To Britons far more noble pleasures spring,
In native notes whilft Beard and Vincent fing.
Might figure give a title unto fame,
What rival thould with Yates difpute her claim;
But juftice may not partial trophies raise,
Nor fink the actress in the woman's praife.
Still hand in hand her words and actions go,
And the heart feels more than the features fhew:
For, through the regions of that beauteous face,
We no variety of paffions trace;

Dead to the foft emotions of the heart,

No kindred softness can thofe eyes impart ;
The brow, ftill fix'd in forrow's fullen frame,
Void of diftinction, marks all parts the fame.
What's a fine perfon, or a beauteous face,
Unless deportment gives them decent grace?
Blefs'd with all other requifites to please,
Some want the striking elegance of ease;
The curious eye their aukward movement tires;
They feem like puppets led about by wires.
Others, like ftatues, in one posture still,
Give great ideas of the workman's skill;
Wond'ring, his art we praise the more we view,
And only grieve he gave not motion too.
Weak of themselves are what we beauties call,
It is the manner which gives ftrength to all.
This teaches ev'ry beauty to unite,

And brings them forward in the nobleft light.
Happy in this, behold, amidst the throng,

With tranfient gleam of grace, Hart fweeps along.
If all the wonders of external grace,

A perfon finely turn'd, a mould of face,
Where, union rare, expreffion's lively force
With beauty's fofteft magic holds discourse,
Attract the eye; if feelings, void of art,
Rouze the quick paffions, and inflame the heart;
If mufic, fweetly breathing from the tongue,
Captives the ear, Bride muft not pass unfung.

When fear, which rank ill-nature terms conceit.
By time and custom conquer'd, fhall retreat;
When judgment tutor'd by experience fage,
Shall shoot abroad, and gather ftrength from age;
When heav'n in mercy shall the stage release
From the dull flumbers of a ftill life-piece;
When fome ftale flow'r, difgraceful to the walk,
Which long hath hung, tho' wither'd on the stalk,
Shall kindly drop, then Bride shall make her way,
And merit find a passage to the day;
Brought into action, the at once fhall raise
Her own renown, and justify our praise.
Form'd for the tragic fcene, to grace the stage,
With rival excellence of love and rage,
Mistress of each foft art, with matchless skill
To turn and wind the paffions as fhe will;
To melt the heart with fympathetic woe,
Awake the figh, and teach the tear to flow;
To put on frenzy's wild diftracted glare,
And freeze the foul with horror and despair;
With just defert enroll'd in endless frame,
Conscious of worth fuperior, Cibber came.
When poor Alicia's madd'ning brains are rack'd,
And strongly imag'd griefs her mind distract ;
Struck with her grief, I catch the madness too!
My brain turns round, the headless trunk I view!
The roof cracks, shakes and falls !-New horrors
rile,

And reason buried in the ruin lies.

Nobly difdainful of each flavish art,
She makes her first attack upon the heart:
Pleas'd with the fummons, it receives her laws,
And all is filence, fympathy, applaufe.

But when, by fond ambition drawn afide,
Giddy with praife, and puff'd with female pride,
She quits the tragic fcene, and, in pretence
To comic merit, breaks down Nature's fence;
I fcarcely can believe my ears or eyes,
Or find out Cibber through the dark difguife.
Pritchard, by nature for the stage design'd,
In perfon graceful, and in fenfe refin'd;
Her art as much as Nature's friend became,
Her voice as free from blemish as her fame.
Who knows fo well in majefty to please,
Attemper'd with the graceful charms of ease?
When Congreve's favour'd pantomime to grace,
She comes a captive queen of Moorish race;
When love, hate, jealoufy, defpair and rage,
With wildeft tumults in her breaft engage;
Still equal to herself is Zara feen ;
Her paffions are the paffions of a queen.

When the to murther whets the timorous Thane, I feel amb'tion rush through every vein; Perfuafion hangs upon her daring tongue, My heart grows flint, and ev'ry nerve's new ftrung

In Comedy-" Nay, there," cries Critic, "hold, "Pritchard's for comedy too fat and old. "Who can, with patience, bear the gray coquette, "Or force a laugh with over-grown Julett? "Her fpeech, look, action, humour, all are juft; "But then, her age and figure give disgust."

Are foibles then, and graces of the mind,
In real life, to fize or age confin'd?
Do fpirits flow, and is good breeding plac'd
In any fet circumference of waist?

