we may deem Shakeſpeare's compliment to harmony rather partially enthuſiaſtic; were it really the caſe, we have no reaſon to fear any thing from our political commotions, while muſic is ſo much admired as to join proceſſions, attend dinners, &c. nor can a libel, if ſung, have any treaſonable ef⯑fect; never was Britain more muſically inclined than at preſent, therefore conſequently free from all ap⯑prehenſions of ſtratagems and ſpoils.

Upon Portia's entrance, ſhe ſees a light burning in her own hall, which by a ſtretch of propriety, ſhe aſſimilates to a good deed in a bad world; had the candle's beams been enveloped with a deep nightly gloom, the alluſion might have been allowable; but when the moon has ſuch power as deſcription gives it in this ſcene, the taper's light muſt have been very dim and imperfect.

Keeping the characters ſo long out of doors, when they might as well have been houſed, is a wanton breach of probability; however, there they are, and we muſt enjoy the moon-ſhine with them: after ſome very ſhort congratulations, a quarrel ſtarts up between Gratiano and Neriſſa, concerning the ring which ſhe obtained from him as the lawyer's clerk— there is an abominable expreſſion in the third line of Gratiano's firſt ſpeech on this matter.

This diſpute catching Portia's ear, ſhe juſtifies Neriſſa's reſentment, which occaſions Gratiano to rap off that Baſſanio gave his ring away; here freſh and very entertaining perplexity ariſes from [291] well aſſumed jealouſy, on the part of the women; and the arch cauſe they give for real jealouſy to their huſ⯑bands, the diſcovery of who really got the rings, and the characters the ladies aſſumed, brings the piece to a very natural, pleaſant and ſatisfactory con⯑cluſion.

This play breaks in upon the unities of time and place materially, however, the plot is not very ir⯑regular, and the ſcenes fall into a tolerable arrange⯑ment; we muſt conſider the fifth act but as a kind of after-game, though agreeably ſupported; and repeat our wiſh, that Shylock's defeat, with a diſ⯑covery of the ladies in court, had formed the cata⯑ſtrophe.

Though we cannot trace a general moral, yet from many paſſages, uſeful, inſtructive inferences may be drawn, particularly the choice of the caſkets, which ſhews that humility and judgment obtain me⯑ritoriouſly, what oſtentation and vanity loſe; from the Jew's fate may be learned, that perſevering cru⯑elty is very capable of drawing ruin on itſelf—in thoſe ſcenes where ſentiments and expreſſions of dig⯑nity are requiſite, we find them amply provided, in leſs material paſſages, both are trifling.

Shylock, whoſe peculiarity of character and lan⯑guage we have hinted, is a moſt diſgraceful picture of human nature; he is drawn, what we think man never was, all ſhade, not a gleam of light; ſubtle, ſelfiſh, fawning, irraſcible and tyrannic; as he is like no dramatic perſonage but himſelf, the mode of repreſentation ſhould be particular; as to [292] figure and features, any perſon and countenance, by dreſs and other aſſiſtance, may be made ſuitable; however, there is no doubt but Mr. MACKLIN looks the part as much better than any other perſon as he plays it; in the level ſcenes his voice is moſt hap⯑pily ſuited to that ſententious gloomineſs of ex⯑preſſion the author intended; which, with a ſullen ſolemnity of deportment, marks the character ſtrongly; in his malevolence, there is a forcible and terrifying ferocity; in the third act ſcene, where alternate paſſions reign, he breaks the tones of ut⯑terance, and varies his countenance admirably; in the dumb action of the trial ſcene, he is amazingly deſcriptive; and through the whole diſplays ſuch unequalled merit, as juſtly entitles him to that very comprehenſive, though conciſe compliment, paid him many years ago, "This is the Jew, that SHAKESPEARE drew."

We remember to have ſeen Mr. SHERIDAN in this part with great pleaſure; he ſeemed to have a very happy conception, yet fell ſomewhat ſhort in the executive part; through the firſt ſcene we deem him quite equal to Mr. MACKLIN, and in that ſpeech where the Jew tells Antonio of the abuſe he has vent⯑ed on him, we muſt allow him ſome little ſuperiority; but in the third and fourth acts, compariſon muſt ſhew him to diſadvantage.

However we admire Mr. KING in a great variety of his undertakings, we cannot ſo far warp opinion as to think him capital in the Jew; weight, deſign, and extent of powers, are wanting; the cruelty does [293] not ſit eaſy on his features, nor the violent paſſions on his voice; which though agreeably diſtinct, and happily voluble in comic dialogue, cannot trace na⯑ture through any violent tranſitions; to this we may attribute his eſtrangement from the tragic walk; had he utterance equal to his judgement, eaſy figure and marking countenance, he would be as conſpicu⯑ous a favourite with the queen of tears, as he now moſt juſtly is with the queen of ſmiles; after all, his Shylock is by no means ſo deficient as many prin⯑cipal parts which might be pointed out at both houſes.

Mr. YATES, to the diſgrace of propriety, and the utter diſguſt of critical taſte, apologized for this part at Drury-lane for ſeveral years, and as a high feaſt has entertained his particular friends with it lately at Covent Garden; it is laughable enough to ſee how, on benefit nights, performers thruſt themſelves into the moſt ridiculous undertakings, as if it was the beſt way of ſhewing gratitude, to ob⯑trude their own deficiencies on thoſe perſons who immediately come for their emolument: there are many parts in which Mr. YATES claims much reſpect, ſcarce one in which he could be more con⯑temptible than Shylock; a quaint, ſnip ſnap mode of expreſſion, enervates the author's meaning; a diſſonant harſhneſs of tone, mars every line, and a total barrenneſs of power cauſes inſipidity to flag every ſcene; if he does conceive the author's mean⯑ing, as we doubt not he may, his performance leaves [294] it an unrevealed ſecret to the audience—may this gentleman never mutilate a line of blank verſe again.

Mr. SPARKS and Mr. BERRY both figured the merchant well, but wanted that ſmooth, elegant pla⯑cidity with which the character is drawn; the latter was drowſy, the former induſtrious to make ſome⯑thing of the part, which he could never hit off; we have heard of BARRY's doing the part in Dublin, and form a very favourable idea of him, as we alſo do of Mr. ROSS's capabalities; but of all who have come immediately under our notice, we muſt conſi⯑derably prefer Mr. REDDISH; though juſtice di⯑rects us to allow Mr. CLARKE a commendable ſhare of merit alſo.

Baſſanio, in our opinion, has not for ſeveral years been happily diſpoſed of; Meſſ. RYAN and HA⯑VARD canted him very much in the old ſtile, and were not at all adequate in external appearance; Mr. BENSLEY, at preſent, wants greatly that mellow flow of expreſſion, which ſeveral of the beautiful paſſages that occur in this part require; in the trial ſcene he wants as well as the gentlemen above named did; that pathetic expreſſion of voice and countenance which tender friendſhip ſo deeply wounded claims; indeed it is very common for the performers, during this awful tranſaction, to be wholly inattentive, except when ſpeaking, which is a moſt unpardonable fault; as every word that paſſes ſhould be re-echo'd by the features of perſons ſo materially intereſted.

[295]Mr. CAUTHERLY—why do we meet with this miſapplied young man, ſtaggering under the weight of Shakeſpeare's pregnant ſentiments and nervous lines; if there is any reſpect due for the public, any pity left for him, we requeſt that his inadequate, parroted abilities, may never be incumbered with any thing more important than a mere walking gentleman; his vacant look and unvarying delivery of Baſſanio's reflections, are a flat contraction to the tenor of them; we have ſeen him much better performed in the country, and never worſe any where.

Gratiano is a ſportful blade, who received great ſpirit from the animated and characteriſtic per⯑formance of the late Mr. PALMER; Meſſ. DYER and DODD, who, conſidering difference of age, manifeſt a very ſimilar degree of merit, preſerve the whim of this part agreeably enough; but to do him ſtrict juſtice, he ſhould be in the much abler hands of Mr. KING.

Launcelot, another child of laughter, was repre⯑ſented with extreme pleaſant propriety by Mr. WOODWARD; why he ſhould grow too great to do it at preſent, we know not; the archneſs and ſim⯑plicity requiſite, were blended by him judiciouſly. Mr. SHUTER, as in many other things, touches the riſible faculties with his humour-pregnant face, but moved upon no principles except thoſe of mere mummery; ſo much himſelf, that he very ſeldom can be any thing elſe.

[296]Mr. WILLIAM PALMER, of Drury Lane theatre, who fortunately poſſeſſes the Naivetè of low comedy, exhibits this quibbling ſimpleton with extreme plea⯑ſant propriety, and in appearance juſtifies his com⯑plaint of having ribs eaſily felt from ſhortneſs of commons; while comical Ned, of Covent Garden, contradicts that obſervation by very evident externals of good cheer—Old Gobbo has no claim upon Mr. PARSONS for any deficiency; we don't recollect any other perſon worth notice.

Portia has fallen to the lot of ſeveral capital la⯑dies; and indeed ſhe not only requires, but merits the exertion of eminent abilities; Mrs. WOFFING⯑TON, whoſe deportment in a male character, was ſo free and elegant, whoſe figure was ſo proporti⯑onate and delicate, notwithſtanding a voice unfa⯑vourable for declamation, muſt, in our opinion, ſtand foremoſt; her firſt ſcene was ſupported with an uncommon degree of ſpirited archneſs; her be⯑haviour during Baſſanio's choice of the caſkets, con⯑veyed a ſtrong picture of unſtudied anxiety; the tri⯑al ſcene ſhe ſuſtained with amiable dignity, the ſpeech upon mercy ſhe marked as well as any body elſe; and, in the fifth act, ſhe carried on the ſham quarrel in a very laughable manner; to ſum up all, while in petticoats, ſhe ſhewed the woman of ſolid ſenſe, and real faſhion; when in breeches, the man of education, judgment and gentility—Mrs. ABING⯑TON treads ſo much in her ſteps, and has ſo many of the happy requiſites juſt mentioned, that we make [297] no ſcruple of placing her ſecond upon the whole; nay, in ſome particular places, we think her equal.

Miſs MACKLIN undoubtedly ſpeaks the part in an unexceptionable manner, but we deem her rather too petit in perſon and expreſſion; Mrs. CLIVE, who obtained no ſmall ſhare of applauſe, was a ludi⯑crous burleſque on the character, every feature and limb contraſted the idea SHAKESPEARE gives us of Portia; in the ſpirited ſcene ſhe was clumſy, and ſpoke them in the ſame ſtrain of chambermaid deli⯑cacy ſhe did Lappet or Flippanta; in the grave part—ſure never was ſuch a female put into breech⯑es before!—ſhe was aukwardly diſſonant; and, as if conſcious ſhe could not get through without the aid of trick, flew to the pitiful reſource of taking off the peculiarity of ſome judge, or noted lawyer; from which wiſe ſtroke, ſhe created laughter in a ſcene where the deepeſt attention ſhould be preſerved, till Gratiano's retorts upon the Jew, work a contrary effect.

Mrs. YATES, with an amazing degree of conde⯑ſcenſion, has lately vouchſafed to perform Portia; for that night only—that night only, the phraſe is ſo modeſt, that we repeat it—if ſhe can do the part bet⯑ter than any body elſe, the public in general, and the managers in particular, have a right to expect her in it whenever the play is done; if ſhe is not ſo capa⯑ble as the perſon in poſſeſſion of it, why ſhould ſhe impoſe upon her friends, even for one night; this is one out of many low, theatrical fineſſes, thrown out as baits to catch gudgeons; however, if this la⯑dy [298] thinks criticiſm has any cauſe to languiſh for a repetition of her Portia, ſhe is utterly miſtaken; ſince it is certain that, deducting her great name, and ſome merit in the fourth act, ſhe has ſhewn nothing more than that capital talents may occaſionally dwin⯑dle into very middling execution.

Neriſſa, as a mere foil to Portia, is of ſo little con⯑ſequence, that we ſhall only mention the horrid im⯑propriety of managerical conduct at Covent Garden, to puſh on Mrs. VINCENT for her; a lady ſo much advanced in years, and who, in the bloom of life, was but very ill calculated for repreſenting any thing in boy's cloaths—ſhame, where is thy bluſh—

From a critical retroſpect we may aſſert, that our author has not only well choſen, but alſo well ſup⯑ported the ſeveral characters in this piece; that the incidents are affecting, many of the ſentiments ſub⯑lime, and the verſification worthy of SHAKES⯑PEARE; ſome of the proſe dialogue ſinks into the word catching, ſo faſhionable in his day, and which, according to our apprehenſion, he meant to ridi⯑cule; there is an alteration of this play, called the Jew of Venice, by Lord Landſdown, who has taken pains to preſerve regularity; yet in ſo doing, like other alterers, has greatly enervated the piece he meant to improve: our author has as few ſuper⯑fluities, or cenſurable paſſages, in his MERCHANT of VENICE, as any piece he ever wrote; and, if it is not among the moſt powerful efforts of his genius, it certainly y [...]elds precedence to very few, either in the ſtudy or theatre.

The COMMISSARY. A COMEDY by Mr. FOOTE.

CRiticiſms upon authors or performers who have paid the debt of nature, are apt to be conſidered by many perſons as the effect of prejudice, good na⯑turedly weak, or enviouſly ſevere; thoſe upon liv⯑ing perſons, of either character, are generally ſup⯑poſed as the offspring of intereſted views, perſonal attachment, or partial antipathy: however, as we have heitherto endeavoured, and we hope ſucceſsful⯑ly, to hold the ballance with an unbiaſſed hand; as we diſclaim all connections with, or perſonal influence from the pieces or actors conſidered; as we have indiſcriminately praiſed the ſame authors and per⯑formers in one place, whom we have cenſured in an⯑other, it is ardently hoped we ſhall ſtand, through our whole undertaking, unimpeached with ſervile flattery, or illiberal cenſure; and that what we offer will be received as real, though often, perhaps, very fallible opinion; we have already ſhared the com⯑mon fate of all ſimilar productions; that is, being deemed too mild by ſome, too tart by others; as it is impoſſible to pleaſe all, we ſhall ſtill ſteer a ſteady medium courſe, and prove ourſelves ſtrict friends of the drama, though ſome of its ſons and proſelytes ſhould look upon us with indignant eyes.

If to laugh vice and folly out of countenance, is a more certain, as well as more pleaſant method of [300] reforming national conduct into prudence and virtue, than dry declamation, or brow-beating authority; if to ſhoot folly as it flies, and to catch living man⯑ners, be the grand taſte of merit in comic writings, we muſt examine how far the gentleman now before us, has, in the piece we are going to conſider, anſwer⯑ed thoſe valuable purpoſes.

Some perſons of low extraction, low capacities for any thing but gain, low fortunes and lower prin⯑ciples, having accumulated princely fortunes by plunder from their bleeding country, and thoſe har⯑dy ſons of war who were fighting for the common li⯑berties of Europe, became ſo extravagantly vain of their ſudden ill gotten pelf, that they wanted to ſhine forth what nature never deſigned them for, and art could not make them accompliſhed gentlemen; one particularly, though in the vale of years, aimed as ignorantly at cutting a figure in the gay and great world; unbounded riches ſecure ſuch reptiles from legal puniſhment; who then can be fitter game for dramatic ſatire to hunt with her keen laſh through the mazes of ridicule?

Availing himſelf moſt happily of ſuch a luxuriant ſubject, the author of the COMMISSARY has titled his piece from the very ſtation in which ſome of the ra⯑pacious blood-ſuckers moved, and lays the ſcene of it in the houſe of a lady, Mrs. Mechlin, for whom, if we are rightly informed, there is an infamous liv⯑ing original; her handmaid Jenny remarks, upon loud knocking at the door, that the Commiſſary's lodging in their houſe, occaſions buſineſs enough for [301] a porter; upon her letting in Simon, who enquires for her miſtreſs, a converſation enſues; by which we learn, that the good gentlewoman of the houſe has ſummoned him in an earneſt manner; being as ap⯑pears, a practiſed and uſeful agent for her under⯑hand iniquitous purpoſes: upon expreſſing himſelf rather diſagreeably, the maid gives a warm rhapſo⯑dical account of her miſtreſs's character and conſe⯑quence, which he adds ſpirits to, by timely interrup⯑tions of a ſneering, ironical nature; at length, when ſhe has run herſelf out of both words and wind, he, in the ſelf-ſame manner, reverſes the picture ſhe has drawn, while ſhe ſupports the force and vivacity of his deſcription as he did hers; this is a very pleaſing pit pat, and judicious manner of revealing Mrs. Mechlin's, or any other character, infinitely beyond the dull narrative mode adopted by many dramatic writers.

Simon's ſtriking portrait enflames Jenny, who on hearing her miſtreſs at the door, puts him into an apprehenſion that ſhe'll reveal his ſentiments; how⯑ever, ſhe gives the matter a whimſical turn, and brings him off—nothing can be more naturally cha⯑racteriſtic than Mrs. Mechlin's importance, diſplay⯑ed in wearineſs and fretful breaks; the coachman is alſo furniſhed with expreſſions highly ſuitable, and though, the craving, extortionate diſpoſition of ſuch fellows, may be deemed a trifling, it is yet a juſt ob⯑ject of expoſition, and is here placed in a very laugh⯑able point of view.

[302]What enſues, when Mrs. Mechlin enquires if any body has called upon her, may be called the ſcorpi⯑on's ſting of well merited ſatire, darted at thoſe in the great world, who beſtow, through ſuch vile a⯑gents, even church preferments upon thoſe who will flatter or help to conceal their vices; by marrying a caſt off miſtreſs, or making any ſordid conceſſion, an honeſt mind muſt neceſſarily ſtart at, though wrapped in a ruſty caſſoc, and the impoveriſhed drudge of a penurious Cumberland curacy.

The ſtroke of a pearl necklace belonging to a lady who is gone to Mrs. Cornelys's, is an exquiſite re⯑membrance to many of the fair ſex, who laviſh health, beauty, and fortune, not only in Soho Square, but in many other places of polite reſort; which reduce them often to the ſhameful reſource of pawning, not only their moveables for a little pre⯑ſent ſupply, but alſo their honours for the indul⯑gence of a little credit from fortunate antagoniſts.

Upon Jenny's going out, her miſtreſs is entering upon the communication of an important concern; but is interrupted by the appearance of Widow Loveit; this amorous elderly lady comes as we find upon a matrimonial errand; to provide herſelf with a comfortable huſband, by the kind, able aſſiſtance of her match-making friend, Mrs. Mechlin; the folly of age, and eſpecially in the female ſex, hunting af⯑ter a matrimonial connection with youth, is very humorouſly ſet forth in this ſcene; pretended grief for one huſband, attended by warm wiſhes for ano⯑ther, is poignant ſatire againſt hypocritical ſorrow; [303] and we know not any paſſage of equal length, which contains more uſeful meaning than the following remark; "I wonder they don't add a clauſe to the act to prevent the old from marrying clandeſtinely, as well as the young; I am ſure there are as many unſuitable matches at this time of life as the other."

After the widow's departure, Mrs. Mechlin opens the Commiſſary's character, circumſtances, and pe⯑culiarities to Simon, whom ſhe engages in a de⯑ſign ſhe has formed of uniting her opulent lodger to a niece of her own, who has been debauched by a muſician; the part ſhe aſſigns him to appear in, is a domeſtic of Miſs Dolly's, under the character of a Scot's earl's daughter; part of his inſtructions ſhe refers to another opportunity, and in ſoliloquy re⯑flects upon the precariouſneſs of her own buſineſs, which occaſions her to drop ſevere, though oblique hints againſt ſome diſſolute perſons of faſhion.

Upon Dolly Mechlin's appearance, the provident aunt urges her to ſign a conditional bond in return for helping her to ſo advantageous a marriage; the niece's heſitation upon this matter enflames her ſo much, that ſhe enters into a warm recapitulation of the favours ſhe has conferred, and ſtigmatizes the character of Dr. Catgut with juſt ſeverity; this in⯑timidates the young woman to compliance; the ap⯑proach of Iſaac Fungus, brother to the Commiſſary, breaks off their conference.

This rough citizen, having met with nobody but a Frenchman, who can't ſpeak Engliſh, to give him an anſwer, vents his rage upon the alarmed valet; upon Mrs. Mechlin's appearance, he complains of the [302] [...] [303] [...] [304] unintelligible domeſtic, and in cynical terms throws out a very commendable ſarcaſm, againſt thoſe who are ſo fond of exotic reptiles.

Iſaac being diſpatched upſtairs to her brother, Paduaſoy, a ſilk mercer, is introduced to Mrs. Mechlin; from what paſſes between them, we de⯑rive a pleaſing and uſeful expoſition of tricks which are often played upon the credulous admirers of foreign manufactures; Mrs. Mechlin's device of having ſome old ſilks ſeized at her houſe, as con⯑traband, that, by being publicly burnt, they may ſerve as a kind of advertiſement where ſuch goods can be had, is excellent; ſuch impoſitions are a glaring mark of faſhionable folly, and if there muſt be ſuch a prevalent weakneſs, we entirely agree with Mrs. Mechlin, that perſons of her ſort, who ſell goods of home fabrication under foreign titles, deſerve a premium rather than cenſure.

The two brothers and Mrs. Mechlin, begin the ſecond act, when the Commiſſary, teeming with ideas of gentility, rates the more rational cit in a ludicrous ſtile, and by having the lady of his party, whoſe buſineſs it is to flatter his peculiarities, he humourouſly triumphs in his ſuppoſed advantage of taſte and judgement; the extreme folly of a man advanced in years, putting himſelf under tuition for thoſe accompliſhments which only appertain to youth, is here expoſed with infinite pleaſantry; the diſſertation upon fencing, the ſuppoſed quarrel, the confuſion of Wilkins, Hopkins, and Jenkins, as names of the perſon quarrelled with; Iſaac's interruptions, and at laſt fencing with Mrs. Mech⯑lin, [305] who proves too many for him, are paſſages of as much humour as can well be imagined; indeed their effect in action prove it.

The tranſition to Zac Fungus's marriage, is a va⯑riation of merit, and his account of the lady's pe⯑digree, makes a ſtrong ſatirical appeal to riſible fa⯑culties; the latter part of this ſcene is ſuſtained with great ſpirit, and throws out ſome excellent hints of the wretched dependency a perſon of inferi⯑or rank muſt reduce himſelf to, who ridiculouſly marries a woman merely for the pride of blood.

The introduction of Mr. Gruel, a maſter of oratory, gives a freſh turn to converſation, and ſets the Commiſſary's whimſical weakneſs in a diver⯑ting point of view; it is impoſſible not to feel ſtrongly, the account he gives of thoſe means by which we ſpeak, and of the diſtinctions be⯑tween a ſmall mouth and a large one, illuſtrated by whiſtling and bawling—Gruel's pedantic, methodi⯑cal mode of expreſſion, is a keen reproach to thoſe who undertake to teach others, what they are not capable of themſelves; and the oration, which Fungus delivers, as a ſpecimen of his abilities, is a truly laughable piece of circumlocution; mention of his riding-maſter being in waiting, carries off this oratorical pupil, who apologizes for his ab⯑rupt departure, by obſerving, that his deſire to be a finiſhed gentleman, as ſoon as poſſible, puts it out of his power to ſtick long to any one thing.

Gruel's teizing Mrs. Mechlin with an explanation of female eloquence, confirms his character as a for⯑mal, [306] opinionated coxcomb—ſome perſons have thought, that too great contempt is thrown by our author upon oratory; but we can by no means find out any deſign of that nature; the art of ſpeaking in public is certainly deſerving of high eſtimation; and, it is to be wiſhed, it was more happily cultivated; but enthuſiaſm upon every occa⯑ſion, merits ridicule; if ſanguine or intereſted pro⯑feſſors pretend to make orators of perſons who have neither conception nor expreſſion for the purpoſe, if in general, they only teach people to expoſe their follies by rule, certainly ſuch inſtructors deſerve to be ſtigmatized as knaves or fools, and their delud⯑ed pupils become fit objects for laughter.

Dr. Catgut's ſcene with Mrs. Mechlin, paints, in ſtrong colours, the abſurdities of a man whoſe ge⯑nius will be long admired, but whoſe conduct has much obſcured it with a cloud of indiſcretions, to give them no worſe a title: his declining the pro⯑feſſion, in which the public has allowed him pecu⯑liar merit, to commence poet, for which character he has not the ſmalleſt capability, is well hit off; and the two ſtanza's introduced, are an excellent burleſque upon the inſignificant, namby-pamby ſtile of modern ſong-writing, ſo much admired when equipped with a tune; at the latter end of this ſcene, we find the doctor meditating a cheat on his good acquaintance, Mrs. Mechlin, under the ſem⯑blance of friendſhip.

The third act opens with Harpy, a lawyer, young Loveit, the widow's ſon, and Jenny; it ap⯑pears, [307] that the honeſt attorney, knowing Mrs. Mech⯑lin's abilities to find proviſion and employment for both ſexes, has brought Loveit for her aſſiſtance, which ſhe promiſes, and immediately points out the means, a rich widow, of ſixty, who wants a huſband; this propoſition proving agreeable to all, the young adventurer and Harpy go off, to make room for the Commiſſary and his riding-maſter, who now ad⯑vance upon us—Fungus, full of his matrimonial tranſaction, and no doubt to give Mr. Bridoun a more exalted idea of his approaching conſequence, queſtions Mrs. Mechlin, in a whimſical manner, a⯑bout his intended bride, whom he touches up with ladyſhip in every ſhort ſentence; having promiſed to improve his dreſs, after a ſhort leſſon, he and Mr. Bridoun proceed to buſineſs.

His ambition of riding a long-tail'd horſe in Hyde Park, or in clouds of ſummer-duſt on the King's Road, his aſking if the carpenters have brought home his new horſe, his ſuggeſtion of natural-born gen⯑tlemen, and the introduction of his palfrey, are a fund of ſatiric drollery; his preparation for mount⯑ing, taking his poſition, and falling off, are extrava⯑gantly laughable; it has been objected by ſome over-nice critics, that this ſcene is too pantomimical for comedy, but we think not; if every man, as Triſtram Shandy obſerves, has his natural hobby-horſe, why ſhould a wooden-headed Commiſſary be denied his artificial one? beſides, the whim is not at all inconſiſtent with other parts of the cha⯑racter, which keep within the bounds of probability [308] —Mrs. Mechlin's announcing the approach of Lady Sachariſſa, terminates this ſcene, and makes room for the amorous widow, who comes to know how her matrimonial expectations are likely to ſucceed, when ſhe receives intelligence, much to her ſatis⯑faction; this ſhort interview is not without conſi⯑derable pleaſantry.

Dolly, as Lady Sachariſſa, and Jenny the maid, have a ſhort tete-a-tete previous to Fungus's entrance, in which the latter ſolicits employment, as ſervant to the former, when married, but is refuſed on account of their knowing each other too well; this repulſe ſuggeſts a reſentment, which Jenny hints juſt as the Commiſſary appears new rigged.

The following ſcene of courtſhip is excellently wrought up, the lady's Caledonian preciſion, Fun⯑gus's aukward ſervility, his ſtudied addreſs, and the artful conduct of Mrs. Mechlin, all co-operate, like lights and ſhades in painting, to render the picture expreſſive and pleaſing: when our Commiſ⯑ſary's grand nuptial concern is ſettled, young Loveit comes according to appointment, and prepares to encounter his gilded unknown bride—but lo, to daſh their mutual hopes, his mother ſteps forward; he ſuſtains the ſhock with ſome pleaſantry, but the old lady diſſolves into tears; a circumſtance which ſurprizes Mrs. Mechlin, and occaſions ſome confu⯑ſion, till the match-making lady promiſes to ſettle matters ſome other way; for this purpoſe, when Fungus and Dolly appear, ſhe attributes Mrs. Lo⯑veit's [309] agitation of ſpirits to the ill behaviour of her ſon.

Matters being brought now to the grand criſis, unluckily, both for Mrs. Mechlin and her neice, Dr. Catgut comes in abruptly, accoſts his intimate acquaintance Dolly, with great freedom; at which, Fungus naturally pricks up his ears, but with great confidence ſtill aſſerts his lady's nobility of blood, and richneſs of pedigree, till the Doctor's perſeve⯑rance, and his brother Iſaac's appearance more a⯑waken him, and neceſſitate Mrs. Mechlin to ac⯑knowledge the impoſture, which ſhe does with more aſſurance, having Zachary bound in a penal obli⯑gation to conſummate the propoſed marriage; this occaſions him to make a ſharp reflection upon her harpy-like diſpoſition, which ſhe anſwers with a ſa⯑tirical ſtroke of great keenneſs and general tenden⯑cy; intimating—we wiſh the rhimes had been o⯑mitted—that ſhe only preys on the follies of man⯑kind, while the Commiſſary tribe devour the vitals of a whole nation with unrelenting rapacity.

Ariſtotle himſelf, could not have deſired a ſtrict⯑er preſervation of time and place than is maintained in this comedy; the plot is regular, and the ſcenes intermingled well; but we think there is a lapſe of poetical juſtice at the cataſtrophe, in ſuffering ſuch a woman as Mrs. Mechlin to go off triumphant, though at the expence of a fool: Iſaac Fungus might have been furniſhed with ſome diſcovery relative to her, that might have given him an opportunity of retaliation; we think alſo, that making the Com⯑miſſary [310] himſelf renounce his childiſh purſuits, would have ſuſtained the part better at laſt, and ſhewn a concluſive effect from the dilemma he has eſcaped, and the penalty he has brought himſelf under.

We do not remember to have peruſed or heard any dramatic author, whoſe dialogue ſhews a great⯑er degree of ſpontaneous, entertaining ſpirit than Mr. Foote's; if it is not enriched with abſolute wit, there are nevertheleſs many peculiar emanations of ſentiments, and much pregnancy of expreſſion; his characters are always alive, his incidents nouvelle, his ſatire poignant, and all his ſcenes free from that lan⯑guor which moſt writers occaſionally fall into; his perſonages, at leaſt the ſtriking ones, are all drawn from life, and with ſuch a happy degree of execu⯑tion that they are not more generally ſeen than known; and this, we are bold to affirm, is the true way to make the ſtage a ſalutary ſchool of manners.

Zachary Fungus and his brother, are moſt excel⯑lently contraſted; the one a dupe to extravagant notions of gay life, the other pent up in the narrow compaſs of mechanical ideas; the former a coxco⯑mical fool, the latter a rational, though unpoliſhed trader—Mr. Foote's performers being as tranſient as ſwallows, who appear only in ſummer, and almoſt every year change their ſtation, we cannot pretend to enquire into the merit of any but thoſe moſt known.

The author of this piece has not a greater flow of imagination in writing, than he has of force and ra⯑pidity [311] in repreſentation; as no man can compoſe, ſo no performer can act in his ſtile, except by very faint and inadequate imitation; his features and utte⯑rance are equally well calculated to tickle the livelier, ſportive feelings; which is evident from the laugha⯑ble effect he works upon numbers of ſpectators, who frequently cannot comprehend the alluſive meaning couched in what he ſays; but admire it, as Boniface does Greek, for the facility with which it is ſpoken.

In the Commiſſary he manifeſts indeſcribable eaſe and vivacity; literally obſerving Shakeſpeare's rule of ſuiting the action to the word, the word to the action; particularly in the riding ſcene, where it is hard to ſay which excels moſt, his geſture, his looks, or his utterance; in ſhort, though chiefly confin'd to his own productions at preſent, we will venture to aſſert, that if natural diſpoſition had not bent this gentleman to write in a peculiar manner, and to ſupport that peculiarity by his own performance, he would have done many characters much more juſtice than they have met from other hands; as it is, both as author and actor, he may juſtly cry out with Ri⯑chard, though upon a far more comfortable principle, "I am myſelf alone."

Iſaac Fungus, it is true, requires no very material talents in repreſentation; however, Mr. SOWDON de⯑ſerves praiſe for ſupporting him in a characteriſtic manner; and of this gentleman we muſt add, that when in Drury Lane theatre, as well as on the Dub⯑lin ſtage, he ſuſtained many characters of capital importanee, much better than the preſent poſſeſſors of them do in any of the houſes.

[312]Mr. SHUTER played the old widow with ſingular humour, and Mr. SPARKS was not much amiſs in the repreſentation of her; Mr. PARSONS was much better in Doctor Catgut than probably we ſhall ſee again, though as to the ſick, monkey-face, Mr SUM⯑MERS, looked it inimitably—Mr. WESTON is ſo well in the Coachman, that we heartily wiſh for more of him; and Mrs. GARDNER hits off the convenient Mrs. Mechlin with talents worthy warm applauſe; this lady is much wanted at Drury Lane, to ſave ſeveral of Mrs. CLIVE's parts from the dread⯑ful mutilation they undergo at preſent; as to all o⯑ther perſons we have ſeen, in this piece they are totally effaced from the table of memory.

It would be a point of critical injuſtice, not to ſay that Mr. WILKINSON, who poſſeſſes good imitative faculties, may give pleaſure in the COMMISSARY, to thoſe who have not ſeen the original; but, for our parts, we muſt declare againſt FOOTE, as well as GARRICK, at ſecond-hand.

