[]LETTERS Familiar, Moral, and Critical.

TO Sir RICHARD BLACKMORE.
On the Moral and Concluſion of an Epick Poem.

WHEN I ſent you my Obſervations, upon the Two firſt Acts of the Play, I ſent you ſo many Reaſons which oblig'd me to differ from you, with reſpect to the Encomium, which you give to that Tragedy, in your Eſſay upon Epick Poetry. And whenever you think fit to lay your Com⯑mands upon me, I ſhall lay before you the Rea⯑ſons, for which I diſſent from you, with regard to the Commendation which you give to a late Tranſlation. At preſent I ſhall paſs to Things more general, and conſequently of far great Importance.

[2] IN the Chapter which treats of the Moral, you are pleaſed to affirm two Things; The firſt is, That one who writes an Epick Poem, need not in his firſt Intention, pitch upon ſome con⯑ſiderable Moral, and then contrive his Fable ſuit⯑able to that Deſign; The Second Thing is, That there is no occaſion that an Epick Poem ſhould end Fortunately with regard to the Principal Cha⯑racter.

BUT, Sir, before I give my Reaſons for diſ⯑ſenting from you, with regard to theſe Two Points; the firſt of which is of Conſequence, and the Second of the utmoſt Importance: I deſire that you would give me leave to enumerate ſome Things, in which we perfectly Agree; that by this Method, we may facilitate an Agreement in Things in which we Differ.

We agree then, Sir, in the following Points.

• 1. That there muſt be a Fable. Eſſay. p. 37.
• 2. That there muſt be an Action. Eſſ. p. 47.
• 3. That the Action muſt be one. p. ibid.
• 4. That there muſt be a Moral. p. 76.
• 5. That the Fable and the Action muſt be only for the Moral. Ibid. & p. 34.
• 6. That the Moral muſt be the genuine Re⯑ſult of the Fable and the Action. p. 77.
• 7. That Admiration ought to be the predo⯑minant Paſſion in the narration of the Action. p. 33.
• 8. Nothing that is common or ordinary, can excite Admiration. p. 34 & 35.
• 9. That there ought to be an Allegory. p. 41.

[3] THESE, Sir, are Things in which we agree ex⯑preſly: There are other Things in which we agree implicitly, becauſe if theſe laſt are falſe, they de⯑ſtroy the Truth even of thoſe in which we agree expreſly; as that

• 1. The Moral muſt contain an undeniable Truth, or elſe it cannot be a Moral: For Falſhood may delude, but only Truth can inſtruct.
• 2. That the Inſtruction which the Poem gives, muſt be general; Moral Philoſophy being the Law of Nature, and conſequently, inſtructive to Mankind.
• 3. That the Poetick Action muſt remain ge⯑neral, even after the Impoſition of Names; for if the Action is particular, there can be no ge⯑neral Inſtruction deduced from it; the Conclu⯑ſion being falſe to generals from particulars.
• 4. That for the ſame Reaſon, the Characters at the bottom muſt be general likewiſe, even after the Impoſition of Names.
• 5. That the Action and Characters being both general, even after the Impoſition of Names, they muſt be, conſequently, both Allegorical.

LET us come now, Sir, to the two foremen⯑tion'd Particulars.

YOU ſay, That an Epick Poet is not oblig'd to have the Moral firſt in his Mind: For, ſay you, no Author can form the Narration of any great and memorable Action, but ſome Moral [4] will ariſe from it, whether the Writer intends it or not. Suppoſe this were true, a Poet is to In⯑ſtruct by his Art and not by Chance. But the very contrary of this is true, a Poet may form the Narration, of a Hundred great and memorable Actions, if theſe Actions are Particular and Hi⯑ſtorical, and not one Moral ſhall ariſe from them all; as the Battle of Pharſalia, the Death of Brutus and Caſſius, the Death of Cato, the Death of King Lear, the Death of Hamlet, the Death of Harry the Fourth: And I defie any Poet to form a general Action, and general Cha⯑racters, but he muſt form them upon a Moral, and conſequently that Moral muſt be firſt in his Head. Can any one believe, that Aeſop firſt told a Story of a Cock and a Bull, and afterwards made a Moral to it? Or is it reaſonable to be⯑lieve, that he made his Moral firſt, and after⯑wards to prove it, contriv'd his Fable? Now I know no difference that there is, between one of Aeſop's Fables, and the Fable of an Epick Poem, as to their Natures, tho' there be many and great ones, as to their Circumſtances. 'Tis impoſſible for a Poet to form any Fable, unleſs the Moral be firſt in his Head.

YOU ſay that ſince Homer and Virgil does not expreſly draw any Doctrine from their Fables, it is not certain whether they deſign'd any; and it is ſtill more uncertain, you ſay, whether they intended thoſe particular Morals, which are ge⯑nerally aſcrib'd to them; which is as much as to ſay, that, tho' we can ſee a Deſign, a good, a juſt, and a great Deſign in thoſe admirable Poems, [5] yet the Authors of them ſaw none, and that, per⯑haps that is not their Deſign, which appears to us and others, but ſomething, which after ſo many Ages, has appeared to no Man. Could Homer or Virgil, if they had ſtudied a Thouſand Years, have contrived Morals, which would have been more the genuine reſult of all the Parts of their Fables and of their Actions, than thoſe which are generally aſcribed to them? Or can thoſe Morals be made to appear the genuine reſult of any other Poetick Actions, unleſs they are Copies of thoſe?

YOU continue to ſay, That as from Pulpit Diſcourſes on Divine Subjects, many uſeful In⯑ferences may be deduc'd by the Preacher; ſo in theſe ſuperior Poems, &c. But here, Sir, you ap⯑pear not to conſider, that the grand Moral of every Sermon is the Text, which certainly is, or ought to be, firſt in the Mind of every Preacher.

TO conclude my Remarks on this firſt Point; it appears to me evident, that every Man who undertakes any great Action, has the chief De⯑ſign which he propoſes by it, firſt of all in his Head; but you yourſelf are pleaſed to own, p. 34. That the principal End of an Epick Poet, is to give Pleaſure and Inſtruction; and p. 76. That the Pleaſure is only in order to the Inſtru⯑ction; and p. 77. That the moſt important part of the Inſtruction ought to ariſe from the whole Fable, becauſe the Inſtruction that ariſes from the whole, muſt be more important than that which ariſes from the Parts. By owning all [6] which, it is clear to me that you implicitly own, That the Moral of an Epick Poem muſt be firſt in the Head of the Poet.

I now, Sir, come to the Second Point, con⯑cerning which we differ. You are pleas'd to affirm, That it is not neceſſary, that an Epick Poem ſhould end happily, with relation to the Principal Character, but that the Poets and mere Criticks have laid down this Rule, without con⯑ſulting Reaſon in the Caſe, being led into it by the Iliad and Odyſſes of Homer, and the Aeneis of Virgil: And here you deplore that ſervile Sub⯑miſſion which the Poets and Commentators have made to naked Anthority, by which they have advanc'd Maxims out of Reverence to great Names, without any Diſcuſſion of the Subject, or entering upon any Enquiry which ſupports their Aſſertion; becauſe, ſay you, the End of the Epick Poet may be equally attain'd, tho' the Event ſhould be Unfortunate; into which we are now to Enquire.

THE principal Character of an Epick Poem, muſt be either morally good or morally vicious; if he is morally good, the making him end un⯑fortunately, will deſtroy all Poetical Juſtice, and conſequently, all Inſtruction: Such a Poem can have no Moral, and conſequently no Fable, no juſt and regular Poetical Action, but muſt be a vain Fiction and an empty Amuſement. Oh, but there is a Retribution in Futurity! But I thought that the Reader of an Epick Poem was to owe his Inſtruction to the Poet, and not to [7] himſelf: Well then, the Poet may tell him ſo at the latter end of his Poem: Ay, would to God I could ſee ſuch a latter End of an Epick Poem, where the Poet ſhould tell the Reader, that he has cut an honeſt Man's Throat, only that he may have an Opportunity to ſend him to Heaven; and that tho' this would be but an indifferent Plea upon an Indictment for Murder at the Old-Baily, yet that he hopes the good-natur'd Reader will have Compaſſion on him, as the Gods have on his Hero. But Raillery apart, Sir, What occa⯑ſion is there for having recourſe to an Epick Poet to tell our ſelves by the bye, and by occaſional Re⯑flection, that there will be a Retribution in Futu⯑rity, when the Chriſtian has this in his Heart conſtantly and directly, and the Atheiſt and Free⯑thinker will make no ſuch Reflection? Tell me truly, Sir, would not ſuch a Poet appear to you or me, not to have ſufficiently conſider'd what a Poetical Moral is? And ſhould not you, or I Sir, be oblig'd, in order to make him comprehend the Nature of it, to lay before him that univerſal Moral, which is the Foundation of all Morals, both Epick and Dramatick, and is incluſive of them all, and that is, That He who does good, and perſeveres in it, ſhall always be Rewarded, and he who does ill and perſeveres in it, ſhall always be puniſh'd? Should we not deſire him to obſerve, That the foreſaid Reward muſt always attend and crown good Actions, not ſometimes only, for then it would follow, that ſometimes a perſeverance in good Actions has no Reward, which would take away all Poetical Inſtruction, [8] and indeed every ſort of Moral Inſtruction, re⯑ſolving Providence into Chance or Fate. Should we not, Sir, farther put him in Mind, that ſince whoever perſeveres in good Actions, is ſure to be Rewarded at the laſt, it follows, that a Poet does not aſſert by his Moral, that he is always ſure to be Rewarded in this World, becauſe that would be falſe, as you have very juſtly obſerv'd, p. 60. and therefore never can be the Moral of an Epick Poem, becauſe what is falſe may De⯑lude, but only Truth can Inſtruct. Should we not let him know, Sir, that this univerſal Moral only teaches us, That whoever perſeveres in good Actions, ſhall be always ſure to be Rewarded ei⯑ther here or hereafter; and that the Truth of this Moral is prov'd by the Poet, by making the principal Character of his Poem, like all the reſt of his Characters, and like the Poetical Action, at the bottom, Univerſal and Allegorical, even after diſtinguiſhing it by a particular Name, by making this principal Character at the bottom, a meer Poetical Phantom, of a very ſhort du⯑ration, thro' the whole extent of which duration we can ſee at once, which continues no longer than the reading of the Poem, and that being over, the Phantom is to us nothing, ſo that unleſs our Senſe is ſatisfy'd of the Re⯑ward that is given to this Poetical Phantome, whoſe whole duration we ſee thro' from the very beginning to the end; inſtead of a wholſome Moral, there would be a pernicious Inſtruction, viz. That a Man may perſevere in good Actions and not be Rewarded for it thro' the whole ex⯑tent [9] of his duration, that is neither in this World nor in the World to come.

BUT tho' the principal Character of an Epick Poem is morally vicious, yet the Poem ought not to end unfortunately with relation to that principal Character. But here, Sir, I think my ſelf oblig'd to explain my ſelf: By a Character morally vicious, I by no means mean a Villain⯑ous Character: Becauſe a Villain can never have greatneſs of Mind nor greatneſs of Capacity ſuf⯑ficient to perform Things deſerving to be admir'd. But Admiration is, as it were, the Inſtrument by which the Poet works his End, which is Inſtru⯑ction, as has been acknowledg'd.

BY a Character morally vicious then, I mean ſuch a Character as is compounded of good and bad Qualities, the good at the ſame time over⯑coming the bad, and Hiding them as the Sun does Mercury, by the greatneſs of their Neigh⯑bouring Luſtre: Now a Poet is not to make an Heroick Poem end Unfortunately, with relation to ſuch a Character, becauſe ſuch an end would weaken and deſtroy that Admiration which is re⯑quiſite for the Poet's attaining his End, and de⯑ſtroy or weaken it in the very place where its In⯑fluence is moſt requiſite. For as the greateſt Im⯑preſſion that a Poem is to make, ought to be made at the end of it, the reigning Paſſion of that Poem ought to predominate moſt there. As therefore Terrour and Compaſſion ought to be moſt violently mov'd, at the Cataſtrophe of a Tragedy, and Laughter at that of a Comedy, Admiration ought to be rais'd to its utmoſt height, [10] at the end of an Epick Poem. But if that Poem ſhould end unfortunately, with relation to ſuch a compounded Character, as we have juſt mention'd above, it would cauſe great Indignation in ſome, and great Compaſſion in others: Now as great Indignation and great Compaſſion are always at⯑tended with Grief, Admiration is conſtantly ac⯑companied with Joy. An Epick Poet therefore, by exciting Compaſſion or Indignation at the latter end of his Poem, inſtead of Admiration, would make that Poem throw off its Nature and aſſume that of Tragedy, which is as directly con⯑trary to its own, as Grief is to Joy, or as Light is to Darkneſs.

NOR would ſuch a proſperous End, in rela⯑tion to ſuch a Character, be in the leaſt a viola⯑tion of Poetick Juſtice, tho' for the moſt part in Tragedy, it would be a very great one; be⯑cauſe the Hero of an Epick Poem always carries on ſome good and great Deſign, for the Advan⯑tage of that Society, of which he is the chief, or an illuſtrious Member, at leaſt, it has been ſo, in all the Epick Poems I have yet ſeen; tho' this is far from being always the Caſe in Tragedy; now that publick Virtue makes Compenſation for all Faults but Crimes, and he who has this publick Virtue is not capable of Crimes. The ancient Romans and Athenians, while Liberty flouriſh'd among them, would have look'd very coldly upon a Poet, who ſhould have ſhewn a great Patriot unfortunate, only for being a great Patriot. In order to encourage publick Virtue and publick Spirit, and the Love of their Coun⯑trey, [11] they oblig'd their Epick Poets, to ſhew thoſe Virtues crown'd with Glory and Felicity. Nay, the Ancients made the very future Happi⯑neſs of their Heroes depend upon the Succeſs of their good and great Deſigns for the Welfare of their Country: Witneſs that famous paſſage in the Fragment of Cicero, De ſomnio Ciceronis Sed, quo ſis, Africane, alacrior. ad Tutandam Rem⯑publicam, ſic Habeto: Oomnibus, qui patriam conſervaverint, adjuverint, auxerint, certum eſſe in caelo, ac Definitum locum, ubi Beati aevo ſempiterno fruantur.

FOR my part, I have no Notion, that a ſuf⯑fering Hero can be proper for Epick Poetry. Milton could make but very little, even of a Suffering God, who makes quite another Im⯑preſſion with his Lightning and his Thunder in Paradiſe Loſt, than with his Meckneſs and his Stoiciſm in Paradiſe Regain'd: That great Spirit which Heroick Poetry requires, flows from great Paſſions and from great Actions: If the ſuffering Hero remains inſenſible the generality of Readers will not be much concern'd for one, who is ſo little concern'd for himſelf. The Greatneſs of his Mind may, perhaps, be admir'd by a few, who are themſelves magnanimous, but the Au⯑thor of an Epick Poem ought to write to Man⯑kind, and not only to the Age wherein he lives, but to remoteſt Poſterity. If the Hero of an Epick Poem ſhould not appear inſenſible in his Sufferings, his Senſibility will be attended with Paſſions, which are not only incompatible with that Admiration, which ought to be mov'd thro [12] the Poem, but which will ſink its Spirit, and debaſe its Majeſty.

LET us then, Sir, leave the Virtues of Pati⯑ence and long Suffering to be taught by Prieſts: They will not fail to inculcate ſuch Doctrines fre⯑quently, as being at once conſiſtent with their Duty and their Craft: But never fear that they will intrench upon your Province, and recom⯑mend publick Virtue and publick Spirit, and the Love of their Country, to a People, whom they have ſhewn too clearly, that 'tis their Deſign to enſlave. But for your part, Sir, that you may deſerve more and more of your Country and of Mankind, make Choice of a Hero, whoſe every Action may flow from thoſe noble Principles, and Reform a degenerate Age, which ſeems ſo fond of Slavery. Let his great Actions be crown'd with Glory and Victory, with the Joy⯑ful Acclamations of the People, whom he has made happy by his Heroick Conduct and Virtue, and with ſuch tranſcendent Felicity, as may raiſe the higheſt Admiration in the Breaſt of every Reader, inflame every one of them with the love of his Country, and with a burning Zeal to imi⯑tate what he admires.

TO Henry Cromwell, Eſq
On the Vis Comica.

WHEN I had the favour of a Viſit from you the other Day, I was in a great deal of Pain, and had been ſo for a Day and a Night before you ſaw me, and con⯑tinued ſo for the ſame ſpace of Time after you left me, and then I voided a Stone about the big⯑neſs of a Pea, and ſo thanks be to God, have been ever ſince at Eaſe.

BUT what perhaps may ſurprize you, is this, That in the midſt of all this Miſery, I read over four Comedies of Terence, viz. The Eunuch, the Heautontimorumenos, the Adelphi, and the Phormio. Theſe I read over in the two Evenings ofmy Ill⯑neſs, in the Cambridge Quarto Edition, a very convenient one for a Perſon of my gravity, in a Winter's Evening, tho' he who had the Care of the Edition, underſtood nothing of the Stage. In [14] the two Mornings of my Illneſs, I read over Mrs Dacier's Comment upon the Four Comedies, and upon the Life of Terence writ by Suetonius. I have told you more than once, that when the Commentators had ſometimes led me into a Bog, my own Common Senſe had help'd to guide me out again. You may gueſs what a de⯑ference I pay to the Herd of Commentators, when you will ſee by what follows, that I have the Aſſurance to contradict Monſieur Le Fevre and Mrs. Dacier his Daughter, for whoſe Learn⯑ing, Judgment, and fine Diſcernment I have al⯑ways had a ſingular Regard and Eſteem.

YOU know very well, Sir, that Suetonius in the latter end of his Life of Terence, has men⯑tion'd ſome Verſes of Julius Caeſar, in which that Emperor calls Terence a Demy Menander, and complains that the Vis Comica was wanting to that Comick Poet.

Mrs. Dacier in her Remarks upon that part of the Life, ſays, That it was the Opinion of her Father Monſieur Le Fevre, that by the Vis Co⯑mica, Caeſar meant the Paſſions, from which Opinion the Daughter diſſents for the two fol⯑lowing [15] Reaſons. Firſt, Becauſe the Paſſions are natural and eſſential to Tragedy, and but inci⯑dental to Comedy. Secondly, Becauſe it is impoſſible to preſerve the Characters, as Terence has admirably done, without making them Speak upon occaſion with as much Paſſion as that oc⯑caſion requires; which is not only juſtly, but very finely obſerv'd. And, Indeed we find that the Paſſions in Terence, upon great ſurprizes are ex⯑tream lively and ſtrong. And when Horace tells us in his Art of Poetry, that Comedy ſometimes uſurps upon Tragedy, and has Paſſions which are next to Tragical, He brings his Example from the Heautontimorumenos of Terence.

But the Explication which Mrs. Dacier her Self, gives of the Words of Caeſar, is not a jot better than her Father's. For by Vis Comica, ſays ſhe, Caeſar meant the Vivacity of the Acti⯑on, and the tying and ſolving the Knot of the In⯑trigue; which is wrong, for two Reaſons. Firſt, Becauſe theſe both belong to Tragedy as nearly as they do to Comedy. And, Secondly, Becauſe, if Caeſar had underſtood by his Vis Comica, what Mrs. Dacier thinks he did, he could never have call'd Terence a Demy Menander. For Te⯑rence, having the Buſineſs of two of Menander's Comedies in one of his, and the Grecian Comedy being of as great a length as the Roman; Terence muſt conſequently have more Intrigue, and a [16] greater Vivacity of Action than Menander, and conſequently, if Caeſar, by his Vis Comica, had meant the Intrigue, and the vivacity of Action, He would have nominated Terence, a Double, in⯑ſtead of a Demy Menander.

But ſince I have Declared my ſelf not at all ſatis⯑fied with either the Father's or the Daughter's Expli⯑cation, you may perhaps expect that I ſhould give my own. I ſhall do it with Submiſſion, but upon this Condition, that if I am in the wrong, you and your Commentators ſhall ſet me right.

I am apt to believe both from the Terms, and the Reaſon of the Thing, that by the Vis Comica, muſt be meant ſomething Comical and peculiar to Comedy. For the chief Force of any kind of Poem, muſt conſiſt in that which makes the Characteriſtick of it, and which diſtinguiſhes it from all other Poems. As the chief Force of Tragedy muſt proceed from the moving Compaſſion and Terror ſtrongly, and the Chief Force of Epick Poetry from the exciting Admi⯑ration, Powerfully, ſo the chief Force of Comedy muſt conſiſt in exciting Laughter. By the Vis Comica, then can never be meant the bare Vivacity of the Action, and the tying and ſolving the Knot of the Intrigue, which is com⯑mon to both kinds of Dramatick Poetry, as has been obſerv'd above, but the lively Ridicule re⯑ſulting from the Intrigue; the Ridicule of the In⯑cidents, and eſpecially of the Cataſtrophe, which yet is but a part of the Vis Comica, for there is likewiſe the Ridicule of the Characters proceed⯑ing from their ſeveral Humours, and the Plea⯑ſantry [17] of the Sentiments and of the Dialogue. When Caeſar therefore ſays, that Terence is but a Demy Menander, what does he ſay, but that Terence had turn'd four or five of Menander's Comedies into Latin, and loſt half the Ridi⯑cule and the Pleaſantry of that Athenian Poet, in Tranſlating him. That this was Caeſar's Meaning is plain to me, not only from the Reaſon and the Nature of the Thing, which has been ſhewn above, but from the great De⯑light which Caeſar took in the Ridiculum, and the great Encouragement which he gave to the Mimes of Laberius and Publius Syrus, which were low Farces, compos'd on purpoſe only to make People Laugh; as likewiſe from the Me⯑thod which Terence took in his Verſions: For taking two of Menander's Plays into one of his, he muſt of Neceſſity leave a great part of his Dialogue behind him, and by conſequence, a great part of his Pleaſantry: So that the ſame thing happen'd to Menander formerly, which has befallen Moliere in our Days. Several En⯑gliſh Authors have tranſlated Parts of him, but not one of them has enter'd into that naiueté which is the pureſt Source of his Pleaſantry, (as indeed it is of Pleaſantry in general) for what the French call naiueté, which is a charming Simplicity, dictated by pure Nature, is almoſt always Original: For there is ſomething in it ſo eaſie, ſo free, ſo flowing and ſo natural, as [...]ies the reſtraint of a Copy. I do not pretend to ſay, that there was none of the naiueté of [18] Menander in Terence; but I may venture to ſay after Caeſar, that there is not above half of it, and conſequently, not above half his Plea⯑ſantry; tho' at the ſame time, I believe that there is more of this Quality in Terence, than ever there was in a Copy; and if the God of Laughter does not always attend upon Terence, Venus and the Graces never leave him. 'Tis my humble Opinion, that there is no Dialogue extant in any Language, which has half the Charms of the Terentian Dialogue; what comes neareſt to it, is that of Etherege in Sir Fopling Flutter. I, who have been acquainted with Te⯑rence above forty Years, am now more delight⯑ed with him than ever: And ſure that Beauty muſt be no common Charmer, in whom Time ſhall diſcover new Graces, and whom long poſſeſſion, renders more deſireable.

THUS have I given you my Sentiments: If what I take to be the Senſe of Caeſar, be not your own, I deſire you would ſet me right.

TO N. ROWE, Eſq
On his being made Surveyor at the CUSTOM-HOUSE, and His MARRIAGE.

I Have been for ſeveral Weeks together, en⯑deavouring to wait on you: But I have lately had an Intermitting Feaver, and ſeveral Fits of the Stone, which have brought me very low: So that I can only congratulate you thus by Letter upon your New Post in the Cuſtom-Houſe. I was very much ſurpriz'd when I ſaw it in the Publick News. For know⯑ing it to be only a Warrant Place, and con⯑ſequently, a Place which a Man cannot ſupply by Proxy, I did not underſtand how it could be compatible either with your Pleaſures or with your other Buſineſs. However, if you are pleas'd, I am ſo likewiſe, and once more I Congratulate you.

[20] BUT, Sir, I had almoſt forgot myſelf; In⯑ſtead of Congratulating you, upon one Office, I ſhould wiſh you Joy of Two. You are be⯑come a Husband ſince I ſaw you laſt, as well as a Land Surveyor. Jeſu! What Alteration muſt not thoſe two Offices have made in the Life of a Gentleman, who lov'd to lie in Bed all Day for his Eaſe, and to ſit up all Night for his Pleaſure. I muſt confeſs, you are not ſo much a Novice in the former of theſe Em⯑ployments, as you are in the latter. I think you were heretofore ſeveral Years in the for⯑mer. But is not the Buſineſs and Duty of a Husband ſuch, that a Man grows leſs and leſs Qualify'd to Diſcharge it, the longer he has been in the Office? An Office, in which the Incumbent grows incapacitated, by too much, and too long an Experience:

To His GRACE the Duke of ARGYLE,
Written in the Name and at the Requeſt, of Mr. PENKETHMAN the Co⯑median, when he was a Priſoner in the King's-Bench, and Juſt Reco⯑vering from a great Fit of Sickneſs.

SINCE I had the Honour to play the Fool before your Grace here, it has been my Misfortune in the ſame Place to Act a very Melancholy Part, for which your Grace knows very well that Nature has not adapted me; and for which, I can aſſure your Grace, that I have not the leaſt Inclination. But the Part that I have been forc'd to act to the Life, and almoſt to the Death, has had ſo much Tragedy in it, that the Spectators thought more than once, that I would have gone quite off the Stage in an ill Humour.

[22] I have, may it pleaſe your Grace, paſs'd the beginning of this Winter in Southwark, as my old Patron, and your Grace's old Friend Phoebus, paſs'd it in Greenland. I have never Riſen 'till Twelve, and after I have been up little more than an Hour, have been forc'd to go to Bed again; have, like him, look'd very Pale and Wan, all the Time I have been up, and have been for the moſt part of that Time, as I may ſay, under a Cloud; and it has been conſtantly expected, when like my old Pa⯑tron, I ſhould have gone under the Horizon for a long time before I roſe again.

BUT while I was thus between Life and Death, and in ſore Tribulation, my old Pa⯑tron came to me by Night, at the Time when he diſappeared to all the other Mortals of this Hemiſphere? and giving me a ſwinging lug by the Ear, that has made one ſide of my Head Sore ever ſince, Pinky quoth he, be of good Cheer, I have found a way to free thee from all thy Troubles. I have put my Old and Va⯑lued Friend in Mind of thee, who has promi⯑ſed me to talk with Collonel Churchil, about Ways and Means to releaſe Thee. What Friend ſaid I, may it pleaſe thy Godſhip▪ With that, he directly nam'd your Grace to me; he did, my Lord as I hope once more to be a merry Fool, inſtead of a ſour Melan⯑cholly Sage, as I at this Inſtant am. My Old and valued Friend, quoth he, has a Kindneſs for all my Domeſticks, who do their Buſineſs [23] ſo as to pleaſe him and me. His Star and mine, ſhall Shine in benign Conjuction thee, I will heal thee. His Grace and the Collonel will order a Contribution for thee; and thou ſhall ſhortly act a ridiculous Squire in Drury, in⯑ſtead of a ſullen dying Sophiſter in the Bo⯑rough.

But quoth I, to my old Patron, may I put his Grace in Mind of this, and will not he take it ill? Thou mayſt put him in Mind of it, anſwered he, and I will pawn my Divinity on it, that he will not take it ill.

THUS, my Lord, depending on his Divinity, and on your Grace's Humanity, I have pre⯑ſum'd to ſend you this; and if your Grace takes it otherwiſe than it was meant, which was to beſpeak your Favour, and to Entertain you, I will never for the future believe in Phoebus, and will have no more dependance on him, than has a ſmall Poet, who tires ſuc⯑ceſſively four Pair of Horſes, to engage Perſons of Quality to come to his third Night.

