Mr.
DENNIS
'S LETTERS FAMILIAR, MORAL, and CRITICAL.
ORIGINAL LETTERS, FAMILIAR, MORAL and CRITICAL.
By Mr.
DENNIS.
In TWO VOLUMES.
VOLUME the FIRST.
LONDON:
Printed for W. MEARS, at the
Lamb
without
Temple-Bar.
MDCCXXI.
PREFACE.
I Here present the Reader with a Volume of Letters writ upon very different Occasions, at very different Times. They are far from being all of them equal, but I hope their Variety will make amends for their Inequality. I make no doubt but that upon perusal of the Critical part of them, the old Accusation will be brought against me, and there will be a fresh Outcry among Thoughtless People, that I am an Ill-natur'd Man. 'Tis very odd that I should have that Character only from Persons who never knew me, and who never were once in my Company. But there are People in the World who imagine that Criticism must be the Effect of Ill nature. These Persons know not what is meant by either of the Terms, either Criticism or Ill-nature; otherwise they would be convinced that a good Criticism is the best-natur'd thing in the World. For by Goodness of Nature must be meant something that comes up to the true Nature of Man; else it would be a Term of Reproach, instead of Commendation. But the true Nature of Man is a Reasonable and a Social Nature. And a good Criticism, is both Reasonable and Social. It detects Error, illustrates Truth, advances Art, and consequently has a direct Tendency to the Advancement of the national Honour. If this last is true of good Criticism in general, it must be most true of a just Criticism upon the Tragedy of
Cato.
That Tragedy met with Success which never any other did. It was acted for a Month together. It has been translated into
French,
and into
Italian,
which never happen'd to any of our Dramatick Poems before. And 'tis plain to all the Judges of Poetry, that it has a Thousand shameful Faults, and very few natural Beauties. What must the Knowers in
France
and
Italy
say, upon reading these Translations? Must they not Discourse after this Manner? The
English
Nation boast much of their Poetry; they extol to the Skies, their
Shakespear,
their
Ben Johnson,
their
Milton
: But yet they applaud nothing so loudly as this Tragedy of
Cato.
They have got it translated both into
French
and
Italian,
and have sent it to us as a Master-Piece to Insult us. Else why has this Tragedy only been translated? And yet this Tragedy, at the same time that it has a Thousand Faults, and most of them very gross ones; has very few Beauties, and those which it has are perhaps not of
British
Growth, but are deriv'd from
Lucan
and
Seneca.
What then must we think of those other Poets, their
Shakespear,
their
Ben Johnson,
their
Milton,
whom they formerly so much extol'd, but not half so much as
Cato?
Must we not conclude, that these Islanders are very indifferent Poets, and more indifferent Judges?
I appeal to the reasonable and impartial Reader, if this must not be the Sense of all the knowing
French
and
Italians
who have seen these Translations. Let the reasonable and impartial Reader judge then, if a just Criticism upon
Cato
was not absolutely necessary, both for the Advantage of Dramatick Poetry, to which the undeserv'd Success of this Tragedy has done infinite Harm, and for the Vindication of the National Honour; let the Reader judge, if it was not necessary, that a Man who owns that he admires the noble Genius of
Shakespear,
admires the unparallell'd Sublimity of the
Paradise Lost
of
Milton,
that he is infinitely pleas'd with the Master-Pieces of
Ben Johnson,
and exceedingly delighted with several of our other Comick Poets, should give his Reasons to all the World why he has no Esteem for
Cato?
If what I have said is not sufficient to appease the Fury of a Headlong Cabal; but they will still cry out that the Critical Letters in this Volume upon the Tragedy of
Cato,
are the Effects of Ill-nature, I must beg leave to exclaim in my turn, that those Persons, let them be who they will, shew a deplorable want of publick Spirit, who can prefer the Reputation of one Man, and a Reputation which he does not deserve to possess, before the Advantage of a noble Art, and the Honour of their Country.
But perhaps 'tis not the Author of
Cato
that these Persons are so much concern'd for, 'tis themselves. 'Tis themselves and their own Satisfaction, which they prefer to the Prosperity of the Commonwealth of Learning, and to the Good and Honour of their Country. There are in the World very vain Persons, who are resolv'd to maintain the good Opinion which they have of themselves, at the Expence of every thing, and utterly detest the Man who shall dare to disturb them in the Possession of it, by shewing them that they have pass'd a very foolish Judgment.
If any are disgusted that these Observations are publish'd after the Death of the Author of that Tragedy, I can assure them, that they were writ in two long Letters to a Friend immediately after the REMARKS which were printed. By what Artifice those two Letters were got out of my Hands, by what Fortune I recovered the Substance of them, and how it came to take the form which it now has, I shall not here declare; not the first, thro' regard to the Memory of the Dead; nor the two latter, thro' Respect to the precious Time of the Living.
Before I take my leave of this Subject I think my self oblig'd to do Justice to the Memory of Mr. ADDISON, who was certainly a Learned and very Ingenious Man: And several of the
Tatlers
and
Spectators
which were writ by him deserv'd the Applause which they met with.
I hope that what I have said will suffice to satisfy every reasonable Impartial Reader, who is a true Lover of His Country. For the rest, I have long since learnt to esteem their Censures according to their just Value.
TABLE.
A.
ADDISON, the Sentiments of his Tragedy of CATO examined. Vol. 2. p. 303.
ARGYLE (Duke of) Letter to his Grace, written in the Name, and at the Request of Mr.
Penkethman
the Comedian, when he was a Prisoner in the
King's-Bench,
and just recovering from a fit of Sickness. Vol. 1. p. 21.
To her Grace the Dutchess, upon the same Occasion. Vol. 1. p. 152.
B.
BLACKMORE (Sir RICHARD) Letters to him. Vol. 1. p. 1, 154.
BUCKINGHAMSHIRE (late Duke of) a Letter to his Grace. Vol. 1. p. 55.
To the same, sent with the Lives of the
English
Poets in 2 Volumes lately Printed. Vol. 1. p. 206.
C.
CATO, Letters upon the Sentiments of that Play. Vol. 2. p. 303.
CHARLTON (J.
Esq
) a Letter to him. Vol. 1. p. 150.
COLLIER (JEREMIAH, M. A.) Letter to him containing a Defence of a Regulated Stage. Vol. 2. p. 228.
CROMWELL (HENRY
Esq
) a Letter to him on the
Vis-Comice.
Vol. 1. p. 13. Of an Expression in
Shakespear,
and of the Comedy of the
Nonjuror.
Vol. 1. p. 138, 166. Vol. 2. p. 303.
CROWN (Mr. JOHN) Author of Sir
Courtly-Nice
) some Passages of his Life. Vol. 1. p. 48.
D.
DRYDEN, of an Attempt to lessen his Reputation. Vol. 2. p. 289.
E.
EXAMINER, Remarks on that Paper. Vol. 2. p. 296.
F.
FREE THINKERS, our Constitution endangered by their Pernicious Principles. Vol. 1. p. 36. Vol. 2. p. 461, 468. The present Corruption, the necessary Consequence of their own Conversations, and Writings, and the natural Effect of their undermining the Christian Religion. Their true Character. Vol. 2. p. 481.
G.
GODOLPHIN (late Lord Treasurer) Letter to him concerning the Proposal for the Security of Commerce. Vol. 1. p. 119.
GRANVILLE (GEORGE,
Esq
) now Lord
Lansdown,
upon his being made
Secretary
of
War.
Vol. 2. p. 363.
GUARDIAN, Letter upon the first publishing that Paper. Vol. 2. p. 284.
GREENWOOD (Mr.) Letter to him. Vol 2. p. 457.
H.
HALIFAX (Earl of) Letter to him. Vol. 2. p. 358.
HORACE, Book 2. Satire 7. A new Translation of it. Vol. 2. p. 439.
HUNGERFORD, Letter to him. Vol. 2. p. 280.
I.
Judicium,
of the Different Senses, in which the Classick Authors have used that Word. Vol. 2. p. 457.
L.
LANSDOWN (Lord) see
Granville.
LEITH-HILL (in
Surrey
) the Prospect from thence described. Vol. 1. p. 30.
M.
MANSELL (the Reverend Mr.) Letters to him. Vol. 1. p. 45. 146.
MARLBOROUGH (Duke of) Letter to his Gracee. Vol. 1. p. 26.
MOYLE (WALTER,
Esq
) Letters to him. Vol. 1. p. 159, 211.
N.
NORTON (RICHARD of
Southwick,
Esq
) Letter to him. Vol. 1. p. 115.
P.
POEM, an
Epick
one, of its
Moral
and
Conclusion.
Vol. 1. p. 1.
PRETENDER, a Letter to a Lady upon the News of his Landing. Vol. 1. p. 58.—Some Queries concerning him. p. 414.
PRIOR (MATTHEW,
Esq
) Letter to him. Vol. 2. p. 430.
PUBLICK-TASTE, on the Degeneracy of it. Vol. 1. p. 70.
PENKETHMAN (the Comedian) a Letter to him. Vol. 1. p. 112.
PARKER (Lord Chancellor) a Letter to him. Vol. 1. p. 148.
POETICAL-COMPOSITIONS, of Simplicity in them. Vol. 1. p. 166.
PACK (RICHARDSON,
Esq
) Letter to him, occasioned by his Memoirs of Mr.
Wycherley.
Vol. 1. p. 21.
Q.
QUACKS, Ecclesiastical ones, an Account of them. Vol. 1. p. 134.
R.
ROWE (NICHOLAS,
Esq
) on his being made Surveyor at the Custom-House, and his Marriage. Vol. 1. p. 19.
RUMOUR, on the Deceitfulness of it. Vol. 1. p. 35
RELIGION, the Establish'd-One of every Country, the Basis of the Constitution of that Country. Vol. 2. p. 491.
S.
SATIRISTS,
Roman
Ones, an Account of them. Vol. 2. p. 430.
SHAKESPEAR, of his Genius and Writings. Vol. 2. p. 371.
SERGEANT (Mr.) Letters to him. Vol. 1. p. 30, 93, 129, 163, 197.
STEELE (Sir RICHARD) Letters to him. Vol. 1. p. 28, 81, 103.
STAGE, the present State of it. Vol. 1. p. 61.
STAGE, a Regulated One Defended. Vol. 2. p. 228.
STOCK-JOBBING, Letter in behalf of one who was lately ruined by it. Vol. 1. p. 67.
