REMARKS ON THE Conſcious Lovers.

I HAVE determin'd to make ſome Remarks, with Brevity and Im⯑partiallity, upon a late Drama⯑tick Performance, call'd, The Conſcious Lovers, a Comedy: That I may be then certainly able to determine whether the great Succeſs of it is owing to un⯑common Merit, or to thoſe extraordinary in⯑famous Methods which I have lately taken Notice of in a former Treatiſe, and which, if there is not a ſudden Stop put to them, will occaſion the utter Downfal of the Stage, and of all the Arts dependent on it.

'Tis an Obſervation of Ariſtotle, in the ſixteenth Chapter of his Poeticks, that there ſhould be no Incident in the Action of a Tragedy, which ſhould be without its Rea⯑ſon, becauſe the Abſurdity of the Incidents [15] would deſtroy the Probability of the Action, and turn poetical Fiction into downright Falſhood. Now, if upon this Account 'tis requir'd that all the Incidents ſhould be rea⯑ſonable in Tragedy, 'tis ſtill more requiſite in Comedy, where the Probable is more ne⯑ceſſary, and the Wonderful leſs tolerable. But now this whole Dramatick Performance ſeems to me to be built upon ſeveral Things which have no Foundation, either in Pro⯑bability, or in Reaſon, or Nature. The Father of Indiana, whoſe Name is Danvers, and who was formerly an eminent Merchant at Briſtol, upon his Arrival from the Indies, from whence he returns with a great Eſtate, carries on a very great Trade at London un⯑known to his Friends and Relations at Briſ⯑tol, under the Name of Sealand. Now this Fiction, without which there could be no Comedy, nor any thing call'd a Comedy, is not ſupported by Probability, or by Reaſon, or Nature. 'Tis true, he tells his Daugh⯑ter, in the fifth Act, towards the Top of the 82d Page, That when his Misfortunes drove him to the Indies, for Reaſons too tedious to be mention'd at the Time he ſpoke, he chang'd his Name of Danvers into Sealand. When his Misfortunes drove him out of his Country, thoſe Misfortunes were Reaſons ſufficient to account for the changing his Name. But is it probable, that at his Ar⯑rival in the Indies, or at his Return to Eng⯑land [16] with a vaſt Eſtate, he ſhould ſtill retain the Name of Sealand? Is it natural to be⯑lieve, that under that borrow'd Name he ſhould conceal himſelf from his Family and all his Relations, as it appears by what his Daughter ſays, Act II. Page 30. that he does? Is it credible, that he could be ſuch a Monſter, as never to ſend to Briſtol after his Arrival from the Indies, to enquire after his Wife, his Siſter, and his Daughter? and that he ſhould feloniouſly marry a ſecond Wife, without ever knowing what was be⯑come of the firſt? Is it reaſonable to be⯑lieve, that if he could be abſurd enough to deſign this, he could ever poſſibly effect it? Is it poſſible that a Man can return from the Indies with a vaſt Eſtate, and the World ſhould not know either what he is, or what he was when he went thither, eſpecially when he traded to every Part of the Globe? Is there ſo much as one Man in England with a vaſt Eſtate, whoſe Original is not known? Or was there ever any one great Merchant of London, whoſe Family and Original was not known to the Merchants at Briſtol, when betwixt the one and the other there is always ſo ſtrict and conſtant a Communication?

