THE MUSICAL TOUR OF
Mr. DIBDIN
; IN WHICH—PREVIOUS TO HIS EMBARKATION FOR INDIA—HE FINISHED HIS CAREER AS A PUBLIC CHARACTER.
"There was a grain of sand that lamented itself as the most unfortunate atom upon the face of the universe; but, in process of time, it became a DIAMOND!"
Readings and Music.
SHEFFIELD: PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR BY J. GALES, AND SOLD BY ALL THE BOOKSELLERS THROUGHOUT THE KINGDOM. M,DCC,LXXXVIII.
THIS WORK, WITH PRIDE OF HEART, HUMBLE DEFERENCE, AND GRATEFUL SUSCEPTIBILITY,
IS INSCRIBED
TO THE PRINCE OF WALES, BY HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS'S MOST FERVENTLY DEVOTED AND OBEDIENT SERVANT,
Charles Dibdin.
ADVERTISEMENT.
IT is necessary to announce, by way of advertisement, that on account of the prodigious circuit this TOUR comprehends; the unavoidable alterations as to the time of its publication; and a variety of other concurrent circumstances—the whole of the subscribers' names were not received in time to
extend
the number of this impression, which, from the uncertainty of what might be its reception, I have to lament was fixed
ab origine
at
six hundred.
The following list contains names for five hundred and fifty-seven copies—the remainder of the impression I mean to take with me to INDIA—which I flatter myself will not be deemed an offence by those who have subscribed and cannot be supplied, as it will be impossible, my engagements being already made, to wait for the second edition, though it is already begun.
It would be departing from every principle I have professed, to consider the overplus subscribers—who I am proud to notice already amount to nearly two hundred—as
chance customers
; it would be as unfair not to act upon the plan of
first come first served
; those ladies and gentlemen therefore—many of whose names have been procured through the conspicuous patronage which gives such lustre to this work, and would consequently HEIGHTEN AND ADORN IT—are requested to observe, that in six weeks, a much larger impression will be published, when they will be supplied with copies, and their names added to the list. It is proper also to specify—to put every thing upon an equitable footing—that no person will be considered as a non subscriber till the 12th of June—previous to which day subscribers names will be received by Mr. PRESTON, at his Music Warehouse, No. 97, in the Strand.
I cannot finish this advertisement without lamenting that a prior engagement obliges Mr. GALES to relinquish printing the second edition of this publication; in consequence of which it is begun in LONDON—where even if the original should be improved upon, it will be no triumph, as there will not be the same disadvantages to encounter.
For all further particulars, the public is respectfully referred to such articles in the newspapers as will be published through that authority I shall leave behind me.
SUBSCRIBERS' NAMES.
HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCE OF WALES.
LONDON.
HIS Royal Highness the Duke of Cumberland
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.
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John Alleyn, Esq.
Mr. Frudd
MUSICAL TOUR.
LETTER I.
INTRODUCTORY.
"
On this hint I spake.
"
To T. S. Esq.
DEAR SIR,
I am perfectly aware that no man ought to obtrude himself unnecessarily on the public—but when chance has thrown in the way of even the meanest individual occasion to remark on a variety of matters that lead to such information as may afford general or particular instruction and amusement, I know no reason why such a labour should not aspire to popular notice.
Upon this principle—I address, to the best judge I know of all general subjects, whether natural or acquired, my MUSICAL TOUR. In which I have had opportunity, at different times, to laugh, to deplore, to pity, and applaud—it has excited, in some instances, my astonishment; in others, my indifference; it has called forth my warmest gratitude, and moved my ineffable contempt.
The provocation of these different feelings, of course, had its rise from my different public and individual reception. I have been lost in admiration at the benignant liberality of one man in power, and obliged to shelter myself under a sort of contemptuous compassion at the ignorant importance of another. I have been charmed to wonder at professional candour, and I have smiled, unmoved, at professional envy. I have warmed to delight at instances of private friendship, and have beheld with unhappiness, and forgiven, wanton attempts to do me private injuries.
As for my public reception, it has been flattering in the extreme, as far as it relates to applause. I wish I could say the same as to profit. One advantage I have certainly reaped from it—my country experience has given me a more competent view of popular opinion than all I had before done. I believe it may be owing to my having conversed with my audience, and taken them at the moment I made them feel. Among the number, however, who have attended me, I shall not easily forget the few who are firmly convinced I am a most impudent impostor—for that Mr. DIBDIN amassed so large a fortune by the
Padlock
and the
Jubilee
For the truth of this matter see the statement of my profits for dramatic pieces.
as to be perfectly independent; whereas I stroll about the country; that I am a stout, jolly young man, in my own hair, whereas Mr. DIBDIN is a tall, thin man, and wears a wig
Nothing can be more curious than popular prejudices. I know a clergyman who, having enjoyed for several years the world's good opinion, was turned off, through a ridiculous pique, by a young nobleman to whom he was preceptor. After his disgrace every vice and folly that could taint a man's character was attributed to him. He drank, wenched, and was so complete a gambler, that, had he kept his old situation much longer, he would have ruined the principles of his pupil. I know him well—and am convinced he is free from all these vices, and in particular as to play.—I declare I once saw him, in a single game at whist,
revoke five times.
. On this subject I have a large stock of Anecdotes, which you will get in their place.
This TOUR also will, as far as opportunity has permitted me, give the public some useful hints relative to inns, manufactories, natural and artificial curiosities, the state of the country as to cultivation, and such other particulars as have cursorily struck me—and, really, Mr. PATERSON ought to subscribe handsomely—for I shall be able to improve his road book, which, in some instances, is very erroneous. Having also had many opportunities of conversing with men of genius, I shall communicate my remarks on those conversations; in which, in particular, will be comprised my sentiments on MUSIC in all its points of view; for, to tell you a secret, while I merely considered myself as a public man, I held up disdain as a shield to ward off the shafts of envy, and conceived myself under no obligation to blunt that malignity which neither gave me pain, nor injured me in the opinions of the candid and liberal. Having, however, made my election to cramp myself no more in the trammels of public drudgery, I mean, without favour or affection, honestly to point out, that music neither is, nor ought to be, what it is represented; that a knowledge of it, sufficiently competent for all common purposes, is to be easily attained; and, in short, to shew the world how to beware of counterfeits, for such are abroad—and, as I pledge myself to do this fully and fairly, I have no fear of succeeding to the discomfiture of all such as have maintained that I am no musician, that I do not know the nature of harmony, a single method in modulation, or a rule in composition. Another object which peculiarly demands my attention is the THEATRE. Nor will a fair exposition of its arcana come by any means improperly through the medium of this publication. An account of the motives which induce me to quit my native country are a part of my compact with the public, and they cannot be enumerated without relating many theatrical transactions—besides, a recent correspondence with Mr. HARRIS actually comes within the meaning of the TOUR, and as I consider myself under an examination—and, what ought to be serious indeed, a self-examination—would it not be unpardonable to conceal any part of the truth? which, for my comfort, will infallibly be credited; because, ceasing to be a public man, I cannot be supposed to have any interest in what I do.
These matters, together with a prodigious number of observations, both of my own and others, on all general subjects—anecdotes, and the essence of what I have delivered, at different places, under the title of READINGS and MUSIC, will make up a series of letters which, as they are to contain the remarks of a man long in the habit of administering to the pleasure of the public, will, I trust, with the advantage of your sentiments on each separate letter, be found to excite and satisfy public curiosity. Thus, you see, like Othello, I could take a hint—no sooner had you signified a wish that I should address these letters to you, than I plumed myself upon that opportunity of introducing them eligibly to the world, and I hope you will sustain no disgrace in this liberty taken by,
Dear Sir,
Yours, &c. C. DIBDIN.
Hereford,
August
16, 1787.
LETTER II.
ENCOURAGEMENT TO PROCEED.
"
Give me a man that is not passion's slave, and I'll wear him in my heart's core.
"
To T. S. Esq.
DEAR SIR,
I cannot have a stronger stimulative to proceed than your kindness. The praise you are pleased to afford my introductory letter—which cannot, from its nature, be so entertaining as those of which it is the harbinger—gives me very flattering hopes that this testimony of public gratitude will hold some rank in the world's estimation. Be assured it shall be written with the most rigid integrity, and I think it will create some interest. You are so kind to say
"that you really think a series of such letters would take; and, though much depends on popular caprice and momentary taste, for which there is no accounting, yet you must encourage me to proceed—for it is a musical age, and an
annus mirabilis
of anecdote."
Under the auspices of a generous public, assisted by the advice of a warm and experienced advocate, I shall fearlessly go through my task, assured, while I address myself to you, my
feelings
will meet every indulgence from the
kind friend,
and my FAME every advantage from the ABLE CRITIC.
I am, &c. C. DIBDIN.
Sheffield,
October
14, 1787.
LETTER III.
WRITTEN TO PROVE THAT PROFIT IS A BETTER THING THAN FAME.
"
Who would fardels bear,
"
And sweat and groan under a load of life?
"
To T. S. Esq.
DEAR SIR,
A measure, without a motive, is a superstructure without a foundation. There has been as much speculation on my becoming an itinerant, as might, in France, have procured me the honour of a
lettre de cachet.
Vainly I say, at the bottom of my bills, that, having received a long and liberal patronage from the public, I come to thank that body for having amply requited my services. Say the cavillers,
'your argument makes against you. Had you drawn so much money as you report, the present measure would not have been worth your while; and if you are such a favourite, why not continue in a service that has procured you such reputation?'
Some few I have set right in these particulars—the rest are referred to this very letter, which shall
"a round, unvarnished tale unfold."—
First then—I certainly have received more public applause than any English composer, except ARNE; nor was it least when I could boast of that glorious competitor's friendship. Can any other than myself count upwards of ninety songs of his own composition, that have been encored? and yet I never in my life wrote a single puff on my own account—but, on the contrary, constantly reprobated that contemptible support of imbecility, and rotten prop of debilitated reputation. Out of nearly sixty pieces which I have written and composed, and which, before I have done, I will enumerate, no one has been actually damned—three only have been withdrawn—
The Shepherdess of the Alps,
which was miserably performed—
The Chelsea Pensioner,
which was actually so successful as to have four songs encored on the last night it was represented—and
Amphytrion,
which I was compelled to write on a plan I never approved. Many of the remainder have been performed more than thirty nights, some more than sixty, in the first season—not to mention those which constantly keep the stage, and are favourites all over the kingdom; and yet, among these I have not included the
Padlock,
the
Jubilee,
nor any of those pieces which, though composed by me, are not of my writing. A reception like this is evidently a liberal one, and must have brought an immense sum of money—but to whom? To the managers of the theatre—who have constantly the oyster, while the poet and composer divide the shells. Thus, uniting both those characters in myself, I have been encumbered with two shells instead of one—for fame, after all, like a theatrical banquet, though very
fine,
is not EATABLE. These reasons, which, I trust, bear no marks of vanity, since they are plain facts, and I offer them only in my vindication, will shew that, though I have been handsomely paid, yet it has been in a coin advantageous to no other being than a camelion; and, as I am no air eater, but, on the contrary, love, as well as any body, the good things of this world, my intention is certainly to go where I am informed they are to be found.
Thus, you see, I have made the matter fairly demonstrable, without the smallest depreciation of the public liberality.
They
gave the money, and
I
the pleasure; and, therefore, I have not the least doubt but they had rather I had received the profit.
Nevertheless—I should have made the best of these bad bargains, and jogged on in the old way, had it not been evident that my unfortunate connection with the Circus barred the doors of the theatre—or rather, left them a little open, that they might squeeze me the harder. I have had no piece since
Amphytrion
but
Liberty Hall,
which, after having
nine
songs encored the FIRST night (six of which were repeated, and the other three excused, out of compassion to the performers) was
hissed by a party
on the
tenth,
and immediately withdrawn. This cannot possibly be attributable to Mr. LINLEY—for, though, eleven years ago
This circumstance deserves to be told. I had certainly no expectation at
Drury-lane
after GARRICK retired from it. Poor BRERETON, however, to whom Mr. SHERIDAN was under obligations wishing me to remain at the theatre, made his friend promise that I should return to my old situation. As Mr. BRERETON is dead, I should not venture to assert this as a positive fact, had not Mr. SHERIDAN confessed he had made such a promise; not, however, without saying he was sorry for it; as he was sure my being at
Drury-lane
would cause a heart-burning between Mr. LINLEY and me. He had, nevertheless, he said, done something that would answer the purpose as well—having prevailed with Mr. HARRIS to engage me as composer to
Covent Garden.
At his desire I called on Mr. HARRIS, who assured me, and I sincerely believe him, that he had never
any conversation
WHATEVER on the subject. His words were
"surely Mr. SHERIDAN's mad."
No engagement of course took place, and I went to France.—While I am on this subject, I shall mention, that there are moments when mean men are ashamed of their own littleness. At my return from France I made a verbal engagement with Mr. HARRIS, to the exclusion of all others, as composer to the house. Let it be remembered I do not say this to accuse him of inconsistency—it was certainly his intention not to have a composer, till the business of
Poor Vulcan
induced him to alter his mind. It was at this time the theatrical coalition had taken place, and Mr. HARRIS and his colleague were never asunder. One morning I came to a rehearsal rather before the time, and found these gentlemen talking on the stage. Mr. HARRIS, to whom I had that morning sent the hunting song beginning
"give round the word dismount dismount,"
came to me very eagerly, to thank me for my expedition in getting it ready. Mr. SHERIDAN, who could not avoid seeing me, seemed not to know me. We talked a good while, on different subjects, during which time, to do his modesty justice, with all his consummate eloquence, he knew not what to say. At length, finding he must speak to me, he called Mr. HARRIS aside, and asked him who I was—and, being informed, he came up to me to make an apology for, as he said, not knowing me. I might be altered, but so was he—for, when I before saw him, he was as remarkably spruce, as, at the time I mention, he was remarkably slovenly. Said he,
"Mr. DIBDIN, I beg your pardon a thousand times—I had not the smallest recollection of you. I don't know how it is—but—you are strangely altered. You had no powder in your hair when I last saw you."
'Faith then,'
said I,
''twould have been no wonder if I had not known you, for when last I saw you—
you had.
'
'But,'
said I to Mr. HARRIS,
''tis not wonderful Mr. SHERIDAN should not chuse to know me—for the last time I saw him was when he sent me on that fool's errand
to you.
'
, Mr. SHERIDAN excused himself from keeping a promise he had made of giving me the situation of composer to the house, which I had seven years held under Mr. GARRICK, by telling me that a connection with
Drury-lane
would certainly cause a heart-burning—though in the affair of
Liberty Hall
Mr. LINLEY protracted the benefit till it was no benefit at all—though Mr. LINLEY positively accused a friend of mine as the author of the above supererogate damnation, which friend has given me many strong and unequivocal proofs that he is no dealer in words only—though I had the honour of kicking my heels in Mr. LINLEY's hall about thirty times in one season, concerning a farce which was cursorily read, liked, revised, and at length returned through the medium of the under prompter—which farce, by way of parenthesis, I afterwards sent to Mr. HARRIS, who returned it, writing me word I had better get it performed at
Drury-lane
—though, notwithstanding all this, I since sent two pieces to Mr. LINLEY which were returned
unread
—and, lastly, though Mr. LINLEY, to put the matter upon a footing, wrote me a letter, saying they did not want
my talents
at
Drury-lane
—yet, Mr. LINLEY's character as a fair, candid, honest man; free from littleness, and above all
envy
—his diffidence of his own merit, which he has often confessed to me did not at all qualify him for dramatic compositions—in short, his amiable private virtues, his wonderful public abilities, which are so real that they are ten times over repeated almost every day in almost every newspaper. All these abundantly prove that the above-related circumstances, though self-evident, have, somehow or other, like a sham flaw in a good indictment, a sort of apparent defection; and can, by specious and ingenious arguments, which are a great deal better, because more fashionable, than plain truth and common sense, be made to quash the charge; and not only shew the accused immaculately innocent, but grossly injured. But to drop all pleasantry—are not these fardels of the mind? and if so—are they not incomparably more galling and ponderous than those of the body? Mine, however, will always be relieved by the reflection that I have a friend like you, and the pleasure I take in assuring you that I am unfeignedly yours,
C. DIBDIN.
York,
Sept.
28, 1787.
LETTER IV.
MORE REASONS FOR PREFERRING THE SUBSTANCE TO THE SHADOW.
"
Nothing extenuate—
"
Nor set down ought in malice.
"
To T. S. Esq.
DEAR SIR,
AS Tristram Shandy was a long while employed on writing his history before he was born, so I shall be some time getting on with my MUSICAL TOUR before I set out. My motive which I talked of in the last letter is like a quantity of vivid quicksilver, which, being touched, separates into a number of smaller globules. These, in order to go on with precision, it must be my task to sweep again into the original mass—or, to speak less circularly—it will be proper to touch on all that train of subordinate events which induced me to muster up the
absolutely
necessary resolution of roving into foreign parts. To do this without a retrogade motion, for I hate every thing ungraceful, I shall not go regularly back, but at once skip to that period when, in consequence of a difference of opinion with Mr. HARRIS, about the mode of altering
Amphytrion
—which, being done his way, was, as I predicted, performed without success—that gentleman and I separated. At that time I applied to a friend of mine to enter into some scheme with me, who prevailed on several other gentlemen to join him in building the Circus. The history of that place—the infamy of its present occupier—the blindness of the Surry magistrates—the ill treatment of the proprietors—and my incorrigible weakness and folly in tamely suffering so many impositions, would make up matter for a much larger work than this I am writing—but, as I will not pay your patience so ill a compliment as to require that you should rake in a jakes, and as also I mean, in my public decease, to die in peace with all men, I shall only say that, having laboured four times more during three years than any other man ever did, I found I had nothing for it but to regain the theatres. This was certainly a forlorn hope, and I struggled with it as long as I could. In particular, I had the pleasure of kicking down about 290l. by building a castle in the air near Pancras, by virtue of an agreement with the famous—I had almost added another syllable—JACOB LEROUX, Esq. architect, brick-maker, and trading-justice in the district of Clerkenwell. This gentleman, with a dastardly speciousness for which a Hyena might envy him, promised me a license in the name of several magistrates
who opposed the motion,
and knowing, I suppose, the actual value of the protestations he had made, erected the skeleton of a building, which was blown down by the first high wind after the licence was refused.
Foiled thus in every attempt at independancy, I did my utmost to get reconnected with the theatres, but to no purpose. One manoeuvre, which I practised to accomplish this, deserves notice. I got a friend to present a comedy to
Drury-lane,
without naming the author, who had so much interest, that Mr. SHERIDAN himself read about half a dozen pages, and praised them. The rest of the piece was read by Mrs. SHERIDAN, who liked it very much. It was then referred to Mr. TICKEL, who referred it to Mrs. TICKEL, who read and approved it. After this, Mr. TICKEL pronounced that, with a few alterations, it would do; and something was in agitation, though never completed, concerning an accommodation for 100l. till the piece should make its appearance. My friend is since gone abroad—and seeing I had nothing else for it, I wrote to Mr. TICKEL, setting him right concerning the author of the comedy, and desiring to have it returned. Though I took a great deal of pains to get an answer to the letter, I have never yet received one, and the piece of course remains in their hands. As I shall certainly, throughout the whole of this work, be very tenacious of advancing what I do not positively, and from my own conviction, know to be fact. I shall remark upon the above—that, as I had no communication whatever with Mr. TICKEL concerning this same comedy, I could come at what I have related through my friend's account only. I have a pretty strong
presumptive
proof, however, that it is literally true; for, during the transaction, to clench the business, which the readers see it did with a vengeance, a near relation of Mr. TICKEL had a curacy given him of two livings, not an hundred miles from
Bedford,
by the very gentleman who presented the comedy. Another friend, in the same manner, sent an afterpiece to Mr. HARRIS, who returned it, saying,
"though it had great theatrical merit, it would not do on the stage."
—Hear this, ye would-be-witlings, and rejoice! theatrical merit is no longer a dramatic requisite! This piece is now in the hands of Mr. COLMAN, who, by agreement, was to have performed it during his late season—but, whether he did not wish to risque the principal character with any body but Mr. PALMER, which is the reason he assigned to me, adding, that the piece was so well written it deserved good actors, for that it was in the style of the
Guardian,
but more delicate—or, whether he was shocked at the cruel and inhuman murder of
Harvest Home
See the statement of pieces.
—or, in short, whatever may be his reasons, it still lies in his hands. I even, to leave nothing untried, made an agreement with Mr. DALY, the Irish manager, which, after being broken, on his side, three times, yielded me, in three years, about 120l.—whereas, had it been properly kept, I must have received six times that sum.
Finding myself therefore in the state of ADAM, with all the world before me, where to chuse—for I have pretty well proved that the theatrical paradise was shut against me—it struck me that the warm and fostering climate of ASIA might revive a drooping plant that had been neglected in its native soil; but then, as Mr. BAYS says, came in the
Quomodo
—how to procure the ways and means. I had never travelled much in
England,
and I thought it would be no bad thing to pay my personal respects to my old patrons, to thank them for their liberality, and at the same time present them with such an entertainment as should not only insure me their good wishes and interest them for my prosperity, but supply me with the means to accomplish my design.
Determined however to make sure of every thing in my power, I wrote to Mr. HARRIS, telling him my intention, and offering to sale such materials as I conceived might be useful to him. I received a letter encouraging me to furnish him with pieces of any description; and I have actually from that time to this, at my leisure, been hard at work for him.
But I know not how it is—my mind misgives me on this subject. I have since seen Mr. HARRIS at BRISTOL, and heard from him at YORK. However, I shall anticipate nothing—all matters shall come in their proper order—and, if you have the patience I wish you—for patience you must have if you jog on with me through my TOUR—indeed, if I was to follow the examples of some musical travellers, I should exercise no other virtue in you—you will permit me to place the banquet I have invited you to, in what manner I please. Interest forbid, having such work for my own imagination, I should not leave the reader as much room as possible for the workings of his. It has been affirmed that the pleasures we fancy, are completer than those we enjoy; and, if this position be founded, who knows but, by constantly keeping curiosity on tiptoe, I shall receive credit for having furnished a good feast, even though half the merit lay in exciting the appetite. There is more art, say the painters, in concealing than shewing. Would any one read an epigram if the last line were taken away? Not to gratify, would be to to make a TANTALUS of the reader; but still let us remember that
possession,
easily attained, is but another word for SATIETY.
Thus, having, by a regular gradation, with a few shirts and books in a trunk, a well-digested plan in my head, and a letter from Dr. ARNOLD to Dr. HAYES, in my pocket, seated myself in the Oxford stage-coach, my next letter will of course contain what happened to me at that
confusion of tongues.
In the prosecution of which, as well as of all the rest of my adventures, though no more than OTHELLO would I have any thing extenuated, or ought set down in malice; yet like DICK, in
The Miller of Mansfield,
I shall certainly speak
truth,
and if that happens to be SATIRE, I cannot help it—yet never shall I say truer than when I assure you,
I am, With perfect sincerity, Yours, C. DIBDIN.
York,
September
30, 1787.
LETTER V.
CONTAINING A JOURNEY TO OXFORD—WITH A DESCRIPTION OF A MUSICIAN WITH GOOD SENSE, AND A CLERGYMAN WITHOUT PRIDE.
"
Yet I am honest—though I wear black.
"
To T. S. Esq.
DEAR SIR,
IT was not in the dull month of November, when Englishmen hang and drown themselves, but in the sprightly month of March, when they rouse from their lethargy, when citizens and tom-tits begin to inhale the bracing influence of the eastern breeze, and ponies and country-lodgings are smartened up for customers. You who are perfectly, correctly, critically erudite, will not surely blame me for being particular as to dates. Some readers remember nothing but the chronological parts, and it does not signify three-pence by what means this Queen happened to be ravished, or that Emperor flayed alive, so that they can give a faithful account of the time such an event took place. Mr. SHERIDAN marks the time in the commencement of his
Duenna
by making the clock strike four, though he ridicules that very circumstance—forgetting of course that he had used it—in
The Critic.
On the seventeenth of March, 1787, I left
the regions of smoke
for the
regions of accomplishment.
Nothing passed on the road worthy your notice. The conversation of the passengers in the stage-coach was in the usual stile. Almost every object brought with it some remark. We admired, as usual, the entrance of
Sion-House,
the convenient situation for star-gazing of Mr. HERSCHEL—we sighed, as usual, to think on human depravity, on contemplating the gibbets upon Hounslow-Heath; and we lamented their fate who were poisoned at Salt-Hill. The very dinner was as usual—some soup which might have been mistaken for a dose of salts relished with leeks, and a boiled leg of mutton scarcely warmed through. At length the majestic view of lofty steeples, towers, and turrets demanded our admiration—and we presently arrived at Oxford.
The next morning I called on Dr. HAYES. If you have never seen this gentleman, I must tell you that he is the very kind of man that of all others interests you strongly in his favour the moment you speak to him. I believe no human creature ever possessed a better or a more blameless heart, and never was a countenance more the index of a mind; for whatever fancy can picture of benevolence, mildness, and benignity, is written there, in characters so legible that they cannot be mistaken. If he should see this portrait of himself, and from his diffidence wish I had blotted it out, let him forgive me in the reflection that I am only ambitious to do him that justice which he has so much pleasure in rendering to all mankind. Nay—you shall yourself confess I am not a flattering painter. Can you tell me, my dear Sir, a character so near perfection as he who, a professor himself, knows not
professional envy?
This man then is Dr. HAYES—and he is so very different from JOSEPH SURFACE, that all the world speaks
well of him,
and yet all the world speaks TRUTH.
After we had talked over my business, in the course of which conversation I told him that I had a very strong wish to start my entertainment at the University, to give it a proper sanction, he referred me to THE VICE CHANCELLOR, and gave me an introductory letter. I asked him if Dr. CHAPMAN was easy of access, and he told me I should find him the most chearful, amiable man I had ever conversed with. This report was so true that I must try my hand at another description.
THE VICE CHANCELLOR OF OXFORD is a tall, well-made man, with all the easy grace and native simplicity of a plain country gentleman—and yet a demeanour that might shame a courtier. His eye is so piercing that it seems to penetrate your very intentions—and yet so mild that it is easy to discern his only solicitation is to know your wants, and supply them. His conversation is as simple—yet as elegant as SWIFT's
Drapier's Letters.
His discernment remarkably acute; and his discrimination precision itself. This gentleman, if he should so far honour me as to read this book, may wonder how I can venture to affirm so much from the little opportunity I had of conversing with him; but I will be ingenuous enough to declare that I went to him pre-determined to make my observations—and those observations went not more to any other part of his conduct, than his invincible integrity—of which as well as the rest you shall judge.
I must premise however, I would not declare what passed between us, could I for a moment suppose it would create the most distant chance of belief in the breast of any young gentlemen of the University, that Dr. CHAPMAN is not as anxious to give them pleasure as they to receive it. He certainly debarred them at that time of what they afterwards did me the kindness to consider as a very high gratification. I told him the nature of my entertainment, and his words were these:
"I am very sorry I must refuse you my consent. Your professional abilities deserve a different answer; and I dare say you would perform nothing that could discredit either yourself or the University—but I am, at this moment, particularly circumstanced. There have been lately many riots; and though I am very desirous of pleasing the students, they sometimes put it out of my power. Here was a Mr. COLLINS, and I could not with propriety let him perform. He went away—and the young gentlemen took the matter so much in dudgeon that they encouraged some Italians to sing here, without my permission. I was in consequence under the painful necessity of sending them to prison;
The riotous conduct of the students upon this occasion went so far that one of them struck the mayor, and it was expected at the time I was there that a sentence of expulsion would pass against him at the end of the term.
and it is more than probable, were I now to tell you—which I wish I could—Mr. DIBDIN you may perform your entertainment—they might think I set you up against their favourite Italians, and it might turn out a serious quarrel—for, in such a case, your professional reputation would be of no avail—and they would resent in their anger what in a cooler moment they might be convinced they had reason to thank me for."
Nothing could be handsomer than this reasoning. I felt myself so influenced by it that I was more pleased at such a refusal than I should have been by an unconditional permission. This gentleman took a great deal of pains to prove himself right in a matter wherein, had he been so minded, he had nothing to exercise but an
ipse dixit.
The discharge of his duty as
vice chancellor
did not satisfy him—he chose to discharge it as
a man.
In fine, as he saw nothing that he could disapprove in the nature of my entertainment, he could not bear that I should come to Oxford for nothing; and thinking very probably that his apparent refusal might be of public disadvantage to me, he gave me his word that I should perform my amusement in the following term. Thus I took leave of Dr. CHAPMAN, a character, were it more imitated by the
clergy,
religion would be more revered by the
laity.
To prove however that I have no further interest in what I have said above, than that fair and candid justice I am determined to do every man I mention in this series of letters, I declare I did not put ten guineas in my pocket by my performance at OXFORD, on my return—and I neglected what would have been a considerably greater advantage to me. I can therefore have no other reason for what I here advance, than a regard for truth, unbiassed by any servile motive; and as that shall honestly actuate me upon all occasions, you will by and by get the portrait of another vice chancellor who had his
motives
for refusing me too—but they were not exactly of the same complexion as Dr. CHAPMAN's. In short, PLUTARCH compared the
paralleled
virtues of his heroes—MINE will be all
contrast.
And though I will not suppose but that all characters are honest who wear black, yet it will be readily granted me there are shades of that colour, even from the dismal, dingy first mourning of an heir, to the light, airy French-grey in which he takes possession of his father's titles and estate.
Adieu! Hey for BATH—where you will find me in my next letter.
I am, Dear Sir, Yours, &c. C. DIBDIN.
York,
October
4, 1787.
LETTER VI.
A DESCRIPTION OF BATH, AND A TOLERABLE INSTANCE OF MODEST ASSURANCE.
"
He speaks more in an hour
"
Than he'll stand to in a year.
"
To T. S. Esq.
DEAR SIR,
ON Sunday, March 20, I arrived at that mixture of lowliness and grandeur, pride and meanness, politeness and impertinence—BATH—the region of fashion and dullness—of elegance and vapidity—of public reputation and private intrigue—of extravagance and imposition. Where dress is the
ne plus ultra
of all virtue—where a graceful minuet is considered as the height of human perfection—where good-breeding is carried to such a pitch of refinement that doves and rooks mix
sans façon,
and the foxes and geese are all of one family—where the buildings, like the visitors, are grand, heavy, and smoke-dried—where Irish gentlemen of high families and low fortunes lay in wait for opportunities to amuse those misses who pass their whole time in contriving how they shall most conveniently leave sick mamma to the care of the old nurse—and where convivial lords who have worn out the cellar, the larder, the waiters, and themselves in London, are wheeled down, with about six months to live, to drink the waters, hobble cotillions, pick their teeth, qualify Burgundy with spruce beer, faintly revive expiring nature by the administration of stimulatives, beat false time, scream bravo,
mal apropos,
and hiccup out
non nobis domine.
Here—for Fortune so willed it—was I to make my
coup d'essai
; and having fixed myself in a lodging, I began to prepare for my entertainment, which I advertised for the following Tuesday, Wednesday, and Friday. On the Monday morning came a loud rap at my parlour door. I called
"Come in,"
and a genteel, well looking man entered the room with—in what they call the singing or fashionable brogue—
'Sir, your most obedient humble servant. I understand you are Mr. DIBDIN, whom all the world knows—the composer of
The Padlock,
and
The Jubilee,
and
Poor Vulcan,
and
The Quaker,
and all those charming pieces that 'tis a long time we have been delighted with. Oh! by my soul I do tink that beautiful song—stay a minute—which is it? Ah fait its no matter—you never made a bad one in your life. Well, Sir, don't let me interrupt you. I take the liberty of calling—for you see I am distractedly fond of music, and I find we are going to be charmed with a little entertainment of your fabricating. Sir, I have it in my power to do you a great deal of service; and to be sure I shall conceive it the duty of myself and every other friend I have, to be as stirring as possible in this business. I know already of a party of fourteen that I have not spoken to. And den there is—Oh fait there are some very capital families here—don't be uneasy—pray could you favour me with some little, delicate, charming, beautiful touch—only just you know to make their mouths water by telling them what I have heard.'
I was at the
Piano Forte,
and complied with great readiness, and indeed as much as any thing to know the drift of this long harrangue, which I shrewdly suspected implied something more than mere spontaneous good nature. After I had done—he cried—
'ah by my soul—there's no other man alive but yourself wid such taste. Well now I'll tell you something—where do you perform?'
I answered
"at the newrooms."
'Well, but sure there won't be room enough for the people, they'll come in such crowds—but that is not what I am going to say—do you know you have it in your power to do me the greatest favour in the world.'
"I am sure then Sir I have it in my inclination."
'Ah, now that's what I have always said—true genius and politeness constantly go hand in hand together. Sir, I thank you very kindly. You must know there is a lady in this town of great distinction—one of the first Irish families—the honourable Mrs. O'N—. She is at the head of fifteen thousand a year, and writes poetry like an angel.—Oh to be sure I have not the sweetest song of her writing—here it is—you shall read it'
He then produced me the first stanza of a song, certainly very prettily written.
'Now do you see, I entreat this may be a secret between you and I'
—and so very Irish was this request, that MATHEWS, of BATH, to whom I had been playing the songs of
Harvest Home,
was in the room from first to last.—
'what do you tink I have promised—you must know I have a pretty notion of music, and I play tolerably well, for a gentleman, on the violin—I have promised to set this sweet song to music, and for the life of me I don't know how—now you see—you would do it it in three minutes—I can say it's mine—and, as we shall keep the secret, nobody can know any tink about it. What do you tink of this?—you know I shall make some large parties for you—oh, by my soul, you may depend through my means of having a thick audience. Well, Sir, if you will be so very kind as to do me this great favour, I shall have a very singular and particular pleasure—and in return, exclusive of the attention I mean to pay your performance, which, indeed, is but the duty of every man who is a lover and encourager of professional merit—I shall certainly serve you any way within the scope of my interest and ability.'
Not to tire you—I set the song; promising, like the PRINCE OF WALES about the death of HOTSPUR, that if a lie would do him grace, I'd dress it in the finest terms I had. The captain was in raptures—promised me to bring ALL BATH—and then came—
alone.
I met him afterwards at the catch club, where he made no sort of apology for his breach of promise, but carelessly said that Mrs. O'N— was charmed with the song—that he felt himself very gay in his borrowed plumes—that he was sorry I had such a bad room—that it would do my heart good to hear them sing catches and glees in Ireland, where he should be very happy to have the pleasure of seeing me—and, in short, resorted to such paltry subterfuges, as induced me to pity him for a contemptible ingenuity which, I dare say, he thought merited praise.
Determined, however, by an honest manoeuvre, to repay his nefarious one—I gave the song to Mr. INCLEDON, who sings it charmingly at Vauxhall, and it is now printed with my name to the music in the title page. The negroes, with that shrewdness for which they are remarkable, call a promise
windy.
At a place called DEEP BAY, in ST. KITT's, the young men are remarkable for taking advantage of the credulity of the negro girls. One of the poor creatures who had been abused and forsaken, complained to her brother: Honest QUAMINO answered—
"Sissy, I always say you dam fool—for what you go DEEP BAY?—you no savey Deep Bay young man
full a windy.
"
—which compliment, however it may belong to the Irish gentleman, has nothing to do with me, when I assure you I am,
Most sincerely, Yours, &c. C. DIBDIN.
York,
October
5, 1787.
LETTER VII.
IN WHICH THE READER IS RESCUED FROM THE COMPANY OF A YAWNING AUDIENCE AND A MELANCHOLY CATCH CLUB—BY A WHIMSICAL ANECDOTE.
"
If in these hallow'd times, when sober, sad,
"
When gentlemen are melancholy mad—
"
When 'tis not deem'd so great a crime by half
"
To violate a vestal—as to laugh
"—
To T. S. Esq.
DEAR SIR,
ON Tuesday, the twenty-second, at noon, I made my public appearance—if performing an entertainment before eight and thirty persons can be called so—for the
first
time during twelve years; and, if I had not a perseverance beyond any other man, it would have been my
last.
Heaven defend me from such a set of insipid, vague, unmeaning, countenances. One of the number I have since performed before at MONMOUTH, and another at WAKEFIELD, both of whom insisted upon it that the performance was much better than at BATH—when the fact was they were only in company more disposed to be happy. All those passages which to your knowledge have kept the audience in a roar, were received with a vacant gravity, an unfeeling stare, a milk and water indifference. Enough, as I say of my poet, to make a man forswear ever taking a pen in his hand—yet; I found afterwards that they were all pleased—it was only their manner of expressing themselves. It was BATH, and therefore it would have been vulgar to laugh or give way to any emotion that indicates pleasure such as the heart participates. This I had occasion more minutely to remark by paying a visit to the catch-club—where even the glass, which never circulated more freely—nor all the toasts that accompanied it—the songs that relieved it, which were pretty well fraught with that reproachful substitute for humour that men who are strangers to real wit find so much pleasure in, could scarcely raise a smile—the broad bottoms of the glasses, as if instinctively, resounded a peal of applause at the end of every song, but till the end of the next, all was silent as death. I note this as an instance of fashionable gravity, beyond credibility—for, that a meeting, professedly convivial should apparently be held without mirth, is a kind of existence without a soul—a mental death—but it may be reconciled by saying that it is a refinement on politeness, reserved alone to grace the luke-warm court of the luke-warm KING BLADUD.
As these remarks on the affected stupidity of the BATH auditors naturally lead to audiences in general, I shall, while I am on the subject, speak a little of the different feelings of different spectators. Some have been in raptures about nothing—others have applauded without discrimination—some have intruded their opinions on every body, and others have not dared to feel till they had asked the opinions of their neighbours. But it is not BATH alone—every separate place I have seen has its peculiar mode of indicating its pleasure. You may remember, in a letter written to me some time ago, you wondered at my advertising my entertainment at BIRMINGHAM, when it was notorious that at one of the meetings, where
L'Allegro il ed Pensoroso
was performed, the audience was unmoved at every part of it but the line
"Drew iron tears down PLUTO's cheeks"
At BRISTOL—which place, to a proverb, is remarkable for hoggishness—they did not consider so much the quality as when they had enough—and so of the rest—the particulars of which local taste will come in their place. I cannot, however, refrain from noticing the delight that
Grog
has given all the captains of ships, and
The Race Horse
A gentleman of Leeds assured me that song had procured an old hunter of his a sinecure for life—for so much had it roused his fears lest the faithful creature should become a hack on the road, and afterwards tug round a mill, that, even after he should be useless, no sum should purchase him out of his possession—nor is this gentleman the only one by many who has made such a resolution. Thus, by one happy portrait of strong nature, have I procured the emancipation of a set of brutal slaves—let the expediency of freeing human ones be left to the decision of others.
all the sportsmen. The classical men have chuckled at
The Siege of Troy,
and the musical at
Pomposo
—not to mention that every individual member of all the audiences ever assembled to hear me has bridled up, and been charmed beyond measure, at the compliment contained in the last four lines of the entertainment. I shall conclude this letter with an anecdote of GARRICK and old CERVETTO.
When GARRICK returned from ITALY, he prepared an address to the audience, which he delivered previous to the play he first appeared in. When he came upon the stage, he was welcomed with three loud plaudits, each finishing with a huzza. As soon as this unprecedented applause had a little subsided, he used every art of which he was so completely master to lull the tumult into a profound silence—and, just as all was hushed as death, and anxious expectation sat on every face, old CERVETTO, who was better known by the name of NOSEY, anticipated the very first line of the address by—aw—a tremendous yawn. A convulsion of laughter ensued, and it was some minutes before the wished-for silence could be again restored. That, however, obtained—GARRICK delivered his address in that happy, irresistible manner in which he was always sure to captivate his audience; and he retired with applause such as was never better given, nor ever deserved. But the matter did not rest here—The moment he came off the stage, he flew like lightening to the music room, where, collaring astonished NOSEY, he began to abuse him pretty vociferously.
'Wha—why—you old scoundrel—you must be the most infernal'
—at length poor CERVETTO—
"Oh! Mr. GARRICK! vat is the matter—vat I haf do—Oh God vat it is!"
—
'The matter! why you old, damned, eternal, senseless idiot—with no more brains than your damned bass viol—just at the—a—very moment I had played with the audience—tickled them like a trout, and brought them to the most accommodating silence—so pat to my purpose—so perfect—that it was, as one may say, a companion for MILTON's visible darkness'
—
"Indeed, Mr. GARRICK, it vas no darkness."
Darkness! stupid
'fool—but how should a man of my reading make himself understood by—a—answer me, was not the whole house, pit, box, and gallery, very still?'
"Yes, Sir, indeed—still as mouse."
'Well then, just at that very moment did you not, with your damned jaws extended wide enough to swallow a sixpenny loaf—yaw?—Oh I wish you had never shut your damned jaws again.'
"Sare, Mr. GARRICK—only if you please hear me von vord. It is alvay the vay—it is indeed, Mr. GARRICK—alvay the vay I go when I haf the greatest
rapture,
Mr. GARRICK."
The little great man's anger instantly cooled. The cunning readiness of this Italian flattery operated exactly contrary to the last line of an epigram—the honey was tasted and the sting forgot—and it not only procured NOSEY's pardon, but forced a declaration from his patron that he ought to be forgiven for the wit of the offence. Upon this principle, perhaps, the yawning of the BATH audience was all rapture—in which case CHURCHILL can only mean that every man has a right to express his feelings his own way—mine is to say literally what I mean; which I do when I assure you that I am,
With great truth, Yours, &c. C. DIBDIN.
York,
October
16, 1787.
LETTER VIII.
TREATING OF FASHIONABLE SINCERITY, AND THE HONOUR OF AN IRISH MANAGER.
"
All this wheedling of Lucy's is not for nothing.
"
To T. S. Esq.
DEAR SIR,
I had scarcely returned home after my first performance at BATH, when two ladies knocked at my parlour door. They were ushered in; and, having thanked me for my entertainment, and professed themselves extremely sorry that I had been so thinly attended, they proceeded to assure me that as apparently I was a stranger to the mode of conducting an amusement at BATH, they, who were leaders of fashionable matters, could not refrain from calling to set me right concerning some particulars, and offer me such advice as might be condusive to my interest. After a good deal of conversation, it was agreed that I should suspend the performance, to give them an opportunity of enquiring when a repetition of it would be most agreeable to the company then in the town. These preliminaries adjusted, they went away; and one of these ladies actually took the trouble of advising me, by letter, of what she had learnt, and a time was at length appointed which would, according to her advice, procure me a full audience. The morning came, and I had the honour of meeting only
sixteen persons
; but what most astonished me was, that my
two patronesses
did not appear among the number. It immediately struck me that they had played me the
second part
of the
same tune
through which I had been so completely
hummed
by the
Irish Jolmon.
But why?—wherefore?—from what motive? They wanted no song set to music; and yet there must be something in the wind, or else why call on me and write letters? Not to tire you about such a stupid business. I at last learnt for a certainty that they were supporters of the
Old Rooms,
and had taken every possible pains to decry the entertainment—to represent me as an impostor—and appoint a time when nobody would attend—not because they had the smallest objection to me, but—because I performed at the
New Rooms.
Thus, at BATH, I fell a sacrifice to a stupid caprice in which I had not the smallest concern.
At length my eyes were opened by Mr. DERHAM, the master of the
New Rooms,
who assured me it would be the height of folly to attempt another performance. I closed with him in opinion, and offered the money I had agreed to pay for the rooms, which he refused with these words—
'Mr. DIBDIN, however you may have been treated by others in BATH, you shall meet with nothing illiberal from me. I have no sort of objection to getting money, but I never yet got any
dirty
money—and I am sure I will not begin now. If you think I have done you any kindness, the only return I require is, to hear of your prosperity, which I sincerely wish and should be happy to promote.'
I shall make no comment on this kind conduct of Mr. DERHAM, his domestic and general character is too well known to need my panegyrick; and I am sure, though my regard to justice would not permit me to do so, I should have better pleased him, had I been totally silent on this head.
These matters passed at that notorious moment when the business of Mr. TWYCROSS's E O tables engrossed all the conversation of the place—when the dove-house exulted and the rookery shook to its foundation. That building however I am afraid is erected upon too permanent a footing to be overturned so easily. Those are temporary convulsions, and only serve to discover the damaged parts that
at a proper expence
they may be the more securely stopped. At this time—for things fall out generally pretty
apropos
with me—I received a message from Mr. DALY's agent, who happened to be at BATH to engage a performer.
You may remember, in Letter IV, I mention an engagement I had made with Mr. DALY, and this is a proper place to go into the particulars of it. To do so I must state the substance of a hand-bill I was compelled to publish in the month of February last. It mentioned that I had entered into an article, under a penalty of 200l. with Mr. DALY, for three years, to furnish certain pieces and certain music for the Irish theatre; that Mr. DALY had broken this article in three several instances, two of which I had overlooked, and was willing to qualify the third, if Mr. DALY would let the whole matter go to a reference. This—being then in England—he seemed to consent to. A gentleman on each part was appointed; but as it was evident his friend was too closely connected with his interest (being afterwards his agent, and indeed the very gentleman who sent to me at BATH, as above) my appointed referee, seeing all this, wished to have an umpire. The business was however trifled with. Mr. DALY would not sign the bond of arbitration; and in short nothing had been done when my friend was obliged to leave town, and Mr. DALY on the eve of his departure for Ireland. In this situation I was determined to bring him to reason; and for that purpose commenced an action against him—but resolving to treat him with every kind of delicacy, I would not suffer it to be served. This he was informed of by my attorney, to whom he acknowledged that I had treated him so handsomely, and with so much lenity, that he engaged his
word
and HONOUR not to leave England till I should be fully and fairly satisfied. He thought proper however to forfeit his promise, and my friends urged me to publish an account of the matter, as a warning to others.