STOCK-JOBBERS, all of them Slaves. Fol. 1. p. 93.
SEWELL (Mr.) On the Preface to a Comedy called the
Masquerade
Vol. 1. p. 122.
SPECTATOR, Remarks on it. Vol. 1. p. 166. Vol. 2. p. 407, 417.
SUCCESSFULL Pyrate, a Tragedy, Letter to the Master of the Revels upon the acting it. Vol. 1. p. 194.
T.
TONSON (Mr. JACOB, Sen.) Letter to him, in Defence of Mr.
Dryden.
Vol. 2. p. 289.
V.
VIRGIL, Remarks upon Two Verses of that Author. Vol. 1. p. 154.
W.
WALLER, of his Verses to my L.
Roscommon.
p. 293.
WEST (Mr. WALTER) Letter to him. Vol. 2. p. 287.
WYCHERLEY, his
Country Wife
defended. Vol. 1. p. 37.
WYCHERLEY, Some remarkable Passages of his Life. Vol. 2. p. 214.
ERRATA.
Page 23. Line 2. read,
for thee.
Page 58. Line 7. for
Gueores,
read
Ge
res.
Page 199. Line 18. read,
it is.
LETTERS Familiar, Moral, and Critical.
Decemb. 5. 1716.
TO Sir RICHARD BLACKMORE.
On the Moral and Conclusion of an
Epick Poem.
SIR,
W HEN 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 Commands upon me, I shall lay before you the Reasons, 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.
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 considerable Moral, and then contrive his Fable suitable to that Design; The Second Thing is, That there is no occasion that an Epick Poem should end Fortunately with regard to the Principal Character.
BUT, Sir, before I give my Reasons for dissenting 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 Result of the Fable and the Action. p. 77.
7. That Admiration ought to be the predominant 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.
THESE, Sir, are Things in which we agree expresly: There are other Things in which we agree implicitly, because if these last are false, they destroy 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 general, even after the Imposition of Names; for if the Action is particular, there can be no general Instruction deduced from it; the Conclusion 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 foremention'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 will arise from it, whether the Writer intends it or not. Suppose this were true, a Poet is to Instruct 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 Historical, 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 Characters, 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 believe, that he made his Moral first, and afterwards 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 generally 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, yet the Authors of them saw none, and that, perhaps 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 Inferences may be deduc'd by the Preacher; so in these superior Poems,
&c.
But here, Sir, you appear 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 Design 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 Instruction
; 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 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, concerning 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 consulting 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 Submission 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 unfortunately, 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 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 occasion is there for having recourse to an Epick Poet to tell our selves by the bye, and by occasional Reflection, that there will be a Retribution in Futurity, when the Christian has this in his Heart constantly and directly, and the Atheist and Freethinker 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, and indeed every sort of Moral Instruction, resolving 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 Delude, 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 either 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 duration, 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 Reward 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 extent 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 Villainous Character: Because a Villain can never have greatness of Mind nor greatness of Capacity sufficient 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 Instruction, 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 overcoming the bad, and Hiding them as the Sun does Mercury, by the greatness of their Neighbouring 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 requisite for the Poet's attaining his End, and destroy or weaken it in the very place where its Influence is most requisite. For as the greatest Impression 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, 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 attended with Grief, Admiration is constantly accompanied 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 contrary to its own, as Grief is to Joy, or as Light is to Darkness.
NOR would such a prosperous End, in relation to such a Character, be in the least a violation of Poetick Justice, tho' for the most part in Tragedy, it would be a very great one; because the Hero of an Epick Poem always carries on some good and great Design, for the Advantage 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 Countrey, they oblig'd their Epick Poets, to shew those Virtues crown'd with Glory and Felicity. Nay, the Ancients made the very future Happiness 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 Rempublicam, 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 suffering Hero can be proper for Epick Poetry.
Milton
could make but very little, even of a Suffering God, who makes quite another Impression 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 Author of an Epick Poem ought to write to Mankind, 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 the Poem, but which will sink its Spirit, and debase its Majesty.
LET us then, Sir, leave the Virtues of Patience and long Suffering to be taught by Priests: They will not fail to inculcate such Doctrines frequently, as being at once consistent with their Duty and their Craft: But never fear that they will intrench upon your Province, and recommend 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 Joyful 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 imitate what he admires.
October 11. 1717.
TO Henry Cromwell,
Esq
On the
Vis Comica.
SIR,
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 continued so for the same space of Time after you left me, and then I voided a Stone about the bigness 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 Illness, 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 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 deference 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 Learning, Judgment, and fine Discernment I have always had a singular Regard and Esteem.
YOU know very well, Sir, that
Suetonius
in the latter end of his Life of
Terence,
has mention'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.
Tu quoque, Tu in summis, O dimidiate Menander
Poneris, & merito, puri Sermonis Amatôr;
Lenibus at
que
utinam scriptis adjuncta foret vis
Comica, ut aequato virtus polleret Honore
Cum Graecis, ne
que
in hac despectus parte jaceres
Unum hoc maceror, & Doleo tibi deesse Terenti.
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 Comica, Caesar
meant the Passions, from which Opinion the Daughter dissents for the two following Reasons. First, Because the Passions are natural and essential to Tragedy, and but incidental 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 occasion requires; which is not only justly, but very finely observ'd. And, Indeed we find that the Passions in
Terence,
upon great surprizes are extream 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.
Interdum tamen, & vocem Comoedia tellit,
Iratusque Chremes tumido Delitigat ore.
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 Action, and the tying and solving the Knot of the Intrigue; 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
Terence,
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 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, instead of a Demy
Menander.
But since I have Declared my self not at all satisfied with either the Father's or the Daughter's Explication, 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 Admiration, 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 common to both kinds of Dramatick Poetry, as has been observ'd above, but the lively Ridicule resulting from the Intrigue; the Ridicule of the Incidents, and especially of the Catastrophe, which yet is but a part of the
Vis Comica,
for there is likewise the Ridicule of the Characters proceeding from their several Humours, and the Pleasantry 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 Ridicule 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 Delight 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 Method 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
English
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
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 Pleasantry; 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
Terence
above forty Years, am now more delighted 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.
I am,
&c.
TO N. ROWE,
Esq
On his being made Surveyor at the CUSTOM-HOUSE, and His MARRIAGE.
SIR,
I Have been for several Weeks together, endeavouring 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 knowing it to be only a Warrant Place, and consequently, 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.
BUT, Sir, I had almost forgot myself; Instead of Congratulating you, upon one Office, I should wish you Joy of Two. You are become 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 Employments, as you are in the latter. I think you were heretofore several Years in the former. 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:
I am, Sir, Your,
&c.
Whitehall,
Saturday Octob. 5. 1715.
To His GRACE the Duke of ARGYLE,
Written in the Name and at the Request, of Mr. PENKETHMAN the Comedian, when he was a Prisoner in the King's-Bench, and Just Recovering from a great Fit of Sickness.
MY LORD,
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.
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 Patron, 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 Patron 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 Valued Friend in Mind of thee, who has promised 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 Melancholly 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 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,
instead of a sullen dying Sophister in the
Borough.
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 presum'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 successively four Pair of Horses, to engage Persons of Quality to come to his third Night.
I am, My Lord, Your Grace's most humble and most dutiful Servant,
W. Penkethman.
POSTSCRIPT.
MY LORD,
SINCE I had the Honour to Write what is above, to your Grace,
Phoebus
has appeared 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 order 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 numerous 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 Arrested 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.
MY LORD,
ON the 24th of
December
last, I had the Honour to Receive a Letter from Your Grace, Directed to Mr.
Walpole,
and inclos'd in one from Mr.
Hodges
to me. I return'd Your Grace that very Night my humble Acknowledgment, for the extraordinary 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 Delay, my Lord, I am not yet like a Man without 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 Your Grace should receive that Repulse from one of your Friends, which a hundred Thousand of your Enemies assembled in a Body, have never been able to give you.
I am, MY LORD, Your Grace's most humble and most obedient Servant, J. DENNIS.
TO Captain STEELE.
July 28. 1710.
SIR,
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 imagine. 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 Civility, had Humanity, had a good and engaging 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 preventing some troublesome Visits, and some impertinent Letters, to cause an Advertisement to be inserted in Squire
Bickerstaff
's next
Lucubrations,
by which the World might be inform'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.
I am Your,
&c.
TO THO. SERGEANT,
Esq
Upon the Prospect from LEITH-HILL in
Surrey.
SIR,
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 Satisfaction, 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 agreeable 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 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 consummate an Art appears in them, the more they recede from plain and simple Nature.
BUT thither to return from whence I digress'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 into 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
Mediterranean
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
without 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 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
Northern 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 Vision Beatifick. Beneath us, lay open to our View, all the Wilds of
Surrey
and
Sussex,
and a great Part of that of
Kent,
admirably Diversifyed 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 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 Prospect, 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 behold 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
Highgate
and
Hampstead
beyond it. It may perhaps appear incredible to some, that a Place which affords so great and so surprising a Prospect, should have remain'd so long in Obscurity; in so great Obscurity, that 'tis unknown to the very Frequenters of
Epsom
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 Denham
made it Illustrious? How long did
Milton
remain in Obscurity, while twenty paltry Authors, little and vile if compared to him, were talk'd of and admir'd? But here in
England
nineteen in twenty like by other Peoples Opinions, and not by their 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 never could yet account for; but such unnatural monstrous Things as these, make the Town more odious and the Country more agreeable.
I am,
&c.
Hampstead,
Aug. 27. 1717.
Oct.
3. 1718.
TO S
T
Esq
On the Deceitfulness of RUMOUR.
SIR,
IT was always my Opinion, that Judgment 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 endanger our Constitution; That it invalidates the very Things which are the greatest 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 Religion; 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 consider, 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 distinguishes it from all other Oaths, and that is the laying Hands upon the Bible and kissing it; which Ceremonies are certainly not deduceable from the Law of Nature, but are wholly derived from that Revelation which the
Theists
do not believe.
Freethinking
then is the Cause, why both
Atheists
and
Theists,
by contemning those Ceremonies, and disbelieving the Revelation 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,
That eat perfidiously their Words,
And swear their Ears thro' two-inch Boards;
Can own the same thing and disown,
And perjure booty
pro
and
con
;
Can make the Gospel serve their turn,
And help them out to be forsworn,
When 'tis laid Hands upon and kiss'd,
To be betray'd and sold like Christ.