SINCE I had the Honour to Write what is above, to your Grace, Phoebus has ap⯑peared again to me, and by another Lug, made t'other ſide of my Head Sore. Pinky, quoth he, thou knoweſt that we great Wits, have often bad Memories. I quite forgot to or⯑der thee to remind his Grace of the Method which he has reſolv'd to uſe, in working thy Deliverance. His Grace is reſolv'd in a nume⯑rous Aſſembly, to put a Guinea into a Green Purſe, and throwing it down upon the Table, to cry, that is for Pinky's Deliverance. That Action and thoſe Words will have Magick in them; for ſtrait upon the Pronuncing them, every Man's Guinea, will, of its own accord, fly from his Pocket to the Table, and will run rowling towards the Green Purſe, 'till it has join'd and Saluted his Grace's, under which, when they are united in a firm Confederacy, they will march in a Body to the King's Bench, to deliver Pinky from Bondage. Thus will Guineas anſwer the End of their Creation, which was to promote Liberty, as Louis d'ors were Coin'd on Purpoſe to work Bondage. The Scoundrel who Arreſt⯑ed [2] thee, had two Louis d'ors for his Labour. The Miſchief that Lewis his Image did thee, King William's ſhall undoc. This be aſſur'd of, and I command thee to ſend this with my Reſpects by Way of Poſtſcript to his Grace.

Borough Southwark, Nov. 16. 1714.

To His GRACE the Duke of Marlborough.

ON the 24th of December laſt, I had the Honour to Receive a Letter from Your Grace, Directed to Mr. Wal⯑pole, and inclos'd in one from Mr. Hodges to me. I return'd Your Grace that very Night my humble Acknowledgment, for the extra⯑ordinary Favour you had done me, and if I have not yet had the Honour to acquaint you with the Effect it had, 'tis becauſe I have been in Daily Expectations of the Event, which is ſtill Depending. But notwithſtanding this De⯑lay, my Lord, I am not yet like a Man with⯑out Hope. It ſeems to me impoſſible, that the Duke of Marlbrough's Recommendation can ever come in Vain. It would be hard that he who has turn'd the Fortune of Europe, ſhould nor be able to alter mine, and that [27] Your Grace ſhould receive that Repulſe from one of your Friends, which a hundred Thou⯑ſand of your Enemies aſſembled in a Body, have never been able to give you.

TO Captain STEELE.

I Sent a Letter on the 28th to your Houſe, Directed to Captain Steele, and deſiring to ſee himthat Night, that I might have his Advice upon a Buſineſs of Importance, ſoftly intimating at the ſame Time, that it was not in my Power to wait upon him. But having neither ſeen him nor heard from him, I fancy that my old Friend is departed, and ſome Gentleman has ſucceeded him in the old Houſe, with the ſame Name, and the ſame Martial Title; a Chance that happens oftener in the World than ſome People ima⯑gine. How ſhould I have been ſurpriz'd, in Caſe I had gone my ſelf, expecting from the Similitude of Name and Title, to have ſeen my old Acquaintance? How ſhould I have been ſurpriz'd to have found a Man with quite another Mind, and quite another Countenance? My old Friend, as I thought at leaſt, had Ci⯑vility, had Humanity, had a good and enga⯑ging [29] Officiouſneſs, and as I did not take him to want good Nature, ſo he had what the French call a good Countenance, that is, the Countenance of one who is pleas'd with him who talks to him. But I ſuppoſe I ſhould have found nothing of all this in the noble Captain who ſucceeds him. You will ſay, perhaps, that you had no Reaſon to make a Viſit to one whom you know not, and are reſolved not to know. But then, Noble Captain, you ought to have ſent back my Letter, and to have given me to underſtand, that you are not the Perſon that I took you for; that you ſhould have enough to do, if you were obliged to own all the Acquaintance of the Captain, your Predeceſſor; That I am not the firſt Man who have made this Miſtake, and ſhall not probably be the laſt. Had you done this, I had had no Replication to make to ſo equitable an Anſwer. I ſhould only perhaps have advis'd you, in order to the prevent⯑ing ſome troubleſome Viſits, and ſome imper⯑tinent Letters, to cauſe an Advertiſement to be inſerted in Squire Bickerſtaff's next Lucu⯑brations, by which the World might be in⯑form'd, That the Captain Steele, who lives now in Bury-Street, is not the Captain of the ſame Name, who liv'd there two Years ago, and that the Acquaintance of the Military Perſon who inhabited there formerly, may go look for their old Friend, e'en where they can find him.

TO THO. SERGEANT, Eſq
Upon the Proſpect from LEITH-HILL in Surrey.

I Have ever ſince I ſaw you laſt, been either in Motion, or in Places where Ink is a Liquor more precious than Tockay. But tho' I have ever ſince the Beginning of July, been in the Country, I have enjoy'd ſmall Satisfa⯑ction, if you except what the ſight of the Country itſelf affords me, which is indeed an Entertainment, of which I can never be weary.

I never in all my Life time left it without Regret, and always return'd to it with Joy. The Sight of a Mountain is to me more agree⯑able than that of the moſt pompous Edifice; and Meadows and natural winding Streams, pleaſe me before the moſt beautiful Gardens, and the moſt coſtly Canals: So much does Art appear to me to be ſurpaſs'd by Nature, and the Works of Men by the Works of God. But [31] here I deſire you to believe, that I ſpeak of the Mechanick Works of Men. For as to the Productions of Human Mind, the more Art ſome of them have, as particularly ſome ſorts of Poetry, the more lovely they are, and more eſtimable; becauſe, the more they have in them of true Art, the more they have of Nature; whereas, in the Mechanick Works of Men, the contrary of this is ſeen; for the more con⯑ſummate an Art appears in them, the more they recede from plain and ſimple Nature.

BUT thither to return from whence I di⯑greſs'd; as the Sight of the Country has been always more pleaſing to me than that of the Town, ſo, in a late Journey which I took in⯑to the Wild of Suſſex, I paſs'd over a Hill which ſhew'd me a more tranſporting Sight than ever the Country had ſhewn me before, either in England or Italy. The Proſpects, which in Italy pleas'd me moſt, were that of the Valdarno from the Apennins, that of Rome and the Mediterranean, from the Mountain of Viterbo; of Rome at Forty, and of the Medi⯑terranean at Fifty Miles diſtance from it, and that of the Campagne of Rome, from Tiuoli and Freſcati; from which two Places, you ſee every Foot of that famous Campaigne, even from the Bottom of Tiuoli and Freſcati, to the very Foot of the Mountain of Viterbo with⯑out any thing to intercept your Sight. But from a Hill which I paſs'd in my late Journey into Suſſex, I had a Proſpect more extenſive [32] than any of theſe, and which ſurpaſs'd them at once in Rural Charms, in Pomp and in Magnificence. The Hill which I ſpeak of is call'd Leith Hill, and is about five Miles Southward from Darking; about ſix from Box-Hill, and near twelve from Epſom. It juts its ſelf out about two Miles beyond that Range of Hills which terminates the North Downs to the South. When I ſaw from one of thoſe Hills, at about two Miles diſtance, that ſide of Leith Hill which faces the Nor⯑thern Downs; it appeared the beautifulleſt Proſpect to me I had ever ſeen. But after we had conquered the Hill it ſelf, I ſaw a Sight that would tranſport a Stoick, a Sight that look'd like Enchantment and Viſion, but Vi⯑ſion Beatifick. Beneath us, lay open to our View, all the Wilds of Surrey and Suſſex, and a great Part of that of Kent, admirably Diver⯑ſifyed in every Part of them, with Woods, and Fields of Corn, and Paſtures; thoſe Fields of Corn and Paſtures, being every where adorn'd with ſtately Rows of Trees.

This beautiful Vale, is about thirty Miles in Breadth, and about ſixty in Length, and is terminated to the South, by the Majeſtick Range of the Southern Hills and the Sea. And 'tis no eaſie matter to decide, whether theſe Hills which appear at thirty, Forty, Fifty, Miles diſtance, with their Tops in the Sky, appear more Awful and Venerable, or the Delicious Vale between you and them [33] more inviting. About Noon in a ſerene Day, you may at thirty Miles Diſtance ſee the very Water of the Sea thro' a Chaſm of the Mountains. And that which above all makes it a noble and a wonderful Pro⯑ſpect, is, that at the ſame time that at chirty Miles Diſtance you behold the very Water of the Sea; at the ſame time that you be⯑hold to the South the moſt delicious Rural Proſpect in the World; at that very time, by a little turn of your Head towards the North, you look full over Box Hill, and ſee the Country beyond it between that and London; and over the very Stomacher of it, ſee St. Paul's at five and twenty Miles Diſtance, and London beneath it, and High⯑gate and Hampſtead beyond it. It may perhaps appear incredible to ſome, that a Place which affords ſo great and ſo ſurpri⯑ſing a Proſpect, ſhould have remain'd ſo long in Obſcurity; in ſo great Obſcurity, that 'tis unknown to the very Frequenters of Ep⯑ſom and Box Hill. But, alas! we live in a Country more fertile of Great Things, than of Men to admire them. Who ever talked of Cooper's Hill, till Sir John Den⯑ham made it Illuſtrious? How long did Mil⯑ton remain in Obſcurity, while twenty pal⯑try Authors, little and vile if compared to him, were talk'd of and admir'd? But here in England nineteen in twenty like by o⯑ther Peoples Opinions, and not by their [34] own. That Fools by their Approbation ſhould draw in Fools, as Sheep leap after Sheep, is no great matter of Wonder: But that Fools by their Numbers ſhould prove ſo powerful as to influence Men of Senſe, and engage them to approve of what they would otherwiſe utterly have contemned, is what I have often wonder'd at, but ne⯑ver could yet account for; but ſuch unna⯑tural monſtrous Things as theſe, make the Town more odious and the Country more agreeable.

TO S [...] T [...] Eſq
On the Deceitfulneſs of RUMOUR.

IT was always my Opinion, that Judg⯑ment is a cool and a ſlow Faculty, and no more conſtantly attends a Man in the warmth of Wine and of Converſation, than in the Fury and Rapture of a Poetical Compoſition. If I had in the leaſt doubted of this, what paſt at your Houſe, on the firſt of this Month, would have perfectly convinced me of it; where, for want of Coolneſs to conſider Things, I betray'd my own Cauſe and that of my departed Friend Mr. Wycherly. I ſhall ſay but a Word or two of my own, but I deſire to be a little longer about his.

I then declared it to be my Opinion, that Free-thinking would at one time or other [36] endanger our Conſtitution; That it invali⯑dates the very Things which are the great⯑eſt Security both of Princes and People, and thoſe are the Oaths which the Subjects of Great Britain take either as Subjects or Witneſſes. To which a Gentleman in the Company anſwer'd, that the Oaths derived their binding Force from the very Law of Nature, as well as from the Chriſtian Reli⯑gion; with which Anſwer, for want of Coolneſs and Time to conſider, I remain'd at that inſtant ſatisfied.

But as ſoon as I bad Coolneſs and Time to conſider, I found that a double Reply might juſtly be made to that Anſwer of your Friend. For in the firſt Place, the Free-thinkers are divided into Atheiſts and Deiſts. Now the former of theſe cannot be at all influenced by the Law of Nature. For to them to whom there is no God, there can be no Law of Nature. And as for the latter, tho' Theiſts are influenced by the Law of Nature, yet we ought to con⯑ſider, that the Oath which an Engliſhman is oblig'd to take as a Subject or a Witneſs, derives its moſt binding Force, and its moſt ſacred Solemnity, from that which diſtin⯑guiſhes it from all other Oaths, and that is the laying Hands upon the Bible and kiſ⯑ſing it; which Ceremonies are certainly not deduceable from the Law of Nature, but are wholly derived from that Revelation [37] which the Theiſts do not believe. Free⯑thinking then is the Cauſe, why both A⯑theiſts and Theiſts, by contemning thoſe Ceremonies, and disbelieving the Revela⯑tion from whence they are derived, are come ſlightly to regard the very Oath it ſelf: Yes, Free-thinking is the Cauſe that at this time of day we have ſo many brave Knights-Errant of the Poſt, both Spiritual and Secular,

Thus have I ſpoke to my own Cauſe in as few Words as I could. I deſire to dwell a little longer upon my late Friend Mr. Wycherly's. A Gentleman in the Compa⯑ny was pleaſed to ſay, that the Comedy of the Country Wife had not a juſt Foundation, be⯑cauſe, ſaid he, it was not practicable for Horner to make himſelf paſs for an Eu⯑nuch. How! not practicable, when he himſelf was at the bottom of the Deſign, and had taken ſo many Precautions to make [38] it ſucceed? I am ſo far from being of your Friend's Opinion, that I would lay fifty to one, if I were but capable of ſuborning half a dozen Raſcals, who ſhould warmly and induſtriouſly ſpread the Report, that I would make either you or your Friend paſs for Free-thinkers, with a conſiderable part of the Town, in ſpight of your utmoſt At⯑tempts to undeceive them. How can that be, you'll ſay, when there would be neither Truth nor Probability in ſuch a Report? But have Truth or Probability any thing to do with the Entertainments of publick Ru⯑mour? When my Lord Rocheſter ſaid,

did he banter, do you think? or ſpeak it from a thorough Knowledge of the World and of Mankind? There is another of our Poets, who knew Mankind perfectly well, who will tell you the ſame thing in Terms that are ſomething ſtronger.

[39] 'Tis true indeed, if the Rabble and Scum of Mankind, of whoſe Voices pub⯑lick Rumour is compos'd, had but ſo much true Senſe as a ſober Beaſt, why then the Rule that Horace has laid down for the Tragick Stage, might do pretty well for the Stage of the World.

But ſince the caſe is far otherwiſe, and ſo many Ideots will believe that they See what they only Hear; (where as no Dog, no Horſe, nay no Aſs is Fool enough to let his external Senſe be impos'd upon by his beaſtly Imagination;) Butler has been ſo far from thinking that Horace's Rule for the Tragick Stage is proper for the Stage of the World, that he has laid down for the Latter, one which is the very Reverſe of the other.

What my Lord Rocheſter and the Author of Hudibras have declar'd in their Verſes, [40] our Dramatick Poets have endeavour'd to ſhew upon the Stage, viz. That the Eyes of the Rabble of Mankind are downright Cullies to their Ears, and that they eaſily believe that they actually See what they are only impudently Told of: Witneſs what paſſes between Vindicius and old Brutus, in the Junius Brutus of Lee; and between Hamlet and Polonius, in the Hamlet of Shakeſpear, which ſeems to be the original of the other. And has not Ben, Learned Ben, who is ſo great a Maſter of his Art, and conſequently of Human life and nature, ſhewn us the very reverſe of this in the Ca⯑taſtrophe of his admirable Alchimiſt, viz. ſhewn us Perſons who what before they had actually ſeen, are made to believe that they only vainly imagin'd, and for no other Rea⯑ſon but becauſe they are impudently told that they only vainly imagin'd it.

I tell you then again and again, that I would undertake, if I could but be brought to uſe the Means, to make both you and your Friend paſs for Eunuchs, in ſpight of the Teſtimony of Twenty Females, who might cry out in Mrs. Pinchwife's Language, they won't ſee poor Mr. Horner abus'd, for to their certain knowledge—For tho' that perhaps might undeceive a few, the general Opinion would ſtill remain. For why may it not be as practicable to geld you and your Friend, as it has been to burſt one of your old [41] Acquaintance, in ſpight not only of Truth, but of all manner of Probability; in ſpight of his own ſolemn Aſſeverations to the con⯑trary, of the continual vigorous Exerciſes both of Riding and Walking, which he has us'd of late; and laſtly, in ſpight of ocu⯑lar and manual Proof to the contrary given to eminent Chirurgeons and others? when neither Truth, nor reaſonable and ſtrong Preſumption, nor Evidence of Senſe that has been given to ſeveral, have been able to undeceive the many, but the Rupture has ſtill remained in the empty Heads of a thouſand Fools, who have ſtill endeavour'd to propagate the ſenſeleſs Error.

If any thing that I have ſaid about this laſt Affair may happen to ſurpriſe you, the Surpriſe I ſuppoſe will ſtill be greater, when you are told that the two Apoſtles of this new Doctrine, like thoſe of Mahomet, are downright Aſs and Widgeon.

The groſs of Mankind have infinitely more Propenſity to cenſure than to praiſe. They generally praiſe thro' Intereſt, and they cenſure by Inclination. And yet the Poiſon of falſe Praiſe has more than once [42] grown epidemically contagious, by the Er⯑ror and Imbecility of a few, and the Con⯑ſpiracy of a falſe Report. You cannot have forgot what happened to that ugly Beau Bovey in the Time of King Charles the Second:

You may remember that ſomething like this has happen'd upon the Repreſentation of ſeveral of our Dramatick Performances, when blundering ſuſtain Tragedies, or tri⯑fling inſipid Comedies, have, by the Con⯑ſpiracy of a Cabal, and their concerted Applauſes, been cogg'd upon the Town for Maſter-pieces, to the Diſhonour of our Country and Diſgrace of the Britiſh Poetry. Some Perſons, who have been in theſe Conſpiracies, knew, or ought to have known, better Things. But one unaccountable Effect of Vanity, among many others, is, that ſome Perſons, tho' they do not want Underſtanding, yet, at the Expence of the Reputation of their Common-Senſe, are fond of ſhewing their Power; are fond of ſhewing their Power to Fools, at the Ex⯑pence of the Reputation of their Common⯑Senſe with the thinking part of the World.

[43] How often has ſomething like this hap⯑pened among our Stateſmen? How often have they topp'd White for Black, and Black for White, upon the thoughtleſs Rab⯑ble? How often have they who Yeſterday were thought Heroes, and Patriots, and Demy-gods, to Day been look'd upon as Villains, and Thieves, and Robbers; and they who Yeſterday were held Villains and Traitors, have to Day been regarded as Heroes, and Saints, and Patriots? Have not our Politicians more than once turn'd the Rehearſal out of Ridicule, by turning the whole State topſy turvy in a Morning, only by the Artillery of falſe Reports, without ſo much as ſtriking a real Blow? and by that means proving to all the World, that one might take Mr. Bays for a Poli⯑tician; that Mr. Bays's Politicks were good and ſound, and that his quondum Grace of Bucks was out, when he pretended to make a Jeſt of them.

But in ſhort, and Raillery apart, the Prevalency of falſe Reports, concerted by five or ſix dark Sophiſters, has more than once made ſome of the beſt and greateſt Men in the Kingdom, who but juſt before were approv'd, applauded, admir'd and cheriſh'd by all the Lovers of their Country, become all at once the very Hatred and Scorn of the Rabble, which I believe nei⯑ther ever did, or could have happen'd any [44] where but in England; either as to the Exceſs of Malice in the Inventors, or the Exceſs of Credulity in the Believers and Propagators of thoſe falſe Reports. For that which makes England the moſt ſplene⯑tick Country in the Univerſe, makes it the chief and reſidentiary Seat of Slander. For there never was a very ſplenetick Man, unleſs he was a Man of an extraordinary Underſtanding, but he was at the ſame time a Slanderer. And the ſame virulent Humour, that cauſes ſo many noble Bri⯑tons to hang, and poiſon, and drown them⯑ſelves, cauſes them likewiſe to do their ut⯑moſt to murder the Reputation of their Neighbours; and the ſame Humour that in ſome degree caus'd the Invention of the Slander at firſt, cauſes likewiſe the Propa⯑gation of it, and the Credulity of its Be⯑lievers. Judge then, if in ſuch a Country as this, even an improbable falſe Report be not a juſt Foundation for a Comedy. But the Report of Horner's Impotency, ſince he himſelf invented it, and prepared the Way for it, is ſo highly probable, that a Man muſt be very Hypercritical, who, up⯑on that account, cenſures my late moſt in⯑genious Friend. I have a great deal more to ſay upon this Subject, but I want Time at preſent.

To the Reverend Mr. MANSELL Rector of COSGRAVE.

YOURS of the 22d of the laſt Month came to my Hands in due time. I had ſooner returned you Thanks for the favour of it, and had ſooner congratulated you upon the return of your Health, upon which ſo many Healths depend, and which under God has been ſo often the cauſe of the Recovery of mine; if I had not been engag'd in an Important Buſineſs which took up all my Hours. I likewiſe return you my hearty thanks for ſetting the Affair between me and my Brother-in-Law in a true light, tho' I perceive by what you write that there are Perſons who continue to believe him. But I would fain ask thoſe Perſons what Motive they have to reſtrain them from do⯑ing an unjuſt or a baſe thing, which I have not in a much greater Degree. They will [46] ſay, perhaps, that they have got a great deal more Money than I have. But, Sir, is not their getting a great deal a ſign of their great Love for it? And if I have all my life time had but a little, do they believe it has proceeded from my Incapacity of getting it, or from my Contempt of it? And which is moſt like to ſecure any one from doing Injuſtice; the Love of Money, or the Con⯑tempt of it? Have their Purſes been more conſtantly open to the Occaſions of their Friends and Acquaintance? Have they diſ⯑cover'd more magnanimous Thoughts, and more exalted above Selfiſhneſs? Have they more Underſtanding to diſcern their true Intereſt, and to know that no Man can live happily without living reputably? Have they had a more liberal Education, or a more generous Converſation? I was till five and forty plung'd in the Converſation of the great World, and was every Day in com⯑pany with Gentlemen, who are univerſally known to be Men of no ordinary Merit, who wanted no Diſcernment to know me, and who have ſeveral of them given publick proofs of their Eſteem for me. Now if I miſtake not, before the Age of forty five the Manners of Men are unalterably form'd. For theſe laſt fifteen Years I have retir'd from the World, and confin'd my Conver⯑ſation to three or four of my old Acquain⯑tance who are publickly known to be Men [47] of Men of Honour and Underſtanding. Can any reaſonable Man then believe, that I, who while I was converſant in the World kept my Reputation clear, ſhould retire to be a Villain in Solitude? If I refus'd to an⯑ſwer a Demand which my Brother-in-Law pretended he had upon me, 'tis becauſe he had no title to any thing from me but his want of it. If he had ask'd me to give him the Money which he ſaid I ow'd him, I had certainly given it him. But I could not think without Indignation, that an ungrate⯑ful Wretch, to whom I had endeavour'd at the expence of my Time and Intereſt to do the moſt Important Services, ſhould pretend to extort it from me by Inſults and Brutality. What thoſe Services are, I ſhall let you know in my next; but I am weary at preſent, and ſo without doubt are you.

TO Mr. * * *
In which are ſome Paſſages of the LIFE of Mr. JOHN CROWN, Author of Sir Courtly Nice.

I Shall now, in compliance with the repeated Requeſts you have made to me, ſay ſomething concerning the E⯑ducation of Mr. JOHN CROWN, and the moſt remarkable Paſſages of his Life. Mr. CROWN was bred under his Father, an Independant Miniſter, in that part of Nor⯑thern America, which is called Nova Scotia. But the Vivacity of his Genius made him ſoon grow impatient of that ſullen and gloomy Education, and ſoon oblig'd him to get looſe from it, and ſeek his Fortune in England. But it was his Fate, at his firſt Arrival here, to happen on an Employment more formal, if poſſible, than his American [49] Education. His Neceſſity, upon his firſt Ar⯑rival here, oblig'd him to become a Gen⯑tleman-Uſher to an old Independant Lady. But he ſoon grew as weary of that pre⯑ciſe Office, as he had been before of the Diſcipline of Nova Scotia. One would think that theſe were but indifferent Pre⯑paratives to the commencing polite Author. But neither theſe nor his Poverty, which was great, could oppreſs his aſpiring Spi⯑rit, aſpiring to Reputation and Diſtinction, rather than to Fortune and Power. His Writings ſoon made him known to the Court and Town: Yet it was neither to the Favour of the Court, nor of Wilmot Lord Rocheſter, one of the ſhining Orna⯑ments of it, that he was indebted for the Nomination which the King made of him for the writing the Mask of Calypſo, but to the Malice of that noble Lord, who de⯑ſign'd by that Preference to mortify Mr. Dryden. Upon the breaking out of the two Parties, after the Diſcovery of the Po⯑piſh Plot, the Favour that he was in at Court, the Gayety of his Youth, and his being unacquainted with true political Prin⯑ciples, engaged him to embrace the Party of the Tories. About that time he writ The City Politicks, on purpoſe to Satyrize and expoſe the Whigs; a Comedy ſo agree⯑able, that it deſerv'd to be writ in a much better Cauſe: But after he had writ [50] it, he met with very great Difficulties in the getting it acted. Bennet Lord Arling⯑ton, who was then Lord Chamberlain of the King's Houſhold, and who had ſecret⯑ly eſpous'd the Whigs, who were at that time powerful in Parliament, in order to ſupport himſelf againſt the Favour and Power of the Lord Treaſurer Danby, who was his declared Enemy, us'd all his Au⯑thority to ſuppreſs it. One while it was prohibited on the account of its being Dangerous, another while it was laid aſide on the pretence of its being Flat and Inſi⯑pid; till Mr. Crown at laſt was forc'd to have Recourſe to the King himſelf, and to engage him to give his abſolute Command to the Lord Chamberlain for the acting of it; which Command the King was pleas'd to give in his own Perſon. For that Mo⯑narch lov'd a Comedy above all Things, (excepting one Thing) and had no mean Opinion of Mr. Crown's Qualifications to ſucceed in it. While he was thus in Fa⯑vour with the King and the Court, I have more than once heard him ſay, that tho' he had a ſincere Affection for the King, he had yet a mortal Averſion to the Court. The Promiſe of a Sum of Money made him ſometimes appear there to ſolicit the Pay⯑ment of it: But as ſoon as he had got it, he vaniſh'd, and continued a long time ab⯑ſent from it, of which, he told me, the [51] Dutcheſs of Portſmouth took once Occa⯑ſion to complain to the King; whoſe way of anſwering that Complaint, puts me in mind of a Paſſage in Boileau's Epiſtle to La⯑moignon.

It was at the very latter End of King Charles's Reign, that Mr. Crown being tyr'd with the Fatigue of Writing, and ſhock'd by the Uncertainty of Theatrical Succeſs, and deſirous to ſhelter himſelf from the Reſentments of thoſe numerous Enemies which he had made by his City Politicks, made his Application immediately to the King himſelf; and deſir'd his Majeſty to eſtabliſh him in ſome Office, that might be a Security to him for Life. The King had the Goodneſs to aſſure him, he ſhould have an Office, but added that he would firſt ſee another Comedy. Mr. Crown endeavour⯑ing to excuſe himſelf, by telling the King, that he plotted ſlowly and awkwardly; the King replyed, that he would help him to a Plot, and ſo put into his Hands the Spaniſh Comedy called Non pued Eſſer. Mr. Crown was oblig'd immediately to go to work upon it; but, after he had writ three Acts of it, found to his Surpriſe, that the Spaniſh [52] Play had ſome time before been tranſlated, and acted, and damn'd, under the Title of Tarugo's Wiles, or the Coffee-houſe. Yet, ſupported by the King's Command, he went boldly on and finiſh'd it; and here ſee the Influence of a Royal Encourage⯑ment.

Mr. Crown, who had once before ob⯑lig'd the Commonwealth of Learning with a very agreeable Comedy in his City Poli⯑ticks, yet in Sir Courtly Nice went far be⯑yond it, and infinitely ſurpaſſed himſelf. For tho' there is ſomething in the part of Crack which borders upon Farce, the Spaniſh Au⯑thor alone muſt anſwer for that. For Mr. Crown could not omit the Part of Crack, that is of Tarugo, and the Spaniſh Farce depending upon it, without a downright Affront to the King, who had given him that Play for his Ground-work. But all that is of Engliſh Growth in Sir Courtly Nice is admirable; for tho' we find in it neither the fine Deſigning of Ben. Johnſon; nor the general and maſculine Satyr of Wy⯑cherly; nor that Grace, that Delicacy, nor that Courtly Air which make the Charms of Etherege; yet is the Dialogue ſo lively and ſo ſpirited, and ſo attractively diverſi⯑fied and adapted to the ſeveral Characters; four of thoſe Characters are ſo entirely new, yet ſo general and ſo important, are drawn ſo truly and ſo graphically, and oppos'd to [53] each other, Surly to Sir Courtly and Hot⯑head to Teſtimony, with ſuch a ſtrong and entire Oppoſition; thoſe Extremes of Be⯑haviour, the one of which is the Grievance, and the other the Plague of Society and Converſation; exceſſive Ceremony on one ſide, and on the other ſide Rudeneſs and Brutality, are ſo finely expos'd in Surly and Sir Courtly; and thoſe Diviſions and Animoſities in the two great Parties of England, which have ſo long diſturb'd the publick Quiet, and undermined the pub⯑lick Intereſt, are ſo happily repreſented and ridicul'd in Teſtimony and Hothead, that tho' I have more than twenty times read over this charming Comedy, yet I have al⯑ways read it, not only with Delight but Rapture. And 'tis my Opinion, that the greateſt Comick Poet that ever liv'd in any Age, might have been proud to have been the Author of it.

