THE AUTHOR'S APOLOGY.

My works are advertis'd for fale,
And cenfures fly as thick as hail ;
While my poor scheme of publication
Supplies the dearth of converfation.

What will the world fay?-That's your cry. Who is the world? and what am I?

Once, but thank Heaven, thofe days are o'er, And perfecution reigns no more, One man, one hardy man alone, Ufurp'd the critic's vacant throne, And thence with neither tafte nor wit, By powerful catcall from the pit, Knock'd farce, and play, and actor down. Who pafs'd the fentence then?-the town. So now each upstart puny elf Talks of the world, and means bimfelf.

Yet in the circle there are thofe Who hurt e'en more than open foes: Whofe friendship ferves the talking turn, Juft fimmers to a kind concern. And with a wond'rous foft expreffion Expatiates upon indifcretion; Flies from the poenis to the man, And gratifies the favourite plan To pull down others' reputation, And build their own on that foundation. The fcholar grave, of tatte difcerning, Who lives on credit for his learning, And has no better claim to wit, Than carping at what others writ, With pitying kindnefs, friendly fear, Whispers conjectures in your ear. "I'm forry-and he's much to blame"He might have publish'd--but his name! "The thing might pleafe a few, no doubt, "As handed privately about"It might amufe a friend or two, "Some partial friend like me and you; "But when it comes to prefs and print, "You'll find, I fear, but little in't. "He ftands upon a dangerous brink, "Who totters o'er the fea of ink, "Where reputation runs aground, "The author caft away, and drown'd. "And then-'twas wilful and abfurd, "(So well approv'd, fo well preferr'd) Abruptly thus a place to quit,

A place which most his genius hit, "The theatre for Latin wit!

"With critics round him chafte and terfe, "To give a plaudit to his verle!"

Latin, I grant, fhows college breeding,
And fome fchool-common-place of reading.
But has in moderns fmall pretenfion
To real wit, or strong invention.
The excellence you critics praife
Hangs on a curious choice of phrafe;
Which pick'd and choten here and there,
From profe or verse, no matter where,
Jumbled together in a dish,

Like Spanish olio, fowl, flesh, fish,
You fet the claffic hodge-podge on
For pedant wits to feed upon.
Your would-be genii vainly feek
Fame for their Latin verfe, or Greek;
Who would for that be most admir'd
Which blockheads may, and have acquir'd.
A mere mechanical connection

Of favourite words-a bare collection
Of phrafes where the labour'd cento
Prefents you with a dull memento,
How Virgil, Horace, Ovid, join,
And club together half a line.
Thefe only ftrain their motly wits
In gathering patches, fhreds, and bits,
To wrap their barren fancies in,
And make a clallic Harlequin.

Were I at once empower'd to fhow My utmoft vengeance on my foe, To punish with extremeft rigour, I could inflict no penance bigger Than ufing him as learning's tool, To make him uher of a school. For, not to dwell upon the toil Of working on a barren foil, And lab'ring with inceffant pains To cultivate a blockhead's brains, The duties there but ill befit The love of letters, arts, or wit. For whofoe'er, though flightly, fips, Their grateful flavour with his hips, Will find it leave a fmatch behind, Shall ink fo deeply in the mind, It never thence can be eras'dBut, rifing up, you call it tafle.

'I'were foolish for a drudge to choose A guflo which he cannot ufe. Better difcard the idle whim, What's be to tafe? or tafle to bim?

For me, it hurts me to the foul
To brook confinement or controul;
Still to be pinion'd down to teach
The fyntax and the parts of fpeech;
Or, what perhaps is drudging worse,
The links, and joints, and rules of verfe;
To deal out authors by retail,
Like penny-pots of Oxford ale;
-Oh! 'tis a fervice irkfome more
Than tugging at the flavish oar.

Yet fuch bis talk, a dismal truth,
Who watches o'er the bent of youth;
And while, a paltry ftipend earning,'
He fows the richest feeds of learning,
And tills their minds with proper care,
And fees them their due produce bear,
No joys, alas! his toil beguile,
His orun lies fallow all the while.

