THE GHOST IN COCK-LANE.
INTELLIGENCE EXTRAORDINARY.

A SKETCH OF DR. JOHNSON.

DR. JOHNSON is certainly a genius, but of a particular ſtamp. He is an excellent claſſical ſcholar, perhaps one of the beſt Latiniſts in Europe. He has combined in himſelf two talents which ſel⯑dom meet: he is both a good Engliſh and Latin [98] poet. Had his inclination led him to have mixed with the faſhionable world (where he was warmly invited) and had he been a nearer inſpector of the follies, and vices of high life, he would certainly have been called by the election of the beſt criticks to the Poetical Chair, where Pope ſat without a ri⯑val till his death; and then the Laurel, like the kingdom of Macedonia, at the death of Alexander, was divided among many. It muſt be owned that Dr. Johnſon's two Satires in imitation of Juvenal, are among the beſt titles that have been produced for the poetical inheritance.

Indeed his morals and manners are ſo ill ſuited with looſe opinions, and thoughtleſs diſſipation, that it is no wonder he was ſoon diſguſted with what he ſaw and heard, and which he ſo well painted and felt in his LONDON.—His ſecond Satire (the tenth of Juvenal) though written with great force and energy, yet ſeems more the fruit of ſtudy than obſervation. His ſagacity is wonderful: though near-ſighted, he can diſcover and deſcribe with great humour the nice diſcriminations, and almoſt im⯑perceptible touches of the various characters of both ſexes: his "mind's eye" has a keenneſs and certainty that ſeldom miſſes the mark; and did his pen convey his diſcoveries in characteriſtick lan⯑guage, [99] he would be equal to the beſt writers—but here he fails.—In his Ramblers and Idlers, whenever he introduces characters, their actions, deportment, and thoughts, have a moſt accurate, and minute reſemblance to nature, but they all talk one lan⯑guage, and that language is Dr. Johnſon's. Words are the vehicle of our thoughts, as coaches are of our perſons; the ſtate-equipage ſhould not be drawn forth but upon ſolemn occaſions. His peculiarity of diction has given the Publick a ſuſpicion that he could not ſucceed in Dramatick Compoſition. His Tragedy of Irene is a work of great and juſt ſen⯑timent, of Poetical, though not Dramatick Lan⯑guage, fine imagery, and of the Osmagna Sonaturum; but the very ſoul of Tragedy, Pathos, is wanting; and without that, though we may admire, our hearts will ſleep in our boſoms.—Dr. Johnſon has wit, humour, and a ſtrong imagination, which are often exerted with great effect in converſation. I will give, in a few words, the beſt advice I can to young rea⯑ders. Let them admire and ſtudy his Strength of Argument, Richneſs of Imagery, and Variety of Sentiment, without being dazzled with the ſplendor of his diction. Let them liſten with attention and delight to his entertaining and improving converſa⯑tion, without imitating his dreſs or manner!

[100]The Simplex Munditiis of Horace may, perhaps for the firſt time, be as properly applied to the dreſs of the mind as of the body—the beſt taſte will be ever ſhewn where eaſe, elegance, and ſimplicity are united.

CRITICAL REFLECTIONS ON THE OLD ENGLISH DRAMATICK WRITERS.
[107]CRITICAL REFLECTIONS ON THE OLD ENGLISH DRAMATICK WRITERS.
To DAVID GARRICK, Eſq.

IT is not unnatural to imagine that, on the firſt glance of your eye over the advertiſement of a new pamphlet, addreſſed to yourſelf, you are apt to feel ſome little emotion; that you beſtow more than ordinary attention on the title, as it ſtands in the news-paper, and take notice of the name of the publiſher.—Is it Compliment or Abuſe?—One of theſe being determined, you are perhaps eager to be ſatisfied, whether ſome coarſe hand has laid on en⯑comiums with a trowel, or ſome more elegant wri⯑ter (ſuch as the author of The Actor for inſtance) has done credit to himſelf and you by his panegy⯑rick; or, on the other hand, whether any offended Genius has employed thoſe talents againſt you, which he is ambitious of exerciſing in the ſervice of your Theatre; or ſome common Scribe has taken your [108] character, as he would that of any other Man or Woman, or Miniſter, or the King, if he durſt, as a popular topick of ſcandal.

Be not alarmed on the preſent occaſion; nor, with that conſciouſneſs of your own merit, ſo na⯑tural to the Celebrated and Eminent, indulge your⯑ſelf in an acquieſcence with the juſtice of ten thou⯑ſand fine things, which you may ſuppoſe ready to be ſaid to you. No private Satire or Panegyrick, but the general good of the Republick of Letters, and of the Drama in particular, is intended. Though Praiſe and Diſpraiſe ſtand ready on each ſide, like the veſſels of Good and Evil on the right and left hand of Jupiter, I do not mean to dip into either: or, if I do, it ſhall be, like the Pagan Godhead himſelf, to mingle a due proportion of each. Some⯑times, perhaps, I may find fault, and ſometimes beſtow commendation: but you muſt not expect to hear of the Quickneſs of your Conception, the Juſtice of your Execution, the Expreſſion of your Eye, the Harmony of your Voice, or the Variety and Excellency of your Deportment; nor ſhall you be maliciouſly informed, that you are ſhorter than Barry, leaner than Quin, and leſs a favourite of the Upper Gallery than Woodward or Shuter.

[109]The following pages are deſtined to contain a Vindication of the Works of Maſſinger, one of our Old Dramatick Writers, who very ſeldom falls much beneath Shakeſpeare himſelf, and ſometimes almoſt riſes to a proud rivalſhip of his chiefeſt ex⯑cellencies. They are meant too as a laudable, though faint, Attempt to reſcue theſe admirable Pieces from the too general neglect which they now labour under, and to recommend them to the Notice of the Publick. To whom then can ſuch an Eſſay be more properly inſcribed than to You, whom that Publick ſeems to have appointed, as its chief Ar⯑biter Deliciarum, to preſide over the Amuſements of the Theatre?—But there is alſo, by the bye, a private reaſon for addreſſing you. Your honeſt friend Davies, who, as is ſaid of the provident Comedians in Holland, ſpends his hours of vacation from the theatre in his ſhop, is too well acquainted with the Efficacy of your Name at the top of a Play-bill, to omit an opportunity of prefixing it to a new Publication, hoping it may prove a charm to draw in purchaſers, like the head of Shakeſpeare on his ſign. My Letter too being anonymous, your name at the head, will more than compenſate for the want of mine at the end of it: and our above⯑mentioned friend is, no doubt, too well verſed in [110] both his occupations, not to know the conſequence of Secrecy in a Bookſeller, as well as the Neceſſity of concealing from the Publick many Things that paſs behind the Curtain.

There is perhaps no country in the world more ſubordinate to the power of faſhion than our own. Every Whim, every Word, every Vice, every Vir⯑tue, in its turn becomes the mode, and is followed with a certain rage of approbation for a time. The favourite ſtyle in all the polite Arts, and the reigning taſte in Letters, are as notoriouſly objects of caprice as Architecture and Dreſs. A new Poem, or Novel, or Farce, are as inconſiderately extolled or decried as a Ruff or a Chineſe Rail, a Hoop or a Bow Window. Hence it happens, that the publick taſte is often vitiated: or if, by chance, it has made a proper choice, becomes partially at⯑tached to one Species of Excellence, and remains dead to the Senſe of all other Merit, however equal, or ſuperior.

I think I may venture to aſſert, with a confidence, that on reflection it will appear to be true, that the eminent Claſs of Writers, who flouriſhed at the beginning of this century, have almoſt entirely ſu⯑perſeded their illuſtrious Predeceſſors. The Works of Congreve, Vanbrugh, Steele, Addiſon, Pope, [111] Swift, Gay, &c. &c. are the chief ſtudy of the Million: I ſay, of the Million; for as to thoſe few, who are not only familiar with all our own Au⯑thors, but are alſo converſant with the Ancients, they are not to be circumſcribed by the narrow li⯑mits of the Faſhion. Shakeſpeare and Milton ſeem to ſtand alone, like firſt-rate Authors, amid the ge⯑neral wreck of Old Engliſh Literature. Milton per⯑haps owes much of his preſent fame to the gene⯑rous Labours and good Taſte of Addiſon. Shake⯑ſpeare has been tranſmitted down to us with ſucceſ⯑ſive Glories; and you, Sir, have continued, or rather increaſed, his Reputation. You have, in no fulſome ſtrain of compliment, been ſtiled the Beſt Commentator on his Works: But have you not, like other Commentators, contracted a narrow, ex⯑cluſive, Veneration of your Author? Has not the Contemplation of Shakeſpeare's Excellencies almoſt dazzled and extinguiſhed your Judgement, when directed to other objects, and made you blind to the Merit of his Cotemporaries? Under your dominion, have not Beaumont and Fletcher, nay even John⯑ſon, ſuffered a kind of Theatrical Diſgrace? And has not poor Maſſinger, whoſe cauſe I have now undertaken, been permitted to languiſh in Obſcu⯑rity, and remained almoſt entirely unknown?

[112]To this perhaps it may be plauſibly anſwered, nor indeed without ſome foundation, that many of our Old Plays, though they abound with Beauties, and are raiſed much above the humble level of later Writers, are yet, on ſeveral accounts, unfit to be exhibited on the modern Stage; that the Fable, in⯑ſtead of being raiſed on probable incidents in real Life, is generally built on ſome foreign Novel, and attended with Romantick Circumſtances; that the Conduct of theſe Extravagant Stories is frequently uncouth, and infinitely offenſive to that Dramatick correctneſs preſcribed by late Criticks, and prac⯑tiſed, as they pretend, by the French Writers; and that the Characters, exhibited in our Old Plays, can have no pleaſing effect on a modern Audience, as they are ſo totally different from the manners of the preſent age.

Theſe, and ſuch as theſe, might once have ap⯑peared reaſonable objections: but You, Sir, of all perſons, can urge them with the leaſt grace, ſince your Practice has ſo fully proved their inſufficiency. Your Experience muſt have taught you, that when a Piece has any ſtriking Beauties, they will cover a multitude of Inaccuracies; and that a Play need not be written on the ſevereſt plan, to pleaſe in the re⯑preſentation. The mind is ſoon familiarized to Ir⯑regularities, [113] which do not ſin againſt the Truth of Nature, but are merely Violations of that ſtrict De⯑corum of late ſo earneſtly inſiſted on. What patient Spectators are we of the Inconſiſtencies that confeſ⯑ſedly prevail in our darling Shakeſpeare! What critical Catcall ever proclaimed the indecency of in⯑troducing the Stocks in the Tragedy of Lear? How quietly do we ſee Gloſter take his imaginary Leap from Dover Cliff! Or to give a ſtronger inſtance of Patience, with what a Philoſophical Calmneſs do the audience doſe over the tedious, and unintereſt⯑ing, Love-Scenes, with which the bungling hand of Tate has coarſely pieced and patched that rich Work of Shakeſpeare!—To inſtance further from Shakeſpeare himſelf, the Grave-diggers in Hamlet (not to mention Polonius) are not only endured, but applauded; the very Nurſe in Romeo and Ju⯑liet is allowed to be Nature; the Tranſactions of a whole Hiſtory are, without offence, begun and com⯑pleated in leſs than three hours; and we are agree⯑ably wafted by the Chorus, or oftener without ſo much ceremony, from one end of the world to an⯑other.

It is very true, that it was the general Practice of our old Writers, to found their Pieces on ſome fo⯑reign Novel; and it ſeemed to be their chief aim to [114] take the ſtory, as it ſtood, with all its appendant incidents of every complection, and throw it into Scenes. This method was, to be ſure, rather inar⯑tificial, as it at once overloaded and embarraſſed the Fable, leaving it deſtitute of that beautiful Drama⯑tick Connection, which enables the mind to take in all its Circumſtances with Facility and Delight. But I am ſtill in doubt, whether many Writers, who come nearer to our own times, have much mended the matter. What with their Plots, and Double-Plots, and Counter-Plots, and Under-Plots, the Mind is as much perplexed to piece out the ſtory, as to put to⯑gether the disjointed Parts of our Ancient Drama. The Comedies of Congreve have, in my mind, as little to boaſt of accuracy in their conſtruction, as the Plays of Shakeſpeare; nay, perhaps, it might be proved that, amidſt the moſt open violation of the leſſer critical Unities, one Point is more ſteadily purſued, one Character more uniformly ſhewn, and one grand Purpoſe of the Fable more evidently ac⯑compliſhed in the productions of Shakeſpeare than of Congreve.

Theſe Fables (it may be further objected) founded on romantick Novels, are unpardonably wild and extravagant in their Circumſtances, and exhibit too little even of the Manners of the Age in which they [115] were written. The Plays too are in them⯑ſelves a kind of heterogeneous compoſition; ſcarce any of them being, ſtrictly ſpeaking, a Tra⯑gedy, Comedy, or even Tragi-Comedy, but rather an indigeſted jumble of every ſpecies thrown together.

This charge muſt be confeſſed to be true: but upon examination it will, perhaps, be found of leſs conſequence than is generally imagined. Theſe Dramatick Tales, for ſo we may beſt ſtile ſuch Plays, have often occaſioned much pleaſure to the Reader and Spectator, which could not poſſibly have been conveyed to them by any other vehicle. Many an intereſting Story, which, from the diver⯑ſity of its circumſtances, cannot be regularly re⯑duced either to Tragedy or Comedy, yet abounds with Character, and contains ſeveral affecting ſitu⯑ations: and why ſuch a Story ſhould loſe its force, dramatically related and aſſiſted by repreſentation, when it pleaſes, under the colder form of a Novel, is difficult to conceive. Experience has proved the effect of ſuch fictions on our minds; and convinced us, that the Theatre is not that barren ground, wherein the Plants of Imagination will not flouriſh. The Tempeſt, The Midſummer Night's Dream, The Merchant of Venice, As you like it, Twelfth [116] Night, The Faithful Shepherdeſs of Fletcher, (with a much longer liſt that might be added from Shakeſpeare, Beaumont and Fletcher, and their co⯑temporaries, or immediate ſucceſſors) have moſt of them, within all our memories, been ranked among the moſt popular Entertainments of the Stage. Yet none of theſe can be denominated Tragedy, Come⯑dy, or Tragi-Comedy. The Play Bills, I have obſerved, cautiouſly ſtile them Plays: and Plays indeed they are, truly ſuch, if it be the end of Plays to delight and inſtruct, to captivate at once the Ear, the Eye, and the Mind, by Situa⯑tions forcibly conceived, and Characters truly delineated.

There is one circumſtance in Dramatick Poetry, which, I think, the chaſtiſed notions of our modern Criticks do not permit them ſufficiently to conſider. Dramatick Nature is of a more large and liberal quality than they are willing to allow. It does not conſiſt merely in the repreſentation of real Charac⯑ters, Characters acknowledged to abound in com⯑mon life; but may be extended alſo to the exhi⯑bition of imaginary Beings. To create, is to be a Poet indeed; to draw down Beings from another ſphere, and endue them with ſuitable Paſſions, Af⯑fections, Diſpoſitions, allotting them at the ſame [117] time proper employment; ‘"to body forth, by the Powers of Imagination, the forms of things un⯑known, and to give to airy Nothing a local Habi⯑tation and a Name,"’ ſurely requires a Genius for the Drama equal, if not ſuperior, to the delineation of perſonages, in the ordinary courſe of Nature. Shakeſpeare, in particular, is univerſally acknow⯑ledged never to have ſoared ſo far above the reach of all other writers, as in thoſe inſtances, where he ſeems purpoſely to have tranſgreſſed the Laws of Criticiſm. ‘"He appears to have diſdained to put his Free Soul into circumſcription and confine,"’ which denied his extraordinary talents their full play, nor gave ſcope to the Boundleſneſs of his Imagination. His Witches, Ghoſts, Fairies, and other Imagi⯑nary Beings, ſcattered through his plays, are ſo many glaring violations of the common table of Dramatick Laws. What then ſhall we ſay? Shall we confeſs their Force and Power over the Soul, ſhall we allow them to be Beauties of the moſt ex⯑quiſite kind, and yet inſiſt on their being expunged? And why? except it be to reduce the Flights of an exalted Genius, by fixing the Standard of Excellence on the practice of Inferior Writers, who wanted parts to execute ſuch great deſigns; or to accommodate [118] them to the narrow ideas of ſmall Criticks, who want ſouls large enough to comprehend them?

