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To Britons far more noble pleasures spring,
Nobly disdainful of each Navith art,
Pleas'd with the summons, it receives her laws,
But when, by fond ambition drawn afide, Nor fink the actress in the woman's praise.
Giddy with praise, and puff'd with female pride, Still hand in hand her words and actions go,
She quits the tragic scene, and, in pretence
Or find out Cibber through the dark disguise.
Pritchard, by nature for the stage design'd, No kindred loftness can those eyes impart;
In person graceful, and in sense refin'd; The brow, ftill fix'd in forrow's sullen frame,
Her art as much as Nature's friend became,
What's a fine person, or a beauteous face, Who knows so well in majesty to please,
When Congreve's favour'd pantomime to grace, Some want the striking elegance of ease;
She comes a captive queen of Moorish race; The curious eye their aukward movement tires; When love, hate, jealousy, despair and rage, They seem like puppets led about by wires.
With wildest tumults in her breast engage ; Others, like statues, in one posture still,
Still equal to herself is Zara seen; Give great ideas of the workman's skill;
Her passions are the passions of a queen. Wond'ring, his art we praise the more we view, When she to murther whets the timorous Thane, And only grieve he gave not motion too.
I feel ambition rush through every vein ; Weak of themselves are what we beauties call, Persuasion hangs upon her daring tongue, It is the manner which gives strength to all. My heart grows flint, and ev'ry nerve's new strungThis teaches ev'ry beauty to unite,
In Comedy Nay, there,"cries Critic,“ hold, And brings them forward in the noblest light. ** Pritchard's for comedy too fat and old. Happy in this, behold, amidit the throng,
“ Who can, with patience, bear the gray coquette, With tranfient gleam of grace, Hart sweeps along.
« Or force a laugh with over-grown Julett? If all the wonders of external grace,
“ Her speech, look, action, humour, all are just ; A person finely turn'd, a mould of face,
« But then, her age and figure give disgust." Where, union rare, expression's lively force
Are foibles then, and graces of the mind, With beauty's softest magic holds discourse,
In real life, to fize or age confin'd?
Do spirits flow, and is good breeding piac'd
When fear, which rank ill-nature terms conceit. If in originals these things appear,
The nice punctilio mongers of this age,
Certificate of birth ;
-time, when ;- -place. Brought into action, the at once shall raise
where. Her own renown, and justify our praise.
For how can critics rightly fix their worth,
An audience too, may find too late
Figure, I own, at fint may give offence,
And harshly strike the eye's too curious sense : Awake the figh, and teach the tear to flow; But when perfections of the mind break forth, To put on frenzy's wild distracted glare,
Humour's chaste fallies, judgment's folid worth ; And freeze the soul with horror and despair;
When the pure genuine Aame, by Nature taught, With just desert enroll'd in endless frame,
Springs into sense, and ev'ry action's thought ; Conscious of worth superior, Cibber came.
Before such merit all objections fly ; When poor Alicia's madd'ning brains are rack’d, Pritchard's gentcel, and Garrick's fix feet high. And ftrongly imag'd griefs her mind dittract ; Oft have I, Pritchard, seen thy wond'rous skill, Struck with her grief, I catch the madness too! Confess’d thee great, but find thee greater still. My brain turns round, the headless trunk I view! That worth, which shone in scatter'd rays before, The roof cracks, Khakes and falls !-New horrors Collected now, breaks forth with double pow's. rile,
The Jealous Wife ! on that thy trophies raise, And reason buried in the rujn lics.
Inferior only to the author's praise.
From Dublin, fam'd in legends of romance Grey-bearded vet’rans, who, with partial tongue,
Extol the times when they themselves were young ;
See not their own defects, but lah the age,
Their darling chief, and lin'd his favorite cause.
Far be it from the candid Mure to tread
Insulting o'er the aihes of the dead,
And dures the text, whilft Garrick's genius reigns;
But though prescription's force we disallow,
Nor to antiquity submislive bow;
Though we deny imaginary grace,
Founded on accidents of time and place;
Yet real worth of ev'ry growth shall bear
Hippy in art, he chiefly had pretence
No actor ever greater heights could reach
In all the labour'd artifice of speech.
Speech! Is that all ?-And Mall an actor found
Parrots themselves speak properly by rote,
And, in lix months, my dog thall howl by note..
I laugh at those, who, when the stage they tread,
Neglect the heart, to compliment the head ;
With strict propriety their care's confin'd
To fylluble-directors they appeal,
Allow them accent, cadence,-- fools may feel;
But, spite of all the criticising elves,
His eyes, in gloomy socket taught to roll,
Proclaim'd the lullen habit of his soul.
Heavy and phlegmatic he trod the stage,
When Hector's lovely widow shines in tears,
What man, like Barry, with such pains, canerr With the same cast of features he is seen
To chide the libertine, ani court the queen.