"Yet ftill he's in the road, you fay, "Of learning."-Why, perhaps, he may. But turns like horfes in a mill, Nor getting on, nor standing still: For little way his learning reaches, Who reads no more than what he teaches. "Yet you can fend advent'rous youth, "In fearch of letters, tafle, and truth, "Who ride the highway-road to knowledge, "Through the plain turnpikes of a college," True-Like way- pofts, we ferve to show The road which travellers fhould go ; Who jog along in ealy pace, Secure of coming to the place, Yet find, return whene'er they will, The pot, and its direction ftill:

Which ftands an ufeful unthank'd guide,
To many a paffenger befide.

'Tis hard to carve for others' meat,
And not to have time one's felf to eat.
Though, be it always underfood,
Our appetites are full as good.

"But there have been, and proofs appear, "Who bore this load from year to year; "Whofe claim to letters, parts, and wit, "The world has ne'er difputed yet. "Whether the flowing mirth prevail "In Wefley's fong, or humorous tale; "Or happier Bourne's expreffion pleafe "With graceful turns of claffic cafe; "Or Oxford's well-read poet fings "Pathetic to the ear of kings: "Thefe have indulg'd the mufes flight, "Nor loft their time or credit by't; "Nor fuffer'd fancy's dreams to prey "On the due bufinefs of the day.

Verfe was to them a recreation, "Us'd by way of relaxation."

Your inflances are fair and true,
And genius I refpect with you.
I envy none their honeft praife;
I feck to blast no fcholar's bays:
Still let the graceful foliage fpread
Its greenest honours round their head,
Bieft, if the mufes hard entwine
A fpr g at leaft to circle mine!
Come-1 adnat, you tax me right.
Prudence, 'tis true, was out of light,

And you may whifper all you meet,
The man was vague and indifcreet.
Yet tell me, while you cenfure me,
Are you from error found and free?
Say, does your breaft no bias hide,
Whose influence draws the mind afide!

All have their hobby-horse you fee,
From Triftram down to you and me.
Ambition, fplendour may be thine;
Eafe, indolence, perhaps are mine..
Though prudence, and our nature's pride
May with our weakneffes to hide,
And fet their hedges up before 'em,

Some fprouts will branch, and ftraggle o'er 'em.
Strive, fight against her how you will,
Nature will be the mistress ftill,
And though you curb with double rein
She'll run away with us again.

But let a man of parts be wrong,
'Tis triumph to the leaden throng.
The fools fhall cackle out reproof,
The very afs will raife his hoof;
And he who holds in his poffeffion,
The fingle virtue of difcretion,
Who knows no overflow of fpirit,
Whofe want of paffions is his merit,
Whom wit, and tafte, and judgment flies,'
Shall fhake his noddle, and feem wife,

THE ACTOR.

ADDRESSED TO BONNEL THORNTON, ESQ.

ACTING, dear Thornton, its perfection draws,
From no obfervance of mechanic laws;
No fettled maxims of a fav'rite stage,
No rules deliver'd down from age to age,
Let players nicely mark them as they will,
Can e'er entail hereditary fkill.
If 'mongst the humble hearers of the pit,
Some curious vet'ran critic chance to fit,
Is he pleas'd more becaufe 'twas acted fo
By Booth and Cibber thirty years ago?
The mind recals an object held more dear,
And hates the copy, that it comes so near.
Why lov'd he Wilkes's air, Booth's nervous tone?
In them 'twas natural, 'twas all their own.
A Garrick', genius muft our wonder raise.
But gives his mimic no reflected praife.

Thrice happy genius, whofe unrivall'd name,
Shall live for ever in the voice of fame!
'Tis thine to lead with more than magic skill,
The train of captive paffions at thy will;
To bid the bursting tear fpontaneous flow
In the fweet fenfe of fympathetic woe:
Through ev'ry vein I feel a chillness creep,
When horrors fuch as thine bave murder'd feet
And at the old man's look and frantic ftare
'Tis Lear alarms me, for I fee him there.
Nor yet confin'd to tragic walks alone,
The comic mufe too claims thee for her own.
With each delightful requifite to please,
Tafte, fpirit, judgment, elegance, and cafe,
Familiar nature forms thy only rule,
From Ranger's make to Drugger's vacant fool.
With powers fo pliant, and to various bleft,
That what we fee the laft, we like the best.