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 Company was pleased to say, that the Comedy of the
Country Wife
had not a just Foundation, because, said he, it was not practicable for
Horner
to make himself pass for an Eunuch. How! not practicable, when he himself was at the bottom of the Design, and had taken so many Precautions to make 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 Attempts 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 Rumour? When my Lord
Rochester
said,
There's not a Thing on Earth that I can name
So Foolish and so False as Common Fame;
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.
The World is naturally averse
To all the Truth it sees or hears;
But swallows Nonsense and a Lie,
With Greediness and Gluttony.
Butler. Part 3. Cant. 1.
'Tis true indeed, if the Rabble and Scum of Mankind, of whose Voices publick 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.
Segnius irritant animos demissa per aures,
Quam quae sint oculis subjecta Fidelibus & quae
Ipse sibi tradit Spectator.
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.
For, like the World, Mens Jobber-noles
Turn round upon their Ears, the Poles;
And what they're confidently told
By no Sense else can be controul'd.
What my Lord
Rochester
and the Author of
Hudibras
have declar'd in their Verses, 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 Catastrophe 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 Reason 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 Acquaintance, in spight not only of Truth, but of all manner of Probability; in spight of his own solemn Asseverations to the contrary, of the continual vigorous Exercises both of Riding and Walking, which he has us'd of late; and lastly, in spight of ocular 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.
For Fools are stubborn in their way,
As Coins are hardned by th' Allay;
And Obstinacy's ne'er so stiff,
As when 'tis in a wrong Belief.
Hudib.
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 grown epidemically contagious, by the Error and Imbecility of a few, and the Conspiracy of a false Report. You cannot have forgot what happened to that ugly Beau
Bovey
in the Time of King
Charles
the Second:
Bovey
's a Beauty, if some few agree
To call him so; the rest to that degree
Affected are, that with their Ears they see.
You may remember that something like this has happen'd upon the Representation of several of our Dramatick Performances, when blundering sustain Tragedies, or trifling insipid Comedies, have, by the Conspiracy 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 Expence of the Reputation of their CommonSense with the thinking part of the World.
How often has something like this happened among our Statesmen? How often have they topp'd White for Black, and Black for White, upon the thoughtless Rabble? 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 Politician; 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 neither ever did, or could have happen'd any 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 splenetick 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
Britons
to hang, and poison, and drown themselves, causes them likewise to do their utmost 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 Propagation of it, and the Credulity of its Believers. 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, upon that account, censures my late most ingenious Friend. I have a great deal more to say upon this Subject, but I want Time at present.
I am,
&c.
To the Reverend Mr. MANSELL Rector of COSGRAVE.
SIR,
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 doing an unjust or a base thing, which I have not in a much greater Degree. They will 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 Contempt of it? Have their Purses been more constantly open to the Occasions of their Friends and Acquaintance? Have they discover'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 company 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 Conversation to three or four of my old Acquaintance who are publickly known to be Men 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 answer 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 ungrateful 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.
I am, SIR, Your most Humble Faithful Servant, JOHN DENNIS.
Aug. 6. 1720.
June 23, 1719.
TO Mr. * * *
In which are some Passages of the LIFE of Mr. JOHN CROWN, Author of Sir
Courtly Nice.
SIR,
I Shall now, in compliance with the repeated Requests you have made to me, say something concerning the Education 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
Northern 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
Education. His Necessity, upon his first Arrival here, oblig'd him to become a Gentleman-Usher to an old Independant Lady. But he soon grew as weary of that precise Office, as he had been before of the Discipline of
Nova Scotia.
One would think that these were but indifferent Preparatives to the commencing polite Author. But neither these nor his Poverty, which was great, could oppress his aspiring Spirit, 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 Ornaments 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 design'd by that Preference to mortify Mr.
Dryden.
Upon the breaking out of the two Parties, after the Discovery of the Popish Plot, the Favour that he was in at Court, the Gayety of his Youth, and his being unacquainted with true political Principles, 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 agreeable, that it deserv'd to be writ in a much better Cause: But after he had writ it, he met with very great Difficulties in the getting it acted.
Bennet
Lord
Arlington,
who was then Lord Chamberlain of the King's Houshold, and who had secretly 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 Authority 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 Insipid; 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 Monarch 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 Favour 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 Payment of it: But as soon as he had got it, he vanish'd, and continued a long time absent from it, of which, he told me, the Dutchess of
Portsmouth
took once Occasion to complain to the King; whose way of answering that Complaint, puts me in mind of a Passage in
Boileau
's Epistle to
Lamoignon.
Hier de vous on parla chez le Roy,
Et d' attentat Horrible on traita la Satire,
Et le Roy que dit il. Le Roy se prit a rire.
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
endeavouring 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
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 Encouragement.
Mr.
Crown,
who had once before oblig'd the Commonwealth of Learning with a very agreeable Comedy in his
City Politicks,
yet in Sir
Courtly Nice
went far beyond it, and infinitely surpassed himself. For tho' there is something in the part of
Crack
which borders upon Farce, the
Spanish
Author 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
Wycherly
; 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 diversified 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 each other,
Surly
to Sir
Courtly
and
Hothead
to
Testimony,
with such a strong and entire Opposition; those Extremes of Behaviour, 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 publick 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 always 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 Rehearsal, he met
Cave Underhill
coming from the Play-House as he himself was going towards it: Upon which the Poet reprimanding the Player for neglecting so considerable a Part as he had in the Comedy, and neglecting it on a Day of so much Consequence, as the very last Day of Rehearsal: Oh Lord, Sir, says
Underhill,
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 Author 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 receive from him, this Moment found, to his unspeakable Sorrow, that his Royal 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 Account 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 Opportunity, continue this Relation from the Death of King
Charles
to the Death of Mr.
Crown.
I am, SIR, Your,
&c.
To his Grace the Duke of BUCKINGHAM.
My LORD,
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 after 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 Motives to engage me to write these Remarks. I was attack'd in the
, in the very second or third, and in several others. Since your Grace is of opinion that the Author of the Tragedy did not write those particular Papers, I am very willing to believe it. But he was in Partnership with those who did. He went share in the Profits, and more than share in the Reputation. And Mr.
durst not have provok'd me, without his Approbation, or at least his Consent. My Lord, with submission 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 signify their Abhorrence of it to the Person injur'd. The Law of
England
allows of no Accessaries in Murder; all who are concern'd in it are Principals. And Reason, upon which the Law of
England
is founded, says, that the Case is the same in the assassinating a Man's Reputation. My Lord, I appeal to your Grace, if the attacking me in the
, was not only an Assassination, 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. 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 against 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 acted 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.
I am, My Lord, Your Grace's,
&c.
Whitehall,
June 19. 1713.
TO Mrs. * * *
Written upon the News of the Landing of the Pretender.
Madam,
I Have lately read over the famous Process 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 Stickler 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 Monarch, 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 between a limited Monarch and a free People, 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 Governour? Is not a Popish Pretender as much unqualify'd to govern a free-born Protestant 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 you find upon Heart-breaking Disappointments 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 incapable 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 fantastical 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.
I am, Madam, Yours,
&c.
London,
Jan. 10. 1715/6.
TO JUDAS ISCARIOT,
Esq
On the present State of the Stage.
SIR,
I Have been about to write to you every Post for these ten Days, but one Accident or other has still diverted me; but I shall now make more than amends, for
Ingentem tibi Epistolam Impingam.
If I had had the greatest Inclination imaginable 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 order 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 to speak plain
English,
and return to your Invitation; who could have expected any such thing, from one who had so barbarously 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 Friendship and Politicks. For a Man who deserts his Friend in an Affair in which 'tis reasonable that he should espouse him, does two Things at once to his own Disadvantage. 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 convincing Proof, that he has not Capacity enough to understand his own Interest; for he who in any Point that is reasonable is deaf to his Friend's Interest, is certainly blind to his own. Now what Dependance 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
Coriolanus
for better Plays, there had been a plausible Apology for your Breach of Promise. 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 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 Tragedies. 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 Relation of a Rape in a Tragedy, as if they thought that Ravishing gave them a Pleasure, for which they have a just Apology, will start and flinch like unback'd Fillies, at the least Approach of
Rem
to
Re
in Comedy, 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 disturbs them in Comedy, but the secret implicite 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 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 Comedies 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; perhaps 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 Consequence 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 Reason 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 Conjuration, may suffice to shew, that the Numbers of the Nobility and Gentry of the Town, and consequently of their Dependants, 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 indeed with a vengeance, 'tis refin'd in a glorious manner! improv'd as the Taste of a Green-sickness Girl, who leaves palatable Meat for Charcoal; refin'd as the Taste of an Hysterick Woman, who is cherish'd by a Stink, and sickens at a Perfume; or as the Taste of a modern Letcher, who, like a Swine, prefers a Sirreverence to the finest thing in the World. The ingenious Diversions, which they follow'd this Winter, their Masquerades, their
Italian
Farces, and their
French
Tumblings, cannot chuse but shew the great Refinement of their Taste. If the general Taste were improv'd, two things would certainly follow, 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 neglected this Winter. Be it so. I shall shew you in my next, that the Generality of 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.
I am, Your,
&c.
Hampton-Court,
April 3. 1719.
LETTER written in behalf of one who was lately ruin'd by
Stock-Jobbing,
to his Father-in-Law who would not see him.
SIR,
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, because 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 Mankind to alleviate her Strokes by using their Fellow-Creatures gently, while they are under her Disgrace; especially since long Experience has taught us, that she is often the most barbarous to those who deserve her Cruelty the least; so that her Persecution being 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 Neighbours, not by their Intentions, but by Events, we pass a severe Law against ourselves, 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 proceeded not from any Extravagance of Temper, 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 epidemical. And yet that very eager Desire of Getting has not proceeded from any sordid 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 Human Affairs. So that my Eagerness to make your Daughter happy, has been the very thing that has made her miserable by bringing under her Father's Displeasure one for whom she believes it her Duty to be concern'd 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 Condition 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.
I am, SIR, Your,
&c.
June 10. 1720.
TO JUDAS ISCARIOT,
Esq
On the Degeneracy of the Publick Taste.
SIR,
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 among 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 Representation of
Shakespear
's Plays, and the thin ones at those which were writ by Mr.
D
y.
I promis'd to shew that notwithstanding this Practice of the present Frequenters of the Play-House, they have it both in their Heads and their Hearts to value Mr.