But ſecondly, the filial Obedience of young Bevil is carried a great deal too far. He is ſaid to be one of a great Eſtate, and a great Underſtanding; and yet he makes a Promiſe to his Father, not to marry without his Con⯑ſent, [17] which is a Promiſe that can do his Fa⯑ther only a vain imaginary Good, and may do him real Hurt. A young Man of a great Underſtanding, cannot but know, that if he makes ſuch a Promiſe, he may be oblig'd to break it, or periſh, or, at leaſt, be unhappy all the reſt of his Life. Such a one cannot but know, that he may poſſibly be ſeiz'd with a Paſſion ſo reſiſtleſs, and ſo violent, that he muſt poſſeſs, or periſh; and conſe⯑quently, if the Woman who inſpires this Paſſion, be a Woman of ſtrict Virtue, he muſt marry, or periſh, or, at leaſt, be mor⯑tally uneaſy for the reſt of his Life. Chil⯑dren, indeed, before they come to Years of Diſcretion are oblig'd to pay a blind Obe⯑dience to their Parents. But after they are come to the full Uſe of their Reaſon, they are only bound to obey them in what is rea⯑ſonable. Indeed, if a Son is in Expectation of an Eſtate from his Father, he is engag'd to a good deal of Compliance, even after he comes to Years of Diſcretion. But that was not Bevil's Caſe: He enjoy'd a very good one of his Mother's, by vertue of a Marriage Ar⯑ticle; and therefore it was unreaſonable in him to make ſuch a Promiſe to his Father, as it was unreaſonable in his Father to urge him to it, eſpecially upon ſo ſordid a Motive as the doubling a great Eſtate. This is acting in a manner ſomething arbitrary. And it ill becomes an Author, who would be thought [18] a Patron of Liberty, to ſuppoſe that Fathers are abſolute, when Kings themſelves are li⯑mitted. If he had not an Underſtanding of his own to tell him this, he might have learn'd from Mr. Locke, in his ſixth Chap⯑ter of his admirable Eſſay on Government: That every Man has a Right to his natural Freedom, without being ſubjected to the Will or Authority of any other Man. Children, I confeſs, ſays that great Man, are not born in this full State of Equality, though they are born to it. Their Parents have a ſort of Rule and Juriſdiction over them when they come into the World, and for ſome Time after; but 'tis, ſays he, but a temporary one. The Bonds of this Subjection are like the Swadling Clothes which they are wrapp'd up in, and ſupported by in the Weakneſs of their Infancy: Age and Reaſon, as they grow up, looſen them, till at length they drop quite off, and leave a Man at his own free Diſpoſal.

The ſame Author a little after adds, That God having given Man an Underſtanding to direct his Actions, has allowed him a Free⯑dom of Will, and Liberty of acting, as pro⯑perly belonging thereunto, within the Bounds of that Law he is under. But while he is in an Eſtate wherein he has no Underſtand⯑ing of his own to direct his Will, he is not to have any Will of his own to follow; he that underſtands for him, muſt will for him too; he muſt preſcribe to his Will, and re⯑gulate [19] his Actions: But when he comes to the Eſtate that made his Father a Freeman, the Son is a Freeman too.

This holds, ſays that great Man, in all the Laws a Man is under, whether Natural or Civil. Is a Man under the Law of Na⯑ture? What made him free of that Law? What gave him a free diſpoſing of his Pro⯑perty according to his own Will, within the Compaſs of that Law? I anſwer, a State of Maturity, wherein he might be ſuppos'd capable to know that Law, that ſo he might keep his Actions within the Bounds of it. When he has acquir'd that State, he is pre⯑ſum'd to know how far that Law is to be his Guide, and how far he may make uſe of his Freedom; and ſo comes to have it: Till then ſome body elſe muſt guide him, who is preſum'd to know how far the Law allows a Liberty. If ſuch a State of Reaſon, ſuch an Age of Diſcretion made him free, the ſame ſhall make his Son free too. Is a Man under the Law of England? What made him free of that Law; that is, to have the Li⯑berty to diſpoſe of his Actions and Poſſeſ⯑ſions according to his own Will, within the Permiſſion of that Law? A Capacity of knowing that Law, which is ſuppos'd by that Law at the Age of Twenty one, and in ſome Caſes ſooner. If this made the Fa⯑ther free, it ſhall make the Son free too. Till then we ſee the Law allows the Son [20] to have no Will, but he is to be guided by the Will of his Father, or Guardian, who is to underſtand for him. And if the Father die, and fail to ſubſtitute a Deputy in this Truſt, if he has not provided a Deputy to govern his Son during his Minority, during his want of Underſtanding, the Law takes care to do it; ſome other muſt govern him, and be a Will to him till he has attain'd to a State of Freedom, and his Underſtanding be fit to take the Government of his Will. But after that the Father and Son are equal⯑ly free, as much as a Tutor and Pupil after Nonage, equally Subjects of the ſame Law together, without any Dominion left in the Father over the Life, Liberty, or Eſtate of the Son, whether they be only in the State, and under the Law of Nature, or under the poſitive Laws of an eſtabliſh'd Government.

I am ſenſible that this Quotation has been a great deal too long; and yet to ſet the Unreaſonableneſs of Bevil's Promiſe in a full Light, I am oblig'd to add what the ſame Author ſays a little lower in the very ſame Chapter, viz. The Power of the Father extends not to the Laws, or Goods, which either his Children's Induſtry, or another's Bounty has made theirs, nor to their Li⯑berty neither, when they are once arriv'd to the Enfranchiſement of the Years of Diſ⯑cretion. The Father's Empire then ceaſes; and he can from thence-forwards no more [21] diſpoſe of the Liberty of his Son, than of any other Man. And it muſt be far from an ab⯑ſolute or perpetual Juriſdiction, from which a Man may withdraw himſelf; having Li⯑cenſe from divine Authority, to leave Fa⯑ther and Mother, and cleave to his Wife.