Not idly pleas'd, at judgment's dear expence,
But burst outrageous with the laugh of sense.

Perfection's top, with weary toil and pain, 'Tis genius only that can hope to gain.

The play'r's profeffion (though I hate the phrase,
'Tis fo mechanic in these modern days)
Lies not in trick, or attitude, or start,
Nature's true knowledge is the only art.
The ftrong felt paffion bolts into his face,
The mind untouch'd, what is it but grimace!
To this one standard make your just appeal,
Here lies the golden fecret; learn to FEEL.
Or fool, or monarch, happy, or distress'd,
No actor pleases that is not poffefs'd.

Once on the ftage, in Rome's declining days,
When Chriftian's were the fubject of their plays,
E'er perfecution dropp'd her iron rod,
And men still wag'd an impious war with God,
An actor flourish'd of no vulgar fame,
Nature's difciple, and Genest his name.
A noble object for his skill he chofe,
A martyr dying 'midft infulting foes.
Refign'd with patience to religion's laws,
Yet braving monarchs in his Saviour's cause,
Fill'd with th' idea of the facred part,
He felt a zeal beyond the reach of art,
With look and voice, and gefture, all exprest
A kindred ardour in the player's breast;
Till as the flame through all his bofom ran,
He loft the actor, and commenc'd the man;
Profeft the faith; his pagan gods denied,
And what he acted then, he after died.

The player's province they but vainly try, Who want thefe pow'rs, deportment, voice, and eye, The critic fight 'tis only grace can please, No figure charms us if it has not ease, There are, who think the stature all in all, Nor like the hero, if he is not tall. The feeling fenfe all other want fupplies, I rate no actor's merit from his fize. Superior height requires fuperior grace, And what's a giant with a vacant face? Theatric monarchs, in their tragic gait, Affect to mark the folemn pace of state. One foot put forward in pofition strong, The other, like its vaffal, drag along. So grave each motion, fo exact and flow, Like wooden monarchs at a puppet-show. The mien delights us with that native grace, But affectation ill fupplies its place,

Unfkilful actors, like your mimic apes, Will writhe their bodies in a thousand shapes; However foreign from the poet's art, No tragic hero but admires a start. What though unfeeling of the nervous line, Who but allows his attitude is fine? While a whole minute equipois'd he stands, Till praife difmifs him with her echoing hands! Refolv'd, though nature hate the tedious paufe, By perfeverance to extort applaufe.

When Romeo, forrowing at his Juliet's doom, With eager madness burfts the canvas tomb, The fudden whirl, ftretch'd leg, and lifted staff, Which please the vulgar, make the critic laugh.

To paint the paffion's force, and mark it well, The proper action nature's self will tell;

No pleafing pow'rs distortions can express,
And nicer judgment alway lothes excess.
In fock or bufkin, who o'erleaps the bounds,
Difgufts our reafon, and the tafte confounds

Of all the evils which the ftage moleft,

I hate your fool who overacts his jeft;
Who murders what the poet finely writ,
And, like a bungler, haggles all his wit,
With fhrug, and grin, and gefture out of place,
And writes a foolish comment with his face.
Old Johnson once, though Cibber's perter vein
But meanly groups him with a num'rous train,
With steady face, and fober hum'rous mien,
Fill'd the ftrong outlines of the comic scene,
What was writ down, with decent utt'rance spoke,
Betray'd no symptom of the confcious joke;
The very man in look, in voice, in air,
And though upon the ftage, appear'd no play'r.
The word and action fhould conjointly fuit,
But acting words is labour too minute.
Grimace will ever lead the judgment wrong;
While fober humour marks th' impreflion strong.
Her proper traits the fixt attention hit,
And bring me closer to the poet's wit;
With her delighted o'er each scene I go,
Well-pleas'd, and not afham'd of being fo.

