Зображення сторінки
PDF
ePub

me do my endeavour to show some unnatural appearances which are in vogue among the polite and well-bred. I am to represent, in the character of a fine lady dancing, all the distortions which are frequently taken for graces in mien and gesture. This, Sir, is a specimen of the methods we shall take to expose the monsters which come within the notice of a regular theatre; and we desire nothing more gross may be admitted by you Spectators for the future. We have cashiered three companies of theatrical guards, and design our kings shall for the future make love and sit in council without an army; and wait only your direction, whether you will have them reinforce King Porus, or join the troops of Macedon. Mr. Pinkethman resolves to consult his pantheon of heathen gods in opposition to the oracle of Delphos, and doubts not but he shall turn the fortune of Porus, when he personates him. I am desired by the company to inform you, that they submit to your censures; and shall have you in greater veneration than Hercules was of old, if you can drive monsters from the theatre; and think your merit will be as much greater than his, as to convince is more than to conquer.

[ocr errors]

I am, Sir, your most obedient servant, T. D." "SIR,

where she teaches all sorts of birds of the loquacious
kind, as parrots, starlings, magpies, and others, to
imitate human voices in greater perfection than ever
was yet practised. They are not only instructed to
pronounce words distinctly, and in a proper tone and
accent, but to speak the language with great purity:
and volubility of tongue, together with all the fashion-
able phrases and compliments now in use either at
tea-tables, or on visiting-days. Those that have good
voices may be taught to sing the newest opera-airs,
and, if required, to speak either Italian or French,
paying something extraordinary above the common
rates. They whose friends are not able to pay the
full prices, may be taken as half-boarders.
teaches such as are designed for the diversion of the
public, and to act in enchanted woods on the thea-
tres, by the great. As she had often observed with
much concern how indecent an education is usually
given these innocent creatures, which in some mea-
sure is owing to their being placed in rooms next
the street, where, to the great offence of chaste and
tender ears, they learn ribaldry, obscene songs, and
immodest expressions from passengers and idle
people, as also to cry fish and card-matches, with
other useless parts of learning to birds who have rich
friends, she has fitted up proper and neat apartments

She

she suffers none to approach them but herself, and a servant-maid who is deaf and dunıb, and whom she provided on purpose to prepare their food, and cleanse their cages; having found by long experience, how hard a thing it is for those to keep silence who have the use of speech, and the dangers her scholars are exposed to, by the strong impres sions that are made by harsh sounds and vulgar dialects. In short, if they are birds of any parts or capacity, she will undertake to render them so accomplished in the compass of a twelvemonth, that they shall be fit conversation for such ladies as love to choose their friends and companions out of this species.-R.

"When I acquaint you with the great and unex-for them in the back part of her said house: where pected vicissitudes of my fortune, I doubt not but I shall obtain your pity and favour. I have for many years past been Thunderer to the playhouse; and have not only made as much noise out of the clouds as any predecessor of mine in the theatre that ever bore that character, but also have descended and spoke on the stage as the bold Thunderer in The Rehearsal. When they got me down thus low, they thought fit to degrade me farther, and make me a ghost. I was contented with this for these two last winters; but they carry their tyranny still farther, and not satisfied that I am banished from above ground, they have given me to understand that I am wholly to depart their dominions, and taken from me even my subterraneous employment. Now, Sir, what I desire of you is, that if your undertaker thinks fit to use fire-arms (as other authors have done) in the time of Alexander, I may be a cannon against Porus, or else provide for me in the burning of Persepolis, or what other method you shall think fit.

"SALMONEUS OF COVENT-GARDEN."

The petition of all the Devils of the playhouse in behalf of themselves and families, setting forth their expulsion from thence, with certificates of their good life and conversation, and praying relief.

The merit of this petition referred to Mr. Chr. Rich, who made them devils.

The petition of the Grave-digger in Hamlet, to command the pioneers in the Expedition of Alexander.

Granted.