From what I have quoted from ſo judi⯑cious and ſo penetrating an Author, I think it is pretty plain, that young Bevil, who diſpos'd of part of his Eſtate without, nay, and as he might reaſonably ſuppoſe, againſt the Conſent of his Father, might à fortiori have diſpos'd of his Perſon too, if it had not been for his unreaſonable Promiſe; and that 'tis highly improbable, that one of the Eſtate and Underſtanding, which he is ſaid to have, ſhould abſurdly make a Promiſe which might poſſibly endanger the Happi⯑neſs of his whole Life. 'Tis ſaid, indeed, in more than one Place of the Play, that the Son has uncommon Obligations to his Father; but we are neither told, nor are we able to gueſs what thoſe Obligations are. What uncommon Obligations can a Son, who has a great Eſtate in Poſſeſſion, have to a Father of ſo ſordid a Nature as Sir John Bevil ſhews himſelf? Act 4. Page 65. Beſides, what Obligations can be binding enough to make a Man of a great Eſtate part with Liberty, with the very Liberty of his Choice, in the moſt important Action of his Life, upon which the Happineſs of all the reſt depends.

[22] But as unreaſonable as this Promiſe is, which young Bevil made to his Father, by which he gave away his Birthright, his Liberty, yes, the very Liberty of his Choice, in an Affair upon which his Happineſs moſt de⯑pended, his Behaviour to Indiana is ſtill more unaccountable: He loves her, and is beloved by her; makes conſtant Viſits and profuſe Preſents to her; and yet conceals his Paſſion from her; which may be per⯑haps a clumſy Expedient for the Author's preparing the Diſcovery, but is neither a⯑greeable to Nature nor Reaſon: For 'tis im⯑poſſible that any young Man in Nature in Health and Vigour, and in the Height of a violent Paſſion, can ſo far command him⯑ſelf by the meer Force of Reaſon. I am wil⯑ling, indeed, to allow that he may be able to do it by the Aſſiſtance of the true Reli⯑gion: But the Buſineſs of a Comick Poet is only to teach Morality: Grace is not taught, but inſpir'd. The dreadful Myſteries of Chriſtianity are but ill compatible with the Lightneſs and Mirth of Comedy; or with the Obſcenity and Prophaneſs of a degenerate Stage, or with the Diſpoſitions of an Aſ⯑ſembly, compos'd of Perſons who have ſome of them no Religion, and ſome of them not the true one. Beſides that, nothing but a Doctrine taken from the moral Law can be a juſt Foundation of a Fable; which every true Comedy is.