Our Old Writers thought no perſonage whatever, unworthy a place in the Drama, to which they could annex what may be called a Seity; that is, to which they could allot Manners and Employ⯑ment peculiar to itſelf. The ſevereſt of the An⯑tients cannot be more eminent for the conſtant Pre⯑ſervation of Uniformity of Character, than Shake⯑ſpeare; and Shakeſpeare, in no inſtance, ſupport his Characters with more exactneſs, than in the conduct of his Ideal Beings. The Ghoſt in Ham⯑let is a ſhining proof of this excellence.

But, in conſequence of the cuſtom of tracing the Events of a Play minutely from a Novel, the au⯑thors were ſometimes led to repreſent a mere human creature in circumſtances not quite conſonant to Nature, of a diſpoſition rather wild and extravagant, and in both caſes more eſpecially repugnant to mo⯑dern ideas. This indeed required particular indul⯑gence from the ſpectator, but it was an indulgence, which ſeldom miſſed of being amply repaid. Let the writer but once be allowed, as a neceſſary Da⯑tum, the poſſibility of any Character's being placed [119] in ſuch a ſituation, or poſſeſt of ſo peculiar a turn of mind, the behaviour of the Character is per⯑fectly natural. Shakeſpeare, though the Child of Fancy, ſeldom or never dreſt up a common mortal in any other than the modeſt dreſs of Nature: But many ſhining Characters in the Plays of Beau⯑mont and Fletcher are not ſo well grounded on the Principles of the human Heart; and yet, as they were ſupported by Spirit, they were received with Applauſe. Shylock's Contract, with the Penalty of the Pound of Fleſh, though not Shakeſpeare's own fiction, is perhaps rather improbable; at leaſt it would not be regarded as a happy Dramatick Inci⯑dent in a modern Play; and yet, having once taken it for granted, how beautifully, nay, how naturally, is the Character ſuſtained!—Even this objection therefore, of a deviation from Nature, great as it may ſeem, will be found a plea inſufficient to ex⯑cuſe the total excluſion of our antient Dramatiſts from the Theatre. Shakeſpeare, you will readily allow, poſſeſt Beauties more than neceſſary to re⯑deem his Faults; Beauties, that excite our admira⯑tion, and obliterate his errors. True, but did no portion of that Divine Spirit fall to the ſhare of our other old Writers? And can their works be ſup⯑preſſed, [120] or concealed, without injuſtice to their merit?

One of the beſt and moſt pleaſing Plays in Maſſin⯑ger, and which, we are told, was originally received with general approbation, is called, The Picture. The fiction, whence it takes its title, and on which the ſtory of the Play is grounded, may be collected from the following ſhort ſcene. Mathias, a gen⯑tleman of Bohemia, having taken an affecting leave of his wife Sophia, with a reſolution of ſerving in the King of Hungary's army againſt the Turks, is left alone on the ſtage, and the play goes on, as follows:

Nothing can be more fantaſtick, or more in the extravagant ſtrain of the Italian Novels, than this Fiction: And yet the Play raiſed on it is extremely beautiful, abounds with affecting Situations, true Character, and a faithful Repreſentation of Nature. The ſtory, thus opened, proceeds as follows: Ma⯑thias departs, accompanied by his friend, and ſerves [124] as a volunteer in the Hungarian army againſt the Turks. A complete victory being obtained, chiefly by means of his valour, he is brought by the Ge⯑neral to the Hungarian court, where he not only re⯑ceives many honours from the King, but captivates the heart of the Queen; whoſe paſſion is not ſo much excited by his known valour, or perſonal at⯑tractions, as by his avowed conſtancy to his wife, and his firm aſſurance of her reciprocal affection and fidelity to him. Theſe circumſtances touch the pride, and raiſe the envy of the Queen. She re⯑ſolves therefore to deſtroy his conjugal faith by giving up her own, and determines to make him a deſperate offer of her perſon; and, at the ſame time under pretence of notice of Mathias's being detained for a month at Court, ſhe diſpatches two young noblemen to tempt the virtue of Sophia. Theſe incidents occaſion ſeveral affecting Scenes both on the part of the Huſband and Wife. Mathias (not with an unnatural and untheatrical Stoiſm, but with the livelieſt Senſibility) nobly withſtands the temptations of the Queen. Sophia, though moſt virtuouſly attached to her huſband, becomes uneaſy at the feigned ſtories which the young lords recount to her of his various gallantries at court, [125] and in a fit of jealouſy, rage, and reſentment, makes a momentry reſolution to give up her ho⯑nour. While ſhe is ſuppoſed to be yet under the dominion of this reſolution, occurs the following Scene between the Huſband and his Friend.

The fiction of the PICTURE being firſt allowed, the moſt rigid Critick will, I doubt not, confeſs, that the workings of the human heart are accu⯑rately ſet down in the above ſcene. The play is not without many others, equally excellent, both before and after it; nor in thoſe days, when the Power of Magick was ſo generally believed, that the ſevereſt laws were ſolemnly enacted againſt Witches and Witchcraft, was the fiction ſo bold and extravagant, as it may ſeem at preſent. Hoping that the reader may, by this time, be ſome⯑what reconciled to the ſtory, or even intereſted in it, I will venture to ſubjoin to the long extracts I have already made from this play one more ſpeech, where the PICTURE is mentioned very beau⯑tifully. Mathias addreſſes himſelf to the Queen in theſe words.

The ſeveral paſſages will, I hope, be thought by the judicious Reader to be written in the free vein of a true Poet, as well as by the exact hand of a faithful Diſciple of Nature. If any of the above arguments, or, rather, the uncommon excellence of the great Writers themſelves, can induce the Critick to allow the Excurſions of Fancy on the Theatre, let him not ſuppoſe that he is here adviſed to ſub⯑mit to the Perverſion of Nature, or to admire thoſe who over-leap the modeſt bounds, which ſhe has pre⯑ſcribed to the Drama. I will agree with him, that Plays, wherein the truth of Dramatick Character [131] is violated, can convey neither Inſtruction nor De⯑light. Shakeſpeare, Jonſon, Beaumont and Fletcher, Maſſinger, &c. are guilty of no ſuch violation. In⯑deed the heroick nonſenſe, which overruns the Theatrical Productions of Dryden^*, Howard, and the other illuſtrious Prototypes of Bayes in the Re⯑hearſal, muſt nauſeate the moſt indulgent ſpectator. The temporary rage of falſe taſte may perhaps betray the injudicious into a fooliſh admiration of ſuch extravagance for a ſhort period: But how will theſe Plays ſtand the blunt of critical indignation, when the perſonages of the Drama are found to reſemble no character in nature, except, perhaps, the diſ⯑ordered inhabitants of Bedlam?

[132]If then it muſt be confeſſed, both from reaſon and experience, that we cannot only endure, but attend with pleaſure to Plays, which are almoſt merely Dramatick Repreſentations of romantick Novels; it will ſurely be a further inducement to recur to the works of our Old Writers, when we find among them many pieces written on a ſeverer plan; a plan more accommodated to real life, and approaching more nearly to the modern uſage. The Merry Wives of Windſor, of Shakeſpeare; the Fox, the Alchymiſt, the Silent Woman, Every Man in his Humour, of Jonſon; the New Way to pay Old Debts, the City Madam, of Maſſinger, &c. &c. all urge their claim for a rank in the ordinary courſe of our Winter-Evening Entertainments, not only clear of every objection made to the above-mention⯑ed ſpecies of Dramatick Compoſition, but adhering more ſtrictly to ancient rules, than moſt of our later comedies.

In point of character (perhaps the moſt eſſential part of the Drama) our Old Writers far tranſcend the Moderns. It is ſurely needleſs, in ſupport of this opinion, to recite a long liſt of names, when the memory of every reader muſt ſuggeſt them to himſelf. The manners of many of them, it is true, [133] do not prevail at preſent. What then? Is it diſ⯑pleaſing or uninſtructive to ſee the manners of a for⯑mer age paſs in review before us? Or is the mind undelighted at recalling the Characters of our An⯑ceſtors, while the eye is confeſſedly gratified at the ſight of the Actors dreſt in their Antique Habits? Moreover, Faſhion and Cuſtom are ſo perpetually fluctuating, that it muſt be a very accurate piece in⯑deed, and one quite new and warm from the anvil, that catches the Damon or Cynthia of this minute. Some Plays of our lateſt and moſt faſhionable Au⯑thors are grown as obſolete in this particular, as thoſe of the firſt Writers; and it may with ſafety be affirmed, that Bobadil is not more remote from mo⯑dern Character, than the ever-admired and every⯑where-to-be-met-with Lord Foppington. It may, alſo, be further conſidered, that moſt of the beſt Characters in our old Plays are not merely fugitive and temporary. They are not the ſudden growth of yeſterday or to-day, ſure of fading or withering to-morrow; but they were the delight of paſt ages, ſtill continue the admiration of the preſent, and (to uſe the language of true Poetry)

[134]There is one circumſtance peculiar to the Dra⯑matick Tales, and to many of the more regular Co⯑medies of our Old Writers, of which it is too little to ſay, that it demands no apology. It deſerves the higheſt commendation; ſince it hath been the means of introducing the moſt capital beauties into their compoſitions, while the ſame ſpecies of excellence could not poſſibly enter into thoſe of a later period. I mean the poetical ſtile of their dialogue. Moſt nations, except our own, have imagined mere proſe, which, with Moliere's Bourgeois Gentilhomme, the meaneſt of us have talked from our cradle, too little elevated for the language of the Theatre. Our neighbours the French, at this day write moſt of their Plays, Comedies as well as Tragedies, in rhyme; a Gothick practice, which our own ſtage once admitted, but long ago wiſely rejected. The Grecian Iambick was more happily conceived in the true ſpirit of that elegant and magnificent ſimpli⯑city, which characterized the taſte of that nation. Such a meaſure was well accommodated to the ex⯑preſſions of the mind; and though it refined indeed on nature, it did not contradict it. In this, as well as in all other matters of literature, the uſage of Greece was religiouſly obſerved at Rome. Plautus [...] [135] in his richeſt vein of humour, is numerous and po⯑etical. The Comedies of Terence, though we can⯑not agree to read them after Biſhop Hare, were evi⯑dently not written without regard to meaſure; which is the invincible reaſon, why all attempts to render them into downright proſe have always proved, and ever muſt prove, unſucceſsful; and if a faint effort, now under contemplation, to give a verſion of them in familiar blank verſe (after the manner of our Old Writers, but without a ſervile imitation of them) ſhould fail, it muſt, I am confi⯑dent, be owing to the lameneſs of the execution. The Engliſh heroick meaſure, or, as it is commonly called, blank verſe, is perhaps of a more happy conſtruction than even the Grecian Iambick; ele⯑vated equally, but approaching nearer to the lan⯑guage of nature, and as well adapted to the expreſ⯑ſion of Comick Humour, as to the Pathos of Tragedy.

The mere modern Critick, whoſe idea of blank verſe is perhaps attached to that empty ſwell of phraſeology, ſo frequent in our late Tragedies, may conſider theſe notions as the effect of bigotry to our old authors, rather than the reſult of impartial criticiſm. Let ſuch an one carefully read over the works of thoſe writers, for whom I am an advo⯑cate. [136] There he will ſeldom or ever find that tu⯑mour of blank verſe, to which he has been ſo much accuſtomed. He will be ſurpriſed with a familiar dignity, which, though it riſes ſomewhat above or⯑dinary converſation, is rather an improvement than perverſion of it. He will ſoon be convinced that blank verſe is by no mens appropriated ſolely to the buſkin, but that the hand of a maſter may mould it to whatever purpoſes he pleaſes; and that in comedy it will not only admit humour, but heighten and embelliſh it. Inſtances might be pro⯑duced without number. It muſt however be la⯑mented, that the modern Tragick Stile, free, in⯑deed, from the mad flights of Dryden, and his co⯑temporaries, yet departs equally from nature. I am apt to think it is in great meaſure owing to the al⯑moſt total excluſion of blank verſe from all modern compoſitions, Tragedy excepted. The common uſe of an elevated diction in comedy, where the writer was often, of neceſſity, put upon expreſſing the moſt ordinary matters, and where the ſubject demanded him to paint the moſt ridiculous emotions of the mind, was perhaps one of the chief cauſes of that eaſy vigour, ſo conſpicuous in the ſtyle of the old tragedies. Habituated to poetical dialogue in thoſe [137] compoſitions, wherein they were obliged to adhere more ſtrictly to the ſimplicity of the language of nature, the Poets learnt, in thoſe of a more raiſed ſpecies, not to depart from it too wantonly. They were well acquainted alſo with the force as well as elegance of their mother-tongue, and choſe to uſe ſuch words as may be called natives of the lan⯑guage, rather than to harmoniſe their verſes, and agoniſe the audience with Latin terminations. Whether the refined ſtyle of Addiſon's Cato, and the flowing verſification of Rowe, firſt occaſioned this departure from ancient ſimplicity, it is difficult to de⯑termine: But it is too true, that Southern was the laſt of our Dramatick Writers, who was, in any de⯑gree, poſſeſt of that magnificent plainneſs, which is the genuine dreſs of nature; though indeed the plays even of Rowe are more ſimple in their ſtyle, than thoſe which have been produced by his ſucceſ⯑ſors. It muſt not, however, be diſſembled in this place, that the ſtyle of our Old Writers is not with⯑out faults; that they were apt to give too much into conceits; that they often purſued an allegorical train of thought too far; and were ſometimes be⯑trayed into forced, unnatural, quaint, or gigantick expreſſions. In the works of Shakeſpeare himſelf, [138] every one of theſe errors may be found; yet it may be ſafely aſſerted, that no other Author, antient or modern, has expreſſed himſelf on ſuch a variety of ſubjects with more eaſe, and in a vein more truly poetical, unleſs, perhaps, we ſhould except Homer: Of which, by the bye, the deepeſt Critick, moſt converſant with idioms and dialects, is not quite a competent judge.

I would not be underſtood, by what I have here ſaid of Poetical Dialogue, to object to the uſe of Proſe, or to inſinuate that our modern Comedies are the worſe for being written in that ſtyle. It is enough for me, to have vindicated the uſe of a more elevated manner among our Old Writers. I am well aware that moſt parts of Falſtaff, Ford, Benedick, Malvolio, &c. are written in proſe; nor indeed would I counſel a modern Writer to attempt the uſe of Poetical Dialogue in a mere Comedy: A Dramatick Tale, indeed, chequered, like life it⯑ſelf, with various incidents, ludicrous and affecting, if written by a maſterly hand, and ſomewhat more ſeverely than thoſe abovementioned, would, I doubt not, ſtill be received with candour and applauſe. The Publick would be agreeably ſurpriſed with the revival of Poetry on the Theatre, and the oppor⯑tunity [139] of employing all the beſt performers, ſerious as well as comick, in one piece, would render it ſtill more likely to make a favourable impreſſion on the audience. There is a gentleman, not unequal to ſuch a taſk, who was once tempted to begin a piece of this ſort; but, I fear, he has too much love of eaſe and indolence, and too little ambition of literary fame, ever to complete it.