This business had stood over from February till the above message. I met the gentleman, and after a fruitless attempt to obtain my due, fearing that some trick might be played me—as the article was not at that moment cancelled—I agreed to receive
forty pounds
for TWO HUNDRED, and exchange general releases, so charmed was I to get rid of so scandalous a business; and as it was represented to me that much inconvenience might accrue to Mr. DALY from the above hand-bill, which still stood out against him uncontradicted, I voluntarily offered to give a declaration under my hand that I was satisfied with the conclusion of the business. These matters premised, the proper writings were put in hand I received
thirty pounds
in CASH, a note at two months of
ten pounds,
and a promise
in writing
that the pieces of mine then in Mr. DALY's possession should be delivered into the hands of a friend
as soon as possible.
Had these promises been fulfilled I should have conceived myself prohibited by my written declaration from publishing this transaction—but as in TEN months, instead of
two,
the payment is not made, nor the pieces returned, I look upon the authority I gave to say I was satisfied in the light of a defeasance on the back of a warrant of attorney, which is done away if the conditions annexed to it are not literally complied with—the bond therefore, as far as it relates to Mr. DALY's having behaved unhandsome and dishonourable, remains yet in
full force
and
virtue,
and if any persons after this chuse to engage with Mr. DALY, without a proper security, I think a statute of lunacy might be taken out against them without much impropriety.
I should be wanting to myself and common justice, if I did not say, before I quit the subject of BATH, that with particular pleasure I saw my old friend KEASBURY, with whom, twenty years ago, I have heard
"the chimes at midnight."
He was well and happy, and may he long continue so! Nor must I omit that I witnessed a most respectable performance at his theatre. The farce, which was Mr. SHERIDAN's
St. Patrick's Day,
was acted infinitely better than ever I saw it in London. Indeed this is one excellent property of a
regular
company in the country, the minuter parts—which a town actor thinks so little of, and which by the bye are remarkably material, witness GARRICK's attention to them—are paid much more respect to; but however this applies more immediately to BATH, where my old friend's veteran judgment and gentlemanly deportment will always insure from the performers a proper respect and attention. But lest it should be thought that I am applying the motto at the head of this letter to any interested purpose, I assure you I only wish it to tell against the ladies and the Irish manager; for I aver with the truest sincerity, that I desire no favour at Mr. KEASBURY's hands, and only wish I may see him alive and hearty many years to come, and that so far from
wheedling
you, I mean nothing but truth when I assure you that I am,
With great truth, Yours, &c. C. DIBDIN.
York,
October
17, 1787.
LETTER IX.
A FAREWELL TO BATH.
"
They talk of beauty that they never saw,
"
And fancy raptures that they never felt.
"
To T. S. Esq.
DEAR SIR,
'TIS indispensably incumbent on me to say something concerning the manners, musical taste, &c. of the inhabitants of all those places in which I have been, or may yet pass through. This however I shall not be even tolerably qualified to do, till I come to where I returned to Cambridge, having before that time made no resolution to publish my TOUR, and therefore of course many matters which I have since treasured were almost forgotten as soon as passed. Indeed I do not conceive it at all my province to point out market-days, fairs, wakes, and statutes, the number of inhabitants, or talk of corporations, charters, grants, and privileges, unless indeed it should seem to be necessary for the illustration and establishment of any particular fact which common opinion has grossly misrepresented. Thus, I will not call BRISTOL the second town in England, in point of the number of inhabitants, when I am sure SHEFFIELD contains as many—and I believe MANCHESTER, but certainly LIVERPOOL double the number. I shall however give such cursory hints as I have promised in my first letter. At present I have not quite done with BATH—which, as a city, is like a Frenchman's shirt—the ruffle is very fine, but the body very coarse. Place a man in his sleep in the Crescent, and he might upon waking conceive himself in an amphitheatre, erected by the same workmen who built the Temple of Solomon; but instead of this, place him in one of those blind alleys—for there are no other communications—which separate the old town from the new, and fancying himself in Field-lane or St. Giles's, he would immediately search for his pocket handkerchief. In short, as I observed before, all is either splendidly dull or dirtily vulgar. As to their musical taste, it is a bad imitation of that in town—they contented themselves with bagpipes till the famous commemoration, and then they must squeak, belch, and snort out oratorios. I asked one of their capital hands how they managed to understand HANDEL, and he answered me,
'they fund un woundy crabbed at first, but after they had altered un a little they did un auver rarely.'
At the only inn I saw at BATH they were extravagantly dear and intolerably impudent. In respect to natural curiosities, the Baths may be reckoned of a very extraordinary kind—but every body knows what they are; for artificial ones, faces and fashions
Just at this time the ladies wore a veil made of one very large piece of gauze, which entirely covering the head and monstrous head dress, was drawn by a running string, and tied about the waste; thus exhibiting a thin, but prodigious globe on their heads, and no sort of addition on their petticoats—for hoops and trimming were out of fashion—every lady, but especially if she was tall and thin, looked like a stalk of dandelion run to seed, the heads of which, children, under the name of mops, and something else, blow for pastime into the air.
exhibit them at every corner. In short, BATH is the fittest place in the world for
art
to banquet on
credulity
—for
extravagance
and
folly
to go unmasked at noon day, for
reason
and
wisdom
to shun—and to speak in the language of the poet, for
rakes
and
idiots
"to talk of
beauty
that they
never saw,
and fancy
raptures
that they
never felt.
"
In my next letter you will find me at BRISTOL, at which place, and in all places, even in the luxury of an orange grove shaded by the spreading cedar and refreshed by the spice-conveying breeze, I shall not be less than at this moment,
Yours, &c. C. DIBDIN.
Beverly,
Oct.
21 1787.
LETTER X.
A COMPARATIVE VIEW OF DIET AND GORMANDIZING, AND ANOTHER OF THEATRICAL MERIT.
"
All the world's a stage,
"
And all the men and women merely players.
"
To T. S. Esq.
DEAR SIR,
WOULD one think it possible that a distance of only twelve miles should make such a difference in manners, as to present you with two distinct species of human beings? At BATH every thing is
superficial
—at BRISTOL every thing
substantial.
At BATH every thing
gay
—at BRISTOL every thing
grave.
In BATH they live in
fine houses,
and are
poor
—in BRISTOL in
shabby ones,
and are rich. At
careless
BATH nothing is thought of but the
present moment
—at
provident
BRISTOL no step is taken but with a view to the advantage of
posterity.
In short they are both actuated by an equal, though different species of folly; for, one flies off from the reasonable part of human pursuits, and seeks for pleasures that have no place but in the imagination, like a volatile body which leaves the earth and loses itself in space, while the other is buried in the muck and grossness of sensual enjoyments, till the wearied appetite is sunk in gorged satiety, without capacity to know distinction.
On my arrival at BRISTOL, which was on Monday in the passion week, the first objects that presented themselves, when I alighted from the coach, were three living turtles, lying on their backs. This circumstance soon produced me an account from the WAITER, that, on the following week, the DUKE OF PORTLAND was expected there, with a large body of the minority; and that ships had been dispatched to fetch good cheer on the joyful occasion. Their only fear, it seems, was, that as his GRACE laboured under an indisposition, and was obliged to eat by prescription, he could not be able to cut any capital figure at the noble exercise of the knife and fork. Mr. Fox, Mr. SHERIDAN, and their facetious colleague Capt. MORRIS, who it was reported was hired on purpose to abuse the ministers in a new song set to an old tune, were however expected to fill up the principal parts in the gormandizing concert, which was to finish with a capital duetto between burgundy and disaffection. But so fallacious are the hopes, and precarious the expectation of turtle-eaters, as well as all other sublunary beings, that these glorious prospects vanished like a dream, for the DUKE OF PORTLAND came almost alone—no one adherent of consequence having accompanied him but LORD STORMONT, whose passion in no way leaning from the line of a perfect gentleman, and a true bred man of fashion, the poor dear BRISTOL MEN felt awkwardly throughout the whole business, and were even, some say, heard to groan when they presented the DUKE—not with his
freedom,
for that cost nothing.—but with the
gold box
and
five pounds a year
—for, though this last was not sterling, yet a promise with a merchant is the same as money—the salary annexed to the high office to which they did his GRACE the honour to call him.
Passion week
being observed in BRISTOL with great exactness, by way of balance in hand, to answer the expected disbursements during the feasts after
Easter,
nothing like amusements could be thought of. In the
Easter week
every moment was appropriated to the DUKE OF PORTLAND, therefore, of course, I could not get my entertainment in edge ways. On the week following, when I did perform it, and heaven knows to very little purpose, the constant cry was—that so much
more
money had been expended on the above occasion than was expected, that they were obliged to pull up a little—but if I would stay a fortnight longer, and perform upon more reasonable terms, there could be no doubt but I should find it worth my while. Never having been fond of any thing so rigidly methodical, and fearing it would not answer my purpose—the constant maxim of a BRISTOL MAN being to take care that nobody shall
get any thing by him
—I gave the matter up, and devoted the remainder of my time to pleasure.
Among the
rest
—for the first time I had ever seen any thing written by Mrs. INCHBALD—I attended at the performance of
Such Things are,
and
The Widow's Vow
—the first of which I should have known belonged to a lady if it had been only for
the wig,
which I will venture to say outdoes every thing in Mrs. BEHN's
Rover.
The parts were many of them incomparably well played. I never saw Mr. LEWIS in
Twineall,
but I should think nothing could surpass BERNARD in that character. Mr. DIAMOND was very correct and able in
Haswell
—and, indeed, where there would otherwise have been any deficiency, perfectness and good discipline gave the whole an air of respectability which I could wish to see imitated on a LONDON Theatre—where, frequently, in a game of romps, the author is kicked and buffetted about in a most unmerciful manner. In these particulars, my old, valuable friend JEFFERSON—who, hearing I was at BRISTOL, came from BATH on purpose to see me—perfectly agreed with me. What can be the reason JEFFERSON is not engaged in TOWN? This question I did not ask him, but it has twenty times occurred to me. Surely the man whom GARRICK took delight to perform with cannot but be an object to the
Theatre.
He was constantly, as every body knows, the
Colonel Briton
to his
Dox Felix
—the
Claudio
to his
Benedict
—the
Aimwell
to his
Archer
—the
Frederick
to his
Don John
—and I could name many other similar instances—nay, when he left off walking as
Benedick
in the
Jubilee,
he chose JEFFERSON as the only person that could represent him. JEFFERSON is like GARRICK in the face, and he gives you a strong idea of him altogether, only larger. Nor let it be said that GARRICK used him
as a soil.
It is well known at the
Theatre
that GARRICK was particularly careful to have those plays well got up in which he appeared himself. Upon these occasions he had recourse, wherever he could, to JEFFERSON, PARSONS, WESTON, and DODD. Did not then GARRICK's judgment rank JEFFERSON respectably? It is true he shrunk a little from the very first-rate abilities. He would never couple with BARRY in
Tragedy,
and very reluctantly indeed with KING in
Comedy
—and, if the common course of the business made it indispensible—for where is there a play in which KING has not successfully performed?—you will always see that the two characters wear so very different a complexion that no auditor can draw a comparative view of their merits. And here I cannot refrain from noticing, that there was no man whom Mr. GARRICK openly caressed and secretly hated so much as Mr. KING.
I'll bring this fact home to Mr. KING's recollection. Mr. GARRICK prepared a prose Dialogue, which was spoken by himself and that gentleman at the
Jubilee,
immediately after the
Ode
—a time when there was not the smallest possibility of receiving attention to any thing. But this was not enough—What part did Mr. KING act? Why, truly, in the place where about twelve hundred people were in enthusiastic admiration of SHAKESPEARE, he was to find out a thousand faults in his writing. Nor was this ungrateful task fairly set about—for, written by Mr. GARRICK, the objections were all pretended—the better to shew his defence of the poet, by way of answer.
I know this fact, or I would not assert it; and I believe it may be easily reconciled, when we consider that Mr. KING, added to his uncommon merit as a performer, is an
independent man.
Yet, with all his faults, should the memory of GARRICK be revered. I have an enthusiastic reverence for his merit as a performer—and, as JEFFERSON was at least his faithful and approved companion in his theatrical career, let us no more neglect him when we think of GARRICK, than we would
Pylades, Achates,
and
Patrocles,
when we think of
Orestes, Aeneas,
or
Achilles.
Perhaps, however, as my interest at the
Theatre
is not very strong, I had better have let alone this recommendation of my friend—but it cannot, at any rate, injure him with the world—and as his ideas at least, like mine, are independent, he must content himself—for no man, through the wonderful serenity of his disposition, is more easily contented—with being
respected,
instead of
affluent.
My opinion, however, of my theatrical influence was somewhat different at the time I mention—for, on that morning, I met Mr. HARRIS, who was, for the benefit of his health, at the
Hot Wells.
This gentleman so corroborated the contents of the letter I formerly mentioned, that, during the play, I took measure of BERNARD and BLANCHARD—and they may remember I told them so—for those parts I intended to introduce for them in a
new Opera,
which has been long since finished, but I fear will never be performed.
In this letter you see I have stuck close to my motto—for whether men perform the farce of greatness, zeal, fashion, or gormandizing, in real life, or on the stage, as FOOTE says
"the purpose is the same, and the place immaterial."
As I have not, in the writing of those letter, a single document to consult but my memory, how naturally have the greatest part of my quotations been from SHAKESPEARE! VOLTAIRE, meaning to abuse him, pays that wonderful poet a most elegant compliment. He says
"The English, because they find in SHAKESPEARE many passages fraught so strongly with force and nature that they get them by heart
in spite of themselves,
think him a great writer."
If they wanted a better proof, I am sure it was not in Mr. VOLTAIRE's power to give it them.
Adieu.
Yours, very sincerely, C. DIBDIN.
Beverly,
October
22, 1787.
Why have I not heard from you!
LETTER XI.
A GRATEFUL SUBJECT.
"
Nay, do not think I flatter.
"
To T. S. Esq.
DEAR SIR,
AS so many procrastinations threw some time on my hands, I improved it, as much as possible, by cultivating the friendship of a gentleman whose professional abilities and private virtues endear him to all who have the pleasure of his acquaintance. A better proof, I think, of his
private worth
need not be given than that he passes from eight to twelve hours, out of twenty-four, in fagging at teaching, that most miserable of all drudgery, and the remainder cherishing his wife and improving his children. Nor need I hold him up better as a model of
professional excellence
than by remarking that he has genius, judgment, taste, and, what is better, good sense to regulate them. His compositions, which are many of them models for harpsichord music, never sink to mediocrity, and often rise to perfection. He has not the folly to substitute abstruseness for nature, but contents himself with
pleasing
instead of
surprising.
As a performer, he shall take any man's stile, and excel him—and I will demonstrate it in a moment. First, there is no passage ever so difficult but he can execute—and what no other player I ever heard could attain—I mean keeping regular time—he has in the highest perfection; for, let the passage be ever so rapid or interwoven, a child, with an ear, may as easily mark the accented parts as of the most familiar tune. I beg, however, I may be understood to mean that my friend is no conjurer, nor performer of impossibilities—for three-fourths of harpsichord music have neither plan nor motive, nor indeed any drift but difficulty—in particular those unmeaning, senseless rhapsodies in music that, were they executed by APOLLO, would have no better effect than a Dutch concert. For the sake of simplicity, that beautiful ground-work of all sublimity, I hope I am understood—and yet, is not that hope, like many of mine fruitless? I shall make myself clear, however, by saying there are two positions in music, which common sense says must ever be kept separate and apart. These are the different distinctions of time—one is to count
four,
and the other
three.
Yet, the music-mongers—against common sense—with no other remedy for their imbecility than abstruseness—no other substitute for their sterile and unprofitable imaginations than extraneousness—pretend to make one hand play four and the other three
in
and
at
the SAME TIME. Cannot the most common understanding, without the smallest knowledge of music, see, in one moment, that this is an impossibility? If you should go to BRISTOL, call on Mr. BOYTON—the gentleman to whom I have alluded above—and he will, for my sake, be glad to see you—unless he should be offended—which I entreat he will not—at my endeavouring to do him a piece of justice, which he will think more than he deserves, though I well know my utmost praise is inadequate to his merit. The subject of this letter has given me so much pleasure, that I will not mix it with other matter. I cannot flatter—but 'tis like winning ones own heart to speak the praises of the deserving. 'Tis hard you will not write to me—yet, were you never more to do so, I could not cease to be,
Most heartily, Yours, &c. C. DIBDIN.
Beverly,
Oct.
23. 1787.
LETTER XII.
A DIGRESSION.
"
He has the wide world for his heritage.
"
TO THE PUBLIC.
I have ever conceived it the utmost height of extravagant folly to deal with even the slightest appearance of disingenuousness in any appeal to the public. The truth is so easily told—and, besides, it brings with it such a saving of trouble, art, and duplicity—all which are mighty disagreeable things—that—exclusive of the comfortable conviction that a man's argument cannot fairly be controverted—'tis in every other way his interest to keep that honest, manly monitor in view. Thus, to give fairly up the most distant appearance of double dealing, I shall address no more letters to T. S. Esq.—Not that I have altered my sentiments in any respect relative to that gentleman—I know his admirable talents, nice discernment, and correct judgment—I know these letters would have been greatly benefitted by his remarks—I know his erudition is profound, his taste elegant, and his stile beautiful. Nor do I at this moment believe he has altered his opinion in relation to me; and, as one strong proof of if—though I confess I have yet received no answer to my
second
letter, which introduced the
five
successive ones, as will be seen by comparing their dates—he very lately told a particular friend of mine that my
seven
first letters—I use his own words—
"are wonderfully well written."
The fact is, I hope to leave England by the beginning of April, and chance having thrown this gentleman and I such a distance from each other, were I to wait for answers respectively to my letters, it would now be morally impossible for this publication to come out till I had lost the INDIA season. I therefore—as I have frequently done, and I never repented it—throw myself upon the candour of the Public; not, however, in the paltry manner in which their indulgence is too frequently solicited on the stage
This brings to my mind a whimsical anecdote, which I cannot avoid giving a place. TOMMY HULL, who is well known to have been the
apologist-general
at
Covent Garden Theatre
for about five and twenty years, took it into his head at the time of the dispute between KEPPEL and PALLISER, to distinguish himself as a
lad of liberty.
On the night when all LONDON was illuminated on KEPPEL's acquittal, he undertook, not only to light up his tenement in
Martlet-court, Bow-street,
but treat the populace with
small beer.
They had drank all but one barrel, which out of wantonness—because it was rather stale—they left running. The door was now shut, lest some of the
liberty boys
should take a fancy to the
silver spoons.
At this they grew clamourous, and bawled out very outrageously for
more beer.
TOMMY—as was his custom—thinking it high time he should now make his appearance—popped his red night-capped head out of the window, and there was immediately a cry of
"hear him—hear him."
When he thus began:—
'Ladies and gentlemen, I have the misfortune to tell you—that the spiggot is out of the fauset, and the small beer is run about the cellar—
and we humbly hope for
—YOUR USUAL INDULGENCE.
—but, backed with an assurance that, though the front of my army cannot come up, yet I am winged with particular literary friends, and well flanked with casual ones; add to which, I have several out-posts—well situated—of well-wishers, and an admirable
corps de reserve
of—
the lovers of music
; nor am I yet without hope that I shall derive some assistance from the main body. Thus, when all my forces are mustered together, I flatter myself I shall not fail of a complete victory over my enemies, whom I shall deliver up to the public to be
admonished
and FORGIVEN.
A friend of mine, when he swore an oath, would say—God forgive me—which he called rubbing out as he went. Thus—by way of clearing my ground, or, as the sailors call it, bringing up lee-way—I shall make this letter one entire digression, into which I shall collect all extraneous matter. And, first—being
figuratively
at one place and
literally
at another—it may be asked why I did not set down those transactions I celebrate at the time they happened. I have already said that at my first setting out I had not the smallest idea of writing any account of my TOUR at all. Again—Circumstances, at the first blush, dressed in the delusive charms of novelty, have a strength and false glow, which, upon a nearer investigation, meliorate into sober truth, and wear off the influence of primary prejudice. Thus, had I spoken of my friend BOYTON in the moment I was witness of his wonderful performance, I might have injured him by exaggeration; and in this I give the strongest possible instance—because language can scarcely produce an hyperbole on the subject. To give a contrary instance—Had I not waited till contempt had died away, and given place to indifference, I could not probably have told my story of the
Irish Jolmon
with that triumphant coolness which will never cease to make a much more uncomfortable wound than the keenest shafts of hasty resentment. I insist upon it CIBBER gave POPE more uneasiness, and the world a better opinion of his good sense—in his easy, well-tempered, facetious letter—than did the other atchieve against CIBBER, or with the public—with all his weight of abilities—in the laboured bitterness of his invidious
Dunciad.
It has often occurred to me, as a matter of astonishment, that any one, after reading the
Dunciad,
should doubt POPE's being an envious man. Nothing can be more self-evident than that he wrote more than any man for
same
; and what could divert him from such a pursuit to lose time on a work which must die with the names it stigmatises, but—ENVY. How one digression introduces another. Take the following lines on ENVY.
See, ENVY!—from her cheeks the colour fled,
While
aconite
and
nightshade
bind her head—
See, how her shrivel'd shanks with palsy shake!
How her lips quiver!—while a forked snake—
Pointing her tongue, sends poison in each hiss,
To wound the happy in the hour of bliss!
See where she skulks, with torn, dishevell'd hair,
Push'd, urg'd, and goaded on—by
lank
DESPAIR!
I might have rashly blamed one man for a slight, or an unkindness, that originated in another; and I might have extolled a third for
tinselled
wit, which—from a graceful manner and faithful memory—he had the art to pass for sterling.—FOOTE, when he heard GARRICK repeat his ode at the
Jubilee,
declared— whether the subject had inspired him—whether the genius of SHAKESPEARE had deigned to illuminate his fancy with some rays of its wonderful effect—or, from whatever cause it proceeded he knew not—but that certainly the ode was elegantly and poetically written. The next morning—having read it—he swore he must have been in a dream
FOOTE had the most contemptible opinion of GARRICK's literary abilities. He once received an anonymous letter which pointed out to him a French play as an excellent subject for his theatre. This circumstance he mentioned to a nobleman who happened that evening to be behind the scenes, adding that he should be particularly happy to know the author, as it was incomparably well written—for among other
traits
there were several quotations that spoke a perfect and elegant knowledge of classical reading. Said HIS LORDSHIP,
'I think I can guess at him.'
"Can you, my lord,"
said FOOTE,
"I wish I could."
'What do you think of GARKICK?'
"Oh no, my lord,"
answered the wit,
"I am sure it is not GARRICK."
'Why?'
returned his lordship.
"I shall answer,"
says FOOTE,
"like SCRUB.
First,
I am sure it is not GARRICK, because there's
Greek
in it.
Secondly,
I am sure it is not GARRICK, because there's
Latin
in it; and
thirdly,
I am sure it is not GARRICK, because there's
English
in it."
—for that the whole was the most stupid rhapsody of incongruous nonsense that ever was listened to. If he had taken a month to consider of it and had been unprejudiced, he probably would have decided that it was a meritorious attempt; and, if not executed in a manner worthy the subject—which could not be without the pen of another SHAKESPEARE—the errors of the
poet
ought to have been forgotten, in the inimitable merit of the
speaker,
which was beyond all description admirable, and fairly equal to the wonderful task.
Having cleared away all the froth of the whipped syllabub, to which this letter may be compared, I am now come to the
drop of wine
at the bottom. It was written, howsoever the rovings of fancy may have led me astray, in a great measure—to say this—
Five minutes before I sat down to this table where I am now writing, being at BEVERLY in Yorkshire, I dispatched to the printer at HULL a manuscript of the
proposal
for publishing my MUSICAL TOUR. It immediately afterward occurred to me, as a thing not impossible, that when the list of subscribers come to be published, if the names of all those I praise should appear in it, some of my kind friends may be so civil as to consider what I have said, as so many purchased encomiums; and as a man practises firing at a mark to put himself
au sait
to a duel—so, by anticipation, do I falsify all such malice. At this present writing I do not know who will subscribe, and I cannot speak warmer or cooler of people than I have occasionally done already: besides, I must be a poor hireling indeed to sell panegyricks for twelve shillings a piece. To be more serious, I declare solemnly, that no consideration shall warp my pen to the deformity of an invidious lie, nor—which would be equally reprehensible—the prostitution of unmerited praise. Kindness has a most wonderful effect upon me. Perhaps because I have received as little of it as any man. There are many living instances that I can forget injuries, but never obligations; and tho' many parts of this work will sting
home
—and I would have them do so—yet will they wound the keener because it will be plainly seen—I have no
rancour.
I have met with more real kindness during my MUSICAL TOUR, than in all the rest of my life put together—yet think not I mean of a pecuniary nature—I detest all servile considerations.
Rectitude
is a chearful companion, and nothing is so ponderous as
obligation.
Though I hope this very book will yield me a good sum of money—yet I should receive it with reluctance, if I did not feel I had EARNED IT. These sentiments will not, I am sure, be censured by the public, who have not in the whole round of their servants, one more ambitious to merit their favour than
The obliged And grateful C. DIBDIN.
Beverly,
October
24, 1787.
LETTER XIII.
AN ADIEU TO BRISTOL.
"
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
"
That frets and struts his hour upon the stage—
"
And thon—is heard no more.
"—
To Mr. B.
MY DEAR FRIEND,
YOU who so largely contributed to make BRISTOL agreeable to me, deserve in preference to any other this letter, which I take the liberty of addressing to you—especially as it comes where I am to describe those beautiful situations with which that place abounds, and which would for ever have been unknown to me, but for your kind solicitude. You taught me to admire the extensive and picturesque views from DURDHAM DOWN, CLIFDEN HILL, COOK'S FOLLY,
There is a strange anecdote related of this place. One COOK dreamt that he was bit by an adder, and it so preyed on his mind that he built this place, which is very lofty, and resided wholly in the upper apartment. One cold day his servant brought in a faggot that concealed an adder, which, upon being disturbed, flew at Mr. COOK, bit him—and he died of the wound. The reader may give what portion of credit he pleases to this tale.
and KING'S WESTON. Nor had I more pleasure in the charming variety these sweet places afforded than in your conversation. What a number of circumstances it called home to my recollection, as you pointed out the former theatre to me, where POWELL, HOLLAND,
What I am now going to relate I know to be fact, and it conveys nearly as strong a pre-sentiment as the above. The last time HOLLAND ever performed he was in unusual spirits. During the evening, he related a number of anecdotes—but it was remarkable he continually alluded to POWELL. He repeated the lines written by Mr. COLMAN, and which he had spoken on POWELL's death. At length I heard him repeat these extraordinary words:
"The first time I ever saw POWELL was at a
spouting-club,
where he and I performed
Posthumous
and
Jachimo.
The first time we ever played on the stage together was
Posthumous
and
Jachimo.
The last time we ever played together—and, added he, with a sigh, it was the last time HE ever played—was
Posthumous
and
Jachimo.
"
What makes this matter singular, almost beyond belief, is—that the time he made these observations he was performing
Jachimo,
and he died a few days after.
and so many of the old school were such favourites! Poor POWELL! Poor HOLLAND! The one a sacrifice to youthful impetuosity
POWELL was a well dispositioned young man; but he was weak, and his professional and personal vanity got the better of every tie or consideration. He was handsome, lively, and presuming; to which, if we add that he was a manager, it will be seen that it was an easy matter to make
his
terms with many of the actresses, provided he acceded to
their's.
Indeed his amours were not confined to the theatre, kept-mistresses and demireps were continually sending him letters to the stage-door, none of which solicitations he had the courage to resist. The consequence was fatal and inevitable—he died a martyr to his pleasures; for what head could even a robust constitution make against the wasteful conflict of mercury and stimulatives. His acting was strong nature, as luxuriant as a wilderness. It had a thousand beauties and a thousand faults. He felt so forcibly that in any impassioned situation, tears came faster than words, and frequently choaked his utterance. If GARRICK had never gone to Italy, and we can suppose he would have
honestly
instructed him—there was certainly no height of perfection in tragedy, to which such abilities could not have reached; but GARRICK's performance in real life was not the worst part of his acting. POWELL, as an actor, visibly declined from the moment his tutor turned his back on him—so much does nature want assistance on the stage.
—the other, a proof that the most rigid prudence is no safeguard against the grim tyrant.
HOLLAND was extremely different from POWELL as an actor and a man—he kept as respectable a public situation, and his company was more courted. He had not received a liberal education, but his intellects were of that strong, clear, and decided kind, they performed for him the task of a tutor so well, that his decisions, upon all occasions, were founded in sound judgment and experience. He was free, good-natured, cheerful, and generous—nor had he an unkind wish to any human creature. He indulged himself as much as any young man reasonably ought—yet, with his purse and his heart ever open—though sprung from obscurity, which he had too much good sense to conceal—at the age I believe of thirty-three he lest his family six thousand pounds. As to his acting, what he wanted of POWELL's natural requisites, he made up in strong discrimination. One was susceptible—the other critical. Whoever remembers their playing those favourite parts
Posthumous
and
Jachimo
will feel the truth of this observation. POWELL made the strongest first impression. HOLLAND pleased you most upon repetition. POWELL, though he often charmed, sometimes disgusted you. HOLLAND, even where you could not admire him, gave you no pain. In short, POWELL owed to nature—what HOLLAND owed to himself; and if after all we are obliged to admit something of pre-eminence on the side of POWELL, and thus regret his loss as an actor, we cannot refrain from heaving a deeper sigh when we consider that in HOLLAND we lost an honest man, and a valuable member of society.
Before I quit this subject, I shall relate an anecdote relative to the funeral of POOR HOLLAND. He was one of FOOTE's greatest favourites, perhaps in some measure because the world said he was the retailer of his wit; but there was no occasion, HOLLAND had wit enough of his own—besides, Aristophanes dealt in the retail way himself. GEORGE GARRICK, being one of HOLLAND's executors, with his usual good nature—for no man possessed more—undertook to manage the funeral in a way suitable to his friend's circumstances, for which purpose he went to CHISWICK, and ordered a decent vault, and such other preparations as he thought necessary—HOLLAND's father was a baker. FOOTE was invited to the funeral, which he certainly attended with unseigned sorrow; for, exclusive of his real concern for the loss of a convivial companion, whenever he had a serious moment, he felt with very strong susceptibility. While the ceremony was performing, G. GARRICK remarked to FOOTE how happy he was, out of respect to his friend, to see every thing so decently conducted.—
"You see,"
said he,
"what a snug family vault we have made here."
—
'
Family vault,
'
said FOOTE—with the tears trickling down his cheeks—
'Damme, if I did not think it had been—
the family oven.
'
From the theatre, you led me to that natural wonder, the
Hot Well,
and to that still superior one,
St. Vincent's,
as well as that vast chain of rocks which form a convenient boundary to conduct the river safely to KINGROAD, employ a number of workmen, make up highways, build houses, and supply foppish peasants with glittering sleeve-buttons.
As to the musical taste of BRISTOL, the treatment at inns, and other indispensible matters, I shall mention them when I return; for I will not give you pain by speaking truth of your neighbours. Adieu.
Yours, With the truest friendship, C. DIBDIN.
Hull,
Nov.
4, 1787.
LETTER XIV.
FROM A NEW CORRESPONDENT.
"
Even as one wedge driveth out another.
"
To Mr. DIBDIN.
DEAR SIR,
WHEN I had the pleasure of witnessing your performance, I said but the truth when I assured you it would be no trifling satisfaction to me to promote whatever you should consider as your interest. As to your request of addressing your public letters to me, I embrace with great satisfaction an opportunity of receiving an earlier entertainment from them than the rest of your friends. Nobody can be more zealous in your cause. There is, I confess, one consideration that will make me read them with reluctance—every succeeding letter will be one approach nearer to your departure, which you know I never cordially liked—though I own you have conquered every scruple but one. Answer me. What will the people of INDIA say of you, when they see in your book that you make a visit to them, your
sorlorn hope?
You see I begin the office of a friend by treating you with freedom. My remarks, however, will not be very troublesome to you. Your career is brilliant, and it were pity to stop it. Adieu. I have read thirteen letters, and be assured I shall make a perusal of the rest supercede every other consideration of business or pleasure—being
Your sincere friend, And obedient servant. *****
Nov.
6, 1787.
LETTER XV.
ANSWER.
"
There's an especial Providence in the fall of a sparrow.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
I thought the best way of thanking you for your letter, would be to insert—and answer it. It shall be printed however without your name—nor shall I publicly use it at all, though out of kindness you have stipulated for no such arrangement. My reason is, that though
I
may find it necessary to go to loggerheads with witlings and crotchet-mongers, it would be unhandsome to bring you in as my second, or even bottle-holder. Thanking you heartily for your zeal and kindness, and assuring you that I shall take every care to merit your attention to my letters, and by that means insure myself the good opinion of the public, I shall first, answering your only remaining scruple, proceed on my TOUR. The prejudices of general opinion, from which I believe no man is wholly free, incline one naturally to form ideas of a long voyage, a foreign climate, a strange race of people, and new laws and customs, that after fairly and maturely consulting our reason we really find do not exist. These beget a repugnance to leave our native land, which, were it examined, would be found to originate in folly and ignorance. I am sure there is not more danger in a long voyage than a long journey. I have myself been overturned, during this TOUR, in a chaise, and was within a very little of breaking my neck. Lloyd's Evening Post contained, some time ago, an account of a gentleman who having been two voyages to the East-Indies, returned, and in taking a short journey in the mail-coach—was overturned and killed. As to a foreign climate, can it be worse than the month of November in England? For strange people—they are to be met with every where. New laws cannot certainly be better than the
spirit
of those in this country—but the
letter
and the
execution
cannot any where be
worse.
I shall hereafter have occasion to animadvert a little stronger on this subject. It is very true I leave England, because I think I have not been well treated; but surely this is paying a compliment to the liberality of INDIA. They love pleasure—it is in my power to give it to them. The compact is a fair one; and if they find me capable to take a review of their amusements, regulate them, supply them with novelty, put them upon an eligible and permanent footing, and at length leave them in possession of such materials as will induce them to encourage me while I stay, and remember me afterwards—what will it be between us, but a mutual obligation? And yet, though I argue so coolly, and I hope reasonably, I had till very lately every one of the above vulgar prejudices and absurd notions—for which no man alive can invent a rational excuse. Nay, I had eight years ago gone to INDIA, could I have conquered these scruples, which—though I had in great measure got the better of—returned with irresistable force, upon receiving the news of my brother's death. My election however is now made; yet, believe me, I go not like an exile. I go to give and receive pleasure and advantage—to earn honestly a competency, and return with it to my native country. If there be any difficulties to encounter, I shall hope to surmount them, by the means of unconquerable spirits and a strong constitution; and, if after all—it should so happen that I am beckoned there by the finger of fate, I could not better obey the summons than in believing, with our immortal poet,
"that there's an especial providence in the fall of a sparrow."
I am not however foolhardy enough to court the accomplishment of this; nor will I say, with the philosopher,
"ungrateful country, thou shalt not have my ashes."
Sacred be destiny's immutable decree!
I once expressed these sentiments, in the following song.
SONG.
WHAT of fortune would'st tell me—I know all the
past
—
Am content with the fate I'm at
present
possessing—
And if for the
future
our lots are all cast,
We might there find a
curse
where we hop'd for a
blessing.
What's hid in the stars, then, is not worth our care—
We shall know it too soon if 'tis any vexation—
If 'tis good fortune—pleasure's a little too rare
To rob ourselves of it by—anticipation.
II.
Then curiously seek not the mysteries of fate
To explore—by a vain, idle passion directed—
The knowledge of ill cannot lessen its weight—
And joy is most welcome when least 'tis expected.
What's hid in the stars, &c.
I shall be proud to see you again in Old England, and assure you, face to face, as I do now under my hand, that I am,
With great truth, Your obliged friend, And humble servant, C. DIBDIN.
Newark,
Nov.
9, 1787.
LETTER XVI.
ONE SUSPICION REPAID BY ANOTHER.
"
Since the world will—why let it be deceived.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —
DEAR SIR,
FROM BRISTOL—I sat out with a view to perform a night or two at GLOUCESTER; to which place—I cannot avoid noticing—I had a most beautiful journey. The wonderful rich soil round that city so invigorates vegetation, that the country looked as if the season had been a month older; but, when I arrived, one would have sworn the place was entirely deserted. I could not help fancying that some public occasion had invited all the inhabitants to a distance. No such thing. It arose from nothing more than—as the residents in other places get out, and mix with each other, and thus enjoy the comforts of sociality and good fellowship—those at GLOUCESTER stay at home, in their own hugger mugger way—and form no acquaintance but with the cats and crickets, by the fire side. Without exaggeration—'tis so remarkable for its dullness, that you may, upon an average, look from one end of the street to the other, twenty times, and not at any one time see twenty people. This gave me but poor hopes of GLOUCESTER. Nor were my expectations more sanguine when, in a conversation with Mr. RAIKES, I found the town was as much in sackcloth as if there had been a general mourning. Four or five unexpected bankruptcies had thrown them into a consternation not to be described; which, added to their natural gloom, made GLOUCESTER, at that time, the most unfit of all places for making an experiment with my entertainment. I therefore got into a chaise, and posted away to CHELTENHAM; but there were yet arrived only a sick lord, an old maid, and a monkey:—so I stayed all night, slept in a damp bed,
This is infallible if any one should sleep there in the month of April.
and went on to WORCESTER. Of this pretty and very sprightly town—I own—I augured well. Nor was I deceived in my expectations. I found the inhabitants, however, very tardy; and, had it not been for a reverend and honourable gentleman—who never fails to countenance public amusements whenever he can with propriety—I should never have had a second night. This owed its rise to a report—which somebody had very good naturedly propagated—that I was an impostor. When one considers it has been affirmed that a man took thirty pounds to be shot for ADMIRAL BYNG—and that FOOTE had his leg cut off on purpose to procure a patent—or—as some have maintained—to give him a graceful hitch in his walk—is it wonderful that a stranger should have some difficulty in proving his own identity? They were, however, reasoned with in the following manner. 'Tis true this man may possibly not be Mr. DIBDIN—in which case, those who attend his performance would be subject to some kind of raillery; but it is also possible he may be the very identical man—and, that admitted, would not his departure in dudgeon bring a stronger ridicule on the place?
'Suppose,'
said a few—who really were possessed of something like reason—
'the first performance should be watched with a critical eye, and a report spread as to its merit, and the originality of its fabrication—if he be an impostor, it will be then time enough to give way to our resentment: if not, surely he deserves some apology, and future attention—for having paid us the compliment to come among us.'
So said—so done. I was attended by eleven critics, who, I am sure, had made up their minds before they came—for it so happened that they had good sense enough to see there does not exist a man who could have performed what I promised and yet have been an impostor.—I plainly perceived the drift of this
manoeuvre,
and went through my entertainment with a spirit that surprised my audience. When I had finished—an apology was made me, in the name of the city of WORCESTER—and, to be brief, I had afterwards four very decent nights; and, that not satisfying them, they exacted a promise from me to return in the race week.
The report of my being an impostor originated from an unmarried lady, who had seen me, she said, at BIRMINGHAM, and who—as she did not confess herself a member of the tribe of old maids—was not a little nettled, as I afterwards understood, when I remarked—upon hearing this story—that her love of justice had got the better of her
amour propre
; for, that by mentioning BIRMINGHAM—where I had not been for twenty-five years—she was tacitly obliged to agree to an age rather more ancient than it was her usual custom to acknowledge.
I shall speak of WORCESTER more fully on my return—and, in the mean time, beg the favour of your company to BIRMINGHAM—whither I went in the stage coach, in company with a plain, agreeable man, who I could very soon perceive was intimately concerned in some large manufactory. As I am, upon all occasions, just as willing that the laugh should go against myself as another, I here inform you of a matter in which I conceived myself to be wonderfully sagacious. About ten months before the period I speak of—or, as Mr. BAYES has it, long before the beginning of this play—I went, with a party, to dinner at the ISLE OF WIGHT, where a genteel man sent in his compliments, and requested he might dine with the company. Our own being rather a promiscuous meeting, he was readily admitted. He turned out to be a pleasant, chatty companion—seemed to be very ready on every general topic—but the whole of his conversation appeared purposely to allude to his being a man of property. I took it for granted that he was so—and did not testify a little surprise when the landlord told me he was a rider, or what they call in Yorkshire—
a bagman.
I was determined afterwards to take care who I believed to be men of property—and this Journey from WORCESTER to BIRMINGHAM was the first time afterward that my suspicions were awakened. Every time the gentleman was talking of bills of parcels and bails of goods, I could not get rid of the idea of—
bagman
; and, before we arrived, I had actually set him down for a vain, empty pretender to property—a pattern carrier—a stirrup holder—in short, the very shadow of what he appeared to be. During the interval between our arrival and dinner, he went out—and the waiter asking if I knew who that gentleman was, I answered carelessly—some bagman I fancy.
'Bagman!'
cried the waiter,
'the gentleman is worth eighty thousand pounds!—a great clothier, near CHELTENHAM.'
This incident may serve to shew how deceitful are appearances! and it should teach us this lesson—to pay every object its proper degree of respect:—for as there is no rank, ever so high, but vice may debase—so there is no station, ever so low, but virtue will exalt. Both these men behaved very properly. One kept a little higher than his real rank, like an able ambassador, to demand respect to his master—while the other, like a king, condescended a little—to shew he had no pride. If it had not been for the officiousness of the landlord at the ISLE OF WIGHT, I should never have known—that the first had only credentials to shew; nor suspected—that the latter was the less a man of property for not assuming airs of consequence. How I came to be thus suspicious, I cannot conceive. My characteristic—and 'tis no feather in my cap—is credulity? and my pocket and peace of mind have often smarted for believing the
ipse dixit
of other men in preference to the evidence of my own senses. The poet says
"since the world will, why let it be deceived."
Do not you, however, believe that there is the smallest deceit in my assuring you that I am
Yours, Most faithfully, C. DIBDIN.
Nottingham,
Nov.
10, 1787.
LETTER XVII.
VARIOUS SUCCESS AT BIRMINGHAM, OXFORD, AND LONDON.
"
Vain his attempt who strives to please you all.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
OUT of three times that I advertised my entertainment at BIRMINGHAM—I performed it only twice. These fuliginous sons of Vulcan were, at my arrival, too busily attending to feats of horsemanship—a species of amusement ever fatal to my interest—to take any notice of me. One thing completely disgusted me. At WORCESTER it was suggested to me that, as my price was three shillings, the tradesmen and others in middling situations could not afford to pay that sum, or mix with the company who could—and, therefore, I made a distinction; and, partitioning the town hall—which is very large—admitted company at three shillings and eighteen-pence. The spirit of the people was roused at this circumstance—and very few indeed were to be found in the back seats, while those in the front were crowded. Upon making the same experiment at BIRMINGHAM, it was exactly the reverse—for as the inhabitants of WORCESTER, of middling property, made a point of paying three shillings, so people of very considerable property in BIRMINGHAM, skulked in at eighteen-pence. One circumstance, I own, made me look upon BIRMINGHAM as a very likely place for success. It was the first town in which I appeared as an actor; and, as I signified this by a paragraph in the hand bills, and made—what I there said—a sort of invitation, to witness the maturity of those abilities which they had seen in their infancy, I naturally supposed I should awaken their curiosity—and that they would be pouring in by hundreds. Not a bit. The people of BIRMINGHAM were too much taken up with hobnails and horsemanship to pay me the least attention. Upon mentioning my surprise to a Frenchman, he exclaimed—
Mon dieu que est ce que voulez vous? Comment agir pour faire un cheval vuider l'avoine q'il n'ai jamais mange
'.
I confessed the justice of the remark, and comforted myself with a letter I had in my pocket from Dr. HAYES, enclosing one from THE VICE CHANCELLOR, which gave me leave to come to OXFORD for three days in the following week.
Thus I left BIRMINGHAM—without being able to sing the glee of
"Smiths are good fellows."
Of my journey to OXFORD, I can give you no farther account—having travelled in the night—than, that at the
White Lion
at STRATFORD-UPON-AVON—that very Inn which I saw in such confusion at the JUBILEE—we had the most scandalous supper that ever was set upon a table. But as, on my return to WORCESTER, I shall have something to say further of this house, you will now, if you please, attend me to Dr. HAYES, who received me with his accustomed cordiality and politeness. We settled the mode of commencing the entertainment, and I waited on the VICE CHANCELLOR to thank him for his kindness, and request that I might submit the copy of my amusement to his inspection. He was pleased to say—he had a particular pleasure in obliging me; and—as he did not suppose I would offer any entertainment to the students unworthy my reputation or their attention—he trusted the matter wholly to me, and thought a perusal of the copy totally unnecessary.
The first night was announced—and with every care and circumspection I prepared for it. I cut out
Grog,
and introduced—for the first time it was ever sung—
The Siege of Troy.
I took occasion—merely because I felt it—to introduce an oblique compliment to Dr. CHAPMAN; which afterwards, as I understood, was inserted with some handsome remarks in the OXFORD paper.
The compliment was this. I said SOLON was no enemy to pleasure. He only condemned those fictitious representations which concealed the deformity of vice, and gave countenance to lawless enjoyments. He went one night to see one of these performances, which THESPIS conducted. When it was over he asked the comedian if he was not ashamed of himself,
'What harm have I done?'
said THESPIS
''twas only in jest'
—
'true'
said SOLON—but approving vice in jest is the surest way to make it admired in earnest.