The Play was now juſt ready to appear to the World; and as every one that had ſeen it rehears'd was highly pleas'd with it; every one who had heard of it was big with the Expectation of it; and Mr. Crown was delighted with the flattering Hope of being made happy for the reſt of his Life, by the Performance of the King's Promiſe; when, upon the very laſt Day of the Re⯑hearſal, he met Cave Underhill coming from the Play-Houſe as he himſelf was go⯑ing [54] towards it: Upon which the Poet re⯑primanding the Player for neglecting ſo conſiderable a Part as he had in the Co⯑medy, and neglecting it on a Day of ſo much Conſequence, as the very laſt Day of Rehearſal: Oh Lord, Sir, ſays Under⯑hill, we are all undone. Wherefore, ſays Mr. Crown, is the Play-Houſe on Fire? The whole Nation, replys the Player, will quickly be ſo, for the King is dead. At the hearing which diſmal Words, the Au⯑thor was little better; for he who but the Moment before was raviſh'd with the Thought of the Pleaſure, which he was about to give to his King, and of the Favours which he was afterwards to re⯑ceive from him, this Moment found, to his unſpeakable Sorrow, that his Roy⯑al Patron was gone for ever, and with him all his Hopes. The King indeed reviv'd from his Apoplectick Fit, but three Days after dyed, and Mr. Crown by his Death was replung'd in the deepeſt Melancholy.

Thus, Sir, have I given you a ſhort Ac⯑count of the Education of Mr. John Crown, and of the moſt remarkable Circumſtances of his Life, to the Death of King Charles the Second. I ſhall, as ſoon as I have Op⯑portunity, continue this Relation from the Death of King Charles to the Death of Mr. Crown.

To his Grace the Duke of BUCKINGHAM.

NOT being able to wait on your Grace by reaſon of an intolerable Head-ach, I humbly deſire that you would order the Letter which you have done me the Honour to write for me, to be delivered to the Bearer.

I humbly deſire your Grace to believe, that if you had given me no Caution, I had by no means done any thing, which might cauſe me to forfeit your good Opinion of me. So far were my Thoughts from that, that I never yet reſolv'd to publiſh thoſe Remarks. 'Tis very likely, that af⯑ter your Grace, and my Lord Hallifax, and Two or Three more have perus'd them, I may ſend them to the Author, and content my ſelf, with letting him know my Power.

BUT, my Lord, as I would not be thought to do a Barbarous thing, I deſire your Grace to believe, that I had powerful [56] Motives to engage me to write theſe Re⯑marks. I was attack'd in the [...], in the very ſecond or third, and in ſeveral others. Since your Grace is of opinion that the Au⯑thor of the Tragedy did not write thoſe particular Papers, I am very willing to be⯑lieve it. But he was in Partnerſhip with thoſe who did. He went ſhare in the Pro⯑fits, and more than ſhare in the Reputa⯑tion. And Mr. [...] durſt not have pro⯑vok'd me, without his Approbation, or at leaſt his Conſent. My Lord, with ſub⯑miſſion to your Grace's Judgment, I am apt to believe, that what Mr. [...] did in this Caſe was the Action of Mr. [...] ▪ If a Man who is in Partnerſhip wrongs me in Trade, all the Partners are involv'd in the Guilt, unleſs they diſclaim it, and ſig⯑nify their Abhorrence of it to the Perſon injur'd. The Law of England allows of no Acceſſaries in Murder; all who are con⯑cern'd in it are Principals. And Reaſon, upon which the Law of England is found⯑ed, ſays, that the Caſe is the ſame in the aſ⯑ſaſſinating a Man's Reputation. My Lord, I appeal to your Grace, if the attacking me in the [...], was not only an Aſſaſ⯑ſination, but one of the blackeſt ſort. It was done in the dark, no Provocation in the leaſt given, no Name to the Paper, and no Author known; when at the very ſame Time they openly profeſt Friendſhip to me. [57] I may add to this, that it was done at a time when they baſely took advantage of the great Misfortunes I lay under. My Lord, I appeal to your Grace, if mine is not a more generous Proceeding. I do not attack, but retort; I proceed frankly and openly, and I who am in Adverſity, engage one who is in high Proſperity.

Yet, after all, my Lord, the Satyr of this Criticiſm (for Reaſon is the ſevereſt Satyr in the World, when it is terribly a⯑gainſt a Man) does not fall moſt heavily upon the Author of the Tragedy, it falls moſt ſeverely upon this partial and taſtleſs Town. The writing a fooliſh Play, is a Piece of Ridicule that we have long been us'd to: But the gaining a general violent Applauſe to a fooliſh Play, is ſomething new to us: 'tis the reviving a Farce that had been act⯑ed but once before ſince King Charles the Second's Time.

My Lord, I am afraid of tiring your Grace's Patience by too long a Letter, or I would proceed to the other Motives, which prevailed upon me to write theſe Remarks. But I hope to have the Honour of acquainting you with them another time.

TO Mrs. * * *
Written upon the News of the Landing of the Pretender.

I Have lately read over the famous Pro⯑ceſs between the Marquis De Gueores and Madamoiſelle de Maſcranny, with which I have been agreeably entertain'd, and which I here ſend you by the Bearer, becauſe a Lady of your Apprehenſion may eaſily diſcern, that you may produce an Argument from it ſufficient to convert your Friend Mrs. [...] that termagant Stick⯑ler for divine, unalienable, indefeaſible Right; for can there be any Right to any Government ſo divine, ſo unalienable, ſo indefeaſible as that of a Husband to the Government of his Wife? Yet if this Mo⯑narch, [59] by Right Divine, appears unqualify'd to govern her well; if he cannot anſwer the Ends of Government; if he keeps not the original Contract, which is on his part the giving due Benevolence, ſhe endeavours to depoſe her Sovereign immediately; that is, ſhe ſues out a Bill of Divorce, and chuſes another King. The original Contract be⯑tween a limited Monarch and a free Peo⯑ple, is, that he ſhall govern them by Laws of their own making, and that they ſhall obey him as long as they are ſo govern'd. Now will your Friend Mrs. [...] murmur, at our Sexes enjoying that Privilege, which you have always claim'd your ſelves? We have already depos'd one Popiſh King for breaking this originnl Contract, and can ſhe expect that we will ſet up another, who we know is not able to keep it? Would ſhe accept of one for a Husband, whom ſhe knew beforehand to be in a State of Impotence? How then can ſhe pretend that we ſhould accept of ſuch a Gover⯑nour? Is not a Popiſh Pretender as much unqualify'd to govern a free-born Prote⯑ſtant People, as one in a natural State of Impotence is to give due Benevolence? Are not both Pretenders equally impotent as to what they pretend to? Then pray, Madam, acquaint your Friend Mrs. [...] that ſince our Sex is aſſiſtant to yours in throwing off your evil Governours, when [60] you find upon Heart-breaking Diſappoint⯑ments that you cannot be happy under them, 'tis altogether unreaſonable in her to pretend that we ought to eſtabliſh any one Ruler over us, who is utterly incapa⯑ble of rendring his Subjects happy. Deſire her to lay aſide her Notions of Divine Right and Arbitrary Power. She wrongs her ſelf and her whole Sex by theſe fanta⯑ſtical Opinions. No Power on Earth but that of Beauty can juſtly pretend to Right Divine; for Beauty has its Power from Nature, and conſequently from God.

TO JUDAS ISCARIOT, Eſq
On the preſent State of the Stage.

I Have been about to write to you every Poſt for theſe ten Days, but one Acci⯑dent or other has ſtill diverted me; but I ſhall now make more than amends, for In⯑gentem tibi Epiſtolam Impingam.

If I had had the greateſt Inclination imagi⯑nable to accept of the Invitation which you ſent me by your Familiar; yet ſomething has happen'd which would have been a Juſt, tho' a Ridiculous Impediment. For I had given my word to go another way, in or⯑der to pull a certain Beaſt out of a Ditch, who had fal'n into it, thro' a more than Beſtial Stupidity, which engag'd him to look upon things above him, inſtead of grazing and following the Inſtinct of Nature. But [62] to ſpeak plain Engliſh, and return to your Invitation; who could have expected any ſuch thing, from one who had ſo barba⯑rouſly abandon'd his old Acquaintance, who had never ſo much as once in Twenty Years miſs'd an opportunity of ſerving him, and abandon'd him contrary both to Friend⯑ſhip and Politicks. For a Man who de⯑ſerts his Friend in an Affair in which 'tis rea⯑ſonable that he ſhould eſpouſe him, does two Things at once to his own Diſadvan⯑tage. For firſt, he ſhews the World that he has no Body's Intereſt at heart but his own, which Indifference the World, as ſoon as it perceives it, will be ſure to return in Kind: Secondly, he gives a pretty convin⯑cing Proof, that he has not Capacity e⯑nough to underſtand his own Intereſt; for he who in any Point that is reaſonable is deaf to his Friend's Intereſt, is cer⯑tainly blind to his own. Now what Depen⯑dance can I have on a Perſon who makes it evident to me, that he neither cares for my Intereſt, nor underſtands his own? If you had laid aſide the Alteration of Cori⯑olanus for better Plays, there had been a plauſible Apology for your Breach of Pro⯑miſe. But to ſacrifice me to Fools, was Impudent as 'twas Barbarous. I have read the noble Stuff which you have acted this Winter, all but Buſiris, which was not publiſh'd when I left the Town. But ſome [63] Perſons, whom I have ſeen in this place, tell me there is a Rape in it. If that is true, it has a Fault in it for which nothing can make Atonement. A Rape is the peculiar Barbarity of our Engliſh Stage. Neither Greecians nor Romans would ſuffer it, nor can the French at preſent bear it. The very Apprehenſion of a Rape, tho' the thing did not follow it, damn'd the Theodore of Corneille; which, if you will believe Monſieur Hedelin, is one of his beſt Tra⯑gedies. I would fain know from you, who have had a twenty Years Experience of the Stage, for what Reaſon the Women, who will ſit as quietly and paſſively at the Re⯑lation of a Rape in a Tragedy, as if they thought that Raviſhing gave them a Plea⯑ſure, for which they have a juſt Apology, will ſtart and flinch like unback'd Fillies, at the leaſt Approach of Rem to Re in Co⯑medy, unleſs that Approach happens to be made in the Houſe of Bondage. I have been ſometimes apt to entertain a Suſpicion, that 'tis not the luſcious Matter which di⯑ſturbs them in Comedy, but the ſecret im⯑plicite Satire upon the Sex. For a Woman in Comedy never grants the laſt Favour to one to whom ſhe is not marry'd, but it proclains the Man's Triumph and her Shame. It always ſhews her Weakneſs and often her Inconſtancy, and ſometimes her Fraud and Perfidiouſneſs. But a Rape in [64] Tragedy is a Panegyrick upon the Sex: For there the Woman has all the Advantage of the Man. For ſhe is ſuppos'd to remain innocent, and to be pleas'd without her Conſent; while the Man, who is accounted a damn'd Villain, proclaims the Power of Female Charms, which have the Force to drive him to ſo horrid a Violence. But to return to the other Plays, which you acted this laſt Winter. I have read two Come⯑dies without one Jeſt in them. But you will ſay, perhaps, that the Play-Houſe was throng'd for eight or ten Days together at the Repreſentation of theſe Comedies; per⯑haps ſo. But then, if it was ſo throng'd at the Repreſentation of damn'd Plays, I hope my Ears will no more be ſtunn'd with the Noiſe of the Improvement of a general Taſte, and that for the future no Conſe⯑quence will be drawn from the Numbers of an Audience to their Capacity. For the very ſame Reaſon that the Builder's Trade, the Carpenters and the Joyners are ſo very much improv'd; for the very ſame Rea⯑ſon that ſo many fine Houſes, ſo many beautiful Streets, ſo many ſtately Squares, and, as it were, whole Towns are building in your North-Weſt Suburbs; for that very ſame Reaſon is your Theatre crowded. A Penetration that comes far ſhort of Conju⯑ration, may ſuffice to ſhew, that the Num⯑bers of the Nobility and Gentry of the [65] Town, and conſequently of their Depend⯑ants, are exceedingly augmented by ſome great Events which have happen'd of late Years, viz. the Revolution, the Union with Scotland, the Return of our Armies from the Continent, and the King's Acceſſion to the Crown. But as for the Improvement of a general Taſte, 'tis ſo great a Blunder, that it could never be thought of among conſiderate People. 'Tis improv'd in⯑deed with a vengeance, 'tis refin'd in a glorious manner! improv'd as the Taſte of a Green-ſickneſs Girl, who leaves pa⯑latable Meat for Charcoal; refin'd as the Taſte of an Hyſterick Woman, who is cheriſh'd by a Stink, and ſickens at a Per⯑fume; or as the Taſte of a modern Letcher, who, like a Swine, prefers a Sirreverence to the fineſt thing in the World. The in⯑genious Diverſions, which they follow'd this Winter, their Maſquerades, their Italian Farces, and their French Tumblings, can⯑not chuſe but ſhew the great Refinement of their Taſte. If the general Taſte were improv'd, two things would certainly fol⯑low, good Plays would be writ, and damn'd ones would not be endured. But Shakeſpear's Plays you will ſay were crowded, and Tom. D'Urfey's neglect⯑ed this Winter. Be it ſo. I ſhall ſhew you in my next, that the Generality of [66] an Audience, in ſpight of their Practice, have it both in their Heads and their Hearts, to value Tom. D'Urfey, and to deſpiſe Shakeſpear.

LETTER written in behalf of one who was lately ruin'd by Stock-Jobbing, to his Fa⯑ther-in-Law who would not ſee him.

THIS is the third Letter which I have writ to you, without the Satisfaction of receiving an Anſwer, which has been a great Acceſſion to the Calamity which I labour'd under before; and I have felt the Frowns of Fortune the more ſeverely, be⯑cauſe they have been attended with yours. 'Tis hard, that it ſhou'd be in her Power to alienate not only our Poſſeſſions, but even the Hearts and Souls of our deareſt and moſt valued Friends. As we learn from her hourly Inconſtancy, that there is no Man ſecure from her Power, methinks it ſhould be the common Intereſt of Man⯑kind to alleviate her Strokes by uſing their Fellow-Creatures gently, while they are un⯑der her Diſgrace; eſpecially ſince long Ex⯑perience has taught us, that ſhe is often the [68] moſt barbarous to thoſe who deſerve her Cruelty the leaſt; ſo that her Perſecution be⯑ing for the moſt part directly contrary to Reaſon, ſhould leaſt of all be abetted by reaſonable Men like you. My Intentions have been very good, tho' the Event has not been anſwerable to them; and methinks when we paſs a Judgment upon our Neigh⯑bours, not by their Intentions, but by E⯑vents, we paſs a ſevere Law againſt our⯑ſelves, becauſe our Intentions are in our Power, but Events are not; and no Man can foreſee the future. My very Enemies muſt confeſs, that my Calamity has pro⯑ceeded not from any Extravagance of Tem⯑per, or a luxurious Life, but only from the too eager Deſire of Getting; which, if it be a Fault, who at preſent is guiltleſs? Sure no Man ever was juſtly blam'd for catching a Diſtemper, whoſe Infection was epidemi⯑cal. And yet that very eager Deſire of Getting has not proceeded from any ſor⯑did Avarice, but only from my Exceſs of Love to your Daughter, and an earneſt Zeal to ſecure her Happineſs before I ſhould be prevented by Sickneſs or Death, or that uſual Change which attends on Hu⯑man Affairs. So that my Eagerneſs to make your Daughter happy, has been the very thing that has made her miſerable by bring⯑ing under her Father's Diſpleaſure one for whom ſhe believes it her Duty to be concern'd [89] So that what ſhe ſuffers by your Diſpleaſure cauſes it to be more grievous to me, and makes me more paſſionately and impatiently deſire that you would be reconcil'd to me. My Fault has been my Error and not my Crime, and I have Youth, and Health, and Vigour of Mind enough to retrieve my Fortune. And when I have retriev'd her, I have Reaſon to believe, that ſhe will then be conſtant to me, becauſe I have ſeen and experienc'd the only Error which could have oblig'd her to leave me; and therefore as ſoon as I am re-eſtabliſh'd, I ſhall be more happy becauſe more ſecure than if I had never falln. In the mean while, Sir, to give you a convincing Proof, that I prefer your Daughter's Happineſs to my own, I am willing to do any thing to ſecure her a Competency while my own Condi⯑tion is doubtful. I am willing to put it as much out of my Power, as it is contrary to my Inclinations, to touch the other two thouſand Pounds.

TO JUDAS ISCARIOT, Eſq
On the Degeneracy of the Publick Taſte.

ABout the middle of the laſt Month I ſent you a long Letter, in which I endeavour'd to ſhew the Extravagance of that Opinion, that there is at this time a⯑mong us an Improvement of the general Taſte, with relation to Poetry and the Belles Lettres. And I promis'd in my next to ſhew the Error or the Falacy of thoſe, who pretend to maintain that Opinion from the crowded Audiences at the Repreſen⯑tation of Shakeſpear's Plays, and the thin ones at thoſe which were writ by Mr. D [...]y. I promis'd to ſhew that notwith⯑ſtanding this Practice of the preſent Fre⯑quenters of the Play-Houſe, they have it both in their Heads and their Hearts to value Mr. D'Urfey and to deſpiſe Shake⯑ſpear, that neither their Approbation nor their Contempt is their own, but aſſumed and borrowed, and that they approve by [71] Vogue and by Faſhion, as a late noble Poet has told us.

I promis'd to ſhew, that the one of theſe Authors has been eſteem'd, and the other contemn'd by Men of Senſe ſo long, that the Approbation of the one, and the Contempt of the other, is come at laſt to make an Impreſſion on the Rabble; when I mention that Word, I do not mean ſuch a Rabble as you have ſometimes on the Stage at Julius Caeſar or at Coriolanus, but ſuch a Rabble as is but too often be⯑held in your Pit and Side-Boxes.

A very great Part of thoſe who pretend to be in Love with Shakeſpear, if he were now living, and his moſt celebrated Plays were to be acted De novo, without a Cabal, without Character or Prepoſſeſſion, wou'd Hiſs and Damn the very Things of which they are now the faſhionable Admirers, which ſeems plain to me from this very Reaſon, becauſe the modern Plays which they moſt approve of, are the very Reverſe [72] of Shakeſpear's, with reſpect either to his Excellencies or his Faults.

Shakeſpear is very juſtly celebrated for the Truth and Juſtneſs of his Cha⯑racters, for the Beauty of his Sentiments, for the Simplicity and Dignity of his Dia⯑logue, and for his moving the Paſſions pow⯑erfully by the meer force of Nature. But the preſent Spectators of Tragedies ap⯑prove of thoſe moſt, in which the Paſſions are mov'd leaſt. They will endure no Mo⯑dern Tragedy, in whoſe principal Chara⯑cter Love is not the predominant Quality. Now Love predominating in the principal Character, too often falſifies and confounds thoſe Characters, and by Conſequence but too often deſtroys the Beauty of the Sen⯑timents, becauſe no Sentiment can be beau⯑tiful, which is improper in him who ſpeaks it. Beſides, there are not three of our mo⯑dern Tragedies, which have any thing like thoſe Sentiments which abound in Shake⯑ſpear; Sentiments, which, at the ſame time that they ſhew Sagacity and Penetration, are eaſie, juſt, and natural.

The modern Readers and Spectators of Tragedies will endure no Tragedy which has the Simplicity and naiveté of Shake⯑ſpear's Dialogue; a Simplicity, wherever the occaſion requires it, attended with Force, and Dignity, and Pomp, and Solem⯑nity: Inſtead of that noble and natural Di⯑alogue, [73] they are for a flatulant Style, in which the Poet puts the Change upon him⯑ſelf, and ſpeaks almoſt always himſelf, in⯑ſtead of making his Characters ſpeak.

But as the Readers and Spectators of Modern Tragedies approve of thoſe moſt, which are the very reverſe of Shakeſpear's with reſpect to his Beauties and Excellen⯑cies, ſo they declare very loudly againſt his Faults. The Faults of Shakeſpear, which are rather thoſe of the Age in which he liv'd, are his perpetual Rambles, and his apparent Duplicity in ſome of his Plays, or Triplicity of Action, and the frequent breaking the Continuity of the Scenes. The preſent Spectators declare againſt this, in appearance, but at the ſame time ap⯑prove of this Multiplicity of Action in ſome Modern Plays, concealed by a Jumble and a Confuſion which is incomprehenſible and altogether unintelligible. Another of Shake⯑ſpear's Faults is the Length of Time em⯑ploy'd in the carrying on his Dramatick Action. The preſent Spectators are ex⯑treamly ſhock'd at this in a modern Trage⯑dy, but at the ſame time approve of thoſe in which the Unity of Time is preſerved by offending all Common Senſe.

If a Modern Poet in one of his Trage⯑dies ſhould ſhew any Thing like Shakeſpear's Rambles, ſhould introduce a Tragedy up⯑on the Stage, which ſhould begin in Eu⯑rope [74] and end in Aſia, like the Moor of Venice, that Play would be exploded and damn'd with very great Damnation. But the Modern Spectators of Tragedies great⯑ly eſteem and are fond of thoſe, in which the Unity of Place is preſerv'd, ſometimes by whimſical comick Abſurdities, and ſometimes by dreadful and prodigious Ex⯑travagancies.

From all this I conclude, as I ſaid be⯑fore, that the Spectators of modern Tra⯑gedies, having the greateſt Eſteem for thoſe, which have leaſt of Shakeſpear's Excellen⯑cies, and declaring loudly againſt his Faults, would damn Shakeſpear, if living.

Nor can I believe that ſeveral who pre⯑tend to be paſſionate Admirers of Milton, would treat him if living in any other man⯑ner for the following Reaſons.

Becauſe they are ſo fond of nothing as of that ſoft and effeminate Rhyme, which makes the very Reverſe of the Harmony, and of the manly, and powerful, and noble Enthuſiaſm of Milton.

Becauſe the Generality of Poets and Wits his Contemporaries did not eſteem him, tho' they were by no means inferior in Underſtanding to his pretended living Admirers. Willmot Earl of Rocheſter ne⯑ver ſo much as mention'd him, in his Imi⯑tation of the Tenth Satyr of the firſt Book of Horace. When he came to imitate that [75] Paſſage, Forte epos Acer, ut nemo Varius du⯑cit, inſtead of Milton he names Waller. And when that noble Peer was ſome Years [...]erwards ask'd by Dr. Burnet, ſince Bi⯑ſhop of Salisbury, for which of the Mo⯑dern Poets he had moſt Eſteem, he an⯑ſwer'd without the leaſt Heſitation, for Boileau among the French, and Cowley a⯑mong the Engliſh Poets. Mr. Rymer in his firſt Book of Criticiſm treated the Pa⯑radiſe Loſt with Contempt, and the gene⯑rality of the Readers of Poetry, for twen⯑ty Years after it was publiſhed, knew no more of that exalted Poem, than if it had been writ in Arabick: Mr. Dryden in his Preface before the State of Innocence, ap⯑pears to have been the firſt, thoſe Gentle⯑men excepted whoſe Verſes are before Mil⯑ton's Poem, who diſcover'd in ſo publick a Manner an extraordinary Opinion of Milton's extraordinary Merit. And yet Mr. Dryden at that time knew not half the Extent of his Excellence, as more than twenty Years afterwards he confeſs'd to me, and as is pretty plain from his writing the State of Innocence. For Mr. Dryden, in that Poem, which is founded on the Paradiſe Loſt, falls ſo infinitely ſhort of thoſe wonderful Qualities, by which Milton has diſtinguiſh'd that noble Poem from all other Poems, that one of theſe two Things muſt be granted; either that Mr. Dryden knew [76] not the Extent of Milton's great Qualities, or that he deſign'd to be a Foil to him. But they who knew Mr. Dryden, know very well, that he was not of a Temper to de⯑ſign to be a Foil to any one.

I hope I have ſaid enough to convince you that the Approbations and Cenſures of the Generality of an Audience are deriv'd from Sentiments which are not their own, and which are the Effects of Authority, and not of Reaſon. When Men who are, and are eſteem'd, Perſons of more than or⯑dinary Judgment, have declar'd themſelves from time to time, during a Century, or half a Century, concerning Poems Dra⯑matick or others, thoſe Declarations are the Cauſe, that other Perſons at length, being guided by the Light which is held out to them, fondly imagine that it was kindled by that Particle of Heav'nly Fire which they fancy to be within them. But the numerous and violent Cabals, which are form'd to ſupport or decry Dramatick Wri⯑tings, may ſerve inſtead of a thouſand Ar⯑guments to convince the moſt obſtinate, that there is no ſuch thing as a general Taſte among us. It being abſolutely impoſſible that great Numbers of Perſons of a fine Diſcernment and a true Taſte ſhould con⯑ſpire to extol a Blockhead at the Expence of a noble Art, at the Expence of their own Reputation and the Reputation of their [77] Country, and conſequently at the Ex⯑ [...]ence, in a good meaſure, of that Coun⯑ [...]ry's Power and Intereſt. You and your [...]rethren, who are the preſent Managers [...] the Play-Houſe, have of late very juſtly [...]ewn the extremeſt Contempt for the ge⯑ [...]eral Taſte, pretending to ſet off damn'd [...]lays, by the glare of new Habits. Which [...]onduct of you, the Emperors, and Kings, [...]nd Princes of the Drama, recalls to my Re⯑ [...]embrance what Boccalin ſays of ſome Princes of Parnaſſus. They had half ru⯑ [...]'d themſelves, ſays that merry Italian, by [...]he Expence they had been at to preſerve [...]nd perfume Sirreverences: Yet ſtill, ſays [...]e, the more Coſt they were at, and the more Sweets they beſtow'd upon them the more damnably their Conſerves ſtunk in [...]he Noſtrils of all who had really Noſes. Perhaps, if you take the Word in the moſt diffuſive Senſe, there never was a general good Taſte for Poetry, among any People in the World, if you except the Atheni⯑ans. But there never was ſo general a one in England as there was in modern France and Italy, before the Opera and ſome o⯑ther Things debauch'd it in both thoſe Countries.

There has not one great Poet appear'd in France ſince the beginning of Cardi⯑nal Richlieu's Miniſtry, but he has been protected and encourag'd, and his Merit, [78] as faſt as it could ſpread, has been gene⯑rally acknowledg'd. I wiſh I could as tru⯑ly affirm the ſame thing of England. The great Qualities of Milton were not gene⯑rally known among his Countrymen till the Paradiſe Loſt had been publiſh'd more than thirty Years. But when that admirable Poet was among the Italians, the Great⯑neſs of his Genius was known to them in the very Bloom of his Youth, even thirty Years before that incomparable Poem was writ, witneſs the Epigram of Selvaggi, an Italian Poet, of which Dryden's Epigram which is under Milton's Picture is nothing but a Paraphraſe.