The petition of William Bullock, to be Hephes

No. 37.] THURSDAY, APRIL 12, 1711.

-Non illa colo calathisve Minervæ

Feemineas assueta manus- VIRG. Æn. vii. 805. Unbred to spinning, in the loom unskill'd-DRYDEN, SOME months ago, my friend Sir Roger, being in certain lady whom I shall here call by the name of the country, enclosed a letter to me, directed to a Leonora-and as it contained matters of consequence, desired me to deliver it to her with my own hand. in the morning, and was desired by her woman to Accordingly I waited upon her ladyship pretty early walk into her lady's library, till such time as she was in readiness to receive me. The very sound of a lady's library gave me a great curiosity to see it; and as it was some time before the lady came to me, I had an opportunity of turning over a great many of her books, which were ranged together in a very beautiful order. At the end of the folios (which were finely bound and gilt) were great jars of china, A widow gentlewoman, well born both by father placed one above another in a very noble piece of and mother's side, being the daughter of Thomas architecture. The quartos were separated from the Prater, once an eminent practitioner in the law, and octavos by a pile of smaller vessels, which rose in a of Lætitia Tattle, a family well known in all parts delightful pyramid. The octavos were bounded by of this kingdom, having been reduced by misfor-tea-dishes of all shapes, colours, and sizes, which tunes to wait on several great persons, and for some time to be a teacher at a boarding-school of young ladies, giveth notice to the public, that she hath lately taken a house near Bloomsbury-square, commodiously situated next the fields, in a good air;

tion to Pinkethman the Great. Granted.

ADVERTISEMENT.

were so disposed on a wooden frame, that they looked like one continued pillar indented with the finest strokes of sculpture, and stained with the greatest variety of dyes. That part of the library which was designed for the reception of plays and pamphlets,

and other loose papers, was enclosed in a kind of square, consisting of one of the prettiest grotesque works that I ever saw, and made up of scaramouches, lions, monkeys, mandarines, trees, shells, and a thousand other odd figures in china-ware. In the midst of the room was a little japan table, with a quire of gilt paper upon it, and on the paper a silver snuff-box made in the shape of a little book. I found there were several other counterfeit books upon the upper shelves, which were carved in wood, and served only to fill up the numbers like fagots in the muster of a regiment. I was wonderfully pleased with such a mixed kind of furniture, as seemed very suitable both to the lady and the scholar, and did not know at first whether I should fancy myself in a grotto or in a library.

for two or three years, and being unfortunate in her first marriage, has taken a resolution never to venture upon a second. She has no children to take care of, and leaves the management of her estate to my good friend Sir Roger. But as the mind naturally sinks into a kind of lethargy, and falls asleep, that is not agitated by some favourite pleasures and pursuits, Leonora has turned all the passion of her sex into a love of books and retirement. She converses chiefly with men (as she has often said herself), but it is only in their writings, and admits of very few male visitants, except my friend Sir Roger, whom she hears with great pleasure, and without scandal. As her reading has lain very much among romances, it has given her a very particular turn of thinking, and discovers itself even in her house, her gardens, and her furniture. Sir Roger has entertained me an hour together with a description of her ness, about a hundred miles distant from London, and looks like little enchanted palace. The rocks about her are shaped into artificial grottos covered with woodbines and jessamines. The woods are cut into shady walks, twisted into bowers, and filled with cages of turtles. The springs are made to run among pebbles, and by that means taught to murmur very agreeably. They are likewise collected into a beautiful lake that is inhabited by a couple of swans, and empties itself by a little rivulet which runs

Upon my looking into the books, I found there were some few which the lady had bought for her own use, but that most of them had been got toge-country-seat, which is situated in a kind of wilderther, either because she had heard them praised, or because she had seen the authors of them. Among several that I examined, I very well remember these that follow:

Ogleby's Virgil.
Dryden's Juvenal.
Cassandra.
Cleopatra.
Astræa.