In short, I performed the three nights, for which I had permission—and was granted, at the pressing instance of many members of the university a
fourth
—and I may truly say, as to applause, no man ever experienced hansomer encouragement. The profit, however, was only what I have before mentioned.
During my stay at OXFORD I became more intimate with Dr. HAYES—and, as our conversations on
Music
were very frequent, he could not help telling me what trouble he had been put to, at different times—though he had never seen me—to defend my reputation against the malignity of the ignorant and the invidious. These conversations finished with my making him a sort of half promise to put a stop to the tongue of envy, by composing the proper exercise and taking the complicate degree of
Bachelor
and
Doctor
of MUSIC. This promise, however, so given, I fancy I shall not keep. I despise envy too much to fear it—and, therefore, cannot condescend to silence it. As to the exercise, it is composed—and—be it known to the musical critics—though it is a task infinitely more complex than any thing I had before done—I never set myself an easier lesson in my life: so much less difficult is it to work by
method
than
fancy.
As, however, the song of hope is a part of it, one half of the kingdom will witness for me that melody and harmony may be blended; and, as I shall, previous to my departure, make a present of the overture to some of the first concerts—particularly those of LIVERPOOL, MANCHESTER, and LEEDS—the most rigid theorist shall be obliged to confess—that the first
sugue
I ever thought it worth my while to make, is one of my best compositions: for it does not wrong my own-established maxim—of never losing sight of melody—yet it extends and expatiates through all the wide field of modulation. If the cavillers take up this, let them consider it merely as a whet—by and by they shall have a full meal.
At OXFORD, I received a letter from a friend, informing me, that my little piece of
Harvest Home
had been performed, and received with very great applause. To corroborate this account, I sent the next day for the
Morning Chronicle,
where I found it spoken of in the highest terms. Mr. WOODFALL, among other things, having predicted it would become a popular favourite, and I sincerely believe his words would have been verified had it been performed every night afterwards in the same state as on the
first.
On the fourth, however, I saw it myself, and I declare most solemnly—though, as MAJOR STURGEON says,
"I have seen some desperate duty"
—I never witnessed so wanto
a mutilation. I scarcely knew it—and my friend, who was with me, and who gave me the above account, assured me that all the alterations had been made since the first night. I bore my disgrace like a philosopher—and was not at all surprised when, instead of getting a remittance for the profit of my benefit, I received a letter, informing me, that there was a balance against me of
nine pounds!
But to please managers, who are not attached to you, is a more ridiculous attempt than the man with his son and his jack-ass. Thank Heaven I have now only the public to please—of which, as a valuable individual, I beg you will take your share, and believe me
Your obliged friend, C. DIBDIN.
Newark,
Nov.
14, 1787.
LETTER XVIII.
VARIOUS ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS, OPINIONS, AND OBSERVATIONS.
"
There lies honour.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
I will not leave OXFORD, without noticing the civility which, in addition to that of Dr. HAYES and the VICE CHANCELLOR, I received from that fine, hearty, friendly character, Mr. JACKSON, the bookseller; nor must the great attention shewn me by that able artist, Mr. ROBERTS, pass unsung—whose paintings, and in particular his small whole lengths are remarkable for spirit, expression, good drawing, and exact similitude. No stronger instances of the latter quality in them can be given than the following circumstance. When I was at WOLVERHAMPTON, a gentleman came into the room, and being musical, chatted with me some minutes before the performance. I thought I had met with him before—but it turned out that I had seen only his portrait at Mr. ROBERTS's—that distance of time was at least three months; and as I never saw either original or portrait more than once, and that for a very short space of time, the resemblance must have been not only correct, but very striking indeed. This gentleman's name is SPENCE, and he is a student at the University. Mr. ROBERTS does not want my recommendation—if he did, I should strongly advise those who wish to preserve their likenesses, and possess at the same time good paintings, to apply to him.
Before I set out for London, I sent a letter of thanks to the VICE CHANCELLOR, which I sincerely wish I could remember, as it would serve admirably well, by way of contrast, to one that will appear in the next letter, which I kept a copy of—the transaction that occasioned it having fixed in me a firm determination to publish this work.
OXFORD is so well known that it will be necessary for me to say but little about it. Every child knows that it has thirteen parish churches, twenty colleges and five halls, which being intermixed with the houses, give it an air of superb magnificence not perhaps to be equalled in the world. As to its
musical taste,
I need not say more in its praise than that Dr. HAYES is their professor of music. The inns are, in term time, filled constantly with riots—which render them very uncomfortable to strangers. Nor can this be restrained. The authority of the most powerful, or the examples of the best man upon earth—and it will be difficult to find out a better than Dr. CHAPMAN—can avail but little, while fathers, instead of a modest stipend sufficient to answer the purposes of a student, send their sons to the University, one would think, to plunge them into extravagance, and disqualify them for every study—but
profligacy
and
brutality.
And now, in my usual way, must I break off to throw together some of those thoughts which have often struck me on this important subject. The young gentlemen of the University have generally separate tutors. I do not say the following remarks apply to every tutor; but do they, generally understood, consider any thing but the pleasures of the pupil? Nay, are they not often commanded to do so? Is not his vanity gratified? Are not his wishes anticipated? Is there an incentive to idleness, a stimulative to dissipation, but it is their study to procure? Are misdemeanors to be investigated?—they wrack invention to find an excuse. Is pleasure the word?—the tutor is the jolliest fellow in the throng. In short, would you teach your son to trample upon reason, violate decorum, destroy every social trace of virtue, and to finish—in his own language—knock down order, give him a tutor that will pass muster among the rest; if he be of any other description, he will be hunted down with undeserved calumny till he shall be obliged either to take refuge in a school, or behind the reading-desk of a country curate. And the mischief is—it is so difficult to make a choice. Sanctity is no more to be trusted than the grief of an actor, which continues only till the curtain drops, to make room for the farce that is to follow it. Thus fools come in as large shoals from the University, as knaves from church. Your right collegian can give you vices of an hundred years standing a new-cut to bring them into fashion—but, as to books, they are the same to him as drugs to an apothecary—both are prescribed and both taken; but neither the
physic
by the DOCTOR, nor
letters
by the SCHOLAR. A set of unintelligent terms serve the purpose of both, and one administers to the body and the other to the mind, while they trust to chance for the success of the operation.
Of natural curiosities—I believe there are none at OXFORD. Artificial ones manufactured there may be seen in many of the pulpits throughout the kingdom.
Perhaps you will say I am somewhat too hard—for this should seem to imply that our universities produce nothing but dunces. I allow, which is a great deal, that, once in ten times, they may turn out a man of tolerable abilities—two thirds of the remainder are but at best
Pedants
—fellows who go over a whole library—book by book—as faithfully as a MOTH; but who—after they have both
read
and
retained
every thing—have not sufficient taste to distinguish a single literary beauty. The rest—as I have described above—are either pretty fellows, or jolly dogs—a set of beings comparatively less obnoxious in proportion as they approach to insignificance.
I returned to LONDON on Monday the twenty-first of May, exactly in time—as I mentioned in my last letter—to see
Harvest Home
on the
fourth night
; from which circumstance, I as positively predicted its downfall, as Mr. WOODFALL had done its popularity. That very evening I formed—what I thought amounted to a resolution of drawing my pen no more for the stage; but so much was I mistaken, that three days afterwards I caught myself finishing a seene in I think the best piece I have ever written. But any one would have done the same. The encouragement I had received from Mr. HARRIS no man would have suspected to be trifling; and two or three pieces purchased at a good price would not have been an uncomfortable circumstance upon a long voyage. How fallacious however this dependance was, will be shewn in its proper place.
Little happened during my stay in town worthy notice—except many instances of friendship I received from Mr. PRESTON, in the Strand, and that Dr. HAYES, who came up to the festival, did me the kindness to dine with me on the king's birth-day, and caught me hard at work at my exercise—for my intention was pretty strong then to go for the degree; for I was pleased with my work, and thought it a pity to take so much pains for nothing. Other pursuits, however, have since diverted me from it—so there lies honour—it will not stop the tide, nor restrain the winds—therefore I'll have none on't.—You will as readily believe it as that I am,
With the most perfect truth, C. DIBDIN.
Newark,
Nov.
18, 1787.
LETTER XIX.
AN AGREEABLE COMPANION IN A STAGE COACH.
"
Thou hast seen a dog bark at a beggar.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
ON the seventh of June I quitted LONDON for CAMBRIDGE. In the coach happened to be a gentleman of some medical consequence in the city, who not only turned out a very agreeable companion, but made some of the best general remarks I ever listened to. These, though I may avail myself of some of them in the course of my work, I shall say nothing of here. I cannot refrain, however, from giving his opinion—which I earnestly requested, as that subject came up among a number of others—concerning the execution of DONNELLAN. I could not withhold myself from reprobating, in pretty strong terms, the pre-judgment in that business—the rigour shewn from the bench—where the prisoner should never want an advocate; and, in particular, the remarkable circumstance—that the charge to the GRAND JURY,
previous to the trial
—contained the
very
words of the sentence of CONDEMNATION; all of which, I believe the public have but one opinion of.—This gentleman's sentiments of the matter, as a physician—setting aside all the nonsensical controversies that have happened concerning the quality of
laurel water
—he very sensibly confined to this: That poison of any kind could not effect death so instantaneously—the shortest period between the swallowing of poison and the consequent death, that he had ever heard of in all his practice, was nearly
four hours,
and SIR THEODORE BOUGHTON is said to have died in less time than
one minute.
In short, said he, if that phial contained any thing of DONNELLAN's invention which actually caused that sudden death sworn to by the mother, he discovered what no other ever did. Unless it was one of those secrets which Dr. MEAD is said to have kept from the world, lest, knowing human depravity, he might be the instrument of providing them with a novel opportunity of perpetrating the dictates of a cowardly and diabolical revenge. As to Dr. RETRAY's killing rats and dogs to prove he had been mistaken when he swore SIR THEODORE BOUGHTON was poisoned with arsenic, we laughed at it as it deserved; but when we came to consider that Dr. HUNTER was pinned to a single question, namely, whether the deceased died of poison or not—which no man could have positively answered—we agreed in a sincere wish that the learned interpreter of the law—who acted the part of judge and jury upon this occasion—was in his own mind clearly and fully convinced of the prisoner's guilt; and so with that laudable and upright detestation—with which his lordship is well known to accelerate the extermination of murderers—he resolved that the victim then in his power should not escape.
I was unfortunate enough to lose this gentleman's company after we had travelled together about six and thirty miles. On my arrival in CAMBRIDGE, where I cannot refrain from noticing, that though the coach from
Gray's Inn Lane
is bound to the
White Hart
—yet the passengers will far every disagreeably, if they are obliged, as I was, to stay all night. As soon as I could, the following morning, I got into a lodging, and began to make my preparations in form. I delivered a letter to Dr. RANDALL, who begged to be excused from taking an active part in the business, on account of his age, and the resolution he had made not to concern himself but as little as possible with public matters. I afterwards called on a gentleman of Trinity College, to whom I had a very friendly and pressing letter from a man of fortune in town—but unluckily the gentleman was not then at CAMBRIDGE. My next application was of course to the VICE CHANCELLOR; and as every other channel was—as the reader has seen—dammed up, my only reliance was on the permission I had received from Dr. CHAPMAN, and some other documents which I put in my pocket for his inspection. But as this interview, and the result of it, make too marking a part of my TOUR not to have every possible advantage—I shall give so singular a transaction a letter by itself. I have shewn, in this letter, a judicial cur in office—in my next I shall give you the portrait of a clerical one:—but all these are the foils that set off the brilliancy of true friendship, and the value of sterling worth—for the knowledge of these kind and estimable qualities in you, give me leave to assure you that I am,
Thankfully, Yours, C. DIBDIN.
Newark,
Nov.
20, 1787.
LETTER XX.
SCRUPLES OF CONSCIENCE.
"
Let the galled jade wince.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
I have often wondered that in the common transactions of life men meet with such continual rudeness, when civility is so cheap, and so becoming. If hackney coachmen and waiters made a point of using a little of this good quality, they would find themselves richer, and lead more comfortable lives. But if rudeness be unpardonable in those we rule, for heaven's sake what is it in those who rule us! A man in a high and respectable situation can add nothing to his dignity so truly great as complacency and gentleness of manners. Thus, the VICE CHANCELLOR OF OXFORD, who is an absolute monarch for the time being—like a little Emperor of GERMANY—dispenses his decrees with such impartial even-handed justice, and tender regard to his own honour and the susceptibility of individuals, that a man must be self-condemned before he punishes him; and, I will venture to say, that if any consideration could induce a distinction in his conduct or carriage to any different descriptions of men who, on various accounts, have occasion to apply to him, the benevolent affability which so eminently characterises him, would be conspicuously extended to the most unfortunate among them
I saw once a noble instance of this triumphant philanthropy in the conduct of the late Sir JOHN FIELDING. A man was examined before him upon a charge of a high-way robbery, instituted by a gentleman of distinction, who swore positively to every circumstance of the robbery, yet could not identify the person. In the course of the business, the right honourable witness seemed extremely offended that Sir JOHN FIELDING should pay the prisoner so much respect, and him, as he thought, so very little—for which discontent he received the following rebuke.
'I am heartily sorry that you are offended at my softening the rigour of justice with a little humanity. The prisoner is entitled more to my attention than you are—because he is unfortunate. If he should be guilty, the law is severe enough without any exaggeration on my part; but if innocent, how could I excuse myself—by adding insult to misfortune?'
. What then can be said of a VICE CHANCELLOR OF CAMBRIDGE, who has equal power, and whose haughty and imperious deportment, sullen aspect, and premature determination, seem—contrary to all acknowledged justice—to suppose every man guilty till he is proved innocent? Such a VICE CHANCELLOR must surely be unfit for his situation. He must be uncandid, ungenerous, and unjust; and—what are terrible qualities in that high character—ignorant and incapable of discrimination. Lest it should be thought I had Dr. ELLISON in view when I drew the above portrait, I will entreat the reader to attend minutely to what passed during my interview with that gentleman—and afterwards, in consequence of it—and it will be plainly seen whether he meant any thing more than a faithful discharge of the duties of that office committed to his care.
I had waited on Dr. ELLISON, who was not to be spoken with—I therefore, by way of breaking the ice, entreated Mr. WYNN, who keeps a music shop, to call and leave some of my bills. That done—after four visits to no purpose—I was at length admitted; and my memory—which is pretty faithful—assures me what follows was the conversation that passed between us.
'Sir, I have the honour to introduce myself to you—my name is DIBDIN—I come to CAMBRIDGE with a view of offering the university a little musical entertainment, which has given very great satisfaction at several places—and in particular at OXFORD—where, with the VICE CHANCELLOR's permission, I had the honour of performing with much reputation.'
"Ha—you had the VICE CHANCELLOR's permission there had you? how do I know that?"
'I assure you Sir, upon my honour I had; however, as I am a perfect stranger, you are certainly not to oblige me upon my bare assertion—therefore, please to look at those letters.'
I then produced the letter from Dr. HAYES, written to me at WORCESTER, and that from Dr. CHAPMAN to him, which accompanied it.
"Ah—well—this letter gives you leave, to be sure—but it does not say that your entertainment is such a one as ought to be delivered at a university."
'It is true, Sir, Dr. CHAPMAN never saw the entertainment in question, not even to this moment, but he was kind enough to suppose I would not commit such an outrage on propriety, or so far offend against the etiquette of that university, of which he is such an ornament, as to offer them any thing unworthy the patronage under which I had the honour to appear before them; and, to convince me he was of this opinion, Mrs. CHAPMAN, and several ladies with her, attended the performance; nay, Sir, to shew you beyond contradiction that the amusement had the good opinion of the university in general, here is a paragraph in the OXFORD paper, announcing, that at the particular request of many respectable members of the different colleges, the VICE CHANCELLOR extended his permission, in consequence of the satisfaction I had given.'
"Oh, the paragraph in the paper is nothing at all:—a man put a paragraph in the CAMBRIDGE paper, the other day, against me—and it was all a lie."
'Sir, Mr. JACKSON, who prints the OXFORD paper, is a man of
probity
and
fortune
—he idolizes the VICE CHANCELLOR—and could not be induced, for any consideration, to use his name to grace a falsity.'
"Upon my word, you speak very well—one may easily see, by your conversation, you have merit."
'I am obliged to you for your good opinion, Sir.'
"But, you see, the morals of the young men are all in my care, and as Dr. CHAPMAN never saw the entertainment, he may yet be imposed upon. I have seen your bill, and I own it seems to hold out something immoral. Besides, if you are a man of this reputation, what can induce you to come strolling about the country?"
'Sir, I am going to INDIA—and, as I wish, before my departure, to say good bye to a generous public, who have afforded me a long and liberal patronage—'
"Why do you know any body at CAMBRIDGE?"
'No Sir.'
—
"Then it is plain the people here do not make up any part of that public to whom you are so much obliged; consequently, they have no right to be thanked. Thus, you see, as you are rich enough to come with no other motive than mere gratitude—why pay it where it is not due?"
'Good God, Sir! am I obliged to be personally acquainted with all those who wish me well as a public man?'
"Well Sir, I don't know what to say to it. It has always been my rule to give no person permission who is not recommended by somebody belonging to the university. You say you know nobody."
'I brought with me a letter for Dr. RANDALL, Sir.'
"Oh, Dr. RANDALL won't do."
'What kind of person must it be, Sir?'
—
"Why, for instance, a fellow commoner of one of the colleges."
'I have a letter to a gentleman so described in my pocket—it is unsealed—please to read it Sir—he is unfortunately not at CAMBRIDGE—but you will readily believe that, upon the strength of his friends recommendation, he would otherwise have waited on you with pleasure.'
"It does not signify, Sir—the gentleman is not here to speak for himself, and I cannot credit mere appearances."
'Sir, had I known there would have been so many difficulties thrown in the way of a request which it would have done you no dishonour or discredit to grant, I would not have given myself a moment's trouble about it.'
"Oh Sir, if you begin to talk of difficulties, I have done."
'So would I Sir, did I not feel myself a little hurt at being deprived, by your suspicions, of an opportunity of giving CAMBRIDGE an amusement that has been so followed at OXFORD.'
"My suspicions Sir!"
'Yes Sir—for you must suppose me a most impudent impostor, after every thing that has happened.'
"Well, but surely—why you are not the Mr. DIBDIN who composed the
Padlock
and such a number of
musical works?
"
'I am Sir—and I am sorry you could not prevail on yourself to believe it sooner.'
"Why—really—this to be sure alters the case."
'In short, Sir, as this conversation has imperceptible stolen on thus far, I am determined you SHALL be convinced. The DUKE OF GRAFTON, as I take it, is CHANCELLOR OF CAMBRIDGE, and you are only VICE CHANCELLOR, and I am sure I know a channel through which I can get you his GRACE's recommendation of me.'
"Why, now, upon my word, this is a strange mistake—pray sit down."
'I beg to be excused Sir.'
"I am sorry a constant rule which I prescribe myself in these cases, should occasion such a misunderstanding. You may perform Sir, on Monday."
This being the very point I wanted to bring him to, I abruptly wished him a good morning, and he followed me to the door, with many apologies, of which I took no manner of notice. As soon as I got home I sent him the following letter.
To the Rev. Dr. ELLISTON.
SIR,
WHEN I did myself the honour, in a letter to the VICE CHANCELLOR OF OXFORD, to thank him for a similar favour to that for which I this day applied to you, I could not help noticing, that the
manner
of conferring a favour constituted—incomparably before all other considerations—its VALUE. You, Sir—with a vigilant zeal, no doubt, for the cause of morality, have thought proper to disbelieve what that gentleman saw no rational cause to discredit; yet let me assure you, that the letters from Dr. HAYES and Dr. CHAPMAN were not forgeries—the paragraph in the OXFORD paper was no fabrication to deceive you—the letter to Mr. THOMPSON of Trinity College, really was written by a man of fortune—and I declare, that I did not in a single instance misrepresent or exaggerate any one circumstance. Lest, however you should think this letter, as well as the rest, an imposition, I hasten to the purpose for which it is written, and inform you that I take the liberty to decline that permission you have thought proper so
very liberally
to grant.
I am, Sir, &c. C. DIBDIN.
June
10, 1787.
I must not quit this subject without observing, that it is more than possible I went the wrong way to work. This I know to be fact. A certain mimic who had once some sort of lectures at CAMBRIDGE, in which his great merit was an imitation, of ME—procured a permission for his performance, by giving the VICE CHANCELLOR's butler—I will not say what VICE CHANCELLOR—
a guinea.
Thus, as it frequently happens in life, was the
substance
neglected for the
shadow.
If this
stings,
"let the galled jade wince:"
In which case, you and I have free souls. Adieu. Believe me
Yours very truly. C. DIBDIN.
Doncaster,
Nov.
20, 1787.
LETTER XXI.
A RACE AND A BADGERING.
"
Young birds alone are caught with chaff.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
CAMBRIDGE having detained me a week to no purpose, I was persuaded to try HUNTINGDON, which place was said to have a very spirited neighbourhood. LORD SANDWICH not being then at HINCHINBROOK, none of the musical tribe would stir a peg without their first fiddle—and having performed
one night
to an audience of about twenty-five, who were not in the habit of following a leader, I flattered myself by the satisfaction those few received, a
second
would be worth trial. But I had not considered, that on that very evening MADAME MARA performed at CAMBRIDGE, or I should not have been so absurd as to expect that any lover of
music,
within twenty miles, would lose the opportunity of hearing her. I was so thinly attended that I would not perform—and the next day set off, with a view of going to NORWICH. I cannot refrain from mentioning a sensible remark of the MAYOR, to whom, as commanding officer, I as usual applied.
'Sir,'
said he,
'it is not in my power to give you permission: on the contrary, I am expressly ordered by the late proclamation, as MAYOR of this town, to prevent every exhibition not authorized by a regular licence.—Now, as according to the present laws there cannot be a licence to tolerate any sort of amusement at HUNTINGDON, nor indeed at any other place more than twenty-one miles out of LONDON; and, as it is certainly unfair that we should be denied rational amusements, I shall, as long as my office continues, take the liberty to make this distinction. Whenever an entertainment presents itself that, like yours, promises to give pleasure without being immoral, although I give no leave as a magistrate—I will certainly, as a man, recommend it to the attention of my friends. If, therefore, you should think proper to perform, I dare say nobody will inform against you; and if you wish for the Town-hall, the man who takes care of it will, no doubt, let you have it for a mere trifle.'
I am sure you will pardon me for noticing this gentlemanlike conduct. I shall, in the course of this work, go into a full description of the laws relative to public amusements—to which I am very competent, having had as much public and private legal advice as any man.
HUNTINGDON—which gave birth to OLIVER CROMWELL—is a pretty town. It lies, however, on a flat, and the prospect near it is remarkable for nothing but a number of handsome spires. The road to CAMBRIDGE is very fine. The hair-dresser gave me a long account of the number of parishes it formerly had—
'but alas Sir,'
said he,
'they are now dwindled—and we have only four
church yards,
three
spires,
two
churches,
and one PARSON.'
When I came to NEWMARKET, in my way to NORWICH, upon hearing the races were to be the following week at IPSWICH, I changed my design, and went to that place. I found it in glorious confusion, and trying to get a lodging, I discovered a
manaeuvre,
the mention of which may serve as a caution to those who mean to visit any place in the
race-week.
The landlord of one of the principal inns had advertised his beds at a guinea a-piece; and fearing, on account of the exorbitant demand, that visitors should be induced to take lodgings, he procured, with great cunning and industry, a promise from the other inhabitants that they would ask the same price. What was the consequence? IPSWICH is very large, and the strangers naturally said, If we can get lodgings no cheaper at private houses than at inns, we had better be where our horses can be taken care of. Thus, few private lodgings were let—the inns were full—and the landlords laughed at the credulity of their neighbours.
At IPSWICH I gave my entertainment twice before I went to COLCHESTER, and once at my return. The two first times I was as well attended as, considering the number of amusements that poured in from all quarters, I had a right to expect. The fourth night, however, was to make me large amends; but, like my dependences in general, turned out a rotten one.—An unfortunate and truly ridiculous circumstance happened to give a fort of tacit umbrage to many of the company there. It was this. I was invited to sup with about eight of the leading gentlemen; and as they had a ball that evening, and it was very unlikely that these eight should sup away from the general meeting, where as sort of stewards their presence seemed to be absolutely necessary, I suspected some artifice in the business. Now it is a rule with me—as I was once under the unpleasant necessity of hinting to one of my auditors—that when I am stuck up in my temporary orchestra and playing my tricks, I am unconditionally at the devotion of the audience, but before or after my performance—as there was never any thing either imperious or presuming in my deportment, of which I am sure I should have witnesses enow were I to ask it—I cannot consent to consider myself in an ineligible light.—Whether this rule struck these gentlemen and ladies as false consequence, improper pride, or what, I will not determine, but certainly the invitation to supper, meant nothing more than that I should relieve the
pipe
and
taber,
by doing my utmost—to
entertain the company.
And here I cannot, for the life of me, avoid pausing to tell two stories of poor SHUTER.
This child of humour was at a dinner one day, in a promiscuous company—and, as soon as the cloth was taken away, one of them got up and entreated, as a particular favour, he would begin, to be comical.
"God,"
said SHUTER,
"I forgot my fool's dress—but, however, I'll go and fetch it, if you'll be my substitute till I return."
The man thought this very comical, and declared he would. SHUTER then took his hat and cane—went away—and did not return at all.
Another time—a set of warm citizens, who had been used to the company of BENNET—an actor of very mediocre abilities, at
Covent Garden Theatre
—got SHUTER to a tavern in the city.—No man's intellects were ever stronger, nor did any utter brighter sallies of wit and pleasantry. At every good thing the gaping citizens were in raptures. SHUTER could not conceive the reason of such
very
lavish praises—till, at length, hearing one of them exclaim,
'Oh that's great!—that's charming!—that's so like BENNET!'
He was immediately let into the secret. BENNET was, with them, all that wit and humour could comprize; and they had not the smallest idea of paying him an ill compliment by comparing him to their favourite. But to return.
Having given a pretty shrewd guess at what was going forward, I went to the Coffee-house—in BOOTS. The gentleman who invited me was evidently disappointed at my appearance—and this confirmed my suspicions.—I told him—as the party was private, and consisted only of gentlemen—I had taken the liberty to come with no ceremony; especially as I should be under the necessity of going to COLCHESTER early in the morning. He hesitated—and we were joined in the Coffee-room by other gentlemen, through whose enquiries, after supper, the murder came out. I immediately wished this gentleman a good night—saying—it was utterly impossible to mix with the company in that trim—and gave a strong hint that I could not consent to be a performer any where but in my own entertainment. The justice of my remark was admitted—and I retired. At my return from COLCHESTER, this gentleman told me it was impossible to blame what I had done, but that it threw an universal gloom over the company—every expectation was balked, and they never passed so unpleasant an evening.
This was not the only time. The same trick was attempted to be played me at WORCESTER. At ten o'clock at night, a gentleman—in white gloves, and without a hat—catched me busily writing—with a long beard—and would fain have me—because a lady, whom he afterwards married, took such a whim in her head—go with him to the assembly-room, to eat supper, and sing catches and glees.—I was obliged to tell him, in a few short words, that I could not think of any such thing; and if I had not been convinced—as it afterwards turned out—that every body disapproved of his conduct—but what will not a hot pursuit after a large fortune make a man do?—I would have left WORCESTER the next morning—but I had the pleasure to find what I had done extremely approved of; and though I had no more of that gentleman's company, my numbers were not lessened by my refusal to comply with his caprice.
Thus was I expected, like SHUTER, to be comical, or jump over a stick at the word of command; but I was determined to convince them I had not so much docility. Besides—after all—there might be some BENNET or other whose comic abilities I might not have been able to equal.
How far the gentleman I here allude to had a share in the business, I will not pretend to say. I have given a faithful relation of it—and as, upon several occasions, he was very attentive to me—though there certainly was a blunder somewhere—it would be ungenerous in me to suppose he meant any thing more than my interest. I ought not,
ab origine,
to have been deceived—and a worthy baronet, with whom I conversed on the subject, at BURY—and who was to have been of the party—agreed I had been disingenuously dealt with. However,
"as old birds are not caught with chaff,"
I took care—though it affected my interest a little—it should not make me ridiculous. I own I was hurt at it—and in particular because it induced me to leave my kind friends near COLCHESTER so soon.
Yours, truly, C. DIBDIN.
Wakefield,
Nov.
28, 1787.
LETTER XXII.
GREAT PAINS FOR LITTLE PROFIT.
"
More cry than wool.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
TO COLCHESTER I posted—and being recommended by the ingenious Mr. MOORE—whose
clock
and other curiosities all the world has seen, and wondered at—to the
White Hart.
I there received a hearty welcome to—as he said—the land of Oysters, Baize, and Eringo, from Mr. REYNOLDS, who is known among his
superiors
by the title of
honest George
—by his
equals
as a kind friend and AGREEABLE COMPANION—and among his
inferiors
as a
generous
and
liberal benefactor.
Indeed, both he and his son, in understanding and demeanour, give you an impression of something considerably above inn-keepers. He shook his head at the idea of a musical entertainment at COLCHESTER—but, as the assembly-room was in his house, I resolved to try it. My success turned out neither good nor bad, and he and I settled the matter as men should do who mean fairly by each other. One circumstance, however, rendered my jaunt to COLCHESTER very pleasurable. A gentleman, who has every thing within himself that can constitute the enjoyments of a country-life in the truest and most delectable stile, laid himself out, with the unaffected and hearty kindness of old English hospitality, to charm away every moment of my time. Were I to mention every particular of his flattering partiality in terms it deserves, I must invent new ones—as no idea but the kind attention of this gentleman, and the benevolence of his family of love engrossed me—I shall only say of COLCHESTER—that the applause was excessive—the profit scarcely any thing.
On my return to IPSWICH, my night was spoiled by the intervention of that little pique which I have so fully mentioned in my last letter. I therefore got away to BURY ST. EDMUNDS, at which place, as I passed through in my way to IPSWICH—as the players call it—I
took the town
; that is to say, made my enquiries, and saw how the land lay. Before I sit myself down at BURY, I shall speak of some characters at IPSWICH. Among the foremost, I anxiously seize the first opportunity in my life of noticing two members of the law of liberal and gentlemanlike manners—and, that so extraordinary an event may be fully proclaimed, whether these gentlemen will or not—their names are Mr. KILDERBEE and Mr. SQUIRES
I assure the reader I shall have, in the course of the work, more characters of this description; and they shall be placed among my catalogue of WONDERS.
.
The fashionable and friendly Mr. TROTMAN certainly strove to serve me as industriously as ever the BUSY BODY did to serve Sir GEORGE AIRY; and, notwithstanding, it has been said the last storm was of his
brewing,
yet, I really would try my hand at his panegyrick, if my pen was not restrained every time the idea comes across me, by a recollection of the following lines in PRIOR.
"To John I owe great obligation—
"But John unhappily thought fit
"To publish it to all the nation:—
"Sure John and I are more than quit!"
Nor must I forget that son of LINNEAS, Dr. COYTE, who had—when he did me the honour to conduct me to his botanic plantation—arrived to such a pitch of perfection in improving upon nature, as to deprive the sun of the power of maturing a
Magnolia
for a whole fortnight, that it might bloom for the gratification of his friends in the race week. The father of this gentleman is said to have been one of the first botanists in Europe.
I shall also speak of another gentleman, who repeatedly expressed a very strong desire to be present at my entertainment, but a foreigner—which too often happens—attracted him with such magnetic force, that in spight of his own wishes, he had not the power to turn from the charm that fascinated him.
But last—
"though not least"
—I shall speak of PUNCHARD and JERMYN, whose kindness was fraught with such unaffected attention, that it will not easily be erased from my remembrance. One thing, in particular, marked a strong desire to please, which is one of the best recommendations of a tradesman; though heaven knows the trifle I paid them was scarcely worth an acknowledgment. The receipt was thus worded.
"Received the contents of this bill—with thanks."
I have before expressed my surprise that civility, being so cheap an accommodation, should be so little attended to. It is, indeed, so winning, that it insures attention to the meanest trifles. A good introduction does wonders; and though an insinuating prologue cannot save a bad play, it may soften considerably the rigour of its sate. Is not a fine lady cheated by a shopkeeper with all the willingness in the world, if he compliments her person while he palms on her his damaged goods? Appearance—like the first blow in boxing—is half the battle. What a figure would a judge look if he were to try a cause in a black bob wig and a pair of jack boots. I was once witness to a farmer's abusing a pair of young, spruce, unwigged counsellors for spoiling his ground, in the afternoon, in whose presence he had—on a trial in the morning—trembled from head to foot. But to settle my account with COLCHESTER and IPSWICH.
Both of these places seem to have been formerly of consequence, but are now greatly declined. The manufactory of baize, as well as most of our staple commerce is getting north. A stronger proof of which cannot be given than that LIVERPOOL is insensibly drawing away the trade of BRISTOL, and HULL all the coasting business, except YARMOUTH, from IPSWICH to SALTFLEET:—and thus it will be found inland. Manufactories that begin about the center of the kingdom, push on to the north; till—having taken up their residence in Yorkshire—they expand to the east and west; but particularly the east, in a most astonishing way. Thus, from LEEDS to LIVERPOOL—through BRADFORD, HALIFAX, ROCHDALE, MANCHESTER, WARRINGTON, and PRESTON—the population is wonderful. The workmen are like so many ants employed about their heaps; but they are so different from those in London, that while the ants of the north labour for the
general benefit,
the other pismires work hard for the GENERAL CONFUSION.
As for the inns—the
White Hart
at COLCHESTER is one of the best in England. It is large, handsome, and convenient, and has admirable accommodations. I was witness to Mr. REYNOLD's sending out—with some company who had been to pay a visit to Mr. RIGBY—two and twenty pair of horses in one morning. I cannot so correctly speak as to the inns of IPSWICH, for when I was there they were all in confusion, and it was first come first served. Provision seemed to be very good, and the soles they get from ALDBOROUGH are incomparable.
I acknowledge the receipt of your letter, and thank you for your remarks. It is true I have yet said nothing of the country as to cultivation. It must have been owing to a want of diversity in the subject. The face of nature, at the time I am recording, appeared to me like a serene day, fair and full of smiles. The only change was from arable to meadow land, and from meadow to arable; and this you may distinguish with your eyes shut—for
"the ripe harvest of the new-mown hay gave it a sweet and pleasing odour."
Pray do not fail to give me your sentiments fully, as I assure you nothing can give me more pleasure than the attention you are pleased to pay.
Your very thankful friend, C. DIBDIN.
Wakefield,
Nov.
30, 1787.
LETTER XXIII.
ADVENTURE UPON ADVENTURE.
"
I ne'er sustain'd the like disgrace before,
"
By this good light.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
HAVING sat myself down in a lodging at BURY, I paid my respects as usual to the
commandant
—who is there called THE ALDERMAN—the rest of the magistracy being twelve feoffees. This gentleman made not the smallest objection, except to the use of the Guildhall, which was a part of my request, and this he could not, according to constant usage, grant without the consent obtained in writing of the feoffees. I asked him which among them was the most musical, and he answered Dr. NORFORD; which intelligence was so true, that having waited on that gentleman I found him surrounded with friends who were listening to a morning concert. He came to me into the hall—and, upon hearing my name, insisted on my entering the room, where the IPSWICH gentleman and the foreigner mentioned in my last letter made a part of the company. Some instrumental things were performed, and I was at length requested to play a lesson on the
piano forte.
I felt all the disadvantage of having no
foreign attraction,
and therefore knew that I stood but little chance of being ranked with my present competitors, unless I could in some arch way turn the tables. I therefore said I thought a song would be a kind of relief to what had gone before, and played
Pomposo,
which hit exactly as I wished it should. This circumstance—for you know I love illustrations—brings another to my mind which also told very strongly in this way.
I was asked to dine at one of Mr. Fox's annual meetings, were there were about two hundred Westminster electors. Before I gave my consent, I stipulated with my friend that I should not be asked to sing. This indulgence he said he could insure me; but, upon reflection, I placed very little reliance on the promise. I therefore was prepared with my famous
Jew's song,
which will be found in
The Readings
; and it is not in the power of language to describe how wonderfully well it hit. That sine veteran, MACKLIN, was in raptures, and I sincerely believe it was the sole cause of his burning his wig, which made such a noise the next day in the newspapers. But to return to BURY.
The consent I wanted was easily obtained—and in my life I never experienced handsomer or politer treatment. One reverend gentleman however was scrupulous—but it is a becoming thing for the clergy to be consciencious—and though the Rev. Dr. WOOLASTON's readiness to forward a rational amusement, which he did me the honour to attend and highly approve, had certainly nothing reprehensible in it, the other reverend doctor was surely under no obligation to do the same. 'Tis true, if others had imitated this wonderfully sagacious, prudent, and wary forecast, BURY would have been deprived of what they were so kind as to think a pleasure. What then! Prevention is a wise thing; and upon the same principle—a little more rigidly exacted to be sure—that it is better to let
twenty
guilty persons escape, than that
one
suffer innocently—so the suppression of fifty harmless amusements is meritorious, rather than run the smallest risk of giving encouragement to vice and immorality.
After the performance was over—which I had advertised but for one night—I was obliged to promise a repetition of it; and as I wished very much to go to NORWICH before the players could get there, I appointed a late day in the following week, and packed off. I have really had the luck of meeting with friendly printers. Mr. STEVENSON, the valuable and worthy partner of Mr. CROUSE, shewed me a thousand civilities. Among the rest, his friendly recommendation to YARMOUTH, rubbed off all difficulties in the way of my performing there—yet would it be injustice to Messrs. DOWNES and MARCH, not to say that their attention for the short time I remained at YARMOUTH, was very gentlemanlike and perfectly liberal. But let me first speak of NORWICH. On the first night—though I addressed upwards of an hundred letters to the principal people—I had only five persons. I did not perform, in course; and indeed I was doubtful whether I should give them the trouble, or myself the expence of another night. Having however understood that I was there also considered as an impostor, I inserted a paragraph in the bill which I expected would have its effect; and indeed I was stimulated to this by the very handsome conduct of a gentleman present on the first night, who said every thing he could think of to palliate the matter. I drove him however into a corner, by saying that I was very willing to stand or fall by the merit of the entertainment, and it would give me particular pleasure if they would pitch upon twelve critics, who should be men of real understanding, to report the matter, and let it be decided upon according to their judgment. He answered that it was a fair offer, but that it never could be settled, for there was not any such number as twelve critics in NORWICH. At the same time he suggested that the success might be better—that the number of nights I had advertised, I ought to consider as a compact with the public. This last argument roused me. I determined to perform every night I had engaged for, at all adventures. I did so; and though no opportunity was neglected, and those who attended were greatly pleased—according to the Irishman—
I gained a loss.
Enough therefore of NORWICH; at which place however—as at almost every other—I found something to counterbalance my disappointments. The attention and civility of my friend STEVENSON, made me large amends for the vapid, unmeaning languor that pervaded the place itself; not but I have many acknowledgments to pay those who attended the performance—for they one and all agreed that I could not, in painting my TOUR, throw NORWICH too much into the back ground.
At YARMOUTH I had two nights, which—though not
numerous
—were
brilliant.
There is a gentleman at YARMOUTH, to whom the fashionable people look up—and well they may—as the arbiter of their amusements. His attention to me—could I conceive I really merited it—might make me vain of myself indeed. To shew however that nothing can win me on a pecuniary score, be it known, I rather lost than gained at YARMOUTH. But Dr. COOPER's anxiety on that account—his solicitude for my accommodation—his handsome, well-bred conduct, gave me so exalted an opinion of him, that I was not at all surprised when Mr. ROUPE (to whom he is a sort of patron without his own knowledge—for he confers to oblige himself) assured me that there is not a human mind fraught with more worth or disinterested benevolence. And here Mr. ROUPE must forgive me, if in order to illustrate his and my position, I speak a little of his own comfortable situation.
This gentleman possessed a competent fortune, subject to alienation at the death of a relation—which relation being dead, he is deprived of it till the decease of another. Upon his loss, by the advice of his friends—and Dr. COOPER at the head of them, he made what had been his amusement his profession, and having an admirable musical turn, he is now organist, and has all the principal teaching of YARMOUTH. I never had the pleasure of hearing him play, but have heard a great account of his performance. I however chatted with him some hours on music, and he seems to be of my own sentiments. He has a strong fancy, and despises every
rule
that is not reconcileable to REASON.—May he long be happy! which there is little fear of; for through the benignant influence of Dr. COOPER, and his own mild and amiable manners, he feels himself as independent, and is as much respected, as when he basked in the sunshine of fortune, and had no right to consider himself as a professional man.
You must understand that I performed at NORWICH and YARMOUTH alternately—which circumstance occasioned the appearance of a paragraph in the BURY paper, saying, that it was a wonderful thing—setting aside all considerations of the merit of the performance—that Mr. DIBDIN should be able
at all
to perform an amusement in which he sung twenty four songs, and delivered an adequate quantity of speaking, on
Monday
at NORWICH—
Tuesday
at YARMOUTH—
Wednesday
at NORWICH—
Thursday
at YARMOUTH—
Friday
at NORWICH—and
Saturday
at BURY. This circumstance however would have been attended with more pleasurable consequences to me, if every one of these nights had been equal to the last, which I seriously declare was more than the other five put together.
NORWICH is a large city—but the streets are so narrow and so alike, that a man would sooner learn to be his own pilot in LONDON than in that place. There are so
few spires
in NORWICH, that the view of the town and cathedral from the YARMOUTH road across the river, has a most beautiful and picturesque effect. Not so very striking as that bird's-eye-view of BRISTOL, from
Cliffden Hill,
but neat and well grouped. The streets of YARMOUTH are yet narrower than those of NORWICH, but the spaciousness of the
Quay
makes handsome amends. The first has all the heavy stupidity of a city where the manufactory is on the decline, and the other the sprightliness of increasing trade, varied by an influx of commodities from every part of the world. I never beheld such a wonderful scene as the prodigious fine, large, rich fields of corn exhibited for a stretch of eight miles together, between NORWICH and YARMOUTH—and yet go where you would the farmers grumbled; but it has been well observed, that Englishmen are never rolling in wealth so much as when they complain of the weight of taxes, and the impending ruin of the nation.
Yours, Most cordially, C. DIBDIN.
Halifax,
Dec.
13, 1788.
LETTER XXIV.
A DISAPPOINTMENT.
"
But 'tis a plain proof the world is all alike.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
AT my return from NORWICH to BURY, which was on the last day of the assize week,
Saturday, July 28.
I found every thing prepared for my performance, at which a very splendid audience attended, and among them one of the learned judges. The applause was prodigious, and never did better humour prevail in an assembly. I felt myself however rather awkward at having announced the
"wolf who had been a lawyer."
I intimated this ridiculous distress to a gentleman who sat near me, and the subject so got about that no member of the law went unconsulted, and it was resolved
nem. con.
that I should cut at the lawyers. You will find the passage in
The Readings.
My feelings however were too prophetic; for though many of the gentlemen—particularly him I consulted, and the judge—enjoyed the satire, yet were there many chop-fallen on the occasion. I mention this circumstance to support that constant opinion I have ever broached, that in the practice of the law there are so many temptations to knavery, that every lawyer who does not feel a severity of this kind as a positive reproach to himself, must be hurt at having been bred up to a profession that stigmatizes nine-tenths of his brethren.
On Sunday I set out for WORCESTER, and on the following Tuesday arrived there. I have mentioned that before I left this place, I made a promise to return to it, and I now put myself to the expence of travelling post one hundred and forty-nine miles to keep my word. Having at BURY purchased Mr. PATERSON's Travelling Dictionary, I shall now begin to point out a few of its errors. He says from BURY to WORCESTER is 138 miles; and his mistake originates from calling it 15 miles from AULCESTER to WORCESTER, whereas it is 23. From AULCESTER to DROITWICH is 14, and from thence to WORCESTER 9. He is wrong a single mile in three other places, which makes the distance in all 149 miles from BURY to WORCESTER.
My going this long journey was the more inconvenient, having received a letter at BURY, telling me that a gentleman at HULL and BEVERLY could accommodate me with a room, and had no doubt of my doing extremely well at those towns—but of these places in their turn. I was surprised to find a much colder reception at WORCESTER than formerly. Except from one or two friends, I never experienced more
milk and water
treatment in my life. I advertised my entertainment however and was tolerably attended.
"
Very tolerably,
"
as Tester says, and I sincerely believe, had it not been for the interference of a friend, I must have used the word INTOLERABLY. To this gentleman, who is no other than T. S. Esq. I shall beg leave to say, that if he meant his friendship and attention to my interest should finish where it apparently has—God forbid I should load him with more trouble than he is willing to suffer! So far from it—I here, in the face of the world, acquit him of any intentions in relation to me, but those of serving, obliging, and pleasing me; and should it so happen that neither upon paper, nor any other way, we again exchange a single word, my wishes towards him are, may he enjoy a long life of health, happiness, and prosperity! And I hope he retains so much of his former good wishes for me, as to return an equal portion of esteem, with equal sincerity.
My success at WORCESTER was little worth the pains I took to get at it. Dr. EVANS, the
archdeacon,
who was very partial to the entertainment, said my reception was a reproach to the place; and really as they diverted my course in a most expensive and inconvenient way, it would have been but handsome to have let me known in time that they had changed their mind, or have paid me some attention when I did come. I will not quit this subject without speaking of that friendly and goodnatured creature Mr. SMART, who I sincerely believe was as anxious for my success as myself. Nor must I leave DIGLEY unsung—the heartiness of Mr. PEACH its owner—nor the beauties of that charming place, watered by the Severn, and bounded with a view of
Malvern-hills.