D'Urfey
and to despise
Shakespear,
that neither their Approbation nor their Contempt is their own, but assumed and borrowed, and that they approve by Vogue and by Fashion, as a late noble Poet has told us.
Their private Wish obey the publick Voice,
'Twixt Good and Bad Whimsey decides, not Choice;
Fashions grow up for Taste, at Forms they strike,
They know what they would have, not what they like.
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 beheld 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 of
Shakespear
's, with respect either to his Excellencies or his Faults.
Shakespear
is very justly celebrated for the Truth and Justness of his Characters, for the Beauty of his Sentiments, for the Simplicity and Dignity of his Dialogue, and for his moving the Passions powerfully by the meer force of Nature. But the present Spectators of Tragedies approve of those most, in which the Passions are mov'd least. They will endure no Modern Tragedy, in whose principal Character 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 Sentiments, because no Sentiment can be beautiful, which is improper in him who speaks it. Besides, there are not three of our modern Tragedies, which have any thing like those Sentiments which abound in
Shakespear
; 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
Shakespear
's Dialogue; a Simplicity, wherever the occasion requires it, attended with Force, and Dignity, and Pomp, and Solemnity: Instead of that noble and natural Dialogue, they are for a flatulant Style, in which the Poet puts the Change upon himself, and speaks almost always himself, instead 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 Excellencies, 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 approve of this Multiplicity of Action in some Modern Plays, concealed by a Jumble and a Confusion which is incomprehensible and altogether unintelligible. Another of
Shakespear
's Faults is the Length of Time employ'd in the carrying on his Dramatick Action. The present Spectators are extreamly shock'd at this in a modern Tragedy, 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 Tragedies should shew any Thing like
Shakespear
's Rambles, should introduce a Tragedy upon the Stage, which should begin in
Europe
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 greatly 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 Extravagancies.
From all this I conclude, as I said before, that the Spectators of modern Tragedies, having the greatest Esteem for those, which have least of
Shakespear
's Excellencies, and declaring loudly against his Faults, would damn
Shakespear,
if living.
Nor can I believe that several who pretend to be passionate Admirers of
Milton,
would treat him if living in any other manner 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
never so much as mention'd him, in his Imitation of the Tenth Satyr of the first Book of
Horace.
When he came to imitate that Passage,
Forte epos Acer, ut nemo Varius ducit,
instead of
Milton
he names
Waller.
And when that noble Peer was some Years
erwards ask'd by Dr.
Burnet,
since Bishop of
Salisbury,
for which of the Modern Poets he had most Esteem, he answer'd without the least Hesitation, for
Boileau
among the
French,
and
Cowley
among the
English
Poets. Mr.
Rymer
in his first Book of Criticism treated the
Paradise Lost
with Contempt, and the generality of the Readers of Poetry, for twenty 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,
appears to have been the first, those Gentlemen excepted whose Verses are before
Milton
'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 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 design 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 ordinary Judgment, have declar'd themselves from time to time, during a Century, or half a Century, concerning Poems Dramatick 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 Writings, may serve instead of a thousand Arguments 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 conspire to extol a Blockhead at the Expence of a noble Art, at the Expence of their own Reputation and the Reputation of their 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
Athenians.
But there never was so general a one in
England
as there was in modern
France
and
Italy,
before the Opera and some other Things debauch'd it in both those Countries.
There has not one great Poet appear'd in
France
since the beginning of Cardinal
Richlieu
's Ministry, but he has been protected and encourag'd, and his Merit, as fast as it could spread, has been generally acknowledg'd. I wish I could as truly affirm the same thing of
England.
The great Qualities of
Milton
were not generally 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 Greatness 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.
Graecia Maeonidem, jactet sibi Roma Maronem,
Anglia Miltonum, jactat utrique parem.
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:
Cede Meles, cedat depressâ Moxéius urnâ
Sebetus Tassum desinatusque loqui.
At Thamesis victor cunctis ferat altior undas,
Nam per Te, Milto, partribus unus erat.
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 extraordinary Commendations to
Milton,
tho' he was then but a Youth among them, as appears by his
Latin
Verses addrest to that noble
Italian,
Ergo ego Te Clius, & magni nomine Phoebi
Manse pater, jubeo longum salvere per aevum,
Missus Hyperboreo Juvenis peregrinus ab axe.
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
England,
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.
Arthurumque etiam sub Terris bella moventem
Dicam, atque invictae sociali federemensae
Magnanimos Heroas, & (o modo spiritus adsit)
Frangam Saxonicas Britonum sub marte phalanges.
Thus, you see, the
Italians,
by his juvenile Essays, discover'd the great and 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 never so bad as it is at present; a certain Proof of which, is, that Writings both Dramatick 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 Generality 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 without Prejudice, without Prepossession, and without Affectation, and without the Influence of a Coxcomical, Senseless Cabal, they were at Liberty to receive the Impressions which Things naturally made on their Minds.
Hampton-Court,
May 25. 1719.
TO Sir RICHARD STEELE.
Declaring the Reasons for which I publish'd the two Volumes of SELECT WORKS.
SIR,
I Here send you by the Bearer, several Pieces in Verse and Prose, writ formerly 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 Recompence 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 Motive which oblig'd me to write the chief of them at the first, and to publish them lately together; which I shall do with Pleasure 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. Witness 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 secondly by the Accession of King
George
to the Imperial Crown of this Island, but even 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 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 contented 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 Liberty.
Thus, Sir, have I laid before you the Motive which engag'd me to write the greater part of the Pieces which are contain'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 consequently to publish them in the two foremention'd Volumes. It was in
October
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 Judgment 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 altogether depriv'd of that noble Fire, which alone 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 venture on this Publication, because, Sir, you may be pleas'd to remember, that they had been favourably receiv'd by the most illustrious 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 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 suppos'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 mortal Enemies to the Cause in which they 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 without 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 exalt Folly at the Expence of Common-sense, and make Stupidity triumph over Merit 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 outlive Tragedy and Comedy, that he had been promis'd a Life of not quite twenty Years? Yet 'tis very plain that the Promise had extended no further: such is the Power of Cabal and Party.
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 Contempt. 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 Approbation of their Works, and bubble them of their Understandings?
And yet I have all along known, that nothing in the greater Poetry can grow immediately 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 Perfection, 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 Reputation, or to owe it to my Writings.
Thus, Sir, you see the Reasons, why the Writings that make up these two Volumes, 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 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 Criticisms. 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 neither 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 Musicians, are such by the meer Power of a warm Imagination. And 'tis very rarely that a strong Imagination and a penetrating Judgment are found in the same Subject. We need go no further than
Boileau
to hear that a celebrated Poet is often a contemptible Judge.
Tel excelle a Rimer qui Juge sottement,
Et tel s'est fait par ses Vers distinguer par la ville,
Qui jamais du Lucain n'a distingue Virgile.
As for what relates to Painters, I shall content my self with the Citation of a Remark 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 Painting, 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 be Sovereign Arbiters belongs only to knowing Painters.
What is said by this ingenious Gentleman of Painters, is exactly true of Musicians. For which I have the Opinion of more than one Master among them; and as to the Truth of this Observation with relation 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 many 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 good Opinion which I have a long time entertain'd both of your Discernment and your Impartiality.
I am, SIR, Your most Humble and most Obedient Servant, JOHN DENNIS
Sep. 4. 1719.
TO THO. SERGEANT,
Esq
That all Stock-Jobbers are Slaves.
SIR,
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 Christian 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 Equipage, 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 Broker, and anon like a ghastly ruin'd Stock-Jobber; sometimes in the Shape of a young Lady who has lost both the Modesty 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 any Mortal living, frequents no one Spot on the
Globe
so much as
ExchangeAlley:
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 Hazard 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 another Authority. Now the Table in the Neighbourhood of
White-Hall
is a fair and impartial one, at which only Men of Honour play; at least they are Men of Honour 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 Cheating 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 approve 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 Compass? They who are ruin'd by it are unable to carry on their Commerce; and they who have gain'd vast Sums by it, have been apt to think themselves above their Professions, 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 propos,
if he had spoke it before the late Act of Parliament for the putting down of the Bubbles. 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 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 into particular Hands? Very good, said my Friend but are not those Gentlemen 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.
Qui melior Servo, qui Liberior sit Avarus,
Non video. Nam qui cupiet, metuet quoque: porrò
Qui metuens vivet, Liber mibi non erit unquam.
But my dear Friend, said I, the Authority of a
Roman
Poet will hardly bring the Gentlemen in
Exchange-Alley
off from their Stock-Jobbing. This is an Authority, he reply'd, which carries Reason along with it. For thus he argues. The Covetous Man desires; he who desires, of consequence fears; but he who lives in continual 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 command of our own Actions: What we call Philosophical Liberty gives us the command of our own Thoughts. Now neither the Galley-slave nor the Stock-Jobbe can be said to enjoy Civil Liberty, that is, neither the one nor the other has the freedom of his own Actions: For a GalleySlave 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 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 Liberty, 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 Universe, 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-Jobber must always be in the number of pro
ligate Sinners.
Perdidit arma, locum virtutis deseruit, qui
Semper in augenda festinat & obruitur re.
Ep. 16. Lib. 1.
That is, he who has his Thoughts in
ent upon the Means of heaping up Mo
ey, has thrown away his Buckler, has deserted 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 Desire, 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 Brother, 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,
Non uxor salvum te vult, non filius▪ omnes
Vicini oderunt, noti, pueri, atque puellae.
Miraris, quum tu argento post omnia ponas,
Si nemo praestet, quem non merearis, amorem?
For a true Stock-Jobber will sacrifice Wife, Father, Child, Brother, and his Country it self, for Gain. He who sacrifice
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 Advantage 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 certainly believ'st that thou art in a Pulpit, for it is there that, right or wrong, a Man has the Priviledge of talking for an Hour without being interrupted. Sir, said he, I stand corrected, but I did not deserve this Remonstrance 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 insufferable, 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 Understanding than all the rest of the Company together; 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 Opinion I desire to know yours.
I am, SIR, Your
&c.
White-Hall,
June 22. 1720.
TO Sir RICHARD STEELE,
Patentee of the Theatre in
Drury-Lane.
SIR,
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 Managers broke it; which, if it has not reduc'd me to immediate Necessity, yet has brought me within the Danger of it, and consequently within the Apprehension of it, which is as grievous almost as the Thing. And that this Complaint is but too justly grounded, 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 at your House on the 28th, and after Dinner 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 appeal to your self, if any Dramatick Performance 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 exprest in the last Lines of the Play.