Sir Isaac Newton's Works.

The Grand Cyrus; with a pin stuck in one of the through a green meadow, and is known in the famiddle leaves.

Pembroke's Arcadia.

mily by the name of The Purling Stream. The knight likewise tells me, that this lady preserves her

Locke on Human Understanding, with a paper of game better than any of the gentlemen in the patches in it.

A Spelling-book.

A Dictionary for the explanation of hard words.
Sherlock upon Death.

The fifteen Comforts of Matrimony.

Sir William Temple's Essays.

Father Malebranche's Search after Truth, translated into English.

A book of Novels.

The Academy of Compliments.
Culpepper's Midwifery.

The Ladies' Calling.

in

Tales in Verse by Mr. Durfey bound in red leather, gilt on the back, and doubled down several places.

All the Classic Authors in Wood.

A set of Elzevirs by the same Hand.

country, not (says Sir Roger) that she sets so great a value upon her partridges and pheasants, as upon her larks and nightingales. For she says that every bird which is killed in her ground, will spoil a concert, and that she shall certainly miss him the next year.

When I think how oddly this lady is improved by learning, I look upon her with a mixture of admiration and pity. Amidst these innocent entertainments which she has formed to herself, how much more valuable does she appear than those of her sex, who employ themselves in diversions that are less reasonable, though more in fashion? What improvements would a woman have made, who is so susceptible of impressions from what she reads, had she been guided by such books as have a tendency to enlighten the understanding and rectify the pas

Clelia which opened of itself in the place that sions, as well as to those which are of little more

describes two lovers in a bower.

Baker's Chronicle.

Advice to a Daughter.

The New Atalantis, with a Key to it.

Mr. Steele's Christian Hero.

use than to divert the imagination?

But the manner of a lady's employing herself usefully in reading, shall be the subject of another paper, in which I design to recommend such particular books as may be proper for the improvement

A Prayer-book with a bottle of Hungary Water of the sex. And as this is a subject of very nice

[blocks in formation]

Taylor's Holy Living and Dying.

La Ferte's Instructions for Country Dances. I was taking a catalogue in my pocket-book of these and several other authors, when Leonora entered, and upon my presenting her with a letter from the knight, told me, with an unspeakable grace, that she hoped Sir Roger was in good health; I answered yes, for I hate long speeches, and after a bow or two retired.

Leonora was formerly a celebrated beauty, and is still a very lovely woman. She has been a widow

nature, I shall desire my correspondents to give me their thoughts upon it.-C.

No. 38.] FRIDAY, APRIL 13, 1711.
Cupias non placuisse nimis.-MART.

One would not please too much.

A LATE conversation which I fell into, gave me an opportunity of observing a great deal of beauty in a very handsome woman, and as much wit in an ingenious man, turned into deformity in the one, and absurdity in the other, by the mere force of affectation. The fair one had something in her person (upon which her thoughts were fixed,) that she attempted to show to advantage in every look, word

and gesture. The gentleman was as diligent to do justice to his fine parts as the lady to her beauteous form. You might see his imagination on the stretch to find out something uncommon, and what they call bright, to entertain her, while she writhed herself into as many different postures to engage him. When she laughed, her lips were to sever at a greater distance than ordinary, to show her teeth; her fan was to point to something at a distance, that in the reach she may discover the roundness of her arm; then she is utterly mistaken in what she saw, falls back, smiles at her own folly, and is so wholly discomposed, that her tucker is to be adjusted, her bosom exposed, and the whole woman put into new airs and graces. While she was doing all this, the gallant had time to think of something very pleasant to say next to her, or to make some unkind observation on some other lady to feed her vanity. These unhappy effects of affectation naturally led me to look into that strange state of mind which so generally discolours the behaviour of most people we meet with.

them, but lose their force in proportion to our endeavour to make them such.