Mr. SHENSTONE would presently have knocked you off half a dozen stanzas on this subject; wherein he would have told you in verse that goes
"trippingly o'er the tongue,"
that the hills are blue at a distance, more distinct when near—that the river has the property of reflection, and that you may see in it imperfect trees standing on their heads—with many more poetically self-evident images. I once parodied
"My banks are all furnish'd with bees."
The first verse ran thus:
My banks are all furnish'd with bees,
Quickset Hedges
my
fences
adorn,
My
woods
are all crowded with
trees,
And my
fields
yellow over with
corn.
I seldom have found any
tares,
Of such use are my
harrow
and
plough
—
In my
orchards
grow
apples
and
pears,
In my
dairy
there's
milk from the cow.
In this manner one might, I should suppose, run on, without any great stretch of difficulty, till all the wonderful variety in the whole round of rural objects were enumerated.
I recollect something like the following, in a French author, though I cannot at this moment tell who. An old fellow is buying an estate, and the seller puffs it off in all the flowery, descriptive extravagance of an auctioneer's advertisement. To which this is the answer. 'Tis in verse, and I have imitated it.
"If for seven years you were to chatter,
"'Tis hills and dales and woods and water;
"All have their whims, and to tell mine t'ye,
"
One
country seen—one has seen
ninety.
Yet—let me not be profane—SHENSTONE's eclogues and many other of his things have great poetic sweetness—but, having an inveterate aversion to insipidity, I never could feel any other sensation than drowsiness at that famous ballad which is said to contain all the beauties of pastoral poetry. But this will always be the way—the generality of mankind give an author credit for what, in all probability, he considered in the light of an insignificant trifle—such as the ballad above-mentioned—while his higher-finished and more beautiful works—such as the school mistress—is little known, and less tasted. But there is always this comfort:—men of real taste will separate the gold from the alloy, the applause of one of whom will outweigh a whole crowd of inferior critics.
I must not quit WORCESTER without mentioning a most singular and extraordinary instance of the falsity of that vulgar position—that fortune is inattentive to virtue. There is a gentleman I would name if I did not fear to wound his well known modesty, who made his fortune by the exercise of that one single virtue—
forbearance,
I do not mean that he has not all the rest in as great perfection—but this happened to be put most to the trial. And, to shew that I am determined, whenever I have an opportunity, to celebrate the virtues of professional men with the same willingness as any other description, this gentleman was originally nothing else than a musician—a mere thrummer of wire, and a scraper of catgut. He taught a young lady who fell in love with him, and even went so far as to propose an elopement. Did he, think you, give way to the tender impulse, and, while his heart beat high, snatch sweet occasion, and become happy! No such thing.
"Oh fie miss,"
was all he was heard to utter! Having finished this laconic reproach, he left the disappointed, lovesick fair one, and sought her father—when—first stipulating that the young lady should not be ill treated—he minutely acquainted him. To do which, it seems, he was obliged to relate a tale that might be called the history of the Sabines inverted, with his daughter's shocking violation of her duty. What was the consequence? This amiable young man's unheard-of prudence saved the family; the daughter became prudent, by despising the man she had courted; was married soon after to one of equal birth, and I hope equal impetuosity; the father prudently rewarded the author of his domestic happiness; and that author prudently put the reward in his pocket. After this, our musical Joseph fell in love himself—but, with his usual patience and forbearance, he determined that time alone should prove whether the object of his affection was worthy of it. The lady, however, being a little in the stile of the other—not quite of that passive temper which contents itself with
imaginary
bliss—was first uneasy—afterwards
unhappy
—then ILL—and at length DIED.—Our mirror of prudence, having lost a fortune by her, had nothing for it but to console the mamma. He considered himself as her son—she considered herself as his mother—and, that nothing might be left undone to confirm this ideal consanguinity, she died, and left him all she was worth—which turned out to be no trifle.
Is there a fortune-hunter, who reads this, but will, in future, change his battery—and cease to tear forward children from the arms of indulgent parents; since—by imitating the excellent example before them—the fortune—which is always the object—may be gained without the loss of honour, or—which is a more material consideration—the possession of a wife?
So much for WORCESTER—where you see, after all, I was shabbily treated.
"But 'tis a plain proof the world is all alike"
—and, indeed, I know not which was most to blame—they for promising, or I for believing. If I had properly reflected, I might have known it was the whim of the moment, and would naturally subside. I should be sorry if there was not more stability in my assuring you that I am,
With great truth, Most heartily, Yours, C. DIBDIN.
Wakefield,
Dec.
16, 1787.
LETTER XXV.
A CONSOLATION.
"
In one great blessing all her bounty send,
"
That I may never lose so dear a friend.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
FROM WORCESTER—having been joined by an intimate and valuable friend—I steered my course, on the eleventh of August, for GLOUCESTER, BRISTOL, and MONMOUTH; my plan—while he should remain with me—being, to make the matter a mutual intercourse of business, and call at those places that might be most convenient to both. Nothing in
my
way was to be done at GLOUCESTER—for though the gloom of the bankruptcies before mentioned was worn off, yet the place looked as melancholy as ever; we therefore proceeded to BRISTOL, spent three or four happy days with my friend BOYTON, and passed on from thence to MONMOUTH, being the first place where I intended to display my standard.
The current account of places remains unsettled ever since NORWICH. BURY, which is the picture of cheerfulness, consists—together with its vicinity—of people who seem determined to be happy. The seats of Mr. SYMONDS, Sir CHARLES BUNBURY, Sir CHARLES DAVERS, and many others, most charmingly enliven every morning ride; and its proximity to NEWMARKET occasions frequent visits from many people of the first distinction. The corn-market alone gives you a very respectable idea of the place. Of the inns, the
Bell
is a remarkable good one—if civility, good cheer, and a reasonable charge are the right distinctions. If you would meet with the reverse in every respect go to the
Angel.
My journey from BURY to WORCESTER, was performed in so short a time, that it would be a farce to talk of making any material observations. The roads are charming from CAMBRIDGE to WILLINGBOROUGH, and then very indifferent till you get four miles beyond WARWICK, in the way to STRATFORD-UPON-AVON; afterwards they are good all the way to WORCESTER. I promised to speak of the
White Lion
at STRATFORD, and common justice obliges me to say, that the insolence of the people who keep it exceeds all example. I should pass by the contempt with which they treat travellers in a stage coach—which is hard, by the way, for they must go there or nowhere—and also their wanting to put me into a return chaise, and make me pay full price for it. All this is in the way of business. But when you are in a hurry to have the very worst horses picked out, and be told
"that the others are for your betters, and you may have them or none"
—though they do not know you—and, if they did, your betters do not pay a farthing more—is a species of contemptuous impudence that I hope will, by somebody more competent than myself, be taken down. I have a great deal more of this sort of conduct to complain of, and I shall seriously advise the respectable inhabitants of capital towns—for at STRATFORD I know not if it would be worth while—for their own private benefit, for the benefit of those who in visits of business to them, pamper the pride and fatten these insufferable inn-keepers, and for the benefit of the public in general, to imitate the spirit of the DUKE OF NORFOLK, and as completely curb the haughty impertinence of these servants out of livery—which in general they are—as he has—as far as its influence extends—by building the
Tontine,
at SHEFFIELD, and placing in it a man whose solicitude for the convenience of his guests should be quoted as a precedent for every one in his situation. The ground from WORCESTER to BRISTOL I have gone over already. I promised, on my return, to give an account of the musical taste of BRISTOL—but, upon the most diligent enquiry, I do not find they have any at all. The road is all the way delightful, and from TEWKSBURY to GLOUCESTER remarkably so. It wanted nothing but a few scattered Romish chapels to have finished subjects for the pencil of CLAUDE. From BRISTOL we crossed the Severn, in a dung barge, and proceeded to CHEPSTOW—where we were offered our choice either to stay, or have four horses to take us on; and all this because the landlord of the other inn was just become a bankrupt. Let me caution all travellers to make any shift rather than submit to be drawn by four horses. They make no more expedition than two—and, exclusive of the expence in themselves, postillions, ostlers, and turnpikes, you have a great deal of difficulty to shake them off again, and your bill is in proportion to your
oetelage.
These four horses brought us very slowly—for which I was obliged to them—over one of the most uncommonly beautiful hills that can be imagined—the whole country every where abundantly rich with corn—to MONMOUTH; where, for the present, I shall bid you adieu—assuring you that I am ever,
And very truly, Yours, C. DIBDIN,
Sheffield,
Dec.
30, 1787.
LETTER XXVI.
A DISSERTATION ON CITIES.
"
All is not gold that glitters.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
MONMOUTH was not worth a printer. To make my intentions known, therefore, was a matter of no small difficulty. A few respectful letters, however, to the principal inhabitants of the town and its vicinity, did the business pretty well, and I was tolerably attended a first night (August 17) and much better a second; and, as a general good humour and inclination to receive pleasure was the predominant sensation, I felt almost as happy as if the advantage had been equal to the applause.
I must not pass by some particular civilities that I received at MONMOUTH. The Rev. Dr. DAVIS, who was then the
Mayor,
paid me very great attention; and—what made it more welcome to me—it was very much in the stile of Dr. COOPER, of YARMOUTH. For this kindness I then requested him privately—and do now publicly—to receive my thanks. Nor will I have the ingratitude to forget the anxious heartiness of my good friend OWEN TUDOR, the bookseller, who, though not a
printer,
was so good a
publisher
upon this occasion, that much more intelligence was received thro' his kind assiduity, than I am sure would have been conveyed by means of hand bills. I left him—and may he long continue so—comfortable in himself, beloved by his neighbours, and surrounded by that best of happiness—domestic felicity. In fine, I gave and received great satisfaction at MONMOUTH; but, as it is the lot of human beings to do nothing perfect, I understand there is one gentleman for whose castigation I was supposed to have written the business of inventing quotations. Nay, some went so far as to say, he will never be able to
invent
another
undoubted
fact as long as he lives. If this be the case, how unfortunate am I in having deprived a good story-teller of the greatest embellishment his talents can derive advantage from. Should it be so, I can only say—which I entreat the gentleman, if he read this, to believe—that it was written many months before I had the pleasure of his company at my readings, and always highly approved as a
devilish good thing.
From MONMOUTH—which, though an
ancient
town, is a very
sprightly
one—just as a reasonable old man (MACKLIN for instance) in spight of his years, resolves to be merry—we jogged on to
stupid
HEREFORD. I have made this remark in my TOUR, that the cities in general—as I say of the Dominos—are
"grave, elegant, genteel, and—
stupid
;"
to which if I was to add poor and proud, the phrase I think would apply pretty well. For if we except BRISTOL, which, being a sea-port, is naturally a busy and industrious place—WORCESTER, which has a manufactory for gloves and porcelain—tho' both are on the decline—it is impossible to conceive any thing so phlegmatic and insensible as are the rest of the cities I have seen. Thus shall I always say
stupid
HEREFORD,
melancholy
LICHFIELD,
pitiful
LINCOLN, and
frothy
YORK. This last place, however, being the LONDON of the
North,
has exactly as much of it as a
shadow
has of a
substance
; and, upon the strength of this, it presumes to be courtly, and make promises, which—like the nonsense of a Frenchman—are PLEASING, and
mean nothing.
They buoy you up like an air jacket, but the smallest inlet—even a single pin hole—can evaporate the air, and down you go. They will take care to promise nothing but trifles, and even those they take as good care not to keep.
This brings to my mind an anecdote of a POOR PLAYER, who had run up an ale-house score to the enormous extent of
two shillings,
for which he had been so often dunned that he kept away from the house. One day meeting the LANDLORD, and being closely importuned to satisfy him, this strolling ROSCIUS assured him that he might depend, in the course of the week, on being paid in some shape or another—Shape!—said the LANDLORD—well, I think I'll take your word this time, but—harkee!—pray let it be as much in the shape of—
two shillings as you can.
I am, however, not yet at YORK, therefore I may as well keep what I have to say of that place till I get there. I shall nevertheless so far digress as to finish my remarks on cities.
Some have averred that this vapidness is owing to the Cathedral, which nurtures so many
drones
as to make all the rest of the hive lazy. I hope this assertion is more invidious than true. I have, literally speaking, had no opportunity, at the four places above mentioned, of taking personal cognizance of this fact. At HEREFORD I did not perform; or if I had, their cathedral had just tumbled down, and of course—like rats, which never fail to leave a sinking ship—the black gentlemen were sheltered in some safer asylum. I could not refrain from remarking, that though the
church
lay in ruins, the
chapter-house
stood smiling at the danger—all the rent-rolls, tythes and commutations were safe:—as safe as the iron chest of a miser who has insured his house—which defies the spreading flames, and keeps its sterling value in security, though buried under a load of rubbish.
At LICHFIELD they were providentially repairing their cathedral, lest, unable to bear the ravages of time, it should also tumble down—the clergy therefore were again absent upon furlough.
At LINCOLN indeed, where the cathedral seems to have the stability of a rock, and yet the lightness of a temple built with cards, the clerical gentlemen seemed to be on full duty. And here, though nothing but my compact to speak the truth should force it from me, I cannot help saying that the above remark obtained a little—but this I shall speak to particularly when I arrive at LINCOLN.
At YORK, whose stately and majestic minster looks magnificently stupendous at a distance, and when you are near it as petite as the Lord's prayer, the creed, and ten commandments stuffed into a walnut shell. I know nothing more of the clergy, than that their situations are generally sinecures, and that whether their cathedral stand or fall—which latter there is no great probability of—they may be absent when they please. I know however a prebend of YORK whom my heart warms to think of. But of this hereafter.
As to NORWICH, disgust was my predominant passion, and therefore, like the father who would not disinherit his son because he was angry with him, I will pass by that subject. I shall also for the present have done with all other conjectures concerning the clergy; and content myself with offering my own observations relative to cities, which are, that having in general no manufactory or other public object to engross their attention, they are divided into people of tolerable fortunes, small fortunes, a few adventurers—by way of
Cicesbeos
to the wives and gallants to the daughters—and the remainder are such tradesmen as furnish the necessaries of life, and pick up a livelihood by the expenditure of the money circulated by those before described. The attornies and medical gentlemen are in number according to the size of the place. A tolerable large city will maintain you—about thirty of the first, and fifteen of the latter: so much dearer in this country is property than health.
Dearer paid for.—In every trifling village there are three or four decent houses, which you may be assured belong to the parson, the apothecary, and the lawyer.—It has been a remark that when one LAWYER cannot live in a place—
two
CAN; for in that case, if the people are peaceably disposed, one can
provoke,
and the other
palliate.
Over all these, of course, are placed the clergy, who can certainly give a sort of
Ton
to the place; and if they ever happen—which all the world knows is very rare—either to be ignorant, overbearing, or void of taste, these peculiar qualities will be as surely predominant in their influence on the rest—
and indeed ought,
even as the whistle of the shepherd brings the sheep into the fold.
Thus you see how I throw my ideas about at random, which indeed is all that can be expected of me; for manners and men can no more be developed by a cursory view, than can a single glance determine the colour of a
cameleon
—which must have shade and sunshine, night and day, and every other adventitious opportunity, to display its different hues; and after all, so blind is human judgment, that it will be impossible to fix on that particular shade that is proper to it.
"All is not gold that glitters,"
says the proverb. Heaven knows! my professions in no way can glitter; if they could, they would wear nothing but the sober appearance of truth, when I assure you that I am,
Most sincerely, Yours, C. DIBDIN.
Sheffield,
Jan.
1, 1788.
LETTER XXVII.
PLEASURE, THE RESULT OF REFLECTION.
"
When I consider the heavens, and the works of thy fingers!
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
YOU ask me when I mean to speak of music; and hint that my observations on poetry, painting, the theatre, and other matters, might be well intermingled with the narrative of my TOUR. I thank you for saying exactly what you feel, as you read my remarks. I have not been unmindful of any of these subjects; but I shall have so much loose ground to run over for three or four letters to come, that I would willingly shake it off my heels, before I come into the company of men of science and genius. In short, I shall not begin my critical attack till I get farther on my journey; for, to give you a pun in the place of a better phrase, one cannot be too far
north
for them.
From HEREFORD I went to LEOMINSTER, where I was told the inhabitants were very anxious to see me. Mr. PENE, the organist—to whose civility I am greatly indebted—took much pains for me, previous to my arrival, and I had one very decent night. The old stupid objection however took place. I was an impostor—and my performance was to be watched very narrowly:—my audience were so much entertained however that they encored nine songs.
Nevertheless Mr. EVANS, a
clergyman,
proposed to Mr. GEARY, a
surgeon,
a bet of ten guineas that I was an impostor. The wager was accepted, and Mr. KIRKMAN, a
country 'squire,
was to decide between them. This last mentioned gentleman very gravely determined,
"that to be sure of all the impostors that ever lived, I was the cleverest—but that certainly I was not Mr. DIBDIN, whom he knew perfectly well—that not long before he had been
publicly
in his company, and heard him sing several jolly songs—and that he was
a tall, thin man,
and
wore a wig.
"
Mr. GEARY having lost his wager, query whether he should not have appealed to me as a court of equity; or indeed when this TOUR shall come out, may it not be considered such strong, legal evidence as may entitle Mr. GEARY to the recovery of his money—nay more, to a remedy through the medium of that act which makes it felony to obtain money by false pretences; for it was certainly a false pretence in Mr. KIRKMAN to say he had been publicly in my company. Had it so happened, I must have known it—for his person could not have been mistaken, being remarkably like a ninepin with the addition of sins. These premises therefore duly weighed and considered, I would advise Mr. EVANS to refund the money, and Mr. KIRKMAN to give a handsome treat—which he seems very fond of—and pledge himself over the first pint bumper, never—in imitation of the long-eared gentlemen—to describe the
roaring of a lion,
lest, by exerting his own voice, he discover the
braying of an ass.
From LEOMINSTER we went to that pretty, clean-looking town, LUDLOW—whose appearance, from the distance of two miles—with the church in the center towering above the houses—forms as picturesque a
coup d'oeul,
as imagination can conceive.
At LUDLOW I would not perform, because the players were there. I shall not so far lift Mr. MILLAR, their manager, into consequence, as to make him a party in this TOUR; nor shall I pay the reader so ill a compliment as to relate the particulars of a low, contemptible plot, which—as every thing founded in falsity ought—recoiled, and severely wounded the above pretty gentleman its contriver.
"A lion preys not upon carcases"
—out of pity—for I found by some conversation with one of the magistrates, that the story had made him as contemptible at LUDLOW as at WORCESTER. We dined, and went on to BRIDGENORTH, which place, and COALBROOK DALE, we had a great desire to see. As nothing but pleasure engrossed us for some time, I shall go on with my account of places, roads, &c.
From MONMOUTH—which commands a beautiful view of both the Wye and the Munow—we passed to HEREFORD; the whole time beguiled by extensive, rich, and variegated prospects. Brown CERES every where had spread her golden store, and plump POMONA half sunk under the weight of her abundant horn. My friend, who—till he took this journey with me—had never been forty miles out of LONDON, felt as if he had been transported to Elysium; and as our journey from MONMOUTH was on a Sunday, we took occasion to remark on the decent cleanliness of the villagers, and the sober, thankful appearance which nature that morning wore. We did not go to church, but I think we had as much the glow of religion in our hearts as those who did. You know, among my amusements, I practise painting; and I declare most sacredly, that in delineating the form of a tree—sweeping with my pencil over hills and vallies—reflecting the various tints of fleecy clouds on the smooth bosom of an extensive river;—but more than all this—rolling in the aetherial expanse, and commanding the winds to shape a collected vapour into a graceful form—HERVEY never had more delicious contemplations in his flower-garden, than I in those moments. An adoration of the author of nature thrills through my spontaneous fancy, and the expansion of my mind lifts me above the dazzling splendour of emperors. All this I felt on our journey—and for four hours could talk of nothing else. I lamented the evils that persecutions, dogmas, and schisms have introduced into the world; and how often the mildest and most charitable name that ever dignified human nature has been wickedly used—by abominable priests—to enforce slaughter, exaggerated by cruelty! How much more consonant to the
essence,
would be the
worship
of a SUPREME BEING, if—without a single reflection on what others do—it were comprized in an obedient thankfulness of heart, and a sincere and grateful acknowledgment of the imminent favours and distinctions we so bountifully receive from his gracious hand!
HEREFORD seems to be as insensible of these blessings as a gorged alderman of true flavour. The views continued with very little variation, in point of beauty, through our whole route, till we got to WOLVERHAMPTON; when the country became
flat,
and the soil
sandy.
About five miles before you reach LEOMINSTER—which circumstance I mention as a remarkable instance of erudition in the commissioners of the highway in that part of the world, of which body I hope 'Squire KIRKMAN is not a member—there is a board placed up with the following words:—
"Whoever drives of this road shall be informed upon."
For my part, I would not make any impertinent remarks on any thing I meet, but perhaps they hold some charter in this part of the world, by using this sort of orthography. It is full as sensible—and much more innocent—than baiting the bull, at STAMFORD; as however—though it was incomprehensible—it must imply some caution, my friend made a very admissible alteration, and it read thus:
"Whoever drives
on
this road shall be
imposed
upon."
Which, it must be confessed, after the four horses from CHEPSTOW, and an extravagant bill at the
Beaufort Arms,
at MONMOUTH, we considered as no unwholesome hint; and it was pretty well confirmed when we set out from LUDLOW: going from which place to BRIDGENORTH—if the traveller do not take great care—he will be sent twenty-five miles, instead of eighteen. You are asked if you chuse to make it one stage or two, and told that the road is very hilly. It is more likely therefore you will prefer—as we did—the two stages, that the horses may be fresh and draw you with more spirit, eighteen miles being really a long stage in that country. Thus, without saying a word more, they take you to CLEBURY—for in the direct road over THE MOOR, and through ASTON and DOWN, there is no place to
change horses.
CLEBURY is
twelve
miles from LUDLOW, and BRIDGENORTH
thirteen
more from CLEBURY. Thus, according to my friend, it is plain, those who drive on that road—if they are not wary—will be
imposed
upon.
Passing over the clay hills in Shropshire, is perhaps one of the most stupendous and wonderful instances of extent and fertility that nature has in all her domain. The objects are so innumerable—their forms so varied—and their colours so beautiful, that the eye is—if I may be allowed the expression—agonized with enjoyment. Every hundred yards presents a new scene, and every scene more charming than that which went before it, till the rapt fancy rises to sublimity, and exquisite pleasure is lost in mute wonder! Nor are these expressions too strong for the subject. The hills were
"cloud capt,"
and no air balloon could be better situated for a good prospect than was our chaise.
In the whole of this journey, I was lost in pleasing astonishment; and could not help exclaiming in the text of this letter—which you may call a sermon, if you please, for even in this age I am not ashamed of moralizing—
"When I consider the heavens and the work of thy fingers!"
Adieu. Confess, with me, there is not an enjoyment equal to that which pleases on reflection. One of which is that I take when I tell you that
I am, With truth, Your obliged friend, C. DIBDIN.
Sheffield,
Jan.
17, 1788.
LETTER XXVIII.
MORE WONDERS.
"
What a piece of work is man!
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
HAVING wound—like the worm of a cork-screw—round that natural fortification that renders BRIDGENORTH a little GIBRALTER—we arrived there, and supped on the wonders we had seen—for as to the musty chickens and high-flavoured ham, there was no eating them. The next morning we explored all the beauties of that uncommonly picturesque country; and after dinner, while curiosity was on tiptoe, went on to COALBROOK DALE, where we intended to stay the night, and see every thing worthy of observation. This however was not in our power—for the stench of the sulphur was so potent that we were taken ill; and I protest—though I have as few squeamish sensations as most people—I never felt myself so overcome in my life. Indeed, the day was insufferably hot; which, added to the monstrous piles of coal burning to coke—the furnaces—forges—and other tremendous objects of fire and smoke, which spread round us to an immense distance—might probably cause that suffocating sensation, of which I can give no adequate description, but by saying that—as far as conception can picture—it must have a faint resemblance of being placed in an air pump.—And yet, though we laboured under this difficulty of respiration, the inhabitants —and the workmen especially—feel no inconvenience; but, on the contrary, as we were told, are remarkably healthy, and live to a great age.
Some particulars relative to the place we were determined, however, to ascertain. The tar-spring, for example, was too curious an object to be passed by unnoticed. We went into the mouth of a bricked arch-way, which reaches three hundred yards; and when we had got about thirty yards, we began to see the tar ooze from between the crannies in the rock. It must be understood, that from the top of the rock, a pit had been sunk, which went to such an immense depth, that it would have been very expensive, and indeed almost impracticable, to work it. But, finding the coals of an admirable quality, it was thought worth while to form the arch-way, above described, at the foot of the mountain, and very near the Severn, that the coal might be drawn out in carriages; which mode of getting at them—instead of the usual way—it was thought would be so much more expeditious and convenient, as to make a saving—in a short time—equal to the expence of having formed the arch-way. In the prosecution of this scheme, the tar made its appearance—at first oozing as we had seen it, and afterwards pouring like an inundation, fairly flowing into the Severn. The discovery was made known, and the course of the tar diverted by means of iron pipes, which, I assure the reader, are nearly as large as those which convey the water from the new river in LONDON. Large pits were immediately dug, and caldrons of a prodigious magnitude sunk; and, by boiling in those, it hardened into pitch. There are three springs; one of which emits an astonishing quantity. The first, when we were there, was nearly dried up; which induces the workmen to believe that, in time, the whole will cease. But who can say in
what
time. The same rock may be traced seven miles—and every body knows at that distance they are now extracting tar from coal, which very probably is a drossy part, of the very tar, that—about half a mile from the iron bridge—runs thicker than treacle, but as pellucid as Burgundy.
I have since conversed with a chymical gentleman, who has bought a great deal of it, and he assures me it has the strongest similitude of any thing he ever saw or read of to the famous black pitch used by the Egyptians for embalming. This tar is remarkably free from impurity, is as bituminous as asphaltum, and has an agreeable odour, not unlike benjamin.
I must not leave COALBROOK DALE without saying something of the famous iron bridge. That stupendous
pattern card
—for it may well be called so—is in every respect one of the most
artful
and ingenious contrivances that ever was conceived or executed by man
It consists of one arch—and the river is, in that place, an hundred yards over.
—for at the same time that it proves the dusky inhabitants of that gloomy region are equal to any thing in the way of iron work—though ever so ponderous and immense—it is a source of continual profit—a constant toll being kept up; which cannot be for the repair of the bridge:—for, though it looks like net-work wrought in wire, it will apparently last uninjured for ages.
I offered Mr. HARRIS—as will hereafter be seen—a number of ideas, wrought into complete scenes, which might in future, supply matter for different Pantomimes. This would have been one of them. He rejected the offer, however, as useless.—I am, nevertheless, well assured that I could have furnished him with admirable matter in that way:—to accomplish which I had nothing to do but look around and express those feelings, musically and poetically, with which the object, at that moment impressed me.—If in future any of the scenes I describe in this work should be introduced into a pantomime, I hope the credit of the
original idea
will be given to me—not for the
value
of the thing—only that the saddle may be placed upon the
right horse.
This place wants nothing but CERBERUS to give you an idea of the heathen HELL. The Severn may pass for the Styx—with this difference—that old CHARON, become a turnpike-man, ushers you over the iron bridge instead of rowing you in his crazy bark. The men and women might easily be mistaken for devils and furies—and the entrance of any one of those blazing caverns for the approach of TARTARUS. Jesting apart. If an atheist, who never heard of COALBROOK DALE, could be transported there in a dream, and left to wake at the mouth of one of those furnaces, surrounded on all sides with such numbers of infernal objects—though he had been all his life the most profligate unbeliever that ever added blasphemy to incredulity—he would infallibly tremble at the just punishment he was, in imagination, going to receive.
My friend's first remark when he saw these dingy gentlemen was—that he should be sorry to meet any of them in a bye lane. Having made the very same observation to my friend BOYTON upon the colliers at KINGSWOOD—and being by him satisfied as to the fallacy of it—I was able to refute his apprehensions, by saying that I made no doubt but some reformer had done the state so much service as to have reconciled these people to their situation—by an assurance that, if they would be honest, they should only have a hell in
this world.
This turned out to be the case. One half of them are quakers, and the other methodists. Thus, was gloom familiar to them.—Nor do I mean to be sarcastic—for I declare I think that the civilizing the
colliers
of KINGSWOOD, does more honour to Mr. WESLEY, is a better fight, and crowns him with more laurels, than ever were reaped by all the heroes of the
holy war
—the upright perpetrators of the massacre of St. Bartholomew—or the pious tortures of all the unfortunate victims that ever were brought to an inquisitorial stake.
"What a piece of work is man!"
—and yet, while there are such characters as the above
"man delights not me:"
except, indeed, a few select friends, to whom I devote myself, and among whom no one more than yourself has the good wishes of—
I hope I may say—The ample hearted C. DIBDIN.
Sheffield,
Jan.
17, 1788.
LETTER XXIX.
RESUSCITATION—WITHOUT THE HELP OF THE HUMANE SOCIETY.
"
I wonder men are not afraid to look into a newspaper, lest they should meet with something to make them unhappy for the rest of their lives.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
HAVING washed the sulphur out of out throats by a dish of tea, we set out for SHEFFNAL, and afterwards for WOLVERHAMPTON, where it was said we should find the best inn in the kingdom—namely, the
George.
Arriving there, however, at eleven o'clock, and finding every body in bed, did not give us an idea of the most watchful inn in the kingdom—and getting no supper till one o'clock, and then a very bad one, did not prove it was the best provided larder in the kingdom.
The next day we moved to the
Red Lion,
where we were really well treated—and, the assembly room being in the house, I advertised my entertainment for one night, which was a very indifferent one indeed; as however it was an unfavourable time, and the notice was short, I sincerely believe I should have mended my success if I had stayed longer. I have in the little time which I was there, to thank Mr. LANE, a merchant, and Mr. SMART, the bookseller, for several civilities—and I believe this is all I have to say of WOLVERHAMPTON, except that we saw the process of working up that very iron, which at COALBROOK DALE was in so crude a state, into every possible kind of form—with the addition of all that belongs to the art of japanning. I must not forget to remark, that the wonderful discovery of the tar spring was at WOLVERHAMPTON—though at so small a distance—considered as a mere fable.
Leaving WOLVERHAMPTON we went to BIRMINGHAM, and from thence to LICHFIELD. Here I resolved to give my entertainment, and procured for that purpose the vicar's hall, which requiring the consent of a certain number of gentlemen, it came out, among my enquiries, that Mr. PETER GARRICK was living, and in good health. As the newspapers long ago—indeed just after the death of his two brothers—had been inhuman enough to kill him, I never was more surprized at any thing in my life; for, never having seen the account of his death contradicted, I own I firmly believed him at rest with his ancestors.
The moment I found where Mr. GARRICK lived, I hastened to pay him my respects. He was very glad to see me, and we chatted together I believe an hour. The old times of the
Jubilee
and the levees of HAMPTON made great part of our conversation, and we felt mutual pleasure and pain at the recollection. There were so many points of superior abilities about GARRICK, that though historical justice, obliging one to be
faithful,
impels a retrospect of
little
One of the most striking of these is, I believe, the following. GARRICK, one day—just before the
Christmas Tale
made its appearance—went into the painting room, and seeing, as he imagined, a prodigious quantity of gold strewed about the floor, began to abuse first the man who was grinding the colours, and afterwards to bawl out lustily for FRENCH, the painter. FRENCH made his appearance, and was thus accosted.
'Wha—why—hey—damme—why you Mr. FRENCH—is not it—ey—the cursedest thing—that you will in this harum skarum manner—he—a—damme—ruin me!'
"God bless my soul,"
cried FRENCH,
"what is the matter Sir."
'The matter Sir—why where are you—with your damned lack-lustre eyes—don't you see the ground all strewed with gold. I believe you think I roll in money.'
"Gold, Sir!—oh what the Dutch metal that we have rubbed off in gilding the new scene?—it is not worth two-pence."
'Well—two-pence—and pray why the devil should I lose two-pence?—do you consider what two-pence a day comes to in a year!'
"Well, Sir, it is nothing out of your pocket."
'Yes, Sir, but—a—yaw—you—are a damned curious sort of a—hey—how is it, nothing out of my pocket?'
"Why you know Sir I have a salary for finding all these things."
'Oh—a—hey—a salary!—why then damme if I care two-pence about it.'
as well as
great
actions, yet in recollecting the pleasureable moments passed in his company, one naturally rejoices that, in the duty of a
recorder,
we can mingle a little the task of a
panegyrist.
I certainly had many differences with GARRICK, and they arose from nothing but this—I would never flatter him. Indeed, had I been capable of that creeping adulation, without which no man can arrive to a responsible situation in the theatrical cabinet, or at least keep it—unless perhaps he be independant—I might certainly now have been in possession of a decent appointment—roundly assessed by the bye—together with the superlative happiness of being puffed in all the newspapers.
GARRICK, notwithstanding, I sincerely believe had as good an opinion of me as of any man he ever was connected with; and, on my part, I declare that nothing ever gave me more pleasure than my reconciliation with him before he died; which happened—and it is a remarkable circumstance—at the last rehearsal of my pantomime of
The Touchstone,
on the night before he went to LORD SPENCER's, from whence all the world knows he returned to the ALDELPHI to breathe his last.
Mr. PETER GARRICK attended my performance—and, for one, testified much satisfaction. The company however, in general, were extremely grave, which I could not possibly account for, especially as Mr. SAVILLE—who made me many professions of kindness and service—took minutes of the most striking serious songs, with a view of singing them himself. The truth, however, at last came out. It seems Miss SEWARD was there—without whose permission nobody at LICHFIELD dares to judge of any thing literary. My entertainment, therefore, coming in some degree under this description, and that lady—angry I suppose that I should burlesque the
Siege of Troy,
or conjure up the spirit of an
old maid,
or for some other notable reason no doubt—did not chuse to wear a smile the whole evening. What was the issue? The DEAN looked grave—Mr. SAVILLE looked grave—every body but Mr. PETER GARRICK looked grave. I announced the second evening—every body looked grave. I attended the second evening—NOBODY CAME.
It has been confidently said to me, that a musical man at LICHFIELD was very industrious first to prevent, and afterwards—finding that impossible—to decry my entertainment. If this be not a fact, the man I allude to—unconscious of ill—will suffer nothing. If it be, let him reflect—for I will not give myself the pain of saying more—that illiberality was never yet the companion of real genius.
Before I quit LICHFIELD I must not forget to mention Mr. GREEN's museum—which certainly, for its size, is one of the completest in the kingdom. The ores, of various sorts, are remarkably curious. The coins, medals, and impressions, large—in point of number—and valuable—in point of neatness, correctness, and preservation. The display of the force of magnetism is singularly worth attention; but, indeed, to enumerate every particular of this cabinet of curiosities—which is wonderfully well filled—would go far beyond my limits, and yet fall infinitely short of what the subject deserves.
Adieu LICHFIELD—and adieu Mr. GARRICK—may he long enjoy that solicitous attention he so amply receives from his friends; nor may the dart of death or any other human ill, for years, have more power to hurt him than the ineffectual calumny of a
newspaper.
Yours, Most sincerely, C. DIBDIN.
Sheffield,
Jan.
28, 1788.
LETTER XXX.
A NASTY SUBJECT—TREATED AS DELICATELY AS POSSIBLE.
"
What's bred in the bone—
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
WE came to DERBY a day after the races, which might be said to be—for me—a day after the fair:—for though during two nights that I performed there I was not so thinly attended as at WOLVERHAMPTON, yet it turned out nothing of consequence. Here we saw that wonderful effect of human ingenuity, the
silk mill.
We purchased some of the productions of the
Peak,
and we were witness to the whole process of forming, drying, painting, and burning porcelain.
It has happened, among the uncommon circumstances which have attended this TOUR, that—like Sir ROGER DE COVERLY with his watermen and hackney-coach men—I have employed, by way of bill-carriers, scarcely one who has not had some natural infirmity. At OXFORD, I had two men who had not an arm and a half between them; at another place, I had a sailor with a wooden leg. I have had men with one eye out of number; but here, at DERBY, my
factotum
had been twice screwed up in his coffin. He gave the account of it himself—and described, that having lain so long in the cold, had given him ever since such a pain in his bones, that—as HAMLET says—
"mine ached to think on't."
He had had from his cradle a lethargic habit, and the first time he was supposed to be dead, he laid in a profound sleep for several days; the second time longer; but—being aware of the probable consequence of nailing him up too soon—they kept him till they were convinced he was actually dead, and having screwed him up—being nearly suffocated—he knocked as before, and was let out. His senses were considerably impaired after this—yet, as far as they went, they were so acute and collected that he never made a single blunder in all the messages I gave him.
Though human calamities are the last subject on which I should chuse to be facetious, yet I cannot here refrain from recording an anecdote—but little known—of THE. CIBBER. This strange, eccentric wag, in company with three other
Bon Vivants,
made an excursion to FRANCE. THE. had a false set of teeth—a second a
glass-eye
—a third a
cork leg
—but the fourth had nothing particular except a remarkable way of shaking his head. They travelled in a post coach—and while they were going the first stage—after each had made merry with his neighbour's infirmity—they agreed that at every baiting place they would all affect the same singularity. When they came to breakfast they were all to squint—and, as the countrymen stood gaping round, when they first alighted,
'od rot it'
cried one,
'how that man squints!'
'Why dom thee,'
says a second,
'here be another squinting fellow!'
The third was thought to be a better squinter than the other two, and the fourth better than all the rest. In short, language cannot express how admirably they squinted—for they went one degree beyond the superlative. At dinner, they all appeared to have cork legs, and their stumping about made more diversion than they had done at breakfast. At tea, they were all deaf; but at supper—which was at the Ship at DOVER—each man reassumed his character, the better to play his part in a farce they had concerted among them. When they were ready to go to bed, CIBBER called out to the waiter—
'Here you fellow!—take out my teeth.'
"Teeth Sir!"
said the man.
'Ay, teeth Sir. Unscrew that wire, and you will find they'll all come out together,'
After some hesitation, the man did as he was ordered. This was no sooner performed, than a second called out
'here you—take out my eye.'
"Lord Sir,"
said the waiter,
"your eye!"
'Yes, my eye. Come here you stupid dog—pull up that eye-lid, and it will come out as easy as possible.'
This done, a third cried out
'here you rascal—take off my leg.'
This he did with less reluctance, being before apprized that it was cork, and also conceived that it would be his last job. He was however mistaken. The fourth watched his opportunity, and while the poor frightened waiter was surveying, with a rueful countetenance, the
eye, teeth,
and
leg,
laying upon the table—cryed out, in a frightful hollow voice,
'come here Sir—take off my head.'
Turning round, and seeing the man's head shaking like that of a mandarine upon a chimney piece, he darted out of the room—and, after tumbling headlong down stairs, he ran about the house, swearing that the
gentlemen
up stairs were certainly all
devils.
This is a proper place to notice that at WORCESTER a
madman
took a great liking to me. He is perfectly harmless, and suffered to go to all their public entertainments. He promised to subscribe five thousand pounds towards building me a room, and said Mr. PITT would repay him out of the overplus after saving the million a year. I should not have mentioned this man but for one circumstance. He calls himself Sir EDWARD MASON, Knight of the poker—carrying a large one constantly in his button hole—and has badges of distinction sewed all over his clothes. Asking him how he came by a fine star upon his sleeve—
'Sir,'
said he, the KING OF PRUSSIA—the KING OF PRUSSIA—last battle—mark of
'honour—he and I—fought the whole army—killed, conquered, and plundered—tied the commander to a tree—robbed him of
forty thousand pounds
—and his WATCH.'
Thus, how naturally he consolidated the characters of
warrior
and
thief.
Having been on a flat sandy soil ever since we left Shropshire, we began to look about us in our way to NOTTINGHAM—where there are certainly many picturesque views—and, for people not just come—as we were—from the borders of WALES—for I affronted a Welch waiter in Monmouthshire, by asking him if we might not call ourselves in WALES—to which he answered—
'Cot pless hur and luff hur, to be sure it is
Waales,
but it is not
Welch Waales
look you.'
NOTTINGHAM castle is a very handsome object, and the uniformity of the piazza in the market-place, gave me an idea of its being a very likely town for my purpose—but I was born to bear and laugh at disappointments—as you shall hear.
We are told that NOTTINGHAM was, by the
Saxons,
called SNOTTINGHAM; upon which word one might so pun as to make it truly describe the inhabitants; for they are a kind of
mucus,
which, though useful in the general work of commercial circulation, cannot avoid being in itself
nasty.
After having consulted with Master BURBAGE, the printer, I thought it necessary to see Mr. MAYOR, who passed by the shop door as we were talking, and, at BURBAGE's desire, walked in. I do not recollect the gentleman's name—but, having told him my business, he exclaimed
"niow, you actor man, what would you
hay?
I hope you don't coom with ony
drooms
and
troompets?
"
'What Sir!'
said little BURBAGE,
'drums and trumpets! Mr. DIBDIN with drums and trumpets! Good God, Mr. MAYOR! Sir!—why Sir!—drums and trumpets!—do you know the price is half-a-crown?—you don't know Mr. DIBDIN—how could you—Lord have mercy! Mr. MAYOR—drums and trumpets!'
"Well, well, well, well"
—cried the MAYOR
"I do not know about these things, but I don't want a hooboob in the tiown. Will you onswer that it wawnt corrupt the morals of the prentices and the work folk?"
BURBAGE undertook for me—but not till he had completely gone over the business of the drums and trumpets once more.
After Mr. MAYOR had retired—quite satisfied no doubt with having shewn his consequence, and great regard to the morals of the SNOTTINGHAMITES—I enquired of my friend, little BURBAGE, how the taste of the town stood in relation to entertainments, and he very honestly told me that if I would advertise to swallow pins or eat burning tow, I should stand a better chance than by furnishing any thing that appealed to the understandings and liberal feelings of mankind.
'Or suppose'
—said he—
'you was to let them come in gratis at a shilling a-piece.'
I could not possibly conceive what he would be at. Upon asking him to explain—
'Oh,'
said he,
'the CHEVALIER TAYLOR practised such a
manoeuvre
with wonderful success.—He wrote a letter indiscriminately to every inhabitant of NOTTINGHAM—saying—that he would give a lecture on the eye
gratis.
His room was not only thronged, but every lady made a point of dressing herself in her best, in return to the CHEVALIER's politeness. They were first admitted into an outer room, and attended by a kind of master of ceremonies, who informed them, with great good breeding and deference, that as the lecture the CHEVALIER meant to give was very abstruse, and could not possibly be rendered familiar to the comprehension of such as did not anatomically understand optics—his employer, the CHEVALIER, had with great condescension and good nature caused a book to be printed which would clearly explain the most difficult passages of the lecture, even to the meanest understanding; that, indeed, this book was worth
half a crown
—but the CHEVALIER, determined in all things to shew his candour and disinterestedness—would have the very great kindness to sell it at no more than
one shilling.
Some few murmured, but the major part bought the book; and thus the crafty CHEVALIER put in his pocket about five hundred shillings, through an impudent stratagem, when, by the common mode of advertising two shillings admittance, he would have been a fortnight receiving five pounds. God,'
said little BURBAGE—for he is a talkative, goodnatured fellow—
'I'll tell you another story of the CHEVALIER. He bespoke a wig, Sir—a tie wig—of a poor, harmless fellow—a barber here in our good town of NOTTINGHAM—and went away to LOUGHBOROUGH without it. It happened to be market-day—I had some business at LOUGHBOROUGH, and I
sees
a fellow stalking along, with a devilish great bandbox under his arm. I thought I knew him—and who should it be but our barber—shaves me—makes my wigs. All he is angry at is—that I wear my red cap so long in a morning, that I make
one
wig serve the time of THREE. Well, Sir. Who the devil are you looking for? says I. Why, says he, the CHEVALIER TAYLOR—the poor, dear gentleman forgot his wig. Good lack! And you have been so civil to tramp with it sixteen miles after him. Very kind indeed. Well, but Master BURBAGE, 'twas worth while—a deal of money. To make short of the story to you, Sir. The
barber
carries the wig to the
Chevalier.
What do you call this? says the
occulist.
A wig, Sir, says the barber. A wig! Why 'tis no more like a wig than a cabbage. The hair is frizzled and crampt, and hedge-hogg'd, and porcupin'd—Oh take it away! In short, after having so abused it that he almost persuaded the barber to be out of conceit with it himself—he offered about a fourth for it of what they originally agreed for; and at length the poor shaver—rather than carry back a wig that would suit nobody else—received the money, and they parted.'
Thus was the CHEVALIER collectively and individually too cunning for the fraternity of stocking weavers. I could not, however, buckle to any thing that carried with it the face of an imposition, and therefore thought but little of my chance. As, however, I had incurred some expence, I resolved to perform—but so determined were they—this time—not to be tricked, that if I had not actually held out a
manoeuvre
—though a very honest one—I should have made nothing of NOTTINGHAM. So much had they the old proverb with them.
Adieu.
Yours, very faithfully, C. DIBDIN.
Leeds,
February
11, 1788.
LETTER XXXI.
ON INCREDULITY.
"
I pray you, think you reason with a Jew?
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
THE old contemptible business of supposing me an impostor was brought up at NOTTINGHAM. The report had gone out, and one WISE gentleman assured me that he had seen Mr. DIBDIN, in
a black wig,
three years before, at the
Circus.