But to conclude:

Have I, Sir, been waſting all this ink and time in vain? Or may it be hoped that you will extend ſome of that care to the reſt of our Old Authors, which you have ſo long beſtowed on Shakeſpeare, and which you have ſo often laviſhed on many a worſe Writer, than the moſt inferior of thoſe here recommended to you? It is certainly your intereſt to give variety to the Publick Taſte, and to diver⯑ſify the colour of our Dramatick Entertainments. Encourage new attempts; but do juſtice to the old! The Theatre is a wide field. Let not one or two walks of it alone be beaten, but lay open the whole to the Excurſions of Genius! This, perhaps, might kindle a ſpirit of originality in our modern Writers for the Stage; who might be tempted to aim at more novelty in their compoſitions, when the liberality of the popular taſte rendered it leſs [140] hazardous. That the narrowneſs of Theatrical Criticiſm might be enlarged, I have no doubt. Re⯑flect, for a moment, on the uncommon ſucceſs of Romeo and Juliet, and Every Man in his Humour! and then tell me, whether there are not many other Pieces of as antient a date, which, with the like proper curtailments and alterations, would produce the ſame effect? Has an induſtrious hand been at the pains to ſcratch up the dunghill of Dryden's Am⯑phitryon for the few pearls that are buried in it, and ſhall the rich treaſures of Beaumont and Fletcher, Jonſon and Maſſinger, lie (as it were) in the ore, untouched and diſregarded? Reform your Liſt of Plays! In the name of Burbage, Taylor, and Bet⯑terton, I conjure you to it! Let the veteran Criticks once more have the ſatisfaction of ſeeing The Maid's Tragedy, Philaſter, King and no King, &c. on the Stage!—Reſtore Fletcher's Elder Brother to the rank unjuſtly uſurped by Cibber's Love Makes a Man! and ſince you have wiſely deſiſted from giv⯑ing an annual affront to the City by acting The London Cuckolds on Lord-Mayor's Day, why will you not pay them a compliment, by exhibiting The City Madam of Maſſinger on the ſame occaſion?

If after all, ſir, theſe remonſtances ſhould prove without effect, and the merit of theſe great Au⯑thors [141] ſhould plead with you in vain, I will here fairly turn my back upon you, and addreſs myſelf to the Lovers of Dramatick Compoſitions in gene⯑ral. They, I am ſure, will peruſe thoſe Works with pleaſure in the cloſet, though they loſe the ſatisfaction of ſeeing them repreſented on the ſtage: Nay, ſhould they, together with you, concur in de⯑termining that ſuch Pieces are unfit to be acted, you, as well as they, will, I am confident, agree, that ſuch Pieces are, at leaſt, very worthy to be read. There are many modern Compoſitions, ſeen with delight at the Theatre, which ſicken on the taſte in the peruſal; and the honeſt Country Gentle⯑man, who has not been preſent at the repreſentation, wonders with what his London friends have been ſo highly entertained, and is as much perplexed at the Town-manner of writing as Mr. Smith in The Rehearſal. The Excellencies of our Old Writers are, on the contrary, not confined to Time and Place, but always bear about them the Evidences of true Genius.

Maſſinger is perhaps the leaſt known, but not the leaſt meritorious of any of the old claſs of Writers. His Works declare him to be no mean proficient in the ſame ſchool. He poſſeſſes all the beauties and [142] blemiſhes common to the Writers of that age. He has, like the reſt of them, in compliance with the Cuſtom of the Times, admitted Scenes of a low and groſs nature, which might be omitted with no more prejudice to the Fable, than the Buffoonry in Venice Preſerved. For his few faults he makes ample atonement. His Fables, are, moſt of them af⯑fecting; his Characters well conceived, and ſtrongly ſupported; and his Diction, flowing, various, ele⯑gant, and manly. His two Plays, revived by Bet⯑terton, The Bondman, and the Roman Actor, are not, I think, among the number of the beſt. The Duke of Milan, The Renegado, The Picture, The Fatal Dowry, The Maid of Honour, A New Way to pay Old Debts, The Unnatural Combat, The Guardian, The City Madam, are each of them, in my mind, more excellent. He was a very popular Writer in his own times, but ſo unaccountably, as well as unjuſtly, neglected at preſent, that the accurate Compilers of a Work, called, The Lives of the Poets, publiſhed under the learned name of the late Mr. Theophilus Cibber, have not ſo much as mentioned him. He is, how⯑ever, take him for all in all, an Author, whoſe Works the intelligent Reader will peruſe with Ad⯑miration: And that I may not be ſuppoſed to with⯑draw [143] my plea for his admiſſion to the modern Stage, I ſhall conclude theſe Reflections with one more Specimen of his Abilities; ſubmitting it to all Judges of Theatrical Exhibitions, whether the moſt maſterly Actor would not here have an opportunity of diſplaying his Powers to Advantage.

The Extract I mean to ſubjoin is from the laſt ſcene of the firſt act of The Duke of Milan.—Sforſa, having eſpouſed the cauſe of the King of France againſt the Emperor, on the King's defeat, is adviſed by a friend, to yield himſelf up to the Emperor's diſcretion. He conſents to this mea⯑ſure, but provides for his departure in the following manner.

PREFACE TO THE WORKS OF BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER,
PUBLISHED IN THE YEAR 1778.
[]PREFACE TO THE WORKS OF BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

CONSIDERING the acknowledged excel⯑lence of our Authors, loudly acknowledged by the moſt eminent of their contemporaries and ſucceſſors, it appears at firſt ſight rather wonderful, that in the ſpace of a hundred and fifty years, which have elapſed ſince the death of theſe Poets, no more than three complete editions of their Works have been publiſhed; we ſay three, becauſe the firſt folio profeſſedly included no more of their Plays, than thoſe which had not before been ſingly printed in quarto.

To what cauſes are we to attribute this amazing diſparity between the reputation of the Writers, and the publick demand for their productions? Are libraries furniſhed with books, as apartments with furniture, according to the faſhion? or is it neceſſary, becauſe plays were originally written to [152] be acted, that they muſt continue to be perpetually repreſented, or ceaſe to be read?

Truth, we fear, obliges us to confeſs that theſe queſtions muſt, without much qualification, be anſwered in the affirmative. Shakeſpeare, admira⯑ble as he is, certainly owes ſome part of his preſent popularity, and the extraordinary preference given to his plays beyond thoſe of all our other dramatiſts, to the mode adopted by the literary world to extol him. By the changes of faſhion, Nature and right reaſon ſometimes come into vogue; but the multitude take them, like coin, becauſe they are in currency, while men of ſenſe and letters alone appreciate them according to their intrinſick value, and receive merit, wherever they find it, as bul⯑lion, though it has not the ſtamp of faſhion im⯑preſſed on it. To ſuch men, the genius of Shake⯑ſpeare, inſtead of obſcuring, illuſtrates the kindred talents of Beaumont and Fletcher: Yet ſuch men are but rare; and one of the moſt acute and learned editors of Shakeſpeare ſpeaking of his own notes ‘"concerned in a critical explanation of the author's beauties and defects; but chiefly of his beauties, whether in ſtile, thought, ſentiment, [153] character, or compoſition,"’ adds, that ‘"the publick judgment hath leſs need to be aſſiſted in what it ſhall reject, than in what it ought to PRIZE: Nor is the value they ſet upon a work, a certain proof that they underſtand it. For it is ever ſeen, THAT HALF A DOZEN VOICES OF CREDIT GIVE THE LEAD, and if the public chance to be in good humour, or the author much in their favour, THE PEOPLE ARE SURE TO FOLLOW."’

To the popularity of a Dramatick Writer, no⯑thing more immediately contributes than the fre⯑quency of theatrical repreſentation. Common readers, like barren ſpectators, know little more of an author than what the actor, not always his happieſt commentator, preſents to them. Mutila⯑tions of Shakeſpeare have been recited, and even quoted, as his genuine text; and many of his dramas, not in the courſe of exhibition, are by the multitude not honoured with a peruſal. On the ſtage, indeed, our Authors formerly took the lead, Dryden having informed us, that in his day two of their plays were performed to one of Shakeſpeare. The ſtage, however, owes its attrac⯑tion to the actor as well as author; and if the able performer will not contribute to give a poliſh and [154] brilliancy to the work, it will lie, like the rough diamond, obſcured and diſregarded. The artiſts of former days worked the rich mine of Beaumont and Fletcher; and Betterton, the Roſcius of his age, enriched his catalogue of characters from their Dramas, as well as thoſe of Shakeſpeare. Unfortunately for our Authors, the Roſcius of our day confined his round of characters in old plays, too cloſely to Shakeſpeare. We may almoſt ſay of him indeed, in this reſpect, as Dryden ſays of Shakeſpeare's ſcenes of magick,

but ſurely we muſt lament, that thoſe extraordinary powers, which have ſo ſucceſsfully been exerted in the illuſtration of Shakeſpeare, and ſometimes proſtituted to the ſupport of the meaneſt writers, ſhould not more frequently have been employed to throw a light upon Beaumont and Fletcher. Their Plays, we will be bold to ſay, have the ſame excellencies, as well as the ſame defects, each perhaps in an inferior degree, with the Dramas of their great maſter. Like his, they are built on hiſtories or novels, purſuing in the ſame manner the ſtory through its various circumſtances; like his, but not always with equal truth and nature, their characters are boldly drawn and warmly [155] coloured; like his, their dialogue, containing every beauty of ſtyle, and licentiouſneſs of conſtruction, is thick ſown with moral ſentiments, interchanged with ludicrous and ſerious, ribaldry and ſublime, and ſometimes enlivened with wit in a richer vein than even the immortal dramas of Shakeſpeare. In Comedy, the criticks of their own days, and thoſe immediately ſucceeding, gave Beaumont and Fletcher the preference to Shakeſpeare; and although the ſlow award of time has at length juſtly decreed the ſuperior excellence of the glo⯑rious father of our drama beyond all further ap⯑peal, yet theſe his illuſtrious followers ought not ſurely to be caſt ſo far behind him, as to fall into contemptuous neglect, while the moſt careleſs works of Shakeſpeare are ſtudiouſly brought forward. The Maid's Tragedy, King and No King, Love's Pilgrimage, Monſieur Thomas, &c. &c. &c. would hardly diſgrace that ſtage which has exhibited The Two Gentlemen of Verona.

Mr. Seward has employed great part of his Pre⯑face in citing ſimilar paſſages from Shakeſpeare and our Authors, and though we do not entirely agree with him in the compariſons he has drawn, we cannot reſiſt the temptation of adducing one in⯑ſtance, [156] in our opinion, more to the advantage of our Authors than any mentioned in that Preface. It is the entire character of the boy HENGO, in the Tragedy of Bonduca; a character whch is, we think (taken altogether) better ſuſtained, and more beautifully natural and pathetick, than the Prince Arthur of Shakeſpeare. The ſcene in King John between Arthur and Hubert, excellent as it is, almoſt paſſes the bounds of pity and terror, and becomes horrible; beſides which, Shakeſpeare, to whom ‘"a quibble,"’ as Dr. Johnſon ſays, ‘"was the fatal Cleopatra for which he loſt the world, and was content to loſe it,"’ has enervated the dialogue with many frigid conceits, which he has, with more than uſual impropriety, put into the mouth of the innocent Arthur, while he is pleading moſt affectingly for mercy.

As for example:

And again:

The Reader, we imagine, will concur in our diſ⯑approbation of the paſſages printed in Italicks. Between Caratach and Hengo we do not remember that a line occurs, affected or unnatural; and no⯑thing can be more exquiſitely tender than the ſeveral ſcenes between them. The whole play abounds with Dramatick and Poetick Excellence.

Allowing, however, freely allowing, the ge⯑neral ſuperiority of Shakeſpeare to Beaumont and Fletcher (and indeed to all other poets, Homer per⯑haps only excepted) yet we cannot ſo far degrade our Authors, as to reduce the moſt excellent of their pieces to a level with the meaneſt effuſions of Shakeſpeare; nor can we believe that there are not many of their long-neglected Dramas that might not, with very inconſiderable variations, be accom⯑modated to the taſte of a modern audience. The [159] Publick have been long habituated to the phraſe⯑ology of Shakeſpeare, whoſe language, in the opinion of Dryden, is a little obſolete in compari⯑ſon of that of our Authors; and irregularities of fable have been not only pardoned, but defended. When the great Engliſh Actor, of whom we have been ſpeaking, firſt undertook the direction of the ſtage, his friend (the preſent Laureat) boldly told him,

The national taſte, under his happy influence, acquired from day to day, from year to year, an encreaſed reliſh for Shakeſpeare; and it is almoſt matter of amazement, as well as concern, that ſo little of his attention was directed to thoſe Dra⯑matick Writers, whoſe poetical character bore ſo great an affinity to the juſt object of his admira⯑tion. A deceaſed actor, of great merit, and ſtill greater promiſe, very ſucceſsfully opened his the⯑atrical career by appearing in the tragedy of Philaſter. At the ſame time, the ſame tragedy contributed not a little to the growing fame of one of our principal actreſſes. That play, the Two Noble Kinſmen, and ſome other pieces of Beau⯑mont and Fletcher, beſides thoſe we have already enumerated, would undoubtedly become favourite [160] entertainments for the ſtage, if the theatrical ta⯑lents of the performers bore any kind of propor⯑tion to the dramatick abilities of the writers. Since the directors of our theatres in ſome ſort hold the keys of the Temple of Dramatick Fame, let them do honour to themſelves by throwing open their doors to Beaumont and Fletcher! Seeing there are at preſent but ſmall hopes of emulating the tran⯑ſcendent actor, who ſo long and ſo effectually im⯑preſſed on our minds the excellence of Shake⯑ſpeare, let them at leaſt reſcue their performers from an immediate compariſon, ſo much to their diſadvantage, by trying their force on the charac⯑ters of our Authors! The Two Noble Kinſmen indeed, has been aſcribed (falſely, as we think) to Shakeſpeare. ‘"The Two Noble Kinſmen, (ſays Pope) if that play be his, as there goes a tradi⯑tion it was, and indeed it has little reſemblance of Fletcher, and more of our author, than ſome of thoſe which have been received as genuine."’ Unhappy Poets! whoſe very excellence is turned againſt them. Shakeſpeare's claim to any ſhare in the Two Noble Kinſmen we have conſidered at the end of that piece, to which we refer the Reader. In this place we ſhall only enter our proteſt againſt [161] the authority of Pope, who appears to have felt himſelf mortified and aſhamed, when he, ‘"diſ⯑charged the dull duty of an Editor."’ He ſurely muſt be allowed to diſcharge his duty with re⯑luctance, and moſt probably with neglect, who ſpeaks of it in ſuch terms. In his Preface indeed he has, with a moſt maſterly hand, drawn the out⯑line of the poetical character of Shakeſpeare; but in that very Preface, by a ſtrange perverſion of taſte, he propoſes to throw out of the liſt of Shake⯑ſpeare's plays The Winter's Tale, which he con⯑ſiders as ſpurious! On no better foundation, we think, has he aſſerted, that the play of the Two Noble Kinſmen has little reſemblance of Fletcher. ‘"There goes a tradition,"’ that Garth did not write his own Diſpenſary; ‘"there goes a tradition,"’ that the admirable tranſlator of Homer, like Shakeſpeare himſelf, had little Latin, and leſs Greek; but what candid critick would countenance ſuch a tradition? And is ſuch a vague, blind, playhouſe tradition a ſufficient warrant for one great poet to tear the laurel from the brows of another?