With just desert his reputation rose ;
Nor lets he pleas'd, when, on some furly plan,
He was, at once, the actor and the man.
In Brute he thone unequallid : all agree
Garrick's not half so great a brute as he.
With equal praise the actor labour'd too ;
When he appears most perfect, still we find In fancied scenes, as in life's real plan,
In whate'er cast his character was laid,
Self ftill, like oil, upon the surface play'd.
Nature, in spite of all his skill, crept in :
Next follows Sheridan-a doubtful name,
Quin, from afar, lur'd by the scent of fame, This, fondly lavish in his praises grown,
Gives him all merit: That allows him none.
Between them both, we'll iteer the middle course,
Was speech-fam'd Quin himself to hear him speak, Let wits, like spiders, from the tortur'd brain Envy would drive the colour from his cheek:
Fine-draw the critic-web with curious pain; But step-dame Nature, niggard of her grace, The gods,—a kindness I with thanks must pay, Deny'd the social pow'rs of voice and face.
Have form'u me of a coarser kind of clay ; Fird in one frame of features, glare of eye, Nor ftung with envy, nor with spleen difeasid, Paffions, like chaos, in confufion lie :
A poor dull creature, still with Nature pleas'd; In vain the wonders of his skill are try'd
Hence to thy praises, Garrick, I agree, To form distinctions Nature hath deny'd.
And, pleas’d with Nature, must be pleas'd with thee. His voice no touch of harmony admits,
Now might I tell, how filence reign’d throughouty Irregularly deep and thrill by fits :
And deep attention huih'd the rabble rout : The two extremes appear like man and wife, How ev'ry claimant, tortur'd with defire, Coupled together for the sake of strife.
Was pale as alhes, or as red as fire : His action's always strong, but sometimes such, But, loose to fame, the Muse more simply acts, } That candour must declare he acts too much. Rejects all fourish, and relates mere facts. Why must impatience fall three paces back?
The judges, as the several parties came, Why paces three return to the attack?
With temper heard, with judgment weigh'd each Why is the right-log too forbid to ftir,
claim, | Unless in motion semicircular?
And, in their sentence happily agreed, Why must che hero with the Nailor vie,
In name of both, Great Shakespeare thus decreed. And hurl the close-clench'd fift at nose or eye? . “ If manly sense ; if Nature link'd with Art ; in royal John, with Philip angry grown,
“ If thorough knowledge of the human heart; I thought he would have knock'd poor Davies down.“ If pow'rs of acting vast and unconfind; Inhuman tyrant ! was it not a shame,
“ If fewest faults with greatest beauties joind; To fright á king so harmless and so tame ?
" If strong expression, and strange pow'rs which lie But, spite of all defects, his glories rise ;
" Within the magic circle of the eye ; And Art, by Judgment form'd, with Nature vics: “ If feelings which few hearts, like his, can know, Behold him found the depth of Hubert's ful,
« And which no face so well as his, can shew; Whilft in his own contending pafsions roll ;
“ Deserve the pref'rence ;-Garrick, take the chair ;
Laft Garrick came.--Behind him throng a train
Ρ OLÓ GY " True nat'ral greatness all consists in height." Produce your voucher, Critic." Serjeant Kite." Another can't forgive the paltry arts
CRITICAL REVIEW ER S. By which he makes his way to shallow hearts ; Mere pieces of fineffe, traps for applause
AUGHS not the heart, when giants big with “ Avaunt, unnat'ral start, affected pause."
pride, For me, by Nature form’d to judge with phlegm, Asume the pompous port, the martial (ride ; I can't acquit by wholesale, nor condemn.
O'er arm Herculean heave th’enormous Thield,
Vast as a weaver's beam the javelin wield;
And dare to single combat-What?-A fly.
And laugh we less, when giant names, which If bunglers, form’d on imitation's plan,
Mine Just in the way that monkies mimic man,
Etablish’d, as it were, by right divine;
Great are his perils in this stormy time
When reason yields to passion's wild alarms, Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends;
He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
Look thro' the world--in ev'ry other trade
And ev'ry fool puffs off the fool he hates.
Authors alone, with more than savage rage,
Our great Di&tators take a Morter way, Unnat'ral war with brother-authors wage.
Who shall dispute what the Reviewers say ? The pride of nature would as soon admit
Their word's sufficient; and to ask a reason, Competitors in empire as in wit :
In such a state as tbeirs, is downrighe treason. Onward they rush at Fame's imperious call, True judgment now with them alone can dwell ; And, less than greatest, would not be at all.
Like Church of Rome, they're grown infallible. Smit with the love of honour,--or the pence, Dull superstitious readers they deceive, O'er-run with wit, and destitute of sense,
Who pin their easy faith on Critic's sieeve, Should any novice in the riming trade
And, knowing nothing, ev'ry thing believe ! With lawless pen the realms of verse invade ; But why repine we, that these
The calf ourselves have fashion'd we adore.