Finding matters were taking an unpleasant turn, I advertised that—as I understood such a rumour had prevailed, and as it was a very serious thing for me that it should be cleared up—if any at the end of the entertainment should feel the smallest difficulty to believe that I was in no respect an impostor, their money should be returned. This brought me a good room, and ten minutes had not passed before I plainly saw all their doubts were vanished. At the place I generally pause, many apologies were made me; to which some spirited officers present answered, that
'the best thing they could possibly do was to be totally silent, for the utmost in their power to say would rather aggravate than lessen the absurdity of their conduct.
I introduced, upon this occasion, in the
Readings,
what follows. The poet related a whimsical distress he had once laboured under. Said he
'I once took it in my head to deliver a little entertainment, at different places, which I called
Readings
—and, being possessed of good professional reputation, it was sometimes suspected that a man of my standing would not think such an experiment worth his while—and, in consequence, I was now and then treated as an impostor, for—as one may say—personating myself. This induced me to relate, to my next audience, the following poetic tale.'
IN ROME, where arts spring up, 'tis said,
As spawn shoots in a mushroom bed—
Two theatres of some renown
Aspir'd alike to please the town,
Both—on the plan of ours in LONDON—
Were sometimes rich, and sometimes undone;
Were sometimes empty—sometimes cramm'd—
And prais'd and censur'd—puff'd and damn'd.
Alike their fortune and their fame
Till, as we hear, one ROSCIUS came,
At a high salary engag'd,
The wond'ring town to see him rag'd;
Actor did ne'er such numbers draw—
For, was his part to kick a straw,
Or frown his fearful monarchs dead,
Or dance—or stand upon his head—
Fame spoke him the theatric king,
And all the world came in a string.
'What can be done'—said th' other house,
'We play—but don't receive a souse;
'Our last new thing no soul would sit it!'
Cry'd a performer—"Zounds I've hit it!
"The rage is now to hear this prig
"Take off
the squeaking of a pig:
"Let us stick up in large black letter,
"That we can
do the pig
—MUCH BETTER.
So said, so done—the bills are stuck,
The town with consternation struck,
Better than ROSCIUS! Insolent!
But 'tis a step they may repent!
The night arriv'd—and in a swarm,
The audience throng'd—a boding storm
Hung hov'ring on each sullen brow—
The house is still as death—and now,
While fearful preparation's making,
The humble actor comes on quaking—
Thrice low he bows—then silence breaking,
Instant the audience hear a squeaking.
But what's heard next!—groan, hiss, and scoff,
The stunning catcal—off—off—off.
Noise follows noise—shout echos shout,
And all the ladies are turn'd out.
At length, by dint of right ability,
Patience—mild gesture—and humility,
After an hour's stout persevering,
Th' intrepid actor gain'd a hearing.
His words were; "Gentlemen, don't grudge,
"In this case, for yourselves to judge.
"If he in whom you so delight
"Outsqueaks the squeaking of to night,
"I can but say, that aping elf
"Squeaks better than the pig himself."
This said—he takes, to crown the joke,
A pig from underneath his cloak.
But he had better sav'd the trouble,
The clamour instantly was double;
Sconces were broke—benches pull'd down,
And planet-struck, throughout the town,
Wailing, ran routed kings and queens,
While in a bonfire blaz'd the scenes.
To men, who will persist in error,
Say, who shall dare to hold a mirror.
From honest common sense and reason,
All arguments were out of season;
And while the frenzy rages high,
Fair truth itself shall seem a lie.
From self-conviction, then, be wise—
The task's not hard—believe your eyes.
I thought my business was now to make an honourable retreat; which I did, having previously agreed—with the only gentleman who paid me any thing like attention—to return in the month of November, when it was imagined they would think I did them a favour, and consequently make up for their former neglect. Whether this was a reasonable conjecture or not will appear in due time.
On the following Thursday we arrived at that pretty, clean town NEWARK. I made some enquiries concerning the place, and found little prospect of performing to advantage, therefore, after dining at the
Kingston's Arms
—the history of which house I shall give in its place—on the best cutlets that ever were eaten, we extended our journey to LINCOLN, where we put up at the
Rein Deer.
I could make nothing at all of this place. Every thing seemed so grave and inanimate that I conceived it would be a great folly to stay. This resolution was accelerated by finding that the corporation was in a sort of demur about the propriety of my performance. I might however have been assured that every thing was perfectly safe when they sent a message by the waiter to invite me to supper. I nevertheless excused myself, and though the MAYOR told me I might
act
whenever I pleased, we left LINCOLN, passed through SPITAL, BRIGG, and BARTON, and arrived in the afternoon—after a very good passage across the HUMBER—at HULL.
Here I was to be introduced to a gentleman who could give me every possible accommodation for my entertainment, and, on my friend's account, was to do this gratis. According to custom however I was to be disappointed. This gentleman was then in LONDON, nor did he arrive in time to do me any material service, so that this part of the world—which I expected would do such great things—failed; nor could I, in four nights at HULL, and three at BEVERLY, muster more than my expences.
In my next letter, I shall carry you a longer circuit to as little purpose; all which loose matter I shall bring to an end as soon as possible, that I may not tire either you, or my readers in general, with repeated ill success—upon which indeed I should be silent, if I did not conceive it my duty to set down every thing. As to the men of NOTTINGHAM, I made up my mind to their incredulity, as firmly as
Antonio
did to the arguments of
Shylock
; which had not more of cruelty, than the declaration I now make you—has of kindness—that I am
Most heartily, Yours, C. DIBDIN.
Newcastle,
Feb.
17, 1788.
LETTER XXXII.
A LONG DANCE WITHOUT A FIDDLE.
"
For this, among the rest, I was ordain'd.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
AT HULL, my friend left me, with a view—as his affairs in town pressed his return—to prosecute the remainder of his journey with more expedition than my scheme would permit. From HULL I went to YORK, where I performed, by way of essay, without mentioning any specific time. I was tolerably attended, and a gentleman—in the name of the rest—advised me, as the oratorios at DONCASTER were to be in the following week, not to do any thing more at YORK till they should be over. I took his advice, and went to MALTON and SCARBOROUGH. At the first place, I received many promises, which, as they were made by the parson and the attorney, it is not wonderful that they came to nothing. At SCARBOROUGH nobody would stir without the DUCHESS OF RUTLAND; and as I had neither time nor interest to conciliate her patronage, I returned with my jaunt for my pains. At my next essay at YORK, the company were to be sure returned from DONCASTER—but they were not recovered from their fatigue. I therefore—to give them a little more breathing time—was coaxed into another excursion, and promised great things on my return.
My intention was to have a few nights alternately at LEEDS and WAKEFIELD. Having however a very thin audience indeed at the first place, and being out of temper with YORK, I went, by the advice of a clergyman at WAKEFIELD—in whose company I had the pleasure of passing some happy hours—to SHEFFIELD. Having however very little time to spare—this being the fifteenth of October, and my advertisements standing for the eighteenth at YORK, I performed two nights—one of which was a very decent one—and received so much private and public civility, that I promised, when the players should be gone—which was not expected to be till after Christmas—to return. Coming back to WAKEFIELD, I had a third night, which was a very good one. At SHEFFIELD I met with Dr. MILLER of DONCASTER, and Mr. F. SHARP of GRANTHAM, both of whom gave me warm invitations to their respective towns, which you will find, in the sequel, I accepted.
I shall not say a word at present of these different places—having to touch at them again—not even of YORK, to which I returned to worse purpose than ever, and left it in disgust. From thence I went to BEVERLY, to call a council of war with my friend SOUTHERN, to whom I shall introduce the reader. This gentleman has the whole business of HULL and BEVERLY as a dancing master—a character not always worthy a conspicuous situation—but here, and in the instance of Mr. SOUTHERN's son, at WAKEFIELD—who I could not place before his father—remarkably so.
Mr. SOUTHERN is no foreign impostor, of which description—to the disgrace of our schools, the injury of the scholars' morals, and too often the destruction of family peace—this kingdom swarms.
I must confess I never feel any thing like satisfaction at the distress of others, except when these frontless gentlemen meet with men as crafty as themselves. There are instances, however, when foreigners are as much imposed on in ENGLAND, as ENGLISHMEN are in FRANCE—and the following is one of them. FIERVILLE, who, wallowing in English riches, did not—like his countrymen in general—retire and laugh at his patrons; but gave into every extravagant folly he could devise; had, among the rest, a MENAGERIE, and would give any sum for extraordinary objects to fill it. This a certain dealer in wild beasts and foreign birds—not far from the top of the
Haymarket
—hearing, he demined to make something out of FIERVILLE. For this purpose, he called one day at his country house—accompanied by a man with a large basket—and desired to speak with him. Being shewn in, he accosted FIERVILLE—
'Servant Sir, hearing as how you was a gemmen worry fond of curiosities, I have brought you two of the most beautifulest birds in the whole world.'
"I am very glad to see you Sare,"
said FIERVILLE,
"Vill you please to tell me vat it is."
'Why you must know Sir I have had a lord or two after them, and several fine ladies, and I believe one duchess—but I loves the foreign gentlemen d'ye see, by reason all my goods come from abroad—and so Sir I had rather you should have these PINK GEESE of mine than another.'
"PIG GEESE! God bleash me, I was never hear of Pig Geese."
'Why no, please your honour, Sir—they be'nt a common thing. No, no, 'tis well known I deals in nothing but kurus affairs; so you fee if you likes it they be yours for twenty guineas.'
"Vell dat is not great deal of monies indeet. When will you please Sare to let me see dem?"
'Why lord love you they be without here. BOB bring in the basket. There Sir—you never sawed a statelier finer bird in the whole course of your life.'
"Pon my vord hiss very hansey indeet. Cot bleash my soul it is all over sine ret! How much you say
twenty guineas?
Vat I shall do? I must have the geese—but I got no monies."
O Lord never mind that! I don't want 'money. There is two sine cows and a calf under the window, I'll take they for the
geese.
'
FIERVILLE, who was in deep contemplation on the beauties of his new acquisition, exclaimed
"pless my soul well tought—you shall have dem. Here Chon! Go kif that gentleman dat koes and de kofe."
In short, the man drove away the cows and the calf, and left the
pink geese
behind, which were deposited in an outhouse till a proper place could be prepared for them. The next morning a friend of FIERVILLE—a blunt honest fellow—came to visit him, on whom he opened immediately—
"Ah my teer friend, I haf de most crate curiosity ever was see. Do you know I have cot two very fine
pig geese.
"
'
Big geese!
'
cried the other,
'so have I twenty; what the devil curiosity is there in that?'
"No, no, you don't understand—fine colour, ret, peautiful. Come along vid me."
He then took his friend to the outhouse, which having carelessly been lest open, the geese had made their escape. After a close search for some time, they found them feeding in an adjoining paddock, but it having rained in the night, the
pink geese
were become as
grey as a badger
—and nothing could have discovered they were the same but now and then a little red spot under the wings.
'Why damme'
cried the friend,
'you have been imposed upon—these are nothing but a couple of common grey Lincolnshire fen geese.'
"By cot,"
said FIERVILLE,
"he vas ferry fine ret indeet last night. Hole your tongue, perhaps by um by he come ret again."
'Red again!'
said the friend,
'why you are a damned fool—the fellow has imposed upon you, I tell you. What did you give pray for this pretty bargain?'
"Two koes and a kofe."
After reprobating FIERVILLE's credulity in pretty strong terms, his anger all turned on the bird merchant, who he swore should smart for this impudent fraud. To put his design in execution, he went immediately to him, and having threatened to take him before Sir SAMPSON WRIGHT, procured a restitution of fourteen pounds—the sum for which it was pretended the cows and calf were sold.
There is another anecdote of this same monster-monger.—He sold to a lady of distinction a number of what he called JAVA SPARROWS, which were of course no more than common ENGLISH SPARROWS stained a fine blue. At the time of their moulting they became exactly like other SPARROWS, when, being sent for and taxed with the imposition, he had the address to make it believed that it was the climate and the common food of birds in this country that made them degenerate; and, that if they were carried back to JAVA, they would infallibly recover their former beauty.
He is an honest, plain, unaffected, well-meaning man—is a father himself—has brought up a large family creditably and industriously, and therefore proper to have the care of youth entrusted to him. He is universally beloved, and his company—for he is remarkably cheerful and hearty—every where courted. His advice and his influence has been of great use to me, for there is scarcely a place in Yorkshire, since I first left BEVERLY, where his name has not done me service.
My journey to BEVERLY—as I before remarked—was more for a consultati on than from any prospect of success. Mr. SOUTHERN, however, had—previous to my arrival—consulted with all the principal people, and I was to be invited, as soon as I came, to a supper, in order to form the best possible plan for making me two good nights. Out of
nineteen,
however, who attended the
supper,
but
four
came to the
performance.
I must not neglect to say that Mr. ACKLUM, Mr. HARDEN, then the
Mayor,
and some few others, merit my acknowledgments for their attention; but as to the rest, they had skimmed the cream of the entertainment for nothing, and how could I be such an ideot as to suppose they would afterwards be contented to pay for the skimmilk. But—
"for this among the rest I was ordained"
—and so I was to tell you very frequently, but always truly, that I am,
Yours, most fervently, C. DIBDIN.
Newcastle,
February
16, 1788.
LETTER XXXIII.
THE SOLICITUDE OF A FRIEND.
"
I should not call you scoundrel, if I did not love you.
"
To Mr. DIBDIN.
DEAR SIR,
GO to INDIA—dig in mines—tempt any danger—do any thing to better your fortune—to place yourself beyond the power of such humiliation! I declare to heaven I could not
sustain
the mortifications that you have
smiled
at, let what might be the consideration. The nasty
Snottinghamites
alone would have sickened me to such a degree, that when I appeared before them, it would have given me all the qualmishness and have produced all the effect of an emetic. And yet you promised to return. It will disappoint me, and—though I warmly wish you well—displease me, if it produce any advantage to you.
What shall I call you? That you are susceptible—quickly, vividly so—I am convinced; and yet, where sensibility might laudably, honestly take fire, you exhibit a stoicism beyond all example. I cannot comprehend you. I have traced you now, since you first corresponded with me, nearly fourteen hundred miles. What to do? It is impossible it can have been worth your while. Can the conversation and attention of a few individuals of taste and discernment, approach any thing near to an amends for all the contumely heaped on you by the suspicions of a set of people who have placed you in every unpleasant point of view, and who believe nothing but that you levy contributions among them. Have I not myself seen doubts and difficulties started in every corner of the room; nods, winks, and shrugs have gone round, and when at last in spite of their teeth they have been obliged to confess their suspicions were invidious and unhandsome, their self-conviction has put them so out of humour with themselves, and the tardy lagging justice came out in so reluctant a concession, that they seemed to wish you had been proved an impostor rather than that their own ignorant and illiberal suspipicions should be falsified?
If you restrain your real feelings to teach you patience, give you fortitude, and brace your mind to an endurance, and make it up to all the consequences, of your intended voyage, you must have a philosophic heroism but little known, and less practised. In which case—and indeed in any case—I now give you leave to go to INDIA; where a small part of this perseverance—I should think—must enable you to return in comfort, and enjoy years of
happiness,
sweetened with INDEPENDENCE: which desirable situation no man more truly wishes to see you in than,
My dear Sir,
Your faithful and obliged friend, *****
Feb.
12, 1788.
LETTER XXXIV.
THE DUTY OF A PUBLIC MAN.
"
Fame's an echo.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
YOUR last letter is so pointed that I shall stop short my narrative to answer it, and that the world may be in better possession of the subject, I have a printed proof of it before me.
You have taken more pains to abuse me than I have to deserve it, and I could silence all that warmth and vivacity in which you calumniate me under the title of a susceptible stoic, by singly asserting that I am a PUBLIC CHARACTER.
'Good God!'
say you,
'
so am I.
'
Have patience.
You
can dictate to your audience; you can win them, by honest and fair persuasion, to a discharge of that duly without the exercise of which they can neither be good men nor valuable citizens. But—admirable as your doctrines are—do you think no pulpit oration of yours has been criticised? Did you never see a guttling alderman asleep—while some fortune hunter was making love to his daughter—in one of your very best sermons? When you have strove with benevolent mildness to inculcate the principles of reasonable religion, and blend public worship with private morality, were you, upon your honour, never blamed for tameness and insipidity, and censured for not frightening your hearers into a sense of their miserable sinful condition, by lowering out damnation with uplifted hands?
A field preacher is not fairly inducted into his calling till he has been forty times stunned with brick bats and blind puppies. But this is nothing to what is every day sustained by men in much more conspicuous situations than you or I. Is Mr. Fox's poisoned bag forgot? the difficulty with which Mr. PITT made his escape from the grocers' company? or the dingy appearance of Lord JOHN CAVENDISH after he had been rolled in the kennel at YORK. Beside, these matters fluctuate. What is a mark of disgrace at one time, shall, at another, be a badge of honour; and it has been often seen that a man who has been pelted with dead cats to-day—by the hands of the MOB—has, to-morrow, received a ribbon at the hands of his SOVEREIGN.
A French author—by way of commenting on general manners—carries several different characters to a variety of parts; and, among the rest, places them among a horde of savages. Doubtful what may be their reception, they consult together what to do—lest, by some mistake in their mode of addressing the natives, they my get murdered. At lungth a CARTHUSIAN MONK—who has observed that in their ceremonies they use among one another are mixed many extravagant actions and gesticulations—goes up to their chief, and having sworn at him in a good round hand, brandished a cudgel over his head, kicked him in the guts, and spit in this face, the whole troop pay homage to the strangers, and they are treated with every possible civility while they remain among them.
Shew me the most fulsome puff you ever saw to prop a sinking play, or recommend a faded actress, and I will shew you an advertisement from a parliamentary candidate to match it. How completely has CHURCHILL written a lampoon on himself in the
Conference.
I think it is the paragraph which begins with that nonsensical distich
"May I—can greater ill mankind befal—
"Be born a WHITEHEAD and baptiz'd a PAUL."
He goes on enumerating what, in his idea, contains the sum total of
opprobrium
and
obloquy,
and finishes with saying—that the friendship of one WILKES will make—amends for all. In another place—and I believe another poem—he pants for fame, and fondly fancies that some one straying in the church-yard where he lies buried, shall read his works over his grave, by way of
epitaph.
No bad stroke of vanity by the bye for the
manly
CHURCHILL. But how would his dust feel if the gentleman by accident should hit upon—
the above quotation!
Every man has his motives for his public conduct; mine are—notwithstanding the conjectures of a few unbelieving individuals—neither more nor less than those I announce. I will be free to acknowledge that, in the prosecution of my scheme, I have met with sore disappointments: but these are the very spurs, the very incentives to a further pursuit. If I had retired upon meeting a rebuff or two what would have been the conclusion of my enemies?
'This man fondly fancied himself a favourite of the public, but they have convinced him they do not care three-pence about him.'
Having persisted, they will see that it has procured me such friends as will silence the tongue of envy, and blunt the poisoned arrows of malignity. If CHURCHILL gloried in his WILKES, what must I do when I can name more than twenty who
really possess
those valuable mental requisites which in his favourite he
doatingly fancied.
The firm attachment and persevering kindness of that gentleman alone who made with me a circuit of more than seven hundred miles—first left me at HULL, and afterwards took his final leave at YORK—is more than enough to compensate for all the arrogance, ignorance, and empty consequence that have disgraced those who could not distinguish between a fair and liberal compact with the public, and the dirty impudence of a depredating itinerant. It is true I did not acquire this gentleman's friendship in consequence of my tour; I have possessed that pleasure for some years; but it confirmed and strengthened it. So many mortifications has he been witness to and so much has he pitied and commended me for a temporary perseverance—as the foundation of ultimate independence—that I am sure I have secured his valuable esteem upon so firm and permanent a basis, that nothing can shake it. Let me here assure him that the many and handsome instances of broad and generous liberality that I have repeatedly received, both at the hands of his father and himself, neither time nor distance shall erase from my memory, and that I never employed any moment to more grateful or pleasurable advantage than that when I have endeavoured to promote their interest; which, after all, is but a mutual obligation between them and the public. Many other very marking traits of friendship and attention you have already seen, and many more are to come; among which I cannot help noticing the kindness of a small number in LONDON, where I protest I began to fear I had scarcely a friend. The many struggles I have there made to enfranchise myself from the shackles of dependence—the general, hurtful, falacious opinion, that I have often had fortune in my power, but have wantonly and prodigally spurned the courteous benefit,
The truth of this will he seen by an estimate of my pieces, which having explained to a friend, he assured me he thought it an information of a most
important
nature to the PUBLIC.
laid so firm a foundation for the dexterous exertions of slander, that, like the mutilated picture of PRAXITILES, I conceived myself, in LONDON—where any man's fame can be murdered with impunity—to have been all
one blot.
Happily however, through the filth and dirtiness of all the malice sputtered out by irritated dulness and bursting envy, a chosen few have been able to discern the neglected condition of an inoffensive traveller, and—like the good Samaritan, opened their hearts to a sense of his ill treatment. Not that I mean to paint my case as a deplorable one. No, pride and my good spirits forbid it; but there is—as I have remarked before—something for me so winning, so warm, so exhilirating, in spontaneous goodnature, that I receive from it the same cheering and invigorating ray of genial comfort that a plant imbibes from the cherishing influence of the sun. I shall hereafter particularize some of the instances to which I here only allude; and will conclude this letter, while my heart is full of the kindness of my
friend
and
fellow-traveller
above, with saying, that though I consider
"fame as an echo,"
and—as much as SHAKESPEARE—hold it ridiculous to
"seek the bubble reputation in the cannon's month;"
yet I hope demeaning myself with proper humility, as a public character, will not render me unfit for the duties of private friendship, or induce me to make an ill use of fortune, should it ever be in my power. Those will best command who know how to obey, is an established maxim; and I believe the best command and obedience within the exercise of the human mind, is a peremptory subduction of all feelings but those which tend to the expansion of the heart, and promote the wide and benevolent circulation of universal liberality, and an implicit submission to all those moral duties which soften the manners, humanize the soul, and impel us to beneficent acts of general fraternal kindness that can alone
dignify reason,
and lift us into MANLY PREEMINENCE.
Adieu.
Yours, ever and truly (Though indeed one implies the other) C. DIBDIN.
Newcastle,
February
19, 1788.
LETTER XXXV.
A STORM IN A DUCK-POND.
"
Blow winds and burst your cheeks.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
HAVING pretty well—I hope—quieted your scruples in my last letter, I shall now proceed in my narrative, which—like the man with a black and white coat in the masquerade—sometimes presents you with one colour and sometimes another. You have seen the black side too much, I confess, but in future the white will be predominant. I have men to introduce you to, who will convince you that honest-hearted liberality is not extinct;—but they are stars that can shine without any borrowed lustre, and therefore let them come in their place.
At BEVERLY I first issued my proposals for printing this work; after which—taking one night at HULL—I passed on to LINCOLN, where my friend SOUTHERN was told—on his return from LONDON—they would be glad to see me. On the fourth of November—falling on a Sunday, and being exactly ninety-nine years since the memorable revolution—the wind being almost due south, very strong and squally, accompanied with a severe and incessant rain. I set sail from HULL to BARTON. Nor is all this preparation unworthy the occasion. I am sure I shall endure nothing in my voyage to INDIA that will exceed what I then experienced; for if it did, we should be all past endurance. ANSON, it is said, was in the same situation, and was heard to exclaim, that
"he feared, after having been safely round the world, it was his fate to be drowned in a fish-pond."
But he escaped, and so did I, which I believe is all we can either of us say. But to proceed.
As we were getting out of the harbour, a man fell overboard from a brig which lay very near us, and disagreeable as the weather was, three or four boats hastened immediately to his assistance; but will it be believed that when they found he was an exciseman, it was with the utmost difficulty they could be prevailed upon to afford him relief. I declare to God I never felt so wretchedly in my life. That private piques between admirals and generals should restrain their public exertions, and so tarnish the glory of nations one does not wonder at: that a judge should recommend a jury to find a man guilty, rather than break through an established
etiquette,
or lose his dinner: that the
ax
should now and then be poised, and the
halter
frequently stretched, and the executioner glory in his dexterity: that a merciless attorney, for the sake of thirteen and four-pence, should coolly advise his client to ruin a whole family: none of these surpise one. But that a set of wretches should mock the agony of an expiring fellow-creature—merely because he was discharging a disagreeable office by the king's authority—is a wanton cruelty so unnecessary and so disgraceful, that I sincerely hope it never was practised before, nor will ever again. The poor exciseman, through much earnest persuasion, was lodged safely in one of the boats; and I had the pleasure, before we got out of the harbour, to see him standing upright. At first, however, he seemed quite gone.
'Damme, the exciseman's dead'
—cried one—
'So much the better'
—cried another—
'he is gone to his father the devil then.'
'No, no'
—said another—
'he stirs, he is only drunk.'
'Ay, ay'
—said a
genteel man
on board our
sloop
—
'he could not help
tasting
; he has been gauging you see the good liquor below. Ha, ha, ha—the dogs always drink more than they measure.'
Many more things were said, equally smart and equally humane. For my part I thought I should stand but little chance by mixing in the conversation—not having wit enough to make calamity a subject of merriment, or stupidity to curb what would have been as impracticable a task as commanding the wind to be still which was then whistling in my ear.
This nation pretty well knows that there are no people under the sun possess such consummate subtlety as the ITALIANS.—A man whose name is GRIMANI, after he had been in ENGLAND about a month, happened—as he was strolling about—to find himself near BILLINGSGATE—Seeing him a foreigner, he was presently hustled about; and in short, the fish-women and water-men determined to give him what they called a complete
blackguarding.
—GRIMANI—who scarcely understood a word of English—hearing the word
damn
frequently used—was struck as quick as lightening with an idea that he should conquer them with their own weapons.—He thought he had nothing to do but think of a number of names unknown to the mob—and therefore began—damn CICERO—damn PLUTARCH—damn ARISTOTOLE—damn DEMOSTHENES—damn PLATO—damn ANAXAGERAS—damn SCIPIO—damn HANNIBAL—damn, damn AGAMEMNON—damn, damn ACHILLES—and thus he went on with extreme volubility, throwing his muscles—which was a pretty easy thing to do—into the most frightful contortions, till at length one of the mob cried out
'damme, come along Jack, we stand no chance with this fellow, he blackguards ten times better than any one of us.'
I therefore contented myself with seeing the gasping object of their pleasantry return to life, and when that event was established, sneaked into a corner of the cabbin to ruminate.
The first thing that struck my attention was a dispute between the sailors, whether they should take in two or three reefs in the mainsail and foresail, the majority however—being two to one, for our ship's company consisted of no more than three—was in favour of the two reefs, and presently we were a mile from land. It now blew and rained very hard, and three sailors, who happened to be passengers, came down into the cabin. They were asked by the rest many questions—for an universal terror had began to prevail—and they all agreed that we carried too much sail, but refused to interfere—for they were
"not afraid of weather—beside, it was no concern of theirs."
The dissentient voice upon deck was continually heard to exclaim,
"don't you see what short seas she ships. Damme, my lads, but you'll repent not taking in another reef."
The other two swore she could carry every thing that was set, and declared there was not a cap full of wind, while the first as confidently affirmed 'it blew like the devil.' For my part, I always think that if those who manage the ship do not feel themselves in danger, I have no right to fancy I am; but here being evidently a difference of opinion, and the squalls so frequent, strong, and sudden, I own I began to think, with the sailors below, that there was certainly a chance of
"our being capsized"
—and this I had more opportunity to reflect upon than the rest, being the only one, out of more than forty passengers—
two
of the sailors excepted—not sea-sick; which I have in some moments since lamented—for it has lost me a fine occasion to describe, in imitation of Mr. BARETTI, all the various effects of that important and very delicate embellishment to the observations of a traveller; though, upon second thoughts, I have been consoled with the reflection that it might have tainted my stile in all the rest of my narrative, and made it—like his—as tasteless as warm water.
After our poor little sloop had been buffetted three hours and forty minutes, during which she, above a hundred times, as fairly dived as ever did a duck, our sailors were so kind to run us aground at the mouth of BARTON harbour—the tide however still continuing to flow, we were soon got off, and at length arrived. At which time, the sailors who managed the vessel were not one whit drier than the poor, half-drowned exciseman.
Being safely moored a long side of a cold ham, I left care once more to the winds, congratulating myself that there were yet some desirable considerations for which one would wish to live; one of which has since turned out to be the enjoyment of that kindness you are pleased to afford to
Your obliged, And faithful, humble servant, C. DIBDIN.
Newcastle,
Feb.
20, 1788.
LETTER XXXVI.
A TOUCH OF THE FORECASTLE.
"
That such an oyster-shell should hold a pearl.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
IN the coach which carried me from BARTON to LINCOLN were two of those sailors who came passengers, and who had been sent from LONDON to HULL, and now were returning back to LONDON, in search of a little prize-money, which had been due to them ever since the last war. They said they did not know how such things came about, but it had always been the way to send poor fellows—who earned their little at the risk of their lives—from agent to agent, till what they received was not worth having. To be sure they might have saved their journey; but they thought it was better to see into it themselves than trust their affairs in the hands of those land-sharks, the
lawyers.
When Sir ELIJAH IMPEY was on his passage from INDIA, he continually kept in the cabin from indisposition, while her ladyship was in very good health and constantly on deck. One fine day she coaxed him out to enjoy a little air, and as he was walking the deck—it having blowed pretty hard the preceding day—a
shark
was playing by the side of the ship. Having never seen such an object before, he called to one of the sailors to tell him what it was. Being asked the question—
"why don't you know, an please your honour?"
said honest JACK.
'No'
—said Sir ELIJAH—
'what is the name of it?'
"Why"
—replied the Tar—
"I don't know what name they hail 'em by ashore, but here we call 'em
sea lawyers.
"
That there was something wrong, but they hoped, one day or other, every thing would be righted; for they were sure when his majesty—God bless him—came to know how the poor, honest fellows were served who manned his wooden-walls, some of the understrappers would get a
salt eel.
This was one instance, out of a great many, in which I have had opportunity to notice the strong intellectual feelings of sailors. They are honest and liberal, to a proverb; and it has been remarked, that public depredators, who have gone to church to pick pockets, have been converted into good citizens on the forecastle of a man of war. A friend of mine says,
"their honesty and good sense are fully accounted for, by considering that they have very little commerce with mankind; owing to this they despise money, and therefore have no inducement to become knaves; and as their wants are few, and those soon supplied, they have no occasion to rack imagination to keep up a constant deception in their words and actions. Thus, their ideas go immediately to the point they want to express, and their tongues transmit those ideas faithfully, and without embellishment."
I must do my friend the justice to confess, that he gives us here a very ingenious argument, and for so very extensive a theme, as pithy a one as any of those for which the sailors receive from him such warm encomiums. It is certain, honestly and good sense are very congenial, and I should sooner suspect that an argument, which threw out a strong and brilliant display of logical and rhetorical figures, was calculated to
disguise,
rather than
ornament
THE TRUTH. I have certainly, in the course of an hour, heard a
sailor
utter as many good things—and I am sure with as little affectation—as Dr. JOHNSON. Nor do their technical allusions rob what they say of its beauty.
The character of
Kit Keel,
in the
Touchstone,
came with me—on my return to ENGLAND—in the coach from DOVER to ROCHESTER. His real name is SPRAT, and he is a
pilot
at HARWICH.—The words I there set down, he uttered. And can there be any thing more striking than—
"Money was made for our friends and the landlords along ashore."
Or again,
"My money's my friend's, my heart my wife's, and my life my country's—my name is SPRAT (which he really said) and that's my way of thinking."
I declare I never witnessed a greater fund of wit than that he possessed in my life. Speaking of fashions—said he—
"I'll tell you what. Before I went my last voyage, my POL, d'ye see, stowed every thing snug, the hatches were properly battened down, sail set modesty, used sparingly, decently reefed, nothing shook in the wind, and there was enough spare canvass in the old chest in case of weather. When I came home—only an eighteen months voyage—Damme if I did'nt think I had got among the WANGHEES, or some lubberly, outlandish place, where they dress themselves up in feathers.—There they were—sprit sails and studding sails—every thing set they could carry and more to.—I say.—I expected to see them every minute bottom upwards. Well, thinks I to myself, this won't he the case with my POL.—Would you believe it?—Shiver my jib, if POL was not as bad as the best of 'em. You see, before I sailed, I could take her little tight head, tuck it under my arm, and give her a hearty smack.—Now! Damme, every time I went to salute her, I stuck my eyes full of black pins."
A ship is a glorious epitome of the world; and its management is the strongest instance of ingenuity that human invention has furnished us.
With these sailors in the coach I held some conversation concerning our narrow escape—for they assured me it might be so called—and they said it arose from this: the men who in conduct those passage boats are, in general, tolerable pilots, but bad sailors; they said this I might have noticed, not only by their neglecting to take in more than two reefs, but keeping the sails continually shivering in the wind—by which means we lay at the mercy of every squall, and the vessel had so many different motions that she shipped twice the sea she would have done had they laid her fairly close to the water. I mention this the more particularly because I think it will operate as a good caution to all those who draw the conclusion—which I did—that if the people themselves will venture, the passengers are in no danger; when, at the same time, we have every day so many instances of peoples losing their lives through foolhardiness.
Not a fortnight after I came from HULL, there was an account in one of the papers of
thirteen people
that were lost in crossing the SEVERN
The journey to LINCOLN having been in proportion as disagreeable as the passage to BARTON, I was glad after a slight supper to get to bed—where, the whole night, I was tossing about in the HUMBER, nor could I believe I was really in an inn when I awakened (for never were those lines in
Hudibras
more applicable).
—"On a sudden,
"By a huge clamour and a loud one,
"As if all sorts of noise had been
"Collected into one loud din;
"Or that a member to be chosen,
"Had got the odds above a thousand;
"And, by the greatness of his noise,
"Prov'd fittest for his country's choice."
This noise having awakened me—and I your curiosity—I shall postpone an explanation of it to my next letter, being in the interim
Yours, very faithfully, C. DIBDIN.
Newcastle,
February
21, 1788.
LETTER XXXVII.
ENGLISH AMUSEMENT.
"
Can there be any cause in nature,
"
"
For these hard hearts?
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
I lay I am sure half an hour before I could form the most distant conjecture of what this noise could proceed from. Bells, kettles, horns, hallowing, hooping, huzzaing, by men women and children, conveyed to my drowsy fancy a noise more horrible than did the angry billows which lashed the yawning cavern of the six mouthed SCYLLA to the affrighted mariners of ULLUSSES, for I will not suppose but that HE
delighted in the danger.
At length, by a few oblique words which catched my ear, I was let into the secret. It was the
fifth of November,
and the mob were carrying about a figure of GUY FAUX, which they informed me, when I came down to breakfast, was a ceremony performed on this day at LINCOLN with great
regularity
and
solemnity
; and that there was also to be a bull-baiting at twelve o'clock, and another at four. I enquired particularly
where,
and was told if I wanted places to see it I must be very expeditious, for they were not only dear, but perhaps all bespoke. My answer was, that I only asked that I might avoid so disagreeable a sight. I received nothing but a contemptuous look for my declaration, and was extremely mortified to find that I unfortunately run into the very predicament I was so studious to avoid; for though I did not see the bull
baited,
I was by accident so hemmed in that I could not avoid witnessing the miserable lacerated condition of the poor creature afterwards—and they were then leading him to where he was to be again baited in the afternoon. Heavenly God! I have heard of savages who have tortured their prisoners and afterwards eat them—but I could find something like a motive for this. A bull is baited we are told to make him eat tender—let him be hunted then!—let him become the fair victim of the chace!—let us feel nobly like our ancestors, nor degenerate from the brave EARL OF WARWICK by
cruelly, cowardly
tying a noble animal to the stake, and stimulating a number of peaceful domestic creatures to worry him, that human brutes may relish their dinner! I am told at STAMFORD they let the bull loose after baiting it—if so, I most sincerely hope the next time that event takes place he may toss the first man who sets a dog at him. Lions
tear
their prey, Hyenas
betray
it—but these are provoked only by the calls of hunger. But a wanton unnecessary cruelty—to which there cannot be a possible incentive, but savage hardness of heart—is a
refinement
on brutality reserved alone for the ANIMAL OF REASON; and, to make the case more lamentable, this most contemptible of all unmanly pastimes is the peculiar disgrace of the bravest nation upon earth.
TOM CLOUGH—an under strapper for many years at Drury-lane theatre—was the man of all others who had the truest genuine taste for the English amusements. A cock-fight was his delight—a bull-baiting was to him as delicious a repast as a turtle feast to an alderman—but a hanging match!—He called one morning on a friend to accompany him to Tyburn—which place he as punctually attended as a hypocritical bigot would a place of devotion.—His friend, however, neither chusing to be waked so early in the morning, nor relishing this diversion, gave him a good round volly of abuse, and sent him away. The other giving him a contemptuous look swore he would never speak to him again—
'for damme,'
said he,
'my maxim is never to have any thing to do but with
people of
TASTE.
Mr. CLOUGH's accounts of the conduct of the different COCKS, as he called them—that he had seen
die
—would fill a pretty large duodecimo, which might not be unaptly called
The Newgate Jest Book.
—When I first came to
Drury-lane Theatre,
I used to listen to some of his remarks in the
matted room.
—His doctrine fairly was, that thieves in this country are so little checked in their approach to the gallows, that they go on methodically, professionally, step by step, till they are what the
informers
call worth
forty pounds
; and, as these principles are inculcated from their infancy, they talk as naturally, and with as much unconcern, of their death-bed at
Tyhurn,
as a sailor leaps into that hammock in which he may be sewed up, or a sensualist enters between sarsinct sheets, to press that mountain of down, where he is born to become a prey to the gout or stone.—I shall, upon a future occasion, endeavour to recollect some of his anecdotes—which I truly believe are not exaggerations.—The only execution I ever saw in ENGLAND was at WINCHESTER, when I was about fourteen years old. I declare to heaven I heard one of the poor hardened wretches—not ten minutes before they were turned off,—ask a sheepstealer—his companion—if he should like a bit of mutton. BANNISTER repeats—or has invented—a very witty thing said by Jack Ketch as he was tying the halter. A culprit asked him
'if he had any commands to the other world'
—
"Why"
said Jack,
"not much—I'll—only"
—added he, as he adjusted the knot under his left ear—
"
Just—trouble you
—WITH A LINE."
I performed at LINCOLN three nights—the second of which was tolerably well, but the first and last miserably bad. Dr. KAYE was unfortunately, while I stayed, but a few hours in town. He attended me, however, and had the goodness to send me afterwards a polite invitation, which I am sorry I could not accept. Mr. MONEY, to whom I am almost wholly indebted for the little company I had, gave me proof of as liberal attention as I have any where met with. In short, I believe through that gentleman's means every body was asked, though so very few chose to come. In the round of invitations, however, it would be an unpardonable omission if I neglected to mention the excuse of one gentleman, with whom I
think
I had the honour of riding in the stage coach to NEWARK. This gentleman was pressed very hard to go to my entertainment, and would have been there, he said, with great pleasure if there had been
no music.
I hope this gentleman is a
bull baiter.
At length, being very closely pressed, he said
"you know my
detestation
of
music,
and if you will only prevail on Mr. DIBDIN to introduce something
to abuse it,
in order to give colour to my appearing there, I will go with all my heart."
I hope it will be allowed that this is one of the most curious anecdotes I have yet recorded.
I here pay my acknowledgements to Mr. VANEIL, to whom my friend SOUTHERN introduced me by letter, for his very kind attention to me both at LINCOLN and at NEWARK, in which he did honour to his friends recommendation, and to me particular service.
I must endeavour before I leave LINCOLN to account a little for the capriciousness I experienced. There is a
high town
and a
low town,
and they are as much at variance as the MONTAGUES and the CAPULETS. Thus, the place having separate interests, and, taken aggregately, standing upon a very limited circumference, and containing but a scanty number of inhabitants, it is madness to think of an entertainment there. A playhouse at LINCOLN I should suppose must be in this predicament: if it was situate on the hill, it must be all
boxes
—if under the hill, all
gallery
—and if in the mid-way, all
pit
—and as a playhouse cannot live but by
box, pit,
and
gallery
COLLECTIVELY, I should conceive the last place for the drama in this kingdom is LINCOLN.
From LINCOLN I went to NEWARK, where I performed one night, to a very thin audience, who promised great things if I would return in the course of another week. This being in my power, I did so, and met with no better success. Upon soliciting LADY LINCOLN, however, I received a most generous and elegant answer, appointing a night, and giving me the liberty to make use of her name and LORD LINCOLN's. This produced me as good a night as I believe the place can afford, and manifested one instance—among many I have experienced—that
real
distinction dignifies itself by easy and amiable affability, while all the pride and ostentation of affected consequence—like a deformed figure conspicuously situated—solicits contempt; when, by a decent conscious humiliation, it might command respect. But, it is the nature of folly to expose itself.
I have ever remarked that the crooked women are always the first to go without cloaks, the ugliest to expose their faces, and those with thick legs are sure to wear short petticoats. I am returning to NEWARK, when I shall illustrate this and some other positions; in the mean time, beg your company to NOTTINGHAM, where your warm wishes for my ill success will be fully gratified; where little BURBAGE—after receiving a
good price
for the bills—could not help remarking that it was a damned shabby business. But I believe there is no more cause in nature for
thick heads
than
hard hearts
—therefore, let us blame not those who do not enjoy the pleasures of good-fellowship and sociality equal to ourselves, but rather thank providence for giving us the charming enjoyment of that sort of sensation I feel when I tell you I am,
Yours, very truly C. DIBDIN.
Durham,
February
21, 1788.
LETTER XXXVIII.
A JAUNT FROM POST TO PILLAR.
"
Promise crammed—you can't feed Capons so.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
I thank you for your impromptu—I deserve it and a great deal more
On hearing of Mr.
DIBDIN's
ill success at
NOTTINGHAM.
Were you mad! or bewitch'd!—thus 'mongst nature's worst dregs
The effusions of genius to shed—
Aspiring no higher than sitting of LEGS,
How should they know what's
fit
for the HEAD?
—but one cannot be always infallible. Who, for instance, would have believed that
genteel
DERBY should, on my return, have served me as scurvy a trick as
shabby
NOTTINGHAM. I had the folly to linger on three nights, each of which was to be great things, and turned out nothing at all.
Let me, however, before I mention the particulars of these matters, bring you up—as the sailors say—as to the time and place. My first night at NEWARK was on the tenth of November. I then went to NOTTINGHAM, had one night, proceeded to DERBY, and returned to NEWARK to perform on the
seventeenth
—then, to give opportunity for the night bespoke by LADY LINCOLN, I went to GRANTHAM, and returned to NEWARK for the performance on the
twenty-fourth.
I found DERBY split into factions in consequence of the establishment of a new assembly, the etiquette of which could not be settled to the general satisfaction. One lady was desirous of being queen or conductress, and this gave offence to the rest. Thus, the partizans of Mrs. A. turned up their noses at the friends of Mrs. B. while Mrs. C—whose adherents were also numerous—retorted the contempt upon them both, and in her turn was saluted with a whole volly of gibes and sarcasms by the staunch abettors of Mrs. D. A decent poet might have picked up something tolerable among them for satires and lampoons. How it operated with me is very apparent. Water and oil—fire and ice—modern music and genius—could not be more inimical than were these parties to each other. If I would have performed four times in the day, I might have had them all separately; but together! no consideration upon earth could have induced them to mix. One lady certainly did trifle with me in a strange kind of way—but as no longer ago than yesterday I received intelligence that she subscribes for four copies, I should hope matters were misrepresented to me; for as to her uneasiness lest I should introduce her into my TOUR—which has also been hinted—I cannot suppose she has any apprehensions on that account. To be sure her conduct was a good deal like the ladies at BATH; she did appoint a time for me when nobody could be there, and afterwards made me keep a company waiting more than an hour, under an idea that she was coming at the head of a large party—and, at length, sent word that neither they nor her could attend me—though she knew the performance of that night was an additional one in compliment to her.
The most curious treatment I met with at DERBY was from old surly DREWRY, the printer. This grossly ignorant
man of letters
took it into his head—because I thought proper to pay some attention to Mr. PRITCHARD, who was once under him, and to whom he cannot have the smallest objection, except that he begins very fast to take away his custom—to be offended; and the method he took of shewing his resentment was to charge half-a-crown a hundred for the same sort of bills which he had printed the first time I was there for eighteen-pence. I really thought an
advance
of forty per cent, even in so trifling a business, was worth a remonstrance. This was what he wanted. He boiled with rage, and the truth came out. I asked him how he would like to be put in the TOUR.
"Damme,"
said he,
"clap me up in your
Tower
at your peril."
I told him I always did what I was dared to; and here he may perceive I am as good as my word. My discovery, however, has nothing new in it—his overbearing, purse-proud ignorant consequence, are as much known in DERBY, as the accommodating, modest, and obliging behaviour of MR. PRITCHARD—the object of his envy—and it will have this operation: in proportion as one grows malicious, the other will be prosperous. I mention this circumstance with some regret, as it is the only instance of incivility I have, to this day, met with from printers. To
all
I am indebted for some kindness; to MANY for much civility and kind attention; and to SOME FEW for a liberality and friendly solicitude which will ever make the warmest impression on me; even little BURBAGE—as far as it consists with a
money getting man
—I sincerely believe would do any thing to serve me.
I returned to NEWARK on Friday the twenty-sixth, and took up my abode with honest, worthy JEMMY WALLIS, who keeps the
Wing Tavern
and makes
monuments
—being at once employed on
feasting the living,
and
commemorating the dead.
Nor is he more inadequate to one than the other: his
cellar
is as full of
good wine
as his
head
of
tasty
and
neat ornaments.