Nay, Salſiki, a Roman Poet, ſacrifices the very Honour of his Country, that is, of modern Italy to him, by preferring the Italian Poetry of Milton even to that of Taſſo:

[79] And Giovanni Baptiſta Manſo, a Noble Neapolitan, who had been the intimate Friend of Taſſo, and the great Patron of Marino, while they were living, gives ex⯑traordinary Commendations to Milton, tho' he was then but a Youth among them, as appears by his Latin Verſes addreſt to that noble Italian,

Milton had then been ſo far from writing the Paradiſe Loſt, that he had never ſo much as thought of that Subject, but had at that time determin'd, after his Return to Eng⯑land, to write an Epick Poem upon the Exploits of Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, as appears by the ſame Verſes to Manſo.

Thus, you ſee, the Italians, by his ju⯑venile Eſſays, diſcover'd the great and [80] growing Genius of Milton, whereas [...] Countrymen knew very little of him, even thirty Years after he had publiſh'd among them the nobleſt Poem in the World.

But as the general Taſte of England could be never ſaid to be good, it was ne⯑ver ſo bad as it is at preſent; a certain Proof of which, is, that Writings both Dra⯑matick and others, were never ſo infamous as they now are. And Taſte and Writing always keep Pace with each other. When Shakeſpear firſt appear'd among us, the Ge⯑nerality of his Readers and his Spectators were much better able to judge of him than they are at preſent. Becauſe, as he was a very natural Writer, and they were with⯑out Prejudice, without Prepoſſeſſion, and without Affectation, and without the In⯑fluence of a Coxcomical, Senſeleſs Cabal, they were at Liberty to receive the Impreſ⯑ſions which Things naturally made on their Minds.

Hampton-Court, May 25. 1719.

TO Sir RICHARD STEELE.
Declaring the Reaſons for which I pub⯑liſh'd the two Volumes of SELECT WORKS.

I Here ſend you by the Bearer, ſeveral Pieces in Verſe and Proſe, writ for⯑merly by me, and lately printed in two Volumes; but I ſend them not without a double Deſign on you. For firſt, I deſire that you wou'd have the Goodneſs to oblige your Managers to make me ſome Recom⯑pence this Winter for the Wrong which they did me the laſt. Secondly, I deſire that you will give me leave to ſay ſomething concerning [...]he Pieces contain'd in theſe two Volumes, [...]nd more particularly concerning the Mo⯑tive which oblig'd me to write the chief of them at the firſt, and to publiſh them lately together; which I ſhall do with Plea⯑ſure [82] to one who has done ſo much Good in the ſame Cauſe in which moſt of them were writ.

Several of the Pieces in Verſe and Proſe, and three of the Plays, were writ in the Cauſe of Liberty. The narrative Poems of greater Length were all of them written upon Great and Publick Occaſions, and were deſign'd as ſo many Panegyricks upon thoſe Illuſtrious Perſons whoſeGreat and Heroick Actions had made them Benefactors to Great Britain and Liberty.

It has always been my Opinion, that a free Nation can never be too zealous in maintaining their Liberties, becauſe we have been taught by too many fatal Events, that they have at laſt been often loſt by the Security and Corruptions of thoſe who had for ſeveral Centuries enjoy'd them. Wit⯑neſs the ancient Grecians and Romans, and the ancient and modern Spaniards and French. But whenever the Liberties of a great Nation are in manifeſt Danger, there all the ſeveral Members of it, who are not abjectly baſe, will uſe their utmoſt Efforts in defending them. The Liberties of Great Britain have in our own Memory been in ſo much Danger, that they have been twice in thirty Years retrieved from immediate Ruin, firſt by the Revolution, and ſecond⯑ly by the Acceſſion of King George to the Imperial Crown of this Iſland, but even [83] now they by no Means appear to me to be entirely ſecur'd.

Since the Revolution, things appear to have been ſtrangely reverſt in Great Britain with regard to Liberty. In four or five Reigns immediately preceding the Arrival of King William of Immortal Memory, the Court was for Arbitrary Power, and the People appear'd ſtrenuous for Liberty. But ſince that time, the Court has for the moſt part contended for Liberty, and the People, I mean too great a Part of them, have declar'd for Slavery. Now, if ever we [...]hould come to be under a King, who wou'd [...]acrifice his Proteſtant Diſſenting Subjects [...] the High-Church Clergy, we ſhould [...]uickly ſee whether the Liberties of a Na⯑ [...]on are moſt ſecure, when a conſiderable Part of the People (who are their natural Guardians) are reſov'd to defend, or deter⯑ [...]in'd to reſign them. In the mean time, [...], it muſt be acknowledg'd, to the im⯑ [...]ortal Honour of the preſent King, that [...] endeavouring to ſecure the Diſſenters [...]om ſuch a Treatment in time to come, he taking [...] the moſt effectual Method to im⯑ [...]ortalize Liberty.

Thus, Sir, have I acquainted you with [...] only Motive of writing the chief of [...]eſe Poems, which was the Apprehenſion [...]had of the Danger, which the Liberties [...] my Country were in, and conſequently [84] the Liberties of the Chriſtian World, of which ours are the ſtrongeſt Bulwark. I wrote them not then as one who eſpous'd a Party, but as a Lover of my Country, and one zealous to promote the Happineſs of Great Britain. I have been ſo far from having any ambitious Aims or any ſordid Views of Intereſt, that I have been con⯑tented to ſee ſeveral of the publick Rewards engroſs'd by ſome who are luke-warm, and by others who are Jacobites in Whig Cloathing, while I have remain'd very poor in a very advanc'd Age. But one Thing indeed I have ſometimes been apt to think exceeding hard, and that is, that theſe lukewarm Perſons, and theſe Jacobites in Whig Cloathing, ſhould be ſuffer'd to make uſe of the Power which they have acquir'd by their Falſhood, to the utter Ruin of one who has behav'd himſelf all along with the utmoſt Sincerity in the nobleſt Cauſe of Li⯑berty.

Thus, Sir, have I laid before you the Motive which engag'd me to write the greater part of the Pieces which are con⯑tain'd in the two Volumes. I ſhall now ſhew you, how the ſame Motive oblig'd me to uſe my Endeavours to preſerve them▪ if they ſhould appear worthy of it, and con⯑ſequently to publiſh them in the two fore⯑mention'd Volumes. It was in October [85] 1716, that I deſir'd a Bookſeller to collect them for me. I thought that after ſo much Time had paſs'd ſince the writing them, I ſhould be capable of forming as true a Judg⯑ment my ſelf of them, as any other Perſon whatſoever, who has no better Judgment in Poetical Matters than I have, or that the Precept of Horace, nonum prematur in annum, muſt be falſe and vain.

Upon a very ſlow and deliberate Peruſal of them, I could not but conclude, that with all their Faults they were not altoge⯑ther depriv'd of that noble Fire, which a⯑lone can make them pleaſing; nor of that Juſtneſs and Solidity which alone can make them laſting. I believ'd that if they were publiſh'd together, they might be able one Day to do ſome Good to the publick, and no Diſcredit to me.

And I was the more encourag'd to ven⯑ture on this Publication, becauſe, Sir, you may be pleas'd to remember, that they had been favourably receiv'd by the moſt illu⯑ſtrious Perſons of both Parties for their Judgment in Poetry, and their Knowledge of the Belles Lettres, by the late Earls of Godolphin and Halifax, Mr. Maynwaring and others among the Whigs, and by the preſent Duke of Buckingham and my Lord Lanſdown among the Tories. And if any Temptation could make me vain, it would [86] be the favourable Opinions of the laſt two Noble Perſons, becauſe as their Judgments in matters of Poetry are unqueſtion'd, they can never be ſuppos'd to be partial to one, who has all his Life-time appear'd very zealous in contrary Principles to thoſe of a Party, which they by ſome have been ſup⯑pos'd to favour. My Lord Lanſdown, by making me a Preſent ſo noble, as never has been made by a Subject to any Author now living, ſufficiently declar'd that what I had writ had not been altogether diſpleaſing to him. And 'tis to the warm Approbation which the Duke of Buckingham gave to the Poem on the Battel of Blenheim, that I owe the Honour of being firſt known to the late illuſtrious Earl of Godolphin, whoſe good and great Qualities, and the Benefits which Great Britain receiv'd from his good and his wiſe Adminiſtration, make me proud to own for the firſt and greateſt of my Benefactors.

Thus, Sir, I found Encouragement to preſerve theſe Pieces, and eſpecially the Poems writ in the Cauſe of Liberty. But I was convinc'd at the ſame time, that the only way to preſerve them would be to publiſh them together. They were in a great many different Hands, and ſome of them in the Hands of ſuch who were mor⯑tal Enemies to the Cauſe in which they [87] were written. Some of them had been very incorrectly printed. The very Subject which ought to recommend them to all Engliſhmen, as well as the Harmony with⯑out Rhyme in ſeveral of the Poems, made ſome of them for the preſent leſs pleaſing to above half the Readers of Poetry. Some of them that had once appear'd with Applauſe ſeem'd to have been forgot. For all things of late Days have been manag'd by Cabal and Party; and there ſeems to have been a Conſpiracy in the Commonwealth of Learning, among Fools of all Sorts, to ex⯑alt Folly at the Expence of Common-ſenſe, and make Stupidity triumph over Me⯑rit in the very Dominions of Wit, which has been one of the Cauſes why Things are reduced to that deplorable State upon our Britiſh Parnaſſus. Apollo and the Muſes ſeem to have abandon'd it; diſdaining that their Divinities ſhould honour a Place with their Songs, where Fools and Pedants, Buffoons, Eunuchs and Tumblers have ſo often met with Applauſe.

Who could have thought, if he had been told twenty Years ago, that he ſhould out⯑live Tragedy and Comedy, that he had been promis'd a Life of not quite twenty Years? Yet 'tis very plain that the Pro⯑miſe had extended no further: ſuch is the Power of Cabal and Party.

[88] I have all along had a great Averſion to the making a Party, or the entring into a Cabal, and have ſometimes look'd upon it with Horrour and ſometimes with Con⯑tempt. Who that has Common-ſenſe can forbear laughing, when he ſees a Parcel of Fellows, who call themſelves Wits, ſit in Combination round a Coffee Table, as Sharpers do round a Hazard Table, to trick honeſt Gentlemen into an Approba⯑tion of their Works, and bubble them of their Underſtandings?

And yet I have all along known, that no⯑thing in the greater Poetry can grow im⯑mediately popular without a Cabal or Party. I have a long time been convinced, that the more ſublimely any thing is writ in Poetry, and the nearer it comes to Perfe⯑ction, the longer it will be before it grows popular, without ſuch a Cabal; becauſe the more ſublimely it is writ, and the nearer it comes to Perfection, the more it is rais'd above the Apprehenſions of the Vulgar. And yet notwithſtanding this Knowledge, I have all along reſolv'd to have no Repu⯑tation, or to owe it to my Writings.

Thus, Sir, you ſee the Reaſons, why the Writings that make up theſe two Vo⯑lumes, or at leaſt the greater Part of them, had been in danger of being loſt, if I had not taken Pains during my Life-time to correct and publiſh them together. There [89] is one more Reaſon remaining, and that is, the Malice of thoſe People whom the World calls Poets, whoſe Hatred I have been proud to incur, by ſpeaking bold and neceſſary Truths in the behalf of a noble Art, which they have miſerably abus'd by their vile Poems, and their more vile Cri⯑ticiſms. And yet 'tis from theſe People that the fooliſh Readers of Poetry, which are nine Parts in ten, take their Opinions of Poets and their Works, little believing, or once imagining, that theſe Perſons are of all Mankind the very worſt qualify'd to judge of their own Art; as having nei⯑ther the Capacity, nor the Impartiality which are requiſite for the judging truly. For it will be found, generally ſpeaking, that Poets, Painters, and Muſicians, are capacitated leſs than other Men to judge of Poetry, Painting and Muſick. This, I muſt confeſs, may appear to ſome to be ſo bold a Paradox, that I ſhall endeavour to make it out both by Reaſon and Authority, tho' I know very well at the ſame time, that You can make no Doubt of it. The Generality of Poets, Painters and Muſici⯑ans, are ſuch by the meer Power of a warm Imagination. And 'tis very rarely that a ſtrong Imagination and a penetrating Judg⯑ment are found in the ſame Subject. We need go no further than Boileau to hear [90] that a celebrated Poet is often a contemp⯑tible Judge.

As for what relates to Painters, I ſhall content my ſelf with the Citation of a Re⯑mark from the ingenious and judicious Author of the Obſervations upon Freſnoy's Art of Painting, tranſlated by Mr. Dryden. 'Tis the Fiftieth Remark, upon theſe Words of Mr. Dryden's Tranſlation, 'As being the 'Sovereign Judge of his own Art.

‘This Word, Sovereign Judge or Arbiter of his own Art, pre-ſuppoſes a Painter to be fully inſtructed in all the Parts of Paint⯑ing, ſo that being ſet as it were above his Art, he may be the Maſter and Sovereign of it, which is no eaſie Matter. Thoſe of that Profeſſion are ſo ſeldom endow'd with that ſupream Capacity, that few of them arrive to be good Judges of Painting: And I ſhould many times make more account of their Judgment who are Men of Senſe, and yet have never touch'd a Pencil, than of the Opinion which is given by the greateſt part of Painters. All Painters therefore may be call'd Arbiters of their own Art, but to [91] be Sovereign Arbiters belongs only to know⯑ing Painters.’

What is ſaid by this ingenious Gentle⯑man of Painters, is exactly true of Muſici⯑ans. For which I have the Opinion of more than one Maſter among them; and as to the Truth of this Obſervation with relati⯑on to Poets, I have ſaid enough above.

But as Poets are not capable, ſo neither are they impartial Judges. I ſpeak of thoſe who are only Rhimeſters. For a great Maſter is for the moſt part as impartial as he is knowing; but for the reſt, the Readers of Poetry would do well to conſider, that if a Miſtreſs who is courted by a great ma⯑ny paſſionate Rivals, ſhould ask any one of them his Opinion of the reſt, 'tis ten to one that he would prefer him moſt, whom he eſteem'd leaſt, and whom he believ'd [...]eaſt capable of getting that Miſtreſs from him.

Thus, Sir, have I acquainted you with the Motive which oblig'd me to write the greater Part of theſe Treatiſes, and which afterwards engag'd me to publiſh them in the two Volumes, which you will receive with this. I hope I ſhall not be thought troubleſome, if in a ſecond Letter I ſay ſomething in particular of the Pieces both in Verſe and Proſe. However theſe two Letters will at leaſt convince you of the [92] good Opinion which I have a long time en⯑tertain'd both of your Diſcernment and your Impartiality.

TO THO. SERGEANT, Eſq
That all Stock-Jobbers are Slaves.

I Had ſooner returned you my Thanks for the favour of your laſt, and the good Advice in it, if I had not entertain'd ſome Thoughts of waiting on you; which I had certainly done before now, if it had not been for the Reflection, that here of late you are ſcarce any where to be found but in Exchange-Alley; and what good Chriſti⯑an would go to a Place where he is ſure to meet the Devil at every Turn that he takes there? not indeed with his Infernal Equi⯑page, his Brow-antlers, his Saucer Eyes, his long Tail, and his cloven Feet: He wears nothing of all this in Exchange-Alley, except ſometimes his Horns. But then I ſhould meet him at every Turn in more frightful and more provoking Appearances, as now in the Shape of a Roguiſh leering [94] Broker, and anon like a ghaſtly ruin'd Stock-Jobber; ſometimes in the Shape of a young Lady who has loſt both the Mo⯑deſty and the natural Deſire of her Sex; and ſometimes I ſhould ſee him in the ſame Shape in which he fell from Heav'n, that is like a Star of the firſt magnitude ſhining in an azure Sky. For that old Gentleman, who underſtands his Intereſt better than a⯑ny Mortal living, frequents no one Spot on the Globe ſo much as Exchange⯑Alley: For there he conſtantly finds new Occaſion to exerciſe his old Talents, his Tempting, Lying, Deluding and Betraying.

I ſhew'd the Acclamation at the latter end of your Letter to a Friend, who was with me when it came. Vive la Mer pacifique! What, ſays he, does this come from a Sharper? I deſir'd to know what made him ask that Queſtion. You know, ſaid he, that there are two conſtant Ha⯑zard Tables or Wheels of Fortune that are eſtabliſh'd by Authority in this wicked Town, not to mention a third, which is ſometimes at Guild-Hall, but tranſitory and occaſional; that one of theſe two is in the neighbourhood of White-Hall, eſtabliſh'd by the Authority of the Court, and the other near the Royal-Exchange, eſtabliſh'd by a⯑nother Authority. Now the Table in the Neighbourhood of White-Hall is a fair and impartial one, at which only Men of Ho⯑nour [95] play; at leaſt they are Men of Ho⯑nour while they are there, whatever they may be when they are in other Places. But the Hazard Table near the Exchange is frequented by the greateſt Sharpers about this tricking Town. There are Bullies to be ſeen every Day in Crowds with their Boxes and their falſe Dice: ſometimes they make uſe of High Runners, ſometimes of Low Runners, and ſometimes of Doctors. And this their Sharping and their Cheat⯑ing is Chriſten'd forſooth their Being in the Secret. So that Being in the Secret will ſhortly come to ſignifie ſomething more ſcandalous even than open Infamy.

Well but, ſaid I, even at that tricking Table, my Friend plays upon the Square, and is in no Secret. But then, ſaid he, let me ask you another Queſtion, Is your Friend a Lover of his Country? That is a ſtranger Queſtion than the other, ſaid I. Every one is a Lover of his Country, or at leaſt every one pretends to be ſo. But, replyed he, can any one who would be ſo much as thought to love his Country ap⯑prove ſo heartily of a Method, which if 'tis practiſed much longer will infallibly ruin it? For beſides that Strangers run away with vaſt Sums of our Money, who came in at Seventy perhaps, and go out at Seven Hundred; is not our Trade by this Stock-Jobbing brought to a narrower Com⯑paſs? [96] They who are ruin'd by it are un⯑able to carry on their Commerce; and they who have gain'd vaſt Sums by it, have been apt to think themſelves above their Pro⯑feſſions, and laugh at the getting ten or twenty per Cent. by a long Voyage, when in Exchange-Alley they can propoſe to gain fifty per Cent. in a Morning. Now as our Trade decreaſes, continued he, our Seamen muſt decreaſe proportionably, ſo that at laſt perhaps it will be impoſſible upon an exigence to Man our Royal Navy: And then we may happen to become a Prey to the firſt Invader. So that this Lover of his Country is heartily approving of a Method, which may one Day bring this Iſland to be a conquered Province, and his own Poſterity to be wretched Slaves. As ſoon as I perceived that he paus'd, I told him that this would have been more a pro⯑pos, if he had ſpoke it before the late Act of Parliament for the putting down of the Bub⯑bles. But he anſwer'd they being put down by the Wiſdom of the Legiſlature, for this very Reaſon, leaſt any Prejudice ſhould acrue to Trade from them, and Ram's and Onſlow's Bubbles being eſtabliſh'd by the ſame Wiſdom, have not the Legiſlature plainly declared, that Trade could receive no Damage from them; and that we may deliver to the Winds our fears of Conqueſt and of Slavery? Ought not every one to [97] acquieſce in what they have done, and can any one be extravagant enough to believe, that they would eſtabliſh two Bubbles againſt the Publick Good, only for the ſake of a little tranſitory Pelf, which is to come in⯑to particular Hands? Very good, ſaid my Friend but are not thoſe Gentle⯑men who conſtantly frequent Exchange-Ally actually Slaves already, as errant, as vile, as miſerable Slaves as thoſe who rowe in the Galleys? Say'ſt thou ſo, my dear Friend? ſaid I: do but make that out, and thou ſhalt to me be Apollo and all the Muſes. But this is a new Paradox. Not ſo new neither, ſaid he. The whole Sect of the Stoicks embraced it. The Stoicks, I told him, were fantaſtical People. In ſome things he allow'd they were ſo; but that, for the moſt part, their Morality was more ſound [...]han that of any other Sect among [...]he Heathens. Horace, who was of no Sect, but who took from each of them what he thought was juſt and ſolid, (and by the way he wanted no Judgment, no Diſcernment that could enable him to make a right Choice,) made this Opinion [...]is own, as you may ſee by the Sixteenth Epiſtle of his Firſt Book.

But my dear Friend, ſaid I, the Autho⯑rity of a Roman Poet will hardly bring the Gentlemen in Exchange-Alley off from their Stock-Jobbing. This is an Authori⯑ty, he reply'd, which carries Reaſon along with it. For thus he argues. The Cove⯑tous Man deſires; he who deſires, of con⯑ſequence fears; but he who lives in conti⯑nual Fear, muſt, in my Opinion, be always an errant Slave. But, continued he, I will add my own Reaſons to thoſe of Horace. There are two ſorts of Liberties, ſaid he, a Civil and a Philoſophical Liberty. What we call Civil Liberty gives us the com⯑mand of our own Actions: What we call Philoſophical Liberty gives us the com⯑mand of our own Thoughts. Now nei⯑ther the Galley-ſlave nor the Stock-Job⯑be can be ſaid to enjoy Civil Liberty, that is, neither the one nor the other has the free⯑dom of his own Actions: For a Galley⯑Slave muſt Row, and a Stock-Jobber muſt Stock-Jobb. And it ſignifies nothing to the purpoſe, that the one, upon his Refuſal or upon his Neglect, is corrected by a Cat of Nine-tayls, and the other by the Stings of his own baſe Paſſion, ſince they are both [99] equally under Compulſion; and the Stock-Jobber, though never ſo wealthy, is as much afraid of miſſing the Hours of Jonathan's or of Garroway's, as the poor Galley-ſlave is of being wanting to his turn at the Oar. But now to come to Philoſophical Liber⯑ty, in that the Galley-ſlave has infinitely [...]he Advantage of the Stock-Jobber. For while the former is chain'd to his Oar, his Thoughts may be as free as the Air, his Thoughts may wander o'er the Uni⯑verſe, may wander through Eternity, and while his Body is in the utmoſt Agitation, his Mind may be calm and compos'd. But [...]e Stock-Jobber's Thoughts are more con⯑ [...]in'd than the other's Body, confin'd to Dirt, and the ſordid means of accumula⯑ [...]ng it, and his Mind is often plagu'd by [...]he moſt tormentiug Paſſions. The poor Galley-ſlave may be a virtuous and an ex⯑ [...]ellent Man, but the wealthy Stock-Job⯑ber muſt always be in the number of pro⯑ [...]ligate Sinners.

That is, he who has his Thoughts in⯑ [...]ent upon the Means of heaping up Mo⯑ [...]ey, has thrown away his Buckler, has de⯑ſerted [100] his Poſt, the noble Poſt of Virtue where his General placed him, and which it was his Duty to maintain at the Expence of Life it ſelf. He has loſt it, he has been beaten out of it, by his baſe Paſſions and by his abject Vices, by his Fraud, his De⯑ſire, his Hope, his Fear and his Rage. The Galley-ſlave may have it firmly in his Mind and in his Will to do all the Duties of the beſt of Men; to be a faithful Lover of his Country and to ſerve it to the utmoſt of his power; to be a good Father, a good Son, a good Husband, a good Bro⯑ther, he may be dear to all his Friends and Relations, and have the heartieſt kindeſt Wiſhes of all. But as the miſerable Stock-Jobber cares only for himſelf, he is dear to himſelf alone, and contemptible and hateful to all beſides; and one may ſay to him, in the Words of Horace,

For a true Stock-Jobber will ſacrifice Wife, Father, Child, Brother, and his Coun⯑try it ſelf, for Gain. He who ſacrifice [...] [101] the latter will ſacrifice the reſt. And have we not a thouſand Inſtances every Day that a Stock-Jobber will ſacrifice his Country?

But there is ſtill another thing in which the Galley-ſlave has by much the Advan⯑tage of the Stock-Jobber. The former is a redeemable Slave, but the latter is in Chains for his Life. Fortune or Time may releaſe the Slaves who are at Algiers or Tripoli, but Fortune and Time are both the Stock-Jobbers Foes. Length of Days will certainly augment his Avarice and make his Captivity ruder. And the more Wealth there ſhall chance to flow in upon him, the more will he deſire, the leſs will he enjoy, and ſtill the more abject a Slave will he be to the baſe Luſt of Gold. But, my dear Friend, ſaid I, who had heard him hitherto with Patience, Thou certain⯑ly believ'ſt that thou art in a Pulpit, for it is there that, right or wrong, a Man has the Pri⯑viledge of talking for an Hour without be⯑ing interrupted. Sir, ſaid he, I ſtand cor⯑rected, but I did not deſerve this Remon⯑ſtrance only for complying with your own Deſire. You know very well that 'tis not my cuſtom to talk all, and that I have more than once ſuffered you to Preach in your turn. No Man, he continued, has a worſe Opinion than I have of an eternal Talker. That which makes him ſo inſuf⯑ferable, [102] is, that tho' he is for the moſt part a very empty Coxcomb, yet he implicitely declares that, into what Company ſoever he lights, he alone has more Underſtand⯑ing than all the reſt of the Company to⯑gether; that Nature has qualified him to preſcribe to others, and that God who made him created him perpetual Dictator. But as I know you, continued he, to be ſometimes an errant Wag, with a very grave Countenance, I am perhaps very much in the wrong to take what you ſay ſeriouſly. I leave you to ruminate on what I have told you, and ſhall expect to know your Opinion of it the next time I ſee you. So we parted. But before I give him my O⯑pinion I deſire to know yours.

TO Sir RICHARD STEELE,
Patentee of the Theatre in Drury-Lane.

THO' at the time of writing this, I am almoſt overwhelm'd both with Sickneſs and Grief, yet I cannot forbear making a juſt Complaint to you for your being the Occaſion of both theſe, either by actually breaking your Word with me, or being perfectly paſſive while your Ma⯑nagers broke it; which, if it has not reduc'd me to immediate Neceſſity, yet has brought me within the Danger of it, and conſe⯑quently within the Apprehenſion of it, which is as grievous almoſt as the Thing. And that this Complaint is but too juſtly ground⯑ed, you your ſelf will acknowledge, when I have laid my Caſe before you, which I ſhall do in as few Words as I can.

It was upon the 27th of February, 1717/8, that I receiv'd a Letter from Mr. Booth by your Direction, and the Direction of the Managers under you, deſiring me to dine [104] at your Houſe on the 28th, and after Din⯑ner to read the Tragedy of Coriolanus to you, which I had alter'd from Shakeſpear. You cannot but remember, Sir, that upon reading it, the Play with the Alterations was approv'd of, nay and warmly approv'd of, by your ſelf, Mr. Cibber, and Mr. Booth, (the other Manager was not there) and that Reſolutions were taken for the acting it in the beginning of this Winter. Now I ap⯑peal to your ſelf, if any Dramatick Per⯑formance could be more ſeaſonable in the beginning of a Winter, when we were threatned with an Invaſion from Sweden on the North, and from Spain on the Weſt, than a Tragedy whoſe Moral is thus ex⯑preſt in the laſt Lines of the Play.

I am ſure, Sir, I need not tell one of your Underſtanding, that this Moral is ſo apparently the Foundation of the Drama⯑tick Action, and muſt appear to every Spe⯑ctator and Reader to be ſo truly the genu⯑ine Reſult of it, that if I had not ſaid one Word of it, every Reader and Spectator [105] would have been able to have ſuggeſted ſo much to himſelf.

Well, Sir! when the Winter came on, what was done by your Deputies? Why, in⯑ſtead of keeping their Word with me, they ſpent above two Months of the Seaſon in getting up All for Love, or the World well loſt, a Play which has indeed a noble firſt Act, an Act which ends with a Scene be⯑coming of the Dignity of the Tragick Stage. But if Horace had been now alive, and been either a Reader or Spectator of that En⯑tertainment, he would have paſſed his old Sentence upon the Author.

For was ever any thing ſo pernicious, ſo immoral, ſo criminal, as the Deſign of that Play? I have mention'd the Title of it, give me leave to ſet before you the two laſt Lines:

And this Encomium of the Conduct and the Death of Anthony and Cleopatra, a Con⯑duct ſo immoral, and a Self-murder ſo cri⯑minal, is, to give it more Force, put into the Mouth of the High-Prieſt of Iſis; tho' [106] that Prieſt could not but know, that what he thus commended, would cauſe immedi⯑ately the utter Deſtruction of his Country, and make it become a Conquer'd and a Roman Province. Certainly never could the Deſign of an Author ſquare more ex⯑actly with the Deſign of White-Hall, at the time when it was written, which was by debauching the People abſolutely to en⯑ſlave them.