—They who thro' Ambition or Revenge,
Or impious Interest join with Foreign Foes,
T' oppress or to destroy their native Country,
Shall find, like
Coriolanus,
soon or late
From their perfidious Foreign Friends their Fate.
I am sure, Sir, I need not tell one of your Understanding, that this Moral is so apparently the Foundation of the Dramatick Action, and must appear to every Spectator and Reader to be so truly the genuine Result of it, that if I had not said one Word of it, every Reader and Spectator 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, instead 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 becoming of the Dignity of the Tragick Stage. But if
Horace
had been now alive, and been either a Reader or Spectator of that Entertainment, he would have passed his old Sentence upon the Author.
Infelix operis summâ quia ponere totum
Nesciet.
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 Fame to late Posterity shall tell,
No Lovers liv'd so great, or dy'd so well.
And this Encomium of the Conduct and the Death of
Anthony
and
Cleopatra,
a Conduct so immoral, and a Self-murder so criminal, is, to give it more Force, put into the Mouth of the High-Priest of
Isis
; tho' that Priest could not but know, that what he thus commended, would cause immediately 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 exactly with the Design of
White-Hall,
at the time when it was written, which was by debauching the People absolutely to enslave 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 Prostitute, 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 Sublimate, 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 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
Foecunda culpae secula, nuptias
Primum inquinavere, & Genus, & Domos,
Hoc Fonte derivata clades
In patriam populumque fluxit.
For when Adultery's become so frequent, especially among Persons of Condition, upon whose Sentiments all Publick Spirit chiefly depends, that a great many Husbands begin to believe, or perhaps but to suspect, that they who are called their Children are not their own; I appeal to you, Sir, if that Belief or that Suspicion must not exceedingly cool their Zeal for the Welfare of those Children, and consequently for the Welfare of Posterity.
As I had infinitely the Advantage of
All
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, having a just Moral, and by Consequence at the Bottom a general and allegorical Action, and universal and allegorical Characters, and for that very reason a Fable, is therefore 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 general and allegorical Action, nor general and allegorical Characters, can for that Reason have no Fable, and therefore can be no Tragedy. 'Tis indeed only a particular Account of what happen'd formerly to
Anthony
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 inferior to
Shakespear
's, and particularly in those two remarkable Lines in his Prologue to
Aurenge-Zebe.
And when he hears his Godlike
Romans
rage,
He in a just Despair would quit the Stage.
And in the Verses to Sir
Godfrey Kneller.
Shakespear,
thyGift, I place before my Sight;
With Awe, I ask his Blessing ere I write;
With Reverence look on his majestick Face,
Proud to be less, but of his Godlike Race.
And the same Mr.
Dryden
has more than once declar'd to me, that there was something 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 Advantage which
Shakespear
has over Mr.
Dryden
in Tragedy, than either I or the rest of the World have. Ever since I was capable 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 express 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 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 Audiences together. At the same time there was no Occasion to tell them, that the
Coriolanus
of
Shakespear
had not been acted in twenty Years, and that when it was brought upon the Stage twenty Years ago, 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,
notwithstanding yours and their warm Approbation of it, notwithstanding your Words solemnly given to act it, as soon as it could conveniently be brought upon the Stage this Winter, notwithstanding the Merit of the Play it self, I speak of
Shakespear
's part of it, notwithstanding the World's and their own Opinion 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 Seasonableness 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 Servants, and who act under his Authority: I say, Sir, I should be extremely oblig'd to 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 Masquerade,
from which they themselves declar'd they expected nothing.
I am,
&c.
March 26. 1719.
TO Mr. PENKETHMAN.
I Had certainly call'd upon thee at
Richmond
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 concern'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 Business. 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 succeed. 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, the greater and more flaming will thy Success be. And so, like a modern Author, or a modern Female Beggar, thou shalt supply thy own infinite Wants, by the infinite Wants of thy Offspring. But why art thou not qualified, Friend
Pinky
? There are now-a-days but three Qualifications requisite 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 necessary 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 Proctor
John Little-wit,
or
Scribble Dash
the Inns of
Chancery
Bard? Or the Czar's old Soldier? Friend
Pinky,
thou art never modest but in the wrong Place. Why none of these are worthy to carry thy Cloak after thee, and hardly worthy to carry thy Friend
Tom
's. For where as thou art a living breathing Comedy, 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 perpetual one in thy Person, and that will do thy Business.
I am, Thy very Humble.
March 14. 1718/9,
To RICHARD NORTON of
Southwick,
Esq
sent to him by Mr. BOOTH, when the Players went last down to act at his House.
SIR,
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 Summons which I receiv'd from you by Colonel
B
And I would take this Opportunity to wait on you at
Southwick
instead of writing to you, if some Business of Consequence 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 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 Diversion 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 Conversation both of the Court and Town; and to join the reasonable Delights of these, with the Sweets of your own charming Retirement. 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, appear 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 unprofitable empty Amusements, or with pernicious Diversions, which drown their Understandings 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 Estates, or at least the Incomes of them, in turning Men into Beasts; while you with all the Oeconomy of Conduct have the Satisfaction 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 Quality and the greatest Interest, have been endeavouring 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
British
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 Proceeding 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,
SIR,
Your most Humble and most Obedient Servant, JOHN DENNIS.
London,
Aug. 10. 1708.
To the Right Honourable the Earl of GODOPHIN, Lord High Treasurer of GREAT BRITAIN.
Concerning the Proposal for the Security of Commerce.
My LORD,
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 approv'd of it, it was then too late for the Parliament to go through it, and besides I had some Apprehension that that Parliament 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 convenient, and perhaps necessary; absolutely necessary, if the War is like to be of any long continuance, and highly convenient though it should be like to have a speedy end: Because in this last Case, I humbly 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 prevented in both, to which the bringing this Proposal to Practice would contribute not a little. I have been told by so many understanding 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 the rest of the People, which cannot be said of any other Tax; and whereas perhaps by all other Taxes both Trade and the ordinary constant Revenue are considerably 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 Proposal before the House of Commons, I shall prepare an Appendix, by which I believe 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 Design in Practice.
I am, My LORD, Your Lordship's,
&c.
June 10. 1706.
TO Mr. GEORGE SEWEL,
On the Preface to a Comedy call'd the MASQUERADE.
SIR,
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 capable of writing such a Preface? Mr.
Dryden
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 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 commending 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 Panegyrick which others bestow upon some one substantial Patron, he is for retailing among a Company of Actors, which he distributes 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 particularly 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 whenever she pleases to give extraordinary Pleasure by her Parts. But now to shew that Fools as well as Children are for Boys Play, this Person the very next Moment resumes the Commendation which he so very generously granted to the Company in general, 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 Comedy,
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 Baby 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
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.
I am, Your,
&c.
Hampstead,
March 10. 1718/9.
TO THO. SERGEANT,
Esq
SIR,
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 Account 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 confident you would not blame me. Besides, I consider'd that Authors as well as Pettifoggers 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 Fallow as well as Fields, as well as those Human Bodies which they inform; that they who are too often in the Act of Generation, produce but weak and puny Offsprings, 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 contemptible, 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 reasonable Reflections, I resolv'd to set heartily 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 himself, or expect that the reasonable Part of the World should value him for his Sagacity or Penetration, on the account of exposing 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, 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.
I am, SIR, Your,
&c.
Hanworth,
Sept. 20. 1716.
TO THO. SERGEANT,
Esq
SIR,
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 Perons.
In this House, you must know, Sir, is
old Fanatical Pettifogger, who has lately married a young Wife. There being not Room enough to receive her here, she lives at present with her Father, in a Village about seven Miles off. And the old Pettifogger 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 having procured a Barrel of Oysters, he ordered them with a Letter to be sent in his stead. The Letter was delivered to a Market-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 Countryman had laid another Sack there, which the former Country-man, who knew nothing 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.
My Dear,
BUsiness will not permit me to be happy in your Embraces To-night. But I intend to be with you on
Monday.
In the mean time I have sent you something to supply my Place, with which I hope you will enjoy your self in my Absence.
Your,
&c.
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.
I am, SIR, Your,
&c.
Newport,
Oct. 8. 1707.
To Mr. * * *
My good Friend,
I Who in Town was great as
Caesar,
Am here reduc'd to
Nebuchadnezzar.
That is, I have been for these three Weeks at Grass with meer white Cattle, and have not so much as seen three reasonable Creatures, 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 enquiry, 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 Liberty, 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 Ceremony 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 Capital 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 Ceremony, and have been always apt to beieve, 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.
I am Yours.
Cobham,
ly 24. 1717.
TO Dr. * * * at
Shrewsbury.
Of Ecclesiastical Quacks.
SIR,
I Return you Thanks for your agreeable Relation of the Progress of the Itinerant Doctor, who travels, it seems, like one of those foolish Fires, which lead People into Bogs and Ditches, whose Misfortune it is to come in the way of their false and delusive Light. Upon the Receipt of your entertaining Letter, I made the following Queries to some of his gross Admirers.
Whether some People who practice Divinity, tho' they are called Doctors, are not really Quacks; and whether Mountebanks Ecclesiastical as well as Secular, are not distinguish'd from true Professors by the following Marks.
First,
Whether the true Physician both of Soul and Body is distinguish'd from the Mountebank, not by wearing an Academical 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.
Thirdly,
Whether the true Physician does not keep his Station, and confine his Practice to his Neighbourhood; whereas Folly and Imposture, by remaining constantly with the same People, would suffer 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 Majoralty both of their Health and their Money, seeks for fresh Cullies and fresh Idiots in a new Corporation.
Fourthly,
Whether the true and the sound Physician is not satisfied with the Approbation 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
Wrekin
includes not only the Butchers, the Tinkers, the Weavers and the Tailors of the adjacent Towns and Counties, but often likewise, too often, the Mayor, the Sheriff, the Alderman and the Doctor, I mean the Mountebank both Spiritual and Secular; for every one who seeks the Applause 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 Indulgence, as coming from
Your,
&c.
TO HENRY CROMWELL,
Esq
Of an Expression in
Shakespear
; and of the Comedy of the
Nonjuror.