When our consciousness turns upon the main design of life, and our thoughts are employed upon the chief purpose either in business or pleasure, we shall never betray an affectation, for we cannot be guilty of it: but when we give the passion for praise an unbridled liberty, our pleasure in little perfections robs us of what is due to us for great virtues, and worthy qualities. How many excellent speeches and honest actions are lost, for want of being indiffereut where we ought? Men are oppressed with regard to their way of speaking and acting, instead of having their thoughts bent upon what they should do or say; and by that means bury a capacity for great things, by their fear of failing in indifferent things. This, perhaps, cannot be called affectation; but it has some tincture of it, at least so far, as that their fear of erring in a thing of no consequence, argues they would be too much pleased in performing it.

The wild havoc affectation makes in that part of

wherever we turn our eyes: it pushes men not only into impertinencies in conversation, but also in their premeditated speeches. At the bar it torments the bench, whose business it is to cut off all superfluities in what is spoken before it by the practitioner; as well as several little pieces of injustice which arise from the law itself. I have seen it make a man run from the purpose before a judge, who was, when at the bar himself, so close and logical a pleader, that with all the pomp of eloquence in his his power, he never spoke a word too much.

It is only from a thorough disregard to himself in such particulars, that a man can act with a laudable The learned Dr. Burnet, in his Theory of the sufficiency; his heart is fixed upon one point in Earth, takes occasion to observe, that every thought view; and he commits no errors, because he thinks is attended with a consciousness and representative-nothing an error but what deviates from that intention. ness; the mind has nothing presented to it but what is immediately followed by a reflection of conscience, the world which should be most polite, is visible which tells you whether that which was so presented is graceful or unbecoming. This act of the mind discovers itself in the gesture, by a proper behaviour in those whose consciousness goes no farther than to direct them in the just progress of their present state or action; but betrays an interruption in every second thought, when the consciousness is employed in too fondly approving a man's own conceptions; which sort of consciousness is what we call affectation. As the love of praise is implanted in our bosoms as a strong incentive to worthy actions, it is a very difficult task to get above a desire of it for things that should be wholly indifferent. Women, whose hearts are fixed upon the pleasure they have in the consciousness that they are the objects of love and admiration, are ever changing the air of their countenances, and altering the attitude of their bodies, to strike the hearts of their beholders with new sense of their beauty. The dressing part of our sex, whose minds are the same with the sillier part of the other, are exactly in the like uneasy condition to be regarded for a well tied cravat, a hat cocked with an uncommon briskness, a very well chosen coat, or other instances of merit, which they are impatient to see unobserved.

It might be borne even here, but it often ascends the pulpit itself; and the declaimer in that sacred place is frequently so impertinently witty, speaks of the last day itself with so many quaint phrases, that there is no man who understands raillery, but must resolve to sin no more. Nay, you may behold him sometimes in prayer, for a proper delivery of the great truths he is to utter, humble himself with so very well-turned phrase, and mention his own unworthiness in a way so very becoming, that the air of the pretty gentleman is preserved, under the lowliness of the preacher.

I shall end this with a short letter I writ the other day to a very witty man, overrun with the fault I am speaking of:

"DEAR SIR,

This apparent affectation, arising from an ill-governed consciousness, is not so much to be wondered at in such loose and trivial minds as these: but when we see it reign in characters of worth and must take the liberty of a friend to tell you of the "I spent some time with you the other day, and distinction, it is what you cannot but lament, not unsufferable affectation you are guilty of in all you without some indignation. It creeps into the heart say and do. When I gave you a hint of it, you of the wise man as well as that of the coxcomb. asked me whether a man is to be cold to what his When you see a man of sense look about for ap- friends think of him? No, but praise is not to be plause, and discover an itching inclination to be the entertainment of every moment. He that hopes commended; lay traps for a little incense, even from for it must be able to suspend the possession of it those whose opinion he values in nothing but his till proper periods of life, or death itself. If you own favour; who is safe against this weakness? or would not rather be commended than be praisewho knows whether he is guilty of it or not? The best way to get clear of such a light fondness for applause, is to take all possible care to throw off the love of it upon occasions that are not in themselves laudable, but as it appears we hope for no praise from them. Of this nature are all graces in men's persons, dress, and bodily deportment, which will naturally be winning and attractive if we think not of Cowper.