For, pray Sir, what do the Title and the two laſt Lines of this Play amount to in plain Engliſh? Why to this, that if any Perſon of Quality or other ſhall turn away his Wife, his young, affectionate, virtuous, charming Wife (for all theſe Octavia was) to take to his Bed a looſe abandon'd Pro⯑ſtitute, and ſhall in her Arms exhauſt his Patrimony, deſtroy his Health, emaſculate his Mind, and loſe his Reputation and all his Friends, why all this is well and greatly done, his Ruine is his Commendation. And if afterwards in Deſpair, he either hangs or drowns himſelf, or goes out of the World like a Rat, with a Doſe of Arſenick or Sub⯑limate, why 'tis a great and an envied Fate, he dies nobly and heroically. It is, Sir, with extream Reluctance that I have ſaid all this. For I would not be thought to affront the Memory of Mr. Dryden, for whoſe extraordinary Qualities no Man has a greater Veneration than my ſelf. But [107] that all Conſiderations ought to give Place to the Publick Good, is a Truth of which you, of all Men, I am ſure, can never doubt.

And can you believe then, after having recommended Virtue and Publick Spirit for ſo many Years to the World, that you can give your Subalterns Authority to preach up Adultery to a Town, which ſtands ſo little in need of their Doctrine? Is not the Chaſtity of the Marriage Bed one of the chief Incendiaries of Publick Spirit, and the Frequency of Adulteries one of the chief Extinguiſhers of it; according to that of Horace

For when Adultery's become ſo frequent, eſpecially among Perſons of Condition, up⯑on whoſe Sentiments all Publick Spirit chiefly depends, that a great many Huſ⯑bands begin to believe, or perhaps but to ſuſ⯑pect, that they who are called their Chil⯑dren are not their own; I appeal to you, Sir, if that Belief or that Suſpicion muſt not exceedingly cool their Zeal for the Wel⯑fare of thoſe Children, and conſequently for the Welfare of Poſterity.

As I had infinitely the Advantage of All [108] for Love in the Moral of Coriolanus, I had it by Conſequence in the whole Tragedy; for the Coriolanus, as I have alter'd it, ha⯑ving a juſt Moral, and by Conſequence at the Bottom a general and allegorical Acti⯑on, and univerſal and allegorical Characters, and for that very reaſon a Fable, is there⯑fore a true Tragedy, if it be not a juſt and a regular one; but 'tis as juſt and as regular as I could make it, upon ſo irregular a Plan as Shakeſpear's: Whereas All for Love having no Moral, and conſequently no ge⯑neral and allegorical Action, nor general and allegorical Characters, can for that Rea⯑ſon have no Fable, and therefore can be no Tragedy. 'Tis indeed only a particular Account of what happen'd formerly to An⯑thony and Cleopatra, and a moſt pernicious Amuſement.

And as I had the Advantage in the Merit of Coriolanus, I had it likewiſe in the World's Opinion of the Merit and Reputation of Shakeſpear in Tragedy above that of Mr. Dryden. For let Mr. Dryden's Genius for Tragedy be what it will, he has more than once publickly own'd, that it was much in⯑ferior to Shakeſpear's, and particularly in thoſe two remarkable Lines in his Prologue to Aurenge-Zebe.

[109]And in the Verſes to Sir Godfrey Kneller.

And the ſame Mr. Dryden has more than once declar'd to me, that there was ſome⯑thing in this very Tragedy of Coriolanus as it was writ by Shakeſpear, that is truly great and truly Roman; and I more than once anſwer'd him, that it had always been my own Opinion. Now I appeal to you and your Managers, if it has loſt any thing under my Hands.

But what is more conſiderable than all this, your Deputy Lieutenants for the Stage have ten times the Opinion of the Advan⯑tage which Shakeſpear has over Mr. Dry⯑den in Tragedy, than either I or the reſt of the World have. Ever ſince I was capa⯑ble of reading Shakeſpear, I have always had and have always expreſt that Veneration for him, which is juſtly his due; of which I believe no one can doubt, who has read the Eſſay which I publiſh'd ſome Years ago upon his Genius and Writings. But what they ex⯑preſs upon all Occaſions, is not Eſteem, is not Admiration, but flat Idolatry.

And laſtly, I had the Advantage of the very Opinion which thoſe People had of [110] their own Intereſt in the Caſe. They knew very well that it was but twelve Years ſince All for Love had been acted. And they were likewiſe ſatisfied, that from its firſt Run, as they call, to the beginning of this laſt Winter, it had never brought four Au⯑diences together. At the ſame time there was no Occaſion to tell them, that the Co⯑riolanus of Shakeſpear had not been acted in twenty Years, and that when it was brought upon the Stage twenty Years a⯑go, it was acted twenty Nights together.

And now, Sir, I ſhall be oblig'd to you, if you will acquaint me, for what mighty and unknown Reaſon, the Coriolanus, not⯑withſtanding yours and their warm Approba⯑tion of it, notwithſtanding your Words ſo⯑lemnly given to act it, as ſoon as it could conve⯑niently be brought upon the Stage this Win⯑ter, notwithſtanding the Merit of the Play it ſelf, I ſpeak of Shakeſpear's part of it, not⯑withſtanding the World's and their own O⯑pinion of the ſuperior Merit of Shakeſpear to Mr. Dryden in Tragedy; and their very Opinion of their own Intereſt in the Caſe, nay notwithſtanding the exact Seaſonable⯑neſs of the Moral for the Service of King George and of Great Britain, which above all things ought to have been conſider'd by thoſe who call themſelves the King's Ser⯑vants, and who act under his Authority: I ſay, Sir, I ſhould be extremely oblig'd to [111] you, if you would tell me what powerful Reaſon could ſo far prevail over all thoſe I have mention'd, as to engage them to poſtpone the Coriolanus, not only for All for Love, but likewiſe for that lamentable Tragick Farce Caezar Borgia, from which no Body expected any thing but themſelves; and a Comedy after it call'd the Maſque⯑rade, from which they themſelves declar'd they expected nothing.

TO Mr. PENKETHMAN.

I Had certainly call'd upon thee at Rich⯑mond before now, if it had not been for the Eaſterly Winds, which made the coming by Water impracticable to one who is indiſpos'd, by reaſon of the cold attending them. But thou haſt no reaſon to be con⯑cern'd at my Delay. For this is no time to write waggiſh Letters to his Grace. In the mean while I have thought of a Project for thee, which will certainly do thy Buſi⯑neſs. Thou ſhalt e'en turn Author, and write a Play. Thou wilt tell me perhaps that thou art not qualified. For that very Reaſon thou ſhalt write one, becauſe for that very Reaſon thou wilt certainly ſuc⯑ceed. But perhaps thou wilt tell me that thou ſhalt write a very damn'd Play indeed. A ſtronger Reaſon ſtill for thy Writing. For the more damnable thy Play happens to be, [113] the greater and more flaming will thy Suc⯑ceſs be. And ſo, like a modern Author, or a modern Female Beggar, thou ſhalt ſupply thy own infinite Wants, by the in⯑finite Wants of thy Offspring. But why art thou not qualified, Friend Pinky? There are now-a-days but three Qualifications re⯑quiſite for the ſucceeding upon the Stage. The firſt is the want of that ſame. For thou know'ſt the Belly is Ingenii largitor. The ſecond Qualification is, that as modern Criticks when they come to a new Play are never without a Cat-call, a modern Poet who writes ſuch a Play ſhould never be without a Fool-call. He muſt have the knack of jugging Fools into a Pit, as a Country Squire does Partridges into a Trammel. The third Qualification, and which is ne⯑ceſſary for the inforcing the other two, is what they call a Stock, a very great Stock; not a Stock of Silver, nor yet of Gold, but of a Metal more powerful than either, and which commands them both. Now upon the Foot of theſe three Qualifications, who the Devil is half ſo well qualified for the writing a Comedy as thou art? Is it Pro⯑ctor John Little-wit, or Scribble Daſh the Inns of Chancery Bard? Or the Czar's old Soldier? Friend Pinky, thou art never mo⯑deſt but in the wrong Place. Why none of theſe are worthy to carry thy Cloak after thee, and hardly worthy to [114] carry thy Friend Tom [...]'s. For where as thou art a living breathing Come⯑dy, they are a leaſh of dull Devils who are Tragedy all over. Their very Jeſts are deep Tragedy. They never endeavour to make us laugh but they move Terror and Compaſſion. Their very Offer at a Jeſt moves Terror, and 'tis no ſooner out, but it moves Compaſſion. But as for thee, thou haſt nothing to do but to write a long Part for thy ſelf, and then, if thou haſt no Jeſt in thy Chit Chat, thou wilt have a per⯑petual one in thy Perſon, and that will do thy Buſineſs.

To RICHARD NORTON of Southwick, Eſq ſent to him by Mr. BOOTH, when the Players went laſt down to act at his Houſe.

I take this Occaſion of Mr. Booth's going down to Southwick to acquaint you, [...]hat I have been ſeveral times to wait on you [...]his Summer in Bloomsbury, with four Acts of Appius and Virginia, in Obedience to a Sum⯑mons which I receiv'd from you by Colonel B [...]And I would take this Opportuni⯑ty to wait on you at Southwick inſtead of writing to you, if ſome Buſineſs of Conſe⯑quence did not abſolutely oblige me to be nearer the Town. But as ſoon as ever I have finiſh'd this Tragedy, Appius ſhall wait upon you in my ſtead. You, Sir, have been always one of thoſe whom I have been proud to pleaſe. But it would give me a very particular Satisfaction, to find this Tragedy, which was written in the [116] Cauſe of Liberty, agreeable to one who has always ſhewn himſelf ſo good a Patriot and ſo great a Judge. I make no doubt, Sir, but that you do me the Juſtice to believe, that tho' Fortune denies me the Happineſs of going down to Southwick, my Heart and Soul will be there. If we had not a more than common Eſteem and Reſpect for you, we ſhould certainly envy you, for drawing down into the Country the nobleſt Diver⯑ſion of the Town. Nature has combin'd with Fortune to make you compleatly happy. You have it in your Power, and you have it in your Will, to ſet before your Eyes, ev'n in the midſt of Solitude, the moſt agreeable Con⯑verſation both of the Court and Town; and to join the reaſonable Delights of theſe, with the Sweets of your own charming Re⯑tirement. Thus you enjoy the Town in your Abſence from it, free from the Plagues that allay the Delights of it here. And thoſe Fools and Knaves, that are always in our way to perplex us, and diſturb us here, ap⯑pear at Southwick only to give you Joy: While the Calamities of Courts, and the Follies and Villainies of great Towns ſet before you, recommend the Security, the Charms and the Innocence of ſo ſweet a Retreat the more to you. While moſt of the People of great Quality, and of great Eſtates, entertain their Neighbours and their Acquaintance either with unprofit⯑able [117] empty Amuſements, or with pernici⯑ous Diverſions, which drown their Un⯑derſtandings and debaſe their Souls; you pleaſe them with the noble Delights of Reaſon, ſuch as, rightly made uſe of, will enlarge their Underſtandings, direct their Wills, and exalt their Minds. Good God! How muſt they bluſh who ſpend great E⯑ſtates, or at leaſt the Incomes of them, in turning Men into Beaſts; while you with all the Oeconomy of Conduct have the Sa⯑tisfaction of improving Beaſts into Men! As all Men who are capable of thinking right, approve the Judgment of your Choice, ſo we who are paſſionate Friends to the Stage think it our Duty to return you Thanks for the timing it. For at the very time that ſeveral Perſons, of the greateſt Qua⯑lity and the greateſt Intereſt, have been en⯑deavouring to baniſh the Drama from this Town and Iſland, and to introduce inſtead of it an effeminate Muſick to emaſculate the Minds of Men, to metamorphoſe the Bri⯑tiſh Nation, and with Songs like thoſe of the Syrens to change our very Kinds; you have generouſly made Choice of that very Time, to appear the great Encourager of the Dramatick Muſes, and to afford them a Refuge, and a Retreat ſo charming, that while they are at Southwick they may not regret Parnaſſus. So generous a Pro⯑ceeding [118] has oblig'd all the hearty Friends to the Stage, and has added one more ſenſible Obligation to thoſe which you have been formerly pleas'd to confer upon,

To the Right Honourable the Earl of GODOPHIN, Lord High Treaſurer of GREAT BRITAIN.
Concerning the Propoſal for the Security of Commerce.

I Have here the Honour to ſend Your Lordſhip the Abſtract of that Propoſal, which I laid before you about the middle of the laſt Seſſions of Parliament. I did not think fit to remind Your Lordſhip of it before, becauſe tho' you might have ap⯑prov'd of it, it was then too late for the Parliament to go through it, and beſides I had ſome Apprehenſion that that Parlia⯑ment would not enter into it.

My Lord, at preſent I humbly conceive, with all imaginable Submiſſion to your Lordſhip's Judgment, that the bringing this Propoſal to Practice would be highly con⯑venient, and perhaps neceſſary; abſolute⯑ly [120] neceſſary, if the War is like to be of any long continuance, and highly conveni⯑ent though it ſhould be like to have a ſpee⯑dy end: Becauſe in this laſt Caſe, I hum⯑bly conceive that we ſhould have a better and more ſolid Peace than we ſhould have without it. For nothing, with Submiſſion to your Lordſhip's Judgment, would more alarm the French than the reducing this Propoſal to Practice. For ſince they have but two ways of ſucceeding in their Deſigns againſt theſe Nations, which are the Dividing us at Home, and the ruining our Commerce Abroad; they would loſe the very Hope of Succeſs, if they ſhould ſee themſelves pre⯑vented in both, to which the bringing this Propoſal to Practice would contribute not a little. I have been told by ſo many underſtan⯑ding People, that the general Inſurance, which is a part of this Propoſal, would bring in ſuch conſiderable Sums into the Exchequer as would make it equivalent to almoſt any other Tax, that I can hardly doubt of it. My Lord, I humbly conceive that it would have ſome Advantages above all other Taxes. For as far as I am able to make a Judgment upon a four Years ſcrutiny, 'tis a Tax that is very much deſir'd even after ſo long a War, and which is remarkable, it is moſt earneſtly deſir'd by thoſe who are to pay the Money, becauſe by this Tax ſomething would be done for them preferably to the [121] the reſt of the People, which cannot be ſaid of any other Tax; and whereas per⯑haps by all other Taxes both Trade and the ordinary conſtant Revenue are conſi⯑derably diminiſh'd, they would not only be both improv'd and augmented by this, but the national Stock encreas'd, and the whole Confederacy ſtrengthned and bound indiſſolubly. I ſhall have the Honour of waiting on your Lordſhip ſuddenly to know your Pleaſure in this Affair. If your Lordſhip encourages me to lay this Pro⯑poſal before the Houſe of Commons, I ſhall prepare an Appendix, by which I be⯑lieve I can ſatisfie that Honourable Houſe, that the Advantages mention'd both in the Propoſal at large, and in the Abſtract, will really accrue to us from putting that De⯑ſign in Practice.

TO Mr. GEORGE SEWEL,
On the Preface to a Comedy call'd the MASQUERADE.

I Have lately read over the Preface to a certain comical Rhapſody, with an odd mixture of Laughter and Indignation, upon which I ſhall here ſend you ſome Remarks that were made in a curſory manner. He pretends to turn your own Canon upon you, but he has done it to ſo fine a purpoſe that it has recoil'd with violence upon himſelf, and quite demoliſh'd the paltry Works he has rais'd. For what confounded Sot will read any thing of an Author who is capa⯑ble of writing ſuch a Preface? Mr. Dry⯑den tells us in his Preface to the Medal, that upon his writing Abſalom and Achitophel, he met with juſt ſuch Adverſaries. What Reflections he makes upon that notable way of proceeding, you will find in the [123] foreſaid Preface. But to return to that of our Author.

He has very little Inclination, he ſays, to write Prefaces; becauſe, I ſuppoſe, 'tis not ſo eaſie to ſteal Prefaces as Plays. However, as difficult as 'tis, he has brought it about. He has boldly ſeiz'd upon yours, and boaſts of it as Plunder inſtead of Theft.

He neither commends nor defends the Play; which would be to waſte his Breath, in commending Shirly and Taverner: But he ſpends his borrow'd Preface in com⯑mending the Actors, who vouchſaf'd to be the Receivers and Venders of his ſtolen Goods. His Maſquerade, he ſays, owes all his Succeſs to them. And here the Pa⯑negyrick which others beſtow upon ſome one ſubſtantial Patron, he is for retailing among a Company of Actors, which he di⯑ſtributes among them at ſo ſurpriſing a rate, that not a Mortal of them can pretend to any Share of it. For firſt, the Succeſs of this Play is owing to the juſt Performance of the Players in general; then 'tis parti⯑cularly owing to the Grace, which, with her uſual Excellence, Mrs. Oldfield gave to her Part. Indeed no one who has had the Happineſs to know Mrs. Oldfield, can in the leaſt doubt of her being qualified when⯑ever ſhe pleaſes to give extraordinary Plea⯑ſure by her Parts. But now to ſhew that Fools as well as Children are for Boys Play, [124] this Perſon the very next Moment reſumes the Commendation which he ſo very ge⯑nerouſly granted to the Company in gene⯑ral, and ſo very juſtly to Mrs. Oldfield in particular; and to ſhew his old Inclination to Arbitrary Power, pretends to make a freſh Grant of it for the ſole uſe of Maſter Robert Wilks. The Succeſs of this Come⯑dy, ſays he, is owing entirely to Maſter Robert. Well! I have read many a groſs, fulſome, flattering Fool, but I never read any one before, who was Fool enough to own, that he flatter'd groſsly and fulſomly. For when he tells Mr. Robert Wilks, that the Succeſs of the Play is entirely due to him, and in the ſame Breath tells the whole Company 'tis due to them, and in the ſame Breath tells Mrs. Oldfield that 'tis very particularly due to her; what does he do but laugh in Maſter Robert's Face, and tell him, that he takes him for the erranteſt Ba⯑by that ever was bit at Bob-cherry. But now to ſhew that this Fellow is more Fool than Knave, and that he does not flatter on this Occaſion ſo much as he thinks he does, and owns that he does, I will venture to bring him off a little; nay I will venture to ſhew, that when he ſays the Succeſs of the Play is entirely due to Mr. Robert Wilks, he does not flatter at all. For I have heard a grave Bird ſing, that if it had not been for him alone, the Maſquerade had never [125] [...]een acted, the reſt of the Managers having [...]e laſt Contempt for it. Some of the [...]layers told a Gentleman of my Acquain⯑ [...]nce, that the Cauſe of this Author's being Maſter Robert's Favourite, is, becauſe he [...]oes carry himſelf like a true Poet to him, [...]o' not to the reſt of the World. For in [...]rder to pleaſe Maſter Robert and entire⯑ [...]y to gain his Affections, he does not fail [...]om time to time to entertain him with [...]ertain quaint Inventions, with certain in⯑ [...]enious Fictions; while Maſter Robert, [...]ke other Auditors and Spectators, being willing to be deceiv'd in order to be perfect⯑ [...]y pleas'd, ſuppoſes all this to be true. They [...]dded, that Maſter Robert was ſo exceed⯑ [...]ngly delighted with Entertainments of this [...]ature, that the other Managers paid for [...]is Pleaſure of this kind very dearly; it [...]tanding them in, at leaſt, five hundred Pounds a Year. I ſhall tell you things when I ſee you which are not fit to be writ.

TO THO. SERGEANT, Eſq

I Remember very well, that before I went out of Town in June laſt, I promis'd in a ſhort time to give you ſome Ac⯑count of the late [...]. I make no doubt but that you have long before this time accus'd me of Breach of Promiſe. But if you did but know what charming Places I have been in, ſince I ſaw you laſt; and what damnable Company, for the moſt part, I have kept in them; how my Life has been chequer'd between Rapture and Chagrin, and conſequently unable to turn it ſelf to Buſineſs; did you but know this, I am con⯑fident you would not blame me. Beſides, I conſider'd that Authors as well as Petti⯑foggers ought to have long Vacation, and that it was but reaſonable that the World ſhould once a Year enjoy an Interval from being plagu'd with either; that it was highly expedient, that Minds ſometimes ſhould lye [127] Fallow as well as Fields, as well as thoſe Human Bodies which they inform; that they who are too often in the Act of Ge⯑neration, produce but weak and puny Off⯑ſprings, and peradventure none; and that the Scriblers and common Whores of that vile Town ſeldom beget any thing, unleſs ſomething by Chance, that, like a Dutch Sooterkin, is at once frightful and con⯑temptible, as all Monſters are. Beſides, I thought it a Duty to my ſelf, to recruit thoſe Spirits, by a pleaſing Indolence, which a long Misfortune had almoſt exhauſted. And if at any time, in ſpight of theſe rea⯑ſonable Reflections, I reſolv'd to ſet hear⯑tily about the Performance of my Promiſe, I immediately ſtarted at the Thought of what I was about to undertake. For to make Remarks upon this [...] (Death and Hell!) a Man muſt read it. And who that has Quails and Burgundy before him, would leave them for Porter and Ram Mutton? Beſides, the Faults in it are ſo frequent and ſo groſs, that every Fool may find them; and a Man cannot value him⯑ſelf, or expect that the reaſonable Part of the World ſhould value him for his Saga⯑city or Penetration, on the account of ex⯑poſing them. I flatter my ſelf, that you who have had a fourteen Years Experience of my Sincerity, will believe that I ſpeak my Sentiments; at leaſt I can aſſure you, [128] that I have taken all imaginable Care, and have kept the moſt watchful Guard upon my ſelf, that I might neither endeavour to deceive you thro' Malice, nor be my ſelf deceiv'd thro' Prejudice. But ſince perhaps you, or ſomebody to whom you may ſhew this Letter, may be of another Opinion, I ſhall ſend you in a Day or two ſome Obſervations upon the firſt; which little may be enough to ſhew all the Beaſt. For a Lyon is not better deſcry'd by his Claw, than an Aſs is known by his Ear.

TO THO. SERGEANT, Eſq

I Wrote to you about a Week ago, and deſign'd to write again by the next Poſt. [...]ut that Raskal Appius has lately taken [...] ſo much of my Time, that he will not [...]ffer me to be in good Humour enough [...] entertain my Friends. Beſides, the very Houſe where I am is ſanctified to that de⯑ [...]ree, that 'tis a mortal Enemy to Gayety; [...]nctified to the very Names of the Perſons [...]ho inhabit it. The Name of the elder [...]on is Aminadab, of the younger Amos; of [...]e elder Daughter Jemina, of the ſecond [...]ezia, and of the youngeſt Keren-Hap⯑ [...]ch, which you know are the Names of [...]he three Daughters of the moſt patient Man. And you may take it on my word, [...]hat Maſter Aminadab and Madam Keren-Happuch are two very extraordinary Per⯑ons.

In this Houſe, you muſt know, Sir, is [...] old Fanatical Pettifogger, who has lately [130] married a young Wife. There being not Room enough to receive her here, ſhe lives at preſent with her Father, in a Village a⯑bout ſeven Miles off. And the old Petti⯑fogger ambles to her in his Gambadoes once a Week to pay his natural Tax: And then litterally returns to ſee his Uncle who is the Maſter of the Houſe where we lodge. It happen'd about a Month ago that ſome Buſineſs obſtructed his Journey; but ha⯑ving procured a Barrel of Oyſters, he or⯑dered them with a Letter to be ſent in his ſtead. The Letter was delivered to a Mar⯑ket-Man, who came from the Village; and he was ordered to go to the Stable, and to take a Sack which he ſhould find there, (in which the Oyſters it ſeems were wrapt) which he was order'd to deliver to Spouſe, with the Letter. In the mean while, as the Devil would have it, another Country⯑man had laid another Sack there, which the former Country-man, who knew no⯑thing of the Freight, took inſtead of that with the Oyſters, carried it to the Village, and delivered it to Spouſe with the Letter, which was to this Effect.

Spouſe was very well pleas'd with the Letter, orders the Sack to be immediately open'd, and greedily pulls out of it—Half a dozen Bunches of Carrots. And ſo you have the Piece of rural Waggery, which I promis'd you in my laſt.

To Mr. * * *

That is, I have been for theſe three Weeks at Graſs with meer white Cattle, and have not ſo much as ſeen three reaſonable Crea⯑tures, ſince I left the neighbourhood of Whitehall. When I arriv'd at this Place, I had the Mortification to find that of my two Landlords in whoſe Houſes I had here formerly paſs'd ſo many delicious Hours, the one was gone to live at Epſom, and the other was run quite away. Upon enqui⯑ry, I found that there were but two Houſes to lodge at, a common boarding Houſe, or my Barber's. I conſider'd that by going to the common boarding Houſe, I ſhould give up a good part of my Liber⯑ty, which is the principal Thing that makes the Country ſo charming. For there might be Women at that Houſe, or they might come the very Day after me, who, tho' old and ugly, might expect as much Cere⯑mony [133] as if they were young and beautiful. Now that Ceremony which paſſes hourly among ſome People, is founded, like Law, on a mutual Agreement between them, to give up part of their natural Liberty for the Benefit of Society. But tho' there is a ſort of Neceſſity for an Obſervance of Forms and Ceremonies in great and Ca⯑pital Towns; yet when a Man retires into the Country, he is deſirous to be, for a while at leaſt, like the Woods and Hills which he ranges, in the State of Na⯑ [...]ure. I muſt conſeſs that even in great Towns I have always had a very indif⯑ [...]erent Opinion of a great deal of Cere⯑mony, and have been always apt to be⯑ieve, that as ubi plurimae leges peſſima [...]eſpublica, ſo where there is the moſt Ce⯑ [...]emony, there is always the worſt Soci⯑ [...]ty. Another Reaſon which inclin'd me [...] the Barber's, was a Deſire to know [...]he Nature of this Place. For tho' I [...]ave been ten times here, yet as my for⯑ [...]er Lodgings had the fineſt Meadows [...]nd Streams in the World behind them, [...] ſcarce ever came into the Village, [...] that till this laſt Arrival, I knew no⯑ [...]ing of the People of Cobham; of whom [...] my next I ſhall give you ſome Account.

TO Dr. * * * at Shrewsbury.
Of Eccleſiaſtical Quacks.

I Return you Thanks for your agreea⯑ble Relation of the Progreſs of the Iti⯑nerant Doctor, who travels, it ſeems, like one of thoſe fooliſh Fires, which lead People into Bogs and Ditches, whoſe Miſ⯑fortune it is to come in the way of their falſe and deluſive Light. Upon the Re⯑ceipt of your entertaining Letter, I made the following Queries to ſome of his groſs Admirers.

Whether ſome People who practice Di⯑vinity, tho' they are called Doctors, are not really Quacks; and whether Mountebanks Eccleſiaſtical as well as Secular, are not di⯑ſtinguiſh'd from true Profeſſors by the fol⯑lowing Marks.

Firſt, Whether the true Phyſician both of Soul and Body is diſtinguiſh'd from the Mountebank, not by wearing an Acade⯑mical [135] Bonnet, but by Wiſdom, Learning, [...]nd a long Experience in the Art of Heal⯑ [...]ng; and whether he who thro' want of [...]heſe continually miſtakes the Diſtemper of [...]is Patient, and by Conſequence admini⯑ [...]ters Poiſon to him, preſcribes Opiates in [...] Lethargy or Brandy in a Calenture, is not [...] ridiculous contemptible Empirick, tho' [...] has been dubb'd both Batchelor and Do⯑ [...]tor at Oxford?