As we grow old, doth affectation cease,
Or gives not age new vigour to caprice?
If in originals these things appear,
Why should we bar them in the copy here?
The nice punctilio mongers of this age,
The grand minute reformers of the stage,
Slaves to propriety of ev'ry kind,

Some ftandard-measure for each part should find,
Which then the best of actors fhall exceed,

Let it devolve to one of smaller breed.
All actors too upon the back should bear
Certificate of birth;-time, when ;-place,

where.

For how can critics rightly fix their worth,
Unless they know the minute of their birth?
An audience too, may find too late
That they have clapp'd an actor out of date.
Figure, I own, at fint may give offence,
And harshly strike the eye's too curious fense:
Eut when perfections of the mind break forth,
Humour's chafte fallies, judgment's solid worth;
When the pure genuine flame, by Nature taught,
Springs into fenfe, and ev'ry action's thought;
Before fuch merit all objections fly;
Pritchard's genteel, and Garrick's fix feet high.
Oft have I, Pritchard, feen thy wond'rous skill,
Confefs'd thee great, but find thee greater ftill.
That worth, which fhone in scatter'd rays before,
Collected now, breaks forth with double pow'r.
The Jealous Wife! on that thy trophies raise,
Inferior only to the author's praise.

Was fpeech-fam'd Quin himself to hear him speak,
Envy would drive the colour from his cheek:
But ftep-dame Nature, niggard of her grace,
Deny'd the focial pow'rs of voice and face.
Fix'd in one frame of features, glare of eye,
Paffions, like chaos, in confufion lie:
In vain the wonders of his skill are try'd
To form diftinctions Nature hath deny'd.
His voice no touch of harmony admits,
Irregularly deep and thrill by fits:

The two extremes appear like man and wife,
Coupled together for the fake of ftrife.

His action's always ftrong, but fometimes fuch,
That candour must declare he acts too much.
Why muft impatience fall three paces back?
Why paces three return to the attack?
Why is the right-leg too forbid to ftir,
Unless in motion femicircular?
Why muft the hero with the Nailor vie,
And hurl the clofe-clench'd fist at nofe or eye?
in royal John, with Philip angry grown,
I thought he would have knock'd poor Davies
Inhuman tyrant! was it not a fhame,
To fright a king so harmless and so tame ?
But, fpite of all defects, his glories rise ;

Let wits, like fpiders, from the tortur'd brain
Fine-draw the critic-web with curious pain;
The gods, a kindness I with thanks must pay,-
Have form'd me of a coarfer kind of clay;
Nor ftung with envy, nor with spleen difeas'd,
A poor dull creature, ftill with Nature pleas'd;
Hence to thy praifes, Garrick, I agrée,
And, pleas'd with Nature, muft be pleas'd with thee.
Now might I tell, how filence reign'd throughout,
And deep attention hufh'd the rabble rout:
How ev'ry claimant, tortur'd with defire,
Was pale as afhes, or as red as fire:

But, loose to fame, the Mufe more fimply acts,
Rejects all flourish, and relates mere facts.

The judges, as the feveral parties came,

With temper heard, with judgment weigh'd each claim,

And, in their fentence happily agreed,

In name of both, Great Shakespeare thus decreed.
"If manly fenfe; if Nature link'd with Art ;
"If thorough knowledge of the human heart;
If pow'rs of acting vaft and unconfin'd;
"If feweft faults with greatest beauties join'd;
"If ftrong expreffion, and ftrange pow'rs which lie
"Within the magic circle of the eye;

And Art, by Judgment form'd, with Nature vies:
Behold him found the depth of Hubert's foul,
Whilft in his own contending paffions roll;
View the whole fcene, with critic judgment scan,
And then deny him merit if you can.
Where he falls fhort, 'tis Nature's fault alone;
Where he fucceeds, the merit's all his own.

Laft Garrick came.-Behind him throng a train Of fnarling critics, ignorant as vain.

One finds out-"He's of ftature somewhat low,"Your Hero always fhould be tall, you know."True natʼral greatness all confifts in height.' Produce your voucher, Critic." Serjeant Kite." Another can't forgive the paltry arts By which he makes his way to fhallow hearts; Mere pieces of fineffe, traps for applause— "Avaunt, unnatʼral start, affected pause."

For me, by Nature form'd to judge with phlegm, I can't acquit by wholefale, nor condemn. The best things carried to excefs are wrong: The ftart may be too frequent, panfe too long; But, only us'd in proper time and place, Severeft judgment must allow them grace.