We ſhall take leave of this comedy, with heartily wiſhing, for public good, that the author's patent was a winter, inſtead of a ſummer one; the mental gloom, for which Britons are ſo remarkable, is not materially prevalent in the ſun-ſhine, as the cloudy ſeaſon; wherefore, it would be better if this dra⯑matic electrician was to practice when enthuſiaſm, ſpleen and ſuicide, moſt commonly lay baleful ſiege to the human ſpirits and underſtanding.

VENICE PRESERVED. A TRAGEDY by Mr. OTWAY.

OTWAY has been deſervedly diſtinguiſhed as a tragic writer by the epithet tender; indeed his two living pieces, the ORPHAN, and that we are now entering upon, never fail to call a melting tribute from the heart, evidenced by tear-filled eyes; yet we may juſtly compare them to a couple of females poſſeſſed of bewitching features, mani⯑feſting offenſive deformity of ſhape.

Among the exceptionable paſſages and circum⯑ſtances, we muſt paſs previous cenſure at large upon every ſcene where Aquilina is concerned, as ſuper⯑fluouſly prejudicial to regularity, offenſive to de⯑cency, impotently ludicrous, and contemptibly abſurd; as a juſtification for the author, it is ſaid, the buffoon ſenator Antonio, was introduced to caricature the Earl of Shafteſbury, by order of Charles the ſecond; a monarch more remarkable for uneſſential humour and licentious diſſipa⯑tion, than moral feelings or ſolid ſenſe. His late majeſty we have been informed, once ordered the ſcenes we condemn to be reſtored in action; which is not ſo much to be wondered at, if we con⯑ſider his very limited knowledge of the Engliſh language; however, the audience exerted their undoubted right to critical authority, and ſnatch⯑ing them even from royal influence, ſentenced moſt juſtly ſuch vile excreſſences to oblivion: [314] we wiſh they were omitted in print as well as on the ſtage.

VENICE PRESERVED opens with Priuli, a ſena⯑tor, upbraiding Jaffier as the Inſtrument of diſ⯑grace and perplexity to his family, by having ſtolen his daughter; the old man's taunts are ſe⯑vere, and in ſome places illiberal, Jaffier's defence is the real delicate offspring of a modeſt mind deeply affected; his deſcription of the circum⯑ſtance which engaged Belvidera's affection, is poe⯑tically intereſting, and juſtifies her ſtealing into a match with the perſon who gallantly preſerved her life at the hazard of his own: Priuli's unrelenting nature, as well as the poverty of his ſon-in-law, are laid open with natural ſtriking propriety; from what he ſays in his laſt ſpeech of this ſcene, we are apt to pronounce dreſſing Jaffier in rich cloaths an impropriety; it is not to be ſuppoſed that a man, who is upon the errand of ſollicitation for pecuniary aſſiſtance, ſhould equip himſelf with ſplendid garments; or, if he had done ſo, Priuli muſt naturally have ſaid, inſtead of "reduce the glittering trappings of thy wife," reduce thy glit⯑tering trappings—Yet we have often ſeen the au⯑thor's meaning reverſed—Jaffier wearing a ſuperb ſuit, and Belvidera equipped with a plain black velvet, which is as humble an appearance as any lady can aſſume on the ſtage; one point we think the author might have availed himſelf of in this ſcene, which would have prevented the charge of diſobedience againſt Belvidera, and the abuſe of confidence in Jaffier's clandeſtinely marrying her; [315] that is, to have made it appear Priuli had denied his conſent to make them mutually happy; the father's carrying his reſentment even to the ſecond genera⯑tion, and wiſhing that a helpleſs infant may want bread, is a ſhocking, and therefore blameable picture of depraved nature; he might have been drawn an obſtinate, without being pictured a ſa⯑vage parent; the following line of Jaffier's is a groſs breach of meaſure.

The account of Jaffier's circumſtances, given by himſelf in his ſoliloquy after Priuli's departure, ſpeaks to a feeling heart affectingly; Pierre, at his entrance, and in ſome ſpeeches afterwards, makes us agreeably acquainted with his own character; the diſſertation upon villainy and rogues in power are admirable; however, ſomething further on, where mention is made of Aquilina, Pierre ſinks much in our eſteem; therefore the mode of re⯑preſentation, by omitting all thoſe paſſages, does our author a piece of juſtice he ſhould have done himſelf.

There is a great degree of dramatic policy in making Pierre unite Jaffier's ſufferings with thoſe of the public; the feelings of poverty are an ex⯑cellent ground for artifice to work upon; an honeſt mind, incumbered with care, may be very ſuſcep⯑tible of ſuch impreſſions, as in a ſtate of freedom it would effectually reſiſt; the picture drawn both of the national and Jaffier's private ſufferings, is very diſtinct, and highly finiſhed; the different parts of [316] Pierre's narrative, are finely imagined and power⯑fully enforced; his mention of Priuli, as having ſigned the legal authority for plundering Jaffier's dwelling, falls in well to rouſe that unfortunate man's mind into a ſtate of deſperation; which pur⯑poſe he more effectually compleats, by his intro⯑duction of Belvidera as the capital figure in that group of diſtreſsful images which he has preſented to view; Jaffier's manner of receiving the melan⯑choly tidings, his melting only at the ſufferings of her he loves, recommends his character much; and his reluctance to enter upon vindictive meaſures of a public nature, though irritated by private wrongs, is commendable; however, we find that Pierre ſo far touches the maſter-ſtring of his heart, as to pre⯑cipitate him into a ſympathetic degree of reſent⯑ment; in conſequence of which, an aſſignation is made to meet on the Rialto at midnight, which Pierre very improperly calls his evening walk of meditation; lonely would we apprehend ſuit the ſeaſon much better than evening.

After his friend's exit, Jaffier, in a ſhort and apt ſoliloquy, deſcants on his own diſtreſsful ſtate; juſtly remarking, that ſenſibility, in ſuch a ſituation, muſt be a ſource of pain; Belvidera's entrance im⯑mediately after the excellent preparation we have juſt received for her, is happily deſigned; ſhe comes upon us in the double view of a moſt op⯑preſſed daughter, and unhappy, though amiable wife; the tender treatment ſhe affords her afflicted huſband amidſt misfortunes, as it ſtands forth an in⯑diſputable [317] teſt of inviolable affection, ſo it conveys an admirable leſſon to the fair ſex; intimating, that ſhe who will not endeavour to ſmooth the thorny pillow of adverſity, does not by any means deſerve to participate the luxuriant down of proſperity; indeed this ſcene abounds with thoſe ſoft ſenſa⯑tions, which our author in every view expreſſes ſo beautifully; and it cloſes with a ſtriking aſſimila⯑tion of Jaffier's misfortunes to a ſhipwrecked mer⯑chant, in which is couched a delicate compliment to his faithful partner; yet, excluſive of pitiful jingle, there never were more indifferent lines than the triplet which carries them off the ſtage.

Having diſavowed all connection with the ſcenes of Aquilina, we ſhall begin the ſecond act where it commences in repreſentation; here we find Jaffier on the Rialto, uttering in ſoliloquy, thoſe gloomy ſentiments conſequent to his deſperate circum⯑ſtances; but his adverting to the old woman's notion of Satan's perſonally appearing for the work of temptation is ridiculous—The cynical encounter between him and Pierre, before they know each other, is ſuitable; and in a direct compliment to canine fidelity, throws an oblique, yet cutting and juſt ſarcaſm on human hypocriſy: Pierre's con⯑temptuous mention of prieſts and praying, though ſomewhat founded in truth, is cenſurable; religion ſhould not be treated lightly, even by a profligate upon the ſtage; but OTWAY unfortunately lived when genius was employed to ſneer or laugh every degree of decency out of countenance, nor indeed was ſuch depravity of national taſte to be wondered [318] at, when the court was an abſolute fountain of iniquity.

Pierre's enquiry for Belvidera, and giving his friend ſome money for preſent exigence, is an artful preparative for his main deſign, though we cannot think the purſe ſo delicately introduced as it ſhould have been; indeed Jaffier's obſervation upon it ſhews, that he eſteems it as a bribe, and for no very amiable purpoſe; Pierre however purſues his plan, and by mention of Priuli, again agitates Jaffier to the purpoſe in view, who vents his paſſion in terms very illiberal, even allowing for peculiar provoca⯑tion; his readineſs to blaſt with curſes almoſt the whole city, is a touch of madneſs; and his inſinua⯑tion reſpecting the wives and daughters of ſenators abominably groſs: Pierre's method of explaining his purpoſe is well conceived; in his friend's reply to the propoſed oath of ſecrecy, there is another line contemptibly low, ‘Green-ſickneſs girls, &c.’ and we would prefer a material objection againſt Jaffier's wild declaration, that he could kill even an honeſt ſenator, through the antipathy he has entertained againſt knaviſh ones.

From ſome paſſages in this ſcene, we are led to conſider the conſpirators as men of ſublime cha⯑racters, how far their principles and conduct fulfil the idea, we ſhall diſcover on a general ſurvey of the piece; the place of this conference, a public bridge, ſeems, though at midnight, but ill choſen for the ſubject which engages their attention; a ſubject of [319] ſuch deep concern, as required the moſt cautious, impenetrable ſecrecy; yet from the tenor of their words, the characters ſpeak out as if indifferent who heard them.

By the book we are told, that the next ſcene lies at the houſe of Aquilina, a noted Greek cour⯑tezan, which place of rendezvous we cannot deem very reputable for perſons aiming at the glorious characters of heroes and patriots; in ſuch a houſe, however, Renault, a capital cha⯑racter in the conſpiracy, preſents himſelf, rumi⯑nating in ſome emphatic lines, upon that dange⯑rous and turbulent impulſe of the mind—Ambi⯑tion, which, with great propriety, he aſſimi⯑lates to a beautiful elevation of proſpect, placed on a ſandy, precarious foundation.

From his reply to Spinoſa, we perceive the old gentleman is of a teſty diſpoſition, indeed, ſo im⯑portant a tranſaction, ſhould not be dallied with; therefore, his impatience for the other conſpira⯑tors, is a natural and prudent feeling; his reflec⯑tion upon Elliot as an Engliſhman, is beneath the tragic muſe; it ſerves the purpoſe of occaſioning a little miff, which Bedamar reconciles; this Be⯑damar, as the author has drawn him, might very well have paſſed for an untitled knave; but that hiſtory informs us he was the Spaniſh ambaſſador, who officially fomented the conſpiracy, with a view to ruin the ſtate of Venice; wherefore, it is ſtrange that our author did not make him a more conſpicuous acting perſonage.

[320]The compliments reciprocally paid by the con⯑ſpirators to each other in the Roman titles they appropriate, is truly whimſical; as to Brutus and Caſſius they may be admitted patrons of liberty; but for Cataline and Cethegus, who were notori⯑ous ſons of faction, they ſeem an odd couple to in⯑troduce; Renault's deſcription of the Venetian ſtate is very ſtriking, and fully juſtifies taking violent meaſures for redreſs; however, we can by no means approve the following exultation of Pierre, which ſeems the cruel effuſion of a mind delighting in miſchief.

A man of public ſpirit muſt ever enter upon ſuch tranſactions with reluctance, though neceſſary, and lament the inevitable diſtreſſes conſequent to civil commotions; his preparative ſpeeches for the intro⯑duction of Jaffier are pleaſingly expreſſed; and Jaffier himſelf, except where he too talks of ſetting the city in flames, ſhews a conſiderable ſhare of ſpirit—his of⯑fering Belvidera as a pledge of his faith is as ſtrange and uncouth a circumſtance as ever we met. In the firſt ſcene of this act he tells Pierre, that he has lodged her at the houſe of a friend; it now appears, that Aquilina is that friend; a very ill cho⯑ſen one for the delicate and modeſt Belvidera; who from her own account, has been aſleep in the houſe of a courtezan, a houſe too frequented by a number of diſſolute perſons; there is, however, ſomething [321] ſo ſeriouſly affecting in the ſacrifice Jaffier makes of tenderneſs to his new connection, ſuch melting matter to ſteal upon the heart in Belvidera's ex⯑preſſions, that an audience, and almoſt a reader, muſt forgive the palpable breach of propriety we have juſt pointed out.

After the lady's departure, little could be ſaid to engage attention, wher [...]fore the author has judiciouſly brought the act to a ſpeedy concluſion; but there is great reaſon to wiſh that he had not diſgraced his genius, by exhibiting ſuch a group of ſtrained images in eight or ten bombaſt lines, which contain little poetry, and leſs meaning; the laſt ſpeech carries off the friends laughably, we wiſh ſomething more ſuitable was ſubſti⯑tuted.

Jumping over the jack-pudding ſenator and A⯑quilina, who intrude themſelves for three Bartho⯑lomew Fair pages upon us in print, we commence the third act with Belvidera's ſoliloquy, which on account of a material objection againſt ſome part of it, we chuſe to tranſcribe.

[322]The five lines marked by Italics in the fore⯑going ſoliloquy are ſuperfluous, without any de⯑gree of beauty to plead an excuſe for inſerting them; there is no reaſon to think Belvidera would tell herſelf of the ill uſage ſhe has received from Renault, and as to informing the audience, they are much better made acquainted with the circumſtance by her neceſſarily opening the mat⯑ter afterwards to Jaffier.

Upon her huſband's appearance, ſhe complains very juſtly of his cold and culpable behaviour, to which he returns ſome tender, but unſatisfactory expreſſions; Belvidera plays every engine of fe⯑male artifice, to wind into the meaning of his myſterious conduct, which he reſiſts till ſhe men⯑tions the villainy of her occaſional guardian; this leads to the diſcovery: we cannot expreſs ſuffi⯑cient abhorrence of the ſavage entainment he pro⯑poſes for her in ſeeing her father, and three-fourths of the citizens maſſacred—What idea he muſt have of his wife's humanity we know not, but what follows would diſgrace the mouth and feel⯑ings of an obdurate ſcalping Indian.

[323]We apprehend ſaying theſe wide ſtreets is an er⯑ror, as they are in a room during this ſcene; ad⯑mitting Jaffier pointed out of a window to ſhew the ſeat of action, thoſe would be the grammatical term, but we ſhould prefer the word our to either; however, this is a blemiſh little worth notice, where the whole paſſage is ſhocking to humanity—A de⯑licate woman to praiſe and love her huſband for playing the aſſaſin even upon her own father, to place ſuch a one as a pleaſed ſpectatreſs of out⯑rageous cruelty, makes her in idea a rival to Roman Tullia; who, after cauſing the death of an aged ſire, whirled her chariot triumphantly over his mangled limbs.

Belvidera very naturally ſhrinks at what ſhe has heard, but in reproving her huſband for aſſociating with ſuch an abandoned blood-thirſty crew, ſhe de⯑ſcends to ſome mean, unbecoming epithets. His paltry, becauſe ill-grounded panegyric upon the conſpirators, leads her to a directly full and po⯑ſitive charge againſt Renault, which ſhudders Jaffier, though we really cannot find the amorous old gentleman ſo much to blame; he received, upon very odd terms, a woman who had been lodged in a brothel by her huſband; it was not a very unnatural ſuppoſition that a lady ſo circum⯑ſtanced might be adapted to his purpoſe; never⯑theleſs, upon hearing his attack, Jaffier, who having acted as fool or knave, or both, now de⯑termines to play the madman, breaths the ſpirit of revenge, from which Belvidera ſeems to draw [324] ſome comfort; her affectionate departure and re⯑petition of Remember twelve, pleaſe much.

When Pierre approaches, he rallies his friend as being uxorious, in the following paſſage: ‘Hunt a wife on the dull foil.’ We have often ſeen it printed, and ſometimes heard it ſpoke ſoil, but the change is totally abſurd, and breaks the alluſion, which evidently points to the chace: that Jaffier ſhould reveal to his friend as an object of ſtrict confidence what he has juſt heard from his wife is probable, but that any author ſhould have the aſſurance to affront an audience with ſuch groſs ſtuff, ſuch fulſome deſcription as we find in this ſhort ſcene is ſurpriſing: it ſhould be much ſoftened, or much curtailed.

Pierre's deſire of having the matter reſt for ſome-time is prudent, and Jaffier's conſent to bear the wrong for the preſent, commendably reluctant; Renault's entrance produces, as might well be ex⯑pected, a ſerio-comic encounter, which ſeems juſt kindling to a flame, when the conſpirators entering, put a ſtop to the matter.

During Renault's charge, which is delivered with politic energy, Jaffier manifeſts that diſlike to his aſ⯑ſociates and their meaſures, which the invaſion of his wife's virtue has created; he who a ſmall time ſince ſeemed to triumph in a general effuſion of blood, now calls Renault a horrid ſlave for uttering ſuch ſanguinary orders, and ſlinks away from the conclu⯑ſive meeting in a very ſtrange manner. Renault, who wiſhes him dead, on account of his wife, im⯑mediately pronounces him an object of ſuſpicion and [325] danger; this alarms the generous feelings of Pierre's friendſhip, who aſſerts his merit, and mentions the circumſtance of Belvidera; much heat enſues, ge⯑neral deſtruction to their ſcheme and lives ſeems impending, when Renault's peeviſh retreat, and a mighty odd conceſſion of the other conſpirators, reſtores harmony.

Pierre ſhews to conſiderable advantage in this ſcene, as being a rogue of ſome principle, but the triplet with which he concludes the act, is truly lamentable.

By what paſſes in the firſt ſcene of the fourth act we perceive, that Belvidera has influenced Jaffier to diſcover the conſpiracy; which, though a breach of faith ſhe paints, and with ſome juſtice, in a virtuous light; for moſt certain it is, that moral and ſocial honeſty directs us rather to break than obſcure an engagement of evil tendency; the anxious ſuſpence of his mind is very natural, till removed by the mention of Renault's attack upon his wife's virtue; her picture of the impending dangers is drawing in ſtriking colours, and her perſuaſion determines Jaffier; however, the author, to ſoften his breach of faith, by making it in ſome meaſure an act of neceſſity, introduces an officer, who takes him priſoner, in conſequence of an order from the ſenate, by him they are conducted off.

The Duke and ſenators in council appear next; to whom Priuli gives a general intimation of ſurround⯑ing perils; his information comes, he ſays, from un⯑known hands; this takes ſome blame from Jaffier [326] alſo; when introduced, he addreſſes himſelf to the court with that bluntneſs which a mind agitated like his might well ſuggeſt; and his contempt of their threats ſhew commendable ſpirit; by the book it appears, that he has brought a written liſt of his friends which we have alſo ſeen performers produce, on firſt mentioning the matter; this is improper, for we cannot ſuppoſe, that when ſuch an ample diſcovery is in their view, and may be ſeized by force, that the ſenators would put themſelves un⯑der the obligation of an oath; wherefore Jaffier inſtead of ſhewing a liſt when he utters theſe words "whoſe names are here inrolled"—ſhould at the word here clap his hand on his breaſt—by which the ſenate may be led to think the ſecret lies beyond their reach, except through his voluntary confeſſion.

Though Antonio's ſpeeches in this ſcene are ludi⯑crouſly impertinent, yet they occaſion a fine ſarcaſm upon authority, which, inſtead of maintaining impar⯑tial juſtice, meanly bends to indulge vicious great⯑neſs; we mean where the Duke orders Aquilina's houſe, as ſhe is a ſenator's miſtreſs, to be ſearched with decency.

Jaffier's compunction for what he has done, car⯑ries on his character with uniformity; upon his be⯑ing ordered off, Pierre, and the other conſpirators appear in cuſtody, which cannot proceed from Jaf⯑fier's information, which has been only juſt deliver⯑ed in; ſo that though he may be ſaid to confirm their crimination, yet he is not the original cauſe of their ruin: Pierre's addreſs is ſpecious and ſpirited, [327] he wears his chains with an admirable grace, and by a kind of popular ſophiſtry, turns ignominy into ornament.

Nothing was ever better imagined for action than confronting the friends; Pierre's cordial undiſguiſed addreſs, upon ſeeing Jaffier in cuſtody, diminiſhes the latter greatly, he leſſens in our view, and by the confeſſion of his guilt, becomes contemptible; while the other rogues, by an unbending ſpirit of perſeverance claim ſome allowance of pity and praiſe.

After the court breaks up, Jaffier and Pierre are judiciouſly left to a conference, wherein we find them contraſted in a maſterly manner; conſcious guilt cloaths one with contrite ſubmiſſion, deeply pro⯑voked reſentment warms the other to violent diſ⯑dain; each is ſuſtained with the genius of ability, and we are alternately prejudiced in favour of both. Jaffier's great and tender anxiety for the life of his friend, is amiable; and Pierre's generous contempt of an exiſtence under the burthen of diſgrace, is truly noble; nor can we deem his paſſion rigorous, when eaſting aſide all Jaffier's conceſſions, he ſwears never to hold friendly intercourſe with him again.

Every ſpectator, or reader, who is acquainted with the human mind, who can ſee and forgive the failings of a fellow-creature, plunged amidſt inextricable toils of perplexity, muſt here ſympathize in the per⯑turbation of Jaffier, who is now wrought up to look upon his beloved and loving wife, as the great ſource of his moſt pungent miſery: the conflict between love, honour, and injured friendſhip, riſes to the [328] borders of diſtraction, when Belvidera appears, who, conſcious of the dagger ſhe has planted in her huſ⯑band's heart, fears to ſee him, yet has no other guardian, no ſhelter but his love that ſhe can fly to; in this lamentable ſtate they approach each other, when Jaffier gives a pitiable relation of the rough treatment, the opprobrious terms he has received, which draws from Belvidera an aggravating account of the ſentence paſſed upon Pierre; this works upon Jaffier in a powerful manner, and his paſſion gathers like thoſe hurricanes which lie ſometime embodied in a gloomy cloud, before they ruſh forth with irreſiſtible impetuoſity; vengeance points a ſan⯑guine dagger towards the unhappy Belvidera, the affectionate huſband wiſhes her away, yet reſolves upon a ſacrifice, and even aims the fatal blow, till beautifully diſarmed by the melting embraces of the woman, who apparently rules, amidſt the ut⯑moſt turbulence of paſſion, his captivated, amorous heart.

This turn of the ſcene has a very pleaſing and forcible effect, it ſeldom fails to draw from ſenſi⯑bility tears of joy, and deputing Belvidera as a mediatrix to intercede with her father for his friends, leaves an audience in agreeable ſuſpence at the end of the fourth act.

Priuli opens the fifth act with reflecting on his own painful ſituation; by his ſoliloquy, it appears, that family pride is the foundation of unnatural be⯑haviour to his unhappy daughter; what the author meant by putting on a veil to obſcure Belvidera we know not, but ſhe approaches her father ſhrouded [329] in one, and addreſſes him for ſome time as a ſup⯑pliant unknown; when diſcovered, the ſight of her works parental feelings in the old man's breaſt, which ſhe improves by reminding him of the like⯑neſs ſhe bears to her mother; mention of her huſ⯑band, however, calls forth a ſtart of reſentment; but it ſoon paſſes off, when ſhe relates the danger her life is in; her ſtory is told with great perſua⯑ſion, and operates ſucceſsfully to the point ſhe has in view; Priuli relents with unlimited tender⯑neſs, and promiſes to ſave the conſpirators; there is a pretty tender conceſſion at the cloſe of the ſcene, in the father's acknowledging his paſt harſhneſs, and promiſing future protection.

Aquilina and Antonio, as to what they ſay, here intervene again very abſurdly; however, ſomething is certainly wanting to prevent Jaffier's immediate entrance upon the departure of his wife and father-in-law, as examination of what follows will plainly evince: his ſoliloquy borders too much upon the bedlamite ſtrain, and carries preſumptuous horror with it; admitting pungent diſtreſs capable of ſuch execrations, it is a natural extremity which ſhould not be given to the public ear; on Belvidera's approach, overjoyed we may preſume with what ſhe ſuppoſes agreeable tidings, Jaffier turns from her, and immediately mentions that Priuli's mercy exerted itſelf too late; this is the circumſtance which calls for a ſeparation of the firſt ſcene from this, for if Jaffier ap⯑pears the very inſtant that Priuli goes off the ſtage, how can he know that he has promiſed [330] to ſave the conſpirators; or how is there time for Priuli's making the trial, which, according to the following line he has done, though un⯑ſucceſsfully.

To remove this inconſiſtence, which we cannot blame the author for, as he wrote an intervening ſcene, which gave time for Jaffier to be acquainted with the matter, we would recommend an alteration of the paſſage to ſuch gentlemen as hereafter repre⯑ſent the character, to the following or ſimilar effect:

The ſhock of this information cauſes Belvidera to court fate even from a huſband's hands, which ſhe does ſo much in the melting manner, that his di⯑ſtraction ſoftens into ſympathetic tears, and the ſcene becomes inexpreſſibly pathetic, eſpecially where he pronounces a bleſſing on his unhappy wife; and ſhe, ſtung with the thoughts of parting, parodys it into a curſe: mention of their tender infant carries grief to its utmoſt extent, and the final ſeparation of this wretched couple, engroſſes all the tendereſt feelings of humanity.

Belvidera's ſoliloquy, we think, would be better omitted; as it runs into a ſtrain of bombaſtic mad⯑neſs, not properly deducible from, or ſuited to her ſituation; what ſhe ſpeaks alſo when her father [331] enters is contemptible, and truly deſerves GAY's burleſque, which, though we are not fond of burleſque in general, we think deſerves no⯑tice here.

are thus laughably ridiculed by Kitty Carrot, in the What d'ye call it:

We now encounter Pierre at the place of execu⯑tion, where, as the author has wrote the part, he expreſſes ſome diſreſpectful ideas of religious pre⯑paration for death; theſe ſpeeches, which OTWAY certainly wrote to flatter a licentious age, are com⯑mendably omitted in repreſentation, for there are too many perſons ready to ſlight ſacred inſtitu⯑tions, without the countenance and information of dramatic poets.

Excluſive of what we thus object to, Pierre's de⯑portment is gallant and praiſe-worthy; Jaffier, on whom ſorrow has impreſſed her deepeſt ſeal to mark him as her own, comes to take a final leave of that friend, who as he thinks, has been wholly brought to infamy and death by his ungrateful breach of con⯑fidence; the pungent contrition of one character, and the generous forgiveneſs, nay, tender condeſcen⯑ſion of the other, are moſt intereſtingly mingled: we wiſh Jaffier's propoſition of killing not only his wife but infant alſo did not occur: Pierre's deſire of [332] evading an ignominious death is very natural to a brave man, and though as a Chriſtian Jaffier has no right to take life, eſpecially his own, we can⯑not ſee how a mind ſo frenzied as his could have acted otherwiſe; however, we think our author might have furniſhed his piece with a better cataſ⯑trophe, as in the proper place ſhall be pointed out.

Pierre's expiring with a laugh of exultation, is peculiar and well imagined; Jaffier alſo concludes characteriſtically, with thoſe pathetic ſenſations of conjugal affection which ſeem to have effected his ruin.

In the next ſcene Belvidera's madneſs is much better ſupported than where it firſt ſeizes her, as every expreſſion points at her huſband. From an invincible antipathy to all embodied ghoſts, ex⯑cept that moſt pardonable one of Hamlet's fa⯑ther, we think the appearance of Jaffier and his friend would have been more juſtifiable as the effect of imagination, than riſing through trap-doors with whitened faces and bloody ſhirts, thoſe childiſh fineſſes of the ſtage. Belvidera's dying ſo ſuddenly of diſtraction, which is rather flighty than raging, ſeems an exaggeration of phy⯑ſical conſequences; however, ſhe terminates an object of that pity, which through every preceding ſcene, ſhe has ſo powerfully excited; Priuli's re⯑ſolution of retiring from the world is natural, but his ſpeech, and the piece are diſgraced by a moſt miſerable concluding couplet.

We obſerved, that the cataſtrophe of this play might have been thrown into a better form, though [333] perhaps not with ſuch rigid adherence to poetical juſtice. If we conſider that not one character except the Duke, Priuli and the Officer is left alive, VENICE PRESERVED muſt appear a moſt ſanguine production, a mere theatrical ſhambles; wherefore, it is apprehended, that if the author, juſt when Jaffier is lifting the dagger, had intro⯑duced Priuli with a pardon for Pierre, the ſurprize and change muſt have been very pleaſing to an audience; by this the father would have eſſenti⯑ally ſoftened his character, the affectionate couple would have been made happy, and Pierre, the moſt pardonable of the conſpirators, would have been ſaved to ſerve the ſtate, which evil connec⯑tions had urged him to deſtroy. The ſenators alſo would have been partly relieved from the poſitive and general charge of perjury, which now lies againſt them for the breach of their conditional oath, ſo ſolemnly given to Jaffier.

Among fifteen male perſonages in this play, not one moral character appears—What an unfavoura⯑ble picture of human nature! calculated to make us hate, not only a part, but the whole of our ſpe⯑cies; out of ſo large a number there are but four of any acting merit, thoſe only we ſhall conſider, the others being under-engines of the plot.

Jaffier is weak, irreſolute, raſh, affectionate, cruel, friendly, treacherous; an unnatural compound of ſuch contrarieties as never were jumbled in the heart of man; yet he is introduced under ſuch circum⯑ſtances, and is furniſhed with ſo many fine paſſages for capital utterance, that we know but few parts in [334] which a firſt rate actor can more deeply engage the attention and applauſe of an audience.

Meſſrs. GARRICK and BARRY had ſuch an equa⯑lity of merit in the repreſentation of Jaffier, that to place either firſt would rather be partial, and to draw a fair parallel requires the niceſt equilibre of criticiſm, as they have ſeverally made us feel, ſo we ſhall preſent them to the public, and hope ſuch great originals may not ſuffer from our inadequate painting. In the firſt ſcene Mr. BARRY's appear⯑ance ſtrikes particularly, his externals ſtrongly apologize for Belvidera's attachment, excluſive of gratitude for ſaving her life; when he deſcribes plunging after her into the Adriatic, there is a ſcope, an expanſion of figure, which fills the idea conveyed in this paſſage

Indeed, through the whole firſt act, and the firſt ſcene of the ſecond, this gentleman could not be ſurpaſſed; but, where Belvidera is delivered to the conſpirators, we muſt give Mr. GARRICK conſide⯑rable preference, for looks moſt powerfully expreſ⯑ſive, and piercing notes of expreſſion. In the firſt ſcene of the third act equality again took place; the ſhort ſubſequent interviews with Pierre and Renault were manifeſtly on Mr. GARRICK's ſide, whoſe me⯑rit has cauſed us to lament, that what the author has written ſo cenſurably, ſhould be rendered ſo agree⯑able in action. Before the ſenate, and through the following ſcene we muſt alſo place him firſt, [335] from a ſuperior ſignificance of feature to expreſs violent agitation of mind. Upon Belvidera's en⯑trance Mr. BARRY muſt be admitted to lead, till Belvidera tells him of the torments which are pre⯑paring for his friends, then Mr. GARRICK ſteps forward and beggars deſcription, by an amazing variety of tranſitions, tones, and pictureſque atti⯑tudes; the diſtracted confuſion which flames in his countenance, and the gleams of love which ſhed momentary ſoftneſs on the ſtern glow of rage, exhibit more complicated beauties than any other piece of theatrical execution we have ſeen. In the laſt ſpeech of the fourth act, Mr. BARRY was peculiarly happy. Through the whole fifth act, we muſt lean to Mr. GARRICK, whoſe peculiar ex⯑cellence in breaks and half lines is univerſally ac⯑knowledged, and of ſuch Jaffier is in this act chiefly made up. If ghoſts muſt appear, we ſhall acknowledge Mr. BARRY the moſt ſtriking we have ſeen.

Mr. RYAN was deemed very reſpectable in this character, yet, excluſive of the laſt ſcene of the fourth act, where we admit his merit, he neither ſpoke nor looked in our remembrance characteriſti⯑cally.

Meſſrs. POWELL and ROSS were as near a parallel as the two great competitors above mentioned, the one deſerved praiſe for tender, the other for amorous expreſſion; however, neither could reach the violent paſſions of Jaffier by many degrees, want of power prevented the former, and neg⯑ligence or dullneſs of feeling the latter.

[336]Pierre deſcribes himſelf as a fine, gay, bold-faced villain, and a villain he truly is, labouring for the deſtruction of his native country, on the moſt paltry pretence of provocation, no other than being ri⯑valled in a favourite courtezan, yet he has the aſſurance to talk of liberty; indeed, from the picture OTWAY has drawn of this conſpiracy, he ſeems to have had a political view, which was to throw an odium on all thoſe who had reſiſted the FIRST CHARLES's meaſures, and thoſe who had ſpirit enough to complain of his ſon's proceedings. A courtly poet, and that OTWAY was ſuch, vide his mean, ſycophantic dedication, will ever ſhew popular ſpirit in an unfavourable light; nothing could tend more to this than making the con⯑ſpirators a ſet of complete deſperate ſcoundrels. As a proof of our ſuggeſtion, we refer to the Epilogue, and if ſuch be the tendency of the piece, it is unworthy countenance in a free ſtate.

When three of the following names are peruſed, it will poſſibly appear ſtrange, that we venture to place Mr. SHERIDAN foremoſt in Pierre, but as we either have, or ought to have pronounced his judg⯑ment at leaſt upon an equality to that of any per⯑former within our knowledge; as in this part his powers operate more happily than in any other of equal fire; as in the deſcriptive, the perſuaſive, and the diſdainful parts; the vindication, the reproach, and the forgiveneſs of Jaffier, he was equally excellent; it is but juſt to give him pre⯑cedence of thoſe competitors who ſtruck out only a few occaſional beauties, though perhaps in them particular places ſuperior to him.