Secondly, Whether the true Phyſician [...]oth of Soul and Body does not conſult the [...]aie, and deſign the Health of the whole [...]ody politick and the whole Body natural, [...] which 'tis his Fortune or Duty to admi⯑ [...]ſter? Whereas the Quack of both kinds [...]ever fails like the Tinker to make two [...]oles, while he is emploied in mending of [...]e. For Example, the true Phyſician, of [...]e Body natural, purges and cleanſes the [...]hole Maſs of Blood in order to the heal⯑ [...]g an Ulcer in the Pudenda; whereas the [...]mpirick, by giving a ſudden Check to it, [...]rows it up into the nobler Parts: And [...]e Spiritual Phyſician of the Body Poli⯑ [...]ck, is for ſaving every Soul of that Body [...] which he happens to be a Member; [...]hereas the Eccleſiaſtical Empirick, as if [...] were the firſt Plenipo of Heav'n, is for [...]ing ſome and damning others with an [...]ſolute Power.

[136] Thirdly, Whether the true Phyſician does not keep his Station, and confine his Practice to his Neighbourhood; whereas Folly and Impoſture, by remaining con⯑ſtantly with the ſame People, would ſuf⯑fer too much thro' too long an Inſpection. And therefore the Mountebank finds his Account better in being Itinerant. And when he has cheated the Fools of one Ma⯑joralty both of their Health and their Mo⯑ney, ſeeks for freſh Cullies and freſh Idiots in a new Corporation.

Fourthly, Whether the true and the ſound Phyſician is not ſatisfied with the Ap⯑probation of his own Conſcience, and of thoſe who have common Senſe? whereas the Mountebank makes it his Buſineſs to be the Idol of the Rabble, and therefore has much more numerous Aplauders than the true Phyſician. For Rabble is a moſt comprehenſive Word, Doctor, and includes not only pitiful poor Mechanicks, and wretched Rogues in Rags, but many, nay very many Perſons, who are diſtinguiſh'd by Fortune and dignified by Princes. This comprehenſive Word, Doctor, includes all who want Underſtanding and Virtue. And ſo for Example the Rabble round the Wre⯑kin includes not only the Butchers, the Tinkers, the Weavers and the Tailors of the adjacent Towns and Counties, but of⯑ten likewiſe, too often, the Mayor, the [137] Sheriff, the Alderman and the Doctor, I mean the Mountebank both Spiritual and Secular; for every one who ſeeks the Ap⯑plauſe of Rabble is himſelf moſt certainly Rabble; but how Emphatically, Doctor, are they Rabble, who are the Admirers and the Applauders of Rabble!

Thus has your Letter drawn Queries from me inſtead of an Anſwer; which I hope you will look upon as an Equivalent, and read with Candor and with Indul⯑gence, as coming from

TO HENRY CROMWELL, Eſq
Of an Expreſſion in Shakeſpear; and of the Comedy of the Nonjuror.

I Wrote to you this Morning for your more deliberate Opinion concerning the Paſſage of Phaedrus. I now ſend this to you to conſult you about an Expreſſion in the Othello of Shakeſpear, which [...] long ago occaſioned a great Diſpute at [...] Coffee-Houſe, between the Wits there and the Manager of the Play-Houſe who acts the Part of Othello. The Wits asked the Player how he lik'd this Expreſſion in his own Part, Excellent Wretch! to which the latter anſwer'd, that he lik'd it ſo ill, that he always left it out. Upon which they immediately extoll'd it to the Skies, and look'd upon the Player with great Con⯑tempt. Tho' that Tragedian has no more Judgment in Tragedy than an Aſs has in Muſick, I am apt to believe that he was [139] this once in the right. I know indeed very well, that miſer and miſellus were ſome⯑times among the Romans Terms of Ten⯑derneſs. I find that miſer is in that Senſe in the Eunuch of Terence, Act the third Scene the laſt, where Chaerea gives Anti⯑pho an Account of his enjoying Pamphila.

Which Madam Dacier has tranſlated pau⯑vre Garçon! But are there not two ſorts of Tenderneſs, a Comick and a Tragick Ten⯑derneſs? Now tho' miſer was ſometimes us'd by the Romans, to expreſs both the one and the other Tenderneſs, yet, in my Opinion, it can never be tranſlated into Engliſh by the Word Wretch in any but the Comick way; Wretch in a ſerious Senſe being al⯑ways, if I am not miſtaken, a Term of Re⯑proach or Contempt: And conſequently the Terms Excellent Wretch, being incon⯑ſiſtent and contradictory, make the mean⯑ing abſurd, and the Expreſſion Nonſenſe. This is my Opinion at preſent, but I know not how long it will be ſo, becauſe I have not as yet heard yours.

But that is not the only Point in which I deſire it. I am told lately by one of my [140] Acquaintance, that I have been too ſevere upon the Underſtanding of another of the Managers, and that is of Cibber. And the Reaſon that was given me was, that Cibber writ the Fool in Faſhion, which, ſays my Friend, you have often ſaid is a good Co⯑medy. To which I anſwer, that 'tis true, I have often ſaid 'tis a good Comedy, but I had always much ado to believe that Cib⯑ber writ it, and that ſince I have ſeen the Nonjuror and the Heroick Daughter I do not believe it at all. For which I ſhall give my Reaſons, and afterwards deſire to know from you how convincing they appear to you.

When the Fool in Faſhion was firſt act⯑ed, Cibber was hardly twenty Years of Age. Now could he at the Age of twenty write a Comedy with a juſt Deſign, diſtin⯑guiſhed Characters, and a proper Dia⯑logue, who now at forty treats us with Hibernian Senſe and Hibernian Engliſh? Could he, when he was an arrant Boy, draw a good Comedy, from his own raw uncultivated Head, who is now at forty able to do nothing but what is poor and mean, when he is ſupported by two ſuch Maſters as Moliere and Corneille?

I have often obſerv'd to you, that there is not in his Heroick Daughter one Spark of the Force and noble Spirit of Corneille. As for Moliere, I am ſatisfied that he knows [141] nothing of him, but that he built his Non⯑ [...]uror upon ſome ſpiritleſs dull Tranſlation of him. When I heard that a Play with [...]hat Title was to be acted, I wiſh'd it as much Succeſs as Cibber did, upon account of the Cauſe in which it was writ. But I [...]efus'd to ſee it acted, becauſe knowing Moliere's Play to be a Maſter-piece, I was [...]fraid I ſhould be ask'd ſome Queſtions by my Friends which I ſhould not care to an⯑ [...]wer. I heard an advantagious Character of it, from ſome with whom I converſed, [...]nd what I heard I imparted to others, but [...] coming from my Friends and not from my ſelf. After the Play was printed, I wou'd not read it till it had been publiſh'd [...] Month, during which time I was ask'd a hundred Queſtions about it. When I ſaw that the Curioſity of the World was pretty well over, I ſent for the Play and read it. Upon the reading it, I was ſoon confirm'd in ſome of my former Thoughts, that Per⯑ſons of a very good Underſtanding might be impos'd upon at a Repreſentation by the Livelineſs and Grace of Action, and that the Excellence of the Actor often makes amends for the Imperfections of the Author. I ſoon found that there was little in the Engliſh Comedy of the Beauties of Moliere. For Moliere's Characters in his Tartuffe are Maſter-pieces, mark'd, diſtin⯑guiſh'd, glowing, bold, touch'd with a fine [142] yet a daring Hand; all of them ſtamp'd with a double Stamp, the one from Art and the other from Nature: No Phantoms but real Perſons, ſuch as Nature produces in all Ages, and Cuſtom faſhions in ours. His Dialogue too is lively, natural, graceful, eaſie, ſtrong, adapted to the Occaſion, adapted to the Characters. In ſhort, 'tis by this Comedy and by the Miſantrope that Moliere perhaps has born away the Prize of Comedy from all Perſons in all Ages, ex⯑cept Ben. Johnſon alone. But the Chara⯑cters of the Engliſh Comedy are moſt of them daub'd and bungled, and the Dia⯑logue nothing but meer Fribble. Now is it barely poſſible that this bungling Imita⯑tor can be the Author of the Fool in Fa⯑ſhion? Is it barely poſſible that he ſhould have known Mankind and the Stage, and the Engliſh Tongue when he was an errant Boy, who is groſsly ignorant of them all at forty? But Cibber's Name is prefix'd to the Fool in Faſhion. They know nothing of Mr. Cibber, who in the leaſt wonder at that. He who, now he is turn'd of Forty, ſets his Name, without any manner of Scru⯑ple or Ceremony, to what all the World knows was writ by Fletcher and Dryden, could not his Vanity, when he was a Boy, prevail upon him to own what an unknown tho' a very ingenious Gentleman writ? Thus have I given you my Reaſons, why I can⯑not [143] believe that The Fool in Faſhion was writ by. Mr. Cibber. But I deſire to know, as I told you above, how convincing theſe Reaſons appear to you.

TO Mr. * * *

YOU deſire me to ſend you ſome Ar⯑guments to convert your Neighbour from Jacobitiſm, who, you ſay, is a Man of good Senſe and a good Chriſtian, and good Proteſtant. I have ſent you the fol⯑lowing Queries to preſent to him, and am of the Opinion, that if he is what you ſay, they may have ſome Influence on him.

I. Whether 'tis poſſible that the Preten⯑der ſhould be ſettled here, without the Subverſion of our preſent Conſtitution, and the Eſtabliſhment of Abſolute Power.

II. Whether the Eſtabliſhment of Abſo⯑lute Power under a Popiſh Prince, will not extirpate the Proteſtant Religion from Great Britain and Ireland.

III. Whether the Extirpation of the Pro⯑teſtant Religion from theſe Iſlands, will not in all Human Appearance be follow'd by the utter Deſtruction of it throughout the Chriſtian World.

[145] IV. Whether the Deſtruction of the Pro⯑ [...]ſtant Religion throughout the Chriſtian World, will not in all human Appearance [...] followed by the utter Deſtruction of Chriſtianity it ſelf.

V. Whether, ſince theſe Things are [...]ſily prov'd, as I my ſelf will undertake to [...]ove any of the foreſaid Conſequences, [...] who profeſſes himſelf a Chriſtian and [...] Proteſtant, can have the Heart to wiſh [...] Conſcience to promote a Deſign which will be the Ruin of that Religion, on which [...] believes that all his Happineſs depends.

TO The Reverend Mr. MANSELL.

THE laſt of July I had the Honour to return an Anſwer to your moſt obli⯑ging and ingenious Letter. I have ſince had the Curioſity to enquire after the Prieſts whom you mention, but have been able to get no Intelligence; from which I conclude, that the Prieſts whom you men⯑tion muſt be two or three ſcandalous Jaco⯑bite Curates in your Neighbourhood. But whatever Ill they may ſay of me, I will pre⯑ſume that they do not call me Fool, which implies all other Infamies. For as Roche⯑foucault ſays, a Fool has not Stuff enough to be good. I will preſume they do not ſay of me, that every Word, that every Action of my Life is a Contradiction to common Honeſty, and to common Senſe; that tho' I am moſt ſordidly intereſted and moſt ridiculouſly proud, I am endeavour⯑ing with Might and Main to make my ſelf moſt miſerable and moſt deſpicable; that I am labouring with all my Might and with all my Strength to bring in a Tyrant in [147] order to ſecure Liberty, and the Pope to ſecure Religion and my ſpiritual Property; that I deſire and endeavour nothing ſo vehe⯑mently, as to bring my Wife and Chil⯑dren to Infamy and Beggary, and to make of my ſelf either a vile Vagabond or an ex⯑ecrable Apoſtate; and that I have been all along labouring at this ſo ſtrenuouſly, that I have made my ſelf a moſt perjur'd Villain in order to bring it about, and ſcandalous enough to bring freſh Diſgrace upon a Pil⯑lory or the Whipping-poſt.

Theſe, Sir, are things which I preſume they do not ſay of me, becauſe theſe are Encomiums which are only worthy of them, and which they have made upon themſelves by their Actions. But becauſe what they [...] ſay of me, they have in all Likelyhood from that Monſter J [...] S [...], I deſire that in my next you will give me Leave, Sir, to ſay a Word concerning that Wretch, to ſhew you how I reſented the Prank which he would have plaid me in Northam⯑tonſhire. I took the Will for the Deed, and moſt religiouſly obſerved the Law of Re⯑taliation with him, upon the very firſt Op⯑portunity.

To the Right Honourable the Lord PARKER, Lord High Chancellor of GREAT BRI⯑TAIN.

AT a Time when ſo many Perſons are ſhewing, by the Preſents they make your Lordſhip, the Veneration which they have for your great Qualities, and their Acknowledgments for the Benefits which they receive from them, I humbly deſire your Lordſhip to accept of the two Volumes which I here preſent to you, which are no ſmall part of the Labours of thirty Years in the Cauſe of Liberty and of Great Bri⯑tain. In preſenting them to your Lord⯑ſhip, I have the Satisfaction of offering them to a juſt and clear-ſighted Judge of Art, as a diſcerning and righteous one of Equity. May your Lordſhip's Glory and Happineſs encreaſe as your Years are mul⯑tiplied, [149] that the Glory and Happineſs of Great Britain may be proportionably aug⯑mented with them.

TO J. CHARLTON, Eſq

THE Honour which I formerly had of being perſonally known to you, (tho' but a little) gives me Encouragement at this time of New Year's Gifts, to make you a trifling Preſent of the Books which you will receive with this; which are no ſmall Part of the Labour of thirty Years in the Cauſe of Liberty and of your Country. If I ſhould tell you that I ſend them without any Deſign, I am ſure, Sir, would not believe me. I will therefore freely own that I have a Deſign, but 'tis a juſt and innocent one; which will put you to no Expence, and but to a very little Trouble. I ſhall beg Pardon for the Trouble, when I acquaint you with the Deſign, which will be in a few Days. In the mean time, Sir, Incli⯑nation as well as Cuſtom engages me to wiſh ſo good and ſo great a Patriot a long and a happy Life. 'Tis the Intereſt of all the Lovers of their Country, that ſuch [...] [151] you ſhould long be ſerviceable to it; and [...] wiſhing for the Happineſs of thoſe few who reſemble you, they certainly wiſh for their own.

Written in the Name and at the Requeſt of WILL PEN⯑KETHMAN, the Comedian, to her Grace the Dutcheſs of [...]

THE Humourous Lieutenant being ſhortly oblig'd to tread the Stage for the Benefit of your Grace's moſt humble Servant; to whom ought I ſooner to have Recourſe to encourage it, than to your Grace, who, upon my laſt Benefit, made ſuch an Appearance for me, as ſhew'd your Power to be great as your Goodneſs or as my Acknowledgments? And I make this humble Requeſt to your Grace with the leſs Deſpondence of obtaining it, becauſe [...] am aſſur'd from your noble Nature, that I am far from offending you, in giving you an Occaſion to exert your Beneficence. My Succeſs depends in ſo great a mea⯑ſure upon your Grace's Favour, that with⯑out it, the Humourous Lieutenant is like to be a ſad Fellow; and the Rural Thea⯑tre in your Grace's Neighbourhood, is [153] like to give a melancholy Leſſon to Mor⯑tals of the Inſtability of Humane Affairs, and the ſhort Duration of the Pomps and Vanities of this wicked World. For that very Fabrick which was metamorphos'd from its original Form, and adorn'd for the Entertainment of Nobility, Wit and Beau⯑ty, will relapſe and dwindle into a Barn, and fodder Cows and Horſes.

That your Grace may be always both here and hereafter compleatly happy as thoſe bleſt Beings, whom you reſemble and whoſe Examples you imitate, is the con⯑ſtant Wiſh and the zealous Prayer, when⯑ever I do happen to pray, of,

TO Sir RICHARD BLACKMORE,
On Two Verſes in VIRGIL.

I Deſir'd in my laſt that you wou'd be Arbitrator in a Diſpute, which I lately had with Mr. Rowe concerning ſome Verſes of Virgil. The Paſſage is in the 3d Eclogue.

Now, Sir, Mr. Rowe affirm'd that the Nymph in acting and the Shepherd in rela⯑ting, meant nothing but Boys and Girls Play. My Opinion is, that ſuch an Interpre⯑tation renders the Paſſage wholly flat and inſipid, and fit to pleaſe none but Children; that the Nymph by throwing the Apple, and then running away to the Willows, but at the ſame time taking care that the [155] Shepherd ſhould ſee her before ſhe got to them, deſign'd Mans and Womans Play. Now, Sir, you are left to judge which of the Explications is moſt worthy of Virgil, and which comes neareſt up to that Molle and that Facetum which at that time of Day compos'd the Character of Virgil, if we will take the Opinion of a very judi⯑cious Critick, and that was his Friend Ho⯑race;

For where is the Molle and the Facetum in theſe Verſes, if the Nymph and the Shep⯑herd, like Boys and Girls, were only at hide and ſeek? I could as ſoon believe that when Silenus in the Sixth Eclogue ſays, ſpeaking of Aegle, Huic aliud mercedis erit, he only in⯑tended to preſent her with a Pair of Gloves. I know indeed very well, that Ruaeus in⯑terprets Laſciva by Jocoſa Puella. But it ought to be conſider'd, that Ruaeus was a Prieſt and that the Dauphin was young, and that it was the Buſineſs and Duty of the Jeſuit to conceal from his young Pu⯑pil the Lubricity of the Poet's meaning. Nor is Laſciva us'd upon this occaſion, tho' 'tis taken in the common Senſe ſo very different from Jocoſa Puella, if we conſider that Homer, whenever he has occaſion to mention Venus, calls her the Laughter⯑loving [156] Goddeſs. Beſides, my Antagoniſt does not ſeem enough to conſider either the Nature of Women in general, or of the Italian Women in particular, or of the Seaſon when this was ſuppos'd to hap⯑pen, which was High Spring, (which is the Seaſon of High Deſire) as Palaemon gives us to underſtand a little before this Paſſage in three Verſes, the two laſt of which are beautiful as their Subject.

Now when we conſider all theſe Things, can we believe that Virgil, who was ſo ju⯑dicious, ſo wiſe, and who follow'd Na⯑ture ſo cloſely, meant nothing but Hide and Seek by his ſe cupit antè videri. That which makes this one of the beautifulleſt Paſſages of all the Eclogues, is, that there is a very wanton Meaning expreſs'd in very modeſt Words, and conſequently occa⯑ſion given to the Reader to ſhew his Diſ⯑cernment by piercing the Veil which the Poet has thrown over the Nudity; which puts me in mind of a fine Paſſage of Mon⯑taigne. Eſſay Lih. 3. Ch. 5.

[157]

Thus far Montaigne. When he ſpeaks of the Modeſty of Lucretius, he means, I ſuppoſe, that Modeſty which he ſhews in his Invo⯑cation, where indeed in very modeſt Terms he treats of a very wanton Subject.

I could ſay more upon this Subject, but I am afraid that I have already tired you as well as my ſelf.

TO WALTER MOYLE, Eſq
At Bake near Loo in Cornwall.

TWenty tedious Years have now been paſt, ſince I had the Honour either to ſee you, or hear from you, or write to you. Tho' I had many a time done the latter, if you had not prevented it by your unkind Prohibition, when, the laſt time I ſaw you, you declared among a great num⯑ber of your Friends, that you would keep Correſpondendence with no one. But tho', by reaſon of that unkind Declaration, we have a long time reckoned you dead and buried to the World and us, yet we have been far from forgetting you, ſo very far from it, that we have had the more lively Remembrance of you, becauſe we have ſeen no body ſince you left us, who, by re⯑ſembling you, could put us in mind of you. [160] Which recalls to my mind ſomething that paſt at the Funeral Ceremonies of a great Lady in the Time of Tiberius Caeſar. The Images of her Anceſtors were carried in Proceſſi⯑on upon that Occaſion, but, ſays Tacitus, eo praefulgebant Caſſius at que Brutus quod eorum Imagines non viſebantur.

At length, after twenty Years Silence, I am oblig'd to write to you, in order to do you Service and my ſelf Juſtice. D [...] the Printer was with me Yeſterday, and had the Folly or the Impudence to ſhew me a Letter from you, by which I found that that Scoundrel had arrogated to him⯑ſelf the little Preſent which I order'd him to make you laſt May was twelve-month, and to make it paſs for his own Act and Deed. I order'd him to ſend you the two Volumes, which he printed for me, before they were publiſhed, and to ſend them in the large Paper, which he ought to have done for his own Sake, becauſe then you wou'd have ſeen a Book very beautifully printed. I ordered him likewiſe to ſend them as handſomly bound as the skilfull'ſt Workman could bind them. But upon the bringing in his Account, I found that that Wretch, who has not Soul enough to do a handſome thing, tho' he is ſure it will coſt him nothing, had ſent the common Paper without any binding at all.

[161] D [...] had as much forgot you, before I mentioned you to him, as if he had never known you, unleſs by Sight and by Chance. But upon his enquiring whoſe the Anony⯑mous Letters were, which were printed [...] one of the two Volumes, I ſaid enough to him of the Author, and of the Expe⯑ctation which I had of the Tranſlation of Dionyſius Halicarnaſſaeus, to fire his dull Maſs with the greedy deſire of Gain.

I am interrupted, but I ſhall the very [...]ext Poſt, without fail, ſay ſomething to you of that Tranſlation and of the Pre⯑ [...]ace, which is got into the Hands of a [...]riend of your Brother's and mine, who, I hope and believe, has too much Ho⯑ [...]our ever to print it without your Con⯑ [...]ent. I am oblig'd to take my leave of [...]ou till the next Poſt. In the mean time [...] deſire you to judge of the Reſpect, the Eſteem and Affection which I have, and [...]ave always had for you, ſince I had firſt [...]he Honour to know you, by what I am [...]oing to tell you, that for twenty Years [...]ogether I have never ſo much as once [...]en any of our common Acquaintance without mentioning you in ſuch a man⯑ [...]er as ſhew'd that I very ſenſibly regret⯑ [...]ed your leaving us. Sir George Mark⯑ [...]am can tell you ſomething of this, and [...] can Mr. Congreve, Mr. [...]ein, and Mr. [162] Welbye. But moſt of the reſt, alas, are va⯑niſh'd like a Morning's Dream.

TO THO. SERGEANT, Eſq

I Have been not a little concern'd at my not being able to keep Touch with my Appointment to Day. But multa cadunt [...]nter calicem ſupremaque Labra. Many things have fallen out between my Lips and the Cups of Punch which I deſign'd to drink with my Friend Mr. Sergeant to Day. My only Aſſociates in this Place are the ſame that the ingenious Don Quixote had at the famous La Manche, viz. the Bar⯑ber and the Curate. Now the Diſappoint⯑ment that I had from the former, and the too great Punctuality of the latter, have been the Occaſion of my Misfortune. For the Barber, who ſhould have come on Sa⯑turday at Three, came not till Sunday at Eleven, ſo that there was a Neceſſity of dining before I went. After Dinner in comes the Curate; and invites me to take part of an Eccleſiaſtical Collation in the After⯑noon. [164] Now Gentlemen of his Complexi⯑on are ſo hearty and ſo frank in their ſpi⯑ritual Hoſpitality, that if you do not com⯑ply with their preſſing Invitations you diſ⯑oblige them for ever. The Sorrow which oppreſs'd me for being diſappointed of the Converſation of a Gentleman whom I e⯑ſteem ſo much, has been in ſome meaſure alleviated by the following Conſiderations. Firſt, the Author whom I have at preſent under Conſideration has ſerv'd me as he deſerves to be us'd himſelf, and has nail'd my Ears to his Book ſo faſt, that I could not without Pain unclinch my ſelf. The ſecond Alleviation is the Con⯑ſideration of my Health. For though the Goddeſs ſmiles upon me here, ſhe has as great an Averſion to old Sodom as Hugh Clodpate of merry Memory, and might for ought I know ſhake Hands with me at my Entrance into that damn'd Town. I begin to be quite another thing than I was while I ſtaid in the Tower, and there is as much difference between me on my Hill here, and me in my Den at John Ri⯑chardſon's, as there is between a Lyon on a Mountain in Africa, and one near the Spur-Guard. Another Comfort that I had was the extraordinary Beauty of the Day. For it far'd between me and the Day, with⯑out Vanity be it ſpoken, as it does be⯑tween a Pimp and a Lady whom he has in [165] his Power. If ſhe is but tolerably handſome he gives her to his Friend, but if ſhe is char⯑mingly fair, he is willing to enjoy her him⯑ſelf.

This is the third Letter which I have writ to you ſince I heard from you; I hope the other two came to your Hands. I de⯑ſire that you would have the Goodneſs to ſend me word, in what Poſture my Af⯑fairs are. I ſhall be unwilling to ſee the Town till the latter end of this Week, un⯑leſs there is a Neceſſity for it.

To H [...] C [...] Eſq
Of Simplicity in Poetical Compoſitions, in Remarks on the 70th Spectator.

BY your laſt of the 26th you deſire to know my Opinion of the notable Cri⯑tick upon Chevy Chaſe in the Spectator of the 21ſt and that of the 25th of this Inſtant; that is, you deſire to know whether I be⯑lieve the Author of thoſe two Papers to be in Jeſt or in Earneſt. To which I anſwer, that he is neither in Jeſt nor in Earneſt; not in Ear⯑neſt, becauſe he does not believe what he ſays; nor in Jeſt, becauſe he does ſtrenuouſly endeavour to convince the Reader of the Ex⯑cellence of that old Dogrel. His Deſign is to ſee how far he can lead his Reader by the Noſe. To give my Reaſons for this Opinion, I ſhall ſend you an Examen of thoſe two Spectators in as little Compaſs as I can.

‘When I travelled, ſays he, I took a par⯑ticular Delight in hearing the Songs and [167] Fables that are come from Father to Son, and are moſt in Vogue among the common People of the Countries thro' which I paſſed; for it is impoſſible that any thing ſhould be univerſally taſted and approved by a Mul⯑titude, tho' they are only the Rabble of a Nation, which hath not in it ſome peculiar Aptneſs to pleaſe and gratify the Mind of Man.’

Now is there any thing that has the leaſt Air of a Jeſt? On the other ſide, do you think that the Author could be capable of meaning and thinking what he pretends to affirm here? Is it not plain by the laſt Words which I have quoted, viz. the Mind of Man, that he intended a Fallacy? For to affirm this of the Mind of Man, as 'tis cultivated and inſtructed, is not only abſurd and ri⯑diculous, but contradictory of himſelf. Has not he himſelf obſerved in the 134th Tat⯑ter, that there are Exerciſes and Diverſi⯑ons which univerſally pleaſe the Rabble, which yet Men of Quality or Education either deſpiſe or abhor? Such are the Shrove-Tueſday and Bear-Garden Diverſi⯑ons, which he there particularizes. I have known a Country Fidler who has been the Delight of three Counties, tho' he could never play the Truth of one Tune; and a Sign-Poſt Painter, who has been the Ad⯑miration not only of the Rabble, but even of moſt of the Squires of the North of Eng⯑land. [168] I appeal to the Bookſellers, who in this Caſe ought to be Judges without Appeal, whether more of the common People do not approve of Quarles and Bunyan than eſteem Chevy Chaſe. Therefore 'tis plain that Au⯑thor could not deſign that the Period a⯑bove-mentioned ſhould run thus,

‘For 'tis impoſſible that any thing ſhould be univerſally taſted and approved of by a Multitude, tho' they are only the Rabble of a Nation, which has not in it ſome peculiar Aptneſs to pleaſe and gratify the Minds of Men of Quality and Education.’

And leſs can he deſign to make it run as follows: ‘For it is impoſſible that any thing ſhould be univerſally taſted and approv'd of by a Multitude, tho' they are only the Rab⯑ble of a Nation, which has not in it ſome peculiar aptneſs to pleaſe and gratify the Minds of the Rabble.’ For to mean this would make, not only what he ſays, but what he is, a Jeſt. So that the Author, by the Mind of Man, meaning neither the Mind of Man as it is rude and untaught, nor the Mind of Man as 'tis cultivated and inſtructed, can mean nothing in the World but to try how far he can impoſe upon his Reader. But he goes on.