If bunglers, form'd on imitation's plan, Juft in the way that monkies mimic man, Their copied fcene with mangled arts difgrace, And pause and start with the fame vacant face; We join the critic laugh; those tricks we scorn, Which spoil the scenes they mean them to adorn. But when, from Nature's pure and genuine fource, Thefe ftrokes of acting flow with gen'rous force, When in the features all the foul's pourtray'd, And paffions, fuch as Garrick's, are difplay'd, To me they feem from quickeft feelings caught: Each ftart is Nature; and each paufe is Thought. When reafon yields to paffion's wild alarms, And the whole ftate of man is up in arms; What but a Critic could condemn the Play'r, For paufing here, when Cool Senfe pauses there? Whilft, working from the heart, the fire I trace, And mark it ftrongly flaming to the face; Whilft, in each found, I hear the very man ; I can't catch words, and pity those who cam VOL. VII.

"If feelings which few hearts, like his, can know "And which no face fo well as his, can fhew; "Deferve the pref'rence ;-Garrick, take the chair; "Nor quit it-till thou place an equal there."

Eftablish'd, as it were, by right divine;
CRITICS, whom ev'ry captive art adores,
To whom glad Science pours forth all her stores ;
Who high in letter'd reputation fit,

And hold, Aftræa-like, the fcales of wit;
With partial rage rush forth,-Oh! fhame to tell!
To crush a bard just bursting from the fhell?

Great are his perils in this stormy time
Who rafhly ventures on a fea of rime.
Around vait furges roll, winds envious blow,
And jealous rocks and quickfands lurk below:
Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends;
He hurts me moft who lavishly commends.

Look thro' the world-in ev'ry other trade The fame employment's caufe of kindness made, At least appearance of good-will creates, And ev'ry fool puffs off the fool he hates. Coblers with coblers smoke away the night, And in the common caufe e'en play'rs unite

Authors alone, with more than favage rage,
Unnat'ral war with brother-authors wage.
The pride of nature would as soon admit
Competitors in empire as in wit :
Onward they rush at Fame's imperious call,
And, lefs than greatest, would not be at all.

Smit with the love of honour,-or the pence,
O'er-run with wit, and deftitute of sense,
Should any novice in the riming trade
With lawless pen the realms of verse invade ;
Forth from the court, where fceptred fages fit,
Abus'd with praise, and flatter'd into wit;
Where in lethargic majesty they reign,
And what they won by dulnefs, ftill maintain;
Legions of factious authors throng at once;
Fool beckons fool, and dunce awakens dunce.
To Hamilton's the ready lies repair :-
Ne'er was lye made which was not welcome there-
Thence, on maturer judgment's anvil wrought,
'The polish'd falfhood's into public brought.
Quick-circulating flanders mirth afford,
And reputation bleeds in ev'ry word.

A Critic was of old a glorious name,
Whose fanction handed Merit up to Fame;
Beauties as well as faults he brought to view :
His judgment great, and great his candour too.
No fervile rules drew fickly Taste afide;
Secure he walk'd, for Nature was his guide.
But now, Oh ftrange reverfe! our Critics bawl
In praife of candour with a heart of gall.
Conscious of guilt, and fearful of the light,
They lurk enshrouded in the veil of night;
Safe from detection, feize th' unwary prey,
And ftab, like bravoes, all who come that way.
When first my Mufe, perhaps more bold than wife,
Bad the rude trifle into light arise,

Little fhe thought fuch tempefts would enfue;
Lefs, that thofe tempefts would be rais'd by you.
The thunder's fury rends the tow'ring oak;
Rofciads, like shrubs, might 'fcape the fatal ftroke.
Vain thought! a Critic's fury knows no bound;
Drawcanfir-like, he deals destruction round;
Nor can we hope he will a stranger spare,
Who gives no quarter to his friend Voltaire.
Unhappy Genius; plac'd by partial fate
With a free fpirit in a flavish state;

Were the reluctant Muse, opprefs'd by kings,
Or droops in filence, or in fetters fings;
In vain thy dauntless fortitude hath borne
The bigot's furious zeal, and tyrant's scorn.
Why didst thou fafe from home-bred dangers fteer,
Referv'd to parish more ignobly here?
Thus, when the Julian tyrant's pride to fwell
Rome with her Fempey at Pharfalia fell,
The vanquish'd chief efcap'd from Cæfar's hand
To die by ruffian's in a foreign land.

How could these self-elected monarchs raise
So large an empire on so small a base ?
In what retreat, inglorious and unknown,
Did Genius fleep, when Dullness feiz'd the throne?
Whence, abfolute now grown, and free from awe,
She to the fubject world difpenfes law.
Without her licence not a letter ftirs,
And all the captive crifs-cross-row is her's.
The Stagyrite, who rules from Nature drew,
Opinions gave, but gave his reasons too.