But as no man is better beloved, or studied to do me more friendly offices, so my panegyric, even were it twenty times as strong, will answer no other purpose than that of doing common justice to a valuable character. Some indeed may blame me for telling the world of the merits of a man only particularly known at NEWARK—and cry out—
'what is Mr. WALLIS's wine to me, who shall never drink any of it.'
Sir RICHARD STEEL had his ESTCOURT, and why should not I have my WALLIS? No ESTCOURT upon earth ever deserved to be better spoken of. The only difference is, the two pens are not alike equal to the task, which certainly is not an unworthy one, for it has drawn from the editor of the
Spectator
—in that nervous touching eulogium which he concludes with saying the pen drops out of his hand—one of the brightest effusions of his genius. It is true this beautiful glowing tribute of warm friendship to private worth deplores the
death
of ESTCOURT, while WALLIS—though every day recording the deceased virtues of others—keeps a state of robust health that seems, like a towering elm, to defy the depredations of time.
The history of my jaunt to GRANTHAM—during the preparation for LADY LINCOLN's night—was this: I took a letter to a gentleman, who told me he could do me no manner of service; and in particular, that he could not be present on the first night of my performance. Finding, however, that LORD and LADY BROWNLOW and some other people of distinction were there, he came also; but advised me not to have another night till the following week; to which I did
not
consent. He, however, propagated that I
did,
and in consequence nobody attended. This gentleman's kind conduct was owing to his being director of the GRANTHAM concert, and it is evident he feared that if I drew too much company,
his
appearance would be but thin. All this Mr. F. SHARP can testify for me, who was very solicitous to oblige and do me service. This nonsense, and the arrival of the DUKE OF RUTLAND's corpse, sent me back to NEWARK, to prepare for the next Saturday, and set JEMMY WALLIS a cursing the GRANTHAMITES.
From the evening of my performance at the desire of LORD and LADY LINCOLN, I date the commencement of my itinerant prosperity; which—differing from the matter in this letter as widely as
earth
and
air
—will be the subject of another, and I shall finish it, as I do this, with complete sincerity, by assuring you that I am, most faithfully,
Yours, C. DIBDIN.
Durham,
Feb.
26, 1788.
LETTER XXXIX.
LOCAL MATTER.
"
To catch the living manners as they rise,
"
And boldly shoot at folly as it flies.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
AT GRANTHAM, on the 22d of November, I received a letter from Mr. HARRIS, the contents of which I shall defer mentioning till I go over that matter regularly. Before I left NEWARK for GRANTHAM, in order to accommodate LORD and LADY LINCOLN, I made an application respectively to the corporation for use of the assembly room; and having obtained leave
individually,
I was astonished to find, on my return, that
collectively
they objected to it. In consequence of this, I found myself unpleasantly situated. I was relieved, however, from my anxiety by Mr. MIDGELEY, who keeps the
Kingston Arms
; the history of which house, in a former letter, I promised to give in its place. Mr. MIDCELEY offered to let me have his large room gratis, and I accepted the offer; in consequence of which I fancy he expects to be spoken very well of in this publication, and handsomely recommended to the notice of
people of fashion,
whose accommodation—to the great annoyance of
stage-coach travellers
and
bagmen
—he very anxiously studies. I shall, however, go no step further than the truth to oblige all the Mr. MIDGELEYS upon earth. And the truth is this: When I first passed through NEWARK—as I mention in its place—I ate a dinner remarkably well dressed, and in consequence returned to the same house. I then found that the landlord had been cook to the PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES, and that the house was famous for culinary excellence. I therefore indulged myself in two or three favourite dishes, the merits of which I so loudly chaunted the praise of—having eaten them in perfection in FRANCE—that he, I suppose, fancied me UN MY LOR. Finding, however, I was—according to the mayor of NOTTINGHAM—only an
actor man,
I suppose, by what followed, he was determined to be revenged of me for being innocently the cause of his paying me a little respect. He therefore gave me a miserable bad pair of horses to NOTTINGHAM, one of which fell down, and detained me half an hour on the road; and though he promised that he would very faithfully take care of any letters that might be directed for me to his house, yet he refused some that were brought in my absence, which, but for the kindness of JEMMY WALLIS, I should not—without great difficulty—have received. When he found LORD and LADY LINCOLN had bespoke a night, the tables were turned again, and it was impossible, with all his consequence, to put on a more fulsome shew of adulation. If he thought this was the way to procure my praise, he will find, by reading the above, how far he succeeded.
NEWARK, like MALTON, in some degree failed, owing to my having imprudently placed my dependance on a
parson
and a
lawyer
; but, in return, I became acquainted with another attorney, who paid me much attention, and without an interested motive; I therefore record the circumstance according to my promise, as one of those which in all my life—much less during my tour—I have seldom had the good fortune to meet with.
On Sunday the twenty-fifth I arrived at DONCASTER, and that evening paid my respects to Dr. MILLER. I own I had nohopes of this place, and if I had entertained any, they would have been baulked—for it was like DERBY, divided into parties: each of which seemed determined to deprive itself of its own pleasure rather than not disturb the tranquillity of its neighbour.
This instance in country towns of destroying that sociality which they seem so peculiarly situated for the enjoyment of, is astonishing. Some author mentions a circumstance of four persons who were going to the land's end in a stage coach. The first twenty miles they all spoke together; further on they were the best friends in the world, but were content with speaking one at a time; presently they all yawned; by and by fell asleep; and, before they parted, cordially wished one another at the devil. Now all this is natural enough. These people were never to meet again. But the first idea of settling in the country is a sociable neighbourhood; and, as those who are so situated must necessarily be near each other during a number of dull months, common policy would induce them, one should think, to give and receive as much rational pleasure as possible. But pride attends every situation in life. Mrs. DOUBLE TRIPE, the cook, looks with contempt on the scullion. Mrs. HANDY, my lady's maid, addresses Mrs. DOUBLE TRIPE by the title of
good woman.
Mrs. CRINGE, the toad-eater, sneers superciliously at Mrs. HANDY; while she, in her turn, is huffed and dinged about by My LADY, and blamed for putting her out of humour, spoiling her complexion, and losing her lovers. A
corporal
is as proud of relieving a
centinal
as a
general
of commanding an
army,
and a
strolling actor
is as much a monarch for the time being as the EMPEROR of GERMANY.
A foolish
stage-struck
young man ran away from his friends, and got among a most low and miserable set of strollers. A relation, after a time, discovered him just as he was going on to the stage in KING RICHARD; and, on reading him a pretty severe lecture on his folly and disobedience, received an answer suitable to all the ridiculous consequence and assumed pomp of a mock monarch. To which he answered—
'these are fine lofty words but 'tis a great pity, Mr. KING RICHARD, that you could not afford to buy a better pair of shoes.'
The actor looking at his toes, which were staring him in the face—without loosing his vivacity—cried out
"shoes!—Oh damme, shoes are things we KINGS don't STAND UPON."
At DONCASTER the ladies of independent fortune had established an assembly, and finding on a former occasion they were intruded on by others of inferior distinction, they came to a resolution of admitting no tradesman nor any of his family to the assembly. This of course gave umbrage to the major part of the place, who, in return, determined to have an assembly apart. Here for a little time the matter rested, and it must have been no unpleasant thing to see the lower house muster numerously, when the upper house could get scarcely any members to attend it. At length this second assembly began to divide. Miss LATITAT, the attorney's daughter, made Mrs. FRIZ, the barber's wife, no
return
to her curtsey; while Mrs. PTISIC, the physician's lady, sneered at the upstart consequence of Miss BUMPER, the innkeeper's daughter, and wondered that she should have the impudence to
precribe
rules of good breeding to her. A second division was the consequence, and a third meeting formed, which, for distinction, was called the
checked apron assembly.
This caprice destroyed every expectation of enjoyment among them; their meetings being ill attended—and of course unsociable—instead of answering the desired purpose, produced nothing but envy, bickering, and discord; and, were a sample of rational manners to be taken from them, would give an idea that human creatures were born to plague instead of accommodate each other. All this would have been the consequence at NEWARK, which LADY LINCOLN very sensibly foreseeing—with an amiable complacency truly noble—headed the assembly, and dispensed her favours with so equal a hand, that it caused every where an emulation—not to assume false consequence, but imitate true greatness.
DIOGENES being asked how he could live in a
nasty tub,
when he might bask in the favour of a
court,
replied—It is true I am deprived of the smiles of KINGS, but I don't find the
sun
is more ashamed of my
tub
than a
palace.
Yours, very truly C. DIBDIN.
Sheffield,
March
1, 1788.
LETTER XL.
ANOTHER CLERICAL CHARACTER, AND A THOUSAND MUSICAL ONES.
"
While in a heap the jarring atoms lay.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
I shall trouble you with nothing concerning the entertainment at DONCASTER, which I did but twice—each time to a loss. Not, however, to be inconsistent, I stick to my assertion, that my plan began to brighten up at DONCASTER. The business of the subscription went on pretty fast, and I received such good intelligence from WAKEFIELD, LEEDS, and other places, that I could no longer doubt of good success. Besides, DONCASTER introduced me to the intimacy of Dr. MILLER and the countenance of Mr. DRUMMOND, who I sincerely hope will not be offended if, according to my pursuit of common justice, I take the liberty to speak of him. It is not, however, necessary to say much—for, when it is known that a clergyman is venerated by his neighbourhood—that the poor among his parishioners look up to him as a father—that he is the benefactor of merit—the comforter of the helpless—that born largely to enjoy the promiscuous blessings of life, his sole delight is the rational and enchanting pleasures centered in the amiable duties of a husband and a father—and then add that this example of human perfection is no more than
twenty-six
—I believe it will be pretty difficult to advance any thing stronger on the subject. I cannot, however, debar myself the pleasure of relating one circumstance—in corroboration of the above—which happened while I was there. The small pox—of a confluent and fatal kind—had raged very violently and was continually sweeping off numbers of the inhabitants—Mr. DRUMMOND having attended several burials, determined to stop, as much as in his power, the progress of this alarming evil, preached a sermon full of good sense and strong feeling, in favour of inoculation, and afterwards proclaimed that those who chose to have their children inoculated might do so at his expence. So blind, however, is human folly, that but nine applied while I stayed. One poor woman being asked why she did not avail herself of Mr. DRUMMOND's goodness, answered—
'I thank God, my children are all blessed angels in heaven!'
I was in the whole a week at DONCASTER, which I passed very happily, in the company of Dr. MILLER. I know no man of more liberal sentiments, nor whose studies are applied to more worthy purposes. His public letter concerning the
musical fund,
and advice towards the establishment of such an institution in the country, is full of generous, spirited, and sensible remarks; and it will do him lasting honour that his plan has already been in some measure adopted. His institutes are another proof of his wishes to make his abilities of public use. They are a work calculated to reduce the study of music to something like rule, in the nature of a grammar; and for a first attempt in this way—for he was very conscious that any thing of such a kind would be considered as a dangerous innovation—has great perspicuity, and may be made generally serviceable. But here I must tell Dr. MILLER and the public a secret. The masters, as they are called, fearing their mysteries should be revealed, which, like the glorious uncertainty of the law, is the source of emolument, decry this work of his whenever they can, and make their scholars believe it is only capable of teaching them a few superficial rules; whereas their whole fear is, lest it draw aside the veil of imposition, and discover that deception by which they contrive to lead on a scholar, in the course of two or three years, to the knowledge of what they might, upon a plain, easy, simple principle, accomplish in a few weeks. His elements of thorough bass is another ingenious work. He seems to have kept RAMEAU strongly in mind, and he could not—tempered with his own observations—have had a better model. I am only sorry he did not keep to those useful positions which so dumb-found theorists, as they are called—such as maintaining that there is not in the system of harmony any thing more than the common chord and the seventh—since by shewing how abstruse resolutions may be made, every man will not take the matter upon the ground of its being a severe satire on
mere
professors, but suppose he countenances the introduction of such chords. It is certain his book would have tended more to simplify harmony without it. But then he would have had all the cavillers, in full cry after him—and every man is not obliged to set himself the Herculean task of a reformer. He therefore gave them two roads, which—like those of virtue and vice—one is flowery and the other rugged. Perhaps he did wisely. Those who would be pleased with little trouble will chuse
simplicity
for their guide—those who would search and never come to the end of their journey will follow
difficulty.
I cannot introduce
music
so well—for I confess to you I mean now to dwell some time on that subject—as by a description of
musicians
; nor
musicians,
as by speaking of the
musical fund.
This institution is too well known to need a statement of its origin, rise, and progress. The newspapers give frequent accounts of the thousands which are continually pouring into its coffers. But does any one know what becomes of them? Is such an institution worthy the benevolent contribution of hundreds, and the august patronage of a great, powerful—and what is more, incomparably more—a good and beneficent monarch, which suffers the neglected dust of the matchless ARNE to lie without a stone to tell where it perishes? Who can suppress his indignation when he considers that the widow of this great man—old and friendless—applied to this society—so supported, so patronized—and went away with the tear of distress on her check, started by the language of reproof? And what think ye was the excuse for this unfeeling refusal?
'Dr. ARNE had been, it was true, one of the most ancient members of the musical fund; he had many years given it countenance and support; his oratorios had produced it good benefits, and'
—which one would think was a stronger argument than all the rest—
'his catches and glees had caused half the drunkenness and disorder that pervaded their convivial meetings, when the reckoning was paid out of the stock;—but, there was a law which subjected any member to a sentence of expulsion, if he or she should neglect to subscribe his or her quota for four several times; and Dr. ARNE having been in IRELAND, and so guilty of this neglect, he and his were for ever cut off from any claim to be relieved by the fund!'
The widow of MICHAEL ARNE applied with as little success. There was something in this case whispered about difference of opinion in religion. If it be true, it can only be said that the best names may be prostituted to the vilest purposes. It is curious, at any rate, to talk of the religious sentiments of musicians. Harmony, in its extensive and universal acceptation, is certainly allied to a contemplation of that great and expanded symmetry and grace which so wonderfully qualify and knit together the various contrarieties on the face of nature, through the influence of contending elements, into one concordant whole—but for the members of the musical fund to draw an inference from the similitude of music to moral or revealed religion—listen to the calls of humanity—or, indeed, make any use of their stock except to relieve their tools and gratify their own luxurious pleasures—would be a species of harmony beyond their capacity; for it is founded in
nature,
it opens to
benevolence,
and
modulating
through all the fine and exquisite feelings of nice honour and smiling philanthropy, it closes in that best of
keys
—the HEART.
A consideration of Dr. MILLER's public letter, and a further investigation of this
charitable institution,
shall be the subject of my next; after which I shall open my cause in form of NATURE,
versus
THEORY. The first I take to be the state of music after the chaos, and the latter so sweetly described by DRYDEN,
"while in a heap of jarring atoms lay"
—to which state, in the minds of many of its professors, have the want of fancy, the absence of taste, and the dearth of genius, again reduced it—far removed from the harmony of the soul; and, of course, from that pleasure with which I repeat so often that I am,
Most sincerely, Yours, C. DIBDIN.
Sheffield,
March
2, 1788.
LETTER XLI.
CROTCHETS AND QUAVERS.
"
The King should know it.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
DR. MILLER addresses himself, in his first letter, to the noblemen and gentlemen managers of the different festivals in commemoration of HANDEL, praying that the musicians in the country, as well as those resident in LONDON, may be entitled to some relief from that fund which their labours help to accumulate. He truly says, that charity ought not to be confined to any particular place; and urges a variety of strong arguments to support his laudable purpose. His second letter is to the directors of
the fund
itself—whom he advises to admit regular country musicians as members. He strenuously appeals to their feelings as men and professors of the same art—instances the numerous charities for whose emolument musicians perform gratis. He exclaims,
"unfortunate professors of a noble science! Unhappy sons of an unnatural parent! who, while she procures wealth and comfort to others, suffers her own children to pine in misery and want!"
This effort to procure relief for country musicians is however as extravagantly absurd, as it is nobly liberal. What have the noblemen and gentlemen to do with dispensing the profit of the Abbey festivals? It is sifted as often as flour, and—according to honest JOE—it would be wonderful if some of it did not stick by the way. I have had very particular opportunity to notice, that if nothing else disgraces the king's patronage in the business of the festivals, the paltry haggling bargains that are made with the country musicians—and all in the names of these noblemen and gentlemen who know nothing about it—are a scandal to any set of men who boast the smallest pretensions to exercise a liberal profession. In short, it is—like every thing of that kind—a job. And how should it be otherwise? Instead of placing at the head of it such men as Dr. HAYES and Dr. BURNEY, the power is vested in subordinate musicians; who, like COLONEL COCKBURN, never get rid of the
black hole,
the
gin,
and the
cat-o'nine-tails.
This
noble commander,
because he could not conceal it, was continually boasting of his rise from a private man. His constant expression was,
"did you ever see me do so and so when I was a private soldier."
One day, in the island of St. EUSTATIUS, as he was reviewing the troops, he took notice of a man in the ranks who was very dirty. Going up to him—said he,
"How dare you appear in that nasty condition—your shirt's as black as ink! Did you ever see me with such a dirty shirt?"
'No, your honour'
answered the man,
'to be sure, your honour, I never did—but then, your honour will please to recollect, that your honour's mother—
was a washer woman!
'
And these, by this appointment, are to dictate to men under whose command common policy says they ought to march. Can any thing therefore be so futile and ineffectual as an attempt to turn such a tide as this—over which these men are the moon, and contrive to influence it into that channel where it can ebb and flow at their pleasure.
As to the letter to the directors of the fund itself, how could a man of Dr MILLER's good sense expect to have it noticed? Will a miser spare a single guinea out of his iron chest to save a life, or a drunkard a single drop out of his pint bumper? Poor men! their fund amounts at present but to thirty-three thousand pounds, and I declare—though I have had pretty nearly as much to do with the musical tribe as any man—I do not know at this moment any one object who derives a benefit from this charity.
These letters, however, though they could make no impression on that marble to which they were addressed, nevertheless roused the resolutions of a few hopeless men, who—among a number of others—had been the sport of that ignorant arrogance that distinguishes the
horn
and
kettle-drum,
which make up the factotum of this wisely and honestly conducted institution.
There is a young man whom, from the following circumstance alone, I hope to take by the hand in INDIA. He was bred to music—but seventeen—and fearing the ill consequences of keeping company with musicians in LONDON, he resolved to go abroad—first sending a letter to his father, in which were these words:
"The men I am obliged to mix with are so
ignorant,
so
envious,
and so
profligate,
that I dread, should I stay among them, what might happen to inexperience like mine."
Mr. SMART—who keeps a music shop in OXFORD-STREET, and is also a performer—applied to become a member of the musical fund. Mr. SMART happens to be one of those very few who are blest with good intellects; and it is not wonderful that he should, in his life, have differed in opinion from these consequential musical COCKBURNS, at the head of the harmonic army. There could not be any possibly legitimate reason for getting rid of his application; yet dismissed it must be—
"because why?"
said one,
"if we lets that there feller come among us, damme, but he'll be up to the rig presently."
As my book is to be read at many places in the country, and should not of course be merely calculated for the meridian of LONDON, I may as well write to be generally understood. I have always thought that there is nothing like making a man tell his own story. It is the moment of all others when his heart is most to be seen. His habits, manners, affections, and foibles, are then so exposed that a tolerably sagacious observer may very easily discover the spot where he is most vulnerable; besides, it is unfair to rob a man's expressions of any of their brilliancy. For these and other reasons equally cogent, I shall always endeavour, as strongly as possible, to place my actors within the mental perception of my readers—in the stile however of the ancient drama, acting myself the part of a chorus, by way of giving a general explanation to all those passages that would otherwise be inexplicable, owing to idiom, custom, profession, or locality. The instance above is one of the strongest I shall have the necessity to adduce. There is a language or lingo in LONDON, in the opinion of rhetoricians, of a very beautiful kind—for it is entirely figurative—called SLANG. This PATTER—which is another of its names—is frequently in the mouths of musicians, who, by imitating the inhabitants of St. GILES's—whence this elegant improvement on the vulgar tongue boasts its origin—in their manners, debaucheries, and even the
compilation
of NEW MUSIC, adopt also their very mode of expression. I will not pretend to say that I shall always make myself perfectly clear; but when I find I cannot, I shall have for consolation the recollection that one of these St. GILES's birds once so confounded LORD MANSFIELD, that he was obliged to let him go, without being able to gather any thing from his evidence;—but then this gentleman was an
adept,
whereas musicians, neither in language nor any thing else, aspire to more than
imitation.
The trial was concerning some quarrel in the street, and the KIDDY—the gentleman's
slang name
—was to give an account of all he knew.
"Why,"
said he
"my Lord, as I was coming by the corner of the street, I
stagged
the man."
'Pray,'
said LORD MANSFIELD,
'what is
stagging
a man?'
"
Stagging,
my Lord, why you see, I was
down upon him.
"
—
'Well, but I don't understand
down upon him
any more than I do
stagging
him. Do speak to be understood.'
"Why, you see, my Lord—and please your lordship—I speaks as well as I can. I was
up,
d'ye see me,
to all he knew.
"
'To all he knew! I am as much in the dark as ever.'
"Well, then, my Lord, I'll tell you how it was."
'Aye—now,'
"Why, seeing as how he was a
rum kid,
I was
one upon his tibby.
"
In short, he was sent out of court, and was heard in the hall to say to one of his companions, that he hud gloriously
queered
old FULL BOTTOM.
At length an idea was suggested—for which the person who started it received the thanks of the meeting—that it being a rule for every proposed member to give in an account of his situation and the state of his family, Mr. SMART had certainly produced a paper saying he had a wife and four children, but in so doing his intention must have been to impose on the charity; for at the very time he delivered in that paper, so worded, he well knew Mrs. SMART was pregnant of her
fifth
child. It was moved and carried that Mr. SMART had endeavoured to get admission as a member of the
musical fund
by surreptitious means, and, therefore should never be entitled to any benefit from it.
It was after this transaction that Dr. MILLER's letter got into Mr. SMART's hands; he consulted a few others, and, by dint of a laudable perseverance, a NEW FUND is actually established, which already consists of a decent sum, and has the sanction of many gentlemen of both worldly—as well as professional—rank and consequence.
This letter will rouse the charitable musicians more than all the rods with which I mean to tingle them hereafter: but I defy them to controvert it. Dr. HOWARD has an hundred times declared that it was an iniquitous business. Dr. BURNEY said, some time ago, he had washed his hands of them; and they will never get over the respectable meeting at the free-masons' tavern; where their scandalous conduct was so severely reprobated, and the NEW FUND so liberally contributed to. In short, while the
living
professors of a liberal art are totally discouraged, men of real genius will naturally turn their thoughts to something else; obliged, however, to deplore that promotions in
science
—like those in the
army
and
navy
—go not by
merit
but
interest
; and that, in future, to aspire to musical preferment, you must begin by being a fifer in the guards. These are the schools, as Mrs. PEACHUM says, which produced so many great men. I will venture to say, SIMPSON, the hautboy player, has done more injury to the cause of
real genius
—to which he was a stranger himself, and therefore hated it in all mankind—than all the festivals in commemoration of HANDEL will ever do good.
I shall give a strong instance of this when I speak of
Love in the City,
an Opera, performed at
Covent-garden Theatre.
I do not, however, pretend to say that the guards have not assisted the cause of music in this country very materially. The two PARKES, FORSTER, poor HOLLAND, and many others, are convincing proofs that it is the best nursery for wind instrumental performers in this kingdom. But surely these are not to be put in competition with men by means of whose expanded fancy and fine judgment are
conceived
those delicious sounds which, at best, they can but
utter!
My whose sensitive faculties revolt when I hear of an imperious
kettle drummer
chaffering with such a man as Dr. HAVES—and out of the thousands received for admission to the festivals—like a huckster, haggling for a few pounds—which at last, perhaps, may go to furnish out the revels of a guard room, at the SAVOY. The old women in this country say, if any thing is amiss,
"the king should know it."
If he
properly
knew this—so graciously benignant are his private virtues, so much does he greatly pique himself on being much a MAN, as well as a MONARCH—that I sincerely believe the words of the sailor would be verified, and that somebody would chance to get a
salt eel.
Arm yourself with patience. I have dipped into music, and you know when I begin I do not easily leave off. To shew, however, that I am consistent, there are other things I as closely stick to—one of which is my continually assuring you that I am,
Most sincerely, Yours, C. DIBDIN.
Sheffield,
March
2, 1788.
LETTER XLII.
ON HARMONY.
"
From harmony—from heavenly harmony—the universal frame began!
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
LEAVING DONCASTER, I went, by invitation, to WAKEFIELD; where, having some leisure, I threw a few loose thoughts on paper concerning music—which can no where come so properly as in this letter.
Philosophers truly say that even the minutest objects have place on the scale of universal harmony; and—spite of VOLTAIRE's PLATO's
Demiurgos
It is almost unnessary to say I allude to PLATO's dream on general good and evil, which having related to his scholars, and harrangued them for a considerable time, on the subject of it, till he and they are tired—one of them yawning, cries out
"and so then I suppose—
you awoke.
"
—nettles and toads are not without their use. But it does not follow that men are to be continually peeping into the holes and corners of nature for objects that cannot possibly satisfy a single sensation but curiosity, which even in its gratification will be accompanied with disgust. These positions minutely hold good in relation to music. Discords are said to be the soul of harmony; which—if this declaration be admitted—must be, according to POLONIUS, very unlike
wit
; discords being the very reverse of
brevity.
So much indeed are they the limbs and outward flourishes, that one would think they were introduced to
bewilder
what they ought to
elucidate.
Yet fear not, ye mere harmonists, but I shall allow that discords have their use; but dare not to think of them otherwise than as the
spiders
and
hemloc
of music, or that they are more material to the
soul of harmony
than those noxious objects to the universal
system of nature.
Speaking to men of common sense, I cannot be supposed to address myself to more than one out of twenty musicians. Nor am I ashamed or afraid of making the declaration. No man need be ashamed of telling the truth; and for the fear—the whole twenty will respectively believe themselves alluded to by the above exception; in which case I shall be thanked rather than blamed: for where is the man—a musician especially—who will not chuckle at even an imaginary hit at his neighbour.
To express myself less archly, and probably more to the point. What I am going to say relative to harmony shall, or I have lost my aim, apply to all men who have understandings, be they musicians or not musicians; and as it is a subject on which a great deal has been both said and done to very little purpose—as it has opened, as far as it goes, as many doors to imposition as law or priestcraft, and as been as conducive to picking of pockets as a seminary at St. GILES's—I conceive it my duty at least to attempt a reform.
If ever term had a positive implication, the etymology of the word music is—to
please,
to
charm,
to
delight.
Mr. HERON, the critic, if he felt what I do at this moment, would say—I will spurn at common rules, and change—the better to express myself—this
substantive
music into a
verb,
and conjugate it through all the moods and tenses. It is true, music may excite horror, but then it is a mimic horror, which has its delectable effects. The
ear
is the door of the heart—and I will venture to pronounce there is no
perfect
music but that which is
pleasing.
The demonstration is clear: nothing can be
perfect
that is
incomplete.
Mere
harmony
is incomplete, for it is a BODY to which
melody
is the SOUL.
Ergo—mere harmony
is not
perfect music.
The English, from their natural goodness of heart, take upon hearsay a man's abilities.
"I am no judge—I can't say I heard any thing striking in such an air—but the man has great reputation, and of course his music is good—though I must confess it does not seem to me to be very pleasing."
Let this for ever decide upon such sort of judgment—
If a man have a disposition to be pleased with music—though he be totally ignorant of it as a science—if he can point out what air has ever given him real pleasure—which he must be qualified to do if he has heard the
Beggar's Opera
or
Comus
—if such a man should listen with attention a first, a second, and a third time to an air, and yet cannot feel a delight capable of the clearest explanation—and heaven knows that may easily be now a days!—that music deserves to be burnt, even though HANDEL were the composer. This rule, however, is liable to some correction.
Original
music will never strike at first equal to what it will upon repetition; so that original composers—and indeed so do writers—run the most risque. Care therefore ought to be had to examine whether it is from the stile of the music the hearer cannot immediately decide. The infallible way, however, is to hear the air repeatedly—and if at length it catch hold of the heart, the trouble is well recompensed by the pleasure it will ever afterwards afford.
By the same token, let not the auditor form a
hasty
judgment. A familiar air jigging upon the ear may be
pleasing,
but it will, most probably, be
stolen
; in which case, it can be entitled only to an illegitimate reputation; and—like a present imitation of GARRICK—though ever so perfect, serve only to make us regret that the incomparable original—
is no more!
Any man with an ear and a heart, made rather of more penetrable stuff than the gentleman at LINCOLN, may venture to pronounce his opinion on MUSIC. I do not, however, mean those carping, cavilling critics, who, as it were, take the dimensions of sounds, and go about to explain their excellence as methodically as they would to bore a cylinder or weigh air. These have
ears
too, but they are, like that of DIONYSIUS,
expanded
to discover—
all the faults.
Let not, therefore, any one be deterred from freely giving his sentiments, after having consulted his heart. Harmony is not intended to conceal the beauties of music, but to round and perfect them; and men may as well talk of a
picture
without an
outline,
as
music
without
air.
In short, all the labyrinth of harmony may be mechanically explored, but melody is that charm from which music receives animation, which cannot be attained by the art of man, but is an intuitive principle derived from nature. I do not understand the text—
"from harmony, from heavenly harmony, the universal frame began."
It could not be harmony till it was completed. From a chaos of sounds men of brilliant fancy and good taste select a certain number, and model them into form and order:—for it cannot be denied that a song is as perfectly understood with a single voice as accompanied by a band.—
Harmony
serves to
ornament
and
set off
the
melody,
but cannot do more. In short,
melody
is the
naked figure,
and
harmony
the
dress
—which now a-days is as fantastical and ridiculous as the clothes of men and women—and believe I need not say any thing stronger to prove that harmony should contain nothing but what is
neat, convenient,
and
graceful,
which every body understands.
Ergo
every body is musician enough to be a musical critic; and thus the stupid nonsense of theorists ought for ever to be silenced:—but there would be as much difficulty to do that, as to prevent me from telling you how much I am
Yours C. DIBDIN.
Sheffield,
March
4, 1788.
LETTER XLIII.
A RETURN TO PLACES AND CHARACTERS.
"
If variety be a pleasure in life.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
I shall drop a little the subject of music, to tell you. how I sped at WAKEFIELD, and introduce to your notice such characters and incidents as are now ripe for your observation. Among these let me first speak of one of the most intelligent, cheerful, pleasant men I have met with. I mean Mr. CLEMENTSHAW, who is by every body admired and respected, and whose conversation—for indeed it is very desireable—is every where desired. He is the organist—was a pupil of Dr. MILLER—has all the neighbouring teaching—and is in a very comfortable and reputable situation. His performance on the harpsichord is second only to BOYTON; nay, when we consider that this happy, easy man—whose face is never without a smile, nor I believe his heart without a benevolent sensation—is blind—which I would not declare did I not know his perfect good sense and strong philosophy—he may, in some respects, be considered as BOYTON's equal. No man's conversation is more agreeable, for no man has a more perspicuous and decided judgment on all general subjects. But his great forte is a rational laugh. He shall make you more and better extemporary puns in an hour—with a view to
laugh at punning
—than Mr. O'KEEFE would studiously introduce in a whole piece, in expectation of
same.
I will give a few instances.
'Don't you think,'
said one,
'that is a
striking
argument?'
—
"Why no,"
answered he,
"I dont think any
blows
past."
'Waiter,'
said one,
'
fill
that glass
full.
'
"So,"
said he,
"shall he
fulfil
your request."
'This table is made of good wood,'
says one.
"Yes"
said he,
"it is like the Yorkshireman going with his pig to market—
ma hog an I.
"
And then, when we could not get the waiter near us—
"Did you ever see"
said he,
"such a set of
uncome for table
fellows?"
And afterwards—being asked to drink wine—said he
"This is perfectly coasting."
—
'How coasting?'
"Why we are already at
Port's-mouth,
and you are so determined to bring us to
Ply-mouth,
that if we don't take care we shall be at
Fail-mouth.
"
I would have him take care, lest he should be sent for to make Operas; for as he can
pun
and
compose,
he might become a dangerous competitor to Messrs. O'KEEFE and SHIELDS. But I fancy they need not be uneasy—he has too much good sense to quit his agreeable situation; and if he was either to write or compose for the public, he would neither disgrace his
piece
by a
pun,
nor his
music
by an
imitation.
He has read every thing, has a wonderfully retentive memory, and separates and discriminates sentiments and opinions in an elegant taste, and with modest and convincing arguments. In short, I know not any man in whose company I have felt more pleasure; no wonder therefore I take so much in repeating it. Mr. SOUTHERN, of WAKEFIELD, who is a fine young man, and much beloved, is also entitled to my acknowledgements; and the Rev. Mr. VINCENT will, I hope, pardon me if I take this opportunity of thanking him with great sincerity for the many kind services he did me. Nor shall WALLER the printer, that well-meaning kind creature, go without my hearty good wishes, for I am sure I have his.
I had one very good night at WAKEFIELD—Saturday December 8th—and after spending the Sunday most agreeably with CLEMENTSHAW, went on the Monday to LEEDS. On Tuesday I performed to a very decent number, among which were some of the principal people, who, at the end of the entertainment, begged I would give it again on the Thursday. One gentleman, in particular, took a great deal of pains, procured me the assembly room, was in a great measure the cause of its being well filled, and gave me a handsome letter to a gentleman at MANCHESTER.
I must not pass by an incident which very strongly proves a position—not a bad one by the bye—of Mr. ASTLEY, the rider. Says he,
"your SHAKESPEARE there, upon the stage, says that all the world's a stage.—Damme, I says, says I, all the world's a puppet shew. Why now d'ye see ben't every body shew-men? Don't the king, good bless him, shew his lions at the tower?"
But to proceed. There happened to be at LEEDS, at the time I mention, a full grown gentleman, six and thirty inches high; and about an hour before I began my performance, an ambassador from the
little man
was dispatched to negociate with me the terms of an itinerant alliance. I listened to the proposal with great coolness, and asked if it was the wish of this man in miniature to be produced out of my pocket, or exhibited on my finger while I should sing
"say little foolish fluttering thing."
At LEEDS I became acquainted with Mr. WARBURTON, an independant professional man, who has it amply in his power to assist the amusement of the public, without the necessity of submitting to humiliation. His spirited and sensible conduct in a business that happened just before I came to LEEDS, as above, gives a striking proof of this. I had heard at WAKEFIELD that it would be impolitic to apply to Mr. WARBURTON, for he was
out of favour.
'How out of favour?'
Why he had neglected to attend one of the concerts.—My answer was, that I supposed he was better engaged. The fact however was this.—Mr. WARBURTON was chosen by the managers of the concert as commander in chief: for it would have been an affront to his situation in life to have considered him in any other light. Notwithstanding this, he was continually thwarted, and though out of pocket by the concert, expected to be at their beck and call upon all occasions. This he overlooked with the contempt it merited—determined to go on as smoothly as he could till the end of the season; but being ill—
they
say, through having drank too much the day before at a turtle-feast—he thought it could be no such great matter if they were for once to make a trial of spelling out the
concertos
and
sonatas
by themselves. A resolution was immediately formed—and immediately repented of— to admit Mr. WARBURTON no more: who, on his part, very properly determined to have nothing more to do with them. What is the consequence? It never would have given him any pleasure to have his ears tortured with the dissonance and false time of
gentlemen players,
who, after all, he must not dare to command—for they were in the situation of
Trinculo
in the
Tempest
—
"You shall be king, and I'll be viceroy over you."
He must therefore secretly rejoice at being rid of a trouble, which nothing but his own good nature—of which no man possesses a larger share—ever induced him to give himself; and they repine at their nonsensical folly which has deprived them of the only means by which their concert could stand the smallest chance of flourishing, or being respectable. As to the business of the turtle-feast, 'tis too illiberal to talk about it; but, admitting it were true, it only proves that Mr. WARBURTON cannot stand liquor quite so well as themselves. I have so particularly mentioned this circumstance, that it may serve as a hint to the
diletanti
in the country, who—and they may take my word for it—because they can
scrape
upon the
fiddle
out of tune,
toot
a little upon the
flute,
or
growl
upon the
violoncello,
are neither qualified to command such men as Mr. WARBURTON, nor give the
ton
to the MUSICAL WORLD.
My TOUR has already pretty well shewn that I have as much patience as any public man need; but I declare, were I in the affluent situation of Mr. WARBURTON, which—as he truly deserves—may he long comfortably enjoy! I should content myself with the eligible and distinguished attention paid me by LORD MEXBOROUGH, SIR GEORGE ARMYTAGE, Mr. FAWKES, &c. and feel very little inclination indeed to be at the devotion of a set of
mechanics
who think themselves of prodigious consequence, by having taken it into their heads to become
gentlemen fidlers.
Among these, God forbid I should have the ingratitude to rank any of those who attended me.
LEEDS is a town of great trade; so much so, that a gentleman belonging to one of the banks assured me the whole returns of the place could not be less than from five to seven millions a year. This cannot be done but by men who have thrown
fortunes
into
trade,
who, as I have often experienced, have nothing of the littleness that springs in low minds from
turning the penny.
I desire also I may not be understood to say that there are not tradesmen who have heads and hearts that would do honour to the highest situations.
Kings
may do
little
actions, and
coblers—great
ones. I aim at nothing but to distinguish between meanness and generosity. Those who possess—and that largely—the latter quality, are now among Mr. WARBURTON's friends; and I fancy any man, upon the same terms, will not feel uneasy at being—in the way he is—
out of favour.
Such favour is as indifferent to him, as yours is material to
Dear Sir,
Your obliged friend, C. DIBDIN.
Sheffield,
March
4, 1788.
LETTER XLIV.
MORE CROTCHETS.
"
Nature's above art in this respect.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
HAVING in my last letter but one spoken generally of
harmony,
and shewn that it is the mere
wood
and
stone
of MUSIC—which might as well have lain dormant as a part of the original chaos, if
melody
did not lend it order, symmetry, and proportion. I shall, in this, investigate it something more minutely, and shew that what is called harmony is now
refined
into such a pitch of barbarism—which, though it may seem a paradox, is literally truth—that the ear would be better gratified by the grossest violation of the rules of composition, as they are called, than by such abstruse subdivisions of tones and resolutions of discords as—according to
theorists
—are the very essence of
harmony.
Nor am I unable or unwilling to prove what I advance.
Every rule of composition, except avoiding consecutive fifths and octaves, are—in the hands of men of genius—to be violated with considerable advantage; else, the great HANDEL—the masterly CORRELLI—the charming, natural, easy ARNE—the graceful GALUPPI—and almost every body of real consequence must be excluded from among the adepts. To these two standing rules however the boldest sons of nature have paid some respect; and it is true that two major fifths should never be consecutive. Upon this I ground my argument. Let any man play two sensecutive fifths—which would be a musical sacrilege—and it shall sound more pleasing to an indifferent ear than the introduction of the chord of the thirteenth, ever so well prepared and resolved—which is a
musical excellences.
But who shall answer when I go further and say that the very harmonists themselves have only to play on a full organ, and they will infallibly add to the charms of their own ingenious modulation, all these complicate violations of harmony!—for the
diapason, principle,
and
sesqualtra
compounding the very distances which musicians are commanded to avoid, the beauties and faults are blended together, and how must the understanding be shocked by the admission of error into a system of perfection! How then shall this be reconciled? The organ is a noble instrument. Some
poet
says it is calculated to inspire holy love. The
musician,
therefore, cannot lay the fault on the
instrument,
as the
devil
did upon the
water
because he could not swim. This will be found to be the fact: Let a simple, unadorned melody be accompanied only by such modulations as arise from the general and perfect nature of the subject, and—notwithstanding the violation of the rules in consequence of the complicate construction of the instrument—my life for it the right effect upon the passions will be produced; without which
harmony
is no longer
pleasing,
and consequently no longer
music.
One should think these dogmatic musicians knew their own defects and encouraged them—like callous hearted lawyers, who dare not indulge the softer feelings lest they should incline them to pity and compassion. I am told there is a certain great harmonist who wears the
hind
part of his shirt
before,
by way of armour against CUPID—fearing lest any thing
tender
and
natural
should get into any of his compositions; and as to Mr. BAUMGARTEN, who is at this moment supposed to be the best
theorist
in the kingdom, he has so wonderfully
improved
upon fuguing, that he never
leads
the band at
Covent Garden
theatre
but the instruments all
follow.
Mr. SHAW, who leads the band at
Drury Lane,
and who manifests more style and taste in the conducting of any one
overture
than Mr. BAUMGARTEN ever did in his whole life, has, it seems, put himself apprentice to this great man. Thus, in time, we may have lively hopes—when the bagpipe shall have done squeaking—that theatrical music, like theatrical government, shall be distinguished by its discords; that a knowledge of thorough bass shall be the indispensible requisite in a comic singer; that clowns and chambermaids will sputter out their nonsense in fugues, and dying lovers warble their distress in counterpoint.
Indeed, were I to enumerate all the tricks of these profound theorists, it would take up a larger portion of time and pains than I am willing to allow so unprofitable a subject. As far, however, as it conduces to the point I wish to carry, I shall in my free way go a little further, regardless how they may feel, so I but serve the public cause. Some of these—and, for a man of such admirable genius, it is a pity justice obliges me to say one of them is HAYDN—give you an idea of a rope-dancer, who, though you cannot too much admire how prettily he frisks and jumps about, keeps you in a constant state of terror and anxiety for fear he should break his neck. If this country had produced nine HOOKS, and they had divided among them the manuscript of HAYDN's compositions—or, indeed, were to work upon them now they are published, which is just as fair play as times go—there would be materials enough to furnish each a musical reputation:—and yet, is there a fair, well-wrought-up movement in his whole works? Do they consist of any thing more than strong effusions of genius turned into frenzy, and labouring as ineffectually to be heard as a flute in a belfry, or equity in a court of justice? In short, pursue every thing that is cold, unnatural, complex, and dry, and it is the road to the altar of APOLLO—if
discord
be the high priest: But I rather think—like the usurper who, as he worshipped at the shrine of folly, fondly thought he knelt in the temple of fame—they will find imagination, sensibility, and expression are as necessary requisites to the accomplishment of a perfect musician, as courage, clemency and humanity are to make up the true renown of an hero. In short, teach a child to walk upon his hands that he may be more expert with his feet—let him play with fire to endure the smart if he chance to be burnt—instruct him in
algebra
to teach him
multiplication
—or do ought but take the plain, easy, natural course of setting about any thing, and you shall have an idea of the shallow, miserable resources of these empty men, to hide the sterility of their intellects; which, after all, is like the goose that thrust its head in the hedge to conceal itself—forgetting that its body was exposed. But if they are so reprehensible while they stick to straight forward thrumming as many notes at a time as they have fingers—which they would if they had as many as BRIAREUS—what shall we say when we go with them into chromatics! Dr. WAINWRIGHT is known to have rejected every thing natural, maintaining that a
tone,
by a man of ingenuity, might be softened into as many shades as a
colour!
Here is glorious ground work for the theorist! Who knows but the full tone, which is now only divided, may one day or other be so subdivided as to form a
new
system of theory—in which case a man would find it as tedious to go from one end of the gamut to the other, as it was formerly to take a journey from YORK to LONDON. If it should—the utmost that can be said about it is, that a learned musician, like a greyhound, jumps over hedges and ditches at the risk of his hide—while the child of nature, like a horse, jogs on safely, contenting himself with the turnpike road.
"Nature ever was above art,"
and will be ages after I have the power—for so long shall I have the inclination—to subscribe myself
Yours, With fervent sincerity, C. DIBDIN.
Sheffield,
March
4, 1788
LETTER XLV.
SETTLING OF ACCOUNTS.
"
Populous cities please me then,
"
And the busy hum of men.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
MY account of places, manners, &c. is of a long standing—therefore I may as well give you time to digest my arguments concerning music, and clear my ground as far as I have gone—as gardeners dig in the old cabbage stalks to make the surface of the bed the fairer on which they are preparing to plant a new crop. Indeed I have generally spoken of every place, but I would willingly leave nothing undone. To set about this completely, I believe I must go back as far as BIRMIGNHAM, the ingenuity and populousness of which place are wonderful. The increase of buildings, both for convenience and pleasure, has extended the place to a space at least as large again as when I knew it twenty-five years ago. The first, however, is as praise worthy as the last is ridiculous. Not that I would not have men enjoy the money they have earned—let it be procured through whatever medium it honestly may—but the country houses of the BIRMINGHAMITES are embellished to as little purpose as a chimney-sweeper washes his face, and as awkwardly as a Guinea-pig imitates a squirrel. As to their manners, I am sure they are not
good
ones. A tenacious man must infallibly, in BIRMINGHAM, be affronted ten times a day:—for even if you go to
buy
any thing, it is fifty to one if you receive a civil answer:—and this rudeness extends to the most opulent among them. A man who is said to possess two hundred thousand pounds used me with a style of incivility that would have disgraced a porter in Thames-street; and I called upon another man of the first consequence there, whom I could not single out from the journeymen blacksmiths that surrounded him. Indeed master and servant is confounded among them, for each leads the same life, works as hard, drinks as much fat ale, and undergoes as much drudgery as the other; nor do I see that one has more felicity in counting useless guineas, than the other in carding buttons. I really speak here without acrimony, and it may be seen by this: I had no better success at WOLVERHAMPTON than at BIRMINGHAM, and yet there I found civility not incompatible with trade.