The modern editors of Shakeſpeare contemplate with admiration that indifference to future fame, which ſuffered him to behold with uncommon [162] apathy ſome of his pieces incorrectly printed dur⯑ing his life, without attempting to reſcue them from the hands of barbarous editors, or preparing for poſterity a genuine collection of his Works, ſuperviſed and corrected by himſelf. In our opinion, the Dedication and Preface of Heminge and Con⯑dell more than inſinuate the intention of Shake⯑ſpeare, had he ſurvived, to have publiſhed ſuch a collection^*. But, be that as it may, his ſup⯑poſed careleſſneſs concerning the fate of his pieces after they had been repreſented, is not ſo very ſingular; many of the plays of Beaumont and Fletcher alſo having been inaccurately printed from ſtolen copies during the lives of the Authors, and the remainder collected ſome years after their deaths, like the Works of Shakeſpeare, by the players. Ben Jonſon appears to have been the only [163] dramatick Poet of that age, who paid any attention to the publication of his own Compoſitions.

The old quarto copies of Beaumont and Fletcher have come down to us exactly in the ſame ſtate with the old quartos of Shakeſpeare. The printers of thoſe times not only copied, but multiplied the errors of the tranſcriber. An Editor, nay even a corrector of the preſs, ſeems to have been a character of which they had not the ſmalleſt conception. Even the title-pages appear to exhibit the very names of the Authors at random, ſometimes announcing the play as the work of one Poet, ſometimes of another, and ſometimes as the joint production of both. A Bookſeller is ſomewhere introduced as reprehending the ſaving ways of an Ode-writer, who, he ſuppoſed, merely to lengthen his work, would often put no more than three or four words into a line. The old printers ſeem to have con⯑ceived the ſame idea of the parſimony of Poets, and therefore often without ſcruple run verſe into proſe, not adverting to meaſure or harmony, but ſolely governed by the dimenſions of the page, whether divided into columns, or carried all acroſs from one ſcanty margin to another. Their orthography^* is [164] ſo generally vicious and unſettled, and their punc⯑tuation ſo totally defective, that the regulation of either rarely merits the triumphs that have ſo often been derived from it. On the whole, however, theſe old copies of our Poets may by an intelligent Reader be peruſed with ſatisfaction. The typo⯑graphical errors are indeed groſs and numerous; but their very number and groſſneſs keeps the reader awake to the genuine text, and commonly [165] renders ſuch palpable inaccuracies not prejudicial. The genuine work of the Author is there extant, though the lines are often, like a confuſed multi⯑tude, huddled on one another, and not marſhalled and arrayed by the diſcipline of a modern Editor.

The Firſt Folio, containing thirty-four of our Author's pieces, never till then collected or printed, was publiſhed by the Players, obviouſly tranſcribed [166] from the prompter's books, commonly the moſt inaccurate and barbarous of all manuſcripts, or made out piecemeal from the detached parts copied for the uſe of the performers. Hence it happens, that the ſtage-direction has ſometimes crept into the text, and the name of the Actor is now and then ſubſtituted for that of the Character. The tranſcribers, knowing perhaps no Language per⯑fectly, corrupted all Languages; and vitiated the dialogue with falſe Latin, falſe French, falſe Italian, and falſe Spaniſh; nay, as Pope ſays of the old copies of Shakeſpeare, ‘"their very Welch is falſe."’

The Players, however, notwithſtanding the cenſure of Pope, ‘"yet from Cibber ſore,"’ ſeem to have been, at leaſt with regard to our Poets, as faithful and able editors as others of that period. It is moſt natural to ſuppoſe that the Playhouſe Manuſcript contained the real Work of the Author, though perhaps ignorantly copied, and accommodated to the uſe of the Theatre. A writer in his cloſet often ſilently acquieſces in the excellence of a continued Declamation; but if at any time the Audience, like Polonius, cry out ‘"This is too long,"’ ſuch paſſages are afterwards naturally curtailed or omitted in the repreſenta⯑tion; [167] but the curious Reader, being leſs faſtidious ‘"than the proud Spectator"’ (for in ſuch terms Horace ſpeaks of the Spectator) is pleaſed with the reſtoration of theſe paſſages in print. ‘"Players, ſays Pope, "are juſt ſuch judges of what is right, as tailors are of what is graceful."’ The compariſon is more ludicrous and ſarcaſtick than it is juſt. The Poet himſelf, who makes the Cloaths, may rather be called the Tailor: Actors are at moſt but the empty beaux that wear them, and the Spectators cenſure or admire them. A Tailor, however, if players muſt be the Tailors, though not equal in ſcience to a Statuary or an Anatomiſt, muſt yet be conceived to have a more intimate knowledge of the human form than a Blackſmith or a Capenter; and if many of the actors know but little of the Drama, they would probably have known ſtill leſs of it, had they not been retainers to the ſtage. Some Improvements, as well as Corruptions of the Drama, may undoubtedly be derived from the Theatre. Cibber, idle Cibber, wrote for the ſtage with more ſucceſs than Pope. Aeſchylus, Sophocles, Plautus, and Terence, were ſoldiers and freedmen; Shakeſpeare and Moliere were Actors.

[168]The Second Folio contained the firſt complete collection of the Works of Beaumont and Fletcher. Concerning that edition we have nothing to add to what has been ſaid by other Editors.

The Octavo Editors of 1711 ſeemed to aim at little more than reprinting our Authors' Plays, and giving a collection of them more portable and convenient than the Folios. Their text, however, is more corrupt than that of either the quartos or folios, the errors of which they religiouſly pre⯑ſerved, adding many vicious readings of their own, ſome of which have been combated in very long notes by their ſucceſſors.

In the year 1742, Theobald, on the ſucceſs and reputation of his Shakeſpeare, projected an edition of the Works of Ben Jonſon. What he had executed of it, fell into the hands of Mr. Whalley, and is inſerted in that learned and in⯑genious gentleman's edition. At the ſame time he exhibited propoſals for a publication of the Plays of Beaumont and Fletcher; in which he was afterwards aſſiſted by Mr. Seward and Mr. Sympſon: but Theobald dying before he had com⯑mitted more than the firſt and about half the ſecond volume to the preſs, the undertaking was con⯑tinued by the two laſt-mentioned gentlemen; and [169] the edition thus jointly, or rather ſeverally, exe⯑cuted by Theobald, Mr. Seward, and Mr. Sympſon, at length appeared in the year 1750. Theſe gen⯑tlemen were the firſt Editors of our Poets who profeſſed to collate the old copies, to reform the punctuation, and to amend the corruptions of the text. Some attempts alſo were made to elucidate the obſcurities, and enforce the excellencies of their Authors. How far we diſagree or coincide with them will appear on inſpection of the parti⯑cular paſſages to which their ſeveral obſervations refer. At preſent it will be ſufficient to declare, that we ſhould have been inclined to entertain a more reſpectful opinion of their labours, if they had not very early betrayed that confidence which every Reader is tempted to repoſe in an Editor, not only by their careleſſneſs, but by the more un⯑pardonable faults of faithleſſneſs and miſrepreſenta⯑tion. Their reports of the ſtate of the old copies can never ſafely be taken on truſt, and on examina⯑tion many of thoſe copies will appear to be both negligently collated, and untruly quoted. Their punctuation alſo, notwithſtanding their occaſional ſelf-approbation, is almoſt as inaccurate as that of the moſt antient and rude editions; and their criti⯑cal remarks have, in our opinion, oftener been well [170] intended, than conceived. Their work, however, has in the main conduced to the illuſtration of our Authors, and we have ſeiſed every fair occaſion to applaud the diſplay of their diligence, as well as the efforts of their critical acuteneſs and ſagacity. Such of their notes as appeared inconteſtible, or even plauſible, we have adopted without remark; to thoſe more dubious we have ſubjoined additional annotations; thoſe of leſs conſequence we have abridged; and thoſe of no importance we have omitted.

In the preſent Edition, it has been our chief aim to give the old text as it lies in the old books, with no other variations, but ſuch as the Writers themſelves, had they ſuperintended an impreſſion of their Works, or even a corrector of the preſs, would have made. Yet even theſe variations, if at all important, have not been made in ſilence. Notes, however, have been ſubjoined to the text as briefly and as ſparingly as poſſible; but the lapſe of time, and fluctuation of language, have rendered ſome Notes neceſſary for the purpoſe of explaining obſolete words, unuſual phraſes, old cuſtoms, and obſcure or diſtant alluſions. Critical remarks, and conjectural emendations, have been ſeldom hazard⯑ed, nor has any ridicule been wantonly thrown on [171] former Editors, who have only ſometimes been re⯑prehended for pompous affectation, and more fre⯑quently for want of care and fidelity. Every ma⯑terial comment on theſe Plays has been retained in this Edition, though often without the long and oſtentatious notes that firſt introduced thoſe com⯑ments to the publick. At the ſame time, we have religiouſly attributed every obſervation, critical or philological, to its due author, not wiſhing to claim any praiſe as Editors, but by induſtriouſly endeavouring, as an act of duty, to collect from all quarters every thing that might contribute to il⯑luſtrate the Works of Beaumont and Fletcher.

To conclude, we have beheld with pity and indignation the mean parade of many modern Editors, and we have endeavoured to fulfil their du⯑ties without imbibing their arrogance. We are perhaps too proud to indulge ſo poor a vanity; at leaſt, we are too much occupied to litigate read⯑ings we think of ſmall importance, and too honeſt to claim reſtorations not our own, or to propoſe readings as corrections that are no more than re⯑ſtorations. The Stationer has not diſgraced our Authors with Tobacco-Paper; the Preſs, we truſt, has done its duty; and the Rolling-Preſs, at a very conſiderable expence, has added its [172] aſſiſtance. The Cuts, if we are not deceived, are for the moſt part happily deſigned, and well exe⯑cuted, and will probably be deemed an agreeable addition to the Work: at leaſt, we may with truth aſſert, that no authors in the Engliſh language, publiſhed at the ſame price, have ſo many and ſo valuable engravings.

The province of a Painter and an Editor are directly oppoſite. In the firſt inſtance the canvas receives its chief value from the artiſt, and in the ſecond the artiſt derives almoſt all his conſequence from the canvas. The Editor, if he lives, is car⯑ried down the ſtream of time by his Author; and if the Author be excellent, and his commentary judicious,

For our parts we have been incited to this un⯑dertaking from a real admiration of theſe Poets, grounded, as we apprehend, on their genuine ex⯑cellencies, and a thorough perſuaſion that the Works of Beaumont and Fletcher may proudly claim a ſecond place in the Engliſh Drama, nearer to the firſt than the third, to thoſe of Shakeſpeare; ſome of their Plays being ſo much in his manner, that they can ſcarcely be diſtinguſhed to be the work of another hand.

APPENDIX TO THE SECOND EDITION OF THE TRANSLATION OF THE COMEDIES OF TERENCE,
PUBLISHED IN THE YEAR 1768.
[]APPENDIX TO THE SECOND EDITION OF THE TRANSLATION OF THE COMEDIES OF TERENCE.

THE reverend and ingenious Mr. Farmer, in his curious and entertaining Eſſay on the Learning of Shakeſpeare, having done me the honour to animadvert on ſome paſſages in the preface to this tranſlation, I cannot diſmiſs this edition with⯑out declaring how far I coincide with that gentle⯑man; although what I then threw out careleſsly on the ſubject of his pamphlet was merely inci⯑dental, nor did I mean to enter the liſts as a champion to defend either ſide of the queſtion.

It is moſt true, as Mr. Farmer takes for granted, that I had never met with the old comedy called The Suppoſes, nor has it even yet fallen into my [174] hands; yet I am willing to grant, on Mr. Farmer's authority, that Shakeſpeare borrowed part of the plot of The Taming of the Shrew, from that old tranſlation of Arioſto's play, by George Gaſcoign, and had no obligations to Plautus. I will accede alſo to the truth of Dr. Johnſon's and Mr. Farmer's obſervation, that the line from Terence, exactly as it ſtands in Shakeſpeare, is extant in Lilly and Udall's Floures for Latin Speaking. Still, however, Shakeſpeare's total ignorance of the learned languages remains to be proved; for it muſt be granted, that ſuch books are put into the hands of thoſe who are learning thoſe languages, in which claſs we muſt neceſſarily rank Shakeſpeare, or he could not even have quoted Terence from Udall or Lilly; nor is it likely, that ſo rapid a genius ſhould not have made ſome further progreſs. ‘"Our author (ſays Dr. Johnſon, as quoted by Mr. Farmer) had this line from Lilly; which I mention, that it may not be brought as an argu⯑ment of his learning."’ It is, however, an argu⯑ment that he read Lilly; and a few pages further it ſeems pretty certain, that the author of The Taming of the Shrew, had at leaſt read Ovid; from whoſe epiſtles we find theſe lines:

And what does Dr. Johnſon ſay on this occaſion? Nothing. And what does Mr. Farmer ſay on this occaſion? Nothing.

In Love's Labour's Loſt, which, bad as it is, is aſcribed by Dr. Johnſon himſelf to Shakeſpeare, there occurs the word thraſonical; another argument which ſeems to ſhew that he was not unacquainted with the comedies of Terence; not to mention, that the character of the Schoolmaſter in the ſame play could not poſſibly be written by a man who had tra⯑velled no further in Latin than hic, haec, hoc.

In Henry the Sixth we meet with a quotation from Virgil,

But this, it ſeems, proves nothing, any more than the lines from Terence and Ovid, in the Taming of the Shrew; for Mr. Farmer looks on Shake⯑ſpeare's property in the comedy to be extremely diſ⯑putable; and he has no doubt but Henry the Sixth had the ſame author with Edward the Third, which hath been recovered to the world in Mr. Capell's Proluſions.

[176]If any play in the collection bears internal evi⯑dence of Shakeſpeare's hand, we may fairly give him Timon of Athens. In this play we have a fami⯑liar quotation from Horace,

I will not maintain but this hemiſtich may be found in Lilly or Udall; or that it is not in the Palace of Pleaſure, or the Engliſh Plutarch; or that it was not originally foiſted in by the players: I [...] ſtands, however, in the play of Timon of Athens.

The world in general, and thoſe who purpoſe to comment on Shakeſpeare in particular, will owe much to Mr. Farmer, whoſe reſearches into our old authors throw a luſtre on many paſſages, the ob⯑ſcurity of which muſt elſe have been impenetrable. No future Upton or Gildon will go further than North's tranſlation for Shakeſpeare's acquaintance with Plutarch, or balance between Dares Phrygius, and the Troye booke of Lydgate. The Hyſtorie of Ham⯑blet, in black letter, will for ever ſuperſede Saxo Grammaticus; tranſlated novels and ballads will, perhaps, be allowed the ſources of Romeo, Lear, and the Merchant of Venice; and Shakeſpeare him⯑ſelf, however unlike Bayes in other particulars, will [177] ſtand convicted of having tranſverſed the proſe of Holingſhead; and at the ſame time, to prove ‘"that his ſtudies lay in his own language,"’ the tranſla⯑tions of Ovid are determined to be the production of Heywood.

‘"That his ſtudies were moſt demonſtratively confined to nature, and his own language,"’ I readily allow: but does it hence follow that he was ſo de⯑plorably ignorant of every other tongue, living or dead, that he only ‘"remembered, perhaps, enough of his ſchoolboy learning to put the hig, hag, hog, into the mouth of Sir H. Evans; and might pick up in the writers of the time, or the courſe of his converſation, a familiar phraſe or two of French or Italian?"’ In Shakeſpeare's plays both theſe laſt languages are plentifully ſcattered: but then, we are told, they might be impertinent addi⯑tions of the players. Undoubtedly they might: but there they are, and, perhaps, few of the players had much more learning than Shakeſpeare.