SIR,
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 Contempt. Tho' that Tragedian has no more Judgment in Tragedy than an Ass has in Musick, I am apt to believe that he was this once in the right. I know indeed very well, that
miser
and
misellus
were sometimes among the
Romans
Terms of Tenderness. I find that
miser
is in that Sense in the Eunuch of
Terence,
Act the third Scene the last, where
Chaerea
gives
Antipho
an Account of his enjoying
Pamphila.
Ch.
Edicit, ne vir quisquam ad eam adeat; et mihi ne ahscedam, imperat,
In interiore parte at maneam solus cum solâ. Adnuo,
Terram intuens modeste.
An.
Miser!
Which Madam
Dacier
has translated
pauvre Garçon!
But are there not two sorts of Tenderness, a Comick and a Tragick Tenderness? 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 always, if I am not mistaken, a Term of Reproach or Contempt: And consequently the Terms
Excellent Wretch,
being inconsistent and contradictory, make the meaning 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 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 Comedy. To which I answer, that 'tis true, I have often said 'tis a good Comedy, but I had always much ado to believe that
Cibber
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 acted,
Cibber
was hardly twenty Years of Age. Now could he at the Age of twenty write a Comedy with a just Design, distinguished Characters, and a proper Dialogue, 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 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 Persons 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, distinguish'd, glowing, bold, touch'd with a fine 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, except
Ben. Johnson
alone. But the Characters of the
English
Comedy are most of them daub'd and bungled, and the Dialogue nothing but meer Fribble. Now is it barely possible that this bungling Imitator can be the Author of
the Fool in Fashion?
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 Scruple 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 cannot 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.
I am, SIR, Your,
&c.
June 14. 1720.
TO Mr. * * *
SIR,
YOU desire me to send you some Arguments 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 following 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 Pretender should be settled here, without the Subversion of our present Constitution, and the Establishment of Absolute Power.
II. Whether the Establishment of Absolute Power under a Popish Prince, will not extirpate the Protestant Religion from
Great Britain
and
Ireland.
III. Whether the Extirpation of the Protestant Religion from these Islands, will not in all Human Appearance be follow'd by the utter Destruction of it throughout the Christian World.
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.
I am,
&c.
ept. 1711.
TO The Reverend Mr. MANSELL.
SIR,
THE last of
July
I had the Honour to return an Answer to your most obliging 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 mention must be two or three scandalous
Jacobite
Curates in your Neighbourhood. But whatever Ill they may say of me, I will presume that they do not call me Fool, which implies all other Infamies. For as
Rochefoucault
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 endeavouring 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 order to secure Liberty, and the Pope to secure Religion and my spiritual Property; that I desire and endeavour nothing so vehemently, as to bring my Wife and Children to Infamy and Beggary, and to make of my self either a vile Vagabond or an execrable 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 Pillory 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
Northamtonshire.
I took the Will for the Deed, and most religiously observed the Law of Retaliation with him, upon the very first Opportunity.
I am,
&c.
London,
Aug. 14. 1717.
To the Right Honourable the Lord PARKER, Lord High Chancellor of GREAT BRITAIN.
My LORD,
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 Britain.
In presenting them to your Lordship, 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 multiplied, that the Glory and Happiness of
Great Britain
may be proportionably augmented with them.
I am, My LORD, Your Lordship's,
&c.
Jan. 1. 1719.
TO J. CHARLTON,
Esq
SIR,
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, Inclination 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
you should long be serviceable to it; and
wishing for the Happiness of those few who resemble you, they certainly wish for their own.
I am, SIR, Your,
&c.
an. 2. 1718.
Written in the Name and at the Request of WILL PENKETHMAN, 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 measure upon your Grace's Favour, that without it,
the Humourous Lieutenant
is like to be a sad Fellow; and the Rural Theatre in your Grace's Neighbourhood, is like to give a melancholy Lesson to Mortals 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 Beauty, 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 constant Wish and the zealous Prayer, whenever I do happen to pray, of,
Madam,
Your Grace's Most Humble, and most Oblig'd, Obedient Servant, W. P.
April 3. 1719.
TO Sir RICHARD BLACKMORE,
On Two Verses in VIRGIL.
SIR,
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.
Malo me Galatea petit lasciva puella,
Et fugit ad salices, & se cupit antè videri.
Now, Sir, Mr.
Rowe
affirm'd that the Nymph in acting and the Shepherd in relating, meant nothing but Boys and Girls Play. My Opinion is, that such an Interpretation 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 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 judicious Critick, and that was his Friend
Horace
;
Molle atque Facetum
Virgilio annuerint gaudentes Rure Camaenae.
For where is the
Molle
and the
Facetum
in these Verses, if the Nymph and the Shepherd, 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 intended to present her with a Pair of Gloves. I know indeed very well, that
Ruaeus
interprets
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 Pupil 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 Laughterloving 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 happen, 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.
Dicite; quandoquidem in molli consedimus herbâ.
Et nunc omnis ager, nunc omnis parturit arbos:
Nunc frondent Sylvae, nunc formosissimus annus.
Now when we consider all these Things, can we believe that
Virgil,
who was so judicious, so wise, and who follow'd Nature 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 occasion given to the Reader to shew his Discernment by piercing the Veil which the Poet has thrown over the Nudity; which puts me in mind of a fine Passage of
Montaigne. Essay Lih.
3.
Ch.
5.
The Verses of these two Poets (
meaning
Lucretius
and
Virgil) treating with so much Discretion and so much Reservedness of Lasciviousness, as they treat of it, do, as it were, discover more of it, and shew it in a better and nearer Light. Our Ladies cover their Breasts with a Veil, as our Priests do their sacred Things, and Painters shadow their finest Draughts in order to give them Lustre. They say, likewise, that the Rays of the Sun and the Strokes of the Mind are more forcible by Reflection than when they come directly. It was a wise Answer of the
Aegyptian
to him who ask'd him,
What doest thou carry concealed there under thy Cloak? I carry it conceal'd thus under my Cloak, because thou shouldst not know what it is.
But there are certain other things that are concealed only on purpose to be shewn.
Ovid
is a great deal more bold, but therefore a great deal weaker than the other two. And when he says plainly
Et nudam pressi corpus adusque meum.
Methinks he makes an errant Capon of me, by his barefaced Lewdness. He who says all satiates and disgusts us; whereas he who expresses himself with Reserve and Caution, draws us in to imagine more, ev'n than he could have express'd. There is, as it were, Treachery in this kind of Modesty, since it slyly opens so inviting a Path to a wanton Imagination.
Thus far
Montaigne.
When he speaks of the Modesty of
Lucretius,
he means, I suppose, that Modesty which he shews in his Invocation, 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.
I am,
&c.
Feb. 6. 1717/8.
TO WALTER MOYLE,
Esq
At
Bake
near
Loo
in
Cornwall.
SIR,
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 number 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 resembling you, could put us in mind of you. 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 Procession 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 himself 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.
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 Anonymous Letters were, which were printed
one of the two Volumes, I said enough to him of the Author, and of the Expectation 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.
Welbye.
But most of the rest, alas, are vanish'd like a Morning's Dream.
I am, SIR, Your most Humble and Faithful Servant, JOHN DENNIS.
London,
Jan. 16. 1719-20.
TO THO. SERGEANT,
Esq
SIR,
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 Barber and the Curate. Now the Disappointment 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
Saturday
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 Afternoon. Now Gentlemen of his Complexion are so hearty and so frank in their spiritual Hospitality, that if you do not comply with their pressing Invitations you disoblige them for ever. The Sorrow which oppress'd me for being disappointed of the Conversation of a Gentleman whom I esteem 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 Consideration 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 Richardson
'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, without Vanity be it spoken, as it does between a Pimp and a Lady whom he has in his Power. If she is but tolerably handsome he gives her to his Friend, but if she is charmingly fair, he is willing to enjoy her himself.
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 desire that you would have the Goodness to send me word, in what Posture my Affairs are. I shall be unwilling to see the Town till the latter end of this Week, unless there is a Necessity for it.
I am, SIR, Your,
&c.
Jan. 18. at Night. 1713.
To H
C
Esq
Of Simplicity in Poetical Compositions, in Remarks on the 70th
Spectator.
SIR,
BY your last of the 26th you desire to know my Opinion of the notable Critick 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 believe 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 Earnest, because he does not believe what he says; nor in Jest, because he does strenuously endeavour to convince the Reader of the Excellence 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 particular Delight in hearing the Songs and 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 Multitude, 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 ridiculous, but contradictory of himself. Has not he himself observed in the 134th
Tatter,
that there are Exercises and Diversions which universally please the Rabble, which yet Men of Quality or Education either despise or abhor? Such are the
Shrove-Tuesday
and
Bear-Garden
Diversions, 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 Admiration not only of the Rabble, but even of most of the Squires of the North of
England.
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 Author could not design that the Period above-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 Rabble 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 reasonable 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 to read all his Comedies to a little old Woman, 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 Audience 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 Nature now 'tis degenerated from that perfect 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 Human Nature has sustain'd by the Fall; and to recover some Measure of Knowledge and Virtue. Now Heroick Poetry is an Imitation of Human Nature exalted, and Comedy is an Imitation of Human Nature depraved. What can be more absurd than to conclude, that because the Rabble, that is, such as never had any Education, are tolerable Judges of Human Nature depraved, that therefore they are Judges of Human Nature exalted, of which none can be Judges but they who have had the best Education? And therefore not only the Rabble, but an universal Nation has been mistaken in their Judgments of Poets and Poetry, when the Judgments have been made, before that Nation came to be sufficiently cultivated.
Rectè necne crocum floresque perambulet Attae
Fabula, sidubitem: clament periisse pudorem,
Cuncti penè patres, ea quum reprehendere coner,
Quae gravis Aesopus, quae doctus Roscius egit;
Vel quia nil rectum, nisi quod placuit sibi, ducunt:
Vel quia turpe putant parere minoribus, &, quae
Imberbes didicere, senes perdenda fateri.
Hor. Ep. 1. L. 2.
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 Quality were sometimes mistaken ev'n in their Judgments of Comedy.
At nostri proavi Plantinos & numeros, &
Laudavere sales; nimium patienter utrumque
Ne dicam stultè, mirati: si modò ego & vos
Scimus inurbanum lepido seponere dicto
Legitimumque sonum digitis callemus, & aure.
Horat. de Arte Po.
And to shew you that 'tis impossible the
Spectator
can mean what he says here,
Horace
declares in the very Verse which the
Spectator
has chosen for the Motto of his Paper, that the Multitude is as often mistaken as it is in the Right.