‘Human Nature is the ſame in all rea⯑ſonable Creatures, and whatever falls in with it, will meet with Admirers among Readers of all Qualities and Conditions. Moliere, as we are told by Boileau, us'd [169] to read all his Comedies to a little old Wo⯑man, who was his Houſe-Keeper, as ſhe ſate at her Work by the Chimney Corner, and could foretel the Succeſs of his Play in his Theatre, from the Reception it met at the Fire Side. For he tells us the Au⯑dience always follow'd the old Woman, and never failed to laugh in the ſame Place.’

Now can you, Sir, or any Man of good Senſe believe that the Author does not know better what belongs to a Jeſt, than to take falſe Reaſoning for one; and that he does not know better what belongs to falſe Reaſoning than to mean what he ſays here? Can he be ſo dull and ſo abſurd as not to know how to diſtinguiſh between what Human Nature is, and what Human Nature ſhould be? Human Nature was Human Nature before the Fall, and 'tis Human Na⯑ture now 'tis degenerated from that per⯑fect Virtue and that unclouded Knowledge, which it enjoy'd before. 'Tis the Buſineſs and Deſign of Education to endeavour to retrieve in ſome meaſure the Loſs that Hu⯑man Nature has ſuſtain'd by the Fall; and to recover ſome Meaſure of Knowledge and Virtue. Now Heroick Poetry is an Imi⯑tation of Human Nature exalted, and Come⯑dy is an Imitation of Human Nature depra⯑ved. What can be more abſurd than to con⯑clude, that becauſe the Rabble, that is, ſuch as never had any Education, are tolerable Judges of Human Nature depraved, that therefore [170] they are Judges of Human Nature exalted, of which none can be Judges but they who have had the beſt Education? And there⯑fore not only the Rabble, but an univerſal Nation has been miſtaken in their Judg⯑ments of Poets and Poetry, when the Judg⯑ments have been made, before that Nati⯑on came to be ſufficiently cultivated.

So that we ſee it was the Opinion of Horace, that the People of Quality were ſometimes miſtaken as well as the Rabble; nay, that both Rabble and People of Qua⯑lity were ſometimes miſtaken ev'n in their Judgments of Comedy.

And to ſhew you that 'tis impoſſible the Spectator can mean what he ſays here, Ho⯑race declares in the very Verſe which the Spectator has choſen for the Motto of his Paper, that the Multitude is as often mi⯑ſtaken as it is in the Right.

And he ſays particularly, that they are of⯑ten miſtaken in their Judgments of Verſes which have been writ by their Forefathers.

Now is not here a Motto very judiciouſly choſen? For from theſe Verſes of Horace, we may juſtly make this Obſervation, that a Man by his real Approbation and Imper⯑tinent Commendation of ſuperannuated Rhimes, not only puts himſelf upon an e⯑qual Foot with the Rabble, but ev'n of the [172] moſt injudicious and fooliſh part of the Rab⯑ble?

In fine, Horace was ſo far from being of Opinion, that the univerſal Approbation of the Multitude was the Taſte and Touch⯑ſtone of good Poetry, that in the laſt Satyr of his firſt Book, he adviſes the Poet of his Formation to take no manner of Care about pleaſing them.

Now this Advice of Horace muſt either be impertinent and wrong, or the Approbati⯑on of the Multitude is a Sign of an ill Poem. But 'tis time to ſee how this judicious Au⯑thor goes on.

‘I know nothing that more ſhews the eſ⯑ſential and inherent Perfection of Simpli⯑city of Thought, above that which I call the Gothick manner in writing, than this, that the firſt pleaſes all kinds of Palates, and the latter only ſuch as have formed to themſelves a wrong artificial Taſte upon little fanciful Authors and Writers of Epi⯑grams. Homer, Virgil, or Milton, ſo far as the Language of their Poems is under⯑ſtood, will pleaſe a Reader of plain com⯑mon Senſe, that would neither reliſh nor comprehend an Epigram of Martial, or a Poem of Cowley; ſo on the contrary, an or⯑dinary [173] Song or Ballad that is the Delight of the common People, cannot fail to pleaſe all ſuch Readers as are not unqualified for the Entertainment by their Affectation or their Ignorance, and the Reaſon is plain, becauſe the ſame Paintings of Nature which re⯑commend it to the moſt ordinary Reader, will appear beautiful to the moſt refin'd.’

Now, Sir, can any thing be more plain, than that the Spectator here cannot mean what he ſays? Becauſe 'tis impoſſible for a Man of common Senſe, much leſs for one of his notable Parts, to be guilty of ſo many Abſurdities as there are in this little Para⯑graph. I will make no Objection at pre⯑ſent about the Gothick Taſte. I think I have call'd it ſomewhere ſo my ſelf, tho' tis certain that the pointed conceited way of Wit was in Faſhion long before the Goths were either a Name or a Nation. For you find it not only in Florus, in Martial, in Seneca, in Tacitus, but even in ſome of the Writers of Auguſtus Caeſar's Age, as Ovid and Paterculus. But here are more Im⯑portant Errors to be taken Notice of. For firſt, the Spectator would make us believe that all People are Judges of Simplicity of Thought, and that the Rabble are better Judges of it, than they who have had a gene⯑rous Education. That more People compre⯑hend the Excellency of Homer, and Virgil, and Milton, than the Beauties of Martial [174] and Cowley, tho' perhaps there are not ten Perſons living who know all the Merit of Virgil, and Milton's Paradiſe Loſt had been printed forty Years before it was known to the greateſt Part of England, that there barely was ſuch a Book. He would further inſinuate, that all thoſe Songs or Ballads, which are the delight of the Rab⯑ble, cannot fail to pleaſe all ſuch Readers as are not unqualified for the Entertain⯑ment by their Affectation or their Igno⯑rance; as if Men of Education in Great Bri⯑tain were more ignorant than the Rabble, or it requir'd an extraordinary Stock of Knowledge to comprehend the Excellence of old Dogrel. The Reaſon which he gives for this, and which he ſays is plain, is, becauſe the ſame Paintings of Nature which recommend it to the moſt ordinary Reader, will appear beautiful to the moſt refin'd; as if ſome faint and imperfect Touches of Nature might not recommend a thing to thoſe by reaſon of their Igno⯑rance or their Stupidity, know not how far an Author ought to go in ſuch a Caſe to expreſs the Truth of Nature, which faint and imperfect Strokes would by no means ſatisfy thoſe who are able to judge of that Truth.

Sir, the Spectator imagines here, that there is nothing contrary to Simplicity of Thought, but that pointed conceited way [175] of writing which we mention'd above, whereas Simplicity of Thought, is Thought which naturally ariſes from the Subject, Ideas which bear a juſt Proportion to the Things they repreſent, and which the Sub⯑ject ſeems of it ſelf as it were to offer to us, inſtead of our obtruding them upon that. If we truly conſider what Simplicity of Thought in Poetry is, we ſhall find that there are three things which are equally diſtant from it, and thoſe are, Imbecility, Affectation and Extravagance; Imbecility, when a Man wants Force to come up to the Truth of Nature; Affectation, when a Man goes beſide it, thro' Error, Luxury and Wantonneſs of Soul; and Extravagance, when a Man goes beyond it, thro' a falſe and [...]ll-tim'd Effort to ſhew his Strength and Excellence. We ſhall find too that Sim⯑plicity of Thought is not ſufficient to make what we call Metre Poetry; that there muſt be likewiſe a Simplicity of Expreſſion; that a Simplicity of Expreſſion is an Expreſſi⯑on which is according to Nature, that is an Expreſſion proportion'd to the Ideas, as they are to the Things, and that conſequently then the Expreſſion in great Subjects, and in great Thoughts is ſimple, when it is paſſionate, figurative, ſounding and har⯑monious; and that an Author, who in great Subjects and in great Thoughts ſhews an Expreſſion, which comes ſhort of this, [176] ſhews not a Simplicity but an Imbecility of Expreſſion. In ſhort, as all the Heroick Virtues are compatible with Simplicity of Heart, ſo all the Magnificence of the moſt pompous Eloquence is on ſome Occaſions conſiſtent with Simplicity of Style. But now let us ſee a little how the Specta⯑tor goes on.

‘The old Song of Chevy Chaſe, ſays he, is the favourite Ballad of the common Peo⯑ple of England; and Ben Johnſon us'd to ſay, he had rather have been the Author of it, than of all his Works. Sir Philip Sid⯑ney, in his Diſcourſe of Poetry, ſpeaks of it in the following Words. I never heard the old Song of Piercy and Douglas, that I found not my Heart more mov'd than with a Trumpet, and yet it was ſung by ſome blind Crowder with a Voice as rough as his Style, which being ſo evil apparrel⯑led in the Duſt aad Cobweb of that un⯑civil Age, what would it work trimm'd in the gorgeous Eloquence of Pindar? For my own part, ſays the Spectator, I am ſo pro⯑feſſed an Admirer of this antiquated Song, that I ſhall give my Reader a Critick upon it, without any further Apology for ſo do⯑ing.’

Now, Sir, as I ſhew'd you before by his Sophiſtry, that the Spectator is not in ear⯑neſt; ſo here it may appear by the Autho⯑rities he brings that he is not in Jeſt. I am [177] ſo very well convinced of the ſolid Judg⯑ment of Ben. Johnſon, that if Ben. ever talk'd at that rate, (which I will not abſo⯑utely pretend to deny, tho' I very much doubt it) he only did it to laugh, and to ridicule ſome of the ſottiſh Admirers of that obſolete Song. As for Sir Philip Sid⯑ney, do but obſerve the Expreſſion which that noble Gentleman uſes; he tells us not that his Heart was moved by the Song of Piercy and Douglas as often as he read it, or heard it read, but as often as he heard [...] ſung, nay, tho' it was ſung by an old Crowder. I ſhrewdly ſuſpect that there were ſome martial Notes in this old Go⯑thick Tune, which very much contributed to the working that Effect upon Sir Philip Sidney. But inſtead of affirming that Sir Philip Sidney has gone too far, he pre⯑ [...]nds to inſinuate that he falls too ſhort; for the Spectator vindicates the very Expreſ⯑ [...]ion of Chevy Chaſe, in which one thing, I ,uſt confeſs, he does ſeem to me to come ſomething near to a Jeſt, and to make a [...]ne ironical Ridicule upon Sir Philip Sid⯑ney. But be theſe things as they will, be⯑ſides that thro' the whole Courſe of this Criticiſm I have and ſhall oppoſe greater Authorities to theſe, I ſhall confound them by invincible Reaſon, before which no Au⯑thority could ever ſtand; and by ſhewing he Nature of Poetry, and what it is that [178] conſtitutes the Difference between that and Proſe, ſhall make it appear that the Writer of this old Song, in ſpight of the Applauſe of ſo many Ages, never knew what Poetry was. In order to which, let us give very near the ſame Account of it that we for⯑merly did in the Grounds of Criticiſm in Poetry.

Poetry then is an Art, by which a Poet excites Paſſion, (and to that very end en⯑tertains Senſe) by a bold and figurative Language, and by meaſur'd harmonious Pe⯑riods, in order to ſatisfy and improve, to delight and reform the Mind, and ſo to make Mankind happier and better.

Poetry therefore is Poetry, becauſe 'tis more paſſionate and ſenſual than Proſe. A Poet has two ways of exciting Paſſion. The one by the Figurativeneſs, and the other by the Harmony of his Expreſſion; but the Figures contribute more to the exciting of Paſſion than Harmony. A Diſcourſe that is writ in ſmooth and tolerable Num⯑bers, if 'tis not figurative can be but mea⯑ſur'd Proſe; but a Diſcourſe that is every where bold and figurative, and conſequent⯑ly every where extremely pathetick, is cer⯑tainly Poetry without Numbers. Beſide [...] this alone is a convincing Proof that a Fi⯑gurative Expreſſion is more eſſential [...] Poetry than Harmony, viz. that Harmony [...] ſelf, if 'tis any thing perfect, depends up⯑on [179] a figurative Expreſſion; there being no Example among the Antients themſelves of a Raviſhing Poetical Muſick, without figu⯑rative Language. But as the Language of Poetry in general is to be bold and figu⯑rative, the Language of great and exalted Poetry is to be very bold and figurative. The Doctrine of Horace is exactly anſwerable to this.

For he tells us here three things in a very conſpicuous manner. Firſt, that poetical Meaſures are not ſufficient to conſtitute a Man a Poet.

[180] Secondly, that there muſt be great Paſſi⯑on, and a bold and a figurative Language, nay very bold and very figurative.

And Thirdly, That it was to be que⯑ſtioned whether any thing but the great and exalted Poetry was properly Poetry.

Boileau is exactly of the ſame Opinion, and has in his Ninth Satyr as it were interpret⯑ed part of this Paſſage of Horace.

And in his Eighth Reflection upon Lon⯑ginus, he tells us plainly that Monſieur Perrault having tranſlated the beginning [181] of the firſt Ode of Pindar without Figures, has tranſlated it without Poetry.

Rapin is exactly of the ſame Mind in his Twenty Ninth Reflection upon Poetry in general. For having told us that Virgil in [...]he Fourth of his Georgicks, ſpeaks of the Bees every where in the metaphorical Terms of Court, Legions, Armies, Com⯑bats, Fields of Battel, Kings, Captains, Sol⯑diers, that by this figurative and lofty man⯑ner he may exalt the Lowneſs of his Mat⯑ [...]er; he adds,

‘C'eſt ainſi qu'un grand Ouvrier comme Virgile, ne dit preſque rien dans le propre, & c'eſt en quoy conſiſte le grand art de la Poeſie, de dire Figurement preſque tout ce [...]u'elle dit. Car d' ordinaire les Figures [...]urniſſent des plus grands images que les [...]hoſes mêmes. Enfin le Poete doit ſcavoir [...] toutes choſes, ce que l' Eloquence a d' art & de methode pour les Figures. Ce n'eſt [...]ue par les Figures qu'il donne de la Force [...]ux Paſſions, de l' eclat aux Diſcours, du [...]ids aux Raiſons, & de l' agreement a tout [...] qu'il dit. Et ce n'eſt que par les Figures [...] plus vives de l' Eloquence, que tous les [...]ovemens de l' ame deviennent ardens & [...]aſſionnez.’ Which is in Engliſh thus.

Thus a great Maſter like Virgil ſcarce [...]ys any thing in plain Language; and the [...]reat Art of Poetry conſiſts in ſaying al⯑moſt every thing that is ſaid figuratively. [182] For the Figures generally ſupply us with Images greater than the Things themſelves. In ſhort, a Poet ought to be poſſeſſed of all that Art and that Method in which E⯑loquence is deſign'd to inſtruct us with re⯑gard to the Figures. They are the Figures that enable him to give Force to the Paſ⯑ſions, Brightneſs to the Diction and to the Periods, Weight to his Arguments, and Charms to all that he ſays. And 'tis only by the livelieſt Figures of Eloquence that all the Motions of the Soul become ardent and pathetick.

As for Simplicity, of which the Specta⯑tor boaſts ſo much, the foreſaid Rapin has remarkably told us, in his Twenty Seventh Reflection, that the Simplicity of Thought and even Simplicity of Expreſſion in great Subjects is not incompatible with the greateſt Pomp and Magnificence. For Simplicity of Thought and Simplicity of Expreſſion is nothing but ſuch Thought and ſuch Ex⯑preſſion, as Nature in ſuch and ſuch Caſes voluntarily ſuggeſts and dictates to us.

‘La Troiſieme qualité de la Diction, ſays Rapin, eſt qu'elle ſoit naturelle, ſans affe⯑ctations, ſelon les Regles de la Bienſance & du bon ſens. Les Phraſes trop etudiées, un Style trop fleury, les Manieres trop com⯑paſſées, les Beaux mots, les termes trop re⯑cherchées, & toutes les Expreſſions extra⯑ordinaries, ſont inſupportable a la veritable Poeſie. La ſeule Simplicité luy convient, [183] pourv [...] qu'elle ſait ſoutenue de nobleſſe & le grandeur: maiscette ſimplicité n'eſt con⯑ [...]ue que des grandes ames. C'eſt le chef l' oeuvre de la Poeſie, & le caractere de Homere & de Virgile. Les ignorans y cher⯑chent de l' Eſprit & des Beaux Senti⯑mens, parce qu'ils ſont ignorans. La Di⯑ction doit etre relevée & eclatante, c'eſt ſa quatrieme qualité: Car tout ce qui eſt com⯑ [...]un & ordinaire dans les Termes, ne luy [...] pas propre. Il faut des paroles, qui [...]ayent rien de Bas, & de Vulgaire; une Diction noble & magnifique, des expreſſions artes, des couleurs vives, des traits har dis. [...]fin, il faut un Diſcours qui puiſſe ega⯑ [...]r la grandeur des Idées d'un Ouvrier, qui [...]it etre le Createur de ſon ouvrage. La [...]nquieme qualité de la Diction eſt d'etre [...]mbreuſe pour ſoutenir cet air grand & Majeſteux dont ſe ſert la poeſie, & pour [...]primer toute la Force, toute la Dignité [...]es grandes choſes qu' elle dit. Il ne luy [...]ut que des Termes propres a Remplir la [...]ouche, & a contenter les oreilles, pour [...]enir a ce merveilleux, qu'elle recherche en [...]utes choſes. Mais ce n'eſt pas aſſez qu'il [...] a de la grandeur, & de la magnificence [...]ans l' Expreſſion, il doit y avoir auſſi, de [...] Chaleur, & de la Vehemence, & il faut [...]r tout, qu'il regne dans les Diſcours, un [...]rtain Air de Grace & de Delicateſſe, qui [...] faſſe le principal ornement, & la Beauté [184] la plus univerſelle.’ Which moſt remarkable Paſſage is render'd thus.

The Third Quality of the Diction is that it ought to be natural, without any man⯑ner of Affectation, according to the Rules of Decorum and of good Senſe. Phraſes that appear too much ſtudied, a Style that is too florid, a Manner that is too nicely wrought, Things that are finely ſaid, Terms that are too far fetch'd, and all Expreſ⯑ſions that are windy and ſwell Uſe, are inſupportable to the true Poetry. Only Simplicity can agree with it, provided that Simplicity be ſuſtain'd by Nobility and by Greatneſs. But that is a Simplicity with which only great Souls are acquainted. 'Tis the Maſter-work of Poetry, and the Character of Homer and Virgil. The Ig⯑norant look for what they call Wit and fine Thoughts, becauſe they are ignorant. The fourth Quality of the Diction is, that it be exalted and ſonorous. For every thing that is vulgar in the Expreſſion is below it. It requires Words which have nothing that is baſe and common in them, a Diction that is noble and magnificent, Expreſſions that are ſtrong, and Colours that are lively, and daring and audacious Strokes. It requires, to ſay all, a Diſcourſe that is able to come up to the Greatneſs of that Workman's Ideas, who ought to be the Maker and Creator of his own Works. The fifth [185] Quality of the Diction is that it be harmo⯑nious, that it may maintain that great and majeſtick Air, with which Poetry is wont to adorn it ſelf, and may expreſs all the Force and the utmoſt Dignity of the great Things which it utters. It ought to reject all Terms but thoſe that are proper to fill the Mouth and content the Ear, that it may attain to that Sublime and that Won⯑derful, which it always and every where aims at. But 'tis not ſufficient that there be Greatneſs and Magnificence in the Ex⯑preſſion, there ought to be likewiſe Ardor and Vehemence, and there ought eſpecially to reign throughout the Diſcourſe, a fine, a graceful, and a delicate Air, which ought to appear its principal Ornament, and its moſt univerſal Beauty.

Now what one of theſe great Qualities has the old Ballad of Chevy Chaſe? Of all the Lines which the Captain has quoted, 'tis remarkable, that there is but one which has any thing like a Figure in it. Now tho' the Subject of that Song is noble, yet there being nothing figurative in it, 'tis plain by conſequence that there is nothing great, nothing noble in it; no Magnificence, no Vehemence, no Painting, no Poetry. To compare any of the Paſſages in it to Virgil is ridiculous, and a Man may as well com⯑pare a dead Man to a living. For Exam⯑ple, [186] what manner of Compariſon is there between theſe two Paſſages.

And that of Virgil,

What is there in the firſt but what is vile and trivial? What Ploughman, what Tink⯑er, what Trull is not capable of ſaying the like? But that of Virgil, where he gives Voice to the Mountains, and Voice, Con⯑ſent and Soul to the Words, is ſo bold, ſo figurative, ſo pompous, ſo harmonious, that a Man muſt be Virgil himſelf to ſay it. What can be more ridiculous, nay more monſtrous, than to find any thing reſem⯑bling in the following abominable Dogrel,

[187] And the following Verſes of Virgil,

Where the divine Harmony is the Reſult of uncommon Paſſion, and productive of no vulgar Paſſion. Thus we ſee, that in ſpight of the pretended Reſemblance, the old Dogrel is contemptible, and Virgil is incomparable and inimitable. One might with a great deal more Juſtice pretend, that there is a Reſemblance between the 148th Pſalm of Sternhold, and that admirable Hymn of Milton in the Fifth Book of Pa⯑radiſe Loſt. And yet we need only tran⯑ſcribe them both, and place them together here, to convince the Reader, that the one is bald, and vile, and wretched, and the o⯑ther great and exalted Poetry. Let us be⯑gin with the Pſalm of Sternhold.

[189] Thus have we laid before the Reader the contemptible Dogrel of Hopkins; a Ver⯑ſion which is deſpicable Dogrel in ſpight of its being figurative. For every Line here is a different Apoſtrophe. But theſe are Figures which are another Perſon's, which the Tranſverſer repeats like a Parrot, with⯑out underſtanding them, and without being mov'd by them, and which conſequently have neither Paſſion nor Sublimity to ſu⯑ſtain them. For 'tis a juſt Obſervation which is made by Longinus, that as the Fi⯑gures ſupport the pathetick and the ſub⯑lime, they are wonderfully ſupported by each of them. Let us now ſee how the Force of Milton's Genius hides and con⯑ceals the Aſſiſtance of Art, while theſe lof⯑ty Figures, at the very time that they raiſe and tranſport his exalted Soul, are loſt in his Enthuſiaſm and his Sublimity, as the glittering of numberleſs Stars is ſwallow'd and loſt in the blaze of Day, and that gold⯑en Deluge of Light which on every ſide overwhelms them. The following Hymn is ſpoken by our firſt Parents, in the Mor⯑ning, at what time they firſt come out of the Bower in Paradiſe, and ſurvey the Works of God which the ſpringing Day has reſtor'd to them.

Now I think nothing can be more plain than that notwithſtanding the ſame Pſalm of David is the groundwork both of Mil⯑ton and Sternhold, and notwithſtanding a vain Appearance which may delude thoſe who are not able to diſtinguiſh, there is no more Reſemblance between the Hymn of Milton, and the Verſion of Sternhold, than there is between Light and Darkneſs, Heat and Cold, Life and Death, Heaven and Earth, the Graces and Deformity, no not⯑withſtanding they both make uſe of the very ſame Figures; but thoſe Figures in Sternhold are dead, and he himſelf ſeems dead: and while he pretends to give Life and Soul, and Thought, and Spirit, and Motion, even to the inſenſible and inani⯑mated Parts of the Univerſe; he is him⯑ſelf without Spirit, or Life, or Soul, or [193] Thought, or Motion; while Milton's matchleſs Genius, animating the ſeveral Fi⯑gures, appears to give Life, and Soul, and Motion to their ſeveral Objects; and ſeems to equal theſe ſeveral mighty Objects in their diſtinguiſhing Qualities, to be lofty as the Heav'n and ſolid as the Earth, firey as the Sun, and changing as the Moon, ſwift as the Winds, and ſtrong, and terrible, and ſo⯑norous as the Arms and Mouths of the great Deep. Since then there is no man⯑ner of Reſemblance between the Hymn and the Verſion, which ſeem to have ſeveral things in common, what Shadow of Like⯑neſs can there be between Virgil and Eng⯑liſh Dogrel, where there is nothing com⯑mon between them, nor Ground-work, nor Figure, nor Harmony; the Dogrel be⯑ing utterly deſtitute both of Figure and Harmony, and conſequently void of the great Qualities which diſtinguiſh Poetry from Proſe.

TO The Maſter of the REVELS.
Writ upon the firſt acting of a Play call'd, the Succeſsful Pyrate.

I Have ſo much Concern for your Re⯑putation, that I think it my Duty to ac⯑quaint you, that you have been very ſe⯑verely cenſur'd for licenſing the laſt Play. Never, ſay they, was the Stage pro⯑ſtituted to ſo vile a degree before. It has more than once been accus'd of promoting Vice, but was never tax'd till now with en⯑couraging Villany. And is the Man, ſay they, who is ſet over it to reſtrain it from encouraging Vice, is he become inſtrumen⯑tal in its promoting Villany? and ſuch Vil⯑lany, ſuch a Complication of contemptible Folly, and of dreadful abominable Wick⯑edneſs, as was never beheld upon any Stage before. Good God! ſay they, was any thing wanting to the Extravagance of this [195] degenerate Age, but the making a Tar⯑pawlin and a Swabber, and a living Tar⯑pawlin and a Swabber, the Hero of a Tra⯑gedy? who, at the ſame time that he is ſtrutting in Buskins here, is lolling at Ma⯑dagaſcar with ſome drunken ſun-burnt Whore over a Can of Flip. The greateſt Rogue and the moſt deteſtable Villain that ever the Sun or Moon beheld, baniſh'd not only from his own but from all Countries, declar'd the Peſt of all Human Society, and purſued to Death as a devoted Creature, odious and noxious to Mankind, the Stage of whoſe Tragedy, if he is caught in Eng⯑land, will undoubtedly be at Wapping. Men of common Senſe are in Amazement, and [...]fting up their Hands and their Eyes, ex⯑ [...]aim, what could this judicious Author [...]ean, by introducing upon the Stage a Hero of Execution-Dock, unleſs that a Character might be ſhewn which ſhould be [...]ought adequate to the Player, and that [...]e Heroe of a Tragedy might at length [...] produced which might be acted to the [...]ery Life. And this Rogue is chriſten'd [...]rſooth the Succeſsful Pyrate. But ſure, [...]y they, this pious Chriſtian had moſt Pa⯑ [...] Godfathers. For is not this Name, ſay [...]ey, a Name of notable Inſtruction and of [...]e Morality? Does it not ſpeak plainly to [...] following Purpoſe? Men, Brethren, [...] Children, if any of you have a mind [196] to puſh on your Fortunes, or ſupply your Luxuries by ſuch vigorous Methods, as Fools call wicked and violent, begin to be Rogues and proſper. We will encou⯑rage you to go on, and to diſpel the idle and vain Fears of Providence and Divine Vengeance, by ſhewing a greater Rogue than any of you can pretend to be, and ſhewing him proſperous and ſucceſsful. And we here declare upon our Honours, that if any of you Gentlemen of the Galleries have a mind to turn Robbers upon the high Seas, to plunder our Ships, and to fill our Jayls with our Mer⯑chants, and our Hoſpitals with their Wives and Children, we here declare that if he ſucceeds, rather than that for⯑tunate Rogue ſhould not be celebrated we will not only act him, but write him our ſelves according to the beſt of [...] damnable Talents. This, ſay the Per⯑ſons mention'd above, is the bleſſed Mo⯑ral of this Play, which muſt needs [...] wonderfully agreeable to a civiliz'd [...] a trading People. As I ſaid at firſt, [...] thought it my Duty to acquaint y [...] with this.

TO THO. SERGEANT, Eſq
Sent with a Cicero, which I had bor⯑row'd of him, in a very ſmall Print.

I Here ſend you back your Cicero; as I would return a Friend's Miſtreſs to him who had entruſted me with her, untouch'd, tho' much deſir'd, and tho' very willing. That I have an extream Paſſion for Cicero is but Truth; but if I ſhould ſay of him, as a Spark did of a fair Lady, that I love him more than my Eyes which made me love him, that would be Hyperbolical. Being willing then to preſerve my Eyes for all my Friends, for my mortal Friends in Cloth, and Drugget, and Silk, and Crape, and Linſey Woolſey; and for my immortal Friends in Leather, and for Cicero among the reſt, tho' laſt not leaſt belov'd, I here return him to you, and deſire you to de⯑liver Sir John Marſham into the Hands of [198] the Bearer. That is, indeed, as the Fable has it, to lay the Body of dead Sphinx up⯑on an Aſs. But the Knight was a ſort of an Antiquary, and an Aſs you know was a Beaſt reſpected by Antiquity.