Mr. Farmer himſelf will allow that Shakeſpeare began to learn Latin: I will allow that his ſtudies lay in Engliſh: but why inſiſt that he neither made any progreſs at ſchool; nor improved his acquiſi⯑tions there? The general encomiums of Suckling, [178] Denham, Milton, &c. on his native genius ^*, prove nothing; and Ben Jonſon's celebrated charge of Shakeſpeare's ſmall Latin, and leſs Greek ^†, ſeem; abſolutely to decide that he had ſome knowledge of both; and if we may judge by our own time, a man, who has any Greek, is ſeldom without a very competent ſhare of Latin; and yet ſuch a man is very likely to ſtudy Plutarch in Engliſh, and to read tranſlations of Ovid.

POSTSCRIPT.

THIS Appendix to the ſecond Edition of the tranſlation of Terence would not have had a place in this collection, if it had not repeatedly appeared among the numerous Prolegomena to the late Variorum Editions of Shakeſpeare, accompanied with Annotations which ſeem to require ſome notice.

Mr. Steevens in a Preface ſubjoined to that of Dr. Johnſon having firſt declared that ‘"the diſpute about the learning of Shakeſpeare is now finally ſettled,"’ the reader is, at the cloſe of the copy of this Appendix, referred to Dr. Farmer's reply in a Note on Love's Labour's Loſt, Act II. Sc. ii. p. 435. Edit. of 1778.

The Note in queſtion, according to the cuſtom of the Editors, is rather long; but I truſt I ſhall do no [180] injuſtice to Dr. Farmer's argument, by ſelecting only his part of it.

In the Edition of Shakeſpeare, publiſhed in 1785, this Appendix again appears with the ſame reference to Dr. Farmer's reply, and the addition of the fol⯑lowing Annotation on the laſt note in the Ap⯑pendix.

[183]I flatter myſelf that my remarks on the ſubject of the Learning of Shakeſpeare, and my idea of the extent of his literature, were not extravagant; and that I expreſſed myſelf in ſuch terms as were not calculated to provoke cenſure, or ridicule. For my own part, though I took no decided part in the queſ⯑tion, I muſt confeſs that the wit and pleaſantry of the replies and annotations have not materially al⯑tered my opinion, which the Editors would have more fairly ſubmitted to their readers, if Dr. Far⯑mer's reply had been given with the Appendix, in⯑ſtead of being transferred to another volume, be⯑cauſe ſome part of his obſervations related to a character of the play contained in it. I muſt own too that I was rather ſurpriſed to ſee the Reverend Eſſayiſt, whoſe remarks I had treated ſo reſpectfully, making his reply as a flippant Annotator on another publication, and riſing from the bottom of the page of Love's Labour's Loſt, under the wing of that Editor, whom in the ſecond impreſſion of his Eſſay he had ſtyled ‘"one of the firſt Criticks of the Age, who was pleaſed to declare on reading the former edition, that THE QUESTION IS now FOR EVER DECIDED!"’ With what complacency theſe acute Criticks interchange flatteries and compliments, and how freely do they throw out cenſures and ſarcaſms [184] upon others; giving currency to each by annexing them to the popular text of Shakeſpeare!

The Note of Dr. Farmer referred to in the Ap⯑pendix concerning Shakeſpeare's ſmall Latin and LESS Greek in the firſt Edition of his Eſſay, 1767, ſtands thus.

On reading the above note I confeſs that I did not think it neceſſary to conſult Towers's Panegy⯑rick on Cartwright, taking it for granted, on the Eſſayiſt's note, that Towers had applied the line to the ſubject of his panegyrick, as Jonſon had done before him; and yet I cannot even after this frank conceſſion account for Dr. Farmer's triumph on ſo ſlight a miſapprehenſion, that does not at all affect the main queſtion, or eſtabliſh the authority of the various reading. The paſſage in the verſes [185] of Towers prefixed to the works of Cartwright printed in 1651, runs thus

From this quotation it will not only appear that I have at length conſulted the panegyrick on Cart⯑wright, but that when talking without book, I had not ſo ſtrangely miſrepreſented the Doctor's argument from it. His own note to the firſt edition of his Eſſay certainly tended to countenance the various reading of ‘"ſmall Latin and no Greek,"’ by the adop⯑tion of the line by Towers. His Comment on the Appendix implies, either from my wilfulneſs or careleſſneſs, a miſrepreſentation of his argument; but ſurely, whether Towers applied the diſputed line to Cartwright, or his ſuppoſed Rivals in the Drama, was of no real conſequence: though by the by his adoption contains more various readings than one; and yet the teſtimony of Ben Jonſon, on which I grounded my opinion, remains unimpeached. On the whole then have not the Criticks ſtrangely miſ⯑repreſented MY argument?

[186]I give due praiſe to the ingenious but anony⯑mous Annotator in the laſt edition of Shakeſpeare, who has clearly proved that Dr. Farmer tranſcribed his alluſion to Pallas from Dr. Younge, and not from ſome one elſe. The thought is obvious, and might without improbability occur to different writers; but the ſimilarity of expreſſion, ‘"at full growth and mature,"’ proves beyond controverſy from whence, in the preſent inſtance, the alluſion was taken. But after all, what is that matter to the Learning of Shakeſpeare?

On that subject I never engaged myſelf as a cham⯑pion on either ſide of the queſtion, but having been in ſome ſort forced into the diſpute, I cannot but ſeiſe every occaſion to applaud the ingenuity as well as indefatigable induſtry of the Variorum Editors, who in the ſame vein of argument may hereafter proceed to prove that Shakeſpeare could neither read nor write. The almoſt illegible plate, engraved after his hand-writing, will not, perhaps, convince every inſpector that the poet did not write his name as his cotemporaries on the ſtage have handed it down to us; though it differs not only from the recent orthography of the Editors, ‘"thoſe new tuners of accents,"’ as well as from the Stratford [187] Pariſh Regiſter, to which Mr. Bell, in the im⯑preſſion from his Apollo Preſs has religiouſly adhered. The Latin in his plays is ſtill allowed to hold its place; but we are told, leſt the reader ſhould be dazzled by it, that Shakeſpeare was obliged to ‘"read and repeat in the courſe of his profeſſion ſuch Latin Fragments as are found in his works."’ And we are expected to embrace this opinion.

Before his Poems, inſcribed in his own name to his noble Patron, Southampton, ſtand, as a Motto, two lines from Ovid, as palpable as thoſe in the Taming of the Shrew. But perhaps it will at length be diſcovered, that thoſe Poems were not written by Shakeſpeare; or, if they were, that the lines had before been prefixed to ſome other black lettered pamphlet of that age; or at leaſt that Ben Jonſon, in compaſſion to his illiterate friend, ſuggeſted the Motto, which the Shake-ſcene of the times, for ſo the witlings of the day, favouring the old orthography, called Shake-ſpeare, could not himſelf ſupply.

In return for the civilities of the Variorum Editors I beg leave to propoſe a ſmall emendation in their LIST OF PLAYS altered from SHAKESPEARE, in which they have done me the honour of attributing [188] to me, without any authority, two alterations of the Midſummer Night's Dream. Of the firſt, it is true, I attended the rehearſals, at the expreſs deſire of Mr. Garrick, on his going abroad; but the revival, as I foretold, failing of ſucceſs, the piece was, by my advice, reduced to two acts under the title of A Fairy Tale, ſo that I was little more than a Godfather on the occaſion, and the Alterations, like ſome of the Variorum Annotations, ſhould have been ſubſcribed ANON.

REMARKS OR SHYLOCK's REPLY TO THE SENATE OF VENICE.

THERE are few paſſages in the plays of Shakeſpeare, that have been more repeat⯑edly the ſubject of critical animadverſion than a part of Shylock's reply to the Duke and the Magnificos in the Merchant of Venice.

The lines in queſtion in the ſecond folio, which now lies before me, run thus: and the ſecond folio is, I believe, in this inſtance, an exact tranſcript of the firſt.

Rowe, the firſt modern Editor, himſelf a Poet, willing I ſuppoſe to preſerve the poetical expreſſion with no more violation of the text, than what was neceſſary to reconcile it to ſenſe and grammar, gives, as was his manner, without quoting any authority, the fifth and part of the ſixth line thus.

This reading, conveying a clear idea without any great violence to the firſt impreſſions, was received and adopted by Pope, Theobald, and Hanmer.

Theobald however willing to ſupport a propoſed emendation of his ingenious aſſiſtant Dr. Thirlby, and at the ſame time to introduce a Comment of Warburton, ſtarts a difficulty concerning the rela⯑tive it (ſways it) which, according to Rowe's read⯑ing, eaſily and neceſſarily refers to the word Affec⯑tion in the line immediately preceding.

[191]Dr. Thirlby's emendation conſiſted in a new mode of punctuation, by which he thus adjuſted the doubtful lines in the paſſage.

Warburton, with a refined commentary, rejects the reading of Rowe, preſerves the old pointing, but changes the number of the verb, reading ſway for ſways. Affection, he interprets to be uſed for ſympathy; and we learn from the ſecond edition of Dr. Farmer's Eſſay on the Learning of Shakeſpeare, that Affection, in the ſenſe of ſym⯑pathy, was formerly technical, and ſo uſed by Lord Bacon, Sir Kenelm Digby, and many other writers.

Mr. Steevens, in his republication in 1760, of the twenty plays of Shakeſpeare firſt printed in quarto, from a profeſſed collation of four different copies of this play, entitles the Drama "The Comical Hiſ⯑tory of The Merchant of Venice," and exhibits the paſſage in queſtion, thus

Here the old pointing is preſerved, but the ſpelling is in general more modern than even that of the ſe⯑cond folio, which was indeed an earlier publication than two of the collated quartos.

The word Maſters is exactly conformable to our preſent orthography; and this noun, governing the verb that follows, is the moſt material in the whole ſentence: ſo material indeed that in order to preſerve it, the Modern Editors, while they embrace the punctuation of Thirlby, make a ſtill further devia⯑tion from the old copies, and, changing the number of both noun and verb, give the paſſage thus,

This reading ſeems to have been ſuggeſted by Sir John Hawkins.

Mr. Malone converting the noun Maſters into a verb, and changing it into our reads thus,

The patient and laborious Capel, who commenced his reſearches long before all the Editors ſince Han⯑mer, and yet ſuffered thoſe Editors to anticipate, and almoſt ſuperſede his own publication, the dili⯑gent but tardy Capel adopts the punctuation of Thirlby, and regulates the paſſage thus,

Capel, with his uſual fidelity, gives the rejected reading ‘"Maiſters of"’ at the bottom of the page, and as it ſhould ſeem, from the principle eſtabliſhed in his Introduction, from the oldeſt quarto. Of Capel the Variorum Editors take no notice.

It is remarkable alſo that Theobald in his note reporting Thirlby's propoſed emendation, joins an aſteriſk to the word Maſter referring to another various reading or conjecture,—Or MISTRESS; but whether this was the original ſuggeſtion of Thirlby, or of himſelf, it is not eaſy to determine. In old books the mode of ſpelling the word Miſtreſs often [194] approaches very near to the word Maiſters in the text; and Mr. Steevens, who reads Maſters, and for the ſake of Grammatical Concordance changes Af⯑fection to Affections, yet quotes a paſſage from Othello, which though produced with another intention, yet countenances in this inſtance the reading of Capel.

I muſt confeſs that I cannot diſcover on what principle all the Editors, ſince Theobald and Han⯑mer, have followed the punctuation of Thirlby. It is impoſſible, I think, for any reader, accuſtomed to the manner of our old writers, not to feel a cer⯑tain harſhneſs in the new regulation of the text, or indeed to doubt for a moment, that the old books gave the ſecond line correctly, as at that time ſpoken on the ſtage, and originally written by the Author. Cannot contain their urine for Affection. I never heard, excellent and very Shylock as he is, Mack⯑lin's full ſtop in the middle of this verſe without a ſhock; and the following words of the line, not only ſoften the expreſſion, but are moſt eaſy and [195] natural. We ſtill apply the verb affect in the ſame ſenſe that Shylock here uſes the noun derived from it, and the ſimple meaning of the line is, that ‘"Others are ſo affected by the ſound of the bagpipe that they cannot contain themſelves."’

The mode of Affection here ſignified, granting the old text to be genuine, muſt be Sympathy, illuſtrated by an example oppoſed to thoſe before enumerated; and the oppoſition marked, like the hic & ille of the Latin, by the words ſome and others; though without the two laſt words of the line the contraſt is leſs clear, and the effect of the bap⯑pipe might be a third inſtance of Antipathy. Thirl⯑by's punctuation, and Rowe's reading, each ſuppoſe Affection to ſignify both Sympathy and Antipathy. Each Critick muſt be allowed to be ingenious: ſome word, or phraſe, or line, expreſſive of an irre⯑ſiſtible influence over our likings and loathings, (for Shylock ſpeaks of both) as well as governing the verb ſways, is moſt certainly the grand Deſideratum, the one thing requiſite to regulate and explain this difficult paſſage.

The paſſage, as it ſtands in the old books, is evidently defective or corrupt, or both, and though [196] the reading Miſtreſs for Maſters may remedy the corruption, and bring the noun and verb, accord⯑ing to the rules of Syntax, to accord with each other, ſtill there remains an imperfection in the context, which has driven the commentators, as their laſt reſource, to a new mode of punctuation. My own method may, perhaps, appear ſtill more deſperate; but deſperate diſeaſes require deſperate remedies, and without ſome topical applications the caſe under conſideration is confeſſedly incurable: and I cannot well explain myſelf without ſome diſ⯑ſection. I muſt beg leave therefore to give a brief analyſis of Shylock's reply to the Duke, who tells him that the court recommend lenity to Anthonio, and expect a gentle anſwer from the proſecutor.—His anſwer is to this effect.

This I take to be a fair abſtract of Shylock's an⯑ſwer, who, waving the ſic volo with which he follows up his oath, proceeds to defend his conduct by the example of other men, ſubject, like himſelf, to the irreſiſtible dominion of Sympathy and An⯑tipathy.

On the whole therefore I conceive that the ori⯑ginal punctuation ſhould be maintained, that the word Maiſters in the old copies ſhould be read Miſ⯑treſs, and that the imperfection in the ſenſe, accord⯑ing to that reading, ariſes from a line or two loſt or dropt at the preſs, in which the words Sympathy and Antipathy, ſo congenial to the argument, had moſt probably a place.

To ſubmit this opinion, and the whole of my comment, fairly to the reader, I ſhall conclude theſe obſervations with a transſcript of the whole ſpeech from the ſecond folio, only introducing in [198] another character the variation of Miſtreſs for Maiſters, together with one intercalary line, meant (like the day in Leap-year) to complete the ſyſtem, and to convey the real meaning of the author. His real words are now irrecoverable.

The Duke concludes the addreſs to Shylock, in behalf of the Senate and himſelf, with theſe words.

Shylock's anſwer is as follows:

If this expoſition is not convincing and conclu⯑ſive, it were in vain to add more arguments to en⯑force it. Valeat, quantum valere poteſt! The few faults in the punctuation of the old copy are ſo ob⯑ [...]ious, that they cannot miſlead the attentive reader; but the defect in the conſtruction, without addition or alteration, is irremoveable. The laſt expedient [200] having, in my humble opinion, proved unſucceſsful, a cloſe conſideration of the whole paſſage ſuggeſted the former. With what propriety the reader will determine.