Interdum Vulgus rectum videt, est ubi peccat.
And he says particularly, that they are often mistaken in their Judgments of Verses which have been writ by their Forefathers.
Si veteres ita miratur laudatque poetas,
Ut nihil anteferat, nihilillis comparet, errat.
Si quaedam nimis antiquè, si pleraque durè
Dicere credit eos, ignave multa fatetur,
Et sapit, & mecum facit & Jove judicat aequo.
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 Impertinent Commendation of superannuated Rhimes, not only puts himself upon an equal Foot with the Rabble, but ev'n of the most injudicious and foolish part of the Rabble?
In fine,
Horace
was so far from being of Opinion, that the universal Approbation of the Multitude was the Taste and Touchstone 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.
—Neque Te, ut miretur turba labores
Contentus paucis lectoribus.
Now this Advice of
Horace
must either be impertinent and wrong, or the Approbation of the Multitude is a Sign of an ill Poem. But 'tis time to see how this judicious Author goes on.
I know nothing that more shews the essential and inherent Perfection of Simplicity 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 Epigrams.
Homer, Virgil,
or
Milton,
so far as the Language of their Poems is understood, will please a Reader of plain common Sense, that would neither relish nor comprehend an Epigram of
Martial,
or a Poem of
Cowley
; so on the contrary, an ordinary 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 recommend 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 Paragraph. I will make no Objection at present 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 Important 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 generous Education. That more People comprehend the Excellency of
Homer,
and
Virgil,
and
Milton,
than the Beauties of
Martial
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 Rabble, cannot fail to please all such Readers as are not unqualified for the Entertainment by their Affectation or their Ignorance; as if Men of Education in
Great Britain
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 Ignorance 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 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 Subject 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 Simplicity 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 Expression 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 harmonious; and that an Author, who in great Subjects and in great Thoughts shews an Expression, which comes short of this, 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
Spectator
goes on.
The old Song of
Chevy Chase, says he,
is the favourite Ballad of the common People 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 Sidney,
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 apparrelled in the Dust aad Cobweb of that uncivil Age, what would it work trimm'd in the gorgeous Eloquence of
Pindar
? For my own part,
says the
Spectator
,
I am so professed an Admirer of this antiquated Song, that I shall give my Reader a Critick upon it, without any further Apology for so doing.
Now, Sir, as I shew'd you before by his Sophistry, that the
Spectator
is not in earnest; so here it may appear by the Authorities he brings that he is not in Jest. I am so very well convinced of the solid Judgment of
Ben. Johnson,
that if
Ben.
ever talk'd at that rate, (which I will not absoutely 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 Sidney,
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
Gothick
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 Sidney.
But be these things as they will, besides 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 Authority could ever stand; and by shewing he Nature of Poetry, and what it is that 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 formerly did in the
Grounds of Criticism in Poetry.
Poetry then is an Art, by which a Poet excites Passion, (and to that very end entertains Sense) by a bold and figurative Language, and by measur'd harmonious Periods, 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 Numbers, if 'tis not figurative can be but measur'd Prose; but a Discourse that is every where bold and figurative, and consequently every where extremely pathetick, is certainly Poetry without Numbers. Beside
this alone is a convincing Proof that a Figurative Expression is more essential
Poetry than Harmony,
viz.
that Harmony
self, if 'tis any thing perfect, depends upon a figurative Expression; there being no Example among the Antients themselves of a Ravishing Poetical Musick, without figurative Language. But as the Language of Poetry in general is to be bold and figurative, the Language of great and exalted Poetry is to be very bold and figurative. The Doctrine of
Horace
is exactly answerable to this.
Primum ego me illorum, dederim quibus esse poetas,
Excerpam numero: neque enim concludere versum
Dixeris esse satis; neque siquis scribat, utinos,
Sermoni propiora, putes hunc esse poetam.
Ingenium cuisit, cuimens divinior, atque os
Magna sonaturumi des nominis hujus honorem.
Idcirco quidam, Comaedia necne poema
Esset, quaesivere: quodacer spiritus, ac vis,
Nec verbis, nec rebus inest: nisi quod pede certo
Differt sermoni, sermo merus.
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.
—Neque enim concludere versum
Dixeris esse satis.
Secondly, that there must be great Passion, and a bold and a figurative Language, nay very bold and very figurative.
Ingenium cui sit, cui mens divinior, atque os
Magna sonaturum: des nominis bujus honorem.
And Thirdly, That it was to be questioned whether any thing but the great and exalted Poetry was properly Poetry.
Idcirco quidam, Comaedia necne poema
Esset quaesivere: quod acer Spiritus, ac vis,
Nec verbis, nec rebus inest.
Boileau
is exactly of the same Opinion, and has in his Ninth Satyr as it were interpreted part of this Passage of
Horace.
Mais Repondez un peu, qu'elle verve indiscrete
Sans l'aveu des neuf soeurs vous a rendu Poete?
Senties vous dites moy ces violens transports,
Qui d un Esprit Divin, font mouvoir les ressorts.
And in his Eighth Reflection upon
Longinus,
he tells us plainly that Monsieur
Perrault
having translated the beginning 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, Combats, Fields of Battel, Kings, Captains, Soldiers, that by this figurative and lofty manner 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 almost every thing that is said figuratively. 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 Eloquence is design'd to instruct us with regard to the Figures. They are the Figures that enable him to give Force to the Passions, 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
Spectator
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 Expression, 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 affectations, selon les Regles de la Biensance & du bon sens. Les Phrases trop etudiées, un Style trop fleury, les Manieres trop compassées, les Beaux mots, les termes trop recherchées, & toutes les Expressions extraordinaries, sont insupportable a la veritable Poesie. La seule Simplicité luy convient, 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 cherchent de l' Esprit & des Beaux Sentimens, parce qu'ils sont ignorans. La Diction 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 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 manner 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 Expressions 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 Ignorant 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 Quality of the Diction is that it be harmonious, 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 Wonderful, which it always and every where aims at. But 'tis not sufficient that there be Greatness and Magnificence in the Expression, 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 compare a dead Man to a living. For Example, what manner of Comparison is there between these two Passages.
The Hounds ran swiftly thro' the Wood
The nimble Deer to take,
And with their Cries the Hills and Dales
An Eccho shrill did make.
And that of
Virgil,
—vocat ingenti clamore Cithaeron
Taygetique canes, Domitrixque Epidaurus equorum
Et vox assensu nemorum ingeminata remugit.
What is there in the first but what is vile and trivial? What Ploughman, what Tinker, what Trull is not capable of saying the like? But that of
Virgil,
where he gives Voice to the Mountains, and Voice, Consent 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 resembling in the following abominable Dogrel,
Sir
Charles Martell
of
Ratcliffe
too,
His Sister's Son was he;
Sir
David Lamb
so well esteem'd,
Yet saved could not be.
And the following Verses of
Virgil,
—Cadit & Ripheus, justissimus unus
Qui fuit in Teucris & servantissimus Aequi
Diis aliter visum.
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
Paradise Lost.
And yet we need only transcribe them both, and place them together here, to convince the Reader, that the one is bald, and vile, and wretched, and the other great and exalted Poetry. Let us begin with the Psalm of
Sternhold.
Give laud unto the Lord
From Heav'n that is so high,
Praise him in Deed and Word
Above the starry Sky.
And also ye
His Angels all,
Armies Royal,
Praise joyfully.
Praise Him both Sun and Moon,
Which are so clear and bright,
The same of you be done,
Ye glittering Stars of Night.
And ye no less,
Ye Heav'ns fair,
And Clouds o' th' Air,
His Laud express.
For at his Word they were
All formed as we see,
At his Voice did appear
All things in their Degree.
Which he set fast,
To them he made
A Law and Trade
Alway to last.
Extol and praise God's Name
On Earth, ye Dragons fell.
All Deeps do ye the same,
For it becomes ye well.
Him magnify,
Fire, Hail, Ice, Snow,
And Storms that blow
At his Decree.
The Hills and Mountains all
And Trees that fruitful are,
The Cedars great and tall
His worthy Praise declare.
Beasts and Cattel,
Yea Birds flying,
And Worms creepiug
That on Earth dwell.
Thus have we laid before the Reader the contemptible Dogrel of
Hopkins
; a Version 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, without understanding them, and without being mov'd by them, and which consequently have neither Passion nor Sublimity to sustain them. For 'tis a just Observation which is made by
Longinus,
that as the Figures support the pathetick and the sublime, they are wonderfully supported by each of them. Let us now see how the Force of
Milton
's Genius hides and conceals the Assistance of Art, while these lofty 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 golden Deluge of Light which on every side overwhelms them. The following Hymn is spoken by our first Parents, in the Morning, 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.
These are thy glorious Works, parent of Good,
Almighty, Thine this universal Frame,
Thus wondrous Fair, Thy self how wondrous then!
Unspeakable, who sit'st above these Heav'ns
To us invisible, or dimly seen
In these thy lowest works, yet these declare
Thy Goodness beyond thought and pow'r divine.
Speak, ye who best can tell, ye Sons of Light
Angels, for ye behold him, and with Songs
And Choral Symphonies, day without night
Circle his Throne Rejoycing, ye in Heav'n;
On Earth joyn all ye Creatures to extol
Him first, Him last, Him midst, and without End.
Fairest of Stars, last in the Train of Night,
If better Thou belong not to the Dawn,
Sure pledge of Day, that crownst the smiling Morn
With thy bright Circlet, praise him in thy Sphere
While Day arises, that sweet Hour of prime.
Thou Sun, of this great World both Eye and Soul,
Acknowledge Him thy Greater, sound his Praise
In thy eternal Course, both when thou climbest,
And when high Noon hast gain'd, and when thou fall'st.
Moon, that now meet'st the orient Sun, now flee'st
With the fix'd Stars, fix'd in their Orb that flies,
And ye five other wand'ring Fires, that move
In mystick Dance not without Song, resound
His Praise who out of Darkness call'd up Light.
