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ing, and the mind is disgusted by falsehood, which wants the common charm of novelty. Two children, by a kind of gipsy trick, are changed in their cradles; one becomes a Baron bold, the other a gallant tar. The catastrophe of the play divests the pseudo Baron of his title, and elevates the sailor to the Peerage. This improbability is rendered more disgusting by its being more trite.
the structure of this character, by those artifices of stage-display, of which the writers of latter times have made such abundant use. However admirable the play, it may be remark. ed, without indignity to the genius of Shakespear, that the character of Macbeth is not very various, nor very nicely distinguished. Such is the solemnity and grandeur of the events in this play, that individual character is either There is another plot-It is that of a mock neglected or absorbed. Such is the overmarriage and a sham parson, by which the whelming terror of the witchcraft and the Peer conceives that he has cheated the credu-magic; such the abounding variety and inyslity of a silly girl; but as the agents of rogues are often confederates against them, so in this case, the Peer is fairly caught in his own suare by a scheming Attorney, who prepares as good a licence as Doctors' Commons could issue, and as substantial a priest as ever Bishop ordained.
Such is this silly plot, which, foolish as it is, was conducted with matchless absurdity.There was no pause or division in the narra tive: there was no middie part-all was either involution or catastrophe.
The Characters were of a piece with the Fable-The cattle and the cart were perfectly well matched. There was a Noble Lord who richly deserved the gallows; and a Baronet who had very fair claims for the pillory.-It is difficult to distinguish which was most offensive, the penitence or roguery of the Attorney and his Clerk The part of the Sailor was that of a clamorous Patriot, and Helen was a coquette without smartness or repartee.
tery of the plot, that the poet perhaps had no leisure, or no inclination, to point his characters with any nice discrimination, or to expand them to that excellence of which they were capable.
To represent the character of Macbeth with suitable propriety, a good actor should bring to it, not only the ordinary excellencies of his art, but a degree of refined taste, an acute aud versatile sensibility, a characteristic grandeur, and a royal dignity; in short, such qualities as are peculiar to a chosen few of his profession.
Mr. Young, who is an actor of great merit, and, as a tragedian, second perhaps to none but Kemble, is no wise suited to this characHis manner is precise, dry, and rigid; there is a formal and studied accuracy in his style, a want of diguity, and a total defect of sensibility.
He seems never to forget himself into fueling, or to plunge into the scene with the artless promptitude of passion. There was nothing absurd in his performance; on the contrary, there were many points of great and shining excellence; but the effect produced was that of languor and indifference. The
The language of the piece, however, was sometimes elegant. This is its only recommendation, and brought it safely into port,— having kept an even, quiet tenor, in a voyage in which httle was ventured, and nothing gain-audience were never roused by the impetuosity ed but safety.
On Wednesday, January 11, Mr. Young, to whom the Managers of this theatre have afforded an opportunity of appearing in the leading characters of the drama, with no other Jimit than that of his own discretion, came forward in the character of Macbeth.
The part of Macbeth is not very nicely adapted to popular effect. The ambition of the performer has not been much consulted in
of his courage, and had no sympathy with the compunctions of his guilt. He was at no time master of the genius of the scene; and though in some parts he satisfied the judgment, he seldom touched the heart.
We must not omit, however, without its due praise, his admirable delivery of the lines
in the banquet scene,
"Can such things be, and overcome us like a
summer's cloud, &c."
These lines were spoken as we have never heard them before, and the effect was such as justified the novelty.
EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTINOT,
BEING THE PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES.
P. SHUT, shut the door, good John, fatigu'd || Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term
Tie up the knocker; say I'm sick, I'm dead.
They pierce my thickets, thro' my grot they glide;
Bland, by water, they renew the charge;
They stop the chariot, and they board the barge,
No place is sacred, not the church is free,
Happy to catch me just at dinner-time.
Is there a parson, much bemus'd in beer,
A clerk, foredoom'd his father's soul to cross,
With desp'rate charcoal round his darken'd walls?
All fly to Twit'nam, and in humble strain
The world had wanted many an idle song,)
If foes, they write; if friends, they read me dead.
Seiz'd and tied down to judge, how wretched I!
With honest anguish, and an aching head;
Nine years! cries he, who high in Drurylanc,
Lull'd by soft zephyrs thro' the broken pane, La Belle Assemblée.-No. XLI.
Oblig'd by hunger and request of friends; "The piece, you think, is incorrect? why take it;
"I'm all submission, what you'd have it make it."