Some difficulties, for Criticks will create difficul⯑ties, have ariſen from other lines in this ſpeech. Johnſon never ſaw a woollen bagpipe, and therefore propoſes to read wooden. A wooden reading, which Sir John Hawkins converts into ſwelling or ſwollen; but though Johnſon never ſaw a woollen bagpipe, Shakeſpeare might have ſeen one, nor is it difficult to conceive. I think I have ſeen one: the bag I mean, for the pipe, as he ſuppoſes, was of wood.

The edition alſo of 1778, now under my eye, reads,

The twenty plays publiſhed by Mr. Steevens in the year 1760, from a collation of the quartos, ex⯑hibit, printing more elegantly,

In theſe matters of critical nicety ſuch trifles are not unworthy of obſervation, though perhaps the [201] ſlight variation might not have the ſanction of the ingenious Editor, but be only an error of the preſs.

ORTHOPAEDIA: OR, THOUGHTS ON PUBLICK EDUCATION.
[] THOUGHTS ON PUBLICK EDUCATION.

LOCKE, who by his intellectual reſearches has made his name as memorable in the annals of Engliſh Literature as thoſe of Bacon or Newton, has among other ſmaller works bequeathed to poſte⯑rity a ſhort tract entitled "Some Thoughts con⯑cerning Education." In this tract, containing many excellent remarks, many inſtances of ſhrewd penetration, and much valuable information, he has avowed himſelf a declared enemy to Publick [206] Education, which he conſiders as a ſacrifice of inno⯑cency to confidence, concluding ‘"that it is im⯑poſſible to keep a lad from the ſpreading conta⯑gion, if you will venture him abroad IN THE HERD, and truſt to chance or his own inclination, for the choice of his company at ſchool."’

Who would not ſhrink at the thoughts of en⯑countering ſo formidable an adverſary, armed at all points with ſtrong natural Senſe, keen Obſervation, Satire, Humour, and Argument? for ſuch weapons he has wielded, and with ſuch armour has he de⯑fended himſelf, on the ſubject now under conſidera⯑tion, directing all his attacks againſt the principle I have undertaken to defend. Yet exerciſing that freedom, of which he has himſelf given both the precept and example, I venture to think for my⯑ſelf, and in my turn to ſubmit my thoughts to the Publick.

Locke's Thoughts on Education, though publiſhed in one continued ſeries, and ſplit into ſections, according to the cuſtom of the times, is yet, as the [207] dedication declares, the mere ſubſtance of a corre⯑ſpondence with a private friend, and indeed may now fairly be reſolved into three ſeparate letters: for the writer, at three diſtinct periods, reverts to the ſtate of infancy; and twice leads the babe through child⯑hood to youth and manhood: this may eſcape the obſervation of a curſory reader, but to a fair and ſtrict examiner is plain and obvious.

The following remarks are, like the tract on which they are founded, ſomewhat looſe and deſul⯑tory. It is indeed very difficult to follow a writer, who often reſumes a ſubject that he ſeems to have diſmiſſed: yet order and method have been endea⯑voured to be preſerved, as far as was poſſible under ſuch circumſtances. No material part of the queſ⯑tion, it is hoped, remains unnoticed: and it may be added with confidence, that no argument has been intentionally miſrepreſented.

Virtue, Virtue and Wiſdom, Locke juſtly conſiders as the baſis of all good education. They are indeed as neceſſary to the operations of the mind, as health and vigour to the exertions of the body. We will not therefore diſpute on a ſelf-evident propoſition; but rather endeavour to prove, on the very principles [208] of the tract now before us, that Publick Education is more conducive to the improvement of the under⯑ſtanding, and leſs dangerous to the morals, than Domeſtick Tuition.

It muſt be obvious to every reader that Locke himſelf enters on the compariſon with difficulty and diffidence. ‘"I confeſs (ſays he with great can⯑dour) both ſides have their inconveniencies."’ He then proceeds to a laboured invective againſt Gram⯑mar Schools, as unfavourable to the practice of vir⯑tue; ‘"And therefore (ſays he in concluſion) I cannot but prefer breeding of a young gentleman at home in his father's ſight under a governor, as much the beſt and ſafeſt way to the great and main end of education, where it can be had, and is ordered as it ſhould be."’

Perfection, no doubt, if attainable, were much to be deſired: but, alas! Imperfection is the lot of all human undertakings; and all we can effect is to follow that courſe, which is liable to the leaſt ob⯑jection. The excellence of Locke's plan is in his own opinion evidently hypothetical; ſo that he is at laſt driven to acknowledge that ‘"what ſhall be reſolved in the caſe muſt in a great meaſure be [209] left to the parents, to be determined by their cir⯑cumſtances and conveniences."’

All that Locke ſays of children, while children, that is while in a mere ſtate of infancy, is in gene⯑ral well worth notice. He ſeems to enter into all their little feelings with as much penetration, and much leſs romance, than Rouſſeau, whoſe EMILE, with all its merit, and all its originality, is in fact an ingenious amplification of Locke's work, realiſ⯑ing in himſelf the ideal character of the tutor or governor, and in Emile the perſon of the pupil, whom he takes up from his cradle, and carries to his mar⯑riage bed, juſt as Locke adviſes, on his return from Late Travel. Rouſſeau's work however is not merely the little tract of Locke dilated and perſoni⯑fied, but in many inſtances a comment; ſometimes too laboured and refined, and ſometimes acute and plauſible. Few will agree with him that inſtruction muſt be delayed till the leſſons can be attended with experiment, or think it reaſonable to refer their little ſtudents to the open volume of nature, denying them the uſe of books, maps, globes, and other helps which Locke recommends. Moſt parents would think Locke's method of teaching Geography as prudent as it is ſimple and eaſy, by ſhewing children firſt the figure and natural parts of the globe, and [210] the imaginary and artificial lines afterwards: but Rouſſeau deſpiſes ſuch inſufficient methods, throws away maps and ſpheres, and by his own example exhorts teachers to carry their ſcholars at different ſeaſons to the top of a mountain, to ſee the ſun riſe at Midſummer and at Chriſtmas. This appears ra⯑ther extravagant, but, at the ſame time, it may be thought that Rouſſeau properly cenſures Locke's maxim of reaſoning with children, which he truly ſays Locke himſelf appears ſo much embarraſſed to defend. With equal juſtice he reprobates Locke's method of recommending and encouraging LIBE⯑RALITY, ‘"conſtantly taking care that the child loſes nothing by it."’ Let all the inſtances he gives of ‘"ſuch freeneſs (continues Locke) be always repaid and with intereſt, and let him ſenſibly perceive that the kindneſs he ſhews to others, is no bad huſbandry for himſelf; but that it brings a return of kindneſs both from thoſe who receive it, and thoſe who look on!"’ This, ſays Rouſſeau, is to teach a child to be generous to appearance, and in reality avaricious. He reprehends alſo Locke's opi⯑nion that ‘"the conſideration of ſpirits ought to go before that of matter and body:"’ for what idea, ſays he, can a child entertain of a being incorporeal and immaterial?

[211]But the management of infants is not the chief object of theſe remarks. Of the treatment of chil⯑dren Locke ſpeaks with fairneſs and candour; but when they advance to maturer age, his evident prejudice againſt Publick Education obſcures that preciſion, and depraves that liberality ſo remarkable in his other works.

Locke, while he ſo openly and ſeverely cenſures Publick Education, ſlurs over the defects of do⯑meſtick tuition, yet his ſubject unavoidably leads him to point out ſome imperfections; and particu⯑larly the danger from ſervants: to which might be added the too frequent hereditary taint of the mind from the maſter and miſtreſs, and the contagion of their friends and acquaintance. The miſchiefs of domeſtick indulgence cannot indeed be more ſtrongly delineated than in the words of Locke himſelf. ‘"He that is not uſed to ſubmit his will to the reaſon of others, WHEN he is YOUNG, will ſcarce hearken or ſubmit to his own reaſon, when he is of an age to make uſe of it. And what a kind of a man ſuch an one is like to prove is eaſie to foreſee."’

‘"Theſe are overſights uſually committed, by thoſe who ſeem to take the greateſt care of their children's [212] education. But if we look into the common manage⯑ment of children, we ſhall have reaſon to wonder, in the great diſſoluteneſs of manners which the world complains of, that there an any footſteps at all left of virtue. I deſire to know what vice can be named, which PARENTS AND THOSE ABOUT CHILDREN, do not ſeaſon them with, and drop into them the ſeeds of, as ſoon as they are capable to receive them? I do not mean by the examples they give, and the pat⯑terns they ſet before them, which is encouragement enough, but that which I would take notice of here, is the downright teaching them vice, and actually putting them out of the way of virtue."’ He then proceeds to ſhew that they principle them with violence, re⯑venge, and cruelty; that lying and equivocation are put into their mouths and commended; that the little ones are taught to be proud of their cloaths, before they can put them on; and tempted and en⯑couraged to intemperance and luxury. The ſection concludes with the following paragraph. ‘"I ſhall not dwell any longer on this ſubject, much leſs run over all the particulars, that would ſhew what pains are uſed to corrupt children, and inſtill prin⯑ciples of vice into them: But I deſire parents ſo⯑berly to conſider what irregularity or vice there is, which children are not viſibly taught, and whether [213] it be not their duty and wiſdom to provide them other inſtructions."’

The chief officer in Locke's houſehold of private education is a Governour, or Tutor; ‘"and if you find it difficult (ſays he) to meet with ſuch a tutor, you are not to wonder."’

His deſcription of a Tutor is indeed chimerical. Wiſdom, temperance, tenderneſs, diligence, and diſcretion, are the lead eſſential requiſites in the character of Locke's governour. Such a man as he delineates is ſcarce to be found; and if found, would hardly undertake the taſk aſſigned him.

His learning however, much or little, is no great recommendation. ‘"That a tutor ſhould have Latin and learning, with the reputation of ſobriety, every one expects: and this generally is thought enough, and is all parents look for. But when ſuch an one has emptied out into his pupil all the Latin and logick he has brought from the Univerſity, will that furniture make him a fine gentleman? Or can it be expected that he ſhould be better bred, better ſkilled in the world, better principled in the grounds and foundations of true virtue and ge⯑neroſity, than his young Tutor is?"’

[214]Such is the deriſion beſtowed by Locke on the ſcholarſhip of a tutor; and ſuch is his conſtant con⯑tempt of literature and erudition, under the ſneering denominations of Latin and learning, a deal of traſh, dry ſyſtems, &c. which appears very ſtrange from a learned, or, as Locke ſtyles himſelf, a bookiſh man. He not only gives the firſt place to virtue, without "which no ſcience, polite learning, or talents, can be of value, but much prefers breeding to learning. His encomiums on this accompliſhment are equal to any of Lord Cheſterfield's Diſſertations on the Graces. It is indeed always difficult to fix a charge of partiality, or incoherency, on ſo cautious and ingenious a writer, becauſe he commonly concludes his remarks with ſome qualifying expreſſions, which however rather ſeem to bring up the rear as a ſaving clauſe, than to be intended to militate againſt the main argument. As one inſtance among many others, of theſe principles and this practice, may be pro⯑duced the following paſſage, with which he winds up his recommendation of the firſt eſſential requiſite in a Tutor.

Knowledge of the world alſo is deemed preferable to learning and languages, though by the way, he here inadvertently implies the ſuperior force of Pub⯑lick Education, and is obliged to confeſs that the ſtudy of the antients contributes both to that know⯑ledge and to virtue. The Tutor however, this ſage and exemplary monitor, deſcribed by Locke, muſt enter his pupil into the world, and at the ſame time preſerve him, like the Four Thieves, Vinegar, from the contagion of ſociety; ſo that a youth muſt, it ſeems, after all encounter the danger ſo much dreaded in a Publick Education, the danger of herding with thoſe of his own time of life: and how ill he may be prepared to hazard his morals, his health, and his fortune, in ſuch company, the following picture of many a lad mewed up in a private family, drawn by the maſterly hand of Locke himſelf, will exhibit in the moſt lively colours.

The Tutor however is not to neglect our young maſter's learning, but is to teach him Latin, like French, by talking it into him in conſtant converſa⯑tion; for he muſt be conſtantly with his pupil, talk nothing elſe to him, and make him ſtill anſwer in the ſame language; though perhaps the compariſon is not quite fair and appoſite, French being a living language and Latin a dead one. Grammar however is ſtrictly forbidden by Locke, as well as Rouſſeau: And if the well bred tutor ſhould be incapable, a more agreeable teacher may be found, and the fol⯑lowing method is recommended to all private fa⯑milies.

Suppoſing the Governor to be intelligent, able, and competent to the inſtruction of his pupil, ſtill the mother is not to lie idle: for ‘"Care is to be taken whilſt he is learning Foreign languages, by ſpeak⯑ing and reading nothing elſe with his tutor, that he do not forget to read Engliſh, which may be pre⯑ſerved by his mother, or ſomebody elſe, hearing him read ſome choſen parts of ſcripture, or other Engliſh book every day."’

[218] ‘"Languages, ſays Locke, being to be learnt by rote, cuſtom, and memory, are then ſpoken in the greateſt perfection, when all rules of Grammar are utterly forſaken."’ Languages may be ſpoken by rote, but ſurely (dead languages eſpecially) are not, as Locke ſuppoſes, to be learnt ſo; and though an adept may throw away his Grammar, and Dic⯑tionary too if he pleaſes, it is ſtrange advice to a ſtudent. In the lower claſſes of Publick Schools moſt of the boys are, during the intervals of the ſchool hours, under the care of one of the aſſiſtants retained, at a very moderate coſt, as a private tutor. His method of teaching them to render Engliſh into Latin, and ſo vice versâ, is excellent, though di⯑rectly oppoſite to that recommended by Locke; and in my opinion ſo much more excellent, in proportion as it is more oppoſite. To tranſlate a portion of one of the goſpels for the current week is a common exerciſe, and to fit them for the execution of their taſk, they are made to parſe every word in the ſen⯑tence, and by thus having learnt to what part of ſpeech every one belongs, together with the number, caſe, mood, tenſe, &c. their taſk is made eaſy, and they acquire by degrees a radical knowledge of the two languages at once. Locke's propoſal of talking children into a language, which he frequently contends [219] that nobody talks and ſhould pretend to write, is as little eligible as it is feaſible; and his ſubſtituted method of interlining Latin and Engliſh, while it re⯑quires, according to his own confeſſion, a previous explanation of the various terminations of nouns and verbs, their ſeveral genders, caſes, numbers and perſons, proves the neceſſity of the rules of Grammar, while it deprives the little ſtudents of the uſe of them. The reſult muſt be perpetual con⯑fuſion, ariſing from ſuperficial inſtructions, and a total impoſſibility of cultivating even their mother tongue, as he afterwards very properly, though in⯑conſiſtently with his own doctrine, recommends. Engliſh itſelf ſhould be taught by Grammar, though by natives firſt acquired by rote, cuſtom, and me⯑mory. The mother tongue is almoſt ſucked in with the mother's milk.

This paſſage is quite of a piece with every other in which Locke mentions Publick Education, on which occaſion he not only, as he himſelf confeſſes, loſes his temper, but alſo drops his uſual liberality and candour. ‘"I cannot with patience think, (he cries in another place) that a young gentleman ſhould be put into the herd, and be driven with a whip and ſcourge, as if he were to run the gantlet through the different claſſes ad capiendum ingenii cultum."’ At other times he terms ſuch youths ill bred and vicious boys, a mixed herd of unruly boys, learning to wrangle at trap, or rook at ſhun-farthing, practiſing wagferies and cheats, and con⯑certing well laid plots of robbing an orchard.