Air and ye Elements, the eldest Birth
Of Nature's Womb, that in Quaternion run
Perpetual circle multiform, and mix
And nourish all things, let your ceaseless Change
Vary to our great Maker still new Praise:
Ye Mists and Exhalatious, that now rise
From Hill or steaming Lake, duskie or grey,
Till the Sun paint your fleecy Skirts with Gold
In Honour to the World's great Author rise;
Whether to deck with Clouds th' uncolour'd Skie,
Or wet the thirsty Earth with falling Showers,
Rising and falling still advance his praise:
His praise ye Winds that from four Quarters blow
Breath soft or loud, and wave your Tops ye Pines
With ev'ry Plant, in sign of Worship wave:
Fountains and ye that warble as ye flow
Melodious Murmurs, warbling tune his Praise:
Joy
Voices all ye living Souls, ye Birds
That singing up to Heav'ns Gates ascend
Bear on your Wings, and in your Notes his Praise:
Ye that in Waters glide, and ye that walk
The Earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep,
Witness if I be silent Morn or Even,
To Hill or Valley, Fountain or fresh Shades;
Made vocal by my Song, and taught his praise:
Hail universal Lord, be bounteous still,
To give us only Good, and if the Night
Has gather'd ought of evil or conceal'd
Disperse it as now Light dispels the Dark.
Now I think nothing can be more plain than that notwithstanding the same Psalm of
David
is the groundwork both of
Milton
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 notwithstanding 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 inanimated Parts of the Universe; he is himself without Spirit, or Life, or Soul, or Thought, or Motion; while
Milton
's matchless Genius, animating the several Figures, 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 sonorous as the Arms and Mouths of the great Deep. Since then there is no manner of Resemblance between the Hymn and the Version, which seem to have several things in common, what Shadow of Likeness can there be between
Virgil
and
English
Dogrel, where there is nothing common between them, nor Ground-work, nor Figure, nor Harmony; the Dogrel being utterly destitute both of Figure and Harmony, and consequently void of the great Qualities which distinguish Poetry from Prose.
I am, Your,
&c.
TO The Master of the REVELS.
Writ upon the first acting of a Play call'd,
the Successful Pyrate.
SIR,
I Have so much Concern for your Reputation, that I think it my Duty to acquaint you, that you have been very severely censur'd for licensing the last Play. Never, say they, was the Stage prostituted 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 encouraging Villany. And is the Man, say they, who is set over it to restrain it from encouraging Vice, is he become instrumental in its promoting Villany? and such Villany, such a Complication of contemptible Folly, and of dreadful abominable Wickedness, as was never beheld upon any Stage before. Good God! say they, was any thing wanting to the Extravagance of this degenerate Age, but the making a Tarpawlin and a Swabber, and a living Tarpawlin and a Swabber, the Hero of a Tragedy? who, at the same time that he is strutting in Buskins here, is lolling at
Madagascar
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
England,
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 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 encourage 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 Merchants, and our Hospitals with their Wives and Children, we here declare that if he succeeds, rather than that fortunate 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 Persons mention'd above, is the blessed Moral 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.
I am, SIR, Your,
&c
TO THO. SERGEANT,
Esq
Sent with a
Cicero,
which I had borrow'd of him, in a very small Print.
SIR,
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 deliver Sir
John Marsham
into the Hands of the Bearer. That is, indeed, as the Fable has it, to lay the Body of dead
Sphinx
upon an Ass. But the Knight was a sort of an Antiquary, and an Ass you know was a Beast respected by Antiquity.
I am, SIR, Your,
&c.
Tower,
Feb. 10. 1713.
TO Mr. * * *
SIR,
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 Honour 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, discovers him to Men of common Sense; and 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 bragging. For why should a Man talk always more than his Company, if he did not believe 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 Religion as well as there are in Courage.
B
R
is a Bully in all three. The Man who wants Gratitude can have no one Virtue whatever.
I am, Your,
&c.
Whitehall,
Oct. 3. 1716.
TO Mr. BRADLEY.
SIR,
SINCE among the rest of the Obligations 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 labour 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 against that Accusation. For he who accuses 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 Nature of Man, as by Good-nature must be understood something that is agreeable to it, or the one can be no Term of Reproach, 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 Discourse or Action that is reasonable can possibly denominate him ill-natur'd.
But as the true Nature of Man is reasonable, it is likewise social; and Man is therefore the most social of Creatures, because 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 Nature, who has the largest share of social Virtue; if he has the largest share of social Virtue, who labours most for the Happiness 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 Business 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 Enemies? 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 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 Illnature has proceeded as much from my Endeavours to maintain and prolong Liberty, and by consequence to perpetuate Happiness to them and to their Posterity, as from my detecting and exposing successful Poetasters. For which if I am sorry 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 willing they should be so. I am in so faint and languishing a Condition, that I can proceed no further, tho' I have many things to say. But I will certainly resume this Subject, if I ever retrieve my Vigour.
I am,
&c.
March 20. 1720/21.
To the Right Honourable the Lord Treasurer GODOLPHIN.
My Lord,
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 extraornary Juncture, may prove of happy Presage to the Prosperity of
Great Britain,
and to your Lordship's Fame, which must flourish Eternally with this Island's Prosperity, is and shall be the zealous and perpetual Wish of,
My Lord,
Your Lordship's,
&c.
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
English
Poets.
My LORD,
THE whole Body of
English
Narrative 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 Contemporaries, 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 Glory 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'
of their real Merit, and whether it will be great and lasting enough to pass to our latest Posterity. The Opinions of the Publick in Things of this nature are variable and uncertain, and the Reputations of Authors 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 continue 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 universal Applause which they met with after his Death.
Fannius,
an impertinent
Roman
Scribbler, yet found so much Success in his own Time, and so general an Approbation, 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 between them, and satisfy'd the World of the nice Judgment and the fine Discernment 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
Narrative Poets, considering this Uncertainty and this Inconstancy of the People, proceeding from their Ignorance and their want of Taste, here bring their Causes before 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 Judgment, from which they expect an Assurance of Fame and an Earnest of Immortality.
My Lord, it has been the common Custom of Authors on these Occasions to publish a Panegyrick on their Patron's Excellencies, 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 affronted 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 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 pretending 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 compos'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 distinguished 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 every generous Art; that you may live to see the Noble Marquess of
Normanby
inherit his Father's great Qualities and copy his bright Example; to see him rival 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 glorious Success, and that transcendent Happiness, which ought always to attend the Champions of publick Liberty.
I am, My LORD, Your Grace's,
&c.
TO WALTER MOYLE,
Esq
Dear SIR,
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; before 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 careful Servant, and come up and see your old Friends and this wicked Town but for one 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 twenty Years, will find here a Town entirely new; new Buildings, new Men, new Manners; Avarice, and Luxury, and Profusion joyned in a Triple League, and Liberty, Property and Religion engag'd in a Battel Royal. You will find here entirely new Setts of all Sorts of Men; new Players at Chess, who never could yet see two Removes before 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 estimable. You will find his Temple in the midst of that Country's Metropolis, a Temple as dirty and despicable as its Deity; a Temple without either Roof, or Door, or Desk, or Pew, or Altar, yet its pragmatical 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; 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 enlarg'd to his
quondam
noble Bulk and Proportions.
I am,
&c.
London,
May 24. 1720.
To the Honourable Major PACK.
Containing some remarkable Passages of Mr. WYCHERLEY's Life.
SIR,
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 escaped 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 Subject, without any more Ceremony. I never could learn, either from Mr.
Wycherley
himself, or from Mr.
Dryden,
or Sir
Harry Sheer,
or Mr.
Walkeden,
or from any of those who had been longest acquainted with Mr.
Wycherley,
that he had ever resided 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 accomplish'd Ladies of the Court of
France, Madame de Montausier,
whom
Voiture
has made famous by several very ingenious Letters, the most of which were writ to her when she was a Maid, and call'd
Madamoiselle 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 becoming acquainted with one of King
Charles
's Mistesses after a very particular manner. 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 laughing aloud and heartily. Perhaps, Sir, if you never heard of this Passage before, you may be surpris'd at so strange a Greeting 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.
When Parents are Slaves
Their Brats cannot be any other,
Great Wits and great Braves
Have always a Punk to their Mother.
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,
Madam, you have been pleased to bestow a Title on me which generally belongs to the Fortunate. Will your Ladyship be at the Play to Night? Well,
she reply'd,
what if I am
there? Why then I will be there to wait on your Ladyship, tho' I disappoint a very fine Woman who has made me an Assignation. 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
England,
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
into favour with
George
Duke of
Buckingham,
who was passionately in Love with that Lady, who was ill treated by her, and who believed Mr.
Wycherley
his happy Rival. 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 whether she apprehended that an Intrigue with a Person of his Rank and Character, a Person 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 resolv'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 Knowledge of those whom he had reason to believe his Rivals. And after he knew them, he never fail'd to name them aloud, in order 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 Honour to be known to him, and who had never offended him. Upon their opening the Matter to the Duke, he cry'd out immediately,
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 Occasion they said so much of the shining Qualities 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 solid sensible Proofs of his Esteem and Affection. For as he was at the same time Master of the Horse to King
Charles,
and Colonel of a Regiment; as Master of the Horse he made him one of his Equeries, and as Colonel of a Regiment he made him Captain Lieutenant of his own Company, resigning to him at the same time his own 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 Affection, 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 extremely weaken'd, and his Spirits miserably 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 Season. At the same time the King was pleas'd to assure him,
that as soon as he was capable
of taking that Journey, he would order 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 receiv'd him with the utmost Marks of Favour, 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.
Wycherley
; 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 Wonder, that one of Mr.
Wycherley
's extraordinary Merit, who was esteem'd by all the most deserving Persons of the Court of King
Charles
the Second, and in high Favour with the King himself, should in a little time, after he had received these gracious 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 abandon'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
Drogheda,
a young Widow, rich, noble, and beautiful, came to the Bookseller and enquir'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.
Wycherley, 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 without
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 acquainting the King; for it was reasonably suppos'd, that the Lady having a great Independant Estate, and noble and powerful Relations, 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 alarm'd, and in too much Disquiet to enquire into it. In short, Sir, the Lady was jealous of him to Distraction, jealous to that degree, that she could not endure that he should be one Moment out of her Sight. Their Lodgings were in
Bow-street, Covent-Garden,
over-against the
Cock,
whither if he at any time went with his Friends, he was oblig'd to leave the Windows open, that the Lady might see there was no Woman in Company, or she would be immediately 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 answer'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 Fortune on him. This, Sir, was the Cause that brought Mr.
Wycherley
all at once into 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.
Wycherley
's Life, which seem either to have slipt from your Memory, or to have escaped your Knowledge.
I am,
&c.
Sept. 1. 1720.