[337]Mr. MOSSOP has the capability of excellence, but having either an erring or laborious judgment, miſapplies his talents groſsly; in the two firſt acts, where open, genteel, generous freedom is required, he toils through a ſtrained inſipidity of expreſſion: in the third, where Jaffier's honeſty is impeached, he totally loſes the gentleman, and bullies the con⯑ſpirators like a bravo; there is a delicacy even in the rapidity of paſſion, which he ſeems unacquainted with. Before the ſenate, and in the ſubſequent ſcene with Jaffier, his natural contemptuous aſpect, and his uncommon extent of voice operate happily; but, in the fifth act, he forgives his friend with a countenance as if he was going to knock him down.

Mr. BARRY was a very agreeable, but, in the critical view, indefenſible Pierre; a mellifluous flow of expreſſion, and harmonious conſonance of features, much better ſuited to Jaffier, leſſened an eſſential contraſt, and rather contradicted the idea we have of this bold militarian; the eye and ear, however, were pleaſed, while judgment ſat covered with a reluctant frown.

Mr. QUIN, who was by many eſteemed a ſtand⯑ard of perfection, rolled moſt heavily through the part; he recitatived the calmer, and bellowed the more ſpirited ſcenes; in the line ‘I could have hugg'd the greaſy rogues, they pleas'd me;’ his execration of the ſenate, and a few paſſages in the dying ſcene, he was very fortunate, but through all the reſt much more like a heavy-headed, me⯑thodical, [338] ſaturnine pedagogue, than what the author meant.

Mr. BENSLEY is as formal, though not ſo im⯑portant as the laſt mentioned gentleman, and aims much more at laviſhed applauſe than critical pro⯑prietry, forgetting this indiſputable truth in public life, that he who modeſtly ſteals through an ar⯑duous undertaking, is much more commendable than the perſon who confidently expoſes inadequate abilities, and endeavours to paſs them current by the ſtamp of ſelf-ſufficiency.

Mr. HOLLAND, in the character of Pierre, gave evident marks of the ſchool where he originally ſtudied acting, we mean the ſpouting-club, ſtiff without dignity, and ſonorous without meaning, totally void of originality, mounted and hobbling on the aukward ſtilts of imitation. Mr. AICKIN, in a modeſt prologue, lately placed himſelf beneath this gentleman, but he need not have paid his abilities ſo bad a compliment.

Renault was admirably ſupported by Mr. SPARKS, who ſhewed ſomething in the repreſentation of him that we have never ſeen hit off by any performer but himſelf; in giving the charge, in profeſſing ſyco⯑phantic friendſhip for Jaffier, and in the confuſion occaſioned by Pierre's reproaches, he far outſtripped all competition. Mr. BURTON gets through him without deſerving praiſe, yet does not incur cenſure. If the part was about half as long again, there would be danger of his ſetting an audience aſleep, but, as as it is, he paſſes off an inoffenſive relief to atten⯑tion. [339] We appehend Renault to be more in Mr. GIBSON's compaſs, than any other tragedy part whatever.

Mr. HAVARD was as pleaſing in Priuli as the part would admit; nor was Mr. RIDOUT void of conſiderable merit. Mr. BANNISTER, at preſent, ſuſtains it with ability at Drury Lane, and Mr. HULL ſhould reſcue it from leſs able talents at Co⯑vent Garden.

Belvidera is an amiable, conſiſtent character, conſtant and rational in affection, ſuperior to the frowns of poverty, yet poſſeſſed of quick and de⯑licate ſenſibility; ſhe towers above misfortunes, while they affect circumſtances only, but natural⯑ly ſinks under an accumulation of unhappy effects wrought by them.

Mrs. CIBBER and Mrs. BELLAMY, had each ſingular merit in this part; however, the former, who had a countenance moſt exquiſitely formed to expreſs anguiſh and diſtraction, far ſurpaſſed her competitor in thoſe ſcenes where deep and violent feelings occur, while the latter, from an amorous glow of features and utterance, excelled in the paſſages relative to conjugal affection; her de⯑ſcription of the madneſs, ſuch as it is, was prefe⯑rable to Mrs. CIBBER's, becauſe more diſengaged.

Mrs. BARRY treads cloſe on the heels of the two ladies mentioned, and, if not ſo ſtrikingly conſpicu⯑ous in particular places as either, ſhe is more equal through the whole than both; what her counte⯑nance wants of expreſſion, ſhe makes up in a con⯑ſiderable ſuperiority of figure, being poſſeſſed of a [340] more amiable dignity of appearance than any thea⯑trical lady we remember.

To ſum up our opinion of this tragedy, we ſhall obſerve, that OTWAY ſeems to have had little elſe in view than catching the paſſions at any rate, which moſt certainly he has effected; breaches of decorum and delicacy were no objects of his caution, he wrote to the heart without properly remembering the head, wherefore, his plot, though tolerably re⯑gular, will, we apprehend, from what has been obſerved, appear defective. His language is free, and his verſification flowing, but the latter is not al⯑ways correct, nor the former chaſte; his ſentiments are lively and pathetic, but in many places ſtrained, and in more licentious. As to his characters, we cannot offer a better general criticiſm than that of Mr. ADDISON, who writes in one of the Spectators as follows:

‘"The greateſt characters in VENICE PRESERVED are thoſe of rebels and traitors; had the hero of this play diſcovered the ſame good qualities in defence of his country, that he ſhews for its ruin and ſubver⯑ſion, the audience could not enough pity and ad⯑mire him; but, as he is now repreſented, we can only ſay of him, what the Roman hiſtorian ſays of Cataline, that his fall would have been glorious, ſi pro patria ſic concidiſſet, had he ſo fallen in the ſervice of his country."’

THE MINOR. A COMEDY by Mr. FOOTE.

THE author of this piece has always been al⯑lowed a pleaſing peculiarity in his dramatic wri⯑tings; they evidently diſcover that excellent defini⯑tion of wit, a quick conception and an eaſy deli⯑very. The comedy now before us, was uſhered ori⯑ginally into public view by a preluſive ſcene be⯑tween Mr. FOOTE, in his private capacity, and two buckiſh critics of his acquaintance. In the firſt part of their diſcourſe, ſome very ſenſible and ſpirited remarks on thoſe objects moſt proper for ridicule occur. We may diſcover that a charge of too much perſonality in his ſatire, led the author into this able defence of himſelf; it being alſo a tick⯑liſh point, to expoſe even moſt egregious and prejudicial enthuſiaſm on the ſtage; he prepared the audience for what they were to expect, and has in the following paſſage, beyond confutation, juſtified his deſign; not only as free from cen⯑ſure, but as worthy national countenance and applauſe.

Speaking of that burleſque upon religion and common ſenſe, Methodiſm, he ſays emphatically, "This is madneſs, which argument can never cure; and ſhould a little wholeſome ſeverity be applied, perſecution would be the immediate cry: Where then can we have recourſe, but to the comic muſe? Perhaps the archneſs and ſeverity of her ſmile may [342] redreſs an evil that the laws cannot reach, or rea⯑ſon reclaim."

Sir William Wealthy and his brother Richard, open the firſt act. A difference of opinion relative to education, is the ſubject of their converſation; the baronet is lectured with a conſiderable ſhare of good ſenſe by the Merchant, for giving his ſon a faſhionable education; and he judiciouſly retorts upon the cit, thoſe prejudices which ariſe from contracted ideas and a defective knowledge of life. From the latter part of this ſcene we find, that one is a liberal, the other a rigid father; that Sir William has tenderly laid a ſcheme for the refor⯑mation of his ſon, while Richard has diſcarded a daughter for ſome trifling treſpaſs.

Capias, the attorney's letter, is humorouſly cha⯑racteriſtic; and Shift, who is recommended as a proper agent for Sir William's deſign, gives, in his converſation with that gentleman, a moſt ludicrous account of his birth, parentage, and education; the picture of his progreſs through life, is in the true Hogarth ſtile of dramatic painting; and the ludicrous account of his own abilities, makes Sir William lay open his deſign for the reformation of his diſſipated heir; a deſign commendably laid; as ſevere feelings of thoſe ill conſequences which gaming in particular produces, are moſt likely to work a change of con⯑duct in thoughtleſs youth. Shift's readineſs to en⯑ter upon any ſervice for his own emolument, and the deſign expreſſed in his ſoliloquy, of ſticking to the moſt profitable party, fulfil the idea furniſhed by his name.

[343]The Minor, and one of his gambling friends ap⯑pear next. The former diſplays elevated notions of faſhion, elegance and falſe honour; the latter expreſ⯑ſes himſelf happily in a kind of knowing cant. The intimation of Mrs. Cole's having called, is a good preparative for her appearance, and ſome poignant ſtrokes upon her hypocritical connection are thrown out. Sir William entering as the baron gives a new turn to converſation, and ſhews the ſon in a freſh view of vicious prodigality; that of taking an Italian opera-ſinger into keeping upon moſt extravagant terms, which he deems moderate: A moſt excellent ſtroke of keen ſatire occurs from the Minor's obſervation, that he only knows her to be a handſome woman by report, againſt thoſe children of faſhionable profuſion, who expend large ſums for unenjoyed ſurperfluities. Upon Loader's going off to conduct Mrs. Cole, the young Gentleman lets fall a remark which we apprehend, many perſons of diſtinction might juſtly apply to themſelves: "To ſay truth, I am ſincerely ſick of my acquaintance; but, however, I have the firſt people of the kingdom to keep me in countenance; death and the dice level all diſtinctions."

Never was a better picture drawn of debauched enthuſiaſm, than preſents itſelf in the old bawd, whoſe whole converſation exhibits a natural, laugh⯑able jumble of affected ſanctity and real vice; the conſcientiouſneſs ſhe boaſts in her infamous profeſ⯑ſion, of not tipping Sir Timothy Totter, an old trader, is admirably ſuggeſted; and advertiſing in [344] the regiſter-office, to decoy young girls into a ſtate of proſtitution, is well levelled againſt places where, we doubt not, moſt ſiniſter practices have been carried on, to the ruin of many an unſuſpect⯑ing female; this ſcene muſt afford real entertainment to all ages, and conſiderable inſtruction to the younger part of an audience, upon whom externals frequently make prejudicial impreſſions. What Sir George ſays of the new-birth teachers, well deſerves quotation: "No wonder theſe preachers have plenty of proſelytes, while they have the ad⯑dreſs ſo comfortably to blend the hitherto jarring intereſts of the two worlds."

At the commencement of the ſecond act, our Minor and Transfer, a money jobber, meet for the purpoſe of raiſing ſome caſh for Sir George's pre⯑ſent occaſions. In this ſcene the uſurer is ſupported much in character, the difficulties he relates of meet⯑ing any ready money, the expedient he propoſes of furniſhing ſome goods, are in the true uſurious ſtrain; the young baronet's reſentment of ſuch a ſtrange, and to him unintelligible propoſition, is natural; and Loader's interpoſition when Transfer diſappears, plainly manifeſts the blood-ſucking gambler, who, having got a pigeon, determines to unfeather him at any rate. Upon Transfer's ſecond appearance, the precipitation of prodigal youth into any terms that may ſupply its cravings, and the rapacious advantages taken of it by avaricious knaves, are ſet forth in a maſterly manner; Loader alſo is con⯑ſpicuous for ſo readily giving away what is not his own.

[345]Richard Wealthy comes to expoſtulate with his nephew upon the life he leads, and ſays ſome very rational things. His remark upon what are uſual⯑ly called debts of honour, is pregnant with uſeful truth. "Here's a proſtitution of words—Ho⯑nour! —'Sdeath, that a raſcal who has picked your pocket, ſhall have his crime gilded with the moſt ſacred diſtinction, and his plunder punctually paid, while the induſtrious mechanic, who mini⯑ſters to your very wants, ſhall have his debts de⯑layed, and his demand treated as inſolent."

The Minor, however, deaf to reaſon, treats his uncle's advice with levity, which occaſions the latter to ſtart another topic relative to a propoſed marriage with his daughter; by the by, he calls her an only daughter, though we find by the piece he has three, Lucy, whom he has turned out of his houſe, Charlotte, whom he mentions in the firſt ſcene, and Margery, named by Sir George in this. This, however, is not a very material ſlip—The young gentleman's behaviour on men⯑tion of the march, ſhews the taint he has received of family pride, and the converſation is pleaſantly conducted, till the cit rouſes into a commendable feeling of the light treatment he has met, and utters ſome very home truths.

The Baron's behaviour on hearing a ſoap-boiler mentioned as Sir George's anceſtor, is in the true ſtile of Germanic pride, which is idle and imperti⯑nent enough to value antiquity of deſcent more than perſonal merit. By Mr. Loader's aſſiduity to raiſe caſh, we have Shift introduced as an auctioneer, [346] named Smirk, from him we collect ſeveral ſtrokes of ſterling humour; his relation of the accident which occaſioned him to ſucceed Mr. Prig, is a fund of mirth, and his debate about what wig to wear in his public capacity, appeals ſtrongly to laughter. There is not perhaps a greater degree of impoſi⯑tion than at auctions, eſpecially the middle ſort, and it is to be wiſhed, that our author had en⯑larged more upon the folly of numbers who fre⯑quent ſuch places, and the knavery of a great majority of ſuch as conduct them; however, he ſeems to have aimed at a little more than expoſing the coxcombly inſignificance of a particular well known perſon.

At the beginning of the third act, we find our Minor has embarraſſed his circumſtances moſt vio⯑lently; however, his reflection is interrupted by Mrs. Cole's introduction of a young female, as a miſtreſs for Sir George: his firſt approaches to the lady ſa⯑vour of the rake, but upon her pathetic addreſs, he indulges her with patient, generous, humane atten⯑tion; ſhe relates her artleſs, yet affecting tale, with ſuch ſucceſs, that ſhe works an intended inſtrument of her ruin into a kind and diſintereſted protector; this ſcene not only raiſes tender ſenſations, but alſo a curioſity in ſpectators to know more of Lucy than ſhe chuſes to diſcover; it gives us moſt amiable impreſſions of Sir George, who appears not to be vicious for want of virtue, but for want of reflection and prudence; and it ſtands an inconteſtible proof that our author's genius, though the parent of ſmiles, can produce matter of a ſerious and important na⯑ture, [347] with a glow of expreſſion equal to that which cloaths the lighter and more ſpirited parts of his compoſitions.

Sir William Wealthy and his brother Richard now appear, ſignifying, that matters are brought to a cataſtrophe; Shift acquaints them, that the Minor has diſcovered Loader and another game⯑ſter in the act of fraud; upon his words the two worthy diſciples of cinque and quatre are driven in with keen reproaches and deep threats; Sir William is attacked too as the Baron by his en⯑raged ſon, and pious Mrs. Cole meets as ſevere a rebuff in her turn; conſtables being introduced, Sir William is neceſſitated to diſcover himſelf; upon being proved his father, the young gentle⯑man acknowledges him with dutiful affection; the gameſters, through Sir William's connection ſtand convicted, and young Wealthy acknow⯑ledges himſelf in fault, but pleads a ſtrong argu⯑ment of exculpation, or rather reconciliation which on his going off Shift explains. To render his ge⯑nerous treatment of the young lady more engag⯑ing, a moſt beautiful incident ſtrikes us in the diſcovery of her being Mr. Richard Wealthy's baniſhed daughter, who has been reduced to ſuch a perilous ſtate by her father's rigidity: the cit being convicted of, and repentant for un⯑juſtifiable behaviour, conſents to make the young couple happy, in a matrimonial union; thus the piece agreeably ſlides into a termination, upon the ſtricteſt principles of moral and poetical juſtice.

[348]The Epilogue, by Shift, is an excellent and pleaſant burleſque upon the ſtrained, rhapſodical, figurative mode of expreſſion, adopted by the ſaints of Tottenham Court and Moorfields, to ſupply the place of that reaſon which nature has denied them, or enjoying, they ſuppreſs for venal, impious purpoſes.

The author at preſent under conſideration, among many other dramatic excellencies, has one not to be found in the writings of many who enjoy a great ſhare of public eſtimation; that is, never incumbering his audience with make-ſhift, ex⯑planatory ſcenes: all his perſonages appear to ſome pleaſing and eſſential purpoſe; thoſe of ten lines ſpeaking as much for the ſtation they are placed in, as thoſe who have a hundred or more to repeat; there are no forced incidents, no la⯑boured ſentiments, but a regular ſucceſſion of ſcenes, a dependant connection of events, a ju⯑dicious contraſt of characters, a conſtant and co⯑pious ſupply of keen ſatire, ſolid ſenſe, ſocial be⯑nevolence, or pleaſant rapartee. Above all, he moſt ſucceſſively proves, that the pitiful reſourſe for humour in CHARLES's days is totally unne⯑ceſſary, where there is real genius to emanate ſpontaneouſly. Thus much we have thought due to Mr. FOOTE; but as we profeſs, neither to praiſe nor cenſure without reaſon on our ſide, let us examine from the view we have juſt had of his MINOR, whether he merits ſuch approbation or not.

[349]The MINOR conveys a forcible and extenſive moral. The two brothers, as parents, ſhew that a kind, patient, prudent father, is more likely to work ſalutary effects for his child, than a rigid, impetuous, and poſitive one. From Lucy's hap⯑py deliverance we may learn, that perſevering virtue can diſarm vice, and create a protector when leaſt expected. By Loader we perceive, that a time of diſcovery, ſhame, and puniſh⯑ment, waits upon the moſt plauſible villainy. And Mrs. Cole diſcovers that hypocriſy is at beſt a paultry veil, which rather hides the wearer from ſelf-perception, than from the penetrating glance of reaſon's eye; and that enthuſiaſm is parent of vice, making ſuppoſed ſanctity an at⯑tonement for the breach of every obligation hu⯑man and divine.

Young Wealthy, in point of character, is an eaſy, ſenſible, well principled, but diſſipated gentleman, capable of diſcovering his unworthy attachments, but not reſolute enough to break through them, till ſtung to the quick by the ter⯑rifying frown of impending ruin, and an abſo⯑lute diſcovery of fraud. When this comedy was done at Drury-Lane, Mr. HOLLAND repreſented the Minor, but was egregiouſly defective in eaſe and vivacity. We have ſeen two or three others, whoſe names we forget, figure away in it very inadequately. Mr. J. AICKIN, laſt ſummer, ſeemed to convey the author's meaning with pro⯑priety, but wanted an eſſential ſhowineſs of per⯑ſon, and fell rather ſhort in point of ſpirit.

[350]Sir William's acting merit, lies intirely in the Baron aſſumed, which Mr. BADDELY hit off with a very maſterly degree of execution. If Mr. CASTLE does not riſe up to an equality of merit, he yet deſerves conſiderable approbation. Richard Wealthy was never ſo well as in the hands of Mr. BURTON, who looked and ſpoke him very reſpectably.

Loader, who is the beſt drawn gameſter we know, ſat eaſy upon Mr. DAVIS, whoſe conception and expreſſion as an actor, ſeem beſt adapted to the characteriſtic jargon of this part; there is a kind of baſtard gentility in his deportment, and a becom⯑ing effrontery of countenance to delineate happily a ſix-to-four gentleman. Mr. KEARNY reduced Loader, laſt ſummer, to ſuch a prick-in-the-belt, Field-lane ſharper, that the Minor muſt be con⯑ſidered as a fool, to be one moment impoſed on by ſo legible a knave.

Shift is a part of extreme difficult execution; every line of which tells from Mr. FOOTE's une⯑qualled rapidity of expreſſion. However, Mr. BANNISTER has great merit in his firſt ſcene; but when he introduces his happy imitations, we are ſorry to recollect a paſſage in the preluſive ſcene, which condemns mimicry of performers in very juſt terms. In the Auctioneer, there is a moſt laughable peculiarity ſtruck out by Mr. FOOTE.

Transfer is a well-drawn uſurer; he was well re⯑preſented by Mr. BLAKES, much better by Mr. WESTON, excellently well by Mr. PARSONS.

[351]Mr. FOOTE's excellence in the tranſitions and contraſt parts of Mrs. Cole's character is ſo well, ſo univerſally known, that we ſhall not attempt to deſcribe, particularly, that merit which we cannot find words equal to.

Lucy, though a ſhort character, made a moſt delicate and engaging part of the evening's enter⯑tainment, when perſonated by Miſs PRITCHARD, afterwards Mrs. PALMER: nor does ſhe appear the leaſt languid, when repreſented by Mrs. JEFFERIES.

Upon the whole, we apprehend, it cannot be deemed an error of judgment, or partial favour, to pronounce this comedy, one of the moſt enter⯑taining, original, and uſeful pieces, now in poſ⯑ſeſſion of the ſtage.

We have ſeen, and with concern, the MINOR lately advertiſed at Drury-Lane in TWO ACTS: it is illiberal to farcify the comedy of a living au⯑thor, ſo diſtinctly ſituated as Mr. FOOTE; and we hope, the managers will never again counte⯑nance ſuch unfair theatrical depredation.

KING LEAR. A TRAGEDY. Altered from Shakeſpeare, by Tate and Colman.

THE perſon who enters upon dramatic altera⯑tion, without being a ſlave to his original, ſhould nearly as poſſible, confine himſelf to pruning luxu⯑riances, correcting irregularity, rationalizing bom⯑baſt, and elucidating obſcurity; cautious of adding, unleſs where unavoidable gaps are made, and con⯑nection conſequently wanting; it is moſt allow⯑able that SHAKESPEARE'S KING LEAR very much wanted ſuch aſſiſtance as we have mentioned.

TATE's opening of the play we apprehend pre⯑ferable to that adopted by COLMAN; for the Baſ⯑tard makes us much better, that is much more decently acquainted with his illegitimacy in the ſoliloquy ſpoken by him, than Gloſter's account; the antipathy he bears to Edgar as ſtanding before him, is alſo well intimated, and Lear's character is properly opened in the ſhort following ſcene be⯑tween Gloſter and Kent, wherein alſo the former expreſſes ſtrong reſentment againſt his ſon Edgar, and warm attachment, to Edmund, by whoſe cunning his paſſion is raiſed.

Where Lear divides his kingdom upon the childiſh principle of aſking which daughter loves him beſt [353] COLMAN has preſerved that unjuſtifiable, cynical roughneſs, which SHAKESPEARE has ſtamped upon Cordelia, in the barren, churliſh anſwer ſhe gives her father; this TATE has conſiderably ſoftened, by making her attachment to Edgar, the cauſe of ſuch reply: we think, however, that the whole affair might have been thrown into a much better light, by making the old monarch divide his kingdom on the marriage of his daughters, with thoſe perſons he approved; Cordelia's refuſing the perſon of his choice from a ſecret inclination elſewhere, would have reſcued him from the ex⯑treme folly now chargeable againſt him, and the ſucceſsful daughters might have made profeſſions equally flattering from a ſeeming gratitude, as they now do from affected duty; Lear's ſeeing into, and declaring a knowledge of Cordelia's attach⯑ment, would have furniſhed ſtrong additional rea⯑ſon for Edgar's flight; the rough, honeſt inter⯑poſition of Kent, is a circumſtance extremely pleaſing; in this, as well as many other ſcenes of the play, TATE has enervated the verſification, by endeavouring to give it a ſmoother flow; where⯑fore COLMAN has ſhewn greater judgment and more modeſty, by only retrenching, not altering the original.

We can by no means agree with the laſt-men⯑tioned gentleman, that the love epiſode of Edgar and Cordelia is ſuperfluous or unaffecting, we muſt rather contend in oppoſition to the frigidity of cri⯑iciſm, that natural and very pleaſing ſenſations are raiſed by it, without any invaſion upon the [354] main diſtreſs of the piece; to enter into a minute defence of this Opinion, is not conſiſtent with our plan, we only advance it for the reader's conſidera⯑tion and arbitration, appealing to audiences, as Mr. COLMAN in his preface has done, from whoſe feelings we imagine abundant proofs will riſe in favour of what we thus take upon us to approve.

What Goheril and Regan ſay after Lear's depar⯑ture, is judiciouſly omitted by TATE, as their cha⯑racters are thereby unneceſſarily, and too ſoon laid open; his introducing the Baſtard, in colour of friendſhip to Edgar, is alſo judicious, and lets us well into the ſcope of his deſign; the following ſcene between Gloſter and Edmund, however, he has mutilated abominably, by improper omiſſion and pitiful verſification; the Baſtard's excellent ſo⯑liloquy he has ſtrangely mangled; nevertheleſs, we think, without loſing any part of the ſpirit, Mr. COLMAN might have rendered the laſt ſentence of it more delicate.

We can by no means conceive why Kent's firſt ſpeech, when diſguiſed, ſhould have been curtailed; as to the ſhort preceding ſcene between Goneril and her ſteward, we deem it trifling and uneſſential, as what it relates to needs no ſuch preparative, there⯑fore, we commend TATE for leaving it out; but we muſt immediately after cenſure his curtailing what the original author ſo happily penned for Kent and the King; the introductory paſſages to Gone⯑ril's ill treatment of her royal father, are much bet⯑ter in SHAKESPEARE than in either of the alterations.

[355]As a comparative view renders it impracticable to trace the ſtory in the manner we have done in other pieces, it will, we hope, be deemed allow⯑able to remind our readers, that after improvi⯑dently parting with his all, abandoning his only dutiful child, and baniſhing his firmeſt friend, old Lear now preſents himſelf before his eldeſt daughter, who, on mere pretence of injury, behaves with ungrateful inſolence; here the king's natural im⯑patience is juſtifiably wrought up, even to a bitter and pathetic execration of his undutiful child: though TATE had conſiderable merit in his tranſ⯑poſition of the laſt ſcene of the firſt act, yet we think Mr. COLMAN has ſhewn more critical know⯑ledge of nature and the ſtage, by reſtoring ſome paſſages which were omitted, and by concluding the act with Lear's curſe, as nothing could be ſaid after to any effect.

At the beginning of the ſecond act, we find the Baſtard, with moſt villainous hypocriſy, carrying on his deſign againſt Edgar's life, which Gloſter credulouſly comes into; this ſcene is much better in COLMAN than TATE, as is the following inter⯑view, where Kent ſo characteriſtically cathechiſes Goneril's inſignificant Gentleman Uſher.

The Duke of Cornwall and his wife Regan appear next, upon a viſit to Gloſter, whoſe miſfortune in the ſuppoſed unnatural behaviour of his eldeſt ſon, they condole, and offer their authority to puniſh the offender; Regan's laying a ſtreſs upon his being an aſſociate with her father's riotous knights, as ſhe calls them, is a good opening of her intended behaviour [356] to the good old king. Mr. COLMAN objects to making the daughters entertain a criminal paſſion for Edmund, but if we can once ſuppoſe them capable of filial ingratitude, all other vices, as Dr. YOUNG emphatically has it, may ſeem virtues in them; for this reaſon, we approve the intima⯑tion TATE has furniſhed Regan with, of her pre⯑judice in favour of Edmund. When Kent and the Gentleman Uſher appear, COLMAN has again judi⯑ciouſly preſerved ſeveral paſſages which the laureat ſtrangely ſlipped over, or wretchedly metamor⯑phoſed: we know not any ſcene written with more ſpirit and originality than this; Kent's honeſt, ſar⯑caſtical bluntneſs, is finely contraſted to the courtly water-fly's ſupple nothingneſs; however, decorum is certainly intruded upon, for ſuch language to be uſed in preſence of a joint ruler of the ſtate, is unpardonable; and we heartily agree that Kent deſerves ſome puniſhment, but much regret ſo farcical an incident as a pair of moveable ſtocks, ſo conveniently placed in a nobleman's caſtle, as to be forth coming on the inſtant, Kent's going to ſleep in ſuch a ſituation is ludicrous alſo; we are amazed when alteration was on foot, this incident was not changed for one more probable, and equally conducive to the plot; eſpecially when ſuch a change might be made with the greateſt eaſe imaginable. We have ſeen the Gentleman Uſher make a very pantomimical ſtroke, by puſhing at Kent when his legs are faſt; ſuch a manoeuvre cannot fail of cauſing laughter, but are ſuch vio⯑lations of the fine feelings ſufferable?

[357]In Edgar's ſoliloquy, as altered by TATE, we find that he does not fly his enemies, as in COLMAN, from a paltry fear of the danger which hangs over his perſon, but from a generous, laudable motive of waiting an opportunity of ſerving the woman he loves, and who has made ſo great a ſacrifice on his account; for this purpoſe he has reſolution to put on the wretchedeſt appearance, and to encounter a ſituation worſe than death: this places him in a degree of eſtimation with the audience, which otherwiſe he could not have obtained.

The ſtocks again preſent themſelves to view, merely as an object of inflammation to the old king, who being already nettled, fires at the treatment his meſſenger has met, and indeed well he may, not knowing what perſonal provocation that meſ⯑ſenger had given; the appearance of Cornwall and Regan brings matters to a pathetic and ſtrik⯑ing explanation; SHAKESPEARE, in this ſcene, has particularly ſummoned the amazing powers of his genius to exert themſelves. The tranſitions of Lear are beautiful; from paſſion he falls to condeſcenſion and tenderneſs, mingled with grief; then flames again, while the two unnatural hags, as he juſtly calls them, alternately ſtab a dagger in his aged heart.

Mr. COLMAN, by ſticking cloſer to the original than TATE, has an advantage in this ſcene, but is in our apprehenſion unpardonable, for omitting the following beautiful thought, ſuggeſted by SHAKESPEARE, and thus commendably expreſſed by TATE.

The old man's ſecond condeſcenſion in what immediately follows ſhould not have been neg⯑lected, as humanity therefrom feels a very affect⯑ing ſenſation;

Concluding the act with the old king's exit, is ſo obviouſly right, that we are aſtoniſhed SHAKE⯑SPEARE ſhould have added ſo much phlegmatic ſtuff as he has done.

At the beginning of the third act, we find un⯑happy Lear ſhelterleſs, ſtruck with phrenzy, wan⯑dering through a moſt tremendous ſtorm, over a blaſted heath; without friend or conſolation but what he finds in old faithful Kent, and the un⯑hinged ſtate of his mind, which renders him in⯑ſenſible of external injuries, though ſevere; a number of beautiful, moral ſentiments adorn his diſtracted ideas, particularly where he warns con⯑cealed guilt to tremble at elementary threatenings, and juſtly makes his own innocence a ſhield againſt fear.

As we have inclined to admit Edmund's intrigue with Goneril and Regan, ſo we approve his ſolilo⯑quy, and the complimentary notices he receives from [359] thoſe ladies; Gloſter's conference with him con⯑cerning a mode of relief for the old king, we prefer in TATE; Cordelia is prettily introduced, and the ſentiments ſhe utters render her extremely amiable; ſo material an object of the plot as ſhe is, ſhould not be left long unſeen; her filial duty is pleaſing⯑ly diſplayed, and we wiſh that ſo meritorious a ſpeech as what follows ſhould have been overlook⯑ed by TATE, when he might have ſo much im⯑proved the acting merit of Cordelia, by putting it in her mouth; it occurs in the firſt ſcene of the third act, as SHAKESPEARE wrote it, and diſplays a moſt fanciful picture of Lear's deplorable ſitua⯑tion; a few verbal alterations would ſuit it to the purpoſe we mention, and the introduction of it is recommended to any lady who performs Cordelia —Suppoſe it run thus:

The preceding ſpeech is a poetical gem which moſt undoubtedly ſhould not be loſt, eſpecially [360] when it may be preſerved with ſo much propriety. The great defect of SHAKESPEARE's Cordelia is, that ſhe makes too inconſiderable a figure; is too ſeldom in view, and has not matter for a capital ac⯑treſs to diſplay extenſive talents in. COLMAN has too implicitly maintained this poverty of character, and even TATE's improvement falls ſhort of what might have been; every alterer of SHAKE⯑SPEARE ſhould remember, there were no female performers in his days, and improve according to the preſent time, ſuch parts as neceſſity, not want of genius or knowledge, made him abbre⯑viate.

Edmund's villainous deſign upon Cordelia fills up, but cannot blacken the character of a man who is ſavage enough to premeditate the death of his own father; and the circumſtance is well conceived to raiſe a tender anxiety in an audience, for the ſafety of ſo dutiful and amiable a princeſs, whoſe pious affection makes her determine, amidſt many perils, to ſeek for and cheriſh, that very father who has treated her with ſuch unprovoked ſeverity.

Lear and Kent again offer themſelves to view; when it appears, that an interval of calmneſs, a ray of reaſon breaks in upon the former, who, after ſome very pregnant and affecting remarks upon his own condition, and the ſhocking cauſe of it—filial ingratitude; ſubmits to the perſuaſion of his truſty follower, and conſents to take ſhelter in a hovel. Their approach to this wretched refuge for diſtreſ⯑ſed royalty, calls Edgar, in his bedlamite garb and expreſſion upon the ſtage. It was a moſt maſterly [361] thought of SHAKESPEARE, to make the aſſumed madman cauſe an inſtantaneous return of Lear's frenzy: indeed, the beautiful diſtinction he has made between real and affected madneſs, cannot be ſufficiently admired. In all Edgar's flights, we may plainly perceive a laboured diffuſion of ideas; a methodical ſtrain of images, and a ſtudied wild⯑neſs, adverting to no particular leading ſubject; in the execution of this, our author has been amaz⯑ingly ſucceſsful, beyond imagination luxuriant. From Lear we have not a ſyllable but directs either to the original cauſe of his frenzy, or collaterally alludes to it. Among many other matchleſs beau⯑ties which occur in this ſcene, we cannot find words to expreſs our feelings of the king's ſup⯑poſing that nothing could reduce nature to ſo wretched a ſtate as Edgar's, but unkind daugh⯑ters; conſequently that he, like himſelf, is an un⯑happy father: that ſpeech which begins, ‘"a ſerv⯑ing man proud of heart,’ we deem inimitable; as well as that of Lear, which follows it.