But let the generous actor ftill forbear
To copy features with a mimic's care!
'Tis a poor fkill which ev'ry fool can reach,
A vile ftage-custom, honour'd in the breach.
Worfe as more clofe, the difingenuous art
But fhows the wanton loofeness of the heart.
When I behold a wretch, of talents mean,
Drag private foibles on the public scene,
Forfaking nature's fair and open road

To mark fome whim, fome ftrange peculiar mode,
Fir'd with difguft I lothe his fervile plan,
Defpife the mimic, and abhor the man.
Go to the lame, to hofpitals repair,
And hunt for humour in distortion there!
Fill up the measure of the motely whim
With fhrug, wink, fnuffle, and convulfive limb;
Then fhame at once, to please a trifling age,
Good fenfe, good manners, virtue, and the stage!
'Tis not enough the voice be found and clear,
'Tis modulation that muft charm the ear,
When defperate heroines grieve with tedious moan,
And whine their forrows in a fee-faw tone,
The fame soft sounds of unimpaffioned woes
Can only make the yawning hearers doze.

The voice all modes of paffion can express,
That marks the proper word with proper stress,
But none emphatic can that actor call,
Who lays an equal emphafis on all.

Some o'er the tongue the labour'd measures roll Slow and delib'rate as the parting toll, Point ev'ry stop, mark ev'ry pause so strong, Their words, like ftage-proceffions stalk along. All affectation but creates difgust,

And e'en in fpeaking we may feem too juft.

Nor proper, Thornton, can thofe founds appear Which bring not numbers to thy nicer ear; In vain for them the pleafing measure flows, Whofe recitation runs it all to profe;

See Cibber's Apology, 8vo, 1750.

Repeating what the poet fets not down,
The verb disjointing from its friendly noun,
While paufe, and break, and repetition join
To make a discord in each tuneful line.

Some placid natures fill th' allotted scene
With lifelefs drone, infipid and ferene;
While others thunder ev'ry couplet o'er,
And almoft crack your ears with rant and roar.
More nature oft and finer ftrokes are fhown,
In the low whisper than tempestuous tone.
And Hamlet's hollow voice and fixt amaze,
More powerful terror to the mind conveys,
Than he, who, fwol'n with big impetuous rage,
Bullies the bulky phantom off the ftage.

He, who in earneft ftudies o'er his part,
Will find true nature cling about his heart.
The modes of grief are not included all

In the white handkerchief and mournful drawl;
A fingle look more marks th' internal woe,
Than all the windings of the lengthen'd Oh.
Up to the face the quick fenfation flies,
And darts its meaning from the fpeaking eyes;
Love, transport, madnefs, anger, fcorn, defpair,
And all the paflions, all the foul is there.

In vain Ophelia gives her flowrets round,
And with her ftraws fantastic strews the ground,
In vain now fings, now heaves the defp'rate
figh,

If phrenzy fit not in the troubled eye.

In Cibber's look commanding forrows fpeak, And call the tear faft trick'ling down my cheek. There is a fault which ftirs the critic's rage;

A want of due attention on the stage.

I have feen actors, and admir'd ones too,

When chilling horrors fhake th' affrighted king, And guilt torments him with her fcorpion fting; When keeneft feelings at his bofom pull, And fancy tells him that the feat is full; Why need the ghost usurp the monarch's place, To frighten children with his mealy face? The king alone fhould form the phantom there, And taik and tremble at the vacant chair,

If Belvidera her lov'd lofs deplore,
Why for twin fpectres bursts the yawning floor?
When with diforder'd starts, and horrid cries,
She paints the murder'd forms before her eyes,
And ftill pursues them with a frantic ftare,
'Tis pregnant madnefs brings the vifions there.
More inftant horror would enforce the fcene
If all her fhudd'rings were at fhapes unfeeu.
Poet and actor thus, with blendid skill,
Mould all our paffions to their instant will:
'Tis thus, when feeling Garrick treads the stage,
(The speaking comment of his Shakspeare's page)
Oft as I drink the words with greedy ears,