* Printer of the Critical Reveiw.

Our great Dictators take a fhorter way-
Who shall difpute what the Reviewers say?
Their word's fufficient; and to ask a reason,
In fuch a ftate as theirs, is downright treason.
True judgment now with them alone can dwell;
Like Church of Rome, they're grown infallible.
Dull fuperftitious readers they deceive,
Who pin their eafy faith on Critic's fieeve,
And, knowing nothing, ev'ry thing believe!
But why repine we, that these puny elves
Shoot into giants?-We may thank ourselves;
Fools that we are, like Ifrael's fools of yore,
The calf ourselves have fashion'd we adore.
But let true Reafon once refume her reign,
This god fhall dwindle to a Calf again.

Founded on arts which fhun the face of day,
By the fame arts they ftill maintain their sway.
Wrapp'd in mysterious fecrecy they rise,
And, as they are unknown, are fafe and wife.
At whomfoever aim'd, howe'er severe.
Th' envenom'd flanders flies, no names appear.
Prudence forbids that step.-Then all might know
And on more equal terms engage the foe.
But now,

what Quixote of the age would care
To wage a war with dirt, and fight with air?
By int'reft join'd, th' expert confederates ftand,
And play the game into each other's hand.
The vile abufe, in turn by all deny'd,

Is bandy'd up and down from fide to fide:
flies-hey-prefto!-like a juggler's ball,
"Till it belongs to nobody at all.

It

}

All men and things they know, themfelves un known,

And publish ev'ry name-except their own.
Nor think this ftrange-fecure from vulgar eyes
The nameless author paffes in difguife.
But vet'ran Critics are not fo deceiv'd,
If vet'ran Critics are to be believ'd.
Once feen, they know an author evermore,
Nay fwear to hands they never saw before.
Thus in the Rofciad, beyond chance or doubt,
They, by the writing, found the writers out.
"That's Lloyd's-his manner there you plainly trace,
"And all the Actor ftares you in the face.
"By Colman that was written.-On my life,
"The strongest fymptoms of the Jealous Wife.
"That little disingenuous piece of fpite,
"Churchill, a wretch unknown, perhaps might write."
How doth it make judicious readers fmile,
When authors are detected by their stile;
Tho' ev'ry one who knows this author, knows
He fhifts his ftile much oftner than his cloaths?

Whence could arife this mighty critic spleen,
The Mufe a trifler, and her theme so mean?
What had I done, that angry Heav'n fhould fend
The bitt'reft foe where moft I wish'd a friend?
Oft hath my tongue been wanton at thy name,
And hail'd the honours of thy matchless fame.
For me let hoary Fielding bite the ground,
So nobler Pickle ftands fuperbly bound.
From Livy's temples tear th' hiftoric crown,
Which with more juftice blooms upon thine own.
Compar'd with thee, be all life-writers dumb,
But he who wrote the Life of Tommy Thumbz
Who ever read the Regicide, but swore
The author wrote as man ne'er wrote before?
Others for plots and under-plots may call,
Here's the right method-have no plot at alk

Who can so often in his caufe engage
The tiny pathos of the Grecian stage,
Whilft horrors rife, and tears fpontaneous flow,
At tragic Ha! and no lefs tragic Oh !
To praise his nervous weakness all agree;
And then for fweetnefs, who so sweet as he !
Too big for utterance when forrows fwell,
The too big forrows flowing tears muft tell :
But when those flowing tears fhall cease to flow,
Why-then the voice must speak again, you know.
Rude and unfkilful in the Poet's trade,
I kept no Naiads by me ready-made;
Ne'er did I colours high in air advance,
Torn from the bleeding fopperies of France;
No flimfy linfey-woolfey scenes I wrote,
With patches here and there like Jofeph's coat.
Me humbler themes befit: Secure, for me,
Let playwrights fmuggle nonfenfe, duty free:
Secure, for me, ye lambs, ye lambkins bound,
And frisk, and frolic o'er the fairy ground:
Secure, for me, thou pretty little fiwn,
Lick Sylvia's hand, and crop the flow'ry lawn:
Uncenfur'd let the gentle breezes rove
Thro' the green umbrage of th' enchanted grove :
Secure, for me, let foppifh Nature smile,
And play the coxcomb in the Defart Ifle.