worthy, contemn little merits; and allow no man to be so free with you, as to praise you to your face. Your vanity by this means will want its food. At the same time your passion for esteem will be more fully gratified; men will praise you in their actions:

This seems to be intended as a compliment to Chancellor

[blocks in formation]

Much do I suffer, much, to keep in peace This jealous, waspish, wrong-head'd rhyming race.-POPE. As a perfect tragedy is the noblest production of human nature, so it is capable of giving the mind one of the most delightful and most improving entertainments. A virtuous man (says Seneca) struggling with misfortunes, is such a spectacle as gods might look upon with pleasure; and such a pleasure it is which one meets with in the representation of a well-written tragedy. Diversions of this kind wear out of our thoughts every thing that is mean and little. They cherish and cultivate that humanity which is the ornament of our nature. They soften insolence, soothe affliction, and subdue the mind to the dispensations of Providence.

It is no wonder, therefore, that in all the polite nations of the world, this part of the drama has met with public encouragement.

The modern tragedy excels that of Greece and Rome in the intricacy and disposition of the fable; but, what a Christian writer would be ashamed to own, falls infinitely short of it in the moral part of the performance.

:

This I may show more at large hereafter and in the mean time, that I may contribute something towards the improvement of the English tragedy, I shall take notice, in this and in other following papers, of some particular parts in it that seem liable to exception.

new verse, without filling up the preceding one; nor with abrupt pauses and breakings off in the middle of a verse, when they humour any passion that is expressed by it.

On the

Since I am upon this subject, I must observe that
our English poets have succeeded much better in the
style than in the sentiment of their tragedies. Their
language is very often noble and sonorous, but the
sense either very trifling or very common.
contrary, in the ancient tragedies, and indeed in
those of Corneille and Racine, though the expressions
are very great, it is the thought that bears them up
and swells them. For my own part, I prefer a noble
sentiment that is depressed with homely language,
infinitely before a vulgar one that is blown up with
all the sound and energy of expression. Whether
this defect in our tragedies may arise from want of
genius, knowledge, or experience in the writers, or
from their compliance with the vicious taste of their
readers, who are better judges of the language than
of the sentiments, and consequently relish the one
more than the other, I cannot determine. But I be-
lieve it might rectify the conduct both of the one and
of the other, if the writer laid down the whole con-
texture of his dialogue in plain English, before he
turned it into blank verse: and if the reader, after
the perusal of a scene, would consider the naked
thought of every speech in it, when divested of all
its tragic ornaments. By this means, without being
imposed upon by words, we may judge impartially
of the thought, and consider whether it be natural or
great enough for the person that utters it, whether it
deserves to shine in such a blaze of eloquence, or
show itself in such a variety of lights as are generally
made use of by the writers of our English tragedy.
I must in the next place observe, that when our
thoughts are great and just, they are often obscured
by the sounding phrases, hard metaphors, and forced
expressions in which they are clothed. Shakspeare
is often very faulty in this particular. There is a
fine observation in Aristotle to this purpose, which I
have never seen quoted. The expression, says he,
ought to be very much laboured in the unactive parts
of the fable, as in descriptions, similitudes, narra-
tions, and the like; in which the opinions, manners,
and passions of men are not represented; for these
(namely, the opinions, manners, and passions) are
apt to be obscured by pompous phrases and elaborate
expressions. Horace, who copied most of his cri-
ticisms after Aristotle, seems to have had his eye on
the foregoing rule, in the following verses :-

Et tragicus plerumque dolet sermone pedestri:
Telephus et Peleus, cum pauper et exul uterque,
Projicit ampullas et sesquipedalia verba,
Si curat cor spectantis tetigisse querela.