The incident of Edgar's ſaving Cordelia from the Baſtard's ruffians, it not only as we think, de⯑fenſible, but worthy of praiſe as a happy thought, and well calculated for action; as is the princeſs's cordial and becoming deportment to her exiled de⯑liverer, when he makes himſelf known. This ſcene ever has, and ever will have, except upon unfeel⯑ing, ſtoical criticiſm, a very engaging effect; it en⯑riches and recommends both the characters ſo much, that we muſt pronounce Mr. COLMAN's ob⯑jection [362] to it, as the whimſical offspring of judg⯑ment too ſqueamiſhly chaſte; eſpecially where, in his preface, he ſneers at Cordelia's embracing the ragged Edgar. We are ſorry for that gentleman's notions of love and gratitude, if he thinks they are confined to externals: if the princeſs, through falſe delicacy, had ſhunned Edgar, merely on ac⯑count of his mean attire, ſhe muſt appear unwor⯑thy the regard of him, or any other worthy man. The matter appeals to us in ſo fair a point of view, that we are bold to ſay, if SHAKESPEARE, that competent and liberal judge of human nature, was alive, he would conſider this addition as an ornament alſo. Critics upon the drama, ſhould not only have good heads, but feeling hearts; if either requiſite is wanting, we ſhould chuſe to ſpare the former, and try nature at her own bar, without Ariſtotelian legiſlation.

We heartily with that the inſignificant, cruel, offenſive ſcene, where Gloſter's eyes are put out, had been left to narration; the ſubject of it, while in action, is ſhocking, and Cornwall's ſcuffle with his domeſtic, ludicrous; both circumſtances would have approached well in deſcription, and ſo the ſtage would have been ſaved from very unbecoming tranſactions: however, both the alterers, through a reverence even for SHAKESPEARE's blemiſhes, or want of invention, have preſerved what we thus object to.

We are not much pleaſed with TATE's firſt ſcene of the fourth act, where the Baſtard and Regan are produced for no purpoſe, but for her to give him a picture, and for him to drop a note he [363] has received from Goneril, which latter proves a motive of jealouſy. Mr. COLMAN's attaching him⯑ſelf to the original, and beginning with Edgar's ſoliloquy, is commendable, Gloſter's contrition for the harſh uſage of his dutiful ſon, and Ed⯑gar's pious concern for his father's ſituation, are pleaſingly expreſſed: It is aſtoniſhing that what follows ſhould be neglected by one alterer, and ſo mangled by the other; it is addreſſed by Gloſter to Edgar, and is the concluſive part of a ſpeech, the beginning of which is retained by COLMAN.

TATE's introduction of Cordelia, with Kent ſtill in ſearch of her father, is pleaſingly imagined; what paſſes between them and poor, dark Gloſter, deſerves approbation; and the mention of a popu⯑lar riſing in favour of the old king is well thrown in Goneril's ſucceeding interview with her ſteward and the duke of Albany her huſband, is much more explicit and ſatisfactory in COLMAN's than TATE's; it gives likewiſe more time for Edgar to change his frantic habiliments into thoſe of a peaſant.

In the next ſcene, the deſcription of Dover cliff engages and gratifies taſte abundantly; though making Gloſter fancy he has fallen down ſuch a precipice, is a bold, it is no unnatural ſtretch of [364] imagination, where a mind is agonized like his by a combination of painful and diſtracting events, and wiſhes to put a period to woe by terminating exiſtence; ſplenetic perſons we know, by a mul⯑titude of inſtances, conceive and credit as great abſurdities; and why the mere matter of falling on the ſtage ſhould be laughable we know not. Of this we are certain, that a Gloſter, otherwiſe reſpectable, would never occaſion even a critical ſmile; but Mr. COLMAN judges, perhaps, from ſome inſtances at Covent-Garden; and if theſe influenced him, he would have been prudent in cutting out three-fourths of the part: beſides, as the matter appears, in his alteration, Gloſter ſtands within a foot of the extreme verge of the cliff, yet upon hearing the king, whom he knows to be mad, he never mentions ſafer footing, nor ever after mentions the reſolution of ending his life in ſuch a manner. Now, in the original and TATE, there is a very good reaſon for not con⯑tinuing ſuch a determination; ſuppoſing himſelf preferred by a providential interpoſition, he re⯑ſolves to bear his afflictions with a becoming re⯑ſignation. If this incident was leſs defenſible in point of probability, it gives ſo fine a warning againſt the worſt of crimes, ſuicide, and incul⯑cates ſo uſeful, ſo moral a leſſon of bearing up under temporal affliction, that we cannot enter⯑tain any doubt of the propriety in retaining it.

Lear's madneſs is finely, though not quite ſo characteriſtically ſupported in this ſcene as in the third act. Though women have been the cauſe of [365] his wretchedneſs, we with what he ſays of them in the ſpeech that begins in both the alterations, "Behold yon ſimpering dame," had been totally omitted; it is, indeed, conſiderably ſoftened from SHAKESPEARE, but as raiſing fulſome ideas is its only tendency, we wiſh it ſtruck entirely out.

The encounter between Edgar and Goneril's gentleman-uſher, we by no means like, it brings an unneceſſary death upon the ſtage; the lady's attachment to Edmund, and murderous deſigns upon her huſband, might have been diſcovered in a much more ſuitable manner.

COLMAN's beginning the fifth act with Lear upon his couch, is certainly better than making it end the fourth, as TATE has done: however, the ſcene is very much indebted to that gentleman for the merit we find in it; nor do we remember one of more affecting nature upon the ſingle feel⯑ing of pity: Mr. COLMAN certainly did right to adopt it; we deem him alſo commendable for omitting the ſhort interview between Goneril and an attendant, where ſhe mentions the deſign of poiſoning her rival ſiſter.

By the Baſtard's ſoliloquy, we find him in freſh deſigns of villainy; we do not ſee why Gloſter ſhould be brought in merely for Edgar to leave him beneath a tree; however Tate has given him a reſpectable ſpeech, which COLMAN, for what reaſon we cannot tell, has curtailed; eighteen lines furniſh a better pauſe for the ſkirmiſh that is ſuppoſed than ſeven; eſpecially when they are ſuited to the circumſtances.

[366]The turn of King Lear's being defeated is thea⯑trically conceived; from this point the alterers go pretty near hand in hand together to the cata⯑ſtrophe; wherefore we ſhall now only trace the following ſcenes in their ſucceſſion, as TATE has ranged them: when Edgar diſguiſed has given a challenge to his brother Edmund, we are pre⯑ſented with Lear, Kent, and Cordelia in priſon, where a happy ſtroke occurs in the king's being overpowered at the diſcovery of Kent's being his truſty Caius; though this ſcene is not very ſtriking, it ſtill commands attention.

The encounter between the two brothers is very ſpirited, and making Edgar the ſucceſsful inſtru⯑ment of Edmund's puniſhment, is a pleaſing in⯑ſtance of poetical juſtice; we could have wiſhed the ladies abſent, for their contention about the Baſtard, is rather laughable, this COLMAN has prudently avoided.

Lear, in priſon, attended by his faithful daugh⯑ter, again calls upon our feelings; the attempt to aſſaſſinate him alarms human apprehenſion, and the happy effect of his deſperation, raiſes a degree of ſatisfactory aſtoniſhment.

Edgar's approach with Albany confirms the royal priſoners ſafety, and different events fall in very na⯑turally; we muſt not only give TATE great praiſe for bringing about a happy cataſtrophe, by pro⯑bable circumſtances; but, in point of juſtice, en⯑deavour to prove, that his diſtribution of the cha⯑racters is much better than that in the original, or that in Mr. COLMAN's ſuppoſed amendment of the alteration.

[367]That Lear, as a raſh and rigid father, deſerves puniſhment is very obvious, this is ſufficiently in⯑flicted by his madneſs, therefore ſaving his life was undoubtedly juſt: Gloſter comes under the ſame predicament of blame, for purſuing even the life of an innocent ſon; the ungrateful daughters deſerve the rigour of juſtice, and could not fall more properly than by the barbarity of each other; and the Baſtard loſes his life moſt righteouſly, by the hand of his injured brother; Cordelia's piety merits the higheſt reward of temporal happineſs, which TATE has given her, by a connection with the man of her heart; the becoming a queen, through France's generous behaviour, as we do not hear of any previous attachment in his favour, cannot be deemed ſo delicate or adequate a com⯑penſation for her virtues, as beſtowing her on Ed⯑gar, who is thereby alſo recompenſed in a pecu⯑liar manner for both the love and loyalty he has manifeſted; the old king's conſent, with Gloſter's and Kent's hearty bleſſing, ſhed a brilliance on TATE's laſt ſcene, highly pleaſing to every good and tender mind; it adds great force to the old king's reſtoration, and furniſhes, to our appre⯑henſion, as ſatisfactory and compleat a cataſtro⯑phe as any in the whole ſcope of dramatic com⯑poſition.

We perfectly join in opinion, that Lear ſhould ſpeak laſt, but think Mr. COLMAN might have avoided the trouble of patching up a concluding ſpeech, when that we find in TATE, preceding Edgar's, is ſufficient without any alteration or [368] addition; it is matter of no little ſurprize, that the ſoliciſm of bringing Cordelia to view, as queen of France, without any mention of her royal con⯑ſort, or any attendance equal to her ſtation, ſhould not have ſtruck Mr. COLMAN's critical obſervation.

Upon the whole, we muſt remark, that in reſpect of the two alterations, TATE had no guide but his own judgment, which, though very fallible in many places, has yet operated ſucceſsfully upon the whole; Mr. COLMAN had his labours, as well as the origi⯑nal to work upon; and has ſhewed great modeſty in avoiding additions, conſiderable merit in reſtoring ſo much of SHAKESPEARE; but has certainly weak⯑ened the piece, both for action and peruſal, by re⯑jecting ſo juſtifiable, pleaſing, natural and relative an epiſode, as the loves of Edgar and Cordelia; for the credit of SHAKESPEARE, TATE, COLMAN, and advantage of the ſtage; we wiſh an able critic, Mr. GARRICK, for Inſtance, would undertake a third al⯑teration upon medium principles, between the lati⯑tude of TATE, and the circumſcription of COLMAN.

King Lear's character, as a man, we know no⯑thing of, except from the conciſe picture of his being choleric and raſh; there are no opportunities of diſplaying either virtues or vices; the Impetuoſity of his temper firſt makes him a very culpable fa⯑ther, and afterwards, mingled with pride, runs him into diſtraction; the unnatural cruelty of his daugh⯑ters, renders him an object of pity, and SHAKE⯑SPEARE's irreſiſtible genius has drawn him a cha⯑racter of admiration.

[369]To enter upon the repreſentation of this odd and violent old monarch, is a daring flight of the⯑atrical reſolution; a wide and various complica⯑tion of requiſites, are eſſential to placing him in a proper and ſtriking point of view; eſpecially an imagination poſſeſſed of the ſame fine frenzy which firſt drew him into light; his ſituations, ſenti⯑ments, and language being peculiar, ſo muſt his tones, looks and geſtures be, mechanical acting, which may paſs agreeably enough in other ſmaller creations of the brain, muſt here flatten idea to a very palling degree.

Come forth the man whom nature has happily formed to animate with unrivalled excellence this her moſt favourite theatrical production—GAR⯑RICK, come forth! fearleſs of ſevereſt criticiſm; we, who, have ſingularly and repeatedly felt the moſt indeſcribable ſenſations from this gentleman's per⯑formance of King Lear, are obliged to confeſs, that had he pleaſed us leſs, we ſhould have been able to ſay more; there is a tranſcendant degree of merit which checks the boldeſt flight of praiſe, and here moſt certainly we have encountered it; but the more danger the more honour—therefore, we ruſh fearleſs amidſt an abundance of beauties, hoping we ſhall ſelect, with ſome judgment, though ſatisfaction is bewildered with variety.

It muſt be remembered, that Lear is a monarch who, amidſt the infirmities of age, has all the pride of royalty about him, and conſequently aims at ſupporting external dignity, as far as the decline of ſtrength will admit; this natural ſtruggle between [370] vanity and debilitation, is as happily diſplayed as poſſible, in the conſequential feebleneſs of Mr. GARRICK's deportments; ſtrength and activity of ſpirit are by him moſt judiciouſly united to nerve⯑leſs limbs; in the ſudden ſtarts of paſſion, you perceive the quick flow of blood giving momen⯑tary firmneſs to his ſinews, which paſſing off, an increaſe of languor ſucceeds; in his execration of Goneril, at the end of the firſt act, his face diſplays ſuch a combination of painful, enraged feelings, as ſcarce any countenance but his own could de⯑ſcribe, though ſo happily pictured that the dulleſt mind muſt conceive and feel.

In the ſecond act, where he parlies between Go⯑neril and Regan, who alternately reject him, rage and tenderneſs, ſuppreſſed fury and affectionate condeſcenſion, are mingled happily till the con⯑cluſive ſpeech, where his breaks of voice, and va⯑riation of features, ſurpaſs the fineſt conception that has not been impreſſed by him, and leave thoſe who have ſeen him without words to de⯑ſcribe.

At the beginning of the third act, we plainly perceive the elementary conflict re-imaged in his diſtracted looks, while the eyes are alſo feaſted by a ſucceſſion of expreſſive, ſtriking attitudes; but a peculiar beauty is, the unparallelled force with which he ſpeaks, "Have his daughters brought him to this paſs;" and many other ſimilar paſſages, which paſs almoſt unnoticed from the mouth of every other Lear we have ſeen in ſhort, through the whole of the madneſs, he cuts competition ſhort by moſt evident ſuperiority. Through the fifth [371] act, eſpecially in the couch and priſon ſcenes, his critical judgment, and happy powers, unitedly exert themſelves with equal, though not ſuch un⯑paralleled ſucceſs; however, where he ſays, ‘"Pray do not mock me, &c."’ to Cordelia, and ‘"Did I not, fellow?"’ after demoliſhing the ruffians, we conceive his merit to reach beyond all expectation; after theſe faint outlines of excellence, ſo ſtrongly felt by the heart, and ſo fully approved by the head, permit us, reader, to prophecy, that as no man will ever draw a character of more impor⯑tance and variety than SHAKESPEARE's Lear, ſo we apprehend no perſon will ever ſhew a more pow⯑erful, correct, affecting, original, and chaſte piece of acting than Mr. GARRICK's performance of him has done.

Mr. BARRY, with a commendable degree of ambition, entered the liſts of competition, as we think, ſixteen or eighteen years ago, and met with an extenſive ſhare of deſerved applauſe; like a plauſible, ſhowy piece of painting, with fine tints, and a few maſterly touches of the pencil, he entirely gratified ſome judgments, and for a while captivated thoſe of more penetration; but, to carry on the alluſion, when harmony of parts, and ſtrict propriety of expreſſion were minutely ſought after, the piece loſt great part of its effect, and ſunk in value; in ſhort, this performer, to whom na⯑ture was prodigally kind, in many requiſites, wanted what his great competitor eminently poſſeſſed; we mean original perception; his acting, eſpecially in Lear, was too dependent upon inſtruction, and [372] preſented itſelf the offspring of a hundred critical opinions jumbled; it was very evident he felt more the ideas of his inſtructing friends, than what the author furniſhed him to ſay; however, it is but juſtice to allow that he availed himſelf happily of friendly intimation, and was, in many parts of the firſt, ſecond and fifth acts, truly ſtriking; nay, through the whole, he ſtood in high reſpect, unleſs when compared with much more capital merit.

We cannot help ſmiling to hear the ſanguine admirers of Mr. POWELL, for many that excellent young actor had juſtly gained, ſay, that he was near as great as Mr. GARRICK; one at firſt would ſuppoſe the expreſſion ironical ſatire, but as we be⯑lieve ſome had perſuaded themſelves to believe it really was ſo, it becomes our duty, from the moſt impartial, and we hope liberal diſſection of merit, to ſay, that his deſerving ſunk amazingly from a critical compariſon; his deportment was abomi⯑ble, not a trace of majeſty in it; his tranſitions in the violent parts, wanted eſſential volubility, and moſt of his attitudes were injudiciouſly diſpoſed; in the tender ſtrokes and feebleneſs of expreſſion, eſpecially thoſe which occur in the firſt ſcene of the fifth act, he was excellent; but, if moſt part of the third and fourth acts had been omitted when he performed the character, it would not have diminiſhed ſatisfaction; we allow him more nature, but leſs expreſſion than Mr. BARRY, but place him far, far beneath Mr. GARRICK in both.

[373]Mr. ROSS exhibits his uſual and diſguſtful ine⯑quality remarkably in this part; one ſcene deſerv⯑ing approbation, the next contempt; in ſhort, we deem it too ponderous a weight for his abilities to ſuſtain with juſt grace; Mr. DIGGES, whom we have ſomewhere mentioned, did ſome ſcenes of Lear, the madneſs in particular, great juſtice, but was rather tedious and unaffecting upon the whole; we have heard, but hope it is not true, that the poor old monarch has ſuffered theatrical aſſaſſination from the relentleſs attempts of Meſſrs. QUIN and MOSSOP, who, we are confident, muſt have tortured every ſyllable of him.

Edgar, as drawn by TATE, is an amiable and in⯑tereſting character, dutiful to his father, unſuſpect⯑ing to his baſe brother, conſtant in love, ſtedfaſt in loyalty, reſolute in danger; Meſſrs. RYAN and HAVARD ſupported this character with great abilities, and with ſuch parallel merit, that we hardly know how to grant a preference, yet are rather inclined to the former, as throwing more wildneſs of expreſſion, and extravagance of action into the aſſumed madneſs: Mr. SMITH and RED⯑DISH (particularly the latter) give conſiderable pleaſure at preſent, and, we think upon juſt principles; the former, however, is injured as a performer by Mr. COLMAN's palpable mutilation of the part, in his alteration.

Gloſter is a character of no conſpicuous qualities; the Baſtard juſtly calls him credulous, and we are willing to conſider him as a weak, honeſt man; upon the ſtage Mr. SPARKS made him extremely [374] reſpectable, and Mr. BERRY was not far behind: at preſent—oh heav'ns!—he is in the feeble hands of Mr. BURTON at Drury Lane, and incumbers the tottering abilities of Mr. GIBSON at Covent-Garden. Do, kind, condeſcending managers, re⯑lieve theſe overburthened gentlemen, by putting Mr. HULL and Mr. Mr. BANNISTER in their places.

Kent we admire as a worthy, undiſguiſed, uni⯑form miracle of a courtier; bold enough to ſpeak truth, where ſhe ſeldom comes, in the preſence of a king, and honeſt enough to follow that king's fortunes when deprived not only of his power, but even the common comforts of life; the character is finely imagined, and happily introduced; we don't remember, nor indeed don't deſire to ſee it better ſuſtained than by Mr. CLARKE, who hits off the cynical roughneſs well, and yet preſerves the gentleman; Mr. BRANSBY muſt excuſe us, if we ſay, he rather puts us in mind of a reduced life-guard-man, than a diſguiſed peer.

The Baſtard is a complicated villain of the deepeſt die, performed with ſome degree of merit by the late Mr. PALMER, who had, however, too much levity of figure and deportment in him; the preſent Mr. PALMER's appearance is much better and his acting as well; Mr. BENSLEY's idea of Edmund is juſt, and his expreſſion adequate; nor was Mr. CLARKE any way deficient in the repre⯑ſentation of him.

The Gentleman Uſher was formerly exhibited with a fund of exquiſite whim by Mr. WOOD⯑WARD, and is pleaſantly enough ſituated with [375] Meſſrs. DYER and DODD; but ſet forth by Mr. CUSHING, he is the exact type of "Coming up, ſir, —Gentlemen, did you call—

Goneril and Regan are characters infamouſly black, but not as Dr. WARTON ſeems to doubt im⯑poſſible or even improbable; for we have too many originals of filial ingratitude in real life, to verify ſuch mimic repreſentations of it. SHAKESPEARE's ſtrong painting, and placing the circumſtances in the firſt ſphere of life, may make the matter from apparent exaggeration dubitable; but human tran⯑ſactions prove, in this point, as well as many others, what benevolent feelings reluctantly ad⯑mit, and with great difficulty conceive.

In the light of female monſters, which un⯑doubtedly they appear, it would be a coarſe com⯑pliment to ſay any ladies looked or played them thoroughly in character; therefore, we ſhall not criticiſe any who have appeared in the two el⯑der ſiſters; what they uttered has come no doubt againſt original feeling, and it would be rather cruel to try their merit in ſuch diſagree⯑able undertakings; poſſibly no two were ever more unlike the barbarity they repreſent than Mrs. STEPHENS and Mrs. W. BARRY, nor any two more agreeable to the audience, under ſuch ungra⯑cious circumſtances: ungratefully cruel to a bene⯑volent father, faithleſs to their huſbands, and vin⯑dictive to each other; all repreſentation muſt fall ſhort of what the author apparently deſigned; and indeed we are glad that what muſt ſhock nature in the fainteſt view, cannot come forth with the ad⯑dition [376] of richer colouring; we alſo think, that ſuch pictures of the human ſpecies as repreſent a complication of vices, without one gleam of virtue, ſhould be ſeldom ſhewn to the public.

Cordelia is finely oppoſed to her ſiſters, and ſhines with double luſtre from their darkneſs; dutiful under ſevere provocation to the contrary; firm and diſintereſted in her attachment to Ed⯑gar; there is nothing extraordinary of acting merit in TATE's, and much leſs in COLMAN's; in compliment to Lear, ſhe is generally given to the firſt actreſs, whether fit for her or no; delicacy of figure, and tenderneſs of expreſſion, are all the requiſites which ſeem neceſſary for her; Mrs. CIBBER was no doubt very pleaſing, but during our remembrance too much of the woman; as Mrs. YATES is at preſent, with the unſufferable addition of an imperious, uncharacteriſtic aſpect: Mrs. BELLAMY looked the part amiably, but tuned the words moſt monotonouſly: Mrs. BAR⯑RY ſpeaks and feels it extremely well, but rather outfigures it; and we apprehend that very deſerv⯑ing young actreſs, Mrs. BULKELEY—why is ſhe ſo neglected by the managers?—would render Corde⯑lia more agreeable than any other lady now on the ſtage.

This tragedy, in its original ſtate, exhibits a beau⯑tiful collection of poetical flowers, choaked up with a profuſion of weeds, the unretrenched produce of luxuriant fertility; and it was an undertaking of great merit to root up the latter, without injuring the former; how far TATE, the firſt adventurer, and COLMAN, his ſuverviſor, have ſucceeded, we [377] hope the reader may collect from our animad⯑verſions.

The language of King Lear is of mixed nature, verſe and proſe; where the former occurs, we find it bold, nervous, figurative, and, with ſome few exceptions, flowing; the latter is compact, pregnant and ſpirited; the characters are various, and moſtly very intereſting, well grouped to ſhew each other; the plot is rather disjointed, and the ſcenes frequently intrude upon the unities of time and place; but the cataſtrophe, ſo happily con⯑ceived by TATE, attones for all the unreformed irregularities; and, we may venture to ſay, that from his hands the public have received a dra⯑matic piece, which appeals ſo powerfully to the paſſions, that when performed with ſuitable abi⯑lities, it proves rather a degree of painful plea⯑ſure, and ſhrinks nature back upon herſelf.

In the cloſet it muſt furniſh particular gratifi⯑cation to critical judgment, but will always be caviare to the generality of readers.

MAN AND WIFE. A COMEDY by Mr. COLMAN.

THE comedy we are juſt entering upon, is in⯑troduced like Mr. FOOTE'S MINOR, by a pre⯑lude; but has had a manifeſt advantage of this in the propriety and force of action, by the author's viva voce appearance to repreſent himſelf; be⯑ſides, it will appear by compariſon, that there was not only much more occaſion for the one than the other, but a far greater ſhare of executive power alſo manifeſted; we ſhall not draw a pa⯑rallel, as every reader may do that at pleaſure by turning a few leaves back.

Jenkins and Townly, the one a partridge-ſhooter, as he ſays himſelf, the other any thing you pleaſe, commence Mr. COLMAN's prelude with reading the bill of the play, which occaſions one to aſk, and the other to hint who the author is; when immediately the bard appears cloathed in mourning; obviouſly to excite two ſenſations, extremely conſonant to comedy; grief for a de⯑ceaſed friend, and pity for the author's tickliſh ſituation. However melancholy this ſable figure made us when firſt exhibited, we cannot help ſmiling at the idea of introducing mirthful ſcenes with ſo melancholy an object; ſomewhat ſimilar to a hearſe preceeding the lord mayor's ſhew.

[379]But what is the purport of Mr. Dapperwit and friend's converſation: firſt, a facetious ſtroke upon Mr. COLMAN's ſingular good fortune in having annuities repeatedly bequeathed him; ſecond, an unneceſſary intimation of the loſs ſuſtained in Mr. POWELL, which the audience well knew without being ſo informed of the matter; third, a promiſe, which has not yet been ful⯑filled, of diligently improving public entertain⯑ment; fourth, a pitiful compliment to public good nature; fifth, a moſt extraordinary defence of Mr. GARRICK'S ODE, and a laborious, unin⯑telligible aſſimilation of Mr. FOOTE's ſatirical wit to Fuller's earth, which we can reconcile no otherwiſe than in the following round-about matter. GAY ſays, "Gold is the true Fuller's earth to take out every ſpot and ſtain;" now as Mr. FOOTE's wit is univerſally allowed ſterling, his brother manager catched the idea, perhaps, from thence.

The managerical parley founded in this exqui⯑ſite ſcene to ſweeten Mr. GARRICK for antici⯑pating his pageant, was very juſtly compared by a wag to the careſſes of a proſtitute, who, while ſhe embraces her gallant, picks his pockets. As Mr. COLMAN is deemed, and indeed has proved himſelf a claſſical writer in general, we wonder how the following Hiberniciſm, among ſome other ſlips, could eſcape his pen: Dapperwit ſpeaking of the pageant and maſquerade, ſays, "Thoſe you ſhall ſee, Sir, and perhaps they may appear to more advantage, and be ſeen with [380] more ſatisfaction at the Theatres-Royal than Stratford ITSELF;" What liberal elegance of phraſeolocry! ITSELF.

Having ſtretched this prelude, which by no means incurs the cenſure of being too witty; we are confident enough to pronounce the favourable reception it met, as an almoſt unparallelled proof of critical lenity: indeed, it contains ſuch peti⯑tioning ſupplication, that mercy could not refuſe her ſmiles, however impartial underſtanding was obliged to frown. As to the performance of Meſſieurs HULL, DYER and WROUGHTON bore up a dead weight of inſipidity agreeable enough.

The firſt ſcene of MAN and WIFE opens in a public houſe, full of that buſtle and confuſion which an overflow of company occaſions: a gouty Landlord hobbles about, exerting his lungs though he cannot make much uſe of his feet; Luke the waiter's directions to his ſubſtitutes, and naming the rooms after SHAKESPEARE's plays, are pleaſant enough; the introduction of Buck, and his con⯑verſation with the waiter, have nature and ſpirit; Snarl ſeems introduced for nothing but to com⯑plain of his bed; mention of the little army that walked over him, is not ſtrictly delicate. After the departure of theſe three, freſh hurry is occa⯑ſioned by the arrival of the Birmingham coach, which, as we are informed, has been overturned; from this incident ſome humourous remarks ariſe, eſpecially thoſe made by the ſea-faring paſſenger, whoſe idea of flying, as it is called, conveys a whimſical effect. Indeed, all the paſſen⯑gers, [381] though ſhort, are well ſupported, and the Landlady's account of the jubilee is very laugh⯑able.

We do not much approve the ſtage coachman, who is drawn a civil creature, contrary to the well-known behaviour of ſuch gentry: his haſtening the paſſengers ſhould have been in a more peremptory ſtile; when the other paſſengers are gone, we per⯑ceive colonel Frankly remaining; who, on being told the coach is ſetting off, declares he will go no further: from his ſoliloquy we collect, that a love-affair has brought him to Stratford, and that his miſtreſs has reached it the day before.

Marcourt, a coxcomb of the current year, and rival to Frankly, now enter in the tip of the riding mode: his dialogue is pleaſant, ſpirited and ſati⯑rical; but we apprehend his intimate mention of Peers, with a very ſlight alteration, is borrowed from Clodio in the Fop's Fortune; the common affectation of riding, though ſcarce out of the ſtreets; the journal of viſiting on horſeback, the ſarcaſtical ſtrokes againſt enormous club-wigs, Lilliputian hats, and ſome other peculiarities of the reigning faſhion are humourouſly conceived and adequately expreſſed. The following ſtroke met with particular applauſe, and in a great mea⯑ſure deſerved it, where Frankly ſays, "Do you intend to ſhew yourſelf as one of the characters of SHAKESPEARE." Marcourt replies, "No faith; ſuch an original did not exiſt in his days." We agree with our author, that perhaps an exact ſimilitude cannot be traced; but are not Oſtrick, [382] Lucio, &c. Marcourt's? an obſervation which immediately follows, we think more ſignificant, though it paſſed unnoticed; "one muſt have a wife, you know, if it is only for the pleaſure of getting rid of her," this is levelled with com⯑mendable poignancy againſt the divorces ſo ſhamefully prevalent amongſt the great world.

In the enſuing converſation between Marcourt and the colonel, an account is pleaſantly given of Mr. and Mrs. Croſs, father and mother of the young lady who is the object of their mutual at⯑tention; we are alſo made acquainted with Kitchen, a third gallant, the favourite of Mr. Croſs: this rival is deſcribed ſo well, that we cannot avoid preſenting his picture in the author's words—"He is dull, dull as Colonel Grin, who has got Joe Miller by heart, and is always teazing you with a ſtory—no ſplaſh in the world—his con⯑verſation is all table-talk—made up of eating and drinking—he is a mere walking larder—his mind is a great pantry, from which he is always ſerving up ſome choice diſhes, for the entertainment of his friends and acquaintances." Marcourt appears, confident of the young lady's favour, and intimates her joining with him and Mrs. Croſs, in defeating her father's intentions.

The diſciple of Epicurus, Kitchen, upon his entrance, adverts the ruling paſſion of eating and drinking, which furniſhes freſh matter for ob⯑ſervation; when Marcourt objects to a jubilee from not liking one he has ſeen at Rome, the Landlord makes an excellent ſtroke "There is [383] no popery in our Jubilee, though it began with going to church."

Mention of Rome, occaſions Kitchen to remark its fallen ſtate, which he illuſtrates by a very cha⯑racteriſtic ſimile of "a ſirloin of beef to a ſpoonful of macaroni;" this occaſions an altercation between the coxcomb's foreign taſte and the cit's nationality; wherein the latter has a very manifeſt advantage, particularly in this ſentence, "As for you fine gen⯑tlemen, you ſkim the cream of Europe, as you ſay, and bring home nothing but froth and whip ſilla⯑bub." The diſpute about SHAKESPEARE, occaſions a very tolerable apology for the moſt obvious blemiſhes of that admirable author, and they are moſt excellently ſummed up in the following paſ⯑ſage, which has as much merit as any one of equal length we ever met with; "SHAKESPEARE, Mr. Marcourt, SHAKESPEARE is the turtle of litera⯑ture; the lean of him perhaps may be worſe than the lean of any other meat; but there is a deal of green fat, which is the moſt delicious ſtuff in the world."

After the critical diſputation Charlotte is men⯑tioned, when each ſeems ſo ſure of gaining her, that a wager is laid, and put into the colonel's hands; after which Marcourt and Kitchen de⯑part to gratify their different attachments of gor⯑mandizing and foppery.

The ſecond act begins with Mr. and Mrs. Croſs at breakfaſt; both moſt thoroughly diſpoſed to contradiction, in the true ſpirit of matrimonial contention, they brow-beat each other for trifles, [384] and deſigned miſinterpretation; one finds fault with every article, and the other vindicates the whole; till Croſs at length repents coming to Stratford, which he juſtly calls a ridiculous journey; but the lady maintains warmly her taſte for faſhion and conſequence, which draws from her huſband a ſtroke of well applied uſeful ſatire, "Becauſe a counteſs, who has a room as long as Pall Mall, gets the whole town together at her route, you muſt have a route too, and ſqueeze all your company into two cloſets and a cupboard— nay, laſt winter, when the town run maſquerade mad, you got a ridiculous party of fops and flirts to make fools of themſelves, and called it a maſ⯑querade."