[23] Nor is ſuch a Behaviour any more agreeable to Reaſon, than it is to Nature: Bevil loves Indiana, and is beloved by her: She adores him, ſhe dies for him, and he knows it: He obſerves it; and obſerves at the ſame Time that ſo violent a Paſſion is attended with equal Anxiety; and that Anxiety is entirely caus'd by the perplexing Doubt ſhe is in, whether ſhe is beloved, or not, as appears by what he ſays himſelf, Act 2. p. 27. Why then doth he not declare himſelf, and by that Declaration compoſe her Mind, and qualify her to expect with Patience the Benefit of Time. 'Tis indeed true, that he had pro⯑mis'd his Father never to marry without his Conſent, while his Father liv'd; but he had not promis'd him never to love without his Conſent; for that would have been a ridicu⯑lous Promiſe; a Promiſe, the Performance of Non-performance of which was not in his own Power, and would depend entirely on what the People call Chance, and what Phi⯑loſophers call Providence. What could he mean then by not declaring himſelf? As the Love he had conceiv'd for Indiana was no Breach of the Promiſe he had made to his Father, ſo neither could he violate it by any Declaration of that Paſſion! What then, once more, can he mean by his Silence? His only reaſonable way of proceeding had been to acquaint not only his Miſtreſs, but his Fa⯑ther, and all the World, with the Paſſion [24] which he felt for her, and with the Neceſſity he was in to marry her, or to be for ever miſerable. Such a Declaration was not at all inconſiſtent with his Duty; and if his Father had either Reaſon or Compaſſion, would have caus'd him to relent, and to re⯑leaſe his Son from a Promiſe, the perſevering in which muſt prove unhappy, or fatal to him. If it ſhould be ſaid that ſuch a Con⯑cealment of his Paſſion was neceſſary, that he might make a Retreat with Honour, in Caſe his Father ſhould ſtill be obſtinate; to this I anſwer, That there was no Retreat for him, unleſs he would at the ſame time re⯑treat from Virtue and Honour; that his Be⯑haviour had fix'd and determined him; that by his Generoſity and conſtant Viſits, he had raiſed the Paſſion of Indiana to ſuch a Height, that his leaving her would in all likelihood be followed by Madneſs, or by Self-murder, or by dreadful Hyſterical Symp⯑toms, as deplorable as either; of which, what paſſes between her Father and her in the fifth Act, is a ſufficient Proof. Beſide, that ſuch a Retreat would prove as fatal to her Honour as to her Perſon: He had for ſome time made conſtant Viſits; he had made ve⯑ry extravagant Preſents to her; he had made no Declaration of the Affection he had for her, either to her or to her Aunt Iſabella, or acquainted any one with his Deſign to marry her, if he could obtain his Father's [25] Conſent. Now can any thing be more plain, than that ſuch a Behaviour, if he left her, would ruin the Reputation of the poor Lady, and cauſe all the World to entertain ſuch Thoughts of her as Sealand and Myrtle had already expreſs'd. And thus I have endea⯑vour'd to ſhew that the Behaviour of Bevil to Indiana, in his concealing his Paſſion from her, is as ridiculouſly whimſical, as that of Cimberton to her Siſter Lucinda.

The Cataſtophre, I muſt confeſs, is very moving, but it would be more ſo, if it were rightly and reaſonably handled, becauſe it would be much more ſurprizing. For the Surprize is, in a good Meaſure, prevented by the Behaviour of Iſabella upon the firſt Ap⯑pearance of Sealand; which, if it had not been out of all Probability and Nature, would have prevented it more. It was highly in Nature and Probability, that Iſabella, upon the firſt diſcovering her Brother, ſhould fly into an exceſſive Tranſport of Joy, and have run to embrace him; for when ſhe is made to ſay, That her Brother muſt not know her yet, ſhe is made to give no Rea⯑ſons for it, nor can the Audience imagine any. 'Tis not Iſabella who ſays that, but the Author, who clumſily uſes it to ſerve a Turn; for if ſhe had diſcover'd herſelf to her Brother at his firſt Appearance, it had prevented the Audience's Sorrow and Com⯑paſſion for the imaginary Diſtreſs of Indiana, [26] and, conſequently, their return to Joy. But as Ariſtotle, and all the great Criticks after him, have taught us, that there is to be no Inci⯑dent in a Dramatick Poem, but what muſt be founded on Reaſon, it happens, as we obſerv'd above, very unluckily here, that there is no Incident in the Conſcious Lovers but what is attended by ſome great Abſur⯑dity. For the Action of Indiana, in throw⯑ing away her Bracelet, is of the ſame Stamp, and is entirely the Author's, and not the Dramatick Perſon's; for it was neither ne⯑ceſſary nor profitable, that Indiana, in the Height of her Agony, ſhould ſo much as think of her Bracelet, or if ſhe did think of it, ſhould reſolve to throw away the greateſt Token that ſhe had to remember her dead Mother, for whoſe Memory her Grief and Diſtreſs ought naturally to renew and re⯑double her Tenderneſs. But the Author is obliged to have Recourſe to this as an awkard Expedient, tho' the beſt he could find, to bring on the Diſcovery. But had he known any thing of the Art of the Stage, he would have known, that thoſe Diſcoveries are but dully made, which are made by Tokens; that they ought neceſſarily or probably to ſpring from the whole Train of the Incidents contrary to our Expectation. And how eaſy was it to bring that about here? For ſuch a Diſcovery had been very well prepared, by what young Bevil ſays to Humphrey in the [27] firſt Act, and by the Hint Indiana gives to Sealand in the fifth Act, which Hint the old Gentleman readily takes; for when ſhe tells him ſhe had been made an Infant Captive on the Seas, he immediately crys out, An Infant Captive! and, after ſome Interruption given by Indiana, he ſays, Dear Lady! O yet one Moment's Patience, my Heart grows full with your Affliction, but yet there is ſome⯑thing in your Story that—She anſwers as if ſhe were at croſs Purpoſes, My Portion here is Bitterneſs and Sorrow. To which he replies, Do not think ſo. Pray anſwer me, Does Bevil know your Name and Fami⯑ly? So that a few Queſtions more, perti⯑nently anſwer'd, would have brought on the Diſcovery. Now if the Diſcovery had been made this Way, and Iſabella had not known her Brother at her firſt ſeeing him, but had come in to Sealand and Indiana juſt after the Diſcovery had been made, there would have been two Surprizes, both greater and more agreeable than now they are, and both of them without Abſurdity.