Aristotle observes, that the Iambic verse in the Greek tongue was the most proper for tragedy; because at the same time that it lifted up the discourse from prose, it was that which approached nearer to it than any other kind of verse. "For," says he, "we may observe that men in ordinary discourse very often speak iambics without taking notice of it." We may make the same observation of our English blank verse, which often enters into our common discourse, though we do not attend to it, and is such a due medium between rhyme and prose, that it seems wonderfully adapted to tragedy. I am therefore very much offended when I see a play in rhyme; which is as absurd in English, as a tragedy of hexameters would have been in Greek or Latin. The HOR. Ars. Poet. ver. 95. solecism is, I think, still greater in those plays that Tragedians, too, lay by their state to grieve: have some scenes in rhyme and some in blank verse, Peleus and Telephus, exil'd and poor, which are to be looked upon as two several lan- Forget their swelling and gigantic words.-ROSCOMMON. guages; or where we see some particular similes Among our modern English poets, there is none dignified with rhyme at the same time that every who has a better turn for tragedy than Lee; if, inthing about them lies in blank verse. I would not stead of favouring the impetuosity of his genius, he however debar the poet from concluding his tragedy, had restrained it, and kept it within its proper or, if he pleases, every act of it, with two or three bounds. His thoughts are wonderfully suited to couplets, which may have the same effect as an air tragedy, but frequently lost in such a cloud of words in the Italian opera after a long recitativo, and give that it is hard to see the beauty of them. There is the actor a graceful exit. Besides that, we see a an infinite fire in his works, but so involved in smoke diversity of numbers in some parts of the old tragedy that it does not appear in half its lustre. He frein order to hinder the ear from being tired with the quently succeeds in the passionate parts of the trasame continued modulation of voice. For the same gedy, but more particularly where he slackens his reason I do not dislike the speeches in our English efforts, and eases the style of those epithets and metragedy that close with a hemistic, or half verse, not-taphors in which he so much abounds. What can withstanding the person who speaks after it begins a be more natural, more soft, or more passionate, than

that line in Statira's speech where she describes the wishes and desires. When we see him engaged in charms of Alexander's conversation?

Then he would talk-Good gods! how he would talk!

That unexpected break in the line, and turning the description of his manner of talking into an admiration of it, is inexpressibly beautiful, and wonderfully suited to the fond character of the person that speaks it. There is a simplicity in the words that outshines the utmost pride of expression.

the depth of his afflictions, we are apt to comfort ourselves, because we are sure he will find his way out of them; and that his grief, how great soever it may be at present, will soon terminate in gladness. For this reason, the ancient writers of tragedy treated men in their plays, as they are dealt with in the world, by making virtue sometimes happy and sometimes miserable, as they found it in the fable which they made choice of, or as it might affect the Otway has followed nature in the language of his audience in the most agreeable manner. Aristotle tragedy, and therefore shines in the passionate parts considers the tragedies that were written in either of more than any of our English poets. As there is these kinds, and observes, that those which ended something familiar and domestic in the fable of his unhappily had always pleased the people, and carried tragedy, more than in those of any other poet, he away the prize in the public disputes of the stage, has little pomp, but great force in his expressions. from those that ended happily. Terror and comFor which reason, though he has admirably suc-miseration leave a pleasing anguish on the mind, ceeded in the tender and melting part of his tra- and fix the audience in such a serious composure of gedies, he sometimes falls into too great familiarity thought, as is much more lasting and delightful than of phrase in those parts, which, by Aristotle's rule, any little transient starts of joy and satisfaction. ought to have been raised and supported by the dig- Accordingly we find, that more of our English tranity of expression. gedies have succeeded, in which the favourites of the audience sink under their calamities, than those in which they recover themselves out of them. The best plays of this kind are, The Orphan, Venice Preservcu, Alexander the Great, Theodosius, All for Love, Edipus, Oroonoko, Othello, &c. King Lear is an admirable tragedy of the same kind, as Shakspeare wrote it; but as it is reformed according to the chi merical notion of poetical justice, in my humble opinion it has lost half its beauty. At the same time I must allow, that there are very noble tragedies which have been framed upon the other plan, and have ended happily; as indeed most of the good tragedies, which have been written since the starting of the above-mentioned criticism, have taken this turn; as The Mourning Bride, Tamerlane, Ulysses, Phaedra and Hippolytus, with most of Mr. Dryden's. I must also allow, that many of Shakspeare's, and several of the celebrated tragedies of antiquity, are cast in the same form. I do not therefore dispute against this way of writing tragedies, but against the criticism that would establish this as the only method; and by that means would very much cramp the English tragedy, and perhaps give a wrong bent to the genius of our writers.