I shake with horror, or diffolve with tears.
O, ne'er may folly feize the throne of taste,
Nor dallness lay the realms of genius wafte!
No bouncing crackers ape the thund'rers fire,
No tumbler float upon the bending wire!
More natural uses to the stage belong
Than tumblers, moniters, pantomime, or fong.
For other purpofe was that fpot design'd;
To purge the paffions, and reform the mind,
To give to nature all the force of art,
And, while it charms the ear, to mend the heart.
Thornton, to thee I dare with truth commend
The decent ftage as virtue's natural friend.

cue ;

In their own speech who whine, or roar away, Yet feem unmov'd at what the rest may fay; Whofe eyes and thoughts on diff'rent objects

roam,

Until the prompter's voice recal them home.
Diveft yourself of hearers, if you can,
And frive to speak, and be the very man.
Why should the well-bred actor wish to know
Who fits above to-night, or who below?
So, 'mid th' harmonious tones of grief or rage,
Italian fquallers oft difgrace the stage;

When, with a fimp'ring leer, and bow profound,

The fqueaking Cyrus greets the boxes round;
Or proud Mandane, of imperial race,
Familiar drops a curt'fie to her grace.

To fuit the dress demands the actor's art,
Yet there are thofe who over-drefs the part.
To fome prefcriptive right gives fattled things,
Black wigs to murd'rers, feather'd hats to kings.
But Michael Caffìo might be drunk enough,
Though all his features were not grim'd with
fnuff.

Why Should Poll Peachum fhine in fatin clothes?
Why ev'ry devil dance in fearlet hofe?

But in ftage cuftonis what offend- me most
Is the flip-door, and flowly-rifing ghost.
Tell me, nor count the question too tevere,
Why need the difmal powder'd forms appear?

No reafon weighs against its proper use.
Though the lewd prieft his facred function fhame,
Religion's perfe& law is ftill the fame.

Shall they, who trace the paffions from their rife,

Show fcorn her features, her own image vice?
Who teach the mind its proper force to scan,
And hold the faithful mirror up to man;
Shall their profeflion e'er provoke dildain,
Who ftand the foremost in the moral train,
Who lend reflection all the grace of art,
And ftrike the precept home upon the heart?

Yet, hapless artift though thy skill can raife
The buriting peal of univerfal praife;
Though at thy beck applause delighted fands,
And lifts, Briareus' like, her hundred hands;
Know, fame awards thee but a partial breath!
Not all thy talents brave the ftroke of death.
Poets to ages yet unborn appeal,
And lateft times th' eternal nature feel.
Though blended here the praife of bard and
play'r.

While more than half becomes the actor's fhare,
Relentless death untwifts the mingled fame,
And finks the player in the poet's name.
The pliant mufcles of the various face,
The mien that gave each fentence strength and
grace,

The toneful voice, the eye that fpoke the mind,
Are gone, nor leave a fingle trace behind.

THE LAW STUDENT *.

TO GEORGE COLMAN, ESQ.

Quid tibi cum Cirrhâ? quid cum Permeflidos undâ? Romanum propius divitiufque Forum eft. MART.

Now Chrift-Church left, and fixt at Lincoln's Inn,
Th' important ftudies of the law begin.
Now groan the shelves beneath th' unufual charge
Of records, ftatutes, and reports at large.
Each claffic author feeks his peaceful nook,
And modest Virgil yields his place to Coke.
No more, ye bards. for vain precedence hope,
But even Jacob take the lead of Pope!