The ftage I chofe-a fubject fair and free-
'Tis yours-'tis mine-'tis public property.
All common exhibitions open lie

For praise or cenfure to the common eye.
Hence are a thousand hackney writers fed;
Hence monthly critics earn their daily bread.
This is a general tax which all must pay,

From those who scribble, down to those who play.
Actors, a venal crew, receive fupport
From public bounty, for the public fport.
To clap or hifs, all have an equal claim,
The cobler's and his lordship's right the fame.
All join for their fubfiftence; all expect

Free leave to praise their worth, their faults correct.
When active Pickle Smithfield stage afcends,
The three days wonder of his laughing friends;
Each, or as judgment, or as fancy guides,
The lively wittling praifes or derides.

And where's the mighty diff'rence, tell me where,
Betwixt a Merry-Andrew and a Player ?

The strolling tribe, a despicable race,
Like wand'ring Arabs, shift from place to place.
Vagrants by law, to juftice open laid,
They tremble, of the beadle's lafh afraid,
And fawning cringe, for wretched means of life,
To Madam Mayorefs, or his Worship's wife.
The mighty monarch, in theatric fack,
Carries his whole regalia at his back;
His royal confort heads the female band,
And leads the heir-apparent in her hand;
The pannier'd afs creeps on with confcious pride,
Bearing a future prince on either fide.

No choice muficians in this troop are found
To varnish nonsense with the charms of found;
No fwords, no daggers, not one poison'd bowl;
No lightning flashes here, no thunders roll;
No guards to fwell the monarch's train are shewn;
The monarch here must be a host alone.
No folem pomp, no flow proceffions here;
No Ammon's entry, and no Juliet's bier.
By need compell'd to prostitute his art,
The varied actor flies from part to part;

And, ftrange difgrace to all theatric pride!
His character is fhifted with his fide.
Question and Answer he by turns must be,
Like that fmall wit in Modern Tragedy;
Who, to patch up his fame,-or fill his purfe,-
Still pilfers wretched plans and makes them worse;
Like gipfies, left the stolen brat be known,
Defacing firit, then claiming for his own.
In thabby ftate they ftrut, and tatter'd robe;
The scene a blanket, and a barn the globe.
No high conceits their mod'rate wishes raise,
Content with humble profit, humble praise.
Let dowdies fimper, and let bumpkins stare,
The ftrolling pageant hero treads in air :
Pleas'd for his hour, he to mankind gives law,
And fnores the next out on a trufs of straw.

But if kind Fortune, who we fometimes know
Can take a hero from a puppet-show,
In mood propitious fhould her fav'rite call
On royal ftage in royal pomp to bawl,
Forgetful of himself he rears the head,
And scorns the dunghill where he first was bred.
Converting now with well-drefs'd kings and

queens,

With gods and goddeffes behind the scenes,
He sweats beneath the terror-nodding plume,
Taught by mock honours real pride t' affume.
On this great ftage the world, no monarch e'er
Was half fo haughty as a monarch play'r.

Doth it more move our anger or our mirth,
To fee thefe Things, the loweft fons of earth,
Prefume, with felf-fufficient knowledge grac'd,
To rule in Letters, and prefide in Tafte?
The Town's decifions they no more admit,
Themselves alone the arbiters of Wit;
And fcorn the jurifdiction of that court,
To which they owe their being and fupport.
Actors, like monks of old, now facred grown,
Must be attack'd by no fools but their own.

Let the vain tyrant fit amidst his guards,
His puny Green-room Wits and Venal Bards,
Who meanly tremble at the puppet's frown,
And for a playhouse freedom lose their own;
In fpite of new-made laws, and new-made kings,
The free-born Mufe with lib'ral spirit fings.
Bow down, ye flaves; before these idols fall;
Let Genius ftoop to them who've none at all;
Ne'er will I flatter, cringe, or bend the knee
To thofe who, flaves to All, are flaves to Me.
Actors, as actors, are a lawful game;
The poet's right, and who fhall bar his claim?
And if, o'er-weening of their little skill,
When they have left the ftage, they're actors ftill;
If to the fubject world they still give laws,
With paper crowns and fceptres made of straws;
If they in cellar or in garret roar,

And kings one night, are kings for evermore;
Shall not bold Truth, e'en there, pursue her theme,
And 'wake the coxcomb from his golden dream?
Or if, well worthy of a better fate,
They rife fuperior to their prefent ftate;
If, with each focial virtue grac'd, they blend
The gay companion and the faithful friend ;
If they, like Pritchard, join in private lifa
The tender parent and the virtuous wife;

* Mr. Foote.