It has been observed by others, that this poet has founded his tragedy of Venice Preserved on so wrong a plot, that the greatest characters in it are those of rebels and traitors. Had the hero of this play discovered the same good qualities in the defence of his country that he showed for its ruin and subversion, the audience could not enough pity and admire him; but as he is now represented, we can only say of him what the Roman historian says of Catiline, that his fall would have been glorious (si pro patriâ sic comcidisset), had he so fallen in the service of his country. C.

No. 40.] MONDAY, APRIL 16, 1711.
Ac ne forte putes me, quæ facere ipse recusem,
Cum recte tractant alii, laudare maligne;
Ille per extentum funem mihi posse videtur
Ire poeta, meum qui pectus inaniter angit,
Irritat, mulcet, falsis terroribus implet,
Ut magus; et modo me Thebis, modo ponit Athenis.
HOR. 2 Ep. i. 208.

IMITATED.

Yet lest you think I rally more than teach,
Or praise, malignant, arts I cannot reach,
Let me for once presume t' instruct the times,
To know the poet from the man of rhymes;
'Tis he, who gives my breast a thousand pains,
Can make me feel each passion that he feigns;
Enrage, compose, with more than magic art,
With pity, and with terror, tear my heart;
And snatch me o'er the earth, or through the air,
To Thebes, to Athens, when he will, and where.-POPE.

An

The tragi-comedy, which is the product of the English theatre, is one of the most monstrous inventions that ever entered in a poet's thoughts. author might as well think of weaving the adventures of Æneas and Hudibras into one poem, as of writing such a motley piece of mirth and sorrow. But the absurdity of these performances is so very visible, that I shall not insist upon it.

THE English writers of tragedy are possessed with a notion, that when they represent a virtuous or innocent person in distress, they ought not to leave him till they have delivered him out of his troubles, The same objections which are made to tragior made him triumph over his enemies. This error comedy, may in some measure be applied to all trathey have been led into by a ridiculous doctrine ingedies that have a double plot in them; which are modern criticism, that they are obliged to an equal distribution of rewards and punishments, and an impartial execution of poetical justice. Who were the first that established this rule I know not; but I am sure it has no foundation in nature, in reason, or in the practice of the ancients. We find that good and evil happen alike to all men on this side the grave; and as the principal design of tragedy is to raise commiseration and terror in the minds of the audience, we shall defeat this great end, if we always make virtue and innocence happy and successful. Whatever crosses and disappointments a good man suffers in the body of the tragedy, they will make but a small impression on our minds, when we know that in the last act he is to arrive at the end of his

likewise more frequent upon the English stage, than upon any other; for though the grief of the audience, in such performances, be not changed into another passion, as in tragi-comedies; it is diverted upon another object, which weakens their concern for the principal action, and breaks the tide of sorrow, by throwing it into different channels. This inconvenience, however, may in a great measure be cured, if not wholly removed, by the skilful choice of an under plot, which may bear such a near relation to the principal design, as to contribute towards the completion of it, and be concluded by the same catastrophe.

There is also another particular, which may be reckoned among the blemishes, or rather the false

« НазадПродовжити »