I have been trying what to say more of LICHFIELD, but can find nothing—unless I were to go over the old ground of the massacre of DIOCLESIAN—in which a thousand christians were martyred, and their bodies exposed to wild beasts. For this cruel event it seems to have mourned ever since; for it is so melancholy, that one would wonder Miss SEWARD could write verses that have so many charms for the reviewers, in a place apparently calculated to engender only the vapours; but, indeed, those gentlemen in general seem to have a peculiar knack of speaking
eloquently
upon
dull subjects.
I shall say nothing to the antiquity of DERBY, but only mention it as a clean, pretty-looking, genteel town, where I sincerely believe the inhabitants want neither spirit nor taste. As to what happened to me, it was one of those strokes—a
traverse
—that have attended me all my life, and which, like the mistake of a figure in the solution of a mathematical problem, in proportion as you expect to come home to your point, carries you out of your way.
NOTTINGHAM, as I have before said, has something charming in its situation; the castle has a beautifully romantic effect, and the
Trent
breaks the country near it in a most delightful and picturesque manner. Indeed I know not, at times, whether the mind does not as strongly pant for objects that derive their grandeur from simplicity, as for those surprising natural effects which as it were pain and giddy the senses, till sober reality is lost in intoxicated imagination.
NEWARK is something in the style of DERBY. I do not think the inhabitants are so rich, but they do not want spirit. NEWARK is a very desirable place for persons of small fortune to settle at. House rent is reasonable; and the corporation being, for the size of the place, rich—paving, highways, public building, and repairs, maintaining the poor, and many other necessary but heavy charges are defrayed without assessing the inhabitants; and yet, they are better paid than in any other town of its standing that I have seen. The
town-hall
and the
poor-house
are, in
proportion,
I believe I may venture to say the best in ENGLAND.
If it be true that LINCOLN formerly contained fifty two parish churches and one thousand and seventy one houses of entertainment, it is certainly very much fallen into decay. The situation from the hill is wonderful, and the clergy, who are astonishingly numerous there, seem to have got on as high a
pinnacle
as they can, with a view, I hope, to evince how idle to them are all the vain pomp and glory of this world. I am not honoured with the knowledge of these gentlemen, nor had I the least conversation with any except Dr. KAYE, who, though a certain newspaper is extremely angry that he should be praised at the expence of the rest of the clergy, has in the opinion of many others, as well as myself, set an example in the business of the
tithe child,
that we shall stand very little chance of seeing imitated. The manners of LINCOLN seem to be a constant internal enmity, and a remarkable shyness to strangers. Their musical taste I have given an instance of.
HULL, originally a small fishing village, is now a very considerable sea port; and, lying between YARMOUTH and NEWCASTLE, is remarkably convenient either for homeward or outward bound ships. The increase of their commerce is apparent in the new dock already made, and that lately applied for to parliament. Round the dock is formed a kind of crescent, consisting of magnificent houses, which form an appearance of extraordinary novelty, by being the boundary of one of the dirtiest places in the kingdom. On the opposite side of the dock is a row of warehouses, to a prodigious extent, very spacious, and admirably well stored. As to their taste, I do not think they relished much of my entertainment, except
Grog
; and for their manners—being all seamen—they are blunt, honest, and careless. I must not forget to mention the kind attention of Mr. MARLEY, whom I should have been happy to have know better, that I might have spoken of his professional merit with the same certainty as that of BOYTON and CLEMENTSHAW. It is universally allowed to be very brilliant, and I am sure, if it bear any proportion to his kind and obliging private conduct, his friends—who are a very large number—cannot speak too highly of it. Nor will I neglect to record the kindness of poor HUDSON—how no more—who died like the wife of BONIFACE—but in this life we have need of CORDIALS—so peace to him.
Poor HUDSON puts me in mind of a brother-in-law of GRIFFIN, the bookseller, who was killing himself by drinking. A friend of his, as he was creeping along one day, asked him how he did.
'Very bad indeed,'
anwered he.
"I am sorry for it"
—said the friend—
"what do you take?"
—
'Every thing,'
said the sick man—
'
hot brandy,
and
cold brandy—hot gin,
and
cold gin
—but none of it does me any good.
As this subject is rather dry, I shall now speak alternately of music and places, till I have fairly brought up my account as far as my second visit to LEEDS—after which I shall open a new field, and expatiate largely on a variety of public subjects. Adieu.
Yours, Most sincerely, C. DIBDIN.
London,
March
25, 1788
LETTER XLVI.
A MUSICAL ALARM.
"
The adventure of the bear and fiddle
"
Is sung—but broke off in the middle.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —
DEAR SIR,
THEORY in music, and the empty nonsense of its professors being the subject of my last letter—in which I think I have plainly shewn that a single air, with simplicity for its object and expression for its effect, is infinitely preferable to the most laboured production that can be worked up mechanically—I shall proceed to remark on the pernicious effects of following a doctrine so very false and delusive, and point out that it has step by step perverted and vitiated the English taste. First of all,
theorists
content themselves—indeed they want invention to do otherwise—with very indifferent, and in general
trite
melodies. Thus, having acquired great reputation by the pomp annexed to their being professed musicians, their music is listened to, and at length liked, upon the principle of a man's eating biscuit at sea because he can get no bread. The human mind is so prone to the reception of pleasure, that it very often takes it upon credit, and is swindled into a belief of the reality of what upon examination turns out to be only counterfeit. Thus the manly, and I will venture to say correct taste of the English, which admired the works of PURCELL, ARNE, and BOYCE—and surely they have among them some of the sweetest melodies that ever spoke to the heart—is now dwindled into an admiration of the grossest insipidity. It should seem as if music had expired with the singers who uttered it, and that LEVERIDGE and BEARD
I do not mean to say BEARD is literally no more—I am informed he possesses, at this moment, all his faculties in full vigour: may he long do so. I was very young when Mr. BEARD knew me, and he must remember, through the ersuasion of others, he treated me very unhandsomely; but I acquit him of all intention to do so, and take this public opportunity of assuring him that I never had of any man a higher opinion, nor for any a greater value.
having given way to the use of effeminacy and falcetto, the style should sink in proportion: otherwise, how can it be accounted for that the
"Hark forwards"
of the present day should be ten times more in circulation than
"With horns and with hounds,"
or
"The early horn?"
Has not a single insipid song, called the
Mansion of peace,
brought six times the profit to the composer that the whole
Chaplet
did to BOYCE?—though to mention the comparative merits would be like talking of a Scotch bank note and the riches of the treasury. Nothing in nature can be more beautifully delicious than
"Vain is every fond endeavour"
and
"What med'cine can soften the bosom's keen smart?"
. Pshaw, what are these trifles, says a theorist, to a
fugue?
To which I answer—a great deal; for they can make only the
fugue,
whereas Dr. BOYCE could make BOTH. But to enumerate other instances. Is it not true that, at this moment, were the beauties of ARNE collected together, headed by all the melody, sweetness, spirit, character, and expression in
Comus
; the charming, peculiarly natural airs to which he so enchantingly set the Songs of SHAKESPEAR—which task I will venture to say no man in the world could have executed equal to ARNE—and made up of those innumerable charms which pervade his voluminous works, would they not be all neglected for that miserable, unmeaning imitation of
La virginella,
and twenty other things—called
Ma cher ami?
And to give yet a stronger proof: Were all PURCELL's duettos brought forth—who had, beyond all question, a more vigorous mind than HANDEL—were
"Let CESAR and URANIA live"
—
"To arms"
—
"As I saw fair CLORA"
—and in short all those admirable compositions which so honourably mark the strength of English genius
CORELLI is said to have visited ENGLAND on purpose to see PURCELL, but hearing, at ROCHESTER, of his death, he did not even visit the CAPITAL, but returned, saying—
"There can be nothing worthy my curiosity since PURCELL is dead."
—would they not be despised for that most execrable of all apologies for MUSIC, the
Duetto
sung by Mr. KELLY and Mrs. CROUCH?
I beg I may not be understood to mean, by what I have here advanced, that the compilers of such contemptible stuff are the
theorists
of whom I have spoken above. These are only the dabblers, who take advantage of the bad taste of the times. But to come more closely to the point, and satisfy every enquirer what are the steps which have caused this gradual declension in the public taste? I answer, in great measure, a blind predilection for the works of HANDEL, and an indiscriminate avidity for German compositions. What! shall any man dare to make so bold a declaration? I do—but let me have fair play. HANDEL was a composer of wonderful abilities; his conception was strong, his imagination immense, his knowledge of music, as a science, clear and profound—and those masterly combinations of sounds which make up many of his chorusses abundantly prove it; but, like hounds led on by the huntsman on a false scent, he is admired in ENGLAND for his very errors.
HANDEL has been frequently compared to SHAKESPEARE, though nothing can be upon more opposite grounds than the admiration which has been respectively paid them. SHAKESPEARE has been always praised for his genius, and HANDEL for his judgment. He who wished so much of the writings of SHAKESPEARE obliterated, would, I fancy, have been at a loss where to have laid his finger: whereas, it were very easy to point out which half of HANDEL's works might be consigned to oblivion, and yet leave all that is pleasing in his compositions behind.
When I say errors I do not speak as to his knowledge as a musician, but to his taste as a man of genius. These errors in HANDEL relate to expression, which was sometimes false, like tinsel in poetry; sometimes ridiculous, like bombast; often begun upon a principle which sunk in the end to absurdity—making exactly the bathos; and very frequently indeed sound without either meaning or expression, answering exactly to nonsense verses.
I believe it will be allowed me that the parts of any thing which offers itself to human observation are complete only as they regard the whole. In music no man ever did or will greatly succeed who takes up
particular
instead of
general
expression. HANDEL was a slave to this—but to adduce my proofs.
His false expression was this: If the subject happened to be joy, he toO frequently invetend something
sprightly
—without considering
time, place,
or
occasion
; as
"Rejoice oh daughter of SION"
—which surely should convey a holy joy, expressive of religious, soul-felt rapture; instead of which, this song was first a
jig,
and afterwards a
hornpipe.
Another instance occurs in
Judas Maccabeus
—in the song
"Let honour with desert be crown'd".
The word trumpet here happening to be introduced, he has taken such an
advantage
of it that the whole song seems as if it was set to display the effect of the trumpet, in a key which does not belong to it, and where of course it has the
worst effect
that can be imagined; and as if this was not enough, the words seem to be written as a burlesque on the music; for they run thus—
"The trumpet ne'er in vain should sound."
I have heard this song praised as the best in all his works.
The second instance which I call ridiculous, or bombast, is a worse fault than the other—and yet it occurs as frequently. Who can listen to such a pantomime tune as
"The land brought forth frogs,"
and call it any thing but burlesque?—and yet this is a popular favourite. I heard a man in the gallery say, while the chorus was performing which begins
"And he spake the word, and there came all manner of flies and lice in all their quarters"
—that he itched from head to foot. Would the gentleman have been obliged to HANDEL for giving him this sensation if he had lived in the days of JAMES I. who is said to have prohibited scratching?
"THAIS led the way"
and
"The king seized a flambeau"
are again of this complexion—for they both convey a kind of drunken gaiety, and give you more the idea of their going up stairs to bed together than to set the Persepolis on fire.
As to the bathos, it occurs in such instances as the chorus in the
Messiah
beginning
"All we like sheep are gone astray"
—which profanes the words it should express, and might with great propriety be put into the
"Peep behind the curtain"
—where the story of ORPHEUS is burlesqued. The sheep certainly dance and frisk about very curiously, and run away from each other; but, unfortunately conceiving himself under a musical necessity of making a close in the line
"We have turned every one to his
own way,
"
he brings them all back, and they finish by huddling lovingly together. Query, whether so great a man as HANDEL might not with impunity have invented some new species of inverted counterpoint that might have finished the chorus with their all baaing to one another at a distance. But I am getting into length, and therefore shall, in imitation of HUDIBRAS, break of in the middle. I will resume the subject, however, after the next letter, till when, and at all times, I am,
Most faithfully, Yours, C. DIBDIN.
London,
March
26, 1788.
LETTER XLVII.
A FURTHER SETTLEMENT.
"
Over steeples, towers, and turrets.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —
DEAR SIR,
BEVERLEY is said to be one of the prettiest towns in ENGLAND. To this I cannot wholly agree. It is a snug decent town; has a spacious market place; and its minster—which is very ancient, and was formerly a sanctuary to bankrupts and criminals—is yet a very handsome church; but I think it inferior to many towns in Yorkshire as to beauty, consequence, or situation. The inhabitants, however, appear to be independent; and, by mixing socially together, promote very pleasantly all that is necessary or agreeable towards forming a friendly and comfortable neighbourhood. This town has many advantageous privileges, among which is their being exempt from toll and custom.
I know not what to say of YORK, except that it fell infinitely below my expectations in every point of view. I expected to see a large, oppulent, populous place—second to nothing in ENGLAND but LONDON—instead of which, except the
church
and the
gaol,
there is no one object that conveys an idea of superiority to the other towns around it. It is not near so populous as LEEDS, nor half so much frequented. Talking to a gentleman at LEEDS, I told him YORK put me in mind of a man in conversation, who, though rich in volubility, finished as he began—having impressed no one with either truth or reason in his argument; whereas LEEDS put in only a word now and then, but always to the purpose. YORK is,
in proportion,
the poorest place in the whole county of which it is the capital. Its situation being in the very center of all the great north roads, which are now very fine, and astonishingly frequented, it is continually
busy,
without having
any thing to do
; and though constantly
crammed,
thinly
inhabited.
The inns alone seem to thrive there. In short, it has many churches and but little
devotion; fine clothes
and
spare purses
; a
magnificent prison
always
full
; and a
theatre royal
where they perform
at a constant loss.
As a proof of their musical taste, they think Mr. KELLY and Mrs. CROUCH's
duetto
comprizes all the excellence of all the masters that ever bowed at the shrine of APOLLO. It must be remembered I have one exception to these general rules—and I believe when I say I have
but one,
I write as strong a satire as words are capable of conveying.
MALTON is a shabby town apparently in every respect—I will therefore leave it, and go on to SCARBOROUGH, which is one of the prettiest seaports I have seen. Every body knows it is maintained upon the principle of BATH. One thing, however, surprized me; though I was cautioned against the unreasonableness of their charges, I found them so much the reverse, that I paid less for better things than at any place on that side the HUMBER.
WAKEFIELD I confess is one of my favourite places. There is such a sprightly cleanliness about it, that the inhabitants seem as if they were born for the real purposes of life. The village of HEATH, near it, is one of the sweetest spots for neatness and simplicity that imagination can form. The vicinity of WAKEFIELD is filled with opulent and respectable inhabitants, all of whom inherit or have accumulated fortunes by trade. Their manners appear to be simple and unaffected; their conversation is polished, and in their musical pursuits they go my way to work, and praise every thing that pleases them upon reflection.
DONCASTER has all the neatness of a quaker, and on a first view begets very strongly your sober admiration; but when you come to consider that they have no soul, no taste, no characteristic but insipidity—after having admired the
church,
the
mansion house,
and the
guildhall
—you wish yourself any where but at DONCASTER.
As to the roads to all those different places, there are now no bad ones but what are necessarily so through situation and soil, and near manufacturing towns, where time can be more valuably employed than in mending roads—though one would think that work would contribute to their convenience, since the goods must be
carried
after they are
made.
Thus, almost every where in
swampy
LINCOLNSHIRE the roads are generally very disagreeable, especially in winter; and great part of DERBYSHIRE, on account of the hills, render your journeys unpleasant, and not always very safe. I must not forget, in particular, to mention that the nine miles from WAKEFIELD to LEEDS is so scandalously neglected, that even in a post-chaise, and in the middle of the day, you expect every moment to be overturned.
Having now spoken of all those places to which I shall not find it necessary to return, except perhaps for some general observations, I shall go on from LEEDS to HALIFAX, where I was advised to perform a night or two previous to my touching at MANCHESTER. When I came there, however, they had a company of players, and were otherwise so full of amusements, that after sitting down a few days, and writing a part of this TOUR, I went on to MANCHESTER—promising, if I could make it convenient, to call on my return.
On my arrival at MANCHESTER, I not only found that the theatre was open, but that Mr. ASTLEY was figuring away in great style with his
horsemanship,
to which amusement I have the same aversion—and perhaps for better reasons—that some men have to a CAT. I therefore enclosed a letter I had brought with me to an opulent gentleman—informed him I would take another opportunity to pay him my personal respects—and posted away to LIVERPOOL.
As my success at this place, and the subjects on which it must necessarily induce me to speak, will make a most essential and interesting part of this work, I shall introduce them as conspicuously as possible in the following letter but one; and, in the interim, supply the next with the remainder of my argument respecting HANDEL and German music, which ideas I threw loosely on paper at HALIFAX, which is said to be the most musical spot for its size in the kingdom:—for there Mrs. BATES received her musical education—there Mr. BATES has so planted a veneration for the works of HANDEL, that children lisp
"For unto us a child is born,"
and cloth-makers, as they sweat under their loads in the cloth-hall, roar out
"For his yoke is easy and his burden is light."
I have been assured, for a fact, that more than one man in HALIFAX can take any part in the chorusses of the
Messiah,
and go regularly through the whole oratorio by heart; and, indeed, the facility with which the common people join together throughout the greatest part of YORKSHIRE and LANCASHIRE, in every species of choral music, is truly astonishing.
This kind of cursory work is like posting the day-book into the ledger; by and by we shall take out the different articles, and come to a general account.
Adieu.
Yours, Most sincerely, C. DIBDIN.
London,
March
26, 1788.
LETTER XLVIII.
ANOTHER TOUCH AT MUSIC.
"
Strange so much difference should be
"
'Twixt tweedledum and tweedledee.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
THE instances of HANDEL's total neglect of expression occur much more frequently than any of his other faults. How many of his oratorio songs consist of a complex accompaniment—ingeniously worked up indeed, but without the smallest relation to the subject of the words—while the voice drawls out an unmeaning train of sounds, destitute of melody, or any power of conveying a pleasing sensation. Sometimes in these songs, that the voice may have no reason to complain of having less to do than the instruments—for in this species of music every thing is upon a footing—it floats away upon a long division, and often such a one as no voice upon earth can execute. This is surely the very reverse of what
vocal music
ought to be, where every thing manifestly should be subordinate to the
voice
; and, even in a hautboy song, or any other where a particular instrument may have an
obligato
accompaniment, the voice ought to be every where
assisted,
but no where
eclipsed.
Vocal MUSIC is clearly the essence of whatever can render sound delectable; that which is simplest and most expressive is the best vocal MUSIC; and, I will add, that a song perfect in all its qualities is the utmost height of excellence to which MUSIC can arrive. This position I shall hereafter more fully go into, as I mean to leave what I advance on this subject unanswerable.
In solo songs—where one point of expression should be observed, where a single, unembarrassed subject should be well
begun, followed,
and
finished
—HANDEL very often falls below mediocrity. This proves that he is a better
instrumental
than a
vocal
composer; for in the major part of his chorusses where the expression need not so much depend on the voice—for there it acts only as a kind of instrument to fill the parts—he is much more happy; and in his other works, where the voice has no share at all, he is incomparably greater than any where. Who can deny this when they recollect the minuet in Ariadne? There is not a superfluous note in it, and being made up of one simple, and yet grand, object—regularly pursued, and greatly worked up—nothing in MUSIC, for what it is, can exceed it. To which if you call in the other minuets, together with the marches and gavottes which make up the last movements of his overtures, the balance will be considerably in favour of my argument. And yet, while we whistle all these with the greatest facility, without considering to whom we owe this satisfaction, we get crowded at the abbey—to the tune of
two guineas
—to be
stunned
with the
abstrusest
of his works, which, if the heart has any thing to do with MUSIC, is the
worst.
To prove this, let me ask any man in his senses, not a mere
theorist,
if he ever felt so much real pleasure in hearing
"The horse and his rider,"
as in the last movement of his famous coronation anthem of
"God save the king?"
where there is scarcely a discord that might not be admitted, without wounding simplicity, into the most familiar song. After a tedious and tiresome reiteration of discords, placed unnecessarily in every point of view, how are we charmed in the
Messiah
with
"For the Lord God omnipotent reigneth!"
Why? Because it is full of grandeur and simplicity. The soul is struck with the sublime greatness and beauty of the expression, and we feel the DEITY
in our hearts.
Thus I think I have proved my position without injuring the reputation of HANDEL. He his certainly left behind him some wonderful MUSIC, but it cannot be denied that this
ore
is plentifully surrounded with
dross.
—Let us therefore—which would be infinitely more to his honour—take his MUSIC upon credit of our own feelings, and not blindly and implicitly from those who, living in a labyrinth, wonder how any one should prefer a direct road.
As to the other
Germans
—as they have no
opera,
so they import no vocal MUSIC; and thus by torturing sounds into new positions, to make old ideas wear a novel shape,
difficulty
is the only characteristic of their compositions; and by this means the ear gets accustomed
not
to what
pleases
in MUSIC, but to what
surprizes.
I will venture to say
solos
and
solo concertos
have done but little good to the cause of MUSIC. LA MOTTE's great merit was to figure away in
alt,
till at last, approaching to the bridge, he played himself, as it were, out of sight. The
dexterity
was
wonderful,
but for heaven's sake where was the
pleasure?
This is a solid fact—and to prove it, let me ask how came GIARDINI and BARTHELEMON constantly to call in
Lango Lee, The Dargle,
&c. to help out their concertos.
The human mind cannot pay proper attention but to one object at a time. ZOFFANI's admirable portrait of the gallery of FLORENCE—at which one might look a month and not discover half the beauties—though it contains more grand objects than any twenty pictures that ever were painted, has the meanest
tout ensemble
that can be imagined. It is a chaos of exquisitely charming objects, which cannot be properly distinguished, because one confounds the effect of the other. There is a soberness in real pleasure that cannot bear the impertinence of tickling and teazing. In architecture it is the same. Mr. WOODFALL may remember, as he and I were near each other in HENRY
the seventh's
chapel, to see the ceremony of installing the knights of the Bath, he took notice of the wonderful
labour
that had been bestowed in ornamenting that place; that there was such a variety, and the parts were so minute, that the eye was at a loss where to fix. I said if this was the case, he must confess it was
labour in vain:
—and the observation holds good in every thing that appeals to the senses. And, as to MUSIC, if a man invent a tolerable melody, and prevent its effect by complex accompaniment, he will have no better success than the Irish painter who, undertaking the portrait of a gentleman going a shooting, hid the figure behind a large tree, for fear he should frighten the partridges.
I understand there has been already much curiosity concerning what I can possibly mean in my proposal by an exposition of
musical quackery
—by the time the crotchet-mongers shall have read this letter they may perhaps smell out what I am diving at. I have yet, however, spoken only of impositions on the senses; I mean hereafter to mention, under the article of teaching, something concerning designs on the pocket. I shall first, however, place the different merits of dead composers side by side, in which task I have no doubt but I shall prove to the satisfaction of every reasonable man that had not ARNE all his life been discouraged, and HANDEL considered as another APOLLO, the fame of the ENGLISHMAN would have exceeded that of the GERMAN. This will nearly involve all that it will be necessary for me to say—and, without mentioning a single name, throw the merit, or the want of it, if you will, of many living composers into that point of view in which it is but common justice to have it seen. Then, as the business of teaching is a serious evil, I shall lay it open as bare as possible, and give a receipt to heal the wound; after which, if the public chuse to be gulled with it, no teaching tickets ought to pass between masters and scholars without a stamp, that thus
musical quacks
may be at once upon the footing of
physical
ones. Strange, says SWIFT, so much difference should be 'twixt tweedledum and tweedledee. The world is more imposed on by trifles than is generally imagined. It is a trifle to be sure—but however no imposition—to say I am truly yours,
C. DIBDIN.
London,
March
27, 1788.
LETTER XLIX.
A TRAIT OF ENGLISH OPULENCE.
"
No foreign faction shall we need to rue,
"
If England to herself do prove but true.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —
DEAR SIR,
TO LIVERPOOL I went, without the smallest recommendation, except indeed a letter to Mr. PYE, who keeps a music warehouse there, and to whose attention and indefatigable pains to oblige and accommodate me, I confess myself greatly indebted. The difficulty I had to get at the
Mayor,
and the doubtful reception I at first met with, had at one moment nearly worked me up to a resolution of returning from thence as I went. On my first performance, however, which was attended by about thirty-five people, and greatly relished, several gentlemen made strenuous application to me to repeat it, and proposed a better room for the purpose. The next evening I had a very handsome audience, on the third a better still, and on the fourth—though it was christmas eve, and a concert night—I had the very best room I have experienced, at any place, since I first began my rambles. Having done very handsomely at LIVERPOOL in relation to my entertainment, and mustered so many more names to my subscription than at any other place except LONDON, it may be suspected, by the uncandid, that I am induced on this account alone to speak well of that truly spirited place. Those, however, who think liberally, and who, by the way, are of the only description I care three-pence about obliging, will see—as I have every where been just—that I give to LIVERPOOL, as I do to BIRMINGHAM only its due.
Throughout life it holds good, as an infallible maxim, that the mind will be influenced by its employment.
Able financiers
have seldom, in any country, been
great ministers
; because their measures have been constantly clogged by the cold regularity of mere calculation. Retired tradesmen live still in the misery of fearing to spend a superfluous penny; but merchants, though expert at every qualification for the accumulation of profit, are in their minds, like their traffic, extensive and expanded. It is astonishing to witness the difference between a
counting house
and a
counter.
For my part, I look upon merchants to be the first of characters, and an English one to be the first of merchants. VOLTAIRE having drawn a paralleled view of different distinctions among men, after mentioning the good sense of the English, in intermarrying their nobility with commercial characters, goes on, and says—
"After all, it were worth while to consider which is the more truly noble, he who knows to a moment when the king rises, or goes to sleep, or—something else—or he who trades to every part of the globe, thereby contributing to the comfort and convenience of human nature."
Nothing shews an object so well as a contrast; therefore, as I am not yet come to MANCHESTER and NEWCASTLE, where at one place they measure
serret
by the
yard,
and at the other
coals
by the
bushel,
I cannot to my satisfaction dwell on LIVERPOOL. On my return to that place I shall be more competent to display that open-hearted liberality which, in so short a time, I might only have
imagined
they possess. But my observation cannot but be well founded, as they have less of hypocrisy than any set of people I ever met with in my life.
A compact with any part of the public is with me a very serious thing; therefore—though I was offered very handsomely to stay—I left LIVERPOOL, and returned to HALIFAX—where my advertisements stood for Thursday the twenty-seventh.
On christmas-day, therefore, I left LIVERPOOL for MANCHESTER, and the following day—after being nearly lost in the snow, near ROCHDALE—arrived at HALIFAX. I think it would be doing injustice to so well known a character, if I were to omit mentioning that in the diligence from LIVERPOOL to MANCHESTER I was accompanied by Mr. ASTLEY, who at that time was returning from LIVERPOOL, after having taken the town. From eight o'clock in the morning till five in the afternoon—for so long is that diligence crawling thirty-six miles—I am sure he did not cease, I will not say
talking,
but BAWLING; for this gentleman being eternally on his hobby-horse, always fancies he is holding conversation with Mr. MERRYMAN. In the course of this curious rant, he was so kind as to oblige me with his idea of improving the theatres, the courts, the parliament, and the nation. He wished he had known what I was about, he would have given me such hints for my entertainment! In short, if I would but have listened to him, I should have had new rules for making music, writing, singing, playing, and speaking English.
"But,"
hallowed he,
"there is no talking to any of you. Now, there, about law—LORD THURLOW told me in my riding house—but that's no matter. There now you see, there's that there PALMER, if I had a mind I would have shewed him a trick that would have laid them all flat on their backs. For you see—to be sure I knows nothing about
sense,
but I knows
law
; for I cast SIR JOSEPH MAWBY, and I have had several
suits,
and I have been twice
took up
; but you see nobody won't be ruled by me, so I goes on by myself—and what does I do? Why I cuts and contrives. Why where will you find such another
monooverer?
—learnt it in the army—under my particular friend and acquaintance GENERAL ELLIOT. Why don't you see what I am about now? I thinks our licences will carry us through—but if they should not you know—I am at a heavy charge—so you see I goes about and gets the profit of a season before the season comes."
And good generalship it has turned out, for I am credibly informed—at BIRMINGHAM, MANCHESTER, and LIVERPOOL—he cleared nearly two thousand pounds.
While I was at LIVERPOOL the business or the
slave trade
began to be agitated, and out of curiosity I learned some particulars concerning it. These, however, I shall defer till I mention what I gathered afterwards on that subject at MANCHESTER, and add the rejoinder of the people of LIVERPOOL, on my second visit to that place.
Whether any thing be done in this important business or not, the national character of the English will derive an additional lustre from the humane endeavours that have been exerted to annihilate a traffic which those who have petitioned against it think cruel and oppressive. Perhaps an investigation of the abuses under the line may lead to an exposition and an amendment of those at home. If so, MANCHESTER will have unwittingly begun a reform of more magnitude than they were aware of, and become the fortuitous perfecter of a constitution which wants only to be purged of
humours,
contracted by—
too much health
:—which performed, it cannot be rendered more pure than the sincerity with which I profess myself
Yours, C. DIBDIN.
London,
March
27, 1788,
LETTER L.
THE HARMONY OF HALIFAX, AND THE SINCERITY OF SHEFFIELD.
"
Promising's one thing—performing another.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —
DEAR SIR,
IT is my business at present to speak of my success at HALIFAX, and my return from thence to SHEFFIELD, which MOUNTAIN (for I love to use
hackneyed
expressions to
mediocre
subjects, notwithstanding LORD CHESTERFIELD to his son reprobates them as vulgar, that he may keep them to himself I suppose, for nobody has more) brought forth
A MOUSE.
But first for HALIFAX.
I had two nights at this place, and considering the inhabitants of the
neighbourhood
—for this black, dismal town has
in it
very few people of any consequence—were locked up in their houses by the frost and snow, they turned out decent, but that was all. My audience, and indeed all HALIFAX and its environs, men, women, and children, being musical, and, as some think, squall in tune—just as the negroes swim—as soon as they are born, my performance was
critically
attended to, but I am afraid not much liked.
MANZOLI and GUARDUCCI were competitors in ITALY; the public were to determine which sung best;—MANZOLI had the voice of the
spectators
and GUARDUCCI of the
musicians
;—what was the consequence? MANZOLI made a fortune, and GUARDUCCI did nothing.
I am, however, not very sorry this circumstance occurred, for it gives me an opportunity, which will be more strongly confirmed when I get to MANCHESTER, of noticing that the
conoscenti
ever receive the least pleasure, and, in fact, are the least infallible. I sincerely believe, however, having paused on the second night, and considered whether it was right to be pleased or not, they would have attended with more satisfaction a third.—While they were deliberating, however, I was gone; for having received a letter from Mr. GALES, who was so kind to make the necessary enquiries concerning the entertainment, I got away to SHEFFIELD, on Monday December the thirty-first.
Of Mr. GALES I scarcely know how to speak. He is the printer of this work: if, therefore, I should use slight language, it will look like a compact between us,
GARRICK and LACY had this compact between them—whatever one praised the other abused.—When I made my article for seven years, immediately after the
Jubilee,
GARRICK was for giving me a
carte blanche,
and LACY for beating me down in every thing.—They so well carried their point by this—GARRICK having previously promised me that whatever I consented to through LACY's whims, he would, through his own generosity, amply make up to me—that I agreed to receive seven pounds a week for what was worth more than double that sum. LACY having always had a regard for me, I could not help, a few days afterwards, telling him that he had been very hard on me in the business of the agreement.—
"What the devil would you have,"
said he,
"'twas DAVID's doings—he prompted me."
and if I am lavish in my praises of him, some may be apt to quote from SHAKESPEARE, and say
"a little flattery sometimes does well."
I should therefore feel myself awkwardly situated but for one circumstance, which has
major,
MINOR, and CONCLUSION in its favour, as
clearly
as any problem in EUCLID.
Before
I ever saw Mr. GALES I had received numberless civilities at the hands of different
printers,
from many of whom I have had offers to print my TOUR—
after
I knew Mr. GALES, I preferred him to all the printers I had seen. Thus I am enabled, by a self-evident circumstance, to express my sentiments as strongly as by trying my hand at a studied panegyrick; which had I done in the sort of style my wishes led me to, I should have been obliged to have enjoined Mr. GALES's foreman to have printed it unknown to his master; for so diffident is he of his own worth, that I should never have prevailed on him to let that issue from the press which would have been as great a credit to the public as any thing that ever did or ever will pass through it. Another circumstance will by and by oblige me to speak in Mr. GALES's favour in spite of his teeth. Among my general subjects, it will be very proper to take up newspapers, in which case it would be very
improper
not to mention the
Sheffield Register
with that degree of praise it deserves.
My
first
night at SHEFFIELD, notwithstanding I had beat about almost expressly for ten weeks, with a view of properly paying them a visit, was a very bad one; and feeling myself a little let down, I should not have announced a second but for the persuasion of two or three gentlemen; and the conditions I made were, that my continuing the performance for any length of time at SHEFFIELD, should depend wholly on the degree of success on the second evening, which turning out but very little better than the first, I gave the matter up—nor could any persuasions induce me to resume it. I can scarcely account for that strange kind of caprice through which people take so much pains to manifest the instability of their minds. Nothing could be warmer than the apparent heartiness with which I was entreated to return to SHEFFIELD, nor any thing cooler than my reception when I did return. My welcome, to a stranger, would have seemed as if I had been sent away with contumely, and they had wondered at my impudence at intruding myself among them a second time. I looked down upon it, as I can do—heaven be praised—when I ought, with a calm and tranquil mixture of pity and indifference; and, though not one of all the number who testified such satisfaction at my
first
visit came near me on my
second,
I contented myself with a reflection, that as it is the lot of mankind to be fickle, and this worthy quality is generally influenced by local prejudice, it must have arisen, as the French say, from
L'air du pais,
and I have only to consider that the
iron
which was
hot
when I first went there, had
cooled
in my absence.
To shew, however, that I have a pleasure in being just, I here publicly thank the inhabitants of SHEFFIELD for bringing me back, even with all this obloquy, for through it I acquired the friendship of Mr. GALES, and the satisfaction of employing him to print this work.
Adieu.
Yours, Most sincerely, C. DIBDIN.
London,
March
28, 1788.
LETTER LI.
ANOTHER DISAPPOINTMENT.
"
One woe doth tread upon another's heel.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
MY labour-in-vain expedition to SHEFFIELD having trifled away that whole week, a nonsensical business started up which lost me the next. From the little town of ROTHERHAM, a proposal was sent me which, to this moment, I can scarcely make head or tail of. My intention was to have performed at MANCHESTER on the Tuesday, I however received a message that it would be a profit to me, and a pleasure to the people of ROTHERHAM, if I would give them a night there, and that LADY EFFINGHAM had expressed a wish to that effect. The inhabitants of that place, after putting me to some expence, and making me lose my time, chose, however, to affect a perfect indifference about the matter, and no night took place.
The following letter, which I wrote to clear myself from any suspicion of disrespect to LADY EFFINGHAM, who suffered me to say in the bills that the entertainment was at her particular desire, will elucidate this curious business a little better.
To the Right Hon. the COUNTESS OF EFFINGHAM.
MADAM,
I scarcely know in what words to apologize to your LADYSHIP for making so ill a return to your condescension as to disappoint you of my performance at ROTHERHAM. The actual reason, however, which I shall briefly state, will infallibly exculpate me from any intention of abusing the very generous and handsome liberality with which you did me the honour to permit the use of your name; which circumstance, had I not been precluded from circulating it, must have procured me an ample attendance.
A proposal, through Mr. WEBB of SHEFFIELD, came to me from YOUR LADYSHIP and Mr. WALKER; and Mr. WEBB went so far as to ask what sum would satisfy me for my trouble of going to ROTHERHAM. My answer—as it has constantly been whenever I hear of liberal names and liberal intentions—was, that I was certainly safe in relying on whatever the gentlemen of ROTHERHAM, influenced by your LADYSHIP and Mr. WALKER, might think proper to do; and as I am very tenacious of not being considered merely as a common exhibiter—my entertainment having been fabricated solely with a view to testify my gratitude to a generous public, previous to my embarkment for INDIA—I told Mr. WEBB that if the night failed, there would be abundant opportunity of making me amends, without any extra-pecuniary gratification, by promoting the subscription of my MUSICAL TOUR. Mr. WEBB undertook to procure me an answer by
noon
on Sunday, and I promised not to go so soon to MANCHESTER. On Sunday night, however, hearing nothing of Mr. WEBB, I wrote to him, and received a verbal answer that I must wait on Dr. WAINWRIGHT. Determined to know something more of this business, I called at Doctor WAINWRIGHT's in the morning. I saw only Mrs. WAINWRIGHT, who corroborated all that Mr. WEBB had told me; adding, that the Doctor had commissioned Mr. WEBB to treat with me, that he would be on that day at ROTHERHAM, that there would be a meeting of the gentlemen, and her advice was that I should immediately go there. This I fully intended, had I not by accident seen your LADYSHIP. This circumstance determined me to stay at SHEFFIELD, and solicit your name to my bill, which request you did me the honour so handsomely to grant. In the interim, however, I wrote to Dr. WAINWRIGHT, and sent some general bills for circulation; but Dr. WAINWRIGHT, having left ROTHERHAM before the arrival of my letter, it was referred to the gentlemen at the meeting, and they agreed to write me word that they were ALL ENGAGED on Tuesday evening, and could not attend me. This letter not being given to the man till past nine o'clock in the evening, he did not return to SHEFFIELD till yesterday morning,
after
I had set out to ROTHERHAM, prepared for the performance.
On my arrival there, the woman at the post-office informed me that Mr. WALKER had written me a letter, and if I had not received it, Mr. TUCKER would tell me its contents. I waited on Mr. TUCKER, who blamed me for not giving more notice, and letting the gentlemen know
my
intention sooner. I represented that I had but one intention about it—which was,
not
to go to ROTHERHAM, had I not been strongly solicited—but, that, hearing your LADYSHIP's name and Mr. WALKER's so repeatedly mentioned, I had been induced to comply with what was extremely inconvenient to me. Mr. TUCKER informed me that if I performed nobody could be there—but, to comfort me, that gentleman was so good as to say that, even if he did not come himself, he would send his half crown. I smiled at the compliment, but could not help so far feeling for myself as to say that half a crown was probably no more an object to me than to him. He advised me, at all adventures, to see Mr. WALKER, for whom I immediately sought, but finding he was gone to SHEFFIELD, I saw I had nothing for it but to wait on your LADYSHIP, make my apology, and inform you honestly of what had happened—but, on coming to the inn, I found that, in my absence, the landlord had put the horses which drew me to ROTHERHAM to Mr. WALKER's carriage.
Thus, prevented every way from paying your LADYSHIP that deference and respect which are not more your due from your high and distinguished situation than from your affability and condescending benevolence, I have nothing to resort to but this letter; which will, I doubt not, sufficiently convince you that I have in no respect been to blame; but, on the contrary—as this transaction has put me to some expence, and prevented my receiving advantage elsewhere—I have a right to consider it as as a piece of very unhandsome treatment; which I feel the more severely, having through it, though not wilfully, disappointed your LADYSHIP, and given you so much unnecessary trouble.
I have the honour to be, Madam, Your Ladyship's Most obliged, And obedient servant, C. DIBDIN.
Sheffield,
January
8, 1788.
As I could have proved loss of time and money in this transaction, I think it would have been no bad hit to have proposed to Mr. TUCKER—who, be it known, is a worthy member of the law—an action against Mr. WEBB; for if one may judge by the liberal offer of the half crown, he would have joined issue in such a business with me. But adieu Mr. TUCKER, and adieu ROTHERHAM. An Irish jolmon, to whom I was relating the story, cried out—
"ROTHERHAM! Ah now for the future will you be after changing the R into a B, and calling it BOTHERHAM.
Laughing at these disappointments, I began to anticipate the advantages of a visit to MANCHESTER, where, as my recommendations were good, and the inhabitants were said to emulate the spirit of LIVERPOOL, I had no doubt but I should reap a plentiful harvest. In my next you will be able to judge how far my expectations were verified. Adieu. Yours,
C. DIBDIN.
London,
March
27, 1788.
LETTER LII.
LOCAL PREJUDICE.
"
Time that on all things lays his lenient hand
"
Yet tames not this.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
ON Saturday, January the 12th, I went from SHEFFIELD to MANCHESTER, by the way of CASTLETON, and of course over those tremendous hills which form the most romantic part of the wonders of the Peak—but these I shall more particularly describe hereafter. On the Sunday I waited on two gentlemen of consequence in MANCHESTER, and came away so satisfied, that I flattered myself I should find equal success there to that I met with at LIVERPOOL. In the highest spirits, therefore, I advertised, at a venture, three nights—Tuesday the fifteenth, Thursday the seventeenth, and Friday the eighteenth—and on those three nights I received almost
one half
of the sum which the
last night
yielded me at LIVERPOOL. The reception of the entertainment smacked a little of HALIFAX, the judges
"bore a
wary
eye,"
and people, holding tight the captive half crown, made strict enquiries into the value to be received before they could muster up resolution to liberate the coin. To say the truth, I was at last ashamed of them, and, out of pity, relieved them from their uneasiness, by bidding MANCHESTER adieu.
To reverse what I have said of LIVERPOOL, let me not be censured if—faithful to my promise of telling the truth—I should be obliged to place MANCHESTER in an unfavourable point of view. My disappointment there will tell the story for me. At LIVERPOOL I had no previous recommendation that could influence the leading people. At MANCHESTER, a gentleman of the first consequence in the town introduced me personally to all whom he could devise might be of service to me; and, on my account, gave a supper, to which he invited a large number of his particular friends, on the night
before
the first performance. Nor did they want a reporter, and a very able one, of what they were going to hear. One of the gentlemen present had been at the amusement the last night at LIVERPOOL, and spoke in the kindest way, not only of the thing itself, but of the liberal treatment I had received; instancing in particular, that as the concert had been on that very night, many who had indispensible engagements there, just made their appearance, and then devoted the remainder of the evening
to me
—a kind of attention he wished to see imitated at MANCHESTER. Nevertheless, the fact was as I have related. At my coming away, I might have had any thing if I would give them a night or two more, which I took as it was meant—a mere promise—and declined it as it deserved.
It was allowed, on all hands, I had been very ill treated, and it was said, as I had failed in the
entertainment
it should be made up to me in
subscription
; and they hoped, if I found that to be the case, I would yet in the course of some weeks pay them another visit. This I promised to do; but passing two months afterwards through the place, and finding that there was not a single
additional
name to my
subscription,
I forewent my intention of calling on any person beside the booksellers—and left MANCHESTER with an opinion which I am very sorry to be convinced it merits.
Let me not however be so ungrateful as to neglect saying that from one gentleman—whose name all MANCHESTER will recollect without my mentioning it—I received a warm and friendly attention beyond my abilities to describe. If he had intreated for a favour to be conferred on himself, he could not have been more solicitous, more anxious, or more industrious. Indeed I wish I had never gone to MANCHESTER; for I am sure there are many of those who call themselves his friends, whom—after this business—he can never cordially think so. I take leave in this place to thank that gentleman, and to assure him that no length of time or change of situation shall ever efface his kindness from my memory.
The business would have turned out better if it had been undertaken by any body but this gentleman; and will it be believed why? He knew nothing of music. 'Twas in vain that he held out, with the greatest good-nature,
'Am I obliged to learn
sol fa
to receive pleasure when I hear an agreeable song!'
"Mr. DIBDIN ought to have been taken up by the conoscenti,"
who I would lay my life would be the very first to pick a hole in his coat.
This and the promised pleasure of the ensuing week, when a new organ was to be opened at their concert room, deprived me of all the
gentlemen
musicians. Mr. GREEN, who was putting up the organ, was a deity among them. Have you seen him? What sort of man is he? Oh sir, he is a wonderful creature! In short, they were so full of it, that I expected to see a portrait of the organ and organ-maker in the next MANCHESTER
print
; and yet, with all this fuss, when the grand day came, they had not—after such an expence and so long a notice—two-thirds of the number that usually attend a common concert at LIVERPOOL.
The narrowness that characterises the people of MANCHESTER is not confined to their pleasures, it is evidently apparent in their trade. Considering them as a community, they are like an army of MERCENARIES. At their head are a few individuals of consequence, under whom all the rest are doomed to serve in perpetual subordination; but LIVERPOOL is a corps of volunteers in which any may rise by industry, merit, and perseverance, to the highest posts. Some few at MANCHESTER must assuredly be immensely wealthy, but it is impossible that it can boast, within a prodigious sum indeed, the aggregate riches of LIVERPOOL. As therefore the wealth falls comparatively into a few hands—the tradesman-like plodding routine of whose business is to pay weekly wages and settle short credits—there cannot be the same extension of ideas, the same necessity for a large scale of calculation, for a competent knowledge of the comparative interests of nations, for clear and well-digested general intelligence, and all those other important mental requisites which make up the broad, comprehensive pursuits of a merchant. In short, MANCHESTER, where a small number hoard considerable wealth, and the rest are merely paid for their labour, cannot, on the scale of commerce, be put in competition with LIVERPOOL; where the tide of treasure—like the sea that produces it—rolls in a wide and expansive circulation; nor is it more conducive to private and partial advantage than general convenience.
Men however of these contracted principles generally are strictly honest, and possess the lesser virtues with as much punctuality and exactness as they honour a bill of exchange; and there can be no doubt but from the timidity attendant on the common moral duties of life, and an anxiety to comply as far as men can with the letter of that religion they punctually attend the ceremonies of—by way of example to their children and servants—the humanity so evidently manifest in the present efforts to abolish the
slave trade
had its rise, The motive beyond contradiction is laudable.