But now the Mention of the Infant Cap⯑tive brings to my Remembrance the Cir⯑cumſtances of that Captivity, which are, to uſe Mr. Cimberton's Expreſſion, pregnant with Abſurdity. Indiana, it ſeems, with her Mother and her Aunt, are taken, in their Paſſage to the Indies, by a Privateer from Toulon, and carried into that Place. Now [28] where were they taken? It muſt be either in the Channel, or on the Ocean. Now, in the firſt place, I never heard that Toulon ſet out any Privateers. Secondly, Suppoſe they did, 'tis improbable that a Privateer from Toulon ſhould cruize in the Ocean, and much more improbable that they ſhould rove as far as the Channel. Thirdly, 'Tis highly impro⯑bable, that an Eaſt-India Veſſel, which had Force enough to venture without a Convoy, ſhould be taken by a Privateer. Fourthly, 'Tis not a Jot more probable, that ſuppoſing a Privateer from Toulon ſhould have taken ſuch a Veſſel, it ſhould chuſe to carry it into Toulon, rather than into Breſt, or St. Malo. For how long muſt a Privateer be carrying an Eaſt-India Veſſel from the Channel to Toulon, which is above a thouſand Miles from the Chan⯑nel, and little leſs diſtant from that Part of the Ocean o'er which our Eaſt-India Ships paſs. Now in ſo long a Voyage, the Priva⯑teer might very well be taken, and the Prize be retaken; whereas the latter might be carried to Breſt, or St. Malo, with a hun⯑dred Times leſs Danger.

Well! But let us ſuppoſe the Privateer got ſafely with his Prize into Toulon. Does Sir Richard believe, that Toulon is ſituate under one of the Poles, that neither Ship nor Paſ⯑ſengers were heard of in ſo many Years. If Indiana was an Infant, Iſabella was old enough to write; and if ſhe was ſo indiffe⯑rent [29] or ſtupid as to omit it, the Captain of the Ship and his Mate would not fail to write to their Owners, to let them know the Fate of their Ship. If there was no Paſſage for Letters directly thro' France, yet the Way of Holland was open, and upon the Arrival of thoſe Letters, not only the whole Eaſt-India Company, but all London would have known what was become of the Ship, at a Time when ſo many News-Writers contend⯑ed which could furniſh the Town with moſt and the freſheſt News. So that if Sealand, upon his coming from the Indies, had made but never ſo little Enquiry, he would have found that his Siſter and Daughter had been at Toulon: If he had made no Enquiry, he muſt have ſhewn himſelf a fine Gentleman, in⯑deed, who would marry a ſecond Wife before he was certain the firſt was dead: And it is impoſſible he could know that the firſt was dead, without knowing that his Siſter and his Daughter were at Toulon.

I ſhall now compare the Relation that old Bevil makes to his Man Humphrey, in the firſt Scene of the Conſcious Lovers, to that which Simo makes to Soſia in the be⯑ginning of the Andria: But I ſhall only compare them at preſent with relation to the Incidents; I ſhall take an Oportunity afterwards to conſider the Sentiments and Expreſſions by themſelves.

[30] The beginning of the Andria is perfectly in Nature: Simo begins the Relation which he makes to Soſia with a grave and a ſo⯑lemn Air, ſuitable to the Diſpoſition of Mind he is in, and the great Concern he is under: Old Bevil, who is ſuppos'd to be in the ſame Diſpoſition of Mind, and to lie under the ſame Concern, begins the Rela⯑tion which he makes to Humphrey with an Impertinence dully gay; and therefore the beginning of the Conſcious Lovers is entire⯑ly out of Nature.