Three things another's modest wishes bound, My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound. Pitholeon sends to me: "You know his
"I want a patron; ask him for a place." Pitholeon libell'd me-but here's a letter "Informs you, Sir, 'twas when he knew uo better.
"Dare you refuse him? Curl invites to dine; "He'll write a journal, or he'll turn divine." Bless me! a packet.-" "Tis a stranger sues,
"A virgin tragedy, an orphan muse." If I dislike it, "Furies, death and rage!" If I approve, "Commend it to the stage." There (thank my stars!) my whole commission ends,
The players and I are, luckily, no friends. Fir'd that the house reject him, "'Sdeath, I'll
"And shame the fools-Your int'rest, Sir, with Lintot."
Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much :
"Not, Sir, if you revise it, and retouch." All my demurs but double his attacks; At last he whispers, " Do; and we go snacks."
Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door : "Sir, let me see your works and you no more.” 'Tis sung, when Midas' ears began to spring
(Midas, a sacred person and a king), His very minister who spied them first (Some say his Queen) was forc'd to speak, or
And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case, When ev'ry coxcomb perks them in my face? A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dang'rous things,
I'd never name Queens, Ministers, or Kings;
Out with it, Dunciad! let the secret pass,
The truth once told (and wherefore should we
The Queen of Midas slept, and so may I.
Thou unconcern'd canst hear the mighty crack:
Who shames a scribbler? break one cobweb
He spins the slight self-pleasing thread anew :
No names-be calm-learn prudence of a
I too could write, and I am twice as tall;
Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right,
'tis ten times worse when they repent.
Such Ovid's nose; and, "Sir! you have an
Go on, obliging creatures, make me sce
No duty broke, no father disobey'd:
The muse but serv'd to ease some friend, not
To help me thro' this long disease, my life;
But why then publish? Granville the polite, And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write;
Well-natur'd Garth, inflam'd with early praise, || And Congreve lov'd, and Swift endur'd my lays;
The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield read;
With open arms receiv'd one poet more.
Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cooks.
While pure description held the place of sense?
Did some more sober critic come abroad;
Each wight who reads not, and but scans and
Each word-catcher that lives on syllables,
Of hairs or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms!
Were others angry: I excus'd them too ; Well might they rage, I gave them but their due.
A man's true merit 'tis not hard to find;
Just writes to make his barrenness appear, And strains from hard-bound brains eight lines a year;
He who still wanting, tho' he lives on theft, Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left: And he who now to sense, now nonsense leaning,
Means not, but blunders round about a meaning,
And he whose fustian's so sublimely bad,
And swear, not Addison himself was safe.
Peace to all such! but were there one whose fires
True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires; Blest with each talent and each art to please, And born to write, converse, and live with
Should such a man, too fond to rule alone,
Or plaster'd posts, with claps, in capitals?
No more than thou, great George! a birth-day song.
I ne'er with wits or witlings pass'd my days,
With bandkerchief and orange at my side:
Proud as Apollo on his forked hill,
To some a dry rehearsal was assign'd;
May ev'ry Bavius have his Bufo still!
Blest be the great for those they take away,
Above a patron, tho' I condescend
Why am I ask'd what next shall see the light?
Heavens! was I born for nothing but to write? Has life no joys for me? or (to be grave) Have I no friend to serve, no soul to save? "I found him close with Swift."—" Indeed ? no doubt "(Cries prating Balbus) something will come Out."
'Tis all in vain, deny it as I will, "No, such a genius never can lie still;" And then for mine obligingly mistakes The first lampoon Sir Will or Bubo makes. Poor guiltless I and can I choose but smile, When ev'ry coxcomb knows me by my style?
Curst be the verse, how well soe'er it flow,
Insults fallen worth, or beauty in distress;
And, if he lie not, must at least betray :
Sporus, that mere white curd of ass's milk?
P. Yet let me flap this bug with gilded
Not fortune's worshipper, nor fashion's fool,
The libell'd person, and the pictur'd shape;
P. A knave's a knave to me in ev'ry state:
This painted child of dirt, that stinks and Sporus at court, or Japhet in a jail,
Whose buzz the witty and the fair annoys,
Yet wit ne'er tastes, and beauty ne'er enjoys:
In mumbling of the game they dare not bite.
Or at the ear of Eve, familiar toad,
Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the
A hireling scribbler, or a hireling peer,
He gain his prince's ear, or lose his own.
Yet soft by nature, more a dupe than wit,
Full ten years slander'd, did he once reply?
To please a mistress, one aspers'd his life;
He lash'd him not, but let her be his wife :
Hear this, and spare his family, James Moor!