The beſt and perhaps the moſt direct way of con⯑futing theſe common-place invectives were to pro⯑duce from the ſame tract, in which they have gained a place, as evidences of the partiality of the writer, other paſſages, written when off his guard, that directly contradict theſe aſſertions.

Plainneſs of manners is, to a certain age, perhaps the moſt ingenuous feature of youth. A poliſh is the laſt ſtage of education, as well as of arts and manufactures, and when given too ſoon the varniſh only hides a defect. A boy ſhould not have the manners, nor the dreſs, of a man. Locke himſelf, under the article of manners, ſtrongly reprobates the parents and tutors, who teize their children about putting off hats and making of legs; and juſtly con⯑cludes that, ‘"if their minds are well diſpoſed, and principled with inward civility, a great part of the roughneſs which ſticks to the outſide for want of better teaching, time and obſervation will rub off as they grow up, if they are bred in good company."’ To ſay the truth, much of the ſecurity, as well as improvement of youth, depends on their not having attained the finiſhed breeding of men. And the raw diffidence of a ſchool boy [222] would be ill exchanged for the pert confidence of many a homebred fopling. The words of Rouſſeau on this head will better expreſs my meaning, and are an excellent contraſt to the above paſſage from Locke.

[223]Locke himſelf in another place ſays that ‘"Care⯑leſſneſs is allowed to that age, and becomes them as well as compliments do grown people. Or at leaſt, if ſome very nice people will think it a fault, I am ſure it is a fault that ſhould be over⯑looked, and left to time, a tutor, and converſation, to cure."’

As for their quarrels at chuck or ball, their tricks and truantries, he who breeds his ſon in his own family will in vain expect to ſee him a man before his time. Boys will be boys at home or abroad. Every age has its follies and infirmities; and thoſe of youth and childhood, though the moſt innocent, are perhaps the moſt ungovernable.

Locke, talking in his uſual ſtyle of the malapert⯑neſs, tricking and violence learnt amongſt ſchool boys, and therefore prefering Private Education, endea⯑vours to ſtrengthen his argument by inſtancing the retirement and baſhfulneſs which daughters are brought up in. But ſurely daughters are not an appoſite [224] example. The chief duties of female life are do⯑meſtick, thoſe of a man are publick. An officer, phyſician, lawyer, or divine, bred with his ſiſter, would not, I conceive, derive due benefit from his Education. Sometimes, however, her ſociety, as well as that of the reſt of his family, might be of advantage both to his morals and underſtanding. It is not neceſſary at preſent to deliver any opinion con⯑cerning the proper education of daughters. Home ſeems to be their natural province; yet that home is often ſo exceptionable, that perhaps even they would in general be in leſs danger abroad. Schools, exhibit⯑ing bills that ‘"Young ladies are there educated and may be boarded,"’ are indeed ſometimes dange⯑rous ſeminaries: yet perhaps there are few private families, where the minds of daughters are likely to receive ſo much moral and intellectual improve⯑ment, as at the reſpectable Receſs of the Miſs Lees at Bath, or the no leſs wholeſome and improving nur⯑ſery of the Miſs Moores at Briſtol.

Locke, in his Thoughts on Education, often con⯑founds the idea of educating a ſingle ſcholar with that of training a number of ſcholars: in the firſt in⯑ſtance he impoſes on fathers and tutors ſuch a taſk, as none but a Scriblerus or an Old Shandy will ever [225] perform; and ſuch characters have in common life been long obſolete. Rouſſeau and his Emile are a Young Quixote and an Old Sancho, or as Rouſſeau himſelf rather chuſes to ſtyle them, a Robinſon Cruſoe and his man Friday.

Having in the place juſt quoted ſhewn the impoſ⯑ſibility of paying proper attention to pupils in a publick ſchool, in the following paſſages are exhi⯑bited the methods to be purſued in a private family, both in regard to a ſingle ſcholar, or a ſett of boys.

Theſe extracts will perhaps convince moſt readers of the viſionary proſpects preſented to parental ima⯑ginations in many a practical treatiſe on Private Edu⯑cation. Several paſſages of the ſame nature occur in the tract now under conſideration.

One of the ready topicks of Locke's cenſure and raillery of Publick Schools is the correction occa⯑ſionally beſtowed on idle, irregular, or obſtinate pupils. But ſay what he will of the uſe of the rod to laſh dull boys into nouns and pronouns, verbs, gerunds, and ſupines, it is rarely exerciſed by a good Schoolmaſter but when wilfulneſs or ill example de⯑mands it: on which occaſions the continued ſeverities enjoined by Locke much exceed the utmoſt rigours of Publick Education. As for example!

And again.

The circumſtance of laying on the blows with rea⯑ſoning between exhibits a whimſical picture, and re⯑minds one of the pedagogue of Swift concluding every period with a laſh. And the idea of perceiv⯑ing the very moment, when the cure on the mind is effected by the operation on the tail, is ſtill more ludicrous. The young patient however might per⯑haps wiſh to remind the author of another paſſage in an early ſection of this tract, there applied to the regimen of the body, but not inapplicable on the preſent occaſion.

I am unwilling to load the page with too many quotations; but as the following is peculiarly in⯑tereſting and entertaining, I flatter myſelf the reader will ſcarce think it demands an apology.

Correction, when neceſſary; is certainly leſs pain⯑ful both to parents and children, when inflicted abroad than at home. It is better that fathers ſhould ſeem unconſcious of the knowledge of all their petty treſpaſſes; and Locke, though he here ſo much commends the repeated flagellations of a little daugh⯑ter by a prudent and kind mother, yet in the ſection firſt quoted declares, ‘"I think it is beſt the ſmart ſhould come more immediately from another's hand, though by the parent's order who ſhould ſee it done."’

In confirmation of the lenity of maſters of Pub⯑lick Schools, I ſhall venture to mention a little anecdote that came within my own knowledge, during the time of my education at Weſtminſter. A gentleman, not long ſince living, was when a ſchool-boy more diſtinguiſhed by the goodneſs of his diſpoſition, than the brilliancy of his parts. Many of the forms, uſually committed to the care of aſſiſtants, were however now and then viſited by the head maſter. On one of theſe occaſions, the gentleman I have ſpoken of was called out by Dr. Nicoll, to read and conſtrue a part of the leſſon to [233] the form; which, being in the upper ſchool, the leſſon of the day was in Greek. The honeſt lad, conſcious of his inability, obeyed the call: but in⯑ſtead of attempting the leſſon, went up to the maſter, and muttered indiſtinctly, Flog me, Sir!—Speak out, child! ſays the maſter.—Flog me Sir, if you pleaſe! repeats the ſcholar, dropping his book and unbutton⯑ing. The maſter, with a chaſtiſed ſmile, laying his hand on his young pupil's head, and gently patting him, cried in a mild tone, Go thy ways, boy! get thee to thy place again! Thou art a very honeſt fel⯑low, but thou never wilt be a Scholar as long as thou liveſt.

This ſtory may ſerve as a companion to Locke's pictures of private correction, and may ſerve to ſhew that good hearts may be found in Publick Schools as well as private families; and that the diſcipline of the rod is not adminiſtered with more judicious diſcrimination in one ſyſtem of education than the other.

The rewards alſo are at Publick Schools as well choſen and as appropriated as the puniſhments; the latter exhibiting, as Locke enjoins, the diſgrace, and the former adding to the reputation of the young [234] ſtudent. The little ſhining coin of pennies, two-pences, threepences, and groats in ſilver, given on any occaſional diſplay of induſtry or excellence, are as triumphantly prized and carefully treaſured by the young receiver, as a medal by an antiquarian; and are carefully carried home, with joy and pride, as pledges of their merit in their claſs, and tokens of the approbation of their maſter. A ſtill higher mark of favour is the ſeaſonable reward of diſtinguiſhing the diligence and abilities of a riſing lad by promo⯑tion in the ſchool, and anticipating his remove to a ſuperior form. Places and preferments are often gained at Weſtminſter.

Emulation, that great ſpur to improvement, almoſt unknown in Domeſtick Tuition, is greatly encouraged in the field of Publick Education. This Locke himſelf acknowledges. The cuſtom of challenging, as it is termed by the ſchool boys, promotes a won⯑derful deſire of excelling amongſt young champions for literary pre-eminence. This challenging is thus ordered, and proves a keen incitement to diligence and perfection. The boys of the form are called out to their leſſon of the day. The firſt boy per⯑haps miſconſtrues his Aeſop or Ovid, the ſecond corrects his miſtake and takes his rank and place; [235] or, the ſecond failing, the third, the fourth, the fifth, the ſixth, or the ſixteenth, in due order gives the right conſtruction, and ſuperſedes all his ſchool-fellows of the claſs under examination; ſo that a boy is often tranſported in a moment from the lower or fag end to the very top of the form. As the young ſtudents advance towards the ſuperior forms, this practice, in reſpect to their maturer years and progreſs in their ſtudies, is judiciouſly diſcon⯑tinued.

When I ſpeak of the cuſtom of Publick Schools, I particularly refer to that of Weſtminſter, where I was bred, and with whoſe cuſtoms I am beſt ac⯑quainted, not queſtioning that other Publick Schools have equal advantages.

Verſes and Themes, ſo reprobated by Locke, are intended as exerciſes to teach ſcholars better to un⯑derſtand the poetical and proſe compoſitions of the antients, and not meant, as he inſinuates, to render every ſcholar a poet or declaimer. The various mea⯑ſures of poetry are more eaſily comprehended, and more perfectly read, by thoſe who reduce the rules of proſody to practice. For this purpoſe metrical centoes, ludicrouſly ſtyled jointed dolls, fitting the end of one line to the beginning or middle of another; [236] and even nonſenſe verſes, have their uſe. For unleſs Virgil and Horace are to be prohibited to Engliſh pupils, like the Bible to Roman Catholicks, thoſe who ſtudy them ſhould be inſtructed to read them with propriety, not conceiving that they are to be⯑come Virgils and Horaces themſelves. Themes tend to open the mind, and cannot poſſibly be prejudi⯑cial. To explain the theſis to the young ſtudents is no more ridiculous than the other helps which Locke himſelf not only allows, but even preſcribes to be given for the improvement of his pupils. Milton, as well as Locke, objects to themes and verſes as ſchool exerciſes, ‘"forcing the empty wits of children to acts of ripeſt judgment, and the final work of a head filled, by long reading and obſerving, with elegant maxims, and copious in⯑vention."’ But ſurely ſuch objections deny to the improvement and cultivation of the mind, the means neceſſarily uſed and recommended in the exerciſes of the body. Nec literas didicit nec natare was, as Locke obſerves, a proverb to denote an ill and imperfect education. It were as conſiſtent therefore to ſay that a lad muſt not go into the water till he can ſwim, as to forbid all attempts at compoſition, till he has acquired and formed a ſtyle which de⯑pends ſo much, like perſonal grace and activity, upon [237] practice. Falſe concords and falſe quantities, re⯑proved and amended, guide the learner by degrees to true proſody and ſyntax. Barbarizing angliciſms, ſo offenſive to Milton, lead to pure latinity. ‘"An art, ſays Buſby, is the way of doing a thing ſurely, readily, and gracefully,"’ Grammar is the art of ſpeaking and writing: and was that or any other art ever attained without repeated efforts, lead⯑ing by inſenſible gradations through error to per⯑fection? The Latin pieces of verſe and proſe of Milton now extant were derived no doubt from long reading and obſerving. His Juvenilia, admirable as they are, were certainly preceded by more puerile exerciſes and imperfect compoſitions.

Repetitions by heart are no more than ſelecting, as Locke himſelf directs, the beautiful paſſages from authors, and impreſſing them on the memory of the reciter. They ſhould not it is true (and they are not) be too long, nor too frequently exacted: yet ſuch exerciſes undoubtedly ſerve to ſtrengthen the memory; for every faculty of the mind, as well as every limb of the body, acquires vigour from uſe and exertion. If players, whom Locke ſarcaſtically [238] inſtances, have not all of them the beſt memories in the world, every player perhaps poſſeſſes that fa⯑culty in a greater degree, than if he had not been called upon to the conſtant exerciſe of it in his profeſſion.

Greek ought not to be excluded, as Locke ſeems to exclude it, from a young gentleman's education. If languages are to be learnt ſo eaſily and ſo readily, as Locke aſſerts, Greek in particular ought not to be omitted; and if thoſe who have been initiated in that language do generally, as he ſays, ſeldom after⯑wards make any proficiency, how can it be expected that they who have not learnt even the rudiments as boys, ſhould attain that language, when men? This however is his method and propoſal. Give then rather in the courſe of their education the power and poſſibility of becoming adepts! (for this is all that can be done by education) and you have diſ⯑charged your duty. Every ſcholar, who makes a very conſiderable progreſs in any language, art, or ſcience, is chiefly his own maſter. Greek is at leaſt as neceſſary and ornamental to a gentleman, as a trade ſo earneſtly recommended by Locke, and full as polite and beneficial an accompliſhment as the art of perfumery, varniſhing, graving, working in [239] iron, braſs, or ſilver, cutting or ſetting of pre⯑cious ſtones, or even grinding and poliſhing optical glaſſes!

Rouſſeau is particularly partial to the occupation of a joiner, one of the trades recommended by Locke, and takes notice, with an air of triumph, that the Czar Peter exerciſed the employment of a ſhip's carpenter! As to ſtudy, he denies his pupil all books, except Robinſon Cruſoe.

Hardineſs, ſo ſtrongly recommended by Locke, is much more likely to be obtained in a Publick School than at home, where the ill-judged tender⯑neſs of the parents, of mamas eſpecially, often pro⯑duces effeminacy, which expoſes the little maſter to the ridicule of all his Schoolfellows.

‘"Sheepiſh ſoftneſs (it is allowed by Locke) often enervates thoſe who are bred like foplings, at home."’ He owns too on another occaſion that ‘"it is not unuſual to obſerve the children of gentle⯑men's families treat the ſervants of the houſe with domineering words, names of contempt, and an imperious carriage: as if they were of another race, and ſpecies beneath them."’

[240]Other vices and weakneſſes may alſo be learnt in the parlour, the kitchen, and the ſtable. Of the contagion from a train of vicious domeſticks Locke himſelf always appears extremely ſenſible. In one place his words are theſe. ‘"They frequently learn from unbred or debauched ſervants untowardly tricks and vices, as otherwiſe they poſſibly would be ignorant of all their lives."’

Locke well obſerves that ‘"the peculiar phyſiog⯑nomy of the mind is moſt diſcoverable in children, before cunning hath taught them to hide defor⯑mities and conceal their ill inclinations under a diſſembled outſide."’

Publick Education is infinitely better calculated than Domeſtick Tuition for the diſcovery of the natural features of the mind. If a boy wears a maſk, his Schoolfellows will be ſure to tear it off, and betray his real diſpoſition to general obſervation; and indeed I ſcarce remember a ſingle inſtance of a lad bred in a great ſchool, who did not retain ſtrong traces of his puerile character all his life after. The firſt ſcenes of his life therefore, to uſe Locke's own words, are beſt acted on a Publick Stage, where his predominant paſſions and prevailing inclina⯑tions being more open and expoſed, are moſt capable [241] of correction. His very ſchoolfellows become maſters in this inſtance; for youth commonly in⯑clines to the benignant and generous ſide.