In the Andria, Chremes, a rich old A⯑thenian Citizen, offers to beſtow his only Daughter Philumena with a great Dowry on Pamphilus, the Son of Simo, who ac⯑cepts that Offer for his Son. The Match breaks off upon the Diſcovery which Pam⯑philus makes at the Funeral of Chryſis of his Paſſion for Glycerium. Simo the Father pretends that it ſtill goes on, that he may take an Opportunity, from his Son's Refu⯑ſal, of giving him a ſevere Reprimand:

In the beginning of the Conſcious Lovers there is a very abſurd Imitation of this Paſſage in Terence: Where old Bevil ſpeaks [31] thus to his Man Humphrey, concerning his Son.

If there is ſo much in this Amour of his, that he denies upon my Summons to marry, I ſhall have Cauſe enough to be offended: And then by inſiſting upon his marrying to Day, I ſhall know how far he is engag'd to the Lady in Maſquerade, and from thence only ſhall be able to take my Meaſures.

Now it ſeems plain to me, that Simo would have reaſon to be angry at his Son's Refuſal, and that old Bevil would have none. Pamphilus would refuſe a Wife with a great Dowry, which he wanted, having nothing but what his Father ſupply'd him with, who, perhaps, might not be very eaſy in his own Circumſtances. Beſides, Glyce⯑rium paſs'd for a Courtezan, (which was not the Caſe of Indiana,) becauſe ſhe was believ'd to be the Siſter of Chryſis, who was publickly known to be one. And it would provoke any Father of a good Family, and who had all along liv'd with Reputation in the World, to find, to the Ruin and Diſ⯑grace of that Family, his only Son married to a Whore, or living with her as if he were married to her, which was againſt both Law and Cuſtom at Athens, and a great deal more ſcandalous there, than it is in this Bleſſed Town, as is evident from what Simo ſays in that admirable Scence which is between him and his Son and Chremes, in [32] the fifth Act of this Comedy, where Nature is drawn with ſuch maſterly Strokes, and in ſuch lively and glowing Colours.

But 'tis downright ridiculous in old Bevil to pretend to be offended, in Caſe his Son who is in Poſſeſſion of a great Eſtate, and entirely independant on his Father, and one whom the Father himſelf calls a ſober and diſcreet Gentleman, ſhould refuſe to marry at a Minute's Warning a Woman whom he does not like, and whom the Father chuſes only with the ſordid View of doubling a great Eſ⯑tate, when what they had already was more than ſufficient: Becauſe the Father is ſordid, muſt the Son be unhappy? Muſt the Son, who has beſpoke a Diſh for himſelf, take up with another that is his Averſion, only be⯑cauſe his Father chooſes it? The Paſſion which young Bevil had for another, is a juſt Cauſe of his Refuſal; and if his Father is unreaſonably offended, the Son, who has no Dependance upon him, may very reaſonably be comforted. As the Father knew very well that the Son had no Occaſion for the Wealth which would come from the marrying Lu⯑cinda, ſo he did not believe his frequenting Indiana, whether he ſuppos'd her an hono⯑rable [33] or a kept Miſtreſs, would bring any Scandal either upon himſelf or his Family. Witneſs what he ſays to Sealand in Act 4 Page 62 concerning this very Affair, viz. Sir, I can't help ſaying, that what might injure a Citizen's Credit may be no Stain to a Gen⯑tleman's Honour. So that 'tis plain Simo had two important Reaſons to be offended at his Son's Refufal, which old Bevil apparent⯑ly had not; becauſe he rejected Wealth, which he wanted; and courted Infamy, for which no one can have an Occaſion.

The Relation of what paſſed between young Bevil and Indiana at the Maſquerade, is a very abſurd Imitation of what paſſed between Pamphilus and Glycerium at the Funeral of Chryſis. Pamphilus attends Glycerium to the Funeral of Chryſis, who paſs'd for her Siſter. While the Body was burning, Gly⯑cerium in the Agony of her Grief, ran to the Fire, and was about to throw herſelf into it, when Pamphilus, half dead with Fear, runs to her, catches hold of her, throws his Arms about her, and by that Action, and his tender Expoſtulation diſcovers the Vio⯑lence of that Paſſion which he had hitherto conceal'd; upon which Glycerium, by an Action which manifeſted her habitual Love, weeping reclin'd her Head upon his Breaſt with a moſt moving Tenderneſs. This is the Senſe of that celebrated Paſſage: But is but [34] barely the Senſe; for no Pen, no Tongue can expreſs the Elegance and the Grace of Terence.

But now let us ſee the Imitation of this in the Conſcious Lovers: 'Tis in the firſt Scene of the Play, where old Bevil relates to his Man Hump [...]ey what paſſed at the laſt Maſ⯑querade.