Several other obſervations occur previous to men⯑tion of their daughter's marriage; upon which a freſh and material difference of opinion ariſes, which the author has thrown into a well adapted dialogue, which at laſt riſes into a ſtate of natural, well-de⯑ſcribed aggravation, which Kitchen's approach op⯑portunely checks a little; immediately after, a meſſage intimates, that Marcourt is come to wait on Mrs. Croſs, this draws her off the ſtage, and leaves the two gentlemen to a tete-a-tete, in which Croſs mentions, that he has taken ſuch ſteps as may expedite his daughter's marriage with Mr. Kitchen; it is a ſtrange thought, however, for a father who has diſ⯑poſal of his child, and does not ſeem afraid of his wife, to take a houſe at ſuch a time in Stratford, for a month, that his daughter, being a pariſhioner, may [385] thereby have an opportunity of being married by banns, but we imagine a painful neceſſity in the plot called for this ſtrange ſhift.

When Charlotte approaches we do not find her a ſighing, deſpairing damſel, becauſe parents de⯑ſign diſpoſing of her againſt her inclination; but a daughter of political fineſſe, pretending ac⯑quieſcence on each ſide, that ſhe may have the better opportunity of deceiving both: for this purpoſe ſhe cordially cloſes with Mr. Kitchen and her father, but urges warmly the propriety of acting with ſecrecy; this, Mr. Croſs, and the imaginary huſband, come into readily: when the young lady urges that the jubilee affords a good opportunity for putting their ſcheme in practice, Kitchen throws out the following very ſenſible remark: "Intrigues carried on in the face of the world, are always leaſt liable to detection; and now-a-days moſt people ſeem to act upon that principle." After this, an aſſignation is made by Charlotte for Kitchen to meet her, when ſhe has ſlipped on her maſquerade dreſs, a blue Turkiſh habit.

When the gentlemen diſappear, Charlotte ſpe⯑culates on the weight and intricacy of buſineſs which engages her attention: comparing herſelf to a miniſter who, under various appearances, at⯑tends to nothing but his own ſeparate intereſt is well enough, but likening a young lady to the di⯑rection-poſt of a high road is certainly—excuſe the pun, a piece of wooden wit.

[386]That indiſpenſible utenſil in love-affairs, the chamber-maid, now approaches with intelligence that colonel Frankly is arrived, and has ſent a letter by her, which ſhe delivers. On being aſked, if any perſon ſaw it delivered to her? ſhe replies, No one but Sally, Charlotte's youngeſt ſiſter; of whom ſhe gives an arch deſcription, juſt previous to her entrance; yet what the young lady ſays, when before us, we muſt pronounce much in the ſtrain of mediocrity. She is curious indeed and forward, but utters nothing, that we can perceive, to raiſe a laugh or fix attention; her deſire to be concerned in what ſhe ſuppoſes miſchief, is natural enough; and Lettice ſeems prepared to gratify that girliſh inclination, but intimates they are not ſufficiently abſtracted from company. The propoſition of Sally's telling a fib or two, is right ſervant-maid inſtruction, but when Lettice calls her a little devil, it is rather the language of a cook or ſcullion, than that of a waiting-woman; and there is an unpardonably fulſome idea conveyed in Miſs Sally's knowing parody on Hodge's ſong of the Sheep's head and Carrot, without the leaſt degree of humour, at leaſt perceptible to us: thus ſtrangely concludes the ſecond act, which has ſo little ſpirit or buſineſs, that we find nothing commendable in it after Mr. and Mrs. Croſs, except its brevity.

Five pages of the book, between the ſecond and third acts, are filled with the older of that aſtoniſh⯑ing introduction the pageant, which has apparently as little connection with the general tenor of this [387] piece as any other, and ſeems only to have been an occaſional device for ſkimming the rich cream of curioſity, which for a few nights of anticipa⯑tion it certainly did with ſome degree of ſucceſs; but vaniſhed quickly upon the appearance of that at Drury Lane.

Having thus had occaſion to mention the JUBI⯑LEE, it becomes our duty to ſay, that a moſt ex⯑traordinary madneſs has this winter ſeized the London audience for repeatedly, in crowds, fol⯑lowing near ninety nights, what will by no means bear critical diſſection; the real jubilee at Strat⯑ford, if not politically intended as an introduction to what has ſince been exhibited here, deſerves no better title than theatrical idolatry; the mimic one carrying a wooden, or paſteboard repreſentation of SHAKESPEARE about the ſtage in a kind of lord mayor's ſhew triumph, and pantomiming thoſe excellent characters which he has ſo richly ſup⯑plied with affluence of language and ſentiment, is not only a mere money-trap, but a ſevere, though oblique ſatire alſo upon public taſte, which hence ſeems more to enjoy empty, unmeaning parade than ſolid ſenſe, or the nobleſt flights of powerful and luxuriant fancy.

It muſt be confeſſed, there is an agreeable diſh of dramatic ſalmagundy diſhed up at Drury Lane, in which an excellent admirably performed Hibernian is the moſt high-reliſhed ingredient, garniſhed with ſome very tolerable ballads; that the characters are well diſpoſed, and in dumb ſhow tolerably well ſup⯑ported we alſo acknowledge, but that public appe⯑tite [388] ſhould feed ſo long and greedily upon one dainty, is almoſt beyond the bounds of credibility; and for managers to run it ſo enormouſly, as far be⯑yond the bounds of juſtification; for admitting there are fools and children enough to anſwer the end of ſuch unparallelled repetition, what apology can be made to the many ſenſible, diſtinguiſhing friends of the theatre, who muſt either abſent themſelves half a ſeaſon, or have this mummery impoſed upon their taſte and feeling, in conjunction with many of the feebleſt worn-out plays; which have neither written or acting merit to up down, without ſome ſuch popular ſugar-plumb to ſweeten them.

Oh SHAKESPEARE, SHAKESPEARE, what a ſpec⯑tacle art thou made; how is thy muſe of fire cabin'd, cribb'd, confin'd, by ſuch mechanical repreſentation; methinks, if thou wert alive again, the ſhallow ju⯑ſtice who proſecuted thee for ſtealing veniſon would be ſooner forgiven, than thoſe who make thy great name a bait for gudgeons.

Having ſaid thus much in warm ſincerity againſt the very nature of what has ſo much engaged pub⯑lic attention, we muſt return to MAN and WIFE, only obſerving, that at Covent Garden the pageant was ill regulated, faintly repreſented, and inſipid to the laſt degree; however it eked out a piece not longer than ſome farces, to the principal part of an evening's entertainment; though the author has ſince, with great modeſty, reduced it properly to an after-game; acting upon the ſame principle they are guided by in the royal dock-yards, that is of cut⯑ting [389] down a ſhip or the line, when ſhe does not navigate well, into a frigate.

At the end of the ſecond act we had ſome ſmall intimation of a plot in favour of Charlotte's mar⯑riage with colonel Frankly, and now at the begin⯑ning of the third, we find her prepared for the maſquerade; while Lettice, the truſty confident, appears for the purpoſe of deception in the blue Turkiſh habit, which was mentioned as ſignal for Kitchen. From what Charlotte ſays in this ſcene, we find that her Mamma, aiming at high life, has invited the maſques to her houſe, pre⯑vious to their going to the amphitheatre; and that from this circumſtance, the amuſing Mar⯑court and Kitchen muſt ariſe, while the young lady purſues her own inclination with the colonel. Sally's part is to make a fool, as ſhe phraſes it, of the beau, while Lettice plays upon the Turtle merchant.

Marcourt's approach hurries off Charlotte and Lettice, leaving Sally to play her part, who in a ſhort ſoliloquy, profeſſes great dexterity in the art of fibbing; and comparing her ſiſter's lovers, in⯑clines her approbation to the colonel; what paſſes between this ſprightly young ſprig of intrigue, in point of dialogue, is mere whip ſyllabub; much froth, very little ſubſtance. One turn of Mar⯑court's is well enough, when ſhe throws out—not very modeſtly, ſome encomiums upon him: he ſays, "What a ſenſible little creature it is!" The ſcheme ſhe has been taught to manage, is putting Marcourt upon a wrong ſcent, by ſuggeſting that [390] her ſiſter is bent upon deceiving him in favour of Kitchen; therefore adviſes ſtrict attention to the lady in the Turkiſh habit. There is at the con⯑cluſion of the ſcene, a little ſtage-trick of Sally's laughing, as Marcourt is going off, and when he turns to ſalute her, aſſuming gravity of counte⯑tenance, which told extremely well in action, be⯑ing happily executed.

Mrs. Croſs and Lettice now appear; the former in high ſpirits, firſt from an idea of conſequence in the maſks aſſembling at her houſe, and next from a ſuppoſition that her favourite is ſure of Charlotte; penurious extravagance and aukward elegance, are admirably touched upon in this ſpeech of the city lady, "Have they ſtuck the ends of ſpermaceti in the Girandoles; and have you ſent to the apo⯑thecary's for a ſufficient quantity of Cream of Tar⯑tar to make Lemonade?"

Seeing ſome maſks ſhe goes off, and leaves Let⯑tice to entertain the audience with a ſoliloquy of very little purport, and leſs humour; Kitchen comes forward, to whom the maid diſcovers herſelf, and impoſes upon him an inſinuation, that Char⯑lotte's inclination is entirely with him, but that Mrs. Croſs's prejudice infavour of his rival, makes a little policy eſſential, Kitchen alſo ſwallows greedily the bait of deluſion, and is going poſt haſte to meet his miſtreſs near the great booth, but ſeeing Mar⯑court at hand, Lettice deſires him to ſtay; upon the ſmart's entrance, a ſlight altercation, concern⯑ing the ſuppoſed Miſs Charlotte, enſuing between the gentlemen; Marcourt not only preſſing by [391] words, but uſing force to make Lucy unmaſk; ſhe ſcreams, which brings Mr. and Mrs. Croſs, the former of whom reproves the forward gallant; the ſpirit of contradiction between the MAN and WIFE now again exerts itſelf pretty briſkly, concerning whether the lady ſhall unmaſk or no; however, Lucy removes her concealment; this ſurpriſes Croſs, who aſks for his daughter; ſome confuſion enſues, and from what Kitchen has privately intimated, he triumphs over Mrs. Croſs's diſappointment— Here a Mr. Fleece appears, who comes for the very purpoſe of telling that Charlotte is married to Colonel Frankly; this Mr. Fleece, we find, was appointed agent to take the houſe to make Char⯑lotte a pariſhioner, and to have the banns of mar⯑riage publiſhed; but was impoſed on by the young lady to act diametrically oppoſite to the in⯑clination and intention of both her parents; the un⯑lucky rivals bear their diſappointment with patience; but Mrs. Croſs threatens turning her daughter out of doors, which Croſs warmly oppoſes, and to thwart his wife, ſays, he will receive them with open arms; the happy couple appear next, and matters are agreeably compromiſed—One expreſ⯑ſion of Kitchen's we cannot paſs unnoticed; ſpeak⯑ing of himſelf and Marcourt, he ſays, "I have been roaſted a little it is true, but not ſo much as my friend here—HE GOT INTO THE WHEEL AND TURNED HIMSELF"—Oh glorious Hiberniciſm! exactly parallel to Captain O'Blunder's expreſſion of not being by when the taylor took meaſure of him for a ſuit of cloaths; who ever imagined, [392] before our author, that a turnſpit puppy in office roaſts himſelf—what pity that he did not add, to give the wit additional brilliance, and baſted himſelf.

Upon a retroſpect of this comedy, if it muſt be called ſo, we find the firſt act, at leaſt the former part of it, animated by laughable buſtle, tho' rather farcical, the latter is ſatirically pleaſant; the ſecond act begins agreeably, but is afterwards egregiouſly inſipid: the third act conſiſts of laborious intricacy, without na⯑ture to authorize, humour to ſupport, or incident to gratify the ſuſpence aimed at: the plot is found⯑ed upon a moſt pitiful device, and unravelled poorly. We find that the author ſeems unacquainted with ca⯑nonical hours, which are preciſely obſerved in mar⯑riages by publication of banns, nay, by licence, un⯑leſs it be ſpecial; we are preſented with two cha⯑racters habited for the maſquerade, and hear of others being come; is it probable that they could be thus prepared, when the forenoon was engaged as at the Jubilee, or indeed any where, for a maſked ball before ſeven o'clock at ſooneſt—yet Colo⯑nel Frankly and his bride juſt come from church at this time; though the matrimonial ceremony, under ſuch circumſtances as we mention, cannot be cele⯑brated unleſs between eight and twelve in the fore⯑noon; perhaps the author might have been led into this miſtake, by entering the honourable ſtate himſelf in the evening through ſpecial authority.

In point of character there is variety, but nothing very original; the dialogue is eaſy, and in ſome places ſpirited; the humour rather trite, yet enter⯑taining; [393] and, as to the moral, we ſhall give Mr. COLMAN's words at the concluſion; "we derive, ſays Croſs, ſpeaking of his daughter's marriage, from this incident, one material piece of inſtruction, that no family can be well governed where there is a diſ⯑agreement amongſt THOSE who are placed at the head of it—and that nothing is ſo neceſſary as har⯑mony amongſt THOSE whoſe intereſts are ſo inti⯑mately connected as THOSE of Man and Wife," by the words particularized it will appear this ſentence is not remarkable for elegance or compactneſs.

Mr. COLMAN, in a previous advertiſement, has paid a genteel compliment to the performers for their great excellence in the repreſentation; this, we think, extremely liberal, conſidering him in the double light of manager and author, though we could wiſh the word great had been omitted; in⯑deed, we have heard his approbation interpreted dif⯑ferently; firſt as a deſign to recommend the houſe, ſecond as a verbal bribe to engage the actors on his ſide, in the contention with his brother patentees, and laſt, to approve his own great talent in writing for, and adapting characters to the executive facul⯑ties of each performer; however, we are apt to in⯑terpret his praiſe more ingenuouſly, and ſhall juſtify in general the idea he thereby inculcates.

Croſs is a peeviſh, ſilly fellow, who after his firſt ſcene, becomes mighty inconſiderable, and an inſipid engine of the plot; Mr. SHUTER being freer from grimace in this character than any other, is ex⯑tremely deſerving of applauſe; but we apprehend [394] the dryneſs of humour aimed at, would have found better ſupport in Mr. YATES.

Marcourt, by Mr. WOODWARD, has not, as we re⯑member, one touch of Harlequin; his degagée pert⯑neſs is admirably expreſſed, and no part that we have ever ſeen was better figured, or better dreſſed.

Kitchen, who has more novelty and uniformity about him than any other character in the piece, fell moſt happily into the hands of Mr. DUNSTALL, through him nature articulated every line with a⯑greeable unaffected humour; without grimace or fineſſe of any ſort, he ſuſtained the author becoming⯑ly, and without one laborious effort gave every in⯑telligent ſpectator ſingular ſatisfaction.

The Landlord, who could be little elſe than Bonniface in the gout, was hobbled through well enough by Mr. MORRIS: Luke, the waiter, re⯑ceived great ſpirit from, and ſtood much indebted to Mr. LEWES, whoſe voluble and ſpirited expreſ⯑ſion rendered ſo ſhort a part very conſpicuous. Buck and Mr. DAVIS did not diſagree, he looked the riotous Bacchanalian well, and expreſſed his in⯑ebriated ſtate with ſome degree of pleaſantry. Mr. WIGNEL tragedized Snarl ſo laughably, that, for the few lines he ſpoke, it becomes matter of great doubt, whether he was not the moſt comical perſonage of the drama. Mr. QUICK ſpoke the Hoſtler well enough, but was far too petit to figure ſuch a character; Mr. BARNSHAW would have looked it exquiſitely. Mr. FOX, in the firſt paſ⯑ſenger, performed the ceremony of diſpatching a [395] toaſt and ſome mulled wine dexterouſly; nor was he at all amiſs in delivering the blunt expreſſions put into his mouth. As to Mr. HERBERT, there ſurely never was ſuch a lifeleſs freſh-water ſailor ſeen before.

Mrs. Croſs is as poſitive as her huſband, but ra⯑ther more ſilly and violent; devoted with ideas contemptibly narrow, to a laviſh imitation of per⯑ſons in high life; fond of what ſhe does not un⯑derſtand, and opiniated of judgment ſhe has not; a perverſe wife and indiſcreet mother; ſuch are her outlines; however, the picture is but very faint⯑ly finiſhed, it received conſiderable animation from that correctneſs and vivacity which always diſtin⯑guiſhes Mrs. GREEN's performance of ſuch cha⯑racters. Charlotte is, conſidered in the theatrical view, as mere a trifle as ever hung heavy on the drama; with juſt cunning ſufficient to pick up a huſband, and inſipidity enough to ſet an audience aſleep. Sally, her younger ſiſter, is in no ſhape comic, except in ſome ſtrokes where, conſidering her age, a charge of couched licentiouſneſs may be brought againſt her; ſhe was performed with very conſiderable merit. Lettice ſat eaſy enough on Mrs. MATTOCKS, but is ſuch a chambermaid as never appeared before; extremely eager to forward in⯑trigue, without having any thing to do or ſay worth notice. The Landlady is well drawn, and had great juſtice done her by Mrs. GARDNER, whoſe capability is equal to much more material undertakings. As to the two female paſſengers, we have really forgot [396] them, and therefore avoid offering any opinion, as we would be equally tender of thoſe who play one, as thoſe who play ten lengths.

As a farce, MAN and WIFE may do on the ſtage after a Tragedy, by no means after a Comedy, and in the cloſet can never gain any degree of eſtimation.

ZENOBIA. A TRAGEDY. ANONYMOUS.

OPening the drama with ſoliloquy, unleſs what the character ſpeaks appertains peculiarly to ſelf, we cannot entirely approve; and what Zelmira of⯑fers at the beginning of this tragedy, we deem an uneſſential, faint, trite effort at deſcription; what ſhe ſays to her huſband Zopiron, concerning the havoc which ambition cauſes, is expreſſed in terms commendably humane; a moſt hateful picture of Pharaſmanes is given, and we are informed, that he holds in captivity a beauteous dame, diſtinguiſhed by the name of Ariana, for whoſe virtue Zelmira conceives tender apprehenſions; the entrance of Zenobia is well prepared, by mention of the diſtreſs her mind appears to wear; and her fainting under a load of ſorrow when ſhe comes in view, affects the tender mind: there is ſomething pretty in her ſenſe of obligation for the tender aſſiduity of her at⯑tendants, and their diſintereſted attachment; but we think them very ſtrange, very improper meſſengers to ſuperviſe and bring intelligence of the impend⯑ing battle; it muſt convey an Amazonian idea to ſuppoſe them capable of ſuch a charge; beſides, Zopiron, who now diſappears ſo oddly, might have either undertaken the matter himſelf, or recom⯑mended a proper meſſenger.

[398]In the conference between Zenobia and Zelmira, Pharaſmanes's brutal, bloody character, is ſet in a clearer light, by the direct charge of fratricide, in murdering Mithridates, an amiable monarch, whoſe virtues, excluſive of natural ties, ſhould have ſecured him from ſuch violence; it appears too, that the tyrant illegally holds the crown of Armenia, given to his eldeſt ſon Rhadamiſtus by Mithridates: a crown Pharaſmanes ſeized by force of arms, pur⯑ſuing even the life of his plundered child. On Zel⯑mira's charging Rhadamiſtus with the murder of his wife, Zenobia gives a nervous and pathetic ac⯑count of the affair, from whence we learn that prince was ſent when young to Mithridates' court, where an early affection grew between him and Ze⯑nobia, to whom he was married. At length, dri⯑ven to deſpair by the unnatural rage of Pharaſ⯑manes, the royal couple determined to ſeek an aſy⯑lum in death, for which purpoſe they plunged into the river Araxes; in the tranſport of relation, Ze⯑nobia, known to Zelmira only as Ariana, ſlips out her real name, which ſeems to promiſe further ex⯑planation; but the entrance of Tigranes, an officer and creature of Pharaſmanes ſtops it.

The appearance of ſome captives ſtrikes Zeno⯑bia with apprehenſion that the Romans have been vanquiſhed, but Tigranes informs her they are only ſome perſons who were intercepted going to the Ro⯑man camp, for which the king has ſentenced them to be impaled alive; the latter end of this line we think liable to objection, ‘They ſuffer death in miſery of torment.’

[399]The word miſery ſeems ſuperfluouſly annexed to torment, as not tending to add any force, but rather furniſhing a poverty of idea; there may be miſery without torment, but there cannot be torment with⯑out miſery. Upon viewing the unhappy objects of unrelenting tyranny, Zenobia tenderly recognizes Megiſtus, for whom ſhe profeſſes moſt friendly re⯑gard, as he does for her, and on the authority of being beloved by Pharaſmanes, ſhe takes him under her protection. This meeting is extremely well conceived, and the cauſe of her eſteem for the old man judiciouſly concealed.

In the ſcene between Tigranes and Zelmira we are informed, that Teribazus, the younger ſon of Pha⯑raſmanes, loves Zenobia; a ſhort ſketch of that young prince's character is given by Tigranes, who afterwards drops a diſtant intimation of being him⯑ſelf a foe to Zenobia; here Teribazus preſents him⯑ſelf, and makes kind enquiry of Zelmira for Ari⯑ana: Zenobia comes in upon his words, and en⯑quires concerning the fate of war, when ſhe is in⯑formed, that the king has condeſcended to treat of peace, and that an ambaſſador from the Roman camp is to have audience in Pharaſmanes's tent; from this Zenobia cannot draw any preſage in her own favour, however, proceeds to an immediate and warm interceſſion for Megiſtus, whom ſhe calls more than father; ſhe drops alſo ſome unfavourable hints of Tigranes's officiouſneſs in the act of cri⯑mination; the prince, glad of an occaſion to oblige the object of his affection, promiſes not only life but [400] liberty to the old man, and reproves Tigranes with conſiderable aſperity.

This deſirable point gained, Zenobia's mental gloom appears for ſome time gilded with the en⯑livening rays of heart-felt ſatisfaction; in the full ſlow of her feelings, and to account for being ſo in⯑tereſted for Megiſtus, ſhe reveals herſelf at large, and relates how the good old man reſcued her, when floated far from Rhadamiſtus; reſcued her juſt ex⯑piring, from the flood, and with her ſaved a boy of which ſhe then was pregnant; the remainder of this ſcene, where ſhe mentions living with Megiſtus, ſeparation from her child, captivity with Pharaſ⯑manes, and the grief of her huſband loſt, is poeti⯑cally pathetic, well calculated for capital action, without any ſtrain or exaggeration of nature.

That dramatic writers, forty years ſince, when actors chaunted according to the flow of verſe, pay⯑ing more reſpect to harmony of expreſſion than meaning, ſhould tag their acts with thoſe paltry unnatural clap traps, rhimes, is not at all ſurpriſing; but for a poet of this day to intrude them upon pub⯑lic taſte, is what we could not reaſonably expect, and muſt therefore blame in this play, eſpecially thoſe at the end of the firſt act, which are ſervilely ſimilar to one of Andromache's ſpeeches in the Diſtreſſed Mother; we have alſo an objection to ſpeaking of ſpirit, in the ſtile of a diſtinct ſex, when the moſt ignorant muſt know, that the corporeal compoſition only, admits ſuch a diſtinction; the paſſage runs

There is another line in this ſcene cenſurable, as being both in idea and expreſſion exactly ſimilar to a paſſage in Dryden's Virgil; Zenobia, ſpeaking of her huſband's fatal cataſtrophe, ſays,

Speaking of a ſea-nymph's departure under water, Dryden has it thus, ‘And her laſt words came bubbling up in air.’

At the beginning of the ſecond act, Tigranes pre⯑ſents himſelf ruminating, in a ſhort ſoliloquy, upon ſome terms of reproach, uttered againſt him by Teribazus, which occaſions him to declare reſent⯑ment againſt the Prince, marking Zenobia alſo as an object of hatred; Pharaſmanes approaches this miniſterial tool of tyranny, and like the true man of blood, regrets that propoſed negotiation from the Roman camp, has ſtopped the glorious havoc of impending battle; then enquires, whether the captives have ſuffered death according to his ſen⯑tence; this gives Tigranes's malevolence an oppor⯑tunity of accuſing Teribazus, by inſinuation of ſuſ⯑pending their fate; thus he touches the monarch's impatience, who expreſſes himſelf in terms of ſeve⯑rity againſt the Prince, juſt as Zenobia enters, who ſupplicates in pathetic terms, mercy for the cap⯑tives; this ſuit, from an amourous inclination, Pharaſmanes grants; the perſuaſion of one, and [402] the compliance of the other, are agreeably conduct⯑ed in this ſcene; upon mention of Megiſtus, as a parent, the monarch propoſes not only giving life, but raiſing him to a ſtate of ſplendor, which Ze⯑nobia prettily declines.

Being acquainted by Teribazus that the Roman embaſſy is arrived, Pharaſmanes, after hinting re⯑ſentment to his ſon, and rhiming out a compliment to the lady, goes off to grant an audience; this gives Teribazus an opportunity of urging again his paſſion to Zenobia, which ſhe admits with reſpect, but cannot return; the real cauſe of her coldneſs is well and naturally concealed; as it occaſions Teribazus firſt to ſuppoſe his father is the happy ri⯑val, and afterwards leaves him ſtrongly agitated with impaſſioned doubt; to ſay truth, the Prince is here pictured a kind of Drawcanſir in love, ready to kill any and every body who dare thwart his dar⯑ling inclination; when he ſeems left in a ſtrange ſtate of confuſion, without a ſyllable of any conſe⯑quence to ſay, Zopiron comes in and gives him a ſhort account of the embaſſy, and of the ſenate's reſolution concerning Armenia, which Teribazus ſuppoſing himſelf immediate heir to, rejoices at, and with ſome juſtice, though not ſtrict filial duty, wiſhes his father's defeat.

One obvious point of enquiry ariſes here, how Zopiron ſhould know what the Roman ambaſſador has in charge before the public audience has taken place; as he knows not that Flaminius is Rhada⯑miſtus, nor has had any previous conference with [403] him: the general idea of peace is publicly known, but the reſerved claim upon Armenia, Pharaſmanes himſelf is not acquainted with, till made ſo by the ambaſſador.

Tho' it is ſomething odd, that a repreſentative of the Roman ſenate ſhould enter upon private con⯑verſation with an unknown perſon, before he has fulfilled his public charge, yet, we find Rhada⯑miſtus, in his aſſumed character, unattended, joins Zopiron, to converſe, as we perceive, upon very inte⯑reſting matter in an open camp; after aſking for the monarch, he expreſſes himſelf in very indelicate terms of Pharaſmanes, which is amazing in one who bears the olive branch; whatever his thoughts might be, ſure it muſt be deemed, not only impo⯑litic, but highly cenſurable, to ſpeak in ſuch a man⯑ner before one who, for ought he knows, may re⯑late it to the prejudice of his humane errand; how⯑ever, he accidentaly lights on a moſt convenient per⯑ſon in Zopiron, who adviſes him to ſpeak home truth; this ſeems to awaken Rhadamiſtus's reaſon, which tho' he has already ſpoke in a moſt unreſerved, manner, he thinks not ſo well adapted to Pharaſ⯑manes's camp; Zopiron's viſage linking a favour⯑able impreſſion, he aſks Zopiron's name and quali⯑ty, which certainly ſhould have been known before he had vouchſafed conference; on being told that he is delegated to plead the rights of Armenia, Rhadamiſtus ſeems to have heard of him, and men⯑tions his own real name without revealing himſelf.

[404]Zopiron profeſſing warm attachment to his law⯑ful prince, though unknown, and even ſuppoſed dead, he receives information of the unhappy youth's being alive; here Rhadamiſtus gives a ſtrong, lively and affecting picture of his own wretchedneſs, and mentions Zenobia in a melting manner; but, when the author throws him into a ſwoon, we are ſurprized at the miſplaced extrava⯑gance of paſſion, which repreſents the prince rather as a child than a hero, incapable of checking that grief which unreſtrained ſo palpably tends to ſet a⯑ſide the diſguiſe he thinks it neceſſary to wear; be⯑ſides, falling and grovling about the ſtage on ſuch an occaſion, is rather a mean theatrical trick, than any flight of nature; a kind of frenzy ſucceeds the fainting fit, merely calculated for action, without any trace of propriety; from this Rhadamiſtus diſ⯑covers himſelf, and relates his deſign of periſhing with Zenobia, but that chance, and the humanity of ſome Romans, who had found him inanimate on the Araxes' banks, had preſerved him to toil through a life of woe; the aſſiſtance promiſed by Rome on knowing his real character is mentioned; on hearing that the Armenians conſider his brother Teribazus as heir to their crown, his grief makes a ſtrange propoſition of yielding to another what the Romans are generouſly endeavouring to recover for him; in ſhort, this ſcene, which concludes with a gingling reſolution of ſcolding Pharaſmanes, is extravagant in ſome parts, flat in others, and much too tedious upon the whole; we think alſo, [405] it might have been much more happily introduced after than before the firſt ſcene of the next act.

When Pharaſmanes receives, on his throne, Rha⯑damiſtus, as the Roman ambaſſador, we find the former entertains moſt contemptuous notions of re⯑publicans. However, his expreſſions are tolerably decent till Rhadamiſtus, forgetting his peaceable er⯑rand, and indulging an ungovernable ſpirit of ſpeak⯑ing ill-timed truth, offends him. The monarch, with great colour of juſtice, fires at reproachful ac⯑cuſations; and hence ariſes verbal contention, un⯑worthy of, and diſgraceful to private gentlemen, much more, ſuch exalted characters. Pharaſmanes, contrary to the law of nations, draws upon the brawling ambaſſador, and Rhadamiſtus urges his fury by an unlimited licence of expreſſion. We much approve the following paſſage relative to Mi⯑thridates' death:

But at the ſame time cannot help ſuppoſing it bor⯑row'd from a much more beautiful one to the ſame purpoſe, ſpoken by Aegeon, in the laſt ſcene of the fourth act of OEdipus. The whole conference, now before us, is a moſt indelicate piece of politi⯑cal ſquabble, leaving matters nearly in the ſtate they were before it took place.

Zenobia, and Magiſtus, now appear to diſcuſs a tender point, the ſafety and ſituation of her infant ſon. Maternal anxiety, and faithful attachment, are pleaſingly ſet forth. Impatient to ſee her child, Ze⯑nobia [406] propoſes flying from Pharaſmanes's camp; but Megiſtus objects to the danger of ſuch a mea⯑ſure, and prudentially hints that revealing herſelf to the ambaſſador of Rome is a more probable me⯑thod of anſwering her purpoſe; the ſuggeſtion ſtrikes her, and furniſhes a freſh gleam of comfort. Their converſation is interrupted by Tigranes, who comes as meſſenger from the king, to know when Zeno⯑bia will make her royal admirer happy, by marri⯑age; this rouſes her indignation, which ſhe vents in ſpirited terms. Her refuſal is imputed, by Tigra⯑nes, to a prejudice in favour of Teribazus, which, however, ſhe diſclaims, and leaves him with ſome ſtinging obſervations on his own baſe character, which makes him, afreſh, declare his intention of working her ruin. To him Rhadamiſtus approaches, who ſomewhat cooled himſelf, ſuppoſes the king's in⯑temperance may, by this time, be moderated alſo. His ſentiments are very pacific; but Tigranes aſ⯑ſures him of vindictive reſolutions upon the ſide of Pharaſmanes; however, promiſes to convey the prince's humane ſentiments to his royal maſter.

In a ſucceeding ſoliloquy, we perceive nature checking Rhadamiſtus, for waging war againſt his father, though a cruel one; apprehenſion of meet⯑ing, and perhaps deſtroying, an unknown brother, in battle, alſo ſhakes him: During this agitation of mind, Teribazus joins him; and utters, in his firſt ſpeech, this ſtrange accumulation of epithets, where⯑in the juſt gradation of climax is forgot; ‘A wretched, ruin'd, miſerable prince’ [407] Beſides the diſſonance of four r's jarring in this line, what occaſion, after telling us that he is wretched, is there for adding the word miſerable; but our author ſeems fond of this mode of expreſſion. In the progreſs of this conference we are again, there⯑fore, ſuperfluouſly made acquainted with Pharaſma⯑nes's crimes, upon Teribazus's mentioning Rhada⯑miſtus with affection, though an unknown brother. Sentiments of tender nature ariſe; and, as Flaminius, the latter propoſes aſſiſtance to the former; who however declares, that filial duty will not ſuffer him to aſſail, with violence, even a tyrannic parent. One material apprehenſion he mentions, that of loſing the lovely captive, Ariana; wherefore he requeſts Rhadamiſtus to convey her from the camp; this fa⯑vour is readily and cordially promiſed, with an in⯑treaty, that Teribazus will alſo retreat to the Roman refuge; this is declined, and he goes off to ſend the idol of his affection, while he watchfully prevents any interruption of her interview with the ambaſ⯑ſador.

Megiſtus now leads on Zenobia, and a few lines are ſpoke before Rhadamiſtus fully perceives what object ſtands before him; tranſported doubt, for ſome time, agitates him, after he has recognized her features and perſon, during which, ſhe per⯑ceives, knows, and yet doubts alſo, the huſband ſhe has long thought dead.