In regard to morals and religion, thoſe great and important conſiderations, if it is duly weighed that the moſt nice and dangerous part of human life occurs between the commencement and concluſion of the period deſtined to education, it is not won⯑derful that publick ſchool-boys, as well as private pupils, ſhould ſometimes be found to be defective or culpable. The ſap will riſe in the ſpring, blights will ſtrike the nobleſt plant, and froſts will nip the faireſt flower: all that can be ſuggeſted by art is wholeſome manure, and providently to fence and guard againſt the heat or inclemency of the ſeaſon. In publick ſchools the duties of religion are by no means neglected. All that Locke enjoins is duly taught. The exerciſes of Saturday evening, and the leſſons of Monday morning, are from the Bible and Prayer book. The daily buſineſs of the ſchool begins, like that of the Houſe of Commons, with reading prayers. One of the ſenior boys officiates as chaplain, and the prayers are in Latin. Even the Sacrament is at a proper age adminiſtered to the young diſciples; and I have witneſſed, amongſt [242] thoſe early communicants, a ſolemnity of prepara⯑tion and reception, that would have done them honour at any ſucceeding period of their lives.

Locke, with an air of aſſumed candour towards the maſter of a ſchool introduces the following ob⯑ſervation.

The abſolute impoſſibility of a conſtant application and particular attention to every ſingle boy, and it [243] may be added the doubt whether ſuch particular at⯑tention would not rather injure than benefit the pupil by encouraging his ſelf-importance, together with many other obvious difficulties, oblige Locke himſelf at laſt to confeſs, as has before been no⯑ticed, ‘"what ſhall be reſolved in this caſe muſt in a great meaſure be left to the parents to be deter⯑mined by their circumſtances and conveniences."’ But not to take advantage of ſuch a reluctant con⯑ceſſion, let us rather recommend to the maſter of a great ſchool, to keep a watchful eye on the conduct of the boys during the intervals of the ſchool hours, and carefully by himſelf and his aſſiſtants to viſit and regulate the boarding houſes. The maſters and miſtreſſes of thoſe houſes muſt ſubmit to his direc⯑tions, or abandon their employments: for what parent would commit his ſon to a family ſuppoſed to be adverſe to the general diſcipline of the ſchool; and whoſe inmates are indulged in irregularity and diſſipation? It is requiſite alſo for Schoolmaſters to be rather backward in granting leave for too fre⯑quent viſits at home; for where they too much pre⯑vail, it has happened that the home and the ſchool have each in their turns, been pleaded by the young truant as an apology for his abſence from both. And this is one of the moſt fatal inroads from private [244] miſmanagement on the beneficial influence of Pub⯑lick Education, where the wiſdom of the inſtitu⯑tion is counteracted by the indiſcretion of indivi⯑duals.

Suppoſe an author equally inclined to depreciate Domeſtick Tuition, as Locke has in his little tract ſhewn himſelf diſpoſed to ridicule and vilify Publick Education, might not ſuch a writer, abandoning the ſtraight path of candour and impartiality, and aſſum⯑ing the manners of a ſatyrical pleader and declaimer, expreſs himſelf to the following purport?

Waving ridicule and irony, and adhering as the ſubject requires, to ſtrict truth, it muſt be confeſſed that Publick Education as well as Domeſtick Tui⯑tion, has its faults: but many of the corruptions of ſchools are brought by the ſcholars from home. At home are the fooliſh, the idle, and vicious ſer⯑vants, ſo much dreaded by Locke. At home indul⯑gence takes the place of diſcipline, and from home they often bring ſums of money far beyond their little occaſions, by which artificial wants are created and diſorders introduced. This laſt evil, wholly owing to the indiſcretion of friends and parents, has [246] been particularly noxious to Publick Schools. Maſters can only controul and check its influence. Friends and parents alone can prevent and extirpate it.

Publick Schools ought to cultivate the mathema⯑ticks, as well as the claſſicks. Both might be taught ſufficiently, for the initiation of pupils, during their ſtay at a Publick School; from whence they ought to be ſent to the Univerſities, equally prepared to purſue their philoſophical as their claſſical ſtudies.

Publick Schools alſo generally detain their pupils too long. Youths ſhould be diſmiſſed from ſchools at the age of ſixteen or ſeventeen at the lateſt. They are afterwards commencing young men, and will not patiently ſubmit to the corrections of children. When the boys at Weſtminſter rebelled becauſe a ſenior ſcholar between eighteen and nineteen years of age would not ſubmit to the diſcipline of the rod, Dr. Barker, then a prebend, contended that the ſcholar was in the right. It was wrong he ſaid, to attempt to ſcourge a youth at that age. It was al⯑moſt ſodomy. Pity that Dr. Barker was not a Ge⯑neral!

In general it is unadviſable for parents to ſend their ſons to a Great Publick School, ſooner than at [247] the period of nine or ten years of age; not that I would wiſh the preceding period to be loſt and bu⯑ried in ignorance and idleneſs. Let their children in the mean while be ſent to ſome preparatory aca⯑demy, where they may be taught to write, to read, to ſpeak French, to dance, to draw, and the rudi⯑ments of Latin according to the grammar of the ſchool for which they are afterwards intended. A maſter who cannot, by himſelf and his aſſiſtants, ſupply his little ſtudents with theſe helps, is unfit to govern ſuch an academy.

One great reaſon for preference of Publick to Private Education is this. Schoolboys, being at in⯑tervals called home, partake occaſionally of the en⯑joyments and ſociety of a family. Private pupils, conſtantly confined within one narrow circle, ac⯑quire none of the freedom and ſpirit of a Publick Education.

Travel, where it can be afforded, cannot be ac⯑companied with the benefit that ought to attend it from the firſt ſtage of life, one of the periods to which Locke deſtines it: but being certainly im⯑proper at the uſual time and in the uſual mode, may be reſerved to Locke's laſt Stage, and therefore [248] properly ſucceeding to a removal from the Univer⯑ſities; when the young traveller, if not fit and able to go alone, had better not go at all.

Milton has given A tractate on Education, contain⯑ing a plan of a ſchool and univerſity in one, intended to annihilate all other ſchools and univerſities, by inſtituting as many of ſuch academies as might be neceſſary in different parts of the kingdom. Yet in this plan, romantick as he almoſt himſelf ſeems to think it, he has proceeded on principles very dif⯑ferent from thoſe of Locke, and ſhewn himſelf the friend and advocate of Publick Education. He rather follows the principles of Plato and Xenophon, than adopts the ſyſtem of Locke.

His propoſed number of pupils is an hundred and fifty, more or leſs. He directs the teaching of lan⯑guages, not by rote, but by grammar, and thoſe not only modern but ancient, and of the ancient not only Latin, but Greek and Hebrew, with the Chaldean and Syrian dialects. So far from objecting to repetitions, that he enjoins Grammar leſſons to be got by heart, and poems, and orations not merely to be read, but ‘"put to memory and ſolemnly an⯑nounced with right accent and grace."’ And though, like Locke; he regrets the time thrown [249] away in learning one or two languages, yet himſelf appropriates no leſs time than nine years, from twelve to twenty one, to education. He alſo fixes the age of twenty three or twenty four as the proper time for travel, if travel be neceſſary. So that on the whole, though I have been hardy enough to enter the liſts with ſuch a giant antagoniſt as Locke, I have Milton to ſupport me.

It appears indeed, on the face of Locke's tract, that the preſent plan of education is highly prefer⯑able to the ſyſtem that prevailed at the time of his writing. The medical management of children is ſo much improved, that many things which he re⯑commends, as contrary to the practice of thoſe times, are now in general uſe: and as to the cul⯑tivation of their minds, were he now living, he would no longer lament the want of a ſixpenny Hiſtory of the Bible, or an Aeſop with pictures to every fable. The bookſellers have provided the little ſtudents a Lilliputian library, and every toyſhop and Stationer will ſupply them with polygons for the vowels, or the whole alphabet in cards or ivory, unleſs they ſhould rather chuſe to ſwallow it in gin⯑gerbread. Geography is learnt by the dice, like the Game of the Gooſe; maps are diſſected into [250] kingdoms, and provinces; and perhaps to Locke himſelf we owe many of thoſe valuable atchieve⯑ments.

Univerſities, thoſe dry nurſes that ſucceed to the firſt feminaries of education, are alſo much improved in their principles and practice ſince the aeras of Milton and Locke: and if the ſtudents do not at their departure make due progreſs in their ſeveral purſuits and profeſſions, the failure muſt be imputed to themſelves, who have ſo ill applied the time they have paſſed there. At one univerſity ſince the time of Milton, a great and tranſcendent genius has ad⯑vanced the career of ſcience as Milton himſelf car⯑ried the flights of poetry, beyond the viſible diurnal ſphere. At the other an acute and able juriſprudent, whoſe early loſs we ſtill lament, inſtituted a courſe of lectures of eſtabliſhed authority to the profeſſional reader, as well as affording, in the moſt elegant terms, a code of law neceſſary for the inſtruction and peruſal of every private gentleman. The ſtudents too are now leſs bewildered in the labyrinths of lo⯑gick and metaphyſicks. To their original reſiſtance to the principles of Locke perhaps we owe much of his prejudice to Publick Education. His prejudices, were he now a living witneſs of the cordial reception [251] of his doctrines, would perhaps vaniſh: though he might ſtill inſiſt, and not without juſtice, accord⯑ing to the Tirocinium^* of my worthy and ingenious friend Mr. Cowper, that Diſcipline ſhould ſtand as porter at the gate of every college.

The ſtudy of Geography, Chronology, Hiſtory, the Elements of Natural Philoſophy and Geometry, may eaſily be reconciled to the plan of the early part of Publick Education, and ſhould be incorporated with it. As to dancing, fencing, and accounts, theſe are generally taught by ſeparate maſters, according to the direction of the parents without need of parti⯑cular injunction or ſerious diſſertation. Painting and muſick are indeed not in ſo general requeſt, and the truth is that gentlemen practitioners either miſ⯑apply much of their time, or fall infinitely below the moſt common artiſts of either profeſſion. If a trade is abſolutely neceſſary to a ſtudent and a gen⯑tleman, that of a gardener ſeems to be the moſt [252] healthy and agreeable, to which in bad weather may be added the occupation of a joiner or car⯑penter, as on that account both Locke and Rouſ⯑ſeau recommend it. And a ſchoolboy is perhaps more qualified even for ſuch an apprenticeſhip, as well as for the more honourable and hazardous avo⯑cations of the army or navy, than a young gentle⯑man bred in a private family.

Locke concludes his tract on education with theſe words.

If Locke could not call his work a compleat trea⯑tiſe on Education, much leſs can I preſume to ſubmit theſe looſe thoughts to the reader in that light; eſpe⯑cially as they are not offered under that idea, but mere⯑ly to vindicate Publick Eſtabliſhments from cenſures that appeared, coming from whomſoever, unjuſt and illiberal. If the awful and revered name of Locke [254] gave a ſanction to prejudices, it was but acting with the ſpirit, though without the talents, of Locke, to combat them. Almoſt all the ſyſtems of Private Education appear a romantick theory, not reducible to practice. Locke himſelf ſays ‘"that a prince, a nobleman, and an ordinary gentleman's ſon ſhould have a different way of breeding."’ Yet the attention enjoined to be given to his pupil, not to dwell on the character of his Tutor, are ſcarce to be expected even by a prince, though he con⯑feſſes that his views and main end were to ſuggeſt hints on thoſe heads, neceſſary for the education of a gentleman's ſon. A Telemachus may obtain a Minerva for a Mentor; an Engliſh Prince may command a Markham or a Hurd: but the ſon of a gentleman, the ſon of a nobleman I will venture to ſay will at leaſt derive as much benefit from a Publick Education as from Private Tuition. Neither themes nor verſes, ſo dreaded by Locke, impede their progreſs to the firſt offices, and moſt important duties. Theſe are facts founded on experience, and the many illuſtrious characters that have begun their career on a royal foundation will fully juſtify my aſſertion.

To the PRINTER of the ST. JAMES's CHRONICLE.

CASTING my eye on the London Gazette a few days ago, it gave me infinite pleaſure to ſee particular Orders iſſued from the War-Office, ‘"That all His Majeſty's Regiments of Horſe and Dragoons, except the Light Horſe, ſhall be mounted only on ſuch horſes, as have their full tails, without the leaſt part taken from them."’

Never ſurely did the tyrant man exerciſe a more wanton piece of cruelty over his ſubjects of the brute creation, than in clipping the Tails of the horſes, and robbing them of their fair and natural proportion. Caſtration itſelf, cruel as it is, carries to ſportſmen and epicures ſome apology along with [256] it. Fowls become a plumper and more delicious morſel, after being made capons; and horſes, con⯑verted into geldings, are thereby rendered more tract⯑able. But we of the Yahoo ſpecies have nothing to plead in our excuſe to the generous Houhnymn for thus barbarouſly depriving him of a part of his frame, which nature has wiſely given him for ſeveral purpoſes both of uſe and ornament.

Cuſtom, it is true, has long authoriſed this ſavage practice; yet it has not been able to reconcile us to it entirely. In ſculpture, painting, and tapeſtry, horſes ſtill wear their full tails, without the leaſt part taken from them. Do but contemplate the figure of a king on horſeback on a pedeſtal, or of a general in a battle piece, either on canvas or in the arras; the mane and tail of the horſe is as full and flowing as the periwig of the rider. The tail of Bucephalus himſelf has not a bolder ſweep than that of the noble beaſts who bear Lewis the Fourteenth, or the duke of Marlborough. What ſhould we ſay to Stubbs, were he to put a ſet of docked geldings to the chariot of Phaeton? Or how ſhould we conſider the very ſame mutilations, were we to make the experiments on other quadrupeds? Figure to yourſelf the view of a paſture covered with bulls, cows, ſheep, and oxen, [257] grazing on a common, or a mountain, as bare⯑breeched as a highlander!

This practice alſo, to the ſhame of our age and nation be it ſpoken, is both local and recent. In the antient times of chivalry what figure would a knight have made on ſuch a maimed ſteed! and what damſel would have deigned to mount a bob⯑tailed palfry? The beginning even of the preſent century ſaw our horſes ſtill in poſſeſſion of their full tails. It was then the Bon Ton. ‘"Fopping⯑ton's long tails were known on every road in chriſtendom."’ At preſent except Lord Fal⯑mouth's ſet of duns, and the royal octave of cream-coloured horſes, we have, alas, no long tails in the kingdom. But the year one thouſand ſeven hun⯑dred and ſixty four is, I hope, the happy aera from whence we may date their reſtoration. All the Engliſh Cavalry, except the Light Horſe, ‘"ſhall be mounted only on ſuch horſes, as have their full tails without the leaſt part taken from them."’ It was indeed, high time for ſuch a reformation. Many centuries elapſed before our conſtitution pro⯑vided a law againſt attempts to deface and maim the human body: and it was now become equally ne⯑ceſſary to iſſue the above Orders from the War-Office, [258] which it is hoped, will operate as a kind of Coven⯑try Act, againſt hogging, docking, and nicking, the horſes.

As a true patriot, I am equally anxious to wipe off a national reflection, as to alter the faſhion. This cruel practice is one of the ſtains on our man⯑ners, which has given our enemies occaſion to ſtyle us The Savages of Europe. In France neither horſe, nor man, nor woman, can have too much hair, but all carry it unviolated on their heads and their tails, ‘"without the leaſt part taken from them."’ In England full-bottoms and full tails vaniſhed at the ſame period. Crop-eared coxcombs and docked horſes, hogged manes and hogged toupees, came in together. A wonderful analogy between the treat⯑ment of our fellow countrymen's heads, and their horſes tails! From this analogy it is that our neigh⯑bours have imbibed the aſſociated idea of the ſavage⯑neſs of our manners; and an Engliſhman at Paris is ſure to be reproached with the barbarity of our beheading kings, and docking horſes.

A celebrated French writer expreſſes himſelf thus on this combination of inhuman uſages in this country.

With a free tranſlation of the above lines I ſhall conclude theſe reflections.