You know, I was laſt Thurſday at the Maſquerade; my Son, you may remember, ſoon found us out. He knew his Grandfather's Habit, which I then wore; and tho' it was the Mode, in the laſt Age, yet the Maskers, you know, follow'd us as if we had been the moſt monſtrous Figures in the whole Aſſembly.

I remember, indeed, a young Man of Quality in the Habit of a Clown, that was particularly trouble ſome.

Right: He was too much what he ſeemed to be.

I knew he had a Mind to come to that Particular.

Ay, he followed us, till the Gentleman, who led the Lady in the Indian Mantle, preſented that gay Creature to the Ruſtick, and bid him (like Cymon in the Fable) grow polite, by falling in Love, and let that worthy old Gentleman alone, meaning me. The Clown was not reform'd, but rudely perſiſted, and offer'd to force off my Mask; with that the Gentleman, throw⯑ing off his own, appear'd to be my Son; and in his Concern for me, tore off that of the No⯑bleman; [35] At this they ſeiz'd each other: The Company called the Guards, and in the Surpriſe the Lady ſwooned away; upon which my Son quitted his Adverſary, and had now no Care but of the Lady; when rai⯑ſing her in his Arms, art thou gone, cried he, for ever—Forbid it Heaven!—She revives at his known Voice,—and with the moſt familiar, tho' modeſt Geſture, hangs in Safety over his Shoulder, weeping; but wept as in the Arms of one before whom ſhe could give herſelf a Looſe, were ſhe not under Obſervation: while ſhe hides her Face in his Neck, he carefully conveys her from the Company.

Now there is this remarkable Difference between what paſs'd at the Funeral, and what paſs'd at the Maſquerade, that every Thing that relates to the former, ſeems to be either neceſſary or profitable; and almoſt eve⯑ry Thing that relates to the latter, appears to be improbable. How injudicious an Imitation is the Behaviour of Indiana at the Maſque⯑rade, of the Behaviour of Glycerium at the Funeral. Nothing can be more natural than the Freedom which Glycerium takes with Pamphilus. She lov'd him, and was be⯑lov'd by him: She was betroth'd to him; She had no Reſerve for him: The utmoſt Fami⯑liarities had paſs'd between them: She was with Child by him, and expected every Day [36] that the Time of her being deliver'd was come.

The Caſe of Indiana is very different, and her Behaviour is very inconſiſtent with her Character; 'tis true, ſhe was in Love with young Bevil, but doubted very much whe⯑ther that Love was reciprocal; he had been ſo far from taking the ſame Liberty with her that Pamphilus had done with Glycerium, that his Behaviour had been always very re⯑ſpectful; and yet Indiana uſes the ſame Fa⯑miliarity upon this Occaſion with him, that Glycerium at the Funeral does with Pamphi⯑lus; ſhe revives at his known Voice, which ſhe heard, it ſeems, after ſhe had loſt all her Senſes, and comes from Death to Life upon it, like the dead Men in the Rehearſal at the Voice of Poet Bays, and with the moſt familiar, tho' modeſt Geſture, hangs in Safe⯑ty over his Shoulder weeping, but wept as in the Arms of one before whom ſhe could give herſelf a Looſe, were ſhe not under Ob⯑ſervation; and while ſhe hides her Face in his Neck, he carefully conveys her from the Company.

Now this Behaviour is by no means con⯑ſiſtent with the Character of Indiana; fami⯑liar and modeſt are not in this Caſe very compatible; and then what does Sir Richard mean by wept as in the Arms of one before whom ſhe could give herſelf a Looſe? If theſe Words have any Meaning, I would fain know what it is.

[37] In this firſt Scene there is another very ridiculous Imitation of what Simo ſays to Soſia in the firſt Scene of the Andria.

Thus have I gone thro' the whole Train of Incidents, which are a Heap of Abſurdi⯑ties and Inconſiſtences. I have partly like⯑wiſe gone thro' the Character of young Be⯑vil, who is made up of Contradictions. He is one who differs from himſelf as much as from the reſt of the World. This Man of Conſcience and of Religion is as arrant an Hypocrite as a certain Author. 'Tis indeed a pleaſant Religion that never ſeizes a Man but when he is upon the Point either of Love [38] or Battle: This Man of Conſcience and of Religion diſſembles with his Father moſt vilely, which Religion doth by no means allow, and ſo chuſes rather to offend Heaven than an old ſordid Blockhead, who pretends to treat one who is independent of him, and at Years of Diſcretion, like an arrant Boy; yet this the Son calls an honeſt Diſſimulation, as he calls Breach of Truſt the getting over a falſe Point of Honour. In the firſt Scene of the ſecond Act this Man of Religion is put⯑ting Myrtle upon a Fraud, and palming two counterfeit Lawyers upon old Mrs. Sealand, a Practice which Religion and Morality both abhor.