TO Mr. * * *

I Am not able to give you the Directions you deſire, to find Mr. B [...] R [...], nor have I ſeen him lately, nor will I ever ſee him more if I can help it. I hate a Traitor who is always bragging of his Ho⯑nour and Honeſty. The Men of Honour and Honeſty never bragg. They let their Actions ſpeak for them. I never in all my Life-time knew a Man who often bragg'd of his Honour, or a Woman who often boaſted of her Chaſtity, but the one was a true bred Whore, and the other a Raſcal vile enough to bring a Pillory into freſh Diſgrace. When a Man boaſts of his own moral Virtues, is a ſign for the moſt part that he is conſcious of the contrary Vices, and ſo has recourſe to bragging to blind the Eyes of thoſe with whom he converſes. But the very Trick, by which he cheats Fools, diſ⯑covers him to Men of common Senſe; and [200] ſo his Brains are like the Foxes Heels, by which the Beaſt eſcapes from Mungrils, but is betray'd to the Hounds. The greateſt Coward boaſts moſt of his Courage. The eternal talkative noiſie Fool, of his Senſe. Even talking perpetually is implicit brag⯑ging. For why ſhould a Man talk always more than his Company, if he did not be⯑lieve that Nature had given him a Call for it, and made him a perpetual Dictator? One Hypocrite makes more Noiſe and more Shew of his Zeal than twenty real Saints. There are Bullies in Honour and in Reli⯑gion as well as there are in Courage. B [...] R [...] is a Bully in all three. The Man who wants Gratitude can have no one Vir⯑tue whatever.

TO Mr. BRADLEY.

SINCE among the reſt of the Obligati⯑ons which I have to you, you have been ſo generous as to defend me from that Accuſation of Ill-nature, which has been brought againſt me by ſome who are ſo far from knowing me, that perhaps they never ſaw me; I am animated by ſo friendly a Proceeding to ſend you my Thoughts upon this ſubject, as they have from time to time come into my Mind, as well as I am able to recollect them, in that ill State of Health under which I la⯑bour at preſent.

As this Accuſation is brought againſt me by thoſe who are utter Strangers to me, it muſt proceed from the Books which I have publiſh'd, and particularly from the Books of Criticiſm. But if in my Criticiſm I am in the right, my very being ſo muſt be a ſufficient Apology a⯑gainſt [202] that Accuſation. For he who ac⯑cuſes a Man of Ill-nature for writing a juſt Criticiſm, knows not what is meant by either of the Terms, either by Ill-nature or Criticiſm. By Ill-nature muſt be meant ſomething that is contrary to the true Na⯑ture of Man, as by Good-nature muſt be underſtood ſomething that is agreeable to it, or the one can be no Term of Re⯑proach, nor the other of Commendation. But the true Nature of Man muſt conſiſt in Reaſon, which diſtinguiſhes him from all other Creatures, and therefore no Diſ⯑courſe or Action that is reaſonable can poſſibly denominate him ill-natur'd.

But as the true Nature of Man is rea⯑ſonable, it is likewiſe ſocial; and Man is therefore the moſt ſocial of Creatures, be⯑cauſe he is the moſt reaſonable. Now a juſt Criticiſm is perfectly agreeable to the Nature of Man conſider'd as 'tis ſocial. For what does the good Critic deſign? he deſigns to detect and diſgrace Errour, to diſcloſe and honour Truth; he deſigns the Advancement of a noble Art, and by it the Intereſt and Glory of his Native Country, which depend in no ſmall meaſure upon the flouriſhing of Arts.

If he has the greateſt Goodneſs of Na⯑ture, who has the largeſt ſhare of ſocial Virtue; if he has the largeſt ſhare of ſocial Virtue, who labours moſt for the Happi⯑neſs [203] of the Society in which he lives, and of all his Fellow-Creatures in general; if the Happineſs of ones Native Country, and of Humankind in general, depend more, under God, upon the Maintenance of Liberty, than upon any other thing whatſoever; who can juſtly pretend (not only of the Writers of the preſent Age, but of the Engliſh Writers in general) to a greater Goodneſs of Nature than my ſelf, who have made it the conſtant Buſi⯑neſs of my Life to defend and maintain Liberty? Who has taken more delight in praiſing her Benefactor, or in branding and defaming her avowed and mortal E⯑nemies? In ſhort, Sir, Liberty has been the continual Theme of my Pen, and the conſtant Employment of my Life. And have I taken all this Pains for my ſelf? No. I wanted not common Senſe to diſcern that the Britiſh Liberties would be of longer continuance than my Life. But the growing Corruptions of my Countrymen gave me too juſt grounds to apprehend that Liberty in Great Britain would not laſt many Centuries. I therefore reſolv'd to caſt in my Mite towards the rendring it perpetual in this Iſland. And yet I knew very well and foreſaw, that by this very Endeavour to ſerve them, I ſhould draw upon me the Hatred of a great part of my Countrymen, and by conſequence a [204] thouſand different Slanders. They have given me diſtempers of Body, and defects of Mind, of which I have not the leaſt Knowledge; and the Opinion of my Ill⯑nature has proceeded as much from my Endeavours to maintain and prolong Li⯑berty, and by conſequence to perpetu⯑ate Happineſs to them and to their Poſteri⯑ty, as from my detecting and expoſing ſuc⯑ceſsful Poetaſters. For which if I am ſor⯑ry for my ſelf, I am more ſorry for my Country, for a People ſo diſpos'd can be free no longer than their Rulers are will⯑ing they ſhould be ſo. I am in ſo faint and languiſhing a Condition, that I can pro⯑ceed no further, tho' I have many things to ſay. But I will certainly reſume this Subject, if I ever retrieve my Vigour.

To the Right Honourable the Lord Treaſurer GODOLPHIN.

I Here ſend your Lordſhip a Dramatick Poem, call'd Liberty Aſſerted, which I wrote before I had the Honour to be known to your Lordſhip, and ſend upon occaſion of its being the firſt Britiſh Play that is acted; that is, the firſt after the Accompliſhment of this Happy Union, which has been ſo nobly brought about by your Lordſhip's Wiſdom, and which has aſſerted and enſured the Liberties of Great Britain. My Lord, that this Play's being accidentally reviv'd at this extraor⯑nary Juncture, may prove of happy Pre⯑ſage to the Proſperity of Great Britain, and to your Lordſhip's Fame, which muſt flouriſh Eternally with this Iſland's Proſpe⯑rity, is and ſhall be the zealous and perpe⯑tual Wiſh of,

To his GRACE The Duke of BUCKINGHAM.
Written in the Name and at the Requeſt of one who deſign'd to ſend him the Lives of ſome of our celebrated Eng⯑liſh Poets.

THE whole Body of Engliſh Narra⯑tive Poets have here the Honour to wait on your Grace, and to deſire your Patronage; of whom the moſt celebrated, among ſuch of them as were your Contem⯑poraries, have ſo often attended upon you ſeparately to implore your Protection. My Lord, thoſe among them who are living look upon themſelves as Probationers for Fame, and cannot be aſſur'd of that Glo⯑ry to which they aſpire, till your Grace has giv'n Judgment concerning them. Few of thoſe who are dead, have been dead long enough for the World to be aſſur' [...] [207] of their real Merit, and whether it will be great and laſting enough to paſs to our lateſt Poſterity. The Opinions of the Pub⯑lick in Things of this nature are variable and uncertain, and the Reputations of Au⯑thors are ſubject to ſtrange Reverſes. Never any Poet left a greater Reputation behind him than Mr. Cowley, while Milton remain'd obſcure and known but to few. But your Grace knows very well, that the great Reputation of Cowley did not conti⯑nue half a Century, and that Milton's is now upon the Pinacle of the Temple of Fame. 'Tis hardly poſſible that ſo many Ages ſhould have remain'd in the dark with regard to almoſt every thing that relates to Homer, if his Poems had, during his Life time, been receiv'd with that vaſt, that uni⯑verſal Applauſe which they met with after his Death. Fannius, an impertinent Ro⯑man Scribbler, yet found ſo much Succeſs in his own Time, and ſo general an Ap⯑probation, that both his Works and his Picture were ſet up in the Library, which Auguſtus had conſecrated in the Temple of Apollo Palatine, while Horace complains that he was neither read nor known, and yet your Grace knows very well that this happen'd at a time when the Roman Poetry and the Roman Taſte were in their Heighth of Excellence. But length of Days diſtinguiſh'd juſtly be⯑tween them, and ſatisfy'd the World of [208] the nice Judgment and the fine Diſcern⯑ment of Mecaenas and Auguſtus Caeſar: Length of Days, my Lord, conſign'd Horace to eternal Fame, and Fannius to eternal Infamy.

The whole Body then of Engliſh Nar⯑rative Poets, conſidering this Uncertainty and this Inconſtancy of the People, pro⯑ceeding from their Ignorance and their want of Taſte, here bring their Cauſes be⯑fore your Grace to be tryed by you in the laſt Appeal, and depend no further on the fallible Decrees of the People, than as they ſhall be affirmed by your Grace's Judg⯑ment, from which they expect an Aſſu⯑rance of Fame and an Earneſt of Immorta⯑lity.

My Lord, it has been the common Cu⯑ſtom of Authors on theſe Occaſions to pub⯑liſh a Panegyrick on their Patron's Excel⯑lencies, a Cuſtom from which at preſent I am oblig'd to deviate, becauſe nothing is leſs entertaining than Stale News, let the ſubject matter of it be never ſo great and glorious. If I ſhould relate with how much Bravery in your early Youth you affront⯑ed Death in the Cauſe of your Country, when at the ſame time you were poſſeſs'd of every thing that makes Mortals fond of Life, when at the ſame time you were crown'd with Honours, laden with Riches, and courted by Pleaſure: If I ſhould tell [209] the World how muc`h you were diſtinguiſh'd by your Gallantry and your Politeneſs, in the moſt polite and moſt gallant Court that ever this Iſland ſaw; that you have been always as penetrating and profound in the Cabinet, as you have been active and brave in the Field; that in your Adminiſtration of the great Offices of the Crown, you have ſhewn your ſelf equal to the greateſt [...]nd the ſublimeſt Employments, and that you have been always one of the moſt ſhining Ornaments of the moſt auguſt Aſſembly in [...]he World; the Reader would cry that this [...] reprinting an old Gazette, and pre⯑tending to inform People of Actions and Qualities that have been many a Year in the Mouths of all the World, and which have been long ſince much better deſcrib'd, by [...]he Pens of thoſe very Gentlemen of whoſe Actions and Writings this Volume is com⯑pos'd. As I ſhould be confounded with ſo [...]uſt a Reproach, I ſhall confine my ſelf with returning Thanks to your Grace for the Protection which you vouchſafe to grant [...] this Account of the Lives and Writings of ſo many Men of Merit in Conjunction, [...]nd for that Protection and Encouragement, by which you have ſeveral times diſtin⯑guiſhed ſeveral of them. I ſhall content my ſelf with wiſhing that your Grace may [...]ong continue to be the ſhining Ornament of your Country, and the Protector of e⯑very [210] generous Art; that you may live to ſee the Noble Marqueſs of Normanby in⯑herit his Father's great Qualities and co⯑py his bright Example; to ſee him ri⯑val in Senſe, in Spirit and in Judgment the immortal Offspring of your Mind; to ſee him rival your own Brutus in defending the Rights of his Country and aſſerting the Liberties of Mankind, but defending the one and aſſerting the other with that glo⯑rious Succeſs, and that tranſcendent Hap⯑pineſs, which ought always to attend the Champions of publick Liberty.

TO WALTER MOYLE, Eſq

I Was ſo very much tyr'd the laſt Poſt with ſending away ſeveral Letters, that I was incapable of writing any thing that could have been agreeable to you, tho' it had been never ſo ſhort. I am ſorry to hear of the Complaints you make of the Effects of the Spleen. I deſire you to pardon my plain-dealing, which proceeds purely from that Eſteem and Affection which I have always had for you ever ſince I had the Honour to know you; be⯑fore I venture to tell you, that a Perſon of your Fortune and Underſtanding need not have the Spleen any longer than he pleaſes. The Spleen is nothing but the Effect of Stagnation, and the Motion of vigorous Exerciſe muſt and will cure it. Take a gentle trotting Horſe, and an honeſt care⯑ful Servant, and come up and ſee your old Friends and this wicked Town but for one [212] Fortnight, and if the Journey to this Town and back again into Cornwal, and the ſtrange Sights which you will ſee here, do not remove the Spleen for one ſix Months, I will be contented to have it for twelve. For you who have now been abſent twen⯑ty Years, will find here a Town entirely new; new Buildings, new Men, new Manners; Avarice, and Luxury, and Profuſion joyn⯑ed in a Triple League, and Liberty, Pro⯑perty and Religion engag'd in a Battel Roy⯑al. You will find here entirely new Setts of all Sorts of Men; new Players at Cheſs, who never could yet ſee two Removes be⯑fore them; new Whigs without one Dram of Publick Spirit; and new Wits and Poets without one Grain of Common Senſe. You will find a new Idol worſhip'd in the midſt of a Chriſtian Country, a baſe, dirty, contemptible Idol, worſhip'd by all that once was thought great and noble and eſti⯑mable. You will find his Temple in the midſt of that Country's Metropolis, a Tem⯑ple as dirty and deſpicable as its Deity; a Temple without either Roof, or Door, or Desk, or Pew, or Altar, yet its pragmati⯑cal Prieſts as proud as they are baſe and ſordid; his Prieſts compos'd of inſolent Cits, and Pe [...]rs and Pr [...]es his humble Worſhippers, who humbly worſhip, nay abjectly adore both the Idol and his Prieſts; [213] you will ſee his Worſhippers arrive in Crowds from Morning to the Evening, and mingled in his Temple in as monſtrous a manner as the Elements were in Chaos, where Fire with Water, Earth with Air were blended and confounded. As all theſe Sights will be new, I believe they will be very diverting; and what will be as new and as diverting as all the reſt, you will ſee in this Town old Friends with new Shapes and Faces. For Example, you will find your old Friend Mr. W [...] dwindled to thoſe narrow Dimenſions in which you formerly beheld me, and your humble Servant en⯑larg'd to his quondam noble Bulk and Pro⯑portions.

To the Honourable Major PACK.
Containing ſome remarkable Paſſages of Mr. WYCHERLEY's Life.

I Have lately had the Satisfaction to read over your Memoirs of Mr. Wycherley, which I had laſt Week from Mr. C [...], and found the Relation very entertaining and the Reflections juſt and pathetick. If I give you Hints of ſome particular Paſſages which ſeem either to have ſlipt from your Memory, or to have eſca⯑ped your Knowledge, I flatter my ſelf that you will receive them kindly, ſince they are only ſent with Intention to give you an Opportunity, whenever you have a mind to retouch your Memoirs, to make them more compleat, tho' they cannot be more agreeable.

And now, Sir, to enter upon the Sub⯑ject, without any more Ceremony. I ne⯑ver [215] could learn, either from Mr. Wycherley himſelf, or from Mr. Dryden, or Sir Har⯑ry Sheer, or Mr. Walkeden, or from any of thoſe who had been longeſt acquainted with Mr. Wycherley, that he had ever re⯑ſided at either of our Univerſities. About the Age of Fifteen he was ſent for Education to the Weſtern Parts of France, either to Saintonge or the Angoumois. His Abode there was either upon the Banks of the Charante, or very little remov'd from it. And he had there the Happineſs to be in the Neighbourhood of one of the moſt ac⯑compliſh'd Ladies of the Court of France, Madame de Montauſier, whom Voiture has made famous by ſeveral very ingenious Let⯑ters, the moſt of which were writ to her when ſhe was a Maid, and call'd Mada⯑moiſelle de Rambouillet. I have heard Mr. W [...] ſay, that he was often admitted to the Converſation of that Lady, who us'd to call him the Little Hugenot; and that young as he was, he was equally pleas'd with the Beauty of her Mind, and with the Graces of her Perſon.

Upon the writing his firſt Play, which was St. James's Park, he became acquainted with ſeveral of the moſt celebrated Wits both of the Court and Town. The writing of that Play was likewiſe the Occaſion of his becom⯑ing acquainted with one of King Charles's Miſteſſes after a very particular manner. [216] As Mr. Wycherley was going thro' Pall-mall towards St. James's in his Chariot, he met the foreſaid Lady in hers, who, thruſting half her Body out of the Chariot, cry'd out aloud to him, You, Wycherley, you are a Son of a Whore, at the ſame time laugh⯑ing aloud and heartily. Perhaps, Sir, if you never heard of this Paſſage before, you may be ſurpris'd at ſo ſtrange a Greet⯑ing from one of the moſt beautiful and beſt bred Ladies in the World. Mr. Wycherley was certainly very much ſurpris'd at it, yet not ſo much but he ſoon apprehended it was ſpoke with Alluſion to the latter End of a Song in the foremention'd Play.

As, during Mr. Wycherley's Surpriſe, the Chariots drove different ways, they were ſoon at a conſiderable Diſtance from each other, when Mr. Wycherley recovering from his Surpriſe, ordered his Coachman to drive back, and to overtake the Lady. As ſoon as he got over-againſt her, he ſaid to her, Ma⯑dam, you have been pleaſed to beſtow a Title on me which generally belongs to the For⯑tunate. Will your Ladyſhip be at the Play to Night? Well, ſhe reply'd, what if I am [217] there? Why then I will be there to wait on your Ladyſhip, tho' I diſappoint a very fine Woman who has made me an Aſſignati⯑on. So, ſaid ſhe, you are ſure to diſappoint a Woman who has favour'd you for one who has not. Yes, he reply'd, if ſhe who has not favour'd me is the finer Woman of the two. But he who will be conſtant to your Ladyſhip, till he can find a finer Woman, is ſure to die your Captive. The Lady bluſh'd, and bade her Coachman drive away. As ſhe was then in all her Bloom, and the moſt celebrated Beauty that was then in Eng⯑land, or perhaps that has been in England ſince, ſhe was touch'd with the Gallantry of that Compliment. In ſhort, ſhe was that Night in the firſt Row of the King's Box in Drury Lane, and Mr. Wycherley in the Pit under her, where he entertained her during the whole Play. And this, Sir, was the beginning of a Correſpondence between theſe two Perſons, which afterwards made a great Noiſe in the Town.

But now, Sir, I ſhall proceed to remind you of ſomething more extraordinary, and that is, that the Correſpondence between Mr. Wycherley and the foreſaid Lady was the Occaſion of bringing Mr. Wycherley in⯑to favour with George Duke of Bucking⯑ham, who was paſſionately in Love with that Lady, who was ill treated by her, and who believed Mr. Wycherley his happy Ri⯑val. [218] After the Duke had long ſollicited her without obtaining any thing, whether the Relation between them ſhock'd her, for ſhe was his Couſin-Germain, or whe⯑ther ſhe apprehended that an Intrigue with a Perſon of his Rank and Character, a Per⯑ſon upon whom the Eyes of all Men were fix'd, muſt of Neceſſity in a little time come to the King's Ears, whatever was the Cauſe, ſhe refus'd to admit of his Viſits ſo long, that at laſt Indignation, Rage and Diſdain took Place of his Love, and he re⯑ſolv'd to ruin her. When he had taken this Reſolution, he had her ſo narrowly watch'd by his Spies, that he ſoon came to the Know⯑ledge of thoſe whom he had reaſon to be⯑lieve his Rivals. And after he knew them, he never fail'd to name them aloud, in or⯑der to expoſe the Lady, to all thoſe who frequented him, and among others he us'd to name Mr. Wycherley. As ſoon as it came to the Knowledge of the latter, who had all his Expectations from the Court, he apprehended the Conſequence of ſuch a Report, if it ſhould reach the King. He applied himſelf therefore to Wilmot Lord Rocheſter and to Sir Charles Sedley, and entreated them to remonſtrate to the Duke of Buckingham the Miſchief which he was about to do to one who had not the Ho⯑nour to be known to him, and who had never offended him. Upon their opening [219] the Matter to the Duke, he cry'd out im⯑mediately, that he did not blame Wycherley, he only accus'd his Couſin. Ay, but, they reply'd, by rendring him ſuſpected of ſuch an Intrigue, you are about to ruine him, that is, your Grace is about to ruine a Man with whoſe Converſation you would be pleas'd above all things. Upon this Occaſi⯑on they ſaid ſo much of the ſhining Quali⯑ties of Mr. Wycherley, and of the Charms of his Converſation, that the Duke, who was as much in love with Wit, as he was with his Kinſwoman, was impatient till he was brought to ſup with him, which was in two or three Nights. After Supper Mr. Wycherley, who was then in the Height of his Vigor both of Body and Mind, thought himſelf oblig'd to exert himſelf, and the Duke was charm'd to that degree, that he cry'd out in a Tranſport, By G [...] my Couſin is in the right of it; and from that very Moment made a Friend of a Man whom he believ'd his happy Rival.

The Duke of Buckingham gave him ſo⯑lid ſenſible Proofs of his Eſteem and Affe⯑ction. For as he was at the ſame time Ma⯑ſter of the Horſe to King Charles, and Co⯑lonel of a Regiment; as Maſter of the Horſe he made him one of his Equeries, and as Colonel of a Regiment he made him Cap⯑tain Lieutenant of his own Company, re⯑ſigning to him at the ſame time his own [220] Pay as Captain, and all other Advantages that could be juſtly made of the Company I remember that about that time I, who was come up from the Univerſity to ſee my Friends in Town, happen'd to be one Night at the Fountain Tavern in the Strand, with the late Dr. Duke, David Loggen the Painter, and Mr. Wilſon, of whom Otway has made honourable Mention in Tonſon's firſt Miſcellany, and that after Supper we drank Mr. Wycherley's Health by the Name of Captain Wycherley.

He was not long after this in ſuch high Favour with the King, that that Monarch gave him a Proof of his Eſteem and Affe⯑ction, which never any Sovereign Prince before had given to an Author who was only a private Gentleman. Mr. Wycherley happen'd to fall ſick of a Feaver at his Lodgings in Bow-ſtreet, Covent Garden, during which Sickneſs the King did him the Honour to viſit him, when finding his Feaver indeed abated, but his Body ex⯑tremely weaken'd, and his Spirits miſer⯑ably ſhatter'd, he commanded him, as ſoon as he was able to take a Journey, to go to the South of France, believing that nothing would contribute more to the reſtoring his former Vigour, than the gentle ſalutiferous Air of Montpelier during the Winter Sea⯑ſon. At the ſame time the King was pleas'd to aſſure him, that as ſoon as he was ca⯑pable [221] of taking that Journey, he would or⯑der five hundred Pounds to be paid him to defray the Expence of it.

Mr. Wycherley accordingly went into France in the beginning of the Winter of 1678, if I am not miſtaken, and returned into England in the latter end of the Spring of 1679, entirely reſtor'd to his former Vigor both of Body and Mind. The King re⯑ceiv'd him with the utmoſt Marks of Fa⯑vour, and ſhortly after his Arrival told him that he had a Son, who he was reſolv'd ſhould be educated like the Son of a King, and that he could make Choice of no Man ſo proper to be his Governor as Mr. Wy⯑cherley; that for that Service he ſhould have fifteen hundred Pounds a Year paid him, for the Payment of which he ſhould have an Aſſignment upon three ſeveral Offices, whoſe Names I have forgot, to which the King added, that when the Time came that his Office was to ceaſe, he would take care to make ſuch a Proviſion for him as ſhould ſet him above the Malice of the World and Fortune.

And now, Sir, is it not matter of Won⯑der, that one of Mr. Wycherley's extraordi⯑nary Merit, who was eſteem'd by all the moſt deſerving Perſons of the Court of King Charles the Second, and in high Fa⯑vour with the King himſelf, ſhould in a little time, after he had received theſe gra⯑cious [222] Offers which ſeem to have made and to have fix'd his Fortune, be thrown into Priſon for bare ſeven hundred Pounds, and be ſuffer'd to languiſh there during the laſt four Years of that Monarch's Reign; forſaken by all his Friends at Court and quite aban⯑don'd by the King? 'Tis no eaſie matter, Sir, to find a more extraordinary Inſtance of the Viciſſitude of Human Affairs, and if the Cauſe of ſo ſtrange an Alteration is unknown to you, I dare promiſe my ſelf that you are very deſirous to hear it.

It was immediately after Mr. Wycherley had received theſe gracious Offers from the King, that the Water-drinking Seaſon coming on, he went down to Tunbridge to take either the Benefit of the Waters or the Diverſions of the Place, when walking one Day upon the Wells Walk with his Friend Mr. Fairbeard of Grey's-Inn, juſt as he came up to the Bookſeller's, my Lady Drog⯑heda, a young Widow, rich, noble, and beautiful, came to the Bookſeller and en⯑quir'd for the Plain Dealer. Madam, ſays Mr. Fairbeard, ſince you are for the Plain Dealer, there he is for you, puſhing Mr. Wycherley towards her. Yes, ſays Mr. Wy⯑cherley, this Lady can bear plain Dealing, for ſhe appears to be ſo accompliſh'd, that what would be Compliment ſaid to others, ſpoke to her would be plain Dealing. No, truly, Sir, ſaid the Lady, I am not with⯑out [223] my Faults any more than the reſt of my Sex, and yet notwithſtanding all my Faults, I love plain Dealing, and never am more fond of it than when it tells me of my Faults. Then, Madam, ſaid Mr. Fairbeard, you and the Plain Dealer ſeem deſign'd by Heaven for each other. In ſhort, Mr. Wycherley walk'd with her upon the Walks, waited upon her home, viſited her daily at her Lodgings, while ſhe ſtaid at Tunbridge, and after ſhe went to London, at her Lodgings in Hatton Garden, where in a little time he got her Conſent to marry her, which he did, by his Father's Command, without acquaint⯑ing the King; for it was reaſonably ſup⯑pos'd, that the Lady having a great Inde⯑pendant Eſtate, and noble and powerful Re⯑lations, the acquainting the King with the intended Marriage might be the likelieſt way to prevent it. As ſoon as the News of it came to Court it was look'd upon as an Affront to the King, and a Contempt of his Majeſty's Offers. And Mr. Wycherley's Conduct after his Marriage made this be reſented more heinouſly. For ſeldom or never coming near the Court, he was thought downright ungrateful. But the true Cauſe of his Abſence was not known, and the Court was at that time too much a⯑larm'd, and in too much Diſquiet to enquire into it. In ſhort, Sir, the Lady was jea⯑lous of him to Diſtraction, jealous to that [224] degree, that ſhe could not endure that he ſhould be one Moment out of her Sight. Their Lodgings were in Bow-ſtreet, Co⯑vent-Garden, over-againſt the Cock, whi⯑ther if he at any time went with his Friends, he was oblig'd to leave the Windows o⯑pen, that the Lady might ſee there was no Woman in Company, or ſhe would be im⯑mediately in a downright raving Condition. Whether this outragious Jealouſy proceeded from the exceſs of her Paſſion, for ſhe lov'd her Husband with the ſame Violence with which ſhe had done her Lover, or from the great Things which ſhe had heard reported of his manly Proweſs, which were not an⯑ſwer'd by her Experience, or from them both together, Mr. Wycherley thought that he was oblig'd to humour it, and that he could not be too indulgent to a Lady who had beſtow'd both her Perſon and her For⯑tune on him. This, Sir, was the Cauſe that brought Mr. Wycherley all at once in⯑to the utmoſt Diſgrace with the Court, whoſe Favour and Affection but juſt before he poſſeſſed in the higheſt Degree. And theſe, Sir, are the Particulars of Mr. Wy⯑cherley's Life, which ſeem either to have ſlipt from your Memory, or to have eſca⯑ped your Knowledge.