While the pil'd'fhelves fink down on one another,

And each huge felio has its cumb'rous brother, While, arm'd with these, the ftudent views with

The depth of law alks ftudy, thought, and care; Shall we feek thefe in rich Alonzo's heir? Such diligence, alas is feldom found In the brifk heir to forty thoufand pound. Wealth, that excnfes folly, floth creates, Few who can spend e'er learn to get eftates, What is to him dry cafe, or dull report, Who ftudies fashions at the inns of court; And proves that thing of emptiness and fhow, That mungrel, half-form'd thing, a temple-beau? Obferve him daily faunt'ring up and down, In purple flippers, and in filken gown; Laft night's debauch his morning converfation, The coming all his evening preparation.

By law let others toil to gain renown! Florio's a gentleman, a man o' th' town. He nor courts clients, or the law regarding; Hurries from Nando's down to Covent-Garden : Yet he's a fcholar;-mark him in the pit With critic catcall found the flops of wit! Supreme at George's he harangues the throng, Cenfor of ftyle from tragedy to fong: Him ev'ry witling views with fecret awe, Deep in the drama, fhallow in the law.

Others there are, who, ind-lent and vain, Contemn the feience they can ne'er attain: Who write, and read, but all by fits and Parts, And varnish folly with the name of parts; Truft all to genius, for they fcorn to pore, Till e'en that little genius is no more.

Knowledge in law care only can attain, Where honour's purchas'd at the price of pain.

In the preface to Colman's profe, that gentleman claims the prefent performance, and fays that it was given to our author to fill up a volume of poems publifhed by fubfcription.

If, loit ring, up th' afcent you ceafe to climb,
No ftarts of labour can redeem the time.
Industrious study wins by flow degrees,
True fons of Coke can ne'er be fons at ease.

There are, whom love of poetry has smit,
Who, blind to intereft, arrant dupes to wit,
Have wander'd devious in the pleafing road,
With Attic flowers and claffic wreaths beftrew'd:
Wedded to verfe, embrac'd the mufe for life,
And ta'en, like modern bucks, their whores
wife..

Where'er the mufe ufurps defpotic sway,
All other ftudies muft of force give way,
Int'reft in vain puts in her prudent claim,
Nonfuited by the pow'rful plea of fame.
As well you might weigh lead against a feather,
As ever jumble wit and law together.
On Lyttleton Coke gravely thus remarks,
(Remember this, ye rhyming temple sparks)!
"In all our author's tenures, BE IT NOTED,
"This is the fourth time any verse is quoted."
Which, 'gainst the mufe and verfe, may well imply
What lawyers call a noli profequi.

Quit then, dear George, O quit the barren field,
Which neither profit nor reward can yield!
What though the sprightly scene, well acted, draws
From unpack'd Englishmen unbrib'd applause,
Some monthly Grub, fome Dennis of the age,
In print cries shame on the degen❜rate stage *.
If haply Churchill ftrive with generous aim,
To fan the fparks of genius to a flame;
If all UNASK'D, UNKNOWING, AND UNKNOWN,
By noting thy defert, he prove his own;
Envy fhall ftraight to Hamilton's repair,
And vent her spleen, and gall, and venom there,
Thee, and thy works, and all thy friends decry,
And boldly print and publish a rank lie,

| Swear your own hand the flattʼring likeness drew, Swear your own breath fame's partial trumpet blew.

|

Well I remember oft your friends have said, (Friends, whom the fureft maxims ever led) Turn parfon, Colman, that's the way to thrive : Your parfous are the happiest men alive. Judges, there are but twelve, and never more, But ftalls untold, and bifhops, twenty-four, Of pride and claret, îloth and ven'fon full, Yon prelate mark, right reverend and dull! He ne'er, good man, need penfive vigils keep To preach his audience once a week to fleep; On rich preferments battens at his cafe, Nor fweats for tithes, as lawyers toil for fees.

Thus they advis'd. I know thee better far; And cry, ftick clofe, dear Colman, to the bar! If genius warm thee, where can genius call For nobler action than in yonder hall?

See the very curious and very fimilar criticisms on the comedy of the Jealous Wife, in tevo Reviews, toge ther with the most malicious and infolent attack on the writer and the author of this collection, in the Critical Review for March; an injury poorly repaired by a lame apology in the Review for the fucceeding month, containing frefb infults on one of the injured parties.