The Character of young Bevil therefore is made up of Qualities, either incoherent and contradictory, as Religion and Diſſimulation, Morality and Fraud; or moſt ridiculouſly conſiſtent, as Circumſpection and Folly. For one may ſay the ſame thing of young Bevil that Scandal in Love for Love ſays of and to Foreſight, That if ever he commits an Er⯑ror, 'tis not without a great deal of Conſide⯑ration, Circumſpection and Caution. The Character therefore of young Bevil is not an Image of any thing in Life, and eſpecially in common Life, as every thing in Comedy ought to be, but the Phantom of a feveriſh Author's Brain, as ſeveral of the other Cha⯑racters likewiſe are.

[39] As young Bevil is the Character of ſuch a young Man as is not to be found in the World, upon the foot of Nature, of which all true Poetry is a juſt Imitation, Cimberton is a Creature who is ſet as much below Humani⯑ty as Bevil appears to be drawn above it; he is an Animal that is nothing ſo like a Man as a Monkey is, nor is he near ſo well qua⯑lified to entertain a Lady agreeably; he is ſo very monſtrous, that one would not think he could be produced by any thing that had hu⯑man Shape, and for the Credit of Human Nature ought, like a Sooterkin, to be demo⯑liſhed as ſoon as he appears.

Moſt of the other Characters are faintly and coarſly drawn, which is very ſtrange, if we conſider the admirable Patterns that Terence has laid before him. The Characters of that Comick Poet I muſt confeſs are in no great Compaſs, but tho' they are few they are excellent; they are ſo ſtrong in Nature, that they may be taken for the Life, may be taken for Perſons rather than Pictures, and for real rather than dramatick Perſons. Sir Richard ſeems to be wholly ignorant of what Boileau has ſaid of this Matter, who is one of the greateſt of the French Poets, and one of the juſteſt of their Criticks.

That is,

The very Character of Simo in the Andria is admirable, and the Relation he makes to Soſia a Maſterpiece; I never read it but I ſee the old Athenian before my Eyes in the very ſame Colours that Davus paints Crito the Andrian in the ſame Comedy.

[41] Whatever he ſays goes to my Heart; whereas old Bevil is an old fribling Block⯑head, and that which comes from him ſcarce touches my Lips.

But if in this Imitation of that Relation which Simo makes to Soſia, Sir Richard falls ſo very much ſhort of Terence in his Inci⯑dents and his Characters, he is inexpreſſible Degrees below him in his Sentiments and his Dialogue.

The Sentiments of Terence are always true, are always juſt, and adapted to the Cha⯑racters; His Dialogue is the moſt charming that is to be found among the Roman Au⯑thors: Where is there that Purity, that Ele⯑gance, that Delicacy, that Grace, that Har⯑mony? If it has any Fault, 'tis too uniform a Politeneſs; the Servant ſpeaking always with the ſame Grace and the ſame Elegance that his Maſter does. Setting that aſide, 'tis every way accompliſh'd: It has particularly for its Purity the Authorities of two of the beſt and greateſt of the Roman Judges, Cae⯑ſar and Cicero. Cicero ſays of this Comick Poet, that he is optimus Author Latinitatis; and all the World has ſeen the Verſes that Julius Caeſar made upon the ſame Author.

[42] But now the Sentiments in the Conſcious Lovers are often frivolous, falſe, and ab⯑ſurd; the Dialogue is awkard, clumſy, and ſpiritleſs; the Diction affected, impure, and barbarous, and too often Hibernian. Who, that is concern'd for the Honour of his Coun⯑try, can ſee without Indignation whole Crowds of his Countrymen aſſembled to hear a Parcel of Teagues talking Tipperary together, and applauding what they ſay. I know very well that what I now ſay will alarm ſome People, and for that reaſon I ſhall ſhortly bring Examples of the Sentiments and the Diction in the Conſcious Lovers ſo pal⯑pable and ſo flagrant, that they ſhall juſtify me in ſpight of the Obſtinacy and the Cla⯑mours of his moſt fooliſh Admirers.