Theſe meetings are ſo frequent in tragedies, the Mourning Bride, Oroonoko, &c. that the author muſt poſſeſs uncommon abilities who ſtrikes out any [408] thing new or more affecting than we have ſeen. Whatever poſſibility there is of working ſuch an ef⯑fect, we cannot compliment the piece before us, in that light; the prince, as uſual, ſtands in an atti⯑tude, and the lady faints; beſides, the incident hangs too long upon attention. When the faithful pair are realized to each other, Zenobia preſents Megiſ⯑tus as the preſerver of herſelf and child, upon which occaſion, we think Rhadamiſtus too languid. How much ſtronger is the glow of love and grati⯑tude in Oroonoko, who forgives even the villain who has kidnapped him, as being the means of finding his beloved Imoinda? Without forceable ac⯑tion this ſcene, eſpecially as a child is in the caſe, is much fainter than any one we know, of a ſimilar na⯑ture. Indeed, the poet ſeems conſcious that his muſe flaps her pinions heavily, by hurrying the act to a concluſion. Tigranes being ſeen, Rhadamiſtus goes off to meet him; Megiſtus briefly mentions the pleaſing accompliſhment of his prayers, in Zenobia's happineſs; and ſhe promiſes him ſingular regard. —Would ſhe did not deliver herſelf in rhime.

Act the fourth commences with the two princely brothers; Teribazus thanking Rhadamiſtus for his promiſed care of the captive, and warning him againſt any amorous impreſſions. This precaution occaſions ſome dubious expreſſions to fall, which alarm the ſuſpicion, and enflame the impetuoſity, of Teribazus, who, nevertheleſs, cools upon being de⯑ſired to continue the beauteous object within his amo⯑rous father's reach, and chuſing rather to truſt Ro⯑man [409] integrity, requeſts again the conductive care of Flaminius. Here Tigranes enters, and gives in⯑formation that the king is approaching to have a private interview with the ambaſſador; this ſends off Teribazus, and the monarch ſoon appears.

After a few preparative lines, Pharaſmanes men⯑tions that Rhadamiſtus is alive, to Flaminius' know⯑ledge; therefore, demands his head from Paulinus the Roman general's hands. Here the tyrant, if poſſible, gives his character a deeper tinge of guilt; and Rhadamiſtus, though in vain, expoſtulates with him on the principles of parental tenderneſs and ge⯑neral humanity; theſe failing to touch his inexora⯑ble heart, the parley is broken off, and vengeance denounced on either ſide.

Pharaſmanes, determined on the deciſion of war, reſolves, during the intermediate hours of peace, to proſecute his impaſſionate purpoſe on Ariana, and aſks Tigranes, if ſhe has conſented to make him happy; on being informed of her peremptory, nay ſcornful, refuſal, he declares, that love itſelf ſhall be his ſlave. However, a gleam of generous feeling ſhoots acroſs the gloom of his duſky mind, and lights him to the milder path of perſuaſion; for which purpoſe he orders Megiſtus, whom he ſuppo⯑ſes the father of Zenobia, to be brought before him; the old man, at his entrance, ſpeaks in the ſtile of heſitative apprehenſion, to which the monarch re⯑plies in terms of friendly profeſſion, for ſake of his imagined daughter. Speaking of the diſtreſs which [410] preys upon Zenobia's mind, Megiſtus mentions an abſent huſband, long ſeparated, as the cauſe of her woe. This alarms the monarch, who declares he will remove, by violence, ſuch an impediment to his own uncontrolable paſſion; and deſires an immediate interview with his beauteous captive, ordering Megiſtus to conduct her, which charge he reſpectfully declines; and when urged by Pharaſ⯑manes, with the glaring argument of royal ſplendor, he expreſſes himſelf in the following agreeable paſ⯑ſage, which, without much originality, has yet ſome ſhare of poetical and philoſophical merit; it might naturally flow from an humble ſtation, yet it is by no means unworthy an exalted mind:

Pharaſmanes, ill calculated to parley with his own turbulent paſſions, contemns cool reaſon, and threat⯑ens the moſt fatal meaſures, if his deſires are not complied with, leaving Megiſtus to ruminate there⯑on. The old man might have been furniſhed with an excellent ſoliloquy; and, indeed, one of eight or ten lines ſeems neceſſary to place the exit of Pha⯑raſmanes, and the entrance of Zenobia at a proper diſtance from each other; as it is, ſhe treads upon the heels of incenſed royalty. The princeſs hurries [411] off her faithful guardian, appointing a place of meet⯑ing, that ſuſpicion may not ariſe from their being ſeen together. Teribazus enters, upon the old man's departure, and renews his ſuit to Zenobia, which ſhe interrupts, and overturns, by a moſt unaccount⯑able declaration, that the idol of her love is in the camp. Nay, upon further queſtion, ſhe ſtill more ſurpriſingly, and we may add inconſiſtently, de⯑clares, without reſerve, Flaminius is that rival. From what precedes, it would ſeem as if ſhe had intereſted the prince to recommend her flight to the Roman camp under care of the Roman ambaſſador. That flight being ready for execution, how is it poſ⯑ſible ſhe ſhould, ſo palpably, ſtrike out the means of prevention; nay, even the hazard of, either diſco⯑vering Rhadamiſtus, or, ſubjecting his life to dan⯑ger, from a tempeſt of jealouſy raiſed in his bro⯑ther's breaſt. Yet, ſuch is her conduct; and Rha⯑damiſtus, entering upon the diſcovery, is juſtly ac⯑cuſed by Teribazus. The dilemma Zenobia has reduced herſelf and huſband to, is manifeſt, as in this bungled ſcene ſhe ſpeaks but two lines and a half, and thoſe with little or no meaning.

Teribazus, though almoſt frenzied with rage, ſo far remembers the ſacred character of an ambaſſa⯑dor, that he poſtpones his reſentment to the next day's battle. This is polite, and generous; but how can we account for his leaving the woman he loves with a profeſſed rival, who is, as he knows, going to quit the camp, and has his own requeſt, to take the fair one with him. How to reconcile [412] ſuch contrarieties we cannot tell, and ſuppoſe no⯑thing could urge an intelligent author into them, but the utmoſt diſtreſs and penury of plot; or, an implicit compliance with Mr. Bays's maxim, that to elevate and ſurprize is eligible at any rate.

Soon after Teribazus goes off, Zopiron enters, and haſtens the departure of Rhadamiſtus, with Zenobia; who ſcarce diſappears, when Pharaſma⯑nes, with his obſequious Tigranes, approach. The monarch declares his intention, of abiding the event of war, and ſends for his ſon, Teribazus; to whom, on his appearance, he urges an accuſation of giving countenance to his foes; this the prince denies with becoming ſpirit and reſpect. On a ſecond charge, of thwarting his father's amorous inclination, he diſclaims any attachment to Zenobia, and points out ambition as the preſent ruler of his heart. Ti⯑granes, who was diſpatched to ſee that the Roman ambaſſador had left the camp, returns; and informs Pharaſmanes, that Zenobia and Megiſtus are fled with the ambaſſador: This rouſes the tyrant, who orders a purſuit; which point of ſervice the irrita⯑ted Teribazus takes upon himſelf, conſiderably in the Quixote ſtile; not in reſpect of words, but the inconſiſtency of the behaviour. To ſay truth, there is a laughable mixture of conſequence and weakneſs, rage and childiſhneſs, ſet forth in the monarch alſo; whoſe concluſion of the act is as much below the temper of mind, he has hitherto ſhewn, as poſſible.

[413]At the commencement of the fifth act, Pharaſma⯑nes preſents himſelf to us, in a ſtate of agitated re⯑flection; jealouſy and vengeance fire his imagina⯑tion, to a deſperate reſolution, when Teribazus brings him the agreeable intelligence, that he overtook, and has, after faint reſiſtance, made priſoners the fugi⯑tives. They are brought on chained, and ſuſtain, with becoming fortitude, threats of a ſanguinary nature, from the enraged monarch. Rhadamiſtus throws out a hint to his brother, that he will repent the forward zeal which has brought them into ſuch a ſituation. Teribazus, wild with reſentment, hav⯑ing heard Zenobia declare the ſuppoſed Flaminius her huſband, treats his brother with diſdain, and vows eternal hoſtility with Rome. Rhadamiſtus, pleading the priviledge of his ſtation for ſafety, is anſwered by Pharaſmanes, that he has forfeited all title to reſpect and protection. Zenobia remon⯑ſtrates, in favour of her huſband, with force and feeling; which rather ſeems to precipitate his fate. Nothing can be more languid than Rhadamiſtus's behaviour through this whole ſcene; when dragged off to execution, his wife ſoftens into ſupplication, and, on Pharaſmanes's declaration, that her compli⯑ance with his amorous deſires, is the only path to mercy, ſhe very pathetically offers her infant ſon, as a plea for milder treatment; finding the monarch inexorable, ſhe gives full ſcope to the diſtraction of grief: here Teribazus appears, and ſeems diſ⯑poſed to ſooth her, notwithſtanding he has been the cauſe of the pungent woe, ſhe feels.

[414]On the hint, that Flaminius is his brother Rhada⯑miſtus, Teribazus entertains ſtrong and natural ſur⯑prize; and, with a great deal of juſtice, aſks, why ſo important a ſecret was kept from him; on Ze⯑nobia's anſwer, which contains but a weak apology, the prince reſolves, affectionately, to ſave his bro⯑ther, for which purpoſe he goes off. Zenobia, however, does not draw any favourable conſequence from this unexpected turn; but ſeems to think her huſband's fall is inevitable; which melancholy re⯑flection is confirmed by Zopiron, who brings intel⯑ligence, that Rhadamiſtus is leading forth to execu⯑tion; this, very alarming criſis, inſpires Zenobia with a deſperate remedy, which ſhe haſtens to put in practice; but leaves the audience in doubt what it may be.

Rhadamiſtus appearing guarded, Teribazus joins him, and enters into a private conference. The ex⯑planation of affinity gives the former a fine oppor⯑tunity of manifeſting fraternal tenderneſs, by grant⯑ing unlimited forgiveneſs to the perſon who has ef⯑fected his ruin. Indeed, the picture he gives of his own diſingenuous policy is a powerful exculpation of Teribazus, and places him in the faireſt point of view that their conduct and circumſtances will admit. However, his brother, on the propoſal of a reſcue, even at the expence of their inhuman father's life, ſhews true filial dignity, moſt amiable perſevering tenderneſs, in rejecting the idea of preſerving his own life, and even his love, by the ſacrifice of a parent. Tigranes, with a freſh ſentence from Pha⯑raſmanes, [415] orders the guards to plunge Rhadamiſtus into a dungeon, where his generous brother deter⯑termines to attend him.

Tigranes, in a ſhort ſoliloquy, after the princes are departed, ſeems to plan great matters for him⯑ſelf, but is ſo much the embrio of a villain, that we ſcarce know what to make of him; Zopiron now appears with a ſuſpenſion of Rhadamiſtus's ſen⯑tence, by order of the king, and, as he ſays, the queen; mention of the queen ſurprizes Tigranes, from whoſe enquiry we find, that Zenobia has con⯑ſented to be, and actually is, by a very ſhort cere⯑mony, the wife of Pharaſmanes; Zopiron's account of the tranſaction, has ſome ſhare of merit, and gives to critical perception a gleam of the cataſtrophe.

When the royal pair are diſcovered, the monarch expreſſes himſelf in affectionate terms, while Zeno⯑bia's words wear a cold and myſterious gloom; on ſolliciting freedom, and ſafe conduct to his friends, for the Roman ambaſſador, Pharaſmanes's impe⯑tuous, brutal temper kindles, and mention of an interview makes him not only reverſe the pardon he ſo lately granted into a freſh order for immediate execution, but alſo treat his unhappy bride with the moſt ſevere indignity; till at length by the opera⯑tion of poiſon he has drank from his nuptial cup, his feelings are changed from rage to agony; Ze⯑nobia's triumph at his approaching fate, is moſt cer⯑tainly founded in juſtice, and affords an excellent tranſition in acting, but we muſt contend that it ſa⯑vours rather too much of maſculine ferocity, eſpe⯑cially [416] in thoſe lines of exultation ſhe ſpeaks after Pharaſmanes dies.

Upon the entrance of Rhadamiſtus, freed from captivity and danger, he flies with rapture to the embrace of his beloved Zenobia; who ſeems, like Romeo, to loſe awhile the remembrance of poiſon in rapture; Rhadamiſtus in one line pays the tribute of filial ſorrow to an unworthy father, and the next moment warmly applauds Zenobia for the virtuous action of murdering him.

When Zenobia feels the deadly draught working in her veins, ſome pathetic ſtrokes occur, but ſo in⯑ferior to thoſe of the laſt ſcene of Romeo and Juliet, which they evidently, though faintly reſemble, that compariſon ſhews them in a trifling point of view; our heroine's concluſion would loſe much of its ef⯑fect but for the mention of her child: Rhadamiſtus is very feebly ſupported for his circumſtances, and making the impetuous, hot-headed Teribazus, a⯑midſt ſuch a ſcene of confuſion, woe, and the diſ⯑appointment of his own heart, draw the cool, mo⯑ral inference which the author fixes from his piece, ſeems rather a compliment to the performer, than ſtrictneſs of propriety, which would have given the concluſive ſpeech to Megiſtus, or rather Zopiron, as the character leaſt intereſted, conſequently fitteſt for ſpeculative remarks: the ſix lines of rhime are alſo as impoveriſhed jingle as ever we met in any decent piece.

The unities of this tragedy are well preſerved, there are ſome ſurprizes, and many intereſting events [417] in the plot, which is well conducted for ſtage buſi⯑neſs; the verſification is neither elegant nor flowing, however, by riſing very little above meaſured proſe, it has no taint of bombaſt; the ſentiments are trite, yet in ſeveral places happily applied, and we rea⯑dily admit, that there are many ſtrong appeals to the tender paſſions, inſomuch that we know ſeveral pieces much more poetical and correct, which can⯑not draw ſo many tears; what light it ſhews human nature in, and how the great purpoſe of inſtruction is fulfilled, we ſhall diſcover by an inveſtigation of the characters.

Pharaſmanes is one of the moſt compleat, royal villains we remember to have met with, capable of crimes thoroughly attrocious, without one generous feeling; his love is evidently ſenſual, his fame bar⯑barity; the ſanguine ſlave of ambition, with every other hateful, turbulent paſſion; he moves before us, from beginning to end, an object of conſummate deteſtation; the author, intending to exhibit nature in a ſtate of the utmoſt depravity, has well fulfilled his deſign. As to the acting of this obnoxious mo⯑narch, there are opportunities of exerting conſidera⯑ble talents to advantage, and we imagine Mr. MOS⯑SOP's executive powers might make him a very conſpicuous character, while Mr. AICKIN ſtands deficient both in dignity of deportment and extent of voice, which latter defect is rendered more palpa⯑ble, by a laborious wildneſs of exertion, by vain, un⯑cultivated attempts; in ſhort, he reminds us of an unbroken ſteed, which is conſtantly upon the grand [418] paw, without any grace or propriety of motion; a little reſtraint would throw him into more agree⯑able regularity, and mend his paces much.

Rhadamiſtus is an honeſt man and tender huſband, in point of filial reſpect alſo he is commendable, but as to heroiſm he cuts a very poor figure, being, as is apparent, timorous and diſingenuous: in theſe failings he ſeems to be a mere tool of the plot, which greatly depends in its preſent form on his cenſura⯑ble conduct. The part was indiſputably written for Mr. BARRY, whoſe performance happily ſuſtains the author, wherever he has done juſtice to himſelf; but as many of the ſcenes manifeſt great inequality, we are not to be ſurprized, that capital abilities in ſuch places, ſhould ſo far border on inſipidity as to pall; one third of this character omitted in action, would render him more intereſting to an audience, and more advantageous to the performer.

Teribazus, we may juſtly ſtile, the ſquib and cracker of tragedy, poſſeſſing an undiſguiſed, gene⯑rous and affectionate heart, yet precipitated by a violent degree of fretful impatience; there is an oddity of compoſition in this impetuous prince which Mr. HOLLAND delineated with maſterly exe⯑cution; his tranſitions were rapid, and his expreſ⯑ſion forceable; that power of voice which on many occaſions he was too laviſh of, here operated plea⯑ſingly, and made ſound literally an echo to the ſenſe.

Mr. PALMER appears in the ſituation of an un⯑ſkilful rider on a high mettled horſe; the part runs [419] away with him, and he is as near tumbling heels over head as poſſible. We wiſh, from real regard to this riſing performer, that he would, before habit takes too ſtrong poſſeſſion of him, clap a check rein on his expreſſion, for it is a ſtrict, critical truth, that being under is better than over the mark, and that many natural deficiencies are ſoftened by a prudent limitation; ſpirit ſhould enliven, but not wage war with propriety.

Megiſtus is a very amiable perſonage, humane and parental in his attachments, humble in deſires, and reſolute in danger; we think the poet might have made him much more conſiderable, however, as Mr. HAVARD, far in the decline of life, was deſigned for the part, it was probably adopted in point of length and feelings to his impaired faculties; it is certain, that gentleman did him great juſtice, a ten⯑der, ſenſible placidity of countenance and expreſſion, gave the ſentiments due effect.

Mr. JEFFERSON, who has taken poſſeſſion of the old man, does not affect us ſo much as his prede⯑ceſſor, though neither languid nor diſagreeable.

Zopiron ſeems little more than a filler up of the drama, he appears to poſſeſs ſome virtues, but has no opportunity of exerting any, and what he ſays, through the whole play, is of ſo little ſignificance, that we are ſurprized Mr. PACKER can walk thro' him without ſetting the audience aſleep; this is one of many makeſhift characters which, if totally o⯑mitted, would occaſion little or no deficiency.

[420]Tigranes ſeems to be a thorough paced pupil of tyranny, ready for all the dirty work his maſter can ſuggeſt, teeming with miſchief, which, however, he cannot bring about. Mr. HURST does him no in⯑juſtice, except by a Moſſopian pompoſity of utter⯑ance, which hangs too much about him in every cha⯑racter he performs: we think proper to intimate, that every imitative performer is ſure to catch the defects of that perſon he aims at, much ſooner than his beauties; and, as the latter, at ſecond hand, grow much fainter, ſo the former riſe to a ſtronger degree of diſguſt.

Zelmira is as water gruel a character as her hus⯑band Zopiron, and affords no opportunity for cutting a conſpicuous figure; being no more than a foil, ſhe cannot riſe above the agreeable, and this Mrs. W. BARRY reaches.

Zenobia engroſſes more approbation than any o⯑ther character; as a princeſs, wife and mother, ſhe commands our applauſe; her ſituations are well varied, alarming and intereſting; we heartily con⯑cur with the author, that Mrs. BARRY gives her many additional charms, that her action is a kind of Promethian heat to the princeſs, and that we have not lately ſeen ſo ſtrong a degree of paſſion and pa⯑thos exhibited.

This tragedy, with adequate performers may, nay muſt always pleaſe on the ſtage, but as to pri⯑vate peruſal, we think it will afford very little plea⯑ſure, and leſs inſtruction.

CYMON. A Dramatic ROMANCE. ANONYMOUS.

THE title of this piece prepares us for an in⯑vaſion of critical rules, being profeſſedly in the ex⯑travaganza ſtrain, we are to conſider it as a child of unreſtrained imagination, rather than the off⯑ſpring of nature and propriety; what has been al⯑ready objected to ghoſts, ſpirits, witches, &c. even decked by SHAKESPEARE's luxuriant fancy, muſt lie much more forceably againſt the enchanters and enchantreſſes of inferior pens; but while pub⯑lic taſte ſhews ſuch an unacountable eagerneſs to en⯑courage ſound and pageantry, it is not wonderful, that authors and managers ſhould throw out the moſt propable bait of folly, by calling any ſort of monſters to their aid.

Merlin and Urganda, two perſons poſſeſſed of ſupernatural powers, open the firſt act; from their converſation, it appears, that the former has enter⯑tained a paſſion for the latter, without meeting a ſuitable return; he charges her with loving Cy⯑mon, and upon her prevaricating, urges her hav⯑ing ſtolen that prince from his father, in ſearch of whom an hundred knights are employed. What is a romance without knights?

[422]By what Merlin ſays, Urganda inſtead of fulfill⯑ing her appointed truſt, which was to guard the peace and innocence of the Arcadians, has ſunk them into folly and vice; here a ſong occurs, founded on that moſt hackney'd thought, that an impure fountain muſt produce tainted ſtreams, and ſo of ill examples from a throne.

Merlin, proof againſt the ſollicitations and re⯑monſtrances of Urganda, declares revenge againſt her, and in the myſterious language of a conjurer, ſays, that Cymon's cure ſhall be her wound; this alarms the enchantreſs's apprehenſion, ſhe ponders on his words, when her attendant Fatima appears, who ſeems to form dreadful ideas of Merlin's diſ⯑pleaſure, and urges her miſtreſs to avoid impending ills, by marrying him; this her attachment to Cymon prevents, from which ſeveral pleaſant re⯑marks on female weakneſs ariſe, and Cymon's ſtate of idiotiſm is ſet forth at large; the inequali⯑ty of magick to the power of love is tolerably well explained in a ſong we meet here.

Among other ſpirited remarks, we think what follows deſerves quotation, "'tis the buſineſs of beauty to make fools, and not cure them; even I, poor, I could have made twenty fools of wiſe men, in half the time that you have been endeavouring to make your fool ſenſible;" on ſeeing Cymon at a diſtance, Fatima propoſes to retire, but Urganda deſires her aſſiſtance to divert him, and in a ſong, very like all others which relate to enchantment, in⯑vokes not only her attendant ſpirits, but the power [423] of muſic to influence him; here the prince appears, clouded with melancholly, a converſation enſues, wherein many lines are ſpoke, yet very little is ſaid; Urganda ſooths, and Fatima rallies the ſim⯑ple youth, who anſwers with ſuch dubious inſenſi⯑bility, that no direct inference can be drawn through five pages; in order to waken his feelings, Urganda ſhews him a delightful proſpect, of which Cupid and his ſuite make a part; however, the blind god owns his inability to conquer Cymon, and ſeems rather nettled at being called on ſuch a fruitleſs errand.

Cymon's falling aſleep, amidſt exhilerating enter⯑tainment, is a powerful proof of dulneſs; on be⯑ing awakened, he expreſſes a deſire of going, and makes a pretty alluſion, in ſong, of his own caſe to that of an encaged linnet; at length, Urganda, by way of working on his gratitude, grants him li⯑berty, and gives him a magical noſegay which can⯑not create, but is capable of improving paſſion; he receives both with a kind of puerile joy, and con⯑cludes the firſt act with a ſong on liberty, very much in the namby pamby ſtrain, but well enough for a ſimpleton.

Two ſhepherdeſſes preſent themſelves at the be⯑ginning of the ſecond act, one in full fret at being forſaken, the other offering conciliatory advice; Ur⯑ganda's fruitleſs paſſion, though an enchantreſs, is mentioned; from further explanation, it appears, that one Sylvia is the object of jealouſy, as her [424] beauty ſeems to be an object of general admiration among the rural ſwains; after a very womaniſh reſolution of making her as uneaſy as poſſible, de⯑riving pleaſure from her pain, the ſiſters are accoſt⯑ed by Linco, a merry blade, who gives a ſpecimen of his diſpoſition in a ſpirited ſong. His contempt of ſighing lovers is well expreſſed; his contraſting of Sylvia, who ſhuns gallants as induſtriouſly as other girls follow them, is alſo pleaſing; Linco's ſecond ſong is not a bad receipt for diſengaged peace of mind, but as to the poetry it is as moderate as may be.

Upon being told by the angry ſhepherdeſs that his preſcription wont effect her cure, he thinks her caſe deſerves only to be laughed at; in a few lines further he mentions, that Sylvia has ſeduced Da⯑mon her ſiſter's ſwain; here the ſcale is turned, and ſhe who preached patience, being now touched her⯑ſelf, breaths terrible threats; at length, both females are ſo diſconcerted at Linco's light treatment of their ſerious concerns, that they go off and leave him to enjoy his laughter in another ſong, which has more ſpirit than poetry, more ſound than meaning.

Merlin next appears, and in ſoliloquy acquaints us, that he has ſown the ſeeds of mutual affection between Sylvia and Cymon; by a touch of his ma⯑gical wand he communicates to a baſket of flowers, the power of inſpiring the heart with love, then goes off uttering the ſame line concerning Cymon's cure he pronounced to Urganda in the firſt act; [425] ſoon as he diſappears, the ſimple prince approaches with his bird, to which he determines giving liber⯑ty, having obtained the like happineſs himſelf. On ſeeing Sylvia as ſhe lies repoſed on a bank, he con⯑feſſes aſtoniſhment, and in a ſpeech of much natural ſimplicity, gives us to underſtand, that new ſenſa⯑tions have entered his mind; the air he ſings is in a ſuitable ſtile, and affords very good opportunity for action.

Sylvia's waking occaſions a very pleaſing and dif⯑fident interview; her ſong is pretty, and the aſto⯑niſhed heſitation between her and Cymon has an agreeable, natural, effect; but is rather too great a ſimilitude to that of Hypolita and Dorinda in DRY⯑DEN's TEMPEST.

The progreſſive explanation of their artleſs paſ⯑ſion is very happily conducted; her giving, as a token of remembrance, the noſegay enchanted by Merlin, and his exchanging that preſented him by Urganda, are well conceived incidents for continu⯑ing and embarraſſing the plot. The duet, which concludes the ſecond act, turns upon a fanciful ap⯑plication of inconſtancy to fading flowers, which charm the ſenſes for a ſhort ſeaſon, and ſoon grow obnoxious.

Urganda enters with her confidant at the beginning of the third act, making enquiry after Cymon; and is again rallied by Fatima for ſo eagerly purſuing ſuch worthleſs game. We apprehend this conve⯑nient lady's ſcheme for making matters eaſy, by [426] the enchantreſs's marrying Merlin and retaining Cy⯑mon as a gallant, is too licentious: Beſides, Mer⯑lin muſt be as little of a conjuror as thouſands of his neighbours, not to find out his own cuckoldom.

Cymon's rapturous entrance with a noſegay occa⯑ſions a very apt miſtake in Urganda, which is, that the young man has at laſt conceived a paſſion for her, according to her wiſhes; hence ſhe conceives the moſt agreeable ſenſations, and on the concluſion of a very rapturous air, which he ſings, comes in his view; at ſight of ſo hateful and terrible an ob⯑ject, conſcious too of the danger her reſentment is pregnant with, he endeavours to hide Sylvia's noſe⯑gay; and when Urganda urges an explanation of the change that appears in him, he prevaricates, till being forced to ſhew the flowers, the enraged en⯑chantreſs diſcovers her miſtake, and by diſſembled mildneſs makes enquiry how he came by the pre⯑ſent; Fatima cauſes him to ſlip out that it was gi⯑ven by a female, while Urganda, to make ven⯑geance more ſure, not only ſtops further inquiſition, but gives tranſported Cymon full liberty to follow his own inclinations; however, after he goes off, ſhe diſcovers very vindictive feelings, and having ordered Fatima to watch his motions, makes her exit with a ſong of furious import.

Sylvia now appears, at the door of Dorcas's cot⯑tage, with Cymon's preſent in her hand. In a ſo⯑liloquy and two airs, ſhe confeſſes ſingular ſatiſ⯑faction, ſomewhat mingled with occaſional doubt. [427] Linco liſtens while ſhe is ſinging, and pays a deli⯑cate compliment, not only to the harmony of her voice, but the innocence of her diſpoſition. She is rather ſtartled at Linco's overhearing her private thoughts upon ſuch a ſubject; he acquaints her, that ſhe is to appear before the deputy governor, to anſwer ſome complaints which have been lodged againſt her by a ſhepherdeſs; however, he promiſes his friendly aſſiſtance. Ignorant of any crime, but that of being too handſome, ſhe readily conſents to attend his ſummons.

Dorcas, a deaf old woman, in whoſe care Sylvia had been left, appears, and expreſſes ſeveral jealous apprehenſions concerning her charge; but upon Sylvia's apparent willingneſs to go, and Linco's promiſe of protection, ſhe agrees. The old wo⯑man's affection is well deſcribed, and, from what ſhe ſays, Sylvia's identity appears doubtful. Dor⯑cas's ſong on the danger young inexperienced fe⯑males ſtand expoſed to in theſe days, compared with the time of her own youth, is truly humo⯑rous: However, we doubt whether there ever was an age of abſolute general conſtancy in love; but ſatire makes it a rule, to prefer things paſt to the preſent.

Dorus, the magiſtrate, hearing a ſhepherdeſs, and promiſing redreſs of her complaint, is next pro⯑duced; his worſhip, in a very few lines, exhibits a⯑morous inclinations, which the female, either through fear or cunning, ſeems to favour, artfully introdu⯑cing [428] Sylvia's name; againſt whom, being wound up by the preſent complainant, he utters ſevere threats. Linco entering while Dorus is kiſſing the ſhepherdeſs's hand, proteſts againſt prejudiced fa⯑vour; and, to corroborate his argument, ſings an air pregnant with good ſenſe as well as humour, which the magiſtrate ſeems nettled at, and the ſhep⯑herdeſs intimates, that Linco, being a friend to Syl⯑via, is her foe; this occaſions the magiſtrate to in⯑ſiſt upon Sylvia's immediate appearance. The in⯑terruption given him by Linco, who at leaſt goes out for the ſuppoſed culprit, is whimſical; here the ſhepherdeſs departs with full and warm aſſurances of protection.

There is ſomething extremely well imagined in making Sylvia's charms inſtantaneouſly ſtrike the the old ſon of vice; for certain it is, that he who makes juſtice give way to one ſet of features, will alſo make her ſubſervient to another that has more force, or novelty. He attempts queſtioning with authority, but is unable to abſtract his ideas from her beauty; conſequently, utters himſelf in very incoherent ſentences. This ſcene is conducted with particular pleaſantry. At length, Linco adviſes Sylvia, by way of making her cauſe more ſure, to ſing; this ſhe complies with, and ſo powerful an effect is wrought upon the overwhelm⯑ed Dorus thereby, that he throws off all diſguiſe, and expreſſes himſelf in the tendereſt terms; at which critical point of time the ſhepherdeſs re-enters, [429] to enquire if ſentence is paſſed; this nettles Dorus, who anſwers fretfully, but promiſing to ſpeak with her in the juſtice's chamber, ſends her off; then renews his profeſſions of favour to Sylvia, with which, and a ſpirited ſong by Linco, the third act concludes in a very pleaſing manner, as ſuſpenſe is judiciouſly ſuſtained, and the humour well va⯑ried.

Urganda, hurricaned with violent perturbation of mind commences the fourth act; and, after a ſoli⯑loquy, or rather incantation, raiſes a daemon of re⯑venge; who, like a very complaiſant fiend, ecchoes his miſtreſſes purpoſe in a ſong, which calls up ſome of his infernal aſſociates; after performing certain myſtical rites they follow the enchantreſs.

Linco draws in Damon and Dorilas by force, charges them with being jealous of Cymon and Syl⯑via, which makes them ſo forward to carry that helpleſs fair before Urganda; upon being rallied ſe⯑verely by Linco, and pinched rather too cloſe, the ſhepherd ſeems to hint as if he could not excul⯑pate himſelf to the governor for ſuch behaviour; however, the laughing blade ſeems to treat ſuch an apprehenſion very lightly; and even when Dorus perſonally orders him to join in the ſearch for Cy⯑mon and Sylvia, he makes ſeveral very ludicrous evaſions, jeſting even in the face of authority; this irritates the magiſtrate to diſmiſs him, and, in return, he gives Dorus a ſevere rub, as never doing juſtice, but in conformity to his inclinations, or paſſions; in obedience to which alſo he ſets her at defiance. The [430] loſs of his place ſits eaſy on this diſengaged hu⯑mouriſt, who ſeems to think, as matters ſtand, it is of little conſequence. We apprehend his ſong points at our political diſputes for ſome years paſt, however, they are touched with a very gentle hand.

Fatima now appears upon the watch for Cymon, in obedience to her miſtreſs's orders; Merlin comes upon her, and on account of her miſchievous er⯑rand, determines to puniſh her. The conjurer be⯑ing inviſible, he very conveniently hears what this female ſpy remarks concerning Cymon and Sylvia; his changing what ſhe has written to letters of blood, and quite a different purport from what ſhe intend⯑ed, gives a good opportunity for deſcriptive action. On ſeeing Merlin ſhe confeſſes ſtrong fear, and ſooths his compaſſion in pitiful terms; this he will grant on one condition only, a poſitive injunction of ſi⯑lence, which Fatima ſeems to think, as nine tenths of the female world would do, a terrible tax upon loquacity; however, according to the trite pro⯑verb, that needs muſt when ſomebody drives, and upon Merlin's perſuaſion, ſhe conſents, as a defeat to Urganda's curioſity, to anſwer no otherwiſe than by the monoſyllables ay and no.

On the Magician's departure, in his dragon-drawn chariot, the terrified waiting woman deſcants on her deplorable ſituation in ſoliloquy, and ſeems to think his cruelty, in taxing the tongue ſo unmercifully, is without precedent, A ſong upon the words ſhe is confined to, carries her off agreeably.

[431]Cymon and Sylvia now come forward, and renew their vows of conſtancy with much fervour. Upon her hinting apprehenſion of Urganda, he fortifies her ſpirits with Merlin's promiſe of aſſiſtance. The air ſung by Sylvia, which we may call the ſweet paſſion of love, is in the true paſtoral ſtrain, and does not want poetical merit either in verſification or ſentiment.