After examining, in my next letter, whether the people of MANCHESTER get or lose by setting themselves up rather as
judges
than as
lovers
of MUSIC, I shall proceed to investigate their arguments relative to this important subject, place those of LIVERPOOL by the side of them, and see whether their general policy merits that attention from the legislature they expect, or whether it has proceeded from that ruling passion which POPE says time itself cannot tame; and he might have added, had he known my friendship, any more than it can the sincerity with which I profess to be
Truly yours, C. DIBDIN.
London,
April
1, 1788.
LETTER LIII.
CRITICS AND CRITICISMS.
"
The sports of children satisfy the child.
"
To the Rev Mr. —
DEAR SIR,
SOME years ago there was a party of critics who constantly made a point of attending the
theatres.
They were always headed by a chief, whom they distinguished by the name of Mr. TOWN; and this gentleman being chosen for his superior adroitness at discovering the faults of authors, very gravely—in the name he had the modesty to assume—pronounced the fate of many a trembling poet and composer. It happened however after a length of time, that indifferent people, who really went to the
theatres
to be pleased, and to judge for themselves, thought proper to take up the business, and a few ineffectual struggles over, Mr. TOWN and his partizans were obliged to leave the field in disgrace, and withdraw to pot houses, their master's offices, or such other obscure retreats, from which they originally issued, in arrogant expectation of giving the ton to an opulent metropolis in an enlightened age.
A most ludicrous instance of the dismission of an actor, through the
fiat
of Mr. TOWN, happened in Goodman's Fields. A GENTLEMAN was announced for the character of MACBETH, and went thro' it with so much reputation that it was agreed to give it out for the following night. A Miss BUDGEL played LADY MACBETH, and it so happened that during his acquaintance with that lady, at the different rehearsals, he fell passionately in love with his
theatrical
wife—which misfortune might not have happened to him had she been his
real
one. During the time of the performance he was more enraptured than ever. After it was over, standing near her, by the side of the scenes, receiving her warm compliments and congratulations, an actor, who had personated one of the witches, was sent on the stage to announce a repetition of the performance on the following night. The audience, the moment the man appeared, burst into a loud laugh. MACBETH could not conceive whence this arose, till, looking on the stage, he saw the actor who had began to arrange himself for the farce, with his hair sinely dressed, and some of the witches rags hanging about him,
"God bless me,"
cried he,
"'tis mighty ridiculous to send this stupid fellow on the stage—what shall we do?"
'My dear Sir,
said Miss BUDGEL,
'you have nothing for it but to give it out yourself.'
"My dear creature,"
returned the charmed MACBETH,
"I'll do it—my sweet Miss BUDGEL!—dear, charming Miss BUDGEL!"
—On he rushed, full of the idea of Miss BUDGEL, and, as soon as he could be heard, he thundered out
"Ladies and gentlemen, to morrow evening—Miss BUDGEL will be
done over again.
"
Mr. TOUN found something indelicate in this business, and poor MACBETH was banished from the theatre.
This party has never been entirely quelled, their fury however now vents itself only in bickerings at coffee houses, snarling in the box lobby, or now and then a squib in the newspapers; but this last never happens, unless interest be made with the understrappers when the editor is out of the way—for free tickets, the performance of now and then a farce, and other douceurs, have locked up the newspapers from the admission of any strictures relative to the theatres, but such as are within the description of Mr. SHERIDAN's list of
puffs
in
The Critic.
Lest this last policy however should not be sufficient to insure to the
managers
all the success it may be
convenient
to command—for that it has been sometimes thought expedient to accelerate the damnation of pieces I
know
to be a fact—a formidable phalanx of
orderly
people are stationed to crush in its infancy every attempt at a riot. These have their various tasks assigned them; and to say the truth, they have often as hard parts to play as those on the stage.
Sometimes it is the duty of these
theatrical
auxiliaries to make the most disturbances themselves, in order to drown one clamour with another. An Irishman being witness to this, and asking a person near him what could induce those people to make such a noise, was informed they had all come in with
orders.
"Well then, upon my soul,"
said he,
"I never saw a set of
orderly
people so
riotous
in all my life."
Through these and other wise precautions, theatrical matters are put upon so desirable a footing, that it is not what the town has an opinion of, but what the manager, through interest—to oblige a favourite, or some such equitable motive—chuses to obtrude on the public, which we see continually crammed down their throats, and which has so perverted the original institution of the drama, that it would be as useless to search for morality, wit, taste, genius, or any intrinsic requisite of the stage, in most of the modern dramatic productions, as for
charity
in the heart of an USURER, or
truth
in the tongue of a HYPOCRITE.
Scions from this old stock of party seem pretty freely to have spread themselves over most of the towns of consequence in this kingdom. Playhouse critics however have in the country very little to do; for by then they have seen
Macbeth
two or three times break his truncheon—
Richard
start at the ghosts, all the men have fallen in love, and all the women envied some
blooming
actress of
sixty
; and a few of the first rate having gone to LONDON for orders, and seen the performers there, have pronounced the country actors to be
damned stuff
—expended curiosity dies away, and the unfortunate sons and daughters of
Thespis
having stamped, roared, grinned, and squalled as long as any 'prentice boys are to be found to make up their gallery, are obliged to take to their cart and undergo the same humiliation in some other place.
Musical critics
have a great deal more to do. An attorney's clerk who can play WEIDEMAN's minuet joins a mercer's apprentice, who, from frequenting hops has learnt to scrape a little of one of the city waites. The attorney decamped—perhaps after being pilloried for perjury, and the mercer become a bankrupt, the clerk and the apprentice are in business for themselves. Perhaps one becomes an alderman and the other a town-clerk. A subscription is now proposed, a concert-room is built, where the MERCER
leads,
and the ATTORNEY
plays solos.
The plan is at length extended, till in the race-week, at the assizes, or some other public season, whatever singer happens then to be popular is invited, an oratorio performed, and Messieurs LATITAT and REMNANT quit the
red tails
and the
quality binding,
to emulate—in noise at least—the festivals of the Abbey.
I really mean no more by my MERCER and ATTORNEY than the latter would by A and B did he put a case. What I have instanced is virtually the fact; and it has this operation. If it so happen that the
lovers
of music out-number the
judges
—as they call themselves—every thing will be conducted upon a broad, liberal plan, and the concert do honour to the place, by giving encouragement to men of abilities and refining the taste of the inhabitants; if on the contrary the
judges
have a majority, it will be carried on upon a narrow, jealous, contracted scale. The music will be injudiciously chosen, an unnecessary consequence assumed; and at length, what was meant as an harmonic meeting will become a scene of confusion, till the gentlemen players have no opportunity to display the brilliancy of their superior talents, but thro' the mortifying medium of private meetings at each other's houses. At LIVERPOOL, the
lovers
have the majority
twenty
—perhaps
fifty
—to one: At MANCHESTER, I am afraid it goes as strongly in favour of the
judges.
Let them therefore take care not to follow the example of LEEDS; where—and I have already shewn why—there will not, in all probability, next year be a concert at all. None of this would however be worth a comment, if the sports of these children—like the others in the fable of the frogs—was not the death of genius, and consequently the cause of stagnating that profession they pretend to encourage.
Yours, Very sincerely, C. DIBDIN.
London,
April
1, 1788.
LETTER LIV.
MANCHESTER VERSUS LIVERPOOL.
"
You have among you many an hired slave:
"
Shall I say, marry them to your children,
"
Let them be free!
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
THE objections which originated at MANCHESTER, and which have since extended to a large part of the kingdom, against the slave trade, are as follow.
That it is a disgrace to humanity, and a reproach to a nation which boasts the mildest government, and professes the justest religion upon earth, to buy and sell our fellow-creatures.
That the English, not contented with the prisoners taken in those wars among the different powers o
the coast of AFRICA, which are provoked by their own jealousies and other private motives, irritate the natives to commit partial depredations on each other, and thus unnecessarily are the cause of spilling human blood, and laying waste the habitations of harmless and peaceable individuals, for the purpose of supplying slaves for the markets in the WEST-INDIES.
That these poor wretches are treated with the most inhuman cruelty; that on board of ship they are stived down in the hold, without the smallest respect to sex or age, or any regard to common decency; and that if they repine, chains, whips, and thumb-screws, bring them to a sense of their miserable condition, and the scene often ends with their embracing death to free them from a worse calamity; that this cruelty extends throughout the whole term of their slavery, which—unless they can raise a sum, generally impossible—is for life; that they are cart-whipt and treated with much other cruelty, under which a white man would expire, for the most trivial faults; and that four years generally wear out—owing to this reiterated torture—the most robust constitutions among them, when they fall willing victims to their dreadful fate, which becomes a standing and indelible reproach to the name of Englishman.
That there have been some instances to the contrary, since all the world is not possessed of the same want of feeling; that indeed they have been rare, but when they have happened, the planter has found his first stock become sufficiently numerous to answer all his purposes—for by gentleness and kind treatment they have increased astonishingly, and, as his humane endeavours have been evidently visited by a blessing from heaven, he has amassed immense riches—while the negroes have extolled
him
as a
benefactor,
whom they expected to find a grievous and oppressive
task master.
That a planter may take away the life of a slave without being in the smallest degree accountable for his actions.
That the GUINEA trade, over and above the other evils which attend it, is the destruction of many brave Englishmen, inasmuch as that the flower of our intrepid tars find a grave upon the coast of AFRICA.
That the abolition of this unnatural traffic would be rather a benefit than a disadvantage as to the consumption of our commodities, for that we might then have returns in articles the produce of that country.
That a total abolition of the slave trade, and nothing less, would go to a reform of the grievances arising from it; for, by being convinced that they could no longer recruit their stock from the old market, planters would cease to be wantonly cruel, and naturally turn their thoughts to the care and preservation of the slaves then upon their hands, imitating the single instance of the merciful West-Indian before mentioned, which would produce many great and salutary effects. The planter, contenting himself with the slaves already in his possession, would, as the negroes are naturally prolific, increase his stock every year; also having no more purchase-money to pay, he could in a short time be enabled to part with his sugar and rum cheaper than formerly, and thus we could afford to undersell all the other West-India islands. That these desirable blessings would perpetuate the merciful reign of GEORGE the Third, and finally, to the end of time, stand forward as as an example of humanity unparalelled in the annals of the world.
Many other inland towns having caught fire at the long enumeration of
grievances
sustained, and advantages that would arise from the extirpation of the cause of those grievances, have, to their honour, taken up the subject, and in a variety of petitions—among which that of SHEFFIELD is one of the best written—besought parliament to interpose their authority, and put a stop to this growing evil; and they hold out what appears to be a strong proof of the handsome disinterestedness of MANCHESTER, namely, that their goods go now to purchase the African slaves, whereas they are willing to forego all advantage as
dealers,
rather than be remiss in their duty as
men.
These petitions look forward to the happy consequences that they say would be derived from so noble an exercise of English philanthropy. In them is introduced every argument that generosity can dictate, and the most powerful language used to intreat the legislature to protect the savages, and to induce the merchants who have an interest in that trade nobly to throw it up with the same greatness of mind in which they have been set so laudable an example by the benevolent inhabitants of MANCHESTER.
Besides the petitioners, a number of societies have formed, who split the different questions into every possible division; but as this would take off from the solemnity of the business, and seem as if I wished to supply LIVERPOOL with opportuity to introduce palliating subterfuges, I shall, in my next letter, let them meet the question on its present ground. After which, the reader and I will fairly compare both arguments—which done, I shall leave him as a jury to decide upon the merits of the case.
Mercy upon poor LIVERPOOL, if the arguments of MANCHESTER be found as infallible, as that I am,
Most truly And faithfully yours, C. DIBDIN.
London,
April
2, 1788.
LETTER LV.
A VINDICATION.
"
To do a great right, do a little wrong.
"
To the Rev Mr. —
DEAR SIR,
IN reply to these charges, LIVERPOOL says,
That if there can be no reason, supported by sound policy, legislative necessity, or any of those indispensable urgencies which in all politics occasionally introduce a partial and apparent oppression for the sake of general convenience, the African
slave trade
is as it has been represented—an infamous traffic, and a disgrace to the national character of the English; but if it be made appear that it is perfectly expedient, and also that it is a blessing—instead of a misfortune—to the savages, whose Situations are so loudly and vehemently deplored, they conceive the various petitions for its abolition ought to be thrown out—though certainly originating from benevolent intentions—as frivolous and vexatious.
That so false is the report that the English provoke wars up the country on the coast of AFRICA, for the purpose of purchasing slaves, no Englishman ever yet returned who ventured five miles from the shore. That were the English so inhuman as to meditate any such thing, it is perfectly unnecessary. The nations on the coast of AFRICA are remarkably prolific, and naturally lazy, cultivation is scarcely known among them, and fishing and hunting procure them the only blessings of life their savage nature is capable of entertaining a conception of. There are among them many tribes, and they are never without being in some place or other at war. The prisoners made in these wars are doomed some to be
sacrificed,
some
eaten
—for they are cannibals to a man—and some
sold.
These last are purchased by the ENGLISH, the DUTCH, the FRENCH, the PORTUGUESE, the SPANISH, the DANES, and, as all the world knows, by many other nations. Do all those go up the country to provoke wars? Or do they lay in wait for the poor captives who are tricked by the insidious arts of Englishmen into unnecessary quarrels? Bravery, and all the generosity attending on it, is the characteristic of Englishmen. Why then should their fellow country men load them with such unworthy suspicions? But the wars alone do not furnish the slaves sold upon the coast of GUINEA. If a negro have thirty wives, they are his slaves, so are their children; and it is not uncustomary to see a man sell his whole family. Of the poor devoted wretches taken in war, those who are sold are the happiest, unless it can be proved that they are treated with all that cruelty which again is rather harshly laid to the charge of Englishmen; in which case indeed,
death
were desirable. These poor wretches are brought forth—such a number are put apart to be EATEN at the public sacrifices, the rest are carried to market—the refuse of whom, which always amounts to a considerable number, are beheaded, and then—or perhaps alive, as a prey to the sharks—thrown into the sea. A gentleman, from whose mouth this is taken, says that a Captain FARRER, after having purchased as many as his ship would conveniently contain, saw those he had refused to buy, beheaded before his face to the number of sixty-two.
That on board of ship no slave was ever treated but with the greatest mildness and lenity, unless he were mutinous, in which case common policy will make it necessary to be a little rigorous. That the accommodations are studiously laid out for their convenience,
This I am competent to speak to, having myself examined a Guineaman with the most minute attention.
and every effort exerted to preserve them in health and vigour. Indeed, if Englishmen had all that ferocity at present attributed to them; if they could be hardened enough to gall a poor defenceless slave with chains, flog him into sickness, and invent new horrors to increase the calamity of his situation—their interest would forbid it. They must be madmen to brave an unhealthy clime, and expend immense sums to purchase a set of miserable objects merely to exercise on them so much wanton barbarity. When the slaves come to the West-Indian, by being re-purchased at a higher price, it still more behoves their masters to attend to their treatment. They are certainly set to work, but their labour is not within any degree of comparison equal to that of a farmer's man, who, at the harvest time, has not a single hour's cessation from binding and carrying, from three o'clock in the morning till nine at night—whereas a negro can never work but from six to six. In short, any English labourer is worked much harder—but then the climate! Why it is congenial to their nature—but the cart whip! Is nothing. They are lazy beyond any thing that can be conceived; and if they were not stimulated to it, would do nothing. But it is a mistake that a planter can whip a negro to death—he must receive but thirty-nine lashes; and if every one of the thirty-nine were ten, they would be still nothing to a dozen at the gangway. That so far from the planter's treating them with any thing but general kindness—for he must not suffer them to get the upper hand of him, unless he chuses to have his throat cut—every negro has his little spot of ground, from which the markets are supplied with vegetables on a Sunday, with the produce of which they make little parties of pleasure, have their balls and different pastimes, and, unless it be some few moody malecontents—which are to be found in all states—are as happy as any people under the sun. Neither is this ground taken away from them—as some assert—when they have brought it to perfection; for if this were the case, where would they get the money to purchase their freedom, which happens every day.
In short, a negro's idea when he is purchased is, that he is to be eaten; and as nothing can induce him to drive this idea from his imagination—for persuading him to the contrary confirms it the stronger, as he thinks he is only told so that he may become
chearful
and get
fat
—therefore they generally come to market very thin, which probably has given rise to the report of their being cruelly treated at sea—but when he finds he is only to work, and sees himself in the midst of his countrymen, who have wives and families and are happy, only upon condition that they labour a little, he, like them, buckles to his situation, and finds that the bread he regularly earns by industry, is sweeter than the precarious subsistance he before picked up—which perhaps was not procured till his poisoned arrow had drank the blood of his countryman.
I will not say how far 'tis expedient by doing a little wrong to do a great right—but we will go on with the reasons of LIVERPOOL, after I have once more subscribed myself
Yours, Very faithfully, C. DIBDIN.
London,
April
2, 1788.
LETTER LVI.
THE ARGUMENTS OF LIVERPOOL FINISHED.
"
If this be true—as true it seems to be
"—
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
THE objections of LIVERPOOL to the assertions of MANCHESTER, go on thus.
That certainly those who treat the slaves with the most lenity stand a chance of being best assisted by their services; but the instance adduced that they are likely, through good treatment alone, to grow sufficiently populous for the WEST-INDIES to need no further supply of them, is a most extraordinary assertion. It is well known there are very few women brought from AFRICA, and many of these, through their connections with white men, get their liberty. This is certainly a subject not to be defended upon rational principles, but it is a worldly blessing which the negroes have a very strong relish for; and that the fact exists, witness all those degrees of complection under the titles of Mulatto, Mustee, &c. who at last enjoy the immunities of Englishmen, and become planters themselves. Besides, it can never be credited that, if there were any possible means of keeping up a sufficient stock without a fresh supply, that men would lavish away large sums to purchase new slaves merely for the pleasure of treating them ill.
That a planter cannot take away the life of a slave without being accountable for his actions. The laws formerly were very loose on this subject, and murder of this kind has been committed—and so it has in ENGLAND—with impunity. There was always however a heavy fine for this crime, and in aggravated cases the punishment was never less than death; and what is this but our distinction of manslaughter and murder? These laws however, before MANCHESTER said a word on the subject, it was thought necessary to render more rigid, and JAMAICA has already determined to make this crime death without benefit of clergy;
An act to this effect has since passed.
but even if these laws did not exist, there is an unfeeling cruelty beyond description in a man's coolly sitting down and supposing that his fellow creatures—his countrymen—can depart from those sensations by which alone they deserve to be linked to society, and deliberately commit murder, to their manifest disadvantage, in the moment a poor wretch needs most his pity and compassion, merely because that wretch is in his power. No animal in the circuit of creation ever took a life, but to gratify hunger or satiate revenge. To the latter ignoble propensity man most assuredly is too much addicted—but not more in the WEST-INDIES than in ENGLAND, or any other part of the world; nor indeed are Englishmen more remarkable for this savage brutality than the inhabitants of any other nation; why then, in a moment of forward and unnecessary zeal, single out the English West India planters, in particular, as the perpetrators of unprovoked and useless barbarity?—which, were they capable of, they would deserve to be swept from the face of the earth.
That nothing can prove so decidedly the superficial and fallacious principles upon which the inhabitants of MANCHESTER ground their arguments, as their assertion that the GUINEA trade is the destruction of some of our bravest seaman. It is well known that when king's ships are paid off, unhappy sailors, who have so nobly maintained during a war the glorious naval superiority of Englishmen, take to bad courses for want of employ, and that the gallows groans with those neglected objects of bravery, who perhaps, a few months before, were the dread of their enemies. Is it wonderful then, that those who have the resolution to withstand the temptations which seduced their companions, should leave their country—which they must do or starve—upon
any terms?
But this object is scarcely worth contending for:—the sailors who man the Guineamen are very few of them of this description—they are mostly such wretches as, having escaped justice in this country, are obliged to fly; for it may be fairly averred, that the vessels bound to AFRICA, by taking such pests of society with them, go more to the prevention of depredations on the public than all the watchfulness of the English police. To say the truth, these ought most to be terrified at the chains in which they are sure to be manacled, whenever they treat the slaves with cruelty.
That if the assertion be founded—
"that it would be rather a benefit than a disadvantage to abolish the slave trade, because we might then have returns for our commodities in articles the produce of AFRICA,"
it contradicts that which went before; for, in this case, would not the sailors be as likely to find a grave upon that coast in any common
trading voyage
as by
bartering for slaves?
Besides, this holds out a sort of argument that the disinterestedness of MANCHESTER is not quite so clear as upon the first blush it appeared; for if a mutual commerce of produce for produce could be brought about, the MANCHESTER goods might in that case, not only be sold in as large quantities, but probably to much greater advantage. But, after all, what is the value of the produce of AFRICA? What of consequence have we ever done even with SENEGAL? If we could
colonize
indeed!—but then, would not the death of the emigrants be an improvement on the cruelty which it is said has stimulated us to carry so many sailors to their graves in that unwholesome country?
That a total abolition of the slave trade would shake the very existence of our WEST-INDIA possessions; for there cannot be a falser argument than that a stock of slaves is to be kept up without a constant supply from AFRICA; and as to the visionary notion of putting them on a footing with hired servants, 'tis too ridiculous to deserve a thought. In short, were the slave trade put an end to, the French, and others, who at present participate with us upon an equal footing the advantages arising from the produce of the Caribbee Islands, would then come at their produce upon better terms, and in greater abundance; and thus would one exertion of humanity, perfectly laudable in private speculation, in its public operation, train with it the most pernicious and destructive consequences.
These arguments have branched into a multitude of others, to which MANCHESTER has
replied,
and LIVERPOOL
rejoined
—the material points however are contained in what I have already set down; but this controversy has drawn from LIVERPOOL a question of certainly much greater magnitude than the slave trade—and it is this:
"Were it not wiser, and even more humane, before we carry our clemency to AFRICA, to exert it a little for the relief of that oppression under which our fellow subjects groan
at home?
"
Some of their observations on this subject, which are very pointed, shall make up a part of the next letter—this I finish without any farther comment, since this important subject is a pending one, and will no doubt undergo a full and satisfactory investigation. Then to say that, at any rate, the exertions of MANCHESTER are praiseworthy, and if their prayer had gone no further than to a correction of abuses, not one word would or could have been said against it; for in that case, the reasonableness of their demand would have been as evident as that I am
Yours, With the most perfect sincerity, C. DIBDIN.
London,
April
5, 1788.
LETTER LVII.
A PROOF THAT THERE ARE MORE SLAVES THAN THOSE UPON THE COAST OF AFRICA.
"
Charity begins at home.
"
To the Rev Mr. —
DEAR SIR,
I shall now speak to the grievances which exist at home, and are said by LIVERPOOL to have thrown such a shadow over the present
soi disant
philanthropic exertions, as almost totally to eclipse them.
These are comprehended in a general abuse and wilful perversion of the spirit of our laws. Hence all the distresses to harmless and industrious families, by kidnapping and pressing for the army and navy, through which deserted wives and children are committed to the care of merciless overseers, and unthinking boys, in time of peace, flogged to death for desertion.
An instance of this kind lately occurred, which plainly evinces that if the
laws
of this country are mild, the
execution
of them is cruelly rigourous. In the course of last month, at DOVER, a lad of eighteen was sentenced to receive a thousand lashes for desertion. They had given him five hundred, when—in terms of the most moving supplication—he implored a respite of the remainder of his sentence, crying out, in accents scarcely utterable, through the violence of his agony,
"that his heart was breaking, and he should die under it if they flogged him any longer!"
—regardless however of his entreaties, they continued their unmerciful work, till at the end of six hundred and fifty lashes—perceiving him actually dying—they removed him to the guard-house, where he expired the next morning! Query, whether this is not at least a march for any cruelty that has been practised in the WEST-INDIES? There is certainly great opportunity for abuses to creep into martial laws, and it originates from this: Those who are most likely to commit crimes, cannot be tried by their peers. Thus private soldiers and foremast men are generally punished with rigour, and the
crimes
of officers too often palliated and softened into
errors.
My brother assured me the following is a fact. A strange, eccentric fellow, who was a cook's mate on board a man of war, among other singularities, used to amuse the sailors with tricks on the cards, cups and balls, and other feats of
legerdemain.
The captain—who was not blest with a very brilliant understanding—instead of seeing this matter in the harmless light it deserved, found in his idea something very reprehensible in it. The sailor was ordered into his presence, and told that he had heard strange things of him.
'Have you indeed, your honour,'
said JACK,
'what are they sir, if I may be so bold?'
"Why,"
said the captain,
"they say you are a
conjuror.
"
'Lord bless your honour,'
answered the tar,
'why then, if that's the case, they says strange things of your honour.'
"Of me, you rascal, why what, you impudent dog, do they say of me?"
'Why they says, and please your honour, as how your honour is
no conjuror.
'
This, tho' there was no offence in it from the heart, ought to have procured the sailor at least a reprimand, if not a slight punishment—for certainly the barrier of subordination ought never to be overleaped. The captain however determined upon a more complete revenge than was then in his power, dismissed him with a smile—but, from that moment, privately set him down in his black book. No effectual opportunity occurred to gratify this smothered revenge, till the sailor having got drunk ashore neglected to return at the appointed time with his companions. This being the moment the captain wished for, poor JACK was tried for desertion, and sentenced to be
keel hauled.
When he was brought forward to suffer his sentence, he begged leave to speak to the captain—to whom he said,
'I am sentenced, your honour, to undergo a very heavy punishment, though I have done nothing to deserve it; but I have been tried by a court martial of
captains
—had I been an officer, my tricks upon the cards would have been a
genteel amusement,
my
crimes
all
errors,
and my
slaying ashore
a
frolic.
God bless you sir, and all the harm I wish you is, that for the next crime your honour commits, you may be tried by a court martial of
foremast men
—and now for DAVY JONES's
locker!
'
Saying which words, he jumped overboard.
Hence all the injuries sustained by the constitution, owing to smuggling, through which the
fair
trader fails, and the
nesarious
one becomes opulent
Certainly this fact exists.
—through which the exciseman keeps his horse and his girl, and spends five hundred a year, though he receives from government but fifty
I saw myself a letter from an exciseman to a captain of a ship, in which were these words:
'Sir, I understand you want to land some goods on Friday in the afternoon, therefore at that time I shall contrive to be three miles off on
government business.
"
—through which are levied shop and other grievous taxes, whose produce the customs and excise alone would yield, were they not defrauded by those who smuggle, and others who countenance smugglers—and through which a few half-ankers of brandy are seized by consent, to cover the running of valuable goods to an immense amount. Hence come all the evils arising from imprisonment for debt, through which an unmerciful creditor has been known to decide upon the
liberty, property,
and even LIFE of an oppressed debtor
Instead of commenting on this subject in a note, I shall reserve it to make up my next letter.
—through which attornies swarm in this country like locusts—through which the villain is sure to escape, and the unfortunate man to be punished—through which rogues in prison banquet in luxury, and innocent men, envying the milder lot of felons,
petition
to be transported to BOTANY BAY;
This instance happened about a twelvemonth ago—the debtors in Newgate seeing the preparations for transporting the felons to BOTANY BAY, petitioned to go with them.
and lastly—for were I to enumerate all the instances they adduce, and the variety of partial evils arising from them, the remainder of this publication would not contain them—hence come the inefficacy of the penal laws, through which thieves thrive in the neighbourhood of justice—through which informers, who are the only instruments to put the laws in force, are deemed infamous—through which justice is made a trade, and lawless bandittis are every thing but protected by those whose duty it is to exterminate them.
This is a field on which Mr. CLOUGH—of whom I had formerly the honour to speak—would largely expatiate. His doctrine was, that thieves are encouraged by the runners of rotation offices till—as they express it—
"their time is come,"
and to inure them to their certain fate, they make a point of attending executions. He tells a story of one of these who used to be so much favoured as now and then to be permitted
for love
to help JACK KETCH to adjust the knot. When his own hanging-day arrived, with all imaginable unconcern, he looked up at the clock, and said to one of his companions,
"I say, GEORGE, I think we are
rather late to-day!
"
His stories of the placid indifference with which these poor wretches submit to their fate were numerous, and every one of them proved, that it strong habit and example had not confirmed in them a belief (as rivetted as that of soldiers and sailors as to their fate in battle) that they were predestined to the gibbet, many of them, by being roused to their rational duties, through the vigilance of the police, might have become useful members of society:—but the magistrates themselves know, that as other children learn something to give the man idea of religion and morality, so those in
St. Giles's
are taught to lisp out the exploits of their fathers, and nothing is so common as to hear a boy of five year's old talk of
"dying game."
I shall select one more of Mr. CLOUGH's stories to finish this note.
A poor fellow whose irons had just been knocked off in the press-yard was seen to whimper, upon which Mr. AKERMAN—who bears the character of a thinking and considerate man—pleased probably to see an unexpected example of feeling, in one who had always appeared very hardened, asked him, with great kindness, what troubled him—saying, that any thing in his power that could alleviate this distress for the few short moments he had to live he should be welcome to—
"as to your fate."
said he,
"you seemed a few minutes ago to be very resigned to it."
'Lord love you,'
replied the poor wretch, sniveling,
''tis not that—as to hanging, 'tis as well now as another time—but I have not sixpence to buy a natty nightcap—and a man you know, Master AKERMAN, may as well go
dessent
out of the world—but I should not mind it so much, if that NED NUBBING CHEAT had not refused to lend me his—and that you know was damned ill-natured, for he can't want it till next sessions!'
All these the people of LIVERPOOL are of opinion require a reform—not that they would wish any amendment that might go to the extirpation of the laws, for they are evidently a
benefit,
though their execution may be an
evil
; and they conclude what they have offered on this subject, by saying that though they would recommend a cure of home abuses, as a project of amore sane and rational nature, rather than a reform on the coast of AFRICA, yet should the present complainants be really able to point out any abuses in the
slave trade,
and hit upon an expedient that may go to their redress, they will be the first to offer them their public thanks, not from any ostentation of greater liberality than their neighbours, but because in that case they will have done a desirable and material service to the community in general, and in particular to the inhabitants of LIVERPOOL.
In this state I leave the subject of the slave trade. It was in some degree my duty to report as much as I knew of it, and it would have exceeded my duty to say whose arguments are the most worthy attention. The only circumstance I can speak to, from my own conviction, is, the accommodations on board the Guineamen, which are wonderfully calculated for the comfort and convenience of the slaves; indeed the crew, and even the officers themselves, are very ill accommodated, merely that the whole ship may be appropriated to the use of those objects on whose health and good treatment certainly depend the success of their voyage.
Yours, Very truly, C. DIBDIN.
London,
April
14, 1788.
LETTER LVIII.
A DISTINCTION BETWEEN LAW AND EQUITY.
"
A Lawyer's is an honest employment—so is mine; like me too he acts in a double capacity—for rogues and against them.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
HOWEVER expedient, however wise, however salutary may be the
political
JUSTICE of the laws respecting debtor and creditor in this country, nothing can teem with more
moral
INFAMY than their execution. A detension of the person has been thought, by every wise man, to be oppressive, and even impolitic; but I will not go upon that, the laws
warrant,
or at least
tolerate
it, and I shall hardly betray so much folly as to offer a sentiment on what will never be effected till law lords cease to dictate on subjects that wholly apply to their own interest, though the very same plea is at all times sufficient to render the testimony of a witness inadmissible in the courts.
Any man who will make oath to a debt of ten pounds, may arrest another, and if he cannot give bail to the action, put him in jail. It is not necessary that there be such debt in actual existence; for if any accounts have passed between the two persons, and there should be only a balance of twenty shillings, an oath may be
legally
made of the
whole,
let the amount be ever so large, and when the debtor is once in jail, it will take
five terms
to bring the matter to a final issue, provided the creditor chuse so long to procrastinate the dispute. Thus a man who only owes
twenty shillings
may, in this country, be imprisoned a year and a quarter, lose his time and reputation, pay fifty pounds for law, and emancipate from his confinement a beggar—whereas common reason says, that the creditor ought to have been compelled in the first instance to state the account fairly, and receive his due, without having it in his power to indulge an indignant and implacable revenge, from which motive alone could spring a wish to harrass a fellow-creature, for the pleasure of contemplating his sufferings. But it will be asked whether creditors in general are so unnecessarily oppressive; and if they are, what can induce them to it? My answer is, there are three times the number of attornies that can honestly get employ in this kingdom. From this it arises, that when one of them is consulted, instead of
healing
a breach—which is his duty—he makes it
wider
; for indeed he must do so, or starve. Vengeance is always advised instead of compassion, and this must be gone about in the most expensive way possible, that they may more completely hamper the poor devil who has the misfortune to come under their hands. The action commenced—the next object is to serve it in as disgraceful and inconvenient a manner as possible—for lawyers as naturally study the interest of bailiffs as physicians do that of the apothecaries. By this means, they look out for red letter days, and such other adventitious means as may put it as much as possible out of the power of the poor debtor to escape, till—to use their own words—
"every man has had a leg or a wing."
To explain myself. We will suppose Saturday and Monday red letter days—the defendant, in this case, is always arrested on a Friday—but not before six o'clock in the evening. Thus, though he be prepared to give bail or pay the money, he cannot be released till the following Tuesday—because the intervention of the two holidays and the Sunday, preclude all possibility of searching the office, though at the moment of the caption fifty to one but they know that there is nothing else against him. During the four days he is in custody, to a certainty every art is used—nine times out of ten by the attorney, but always by the bailiffs—to induce other creditors to lay detainers against him. At length, after accumulated disgrace, mortification, and expence, by signing notes, cognovits, and warrants of attorney, he purchases a temporary liberty, at an immoderate disadvantage—and after finding it impossible to fulfil these engagements so extorted, he goes to prison for life, at the will of the creditor. If he be advised to resign himself to exonerate his bail, he is told that if his creditors do not proceed in such a number of terms, he can get a complete release from their power, by superseding their actions. This advice taken, and a release obtained, after a tedious imprisonment, he is just where he set out, and may be sued again on every debt for which he was imprisoned, which is sure to happen, if he have any thing to pay the costs.
If the creditor go on to execution, the prisoner is certainly locked up for life; and the instances of disease, famine, and suicide in consequence (which are apparent in more than that of JOHN SMITH and his wife, who cut their children's throats and hung themselves) prove pretty strongly that in this country a creditor may have a virtual power over the life of a debtor, in which case I do not see why he should not be like SHYLOCK, not only obliged to relinquish his demand, but forfeit a part of his own property for the service of the state. Then in vain might he retort,
"Nay, take my life,"
and all he would be answered,
"How shalt thou hope for mercy, rendering none!"
At the time LORD EFFINGHAM—with a benevolence that will reflect on him lasting honour—ineffectually, owing to the interference of the law lords, attempted a reform on this subject, he gathered together many well attested cases to strengthen his arguments, and prefaced them by saying that every case was a deep tragedy—more were in preparation for him, and one of them I know to be truth. It was this. A man in the year eighty-three, was five hundred pounds in debt. An attorney, a partner, and a bailiff, by false reports, brought all his real creditors against him, and added fictitious ones, till having been in prison two years, he obtained a release upon supersedeases from debts, for which he could again be sued, and having paid upwards of six hundred pounds
for law,
he found himself between seven and eight hundred pounds in debt, though in the interim he had not contracted a single new one. One of these fictitious debts is worth notice. This man was arrested for a debt he
did not owe.
The account on which it was pretended to arise having long before been liquidated—he went to trial, and obtained a verdict in his favour, the plaintiff, when an execution came to be sued out for the costs, was in prison. The defendant, therefore, was obliged to pay his own costs in this unjust action, which amounted to seventeen pounds. In short, when a man delivers himself implicitly into the hands of an attorney, there is no advantage that may not be taken of him, and with safety, for let the attorney undertake what he pleases, the client is obliged to acquiesce; and for God sake what man of common, plain understanding, unacquainted with all the different and equivocating constructions of the law, can guard against the consequences that are sure to attend even a winning
cause
;
A plain, well-intentioned farmer, who appeared to be blest with strong intellectual faculties, once set this matter very clear in the court of King's Bench. On a trial before LORD MANSFIELD, an action was brought to ascertain some privileges concerning the boundaries of two parishes, upon which a great deal of money was spent, to elucidate a question which was not of three-pence consequence to either party. In the course of the trial, LORD MANSFIELD having taken notice of some strong pointed observations, which had fallen from the farmer above mentioned, he begged leave to ask him a few questions, merely for information, concerning the customs of overseers, and other officers, who manage the parish money. The farmer with great chearfulness appeared ready to satisfy him, and his LORDSHIP said,
'in the course of your evidence I think you noticed that the parish money was very often improperly applied—now I do not mean to insinuate that you would be likely to misuse it, but as you mentioned that you were once churchwarden, if you have no objection, I should wish to hear what was done with the money at that time.'
"Why, my LORD,"
said the farmer,
"the money was worse applied while I was churchwarden than ever I knew it in my life."
'Indeed!'
said his LORDSHIP,
'I should be glad to know how.'
"Why, my LORD,"
said the farmer,
"I'll tell you. A gentleman, who had lived some time among us, went into Yorkshire, where he died. In his will he bequeathed about an hundred and twenty pounds to the poor of our parish. We appiied for it often and often, but 'twould not do—the executors and the lawyers, and one or another, were glad enough to keep the money in their hands; for you know, my LORD, 'tis an old saying that might can overcome right. Well, we did not know what to do, and I came to your LORDSHIP for advice. You were then COUNSELLOR MURRAY. I remember, my LORD, you advised us to file a bill in Chancery. We did so; and, after throwing a great deal of good money after bad, we got, I think they call it, a decree; and such a decree it was that, when all expences were paid, I reckon we were about an hundred and seventy-five pounds out of pocket. Now, my LORD, I leave you to judge whether the parish money was not likely to be worse employed while I was churchwarden, than ever I knew it before."
what then must be a losing one? Look at the common expences of the most trifling trial, and see what fortune can make a stand against going often to law. No, no, let every man be wary how he is imposed upon; but when he is so, let him sit down contented with the first loss. He may easily cure the sting of one
hornet,
but what a plight he must be in, if he be unwise enough to rouse THE WHOLE NEST! But a
"lawyer's is an honest employment,"
says
Peachum
: I wish it was half so honest as I am sincere, when I assure you that I am
Very faithfully, Yours, C. DIBDIN.
London,
April
14, 1788.
LETTER LIX.
THE TOUR ENLARGED.
"
A poor petty larceny rascal—he goes off the next sessions.
"
To the Rev Mr. —
DEAR SIR,
FROM MANCHESTER I returned to SHEFFIELD, where, on the following week, this TOUR was put to press—the dates of the letters will shew how much of it was at that time written. Having inspected the first sixty-four pages, which—except one or two half sheets—is all I have had opportunity to examine, I went to LEEDS; where, with the advantage of LADY MEXBOROUGH's name, I had a very good night at the assembly-room, on Monday February the eleventh. My friend WARBURTON also acquainted me it was very much the wish of Mr. FAWKES that I might have another night at YORK. This, I confess, I had no great relish for; but knowing well the powerful influence of Mr. FAWKES, and how much the inhabitants of that dull region are obliged to the taste and fashionable elegance of Mrs. FAWKES, for teaching them how to distinguish what ought to amuse them, and set them examples of polished manners and finished good breeding, I did myself the honour to call on that gentleman, who assuring me his utmost interest should be used to make a night worth my while, it was fixed for Thursday February the twenty-eighth; and in the interim, I went on to DURHAM and NEWCASTLE. Passing DURHAM, I arrived at NEWCASTLE on Friday the fifteenth; and the next day, after delivering a recommendatory letter to a gentleman of some consequence, who, like the Irishman at BATH, promised GREAT THINGS and did
nothing,
I waited on the
Mayor,
and began my attack in form. I performed four times with very nearly as bad success as at MANCHESTER. The kind way, however, in which Mr. HODGSON, the printer, testified his concern for what he was pleased to think want of taste in the people of NEWCASTLE was truly flattering and obliging. He put a paragraph in his newspaper to induce a better attendance, and he was indefatigable in promoting the subscription. I here thank him for his handsome and gentlemanly treatment of me.
I had trifled away ten days at NEWCASTLE, when I was determined to repass DURHAM, and get on to YORK. For this purpose I set-out on Sunday the twenty-fourth, but the weather being remarkably disagreeable, I went no farther than DURHAM that night; and, having seen Mr. EBDON, the organist of the Cathedral, whose candid and
untheoretical
sentiments greatly pleased me, I resolved—as I had to play with my time till the following Thursday—that I would stay and see what Monday night would produce. It not only greatly exceeded my expectations, but I was entreated to perform a second time, which turned out to be nearly as productive as the first.
During the time I was at DURHAM, I had many kindnesses shewn me, which I would more particularly notice but that my TOUR is hastening to its close. Those that were public I received from Dr. COOPER—which has been a fortunate name to me—Mr. BIRD, Mr. SMITH, and several others whose names are in the list of subscribers; the private ones, from Mr. EBDON—for I never acknowledge any thing as kindness but what is meant as an unaffected intention to please and oblige. As to familiarity, unnecessary and ill-assumed consequence, and invitations to dinner, merely to sport a sideboard, it never yet had any attractions for me, and therefore, if any person at DURHAM should recognize this for the portrait of his conduct, let it be a secret between him and me—but let him also endeavour to persuade himself that every man who accepts his acquaintance upon those terms laughs at him in his sleeve.
Master HOULT, at the
Red Lion,
seemed anxious to be celebrated in this TOUR. I am willing to tell the truth, which I dare say is all he desires. He appeared very anxious to please, and undertook to give his sister at NORTHALLERTON a caution how she treated me on my return, as that lady had been so accommodating on my road to DURHAM from YORK, to put me into a damp bed. What the caution was I will not pretend to say, but certainly she gave me horses that knocked up between NORTHALLERTON and EASINGWOULD; as to himself, he saw I had two tolerable nights, and thought, I suppose, he had a right to his share of them—for having left the bargain concerning the room to a sort of eventual decision, though there could be no such virtual construction put on it, he adhered to his bond as rigidly as SHYLOCK. I had a part of the TOUR with me, which he read, and I remember appeared charmed with my account of JEMMY WALLIS, at NEWARK. If he conceived he merited a similar panegyric, he will now see he and I are of different opinions.
On my return to YORK, the business of Thursday night was so spoken of, that I really thought, out of compliment to the lady who had taken so much pains—and in obliging whom the inhabitants, by the way, would have paid themselves a compliment—that I should have found reason to change my tone. I remember it was suggested to me that I should be obliged to rewrite that letter where, speaking of cities, I put YORK in so unfavourable a point of view. Not a bit. The night, though it proved to the clearest demonstration the weight and consequence of Mrs. FAWKES's name, only confirmed me the stronger in my belief of their general shabbiness, for I had not a promiscuous audience, but a
party
of
ninety-nine persons,
which is an astonishing number to be brought through one interest to an assembly-room in the country.
A very extraordinary adventure happened to me at this time. A decent man came into the parlour in which I was sitting at the Inn, and after the most confused, unconnected preface that can be imagined, told me I had been innocently the cause of injuring him with the people of YORK. I begged to know how, and he informed me that his business in that place was to deliver an entertainment somewhat similar to mine, but that of course he was silenced by my arrival. He then entered into a description of his distresses, in most pathetic language, calling himself a ruined clergyman, saying he was driven to the last despair, and that he had frequently been on the point of shooting himself; at length, calling me out of the room, he said the smallest trifle would be of infinite service to him, and entreated I would lend him
half a crown.
This I gave him without hesitation, and at his request also a ticket for the performance, and he went his way. When I came to examine his bills, I found them so worded that he might have been mistaken for me. He had followed exactly in my track, and announced nothing more than that the gentleman who had some time before, at such and such a town, given his
Readings
and
Music,
meant to repeat that entertainment; and I afterwards learnt, that at HULL and BEVERLY, he entertained his audience with nothing more than the same lively picture of his distresses, till they consented to go home, and leave their money behind them.
I should not have mentioned this here, or at all—especially the business of the
half crown
—had not Mr. BLANCHARD, the printer—who is another of my favourites—come soon after into the room, when upon giving directions for some bills on the morrow, something induced him to notice that there was a strange kind of man who had made some application to him to print bills—
"but,"
said he,
"he made use of an odd recommendation, for he said he was in the greatest distress."
In short, listening to Mr. BLANCHARD's account, I heard every word that had just been repeated to me by the ruined clergyman, which ended with the old request of the half crown, which was of course given to him.
This brings to my recollection an anecdote of Dr. JOHNSON, which has certainly escaped all his biographers, though it be nevertheless truth—at least if I may believe Dr. GOLDSMITH, who told me so on the very day that he said it happened. GOLDSMITH, and DAVIS, the bookseller, called one morning on Dr. JOHNSON, and found him in company of a man, not only very worthless in his character, but one who had been forward in abusing the doctor himself. They saw him, as this man went away, put something in his hand—upon which GOLDSMITH expostulated with him, saying, no wonder such vipers got a living when they could be fostered by the very hand they wounded,
'Fie, doctor,'
said he,
'this man is one of the most infamous rascals that ever existed.'
"I have nothing, sir,"
said the doctor,
"to do with the man's
vices
—he asked me for
half a crown,
and I
gave it him.
"
"But,"
said Mr. BLANCHARD,
"I should have let the half crown business die, had I not afterwards had reason to believe he is an impostor of some consequence—for a very little time after I saw him bowling along in a post chaise alone, and having the curiosity to ask the landlord where he baited whither he was going, I found the chaise was to take him
twenty-two miles.
"
This gentleman attended at the room, and