This god Mall dwindle to a Calf again. Fool beckons fool, and dunce awakens dunce.
Founded on arts which shun the face of day, To Hamilton's * the ready lies repair
By the same arts they still maintain their sway. Ne'er was lye made which was not welcome there Wrapp'd in mysterious fecrecy they rise, Thence, on maturer judgment's anvil wrought, And, as they are unknown, are safe and wise. The polish'd falthood's into public brought.
At whomsoever aim'd, howe'er severe · Quick-circulating Nanders mirth afford,
Th'envenom'd Nanders flies, no names appear. And reputation bleeds in ev'ry word.
Prudence forbids that step.—Then all might know A Critic was of old a glorious name,
And on more equal terms engage the foe. Whose sanction handed Merit up to Fame ;
But now, what Quixote of the age would care Beauties as well as faults he brought to view : To wage a war with dirt, and fight with air? His iudgment great, and great his candour too. By int'reit join'd, th'expert confederates ftand, No lervile rules drew sickly Taste aside ;
And play the game into each other's hand.
It lies—hey !-presto!-like a juggler's ball,
All men and things they know, themselves un Safe from detection, seize th' unwary prey,
known, And ftab, like bravoes, all who come that way. And publish ev'ry name except their own.
When first my Muse, perhaps more bold than wise, Nor think this strange-secure from vulgar eyes Bad the rude trifle into light arise,
The nameless author palles in disguise. Little she thought such tempests would ensue; But vet'ran Critics are not so deceiv'd, Less, that those tempests would be rais’d by you. If vet'ran Critics are to be believ'd. The thunder's fury rends the tow'ring oak ;
Once seen, they know an author evermore, Rosciads, like Ihrubs, might 'scape the fatal stroke. Nay swear to hands they never saw before. Vain thought ! a Critic's fury knows no bound; Thus in the Rosciad, beyond chance or doubt, Drawcanfir-like, he deals destruction round; They, by the writing, found the writers out. Nor can we hope he will a stranger spare,
“ That's Lloyd's his manner there you plainly trace, Who gives no quarter to his friend Voltaire.
« And all the Actor stares you in the face. Unhappy Genius; plac'd by partial fate
“ By Colman that was written. -On my life, Vith a free spirit in a lavish state ;
“ The strongest symptoms of the Jealous Wife. were the reluctant Muse, oppress’d by kings, “ That little disingenuous piece of spite, Or de cops in filence, 'or in fetters fings;
“ Churchill, a wretch unknown, perhaps might write." In vairt thy dauntless fortitude hath borne
How doth it make judicious readers smile, The bigel's furious zeal, and tyrant's scorn. When authors are detected by their stile ; Why didt thou safe from home-bred dangers steer, Tho' ev'ry one who knows this author, knows Reserv'd to prish more ignobly here?
He shifts his ftile much oftner than his cloaths ? Thus, when the Julian tyrant's pride to swell
Whence could arise this mighty critic spleen, Rome with her Humpey at Pharfalia fell,
The Muse a trifler, and her theme so mean? The vanquish'd chief escap'd from Cæsar's hand
What had I done, that angry Heav'n should send To die by ruffian's in a foreign land.
The bitt'reft foe where moft I wish'd a friend? How could these self-elected monarchs raise Oft hath my tongue been wanton at thy name, So large an empire on so small a base ?
And hail'd the honours of thy matchless fame. In what retreat, inglorious and unknown,
For me let hoary Fielding bite the ground, Did Genius sleep, when Dullness seiz'd the throne ? So nobler Pickle stands superbly bound. Whence, absolute now grown, and free from awe, From Livy's temples tear th' historic crown, She to the subject world dispenses law.
Which with more justice blooms upon thine own. Without her licence not a letter stirs,
Compar'd with thee, be all life-writers dumb, And all the captive criss-cross-row is her's.
But he who wrote the Life of Tommy Thumbs The Stagyrite, who rules from Nature drew, Who ever read the Regicide, but swore Opinions gave, but gave his reasons too.
The author wrote as man ne'er wrote before ?
Others for plots and under-plots may call, • Printer of the Critical Reveiw.
Here's the right method-have no plot at all
Who can fo often in his cause engage
Rude and unskilful in the Poet's trade,
The stage I chosema fubject fair and free
The strolling tribe, a despicable race,
The mighty monarch, in theatric fack,
By need compeli'd to proftitute his art,
And, strange disgrace to all theatric pride!
Who, to patch up his fame, -or fill his purse,-
But if kind Fortune, who we sometimes know
Doch it more move our anger or our mirth,
And scorn the jurisdiction of that court,
Let the vain tyrant fit amidst his guards,
Actors, as actors, are a lawful game;
* Mr. Foote.