While Cymon and Sylvia are interchanging mu⯑tual endearments, they are beſet, on every ſide, by Dorus, Damon, Dorilas, and a parcel of their mirmidons, who firſt taunt, and afterwards attempt to take them priſoners; this enflames Cymon to re⯑ſiſtance, he repels force by force; but while he is purſuing a part of the runaways, others of them, with Dorus at their head, ſurround Sylvia, who is hurried off by them to Urganda; Cymon return⯑ing, perceives the loſs of his miſtreſs, and utters his anxious feelings in an air bordering upon frenzy.

At the beginning of the fifth act, we meet Ur⯑ganda and Fatima; the former glowing with curi⯑oſity, the latter labouring under Merlin's limita⯑tion of ſpeech. The enchantreſs tries interrogation in every ſhape without being able to obtain a ſatiſ⯑factory anſwer; from whence the ſcene has ſome humour, but is indiſputably too long. Fatima is at length diſmiſſed by her enraged miſtreſs, to whom Dorus enters, who meets but a rough recep⯑tion till he mentions Sylvia; the thoughts of having her in captivity ſooths Urganda, ſhe enquires after [432] Cymon, and being informed that he could not be taken, ſhe determines to glut her reſentment on the unhappy object of his love; for which purpoſe, ſhe firſt dooms Sylvia to death, but on ſecond thoughts changes her ſentence to confinement in the black tower, one of her enchanted caſtles.

The innocent victim appears, is threatened and ſhewn the gloomy ſpot of her deſtin'd captivity, which ſhe looks on with becoming intrepidity, and ſings an air which turns on this pretty, inſtructive, though common thought, that innocence is an impregnable ſhield againſt the moſt gloomy terrors of fate; as they are forcing Sylvia to the tower, the dreary proſpect, by means of Merlin's ſuperior power, changes to one of comfort and magnificence; this ſtrikes the defeated enchantreſs with ſhame and ter⯑ror, ſhe tries her wand, but finds its power blaſted, and is ridiculed by her triumphant competitor. A flouriſh of martial muſic is heard, which cauſes her to enquire the meaning of it, to which Merlin re⯑plies that the hundred knights ſent by Cymon's fa⯑ther, in queſt of him, have been drawn together, and are preparing to grace the nuptials of Cymon and Sylvia; he reminds Urganda, that her ill treat⯑ment of him has counteracted all her ſchemes; how⯑ever, he ſhews ſome dawning of pity for her fallen ſtate, which ſhe contritely thinks herſelf unworthy of, then breaking her wand retires with a juſt re⯑mark, that power abuſed deſerves to be ſo annihi⯑lated.

[433]Here a grand proceſſion of the knights is intro⯑duced, and indeed the execution of this pageantry on the ſtage is equal to any idea we can form of ſuch an affair; but from this, and many other pompous attractions thrown out to catch public curioſity of late years, we are under a neceſſity of remarking, that ſuch luxury of ſhow, indicates a lamentable de⯑cay of taſte: when the eyes uſurp the place of, or too much influence the ears in dramatic exhibitions, judgment is reduced to a deplorable ſtate of ſervi⯑lity; however, this is criticiſing rather unfairly, while we review a piece founded upon magic; in that light the author of CYMON has been remarkably modeſt, and introduced as few monſtroſities as poſ⯑ſible.

After the proceſſion, Merlin gives a kind of nuptial benediction to the happy lovers; a chorus is ſung to Merlin's praiſe, after which, Linco recom⯑mends humourouſly the old proverb, be merry and wiſe; this brings on alternate ſinging, with inter⯑mingled chorus's by the ſeveral characters, and ſo ends the romance.

We have already hinted that our bard, upon ſo imaginary a plan, might, if he would, have overleap⯑ed the bounds of criticiſm, nature and probability, much more than he has done, without any violent apprehenſions of cenſure; as to the ſtile, all ſuper⯑natural agents are inſipid, except thoſe written by SHAKESPEARE, therefore, Merlin and Urganda cannot be ſuppoſed to utter any thing much worth notice; indeed, they ſometimes entertain us with [434] rhime, which we grant unnatural enough, but their proſe would do as well for any other perſonages.

Upon the whole, we cannot greatly applaud our author for purity, tho' we allow him ſpirit of ſtile, nor ſay much for novelty of ſentiment, notwithſtanding, it muſt be admitted, he has made good uſe of ſome eſtabliſhed maxims; his plot has not much intri⯑cacy, yet is pleaſing, the ſcenes are placed in tolera⯑ble ſucceſſion, and if there are not the moſt poignant ſtrokes of humour, there is little danger of atten⯑tion's drowſing.

The ſongs might have been much better, or con⯑ſiderably worſe, mediocrity is the moſt impartial character we can give; notwithſtanding a moral was very little to be expected from a piece of this kind, yet we find one both pleaſing and inſtructive, which is, that perſevering innocence need not deſpair under the moſt apparent and terrifying difficulties, of finding effectual aſſiſtance; that power, derived from evil principles, is of very fallible and periſha⯑ble nature, and that unſpotted virtue is the moſt valuable poſſeſſion of life.

In reſpect of the characters we find Cymon by enchantment a fool, and by the ſame means reſtored to a ſtate of ſenſibility; Mr. VERNON, who has ſingular merit as an actor, ſupports him in both ſi⯑tuations with commendable ability.

Merlin is as good natured a conjuror as ever we have met, however, his interpoſition on the ſide of diſtreſſed innocence, does not proceed ſo much from ſympathy, as from jealous reſentment conceived a⯑gainſt [435] Urganda, for preferring Cymon to him in the ideas of love; hence ſuch favourable events ariſe as render him an amiable agent; what he ſays or does, requires very little force of action, he depends upon plain, level, declamatory utterance, and ſtood ſo far reſpectable in the hands of Mr. BENSLEY, yet we think him conſiderably improved by Mr. BAN⯑NISTER.

Dorus is a good, becauſe too true picture of ſuch magiſtrates as hold juſtice in the leading-ſtrings of their own paſſions, and wind her about as ca⯑price or intereſt directs; his amorous inclination throws him into laughable circumſtances, and Mr. PARSONS's performance of him ſuſtains the author's intentions moſt happily; it is conſiderable merit for action to keep equal pace with the writing; but to heighten it as the gentleman now before us does in this part, deſerves a greater ſtretch of praiſe.

Linco is a character of great vivacity, uniformly pleaſant from beginning to end, not only agreeable from the aptneſs of his expreſſions, but from their animating, benevolent tendency; upon this view it is not to be wondered that Mr. KING ſhould dilate the brows of ſevereſt criticiſm, and obtain the plea⯑ſing tribute of general applauſe; we dont recollect a more diſengaged, chaſte piece of acting, and tho' we dont pretend to determine muſical merit, yet we are bold to aſſert, that the ſongs of Linco come with as much meaning and entertainment to the ear, as airs in their ſtile poſſibly can do.

[436]The Damon of Revenge has only a ſong, which we apprehend Mr. CHAMPNESS executes much to the ſatisfaction of his hearers; the Shepherds are ſo inconſiderable that to praiſe or cenſure the per⯑formers of them would be a waſte of criticiſm.

Mrs. BADDELEY has merit in Urganda, but has too placid a ſet of features, and too melodious a voice for the paſſions and gloomy ſentiments of ſuch a part. Mrs. SCOTT, though inferior, makes a tole⯑rable ſhift in the enchantreſs.

Fatima is compoſed of ſpirited archneſs, and is ſupported with a very capital degree of pleaſantry by that excellent comic actreſs Mrs. ABINGTON; we apprehend, if the author, inſtead of the trifling upon yes and no, had thrown a kind of amorous in⯑tercourſe between this character and Linco, both parts would have received conſiderable addition, and two performers of general eſtimation, would have been preſented to the audience in a more ſtriking light.

Sylvia, though ſhe did not abſolutely die with Mrs. ARNE, has fallen into very evident conſump⯑tive ſymptoms; not but we allow Miſs RADLEY merit, both as an actreſs and a ſinger,

The Shepherdeſſes cannot be in better hands than thoſe of Miſs REYNOLDS and Miſs PLYM, nor is Miſs BURTON unworthy favourable notice in one of them at preſent. Mrs. BRADSHAW, in Dorcas, fills up the author's idea, and gratifies any expecta⯑tion ſpectators may form.

This romance was certainly intended as a mere theatrical repreſentation, and as ſuch it affords very [437] agreeable entertainment; as to the cloſet, it can on⯑ly amuſe very young, or very weak minds, on each of which the notion of enchantment muſt work a prejudicial effect, and therefore we cannot juſtly re⯑commend it to peruſal.

CATO. A TRAGEDY. By Mr. ADDISON.

THE moral tendency of all Mr. ADDISON's works, the ſtrength of expreſſion, the harmony of verſification, the purity of ſentiment, and the aflu⯑ence of idea, which ſo eminently diſtinguiſh his pro⯑ductions, have ſtamped great eſtimation on his name as an author; perhaps his independent circum⯑ſtances and ſtation might to the obſequious or ig⯑norant add ſome luſtre: were we to judge of the play now before us by the complimentary copies of verſes which precede it, we ſhould naturally pre⯑ſume it one of the moſt correct and amazing efforts of genius; yet, Mr. Dennis, a bold and laborious critic, undertook to point deficiencies in every ſcene, and though his remarks wore in general the appearance of ſnarling, yet many of his ſtrictures, and thoſe very ſevere ones, were indiſputably juſt; his review, however, we have not been able to procure a copy of, and retain but a very ſlight recollection of it, therefore what we offer will neither incur the cenſure due to his apparent malevolence, or rob him of any praiſe his ingenuity may deſerve; we ſhall trace the piece as we have done others, not hunt af⯑ter trifling ſlips, nor, on account of a great name, ſlip over material ones, we confeſs an exalted idea of the author, but will not be blind to his faults.

[439]Cato commences with Portius and Marcus, the former cooly and the latter impetuouſly lamenting the perilous ſtate of their father and their country, they are both furniſhed with obſervations worthy of great and patriotic minds, but Marcus diminiſhes much by introducing his amorous paſſion when matters of ſo much deeper concern claim attention, and Por⯑tius diſgraces his dignity by mean diſſimulation; the advice he gives Marcus is worthy a philoſopher, but when we conſider it ſprings from a deſire of weaning him from the object of his own affection, it ſinks under the denomination of plauſible artifice; thus the elder brother becomes leſs an object of eſtima⯑tion in this ſcene than the younger: on the appear⯑ance of Sempronius, Marcus retires to prevent his mental agitation from being diſcovered.

Sempronius not immediately ſeeing Portius, hints at a conſpiracy, but goes to no point of explanation, as the youth catches his eye; under a previous pro⯑feſſion of diſſimulation, he ſpeaks as a ſon of Liber⯑ty, mourning her approaching fate: a fine compli⯑ment to Cato occurs, that of his virtues rendering the penurious and ſhattered remains of Rome's ſe⯑nate awful; it is aſtoniſhing why our author ſhould have blended ſo much love with a ſubject ſo foreign to it, yet Sempronius mentions his paſſion for Mar⯑cia, as does Juba ſometime after, ſo that there are four ſwains employed in ſighing even while Caeſar is at, and ready to ſtorm their gates. Portius indeed juſtly mentions, that it is a moſt unfavourable ſea⯑ſon to court his ſiſter, and goes off with a ſpirited [440] reſolution of encouraging the ſoldiers to fulfil their duty as Romans.

On his departure Sempronius, in ſoliloquy, gives us to underſtand, that he expects Syphax, a Numi⯑dian chief, to grant him aſſiſtance in matters of miſ⯑chief; then informs us, that Cato's refuſal of Marcia to his wiſhes rouſes reſentment, and thence intimates a deſign of giving up Cato to Caeſar; Syphax's ap⯑pearance brings this point to further explanation, the Numidian general declares his troops ready for a re⯑volt, but at the ſame time acknowledges and laments Juba's firm attachment to the virtuous Roman; Sempronius, however, urges a freſh trial to bring over that young prince. We admire Mr. ADDI⯑SON's idea of hypocritical patriotiſm, where on the principles of deception he makes Sempronius ſpeak thus:

He goes off to cultivate a ſpirit of mutiny a⯑mongſt the Roman ſoldiers, and leaves his friend to work, if poſſible, upon Juba; the young prince immediately appears, and taxes Syphax with looks of gloomy coldneſs, deſiring an explanation; the old man, in a ſhort, blunt reply, throws a ſarcaſti⯑cal charge on, and diſclaims Roman diſſimulation; this draws from Juba a liberal compliment in favour [441] of his allies; in return, Syphax enters into a ſpirited compariſon of Numidian worth, but confines him⯑ſelf to martial excellence, while Juba very ſenſibly contraſts the moral and ſocial virtues; this warms the rough impatience of the old general, who gives his expreſſion ſuch ſcope, that the prince is under a neceſſity of giving a check, which ſtomachs the ve⯑teran, and cauſes him to try the pathetic, by mak⯑ing mention of Juba's dying father; afterwards he touches upon Juba's love as the foundation of his other attachments, and paints the ſuperior charms of thoſe beauties who may be met with in his own court of Zama, but the royal youth moſt ſenſibly returns, that his regard is fixed upon internal not ex⯑ternal merit; here Marcia and Lucia appear, which cauſes Syphax to retire, execrating the former, as being conſcious that a ſmile from her can overturn all the power of his perſuaſion.

The intercourſe between Juba and his miſtreſs we deem extremely inſipid, the lady indeed judiciouſly reproves her lover's whining at ſuch an intereſting point of time, and ſends him off to more material concerns with becoming reſolution; Lucia, who ſeems to have ſofter and leſs noble ideas than Mar⯑cia, upbraids her with giving the good-natured prince, as ſhe oddly ſtiles him, ſuch treatment: Cato's daughter, however, manifeſts great good ſenſe in proceeding upon the principles of ſelf-denial, rather than effeminate the public cauſe; Lucia confeſſes herſelf unequal to ſuch fortitude, hence ariſes a diſ⯑covery of her attachment to one of Marcia's bro⯑thers, [442] which, on enquiry, proves to be Portius; this makes Marcia commiſerate and plead the cauſe of Marcus, Lucia confeſſes great perplexity between the two lovers, which Marcia ſtrives to ſoften by a friendly and pious obſervation, that preſent ſorrow under celeſtial influence, may lead to future happi⯑neſs. She concludes the act with a very beautiful ſimile, harmoniouſly, but unnaturally expreſſed in rhime.

Act the ſecond introduces the Roman ſenate in expectation of Cato, who, after a few prefatory lines appears. In his addreſs to the ſenate, he informs them with juſt dignity of ſentiment, how affairs ſtand, and obſerves the neceſſity, from Caeſar's near approach, of determining upon defenſive or ſub⯑miſſive meaſures: Sempronius, according to what he mentions in the firſt act, delivers himſelf with all the impetuoſity of a zealot for liberty, he draws an irritative picture of paſt tranſactions, and con⯑cludes with a bold figure of being called to vin⯑dictive meaſures by the mourning ſhades of de⯑parted citizens.

Cato, in return, with political, as well as philo⯑ſophical moderation obſerves, that impaſſioned ar⯑guments and reſolutions are ſeldom founded in rea⯑ſon, and that thoſe who are intruſted with the lives of fellow ſubjects, ſhould avoid waſte of blood, up⯑on principles of falſe fame; the opinion of Lucius runs in a mild and pacific turn, which occaſions Sem⯑pronius to drop a malevolent inſinuation againſt him; however, Cato maintaining a juſt equilibrium [443] of deliberation, draws a juſt and inſtructive line of diſ⯑tinction, between an overheated rapidity of opinion, and a frigid coldneſs; wiſely obſerving, that though it is neceſſary to avoid romantic raſhneſs, it is in⯑cumbent on brave men and free ſpirits to uſe with becoming intrepidity, all thoſe means which provi⯑dence has put into their hands; from what he ſays, reſiſtance upon prudential and virtuous principles, ſeems to be his reſolution, which he cloſes with a glorious obſervation upon the intrinſic value of un⯑corrupt liberty.

Being acquainted by Marcus that an ambaſſador from Caeſar demands admittance, with the ſenate's concurrence, he orders the admiſſion of Decius, who greets him in friendly terms, and is anſwered with a moſt elevated reſerve, where they only appertain to himſelf; but with much forceable and expletive dignity where public concerns are touched upon.

Through the whole of this admirable interview, our hero throws aſide the paltry conſideration of ſelf with princely contempt, and his ſpirited terms for the good of his country, outſtretch all praiſe; the author has alſo contrived to ſuſtain Decius in ſo agreeable a light, that it requires almoſt ſtoical firm⯑neſs not to think with him, that Cato's unſhakeable perſeverance is rather too rigid, and that he ſpeaks more in the ſtile of conqueſt than unequal compe⯑tition.

Upon the departure of Caeſar's repreſentative, Sempronius is forward to thank Cato for his reſo⯑lute conduct; and takes an opportunity of being [444] rough with Lucius; for which he receives an ele⯑gant reproof from Cato; ſeeing Juba approach the ſenators retire, when a ſhort interview ſucceeds be⯑tween that prince and Cato, who tells the Numidian what reſolution the ſenate have taken; after approv⯑ing what he hears, Juba, by a diffident round about method, makes abſurd mention of Marcia; to which her father replies with keen and ſuitable bre⯑vity, leaving the lover in a ſtate of aſtoniſhed per⯑plexity.

In this condition of mind Syphax finds his royal maſter, and artfully tries therefrom to work up the paſſion of reſentment, for which deep purpoſe he ſooths his vanity with praiſe, and again recalls the idea of his father, then comes plump on the object of his affection, pointing out a way to make her his in ſpite of Cato, which expedient we find to be car⯑rying her off by force; this Juba rejects with laud⯑able and conſummate diſdain, giving Syphax ſome very ſevere and juſt reproofs for ſo unworthy a pro⯑poſition; theſe warm the old man into expreſſions improper for a ſubject, and Juba is in conſequence irritated ſo far as to give him the ſtinging appella⯑tion of traitor, a term which awakens his caution, and warns him of having overſtepped the bounds of prudence; this indiſcretion he endeavours to re⯑pair by humble conceſſion, which not taking im⯑mediate effect, he moſt artfully diſclaims all appro⯑bation of the ſcheme he propoſed, and ſays the de⯑ſign of carrying off Marcia by force, was only ſug⯑geſted to palliate the pains of his prince's love; this [445] works happily on Juba's tender, unſuſpecting nature, and the practiſed politician worms himſelf into an additional degree of confidence, by ſpeaking in high terms of Cato's precepts and example; falling into this trap of deception, the prince offers kind recon⯑ciliation, and withdraws; however, Syphax, in a ſhort ſoliloquy, points out the difference of age and youth with reſpect to affronts, and reſolves upon an entire attachment to Caeſar.

Sempronius's entrance brings on further expla⯑nation, and upon Syphax's enquiry how Cato de⯑ports himſelf amidſt ſurrounding perils, he receives the following anſwer, replete with poetical beauty.

There never was a finer idea ſtruck out of a great man remaining unſhaken, amidſt many violent aſ⯑ſaults of frowning fortune. Syphax mentions the impoſſibility of gaining Juba to their ſide, to which Sempronius makes a kind of ludicrous reply, and the deſign of gaining Marcia for him occurs; upon comparing notes they ſeem to think every point of the proſpect favours their deſign; as an aſſiſtant to the Roman mutineers, Syphax promiſes that the Numidians under his command ſhall be ready at the moment, and he draws a moſt fanciful ſimili⯑tude between the ſtorm of ſedition, and thoſe over⯑whelming whirlwinds which often riſe in the African deſarts; nothing can be more elegantly expreſſed, [446] but the jingle is very offenſive to criticiſm founded on nature.

The third act opens with Marcus and Portius converſing upon the love affair, which we have al⯑ready condemned as a very cenſurable intruſion up⯑on the dignity of this piece.

We find Marcus, as at the beginning, overheated with paſſion, and Portius endeavouring to mitigate him; the former deputes the latter to be his advo⯑cate, to ſollicit Lucia's favour for him; this the latter attempts to decline, and ſeems to feel ſome touches for playing a double dealing part, howe⯑ver, he dare not ſpeak openly, therefore, upon Lu⯑cia's appearance, is left by his brother to plead the cauſe of his love; and how does he do it? by ad⯑viſing the lady to act as hypocritically as himſelf. This, however, ſhe generouſly declines, and vows not to enter the nuptial tie with Portius, however warmly inclined thereto, while ſuch family affliction is likely to flow from their union. This reſolution alarms the impatient feelings of Portius, who charges the fair one with coldneſs, and exclaims in terms frantically inconſiſtent with the idea we have hi⯑therto formed of his character. The lady's faint⯑ing is a moſt laughable circumſtance, and the whole ſcene, which ends as it began, is ſuch a laboured, unfiniſhed aim at uneſſential paſſion, that we hear⯑tily wiſh it annihilated.

When Lucia retires, Marcus comes forward to enquire his fate, and forms an explanation of it from the confuſed countenance of his brother. This in⯑terview [447] is made up of as ſtrange and unintereſting materials as the former, nor can we think how the author could have carried them off with any grace, had not a martial ſymphony rouſed their attention; it is ſome plea in favour of the young heroes, that love has not totally enervated patriotiſm, but that, as Portius obſerves, they are warmed to action by the trumpet's voice.

Sempronius having ripened his mutineers to ac⯑tion, now appears at their head, encouraging them to perſevere, this is promiſed; when Cato enters, with philoſophic fortitude he queſtions the muti⯑neers concerning the motives of their baſe conduct, and rates them with irreſiſtable proofs of their in⯑gratitude; Sempronius, who perceives their ſpirits ſinking, curſes their timidity, and when Lucius recommends their contrition to Cato's mercy, urges ſevereſt execution, evidently to ſcreen himſelf; however, Cato declining every trace of cruelty, dooms them to death in the mildeſt manner, obſerv⯑ing, with great propriety,

When this matter is ſettled, and Cato goes off, we perceive the mutineers have conſidered Sempro⯑nius's behaviour as calculated to deceive Cato in their favour; however, they find, too late, that their imperfect, daſtardly behaviour, as well it might, has ſired him to the moſt eager reſentment, and are carried off to meet an ignominious fate. Indeed, [448] they are the ſtrangeſt inſtruments of ſedition we have ever met, and ſeem to be introduced for no other reaſon than to give Cato two or three good ſpeeches, and to inſinuate, that his awful preſence was ſufficient to look men out of their lives.

This ſcheme being rendered abortive, Syphax enters, tells Sempronius that his Numidian troops are all mounted, and adviſes an attack upon the gate where Marcus holds watch, by ſeizing of which, they may gain Caeſar's camp; here Cupid interferes again, and reminds Sempronius, that Marcia is left behind; this difficulty ſtarted, Syphax, like an adept in the arts of intrigue, as well as thoſe of po⯑litical treachery, propoſes carrying her off, and for proſecuting this matter with more certainty, pro⯑miſes to furniſh Sempronius, not only with the ha⯑bit of Juba, but his guards alſo, by means of which he may gain eaſy acceſs to Marcia's chamber; this delightful maſquerade ſcheme, ſo conſiſtent with tragedy, and this in particular, is highly reliſhed by Sempronius, who draws from it the moſt favourable omens of ſucceſs, and concludes the third act with a pompous, high-flown aſſimilation of his projected adventure to the Rape of Proſerpine.

The two ladies favour us with their appearance at the beginning of the fourth act; Lucia ſtill com⯑plaining of her wonderful perplexity, reminds Mar⯑cia of her ſimilar ſituation, between Juba and Sem⯑pronius, but places thoſe lovers in a faint point of view when compared with her inimitable Portius: it is true, love will be partial, but need not be made [449] unpolite. Marcia declares diſlike of Sempronius, and approbation of Juba, but dutifully ſuppoſes ſhe has no will of her own during Cato's life. At the ſound of approaching feet theſe female friends re⯑tire, and make way for Sempronius, as Juba, to appear; during his exultation at the near com⯑pletion of his bold wiſhes, Juba, to his utter aſto⯑niſhment enters, thus confronted, nothing but the death of one or both can decide their contention; this lot falls upon Sempronius, who dies with a vindictive execration in his mouth, while Juba goes to acquaint Cato with ſo ſtrange and intereſting an event.

Lucia and Marcia, alarmed with the claſh of ſwords, again come forward, when the royal habit of Numidia being perceived on a dead body, Mar⯑cia, with the precipitate fears of love, immediately concludes it to be Juba, and throwing off all reſerve proclaims her paſſion in the warmeſt, moſt undiſ⯑guiſed terms; at which critical juncture, her living lover comes within hearing, and becomes a tran⯑ſported witneſs of her amorous explanation; till unable longer to contain, he preſents himſelf to her aſtoniſhed view, and heals her poignant woe; ſhe ſeems to regret that her heart has been ſo fully ſet to view, but generouſly confirms the prince's hap⯑pineſs, by repeating her declarations of regard; thus they are ſent off the ſtage tolerably happy, after the moſt ridiculous, bo-peep tranſactions, that ever diſgraced any piece of ſerious compoſition; the [450] whole love epiſode is indiſputably pitiful, but this laſt mentioned ſcene deſerves ſovereign contempt.

Cato and Lucius next come forward, the latter expreſſing ſurprize at Sempronius's conduct, the for⯑mer, like an able practical judge of life, declaring, that general depravity takes away all ſubjects of ſur⯑prize.

Portius, with looks indicating deep concern, ap⯑proaches, and is queſtioned by his father if Caeſar has ſhed more Roman blood, an interrogation ani⯑mated with the true ſpirit of greatneſs, ſignifying, that no other cauſe ſhould move ſuch apparent anxie⯑ty. On being told of Syphax's perfidious retreat, and that an attack is made upon Marcus's poſt, he⯑roically forgetting the apprehenſions of a tender pa⯑rent, he is only concerned for his ſon's behaviour, and ſends off Portius expreſs to ſee that his brother's duty is fulfilled. On the appearance of Juba, covered with ſhame for his general's treacherous be⯑haviour, Cato manifeſts great liberality of mind, in ſoftening a charge of guilt the young prince levels againſt himſelf, as being a Numidian, of which cha⯑racter Syphax has juſt given ſo abominable a ſpe⯑cimen.

Portius's return and abrupt mention of Marcus alarms our hero's fears, leaſt his ſon has been any way deficient, but, upon hearing the manner of his fall, after a very gallant defence, the illuſtrious Roman utters a moſt noble and comprehenſive ex⯑clamation in two words—I'm ſatisfied—Never did any author ſuit expreſſion to character and circum⯑ſtance [451] better than Mr. ADDISON has done in this well-adapted ſtroke of ſignificant brevity: Syphax's fate is a pleaſing ſacrifice to juſtice, and draws from Cato a line of real dignity, mixed with paternal ten⯑derneſs.

On meeting the corpſe of his ſon in ſuch a mang⯑led condition, any father, poſſeſſed of mere natural feelings, would manifeſt a weakneſs, though an a⯑miable one; but Cato, buoyed up by uncommon reſolution, and the love of his country, ſupports the ſhock of ſo affecting an object with admirable firm⯑neſs; nay, draws a pleaſing picture of death obtain⯑ed upon ſo glorious an occaſion, and ſpeaks of it in ſuch inſpirative terms, that the frowns of the king of terrors melt into ſmiles.

Pointing out the example of the dead to the liv⯑ing ſon is judicious and affecting, and we are of opi⯑nion, that an almoſt unparalleled magnimity of mind is manifeſted in letting ſorrow's melting tribute fall for the miſeries of his country, though he refuſed it to the deceaſe of a beloved ſon.

His deſcription of Rome's decay riſes in a beau⯑tiful climax, and concludes with a ſevere ſtroke upon Caeſar, as a political parricide; the diſdain he ſhews at any idea of ſolliciting or receiving Caeſar's mercy is noble, his advice to Portius worthy of a philoſo⯑pher, the attention paid to the ſafety of his friends generous, and the leave he takes of them pathetic: if he had not been carried off by the monotonous jingle of metre, we do not perceive one idea or ex⯑preſſion, throughout this ſcene, which we could wiſh [452] altered in any ſhape; nor do we know where ratio⯑nal ſenſations can be more profitably gratified than by an adequate repreſentation of it.

Though we cannot admit of an equality with Hamlet's celebrated ſoliloquy, yet we readily place that of Cato, at the beginning of the fifth act, before any other we have met; the chain of reaſoning is well compacted, the ſentiments reach a very uncom⯑mon degree of elevation, and inſtruction pours forth from every line; the intruſion of Portius, through filial anxiety for his father's ſafety, is re⯑proved rather ſternly by Cato, however, he ſoon calms, and collects himſelf againſt the worſt events that fortune may have in ſtore, gives his mourning ſon hopes, and retires to take the refreſhment of ſome ſleep to recruit his exhauſted ſpirits.

Marcia joins her brother Portius, who comforts her with the idea that Cato is more compoſed, and has determined to live for the ſervice of Rome. When Lucia comes on, we find her ſtill harping on the love affair, amazingly out of ſeaſon, as we think, eſpecially as ſhe ſeems to draw an uncouth inference in her own favour, from the melancholy circum⯑ſtance of Marcus's death, a circumſtance not very fit for an affectionate ſiſter's ear. Lucius coming on, gives an account of Cato's pleaſant ſituation in his ſleep, which we think rather too cloſe upon Cato's exit, for him to fall aſleep, and Lucius to watch him ſo minutely as he has done; beſides, orders were given that no perſon ſhould approach him, but this even in the view we place it is a very venial [453] ſlip; by intelligence Portius brings, there are hopes of ſuccours to relieve Utica, and to place Cato in a probability of redeeming the glory, or ſtaying the fate of Rome; but this tranſient dawn of comfort ſoon paſſes off on the wings of an alarm raiſed by hearing a groan from Cato's chamber.

By the ſuddenneſs of this, after Lucius's account, one would be almoſt led to think Cato had ſtabbed himſelf in his ſleep; that he has given the fatal wound is confirmed by his appearance in an expir⯑ing condition; the addreſs he makes to his afflicted children and mourning friends, is very conſonant to his character: Benevolence, paternal tenderneſs and invincible reſolution, attend his laſt moments, and he falls into eternity an object of admiration, though a very dangerous and cenſurable ſubject of imitation for any man, in any ſtation.

Lucius concludes the piece with deducing a diffuſe general moral from Cato's fall, which obſerved in a national ſenſe, as the author undoubtedly meant it, furniſhes very uſeful, political inſtruction, and warns us againſt the perilous conſequences of civil commotions which with undiſtinguiſhing rage ſweep away the moſt virtuous, as well as the moſt vicious characters, nay indeed, oftner fall heavy on the former as foes to licentiouſneſs, than the latter who thrive in and conſequently are moſt active to ſup⯑port it.

Having thus gone through a piece which at its firſt repreſentation, from ſeveral cauſes made a great noiſe, and met uncommon approbation, even from [454] contending parties, we cannot help obſerving after due acknowledgment of its uſeful political, and in many places moral tendency, that the author has in ſeveral ſcenes trifled with his ſubject ſtrangely and we confeſs much ſurprized, that a perſon of Mr. ADDISON's judgement, ſhould have enervated his genius, which had much more dignity than ſoftneſs, with ſuch inſipid love ſcenes, ſo incongruous to the reſt of his piece, eſpecially when a more uniform plan could have been purſued, by introducing Caeſar in his camp diſpatching Decius on his embaſſy, mak⯑ing him treat the proffered treacherous aſſiſtance of Sempronius with contempt, and bringing him after Cato's death upon the ſtage to offer ſome juſt ſtric⯑tures on the impropriety of his killing himſelf, which even as a Roman Caeſar might have done, ſince it is very certain that a life of ſo much public conſequence ſhould not be ſacrificed to ſelfiſh pride, admitting that ſuicide in other caſes might be juſti⯑fied.—

We are ſorry that ſelf-deſtruction is placed in ſo fair a point of view, and therefore think the cataſ⯑trophe of this tragedy highly cenſurable becauſe evi⯑dently pernicious.

In point of character, as a man, Cato ſtrikes us with awful, yet agreeable ſenſations; he is a cool philoſoper, a warm patriot, a reſolute chief, an eloquent ſenator, a tender parent, and an affectio⯑nate friend; but as the brighteſt compoſition mani⯑feſts ſpecks, ſo we find this great man tainted with ſuch a degree of inflexible pride, that when he [455] ſhould ſtand moſt collected, he gives way to that powerful principle, and raſhly flies from his coun⯑try, children and faithful aſſociates, into the arms of death.

To perſonate this character happily, requires conſequence both of perſon and countenance; a me⯑lifluous extenſive fullneſs of voice and depth of judgment; theatrical chicane cannot be of any ſervice; we doubt not, but it will ſeem treaſon againſt the majeſty of eſtabliſhed criticiſm, to doubt Mr. QUIN's ſuperiority within the laſt thirty years; yet we muſt venture the bold aſſertion, that deduct⯑ing his figure, aſpect and ſuitable voice, he was as erroneous as ſuch attributes would admit; his acti⯑on had a laboured ſameneſs in it; his utterance ap⯑peared more ſubſervient to the cadences of meaſure than the periods of ſenſe, and his tones frequently ſwelled into offenſive pompoſity; in ſome of the lines to Decius, he ſtruck out beauties; in receiving the news of Marcus's fall, he was fine, and wept for his country in the following ſcene like a great man; but his ſoliloquy and moſt other parts of the character, were chaunted in a very culpable manner; ſo far that we will be hardy enough to aſſert, to a nice ear he proved himſelf more of the methodical ſpouter, than the affluent orator.

Mr. SHERIDAN wants face and figure much, but ſpeaks the author unexceptionably; and by keeping his voice more within its compaſs than in parts of greater force and variety, muſt render impartial criticiſm great pleaſure; for a dumb Cato we ſhould [456] have given Mr. QUIN great pre-eminence, but for a ſpeaking one prefer Mr. SHERIDAN, with all his imperfections, as coming nearer the author and na⯑ture.

Mr. MOSSOP, from what we have obſerved, can never be admired as a declaimer; ſuch emphaſis hunting as he is guilty of, ſhames oratory; and ſtiff⯑ened awkwardneſs of deportment ill ſupplies the place of eaſe and dignity: Mr. ROSS was too much of the gentleman, too little of the hero in externals; and, as to ſpeaking the part, his utmoſt merit only reaches the praiſe of delivering his part in the manner of a well-tutored ſchool-boy at Mr. RULE's, or any other academy. Mr. WALKER diſ⯑covered, four or five years ſince, at Covent Garden, a very conſiderable ſhare of merit, but not enough to ſerve as a ſtanding diſh for public entertainment.

As we cannot remember all the perſons we have ſeen in the ſeveral parts of this play, it is hoped that mention of thoſe who ſtrike our recollection will ſuffice.

Portius appears to be ſenſible, and virtuouſly in⯑clined, but diſſembles ſhamefully with his brother, and is in action very inſipid: Mr. BENSLEY's re⯑preſentation of him gives us tolerable ſatisfaction.

Marcus is of an undiſguiſed, generous, warm tem⯑per, and, if tolerably ſupported, always claim re⯑ſpect on the ſtage: Mr. RYAN did him originally, and we doubt not with great merit, but was too much in the vale of years when we ſaw him to look [457] any thing like the character; however, we ſuppoſe he did it for the ſame reaſon a ſtrolling player of ſixty, once gave for retaining the part of the School Boy, I have done it, ſays he, forty years ago, and therefore think I have a right to do it now. Mr. DYER has afforded us ſatisfaction in this character, and Mr. WROUGHTON, tho' la, la, was more ſufferable than in any other part we have ſeen him play.

Juba is a well-diſpoſed young prince, and ſeems to have ideas of eſtabliſhing ſame on worthy prin⯑ciples; his attachment to Cato would, however, re⯑dound much more to his honour, if there was not reaſon to ſuppoſe his love for Marcia the foundation of it. In point of action, he cannot be rendered very ſtriking, being too much in the ſtile of medio⯑crity; the beſt we remember to have ſeen was Mr. DIGGES, who gave him much more force and va⯑riety than Mr. SMITH, though we think the latter a tolerable Numidian prince.

Sempronius is a rogue of very black dye, who does not ſcruple to attempt giving the laſt ſtab to expiring liberty, and who wants to betray the moſt virtuous citizen, merely on account of being re⯑fuſed the object of his amorous paſſion. He is a fair-faced villain, and couches dark deſigns under the veil of patriotic profeſſions; extent and weight of expreſſion are eſſential to this part, wherefore, we are induced to pronounce Mr. MOSSOP the beſt with⯑in our knowledge; Mr. SPARKS was extremely re⯑ſpectable, [458] and we have received ſome pleaſure from Mr. CLARKE, in this treacherous ſenator.

Syphax is a rogue alſo, and diſloyal to his prince, but he is ſo upon rather a ſtronger principle than Sem⯑pronius, for having conceived a fixed antipathy a⯑gainſt the Romans, whoſe poliſhed manners he in⯑terprets effeminacy, and being enraged at Juba's attachments to Cato, he endeavours to perſuade him therefrom, which being declined with harſh terms, the teſty old Numidian takes the perſonal affront cloſe to heart, and thoroughly connects himſelf with Sempronius's views. This character we deem bet⯑ter drawn than any other in the piece, and ſupport⯑ed with great uniformity of ſpirit.

Mr. THE. CIBBER, in our judgment, formed a more adequate idea of Syphax than any other per⯑former; his diſſimulation and teſtineſs was deſcrib⯑ed excellently by that judicious comedian; but he retained ſo much of the cant, which is now happily exploded, that we could only applaud him for what he meant, not what he did. Mr. GIBSON is a mighty lukewarm repreſentative of the old Numi⯑dian, but unleſs Mr. HULL ſhould venture on him, is as well as any other perſon at preſent in Covent Garden. Indeed, to ſay truth, take it for all in all, there never was ſuch a mangled ſpectacle ſeen at a Theatre Royal, as this tragedy was in April, 1770, at that houſe; and however ſtrange the aſſer⯑tion may ſeem, it is ſtrictly true, that Mr. GARD⯑NER manifeſted more characteriſtic merit in Lucius, than any other perſon in the whole drama. Of all [459] the Decius's we have ſeen, we don't recollect one ſufficiently to authorize particular mention.

Marcia is a lady poſſeſſed of juſt and elegant ſen⯑timents, a worthy offspring of the great Cato, except where ſhe is rendered rather ridiculous by the meta⯑morphoſe and fall of Sempronius: Mrs. WOF⯑FINGTON gave that importance to the character by her figure and action, which Mr. ADDISON left for the actreſs to ſupply; Mrs. BELLAMY ſuſtained the part very well, ſo did Mrs. HAMILTON; as to Miſs MILLER, lately, ſhe was inoffenſive, and that's as high as moſt of the young performers can reach.

Lucia is a very tender-hearted fair one, violently enamoured, yet ſays or does very little worthy the the leaſt notice; a good tragic actreſs might be ren⯑dered inſipid by ſuch a part, no wonder then that Mrs. MATTOCKS ſhould move through it without any degree of praiſe; Mrs. STEPHENS's manner and expreſſion is better calculated to make things of this ſort agreeable, than any other theatrical lady we know.

Party is of a very dangerous nature to dramatic repreſentations, but both whigs and tories taking this piece as a compliment to themſelves, ſtrenuouſly ſupported it, and gave a ſanction it never deſerved, for we muſt abſolutely deny its theatrical excellence; it is certainly a moral, colloquial poem of great me⯑rit, but a tragedy full of defects; it ſhould be im⯑mortal in the cloſet, but cannot juſtly claim poſſeſ⯑ſion of the ſtage.

AS You LIKE It. A COMEDY by SHAKESPEARE.

THIS paſtoral comedy, for ſuch it may proper⯑ly be ſtiled, opens with Orlando and Adam, the for⯑mer a young gentleman, recounting to the latter, ſteward of the family, the ſcanty proviſion made for him by the will of his father, and the cruelty of his elder brother, who treats him with much contempt, not only neglecting his education, but putting him under the ſevere neceſſity of aſſociating with menial ſervants; this, he confeſſes, rankles in his mind, and he expreſſes a commendable determination to bear it no longer. Here his elder brother, Oliver, ap⯑pears, and accoſts him in a churliſh manner, to which he replies at firſt with complacence, but, upon irri⯑tation, makes ſpirited retorts, and their conference riſes to a quarrel, which the old man endeavours to ſoften; Orlando claims his ſmall patrimony, or more reſpectful uſage; the former ſeems moſt a⯑greeable to Oliver, who partly promiſes it, and then not only diſmiſſes his brother with much malevo⯑lence, but forbids Adam his houſe alſo.

From an interview between Oliver and Charles, the wreſtler, we find that Duke Senior is baniſhed by his brother, but that Roſalind, on account of the affection Celia, Duke Frederic's daughter, bears her, does not go into exile with him; upon Charles's [461] mention that he hears Orlando has a private inten⯑tion of wreſtling with him, ſuggeſts to Oliver a moſt brutal idea, no leſs than the deſtruction of his inno⯑cent brother, and this he cultivates by bribing the wreſtler to exert all his ſuperior ſtrength againſt him, with the utmoſt malevolence; and after this ready agent of his malice diſappears, gives a moſt ex⯑traordinary reaſon for his hatred of Orlando, no o⯑ther than the many amiable qualities of that youth, which he is either unable or unwilling to imitate.

Roſalind and Celia ſucceed this worthy blade, the former expreſſing a dejection of ſpirits, on ac⯑count of her father's exile, the latter offering cor⯑dial conſolation, which prevails, and produces ſport⯑ive mention of love, which Celia rather ſeems to think dangerous to play with; ſome ſpeeches, when fortune is propoſed as a ſubject of their mockery, we cannot help tranſcribing, on account of the truth and pleaſantry of thoſe ideas they create. "Bene⯑fits, ſays Roſalind, are mightily miſplaced, and the bountiful, blind lady doth moſt miſtake in her gifts to women:" to which Celia prettily replies, "'Tis true, for thoſe that ſhe makes fair, ſhe ſcarce makes honeſt, and thoſe that ſhe makes honeſt ſhe makes very ill-favoured:" however, we think, ac⯑cording to a cuſtom of SHAKESPEARE's, they play too long upon words, and wear imagination thread⯑bare; the clown appears as a meſſenger, and deſires Celia to go to her father, in that familiar ſtile adopt⯑ed by ſuch gentry; his aſſuring the truth of what he [462] has ſaid upon his honour, occaſions an egregious but laughable quibble of terms.

When Le Beu enters, he acquaints the ladies that they have loſt much ſport; upon enquiry into the nature of the amuſement they have miſſed, it appears to be a wreſtling match, wherein three young fellows have had many bones broke, are in danger of their lives, while their aged father is di⯑ſtracted with grief at their misfortune, which, as the clown ſenſibly obſerves, muſt be notable ſport for ladies.

Duke Frederic, with Orlando, Charles, &c. enter, the duke humanely pitying Orlando's inequality of perſon for an athletic contention, has endeavoured to diſſuade him from the trial, but in vain; where⯑fore Frederic deſires the young ladies to try their perſuaſion; this kind taſk they readily undertake, and delicately enter upon the ſubject; however, the young man appears to be under a gloomineſs of mind, which makes life or death a matter of indif⯑ference to him; the ladies ſeeing him ſo hazardouſly bent afford him all they can, good wiſhes for ſuc⯑ceſs.

The wreſtler vaunts his ſuperiority with great ap⯑parent confidence, while Orlando ſhews engaging contraſt modeſty; this contention, though an odd incident for the ſtage, occaſions an agreeable anxiety, and the effect of it, Orlando's victory, very pleaſing ſenſations; making Roſalind and her couſin extend favour to the weaker party, is a juſt, and genteel compliment to female generoſity.

[463]Upon enquiry who Orlando is, and finding him the ſon of Sir Rowland de Boys, Duke Frederic ſeems to entertain ſtrong prejudice againſt his father, and goes off abruptly. Roſalind here mentions the affectionate regard her father had for Sir Rowland, which prejudices her in favour of Orlando, to whom ſhe and her couſin offer congratulation for his eſcape and unexpected ſucceſs; upon their going off he drops a hint in two lines of a particular effect Roſalind has had on him. Here Le Beu enters, and acquaints Orlando, that whatever fair appearance Duke Fre⯑deric might wear, his temper is of a dangerous, un⯑certain nature, and cannot ſafely be truſted, therefore advices his departure.

Orlando's enquiry which was the duke's daugh⯑ter, is anſwered by information, that Roſalind, the taller, is daughter of the baniſhed, and Celia of the reigning duke; who, by Le Beu's intimation, en⯑tertains a diſlike of his niece, which is ſoon likely to appear; Orlando thanks his friendly adviſer, and they go off ſeverally.

Celia and Roſalind re-enter, from what occurs be⯑tween them we perceive, that Roſalind has ſuddenly conceived more than a friendly regard for Orlando. The duke now makes his appearance in great wrath, though from what immediate provocation we know not, and dooms his niece to ſudden baniſhment; Roſalind modeſtly pleads her innocence, and Celia urges her friendſhip as motives for remiſſion of ſo harſh a ſentence, but the duke ſeems immoveable in his whimſical ſeverity, and even limits the extent of [464] Roſalind's ſtay. Celia's determination to ſhare the exile of her couſin and friend, manifeſts moſt amiable and tender generoſity of mind; they determine to ſeek Duke Senior in the foreſt of Arden, agree to diſguiſe themſelves, Roſalind as a man, Celia as a ſhepherdeſs, and go off with a compoſure of mind truly philoſophical.

The ſecond act commences with the old duke and his faithful followers, as forreſters; we have more than once objected to frequency and length of quo⯑tation, notwithſtanding conſiderable pains might have been ſaved thereby; however, we are now come to a ſpeech ſo replete with moral meaning and poetical beauty, that we cannot avoid preſenting it as a treat to the reader.

[465]Jaques's account of the ſequeſtered ſtag, which follows this excellent ſpeech, the ſatire therein couched againſt that moſt abominable perverſion of nature, ingratitude, is pathetically pleaſing, but we are reſolved to reſiſt the temptation of tranſcribing it, and therefore refer thoſe to the play who wiſh a pe⯑ruſal of it, aſſuring every competent judge, that taſte cannot have a higher, or more valuable grati⯑fication.

When theſe rural philoſophers, as we may call them, retire, Duke Frederic, and ſome attendant lords appear; the duke intent upon finding out his eloped daughter; as we remember, this ſhort ſcene is omitted in repreſentation, and in peruſal ſeems of very little importance, unleſs we receive it in the light of mere connection, nor can it be then very material; however, ſearch is ordered for the runa⯑ways, and as Orlando is ſuppoſed of the party, his el⯑der brother is called upon.

The ſcene changing to Oliver's houſe, Orlando appears knocking at the door, and is anſwered by Adam; a moſt feeling converſation enſues, wherein Adam ſpeaks powerfully to every generous ſenſati⯑on; his offering the ſmall ſum his oeconomy has ſaved, to Orlando's uſe, is truly affecting; his reli⯑ance on that general providence which caters for beaſts of the field, and birds of the air, is worthy a pious, ſenſible heart; and the diſtinction he makes between temperate and licentious youth admirably inſtructive. Orlando's grateful ſenſe of this good and affectionate old ſteward's behaviour, is by no [466] means inadequate, and their going off ſtamps a re⯑gard which muſt render them both acceptable to the audience whenever they appear.

Roſalind, in her maſculine habit, with Celia and the Clown now preſent themſelves, much wearied with their journey; however, the Clown indulges his quaint witticiſms. Corin, an old ſhepherd, and Sylvius, a young one, come forward, the latter men⯑tioning his love for Phoebe, the former adviſing him to a moderation of his paſſion; Roſalind ſympa⯑thizes with Sylvius; they aſk Corin for his aſſiſt⯑ance in reſpect of ſome refreſhment, and receive an hoſpitable anſwer; upon his telling them that the farm and flocks he belongs to are to be ſold, Roſa⯑lind and Celia expreſs a deſire of becoming pur⯑chaſers, and conſtitute the old ſhepherd their agent for that purpoſe.

A very inſignificant ſcene between Jacques, Ami⯑ens, &c. enſues, indeed, there is a ſong which, by the help of Dr. ARNE's very agreeable muſic, ren⯑ders it tolerable.

We next perceive Orlando ſuſtaining Adam, who faints for want of food, with very tender care; and promiſing to procure ſomething, he deſires the good old man to reſt under ſome ſhelter till he comes back.

Duke Senior and his lords appear next, to whom Jaques comes with mirthful aſpect, occaſioned, as he ſays, by a conference he has had with a motley fool, of which he gives a beautiful and inſtructive account; upon their ſitting down to a rural enter⯑tainment, [467] they are accoſted by Orlando, whoſe ſud⯑den, unreſerved attack, occaſions the duke to en⯑quire what the cauſe of ſuch an abrupt intruſion may be, which he explains by a plea of neceſſity; on receiving a cordial invitation to ſit at the table, he ſoftens into grateful gentleneſs, and expreſſes himſelf in the following truly poetical lines.

Notwithſtanding the evident beauties in this ſpeech, we conceive two objections, one is to the word inac⯑ceſſible, which puts us in mind of what an Iriſh judge once ſaid to the high ſheriff of a county: "Really, Mr. Sheriff, the roads to this town are impaſſable;" to which the ſheriff very properly replied, "Pray then, how did your lordſhip get hither:" ſo might the duke aſk Orlando how he got into the inacceſ⯑ſible place—The word deſart alſo ſeems very much miſapplied when ſpeaking of a foreſt, for, as we apprehend, the term properly implies a waſte tract of country, with ſcarce any trace of vegetation; our [468] ſecond objection to the manner of placing the words loſe and neglect, they ſhould certainly be tran⯑ſpoſed.

The duke's replying to Orlando upon thoſe ideas he has ſuggeſted, is prettily imagined, and the young man's attention to his old friend extremely amiable. This unexpected gueſt, and the account he has given, draws from the duke a moſt uſeful, conſolatory and philoſophical remark: That however unhappy we may be, there are others as much or more ſo. Jaques here delivers that maſterly picture of human life, commonly called the Seven Ages, which we ſhould think it our duty to tranſcribe, but that it has been ſo often quoted and parodied, that ſcarce any perſon can be unacquainted with it.

Orlando entering with Adam, they receive a kind welcome, and partake of the entertainment, while Amiens ſings that agreeable and ſenſible ſong, "Blow, blow, thou winter's wind." The duke learns who Orlando is, and mentions in the conclu⯑ſive ſpeech of this act, the regard he had for that young man's father.

Duke Frederic appears at the beginning of the third act, demanding Orlando of his brother Oliver in angry terms, and upon not receiving a ſatisfactory anſwer, he orders a ſequeſtration of Oliver's effects, with baniſhment of his perſon; this ſhort ſcene is often omitted in repreſentation, but we think it ſhould always be retained.

Orlando now conſtituted one of Duke Senior's followers, as a tribute to his love, hangs up a copy [469] of verſes, addreſſed to Roſalind, in a tree, expreſ⯑ſing his paſſion in an agreeable ſoliloquy.

Corin and Touchſtone entertain us with a conver⯑ſation which exhibits ſeveral ſtrokes of ſenſible, tho' whimſical ſatire, but delicacy is much offended by ſeveral paſſages; however, the following ſpeech of Corin makes amends for many ſlips: "Sir, I am a true labourer, I earn that I eat, get that I wear, owe no man hate, envy no man's happineſs, glad of other men's good, content with my harm, and the greateſt of my pride is to ſee my ewes graze and my lambs ſuck."

Roſalind comes in reading Orlando's verſes on herſelf, which the Clown very humorouſly burleſques. Celia enters reading another poem of amorous ten⯑dency; after ſending off the Clown and Corin, ſhe enters into a conference with her couſin Roſalind, upon the verſes and the writer of them, and after teizing her with ſuſpenſe, informs her that Orlando is the man, which throws Roſalind into a pretty, natural palpitation of heart. Seeing Orlando and Jaques approach, they draw back, while a ſhort diſcourſe paſſes between thoſe gentlemen, the latter of whom cynically rails at the former's ſoft amorous tendency, which brings on retorts from each ſide not of the civileſt nature; when Jaques goes off, Roſa⯑lind approaches with confidence, under favour of her diſguiſe, and rallies Orlando with very pleaſing vivacity; her diſtinctions reſpecting the paces of time are peculiarly pleaſant.

[470]The picture drawn of a lover, and the method of cure for amorous feelings, ſhew a juſt idea of na⯑ture. Roſalind's mode of drawing in Orlando to woo her, as his miſtreſs, is an agreeable device, for this purpoſe ſhe takes him off to ſhew him her cot, that he may call every day.

A ſcene of ſome little laugh ſucceeds between the Clown and Audry, which is generally concluded in repreſentation by a moſt pitiful and fulſome rhime to the woman's name. Roſalind and Celia ſucceed, expreſſing ſome doubts concerning Orlando's con⯑ſtancy; the old ſhepherd comes on, and acquaints them, that the love-ſick ſwain, Silvius, whom they have often enquired after, is at hand, with his hard-hearted miſtreſs; when the Sylvan pair enter, they liſten; on finding Phoebe obſtinately bent againſt Silvius's ſolicitation, Roſalind ſteps in to his aſſiſt⯑ance, and catechiſes the ſcornful ſhepherdeſs with great humour; checking him alſo for proſtituting his praiſe to encreaſe that vanity which damps his ſuit. Phoebe throws out a few hints of tender re⯑gard for Roſalind, which are treated with diſdain, and Silvius is ordered to purſue her. After Roſa⯑lind and Celia go off, we find Phoebe laviſh in praiſe of the former, as a captivating youth; how⯑ever, ſhe ſoftens ſo far in favour of Silvius, that ſhe admits of his wooing; then expreſſes ſome reſent⯑ment at the freedom with which Roſalind treated her, determines on writing a ſharp letter in return, which Silvius promiſes to deliver, and thus the act concludes.

[471]In the firſt ſcene of the fourth act, we are enter⯑tained with a good deal of ſpirited quibble and word-catching, between Roſalind and Orlando; one paſ⯑ſage is ſo peculiarly beautiful, that its merit will ſuffi⯑ciently apologize for its appearing here. When Or⯑lando ſays he will love for ever and a day, ſhe replies, "Say a day without the ever: no, no, Orlando, men are April when they woo, December when they wed; maids are May when they are maids, but the ſky changes when they are wives. I will be more jealous of thee than a Barbary cock pidgeon over his hen; more clamorous than a parrot againſt rain; more new fangled than an ape; more giddy in my deſires than a monkey; I will weep for nothing, like Diana in the fountain; and I will do that when you are diſpoſed to be merry. I will laugh like a hyen, and that when you are aſleep."

When Orlando goes off to attend the duke at din⯑ner, Roſalind profeſſes regard for him even to a ro⯑mantic degree of warmth, and ſhe gives a whimſical account of Cupid. Here a ſhort ſcene between Jaques and ſome other forreſters intervene, but is o⯑mitted in repreſentation, ſo that Silvius comes on directly to Roſalind with Phoebe's letter, which is no ſooner peruſed but Roſalind ſtiles it rank abuſe; however, on communicating the contents, it appears, the enamoured ſhepherdeſs has ſtrung together ſeve⯑ral jingling couplets of compliment; Silvius is con⯑founded by his meſſage and the ſtrange interpretation of it, which cauſes Roſalind to ſend him with a charge to Phoebe, that ſhe muſt love him.

[472]Here Oliver approaches the ladies, enquiring for their cottage, Celia points out its ſituation; howe⯑ver, from appearance, he judges them to be the perſons he ſeeks for; upon being confirmed in this opinion, he preſents a bloody napkin to Roſa⯑lind, and Orlando's excuſe for not coming accord⯑ing to appointment. The deſcription of his own perilous ſituation, and the generous interpoſition of Orlando to ſave his life, are ſet forth with much poetical beauty; but abſurdity, in point of circum⯑ſtances, ſtrikes our perception plainly; for how could all he mentions have happened during the ſhort interval of Orlando's abſence; particularly, how has he had time to change from the wretched ſtate of being ragged and overgrown with hair, in which be lay under the oak, to his preſent appearance; in⯑deed, he talks of being led to the duke, who or⯑dered him array and entertainment: but, upon the whole, we think matters are oddly hudled together, merely to favour a flight of fancy.

The hurt Orlando has received in his ſkirmiſh with the lioneſs, overpowers the ſpirit of Roſalind, that ſhe faints under the depreſſion, and is led home by Celia and Oliver.

At the beginning of the fifth act, Touchſtone and Audry offer themſelves to view, and are joined by William, a ſimpleton, upon whoſe weakneſs, Touchſtone indulges his own ſuppoſed wit very liberally; an account of Audry, at laſt he breaths out moſt terrible threats if William ſhould entertain any thoughts of that amiable creature; this is a [473] ſcene which makes us laugh without our knowing why, and conſiſts more of mere whim than good ſenſe or uſeful ſatire; upon a ſummons by the old ſhepherd they go off.

Orlando and Oliver next appear, the former, as well he may, expreſſing ſome ſurprize that Celia, as Aliena ſhould have ſo ſudden and forceable an effect upon the latter; it is indeed an affair of much haſte, however Oliver not only acquaints us with his own paſſion, but alſo informs us, that Aliena has ex⯑changed love with him; when Duke Frederic ba⯑niſhed Oliver, order was given to ſequeſter all his poſſeſſion, and from the condition in which Orlando found him, it is reaſonable to think thoſe orders had been amply fulfilled; yet here he propoſes giv⯑ing his eſtate to Orlando, and turning ſhepherd him⯑ſelf for the ſake of Aliena.

When Roſalind comes on, after expreſſing con⯑cern for Orlando's accident, ſhe confirms Oliver's account of the love affair between him and Celia; we wiſh a hint, with which her obſervation upon the propoſed marriage concludes, was made deli⯑cate. On Orlando's expreſſing concern that his happineſs is not ſo near as his brother's ſhe comes to the point, and promiſes, if he is ſo inclined, that when his brother is married, he ſhall marry Ro⯑ſalind; Silvius and Phoebe joining company, the ſeveral parties expreſs themſelves prettily as their diſ⯑poſitions lead; their converſation is a ſort of croſs purpoſes, which Roſalind ends by ſatisfying all parties with a ſtring of oenigmatical promiſes.

[474]In repreſentation Duke Senior with his followers come next; to them enter Roſalind, Silvius and Phoebe; the heroine under favour of diſguiſe urges a previous compact on all ſides; from her father ſhe extracts a promiſe, that upon reſtoring his daughter he will give her to Orlando, from Orlando that he will receive her, from Phoebe that ſhe will marry her, or declining that, Silvius; then goes off as ſhe ſays to make all doubts even.

Touchſtone and Audry coming forward, the company are entertained with ſome free, ſignifi⯑cant remarks, by the former: his proofs of being a courtier, and his diſſertation upon quarreling, are admirable; we have not met a ſeverer reproof of the falſe fire and romantic honour of formal duelliſts, than this affair of Touchſtone's, upon a cauſe ſeven times removed.

Roſalind, reſtored to the cuſtomary appearance of her ſex, enters, is recognized by her father and lover, rejected as a woman by Phoebe, and thus her compact with all parties becomes fulfilled. Matters being brought to this agreeable concluſion, Jaques de Boys comes on, and acquaints the duke of his reſtoration; Duke Frederic having been checked in the career of his wickedneſs, and perſuaded to reſign the dukedom by a religious hermit, with this fa⯑vourable account, and a proſe epilogue, which never fails of working a very pleaſing effect, the comedy of AS YOU LIKE IT concludes.

This piece conſidered at large has a very roman⯑tic air, the unities ſuffer ſevere invaſion, ſeveral [475] ſcenes are very trifling, and the plot is hurried on to an imperfect cataſtrophe: we hear ſomething of Oliver's being puniſhed as an unnatural, abomina⯑ble brother, but have a ſtrong objection to crown⯑ing ſuch a monſter with fortune and love. An in⯑terview between the dukes would have afforded an opportunity for genius and judgment to exert them⯑ſelves commendably; however, with all its faults, there is not a more agreeable piece on the ſtage; the characters are various, and all well ſupported; the incidents, if not ſtriking, are certainly pleaſing; the ſentiments, with very few exceptions, are pregnant with uſeful meaning; and the language, though quaint in ſome places, ſhews in general ſtrength and ſpirit worthy of SHAKESPEARE's pen.

Duke Senior is an amiable character, ſuſtained with philoſophical dignity, turning the frowns of fortune, as every man ſhould do, into the means and motives of inſtruction: what he ſays is not of ſuffi⯑cient length to conſtitute a very conſpicuous part in action, but if a performer has any declamatory me⯑rit, he may ſhew it to advantage here. We have no objection to Mr. BURTON in this noble exile, but wiſh Mr. ACKMAN may never think of him, except as a feaſt upon his own benefit night, that happy ſea⯑ſon when annuals vegetate into characters of conſe⯑quence in the drama, and large capital letters in the bills.

Duke Frederic is a notorious villain, of whom no performer can poſſibly make any thing, wherefore we ſhall not mention any body. Jaques, a cynical [476] ſpeculatiſt, poſſeſſing much good ſenſe with great oddity: Mr. QUIN was an object of much admi⯑ration in this part, but from the opinion we have al⯑ready delivered of that gentleman's declamatory abi⯑lities, it is impoſſible to admit that praiſe the par⯑tial, miſled public allowed him, Mr SHERIDAN wants nothing criticiſm can demand, he looks the part well enough, and ſpeaks it with the ſame degree of emphatic, deſcriptive feeling with which the au⯑thor wrote. Mr. DIGGES did it conſiderable juſtice; Mr. SPARKS and Mr. BERRY both had merit, but were too laborious and heavy; Mr. LOVE's utterance of Jaques's fine, flowing periods, puts us in mind of liquor gurgling through the diſ⯑ſonant paſſage of a narrow-necked bottle.

Orlando, without any ſtriking qualifications, is an agreeable perſonage, and never can appear to more advantage than through the late Mr. PAL⯑MER's repreſentation of him; there was a degree of ſpirited eaſe manifeſted by him not eaſily met with, and his perſonal appearance was moſt hap⯑pily adapted: Mr DEXTER, a performer of me⯑rit, in ſeveral parts, rendered this young man very pleaſing; and Mr. ROSS, gave as much ſatisfaction upon the whole as any audience could reaſonably expect; as to Mr. REDDISH, he does not look at all like the character, and ſpeaks it too ſententiouſly, wherefore we cannot allow him that approbation he moſtly deſerves, and we are glad to give him.

[477]Adam is a moſt intereſting old man, and though little ſeen, muſt always remain in the recollection of a diſtinguiſhing ſpectator; we dont recollect to have received greater pleaſure from any body than Mr. MOODY, in this faithful ſteward: whoſe tender ſenſibility muſt ſit well alſo upon the feelings and expreſſion of Mr. HULL.

Touchſtone, in ſentiment and expreſſion, is made up of whim, a character quite outré; therefore in action cannot be tied down to any exact line of na⯑ture. Mr. MACKLIN marked the meaning of this character very ſtrongly, but wanted volubility; Mr. WOODWARD is extremely pleaſant, and indulges an extravagance not cenſurable; however, in reſpect of pointedneſs and ſpirit properly mixed, a forceable yet free articulation, Mr. KING ſtands foremoſt in our eſtimation.

We remember to have had the ſingular pleaſure of ſeeing no leſs than five ladies perform Roſalind with great merit, whoſe names we ſhall ſet down in the ſucceſſion allotted them by our judgment; Mrs. BARRY, Mrs. PRITCHARD, Mrs. WOFFINGTON, Miſs MACKLIN, and Mrs. HAMILTON; the three former had a very evident ſuperiority over the two latter, and the two firſt we deem ſo equal in merit, that we only prefer Mrs. BARRY as having a more agreeable, characteriſtic appearance; Mrs. WOF⯑FINGTON's figure was unexceptionable, but her ut⯑terance and deportment were too ſtrongly tinctured with affectation, eſpecially for the rural ſwain; there is a peculiarity and embarraſſment of expreſſion in [478] this part which requires good natural parts or able inſtruction, to hit it off happily.

Celia has a good deal of pretty, unimpaſſioned ſpeaking, as well calculated for Mrs. BADDELY and Mrs. W. BARRY as poſſible, nothing is wanted in the part which thoſe ladies cannot agreeably furniſh; and Audry in Mrs. BRADSHAW's hands, deſerves the tribute of laughter, for being well figured, and as well ſpoke.

It is almoſt needleſs to remark, that as not one of SHAKESPEARE's pieces is without abundant beau⯑ties, ſo not one can claim the praiſe of being free from egregious faults; however, in AS YOU LIKE IT, the latter fall very ſhort of the former; and we make no ſcruple to affirm, that this piece will afford conſiderable inſtruction from attentive peruſal, with great addition of pleaſure from adequate repreſenta⯑tion.

We are now come to the end of our firſt volume, with the very ſingular ſatisfaction of not having one material objection, either public or private, offered againſt our humble endeavours, notwithſtanding that living authors and performers have been treated with undiſguiſed, and we hope liberal freedom; if any perſon mentioned in the foregoing ſheets can prove a trace of partial, intereſted friendſhip, un⯑becoming timidity, or determined malevolence; if the praiſe and cenſure alternately beſtowed on the ſame perſons do not appear founded upon reaſon and nature, or at leaſt the offspring of involuntary error, the authors of this work will then give up all claim [479] to the unbiaſſed veracity they originally profeſſed; and they once again declare, that no connection or view whatever, ſhall, in the continuation of this work, warp opinion: ſeveral attempts have been made for that purpoſe, but without effect; which they hope will prevent any future ones; critics, like the Roman, ſhould exerciſe juſtice, even upon a ſon.

It was intended to add an inveſtigation of each performer's particular requiſites and defects, but by reſpectable advice, which we ſhall always follow, that part of our deſign is deferred to the laſt number of the ſecond volume; to which alſo we ſhall add a diſſertation upon public elocution in general, and lay down rules by which moſt of our criticiſms on per⯑formance may be tried.

We have nothing further to add at preſent, but cordial gratitude for the very candid reception we have met; and hope that our ſlips, as ſeveral there muſt be in ſuch a variety of conſiderations, may be pointed out with the ſame ſpirit of kind cenſure, we have uſed to others; in the fulneſs of heart we de⯑clare that praiſe in every inſtance has given us con⯑ſiderable pleaſure, and the irkſome neceſſity of find⯑ing fault, has furniſhed an equal degree of pain.

The liſt of theatrical muſhrooms is alſo by deſire poſtponed to the end of the next volume, when it will no doubt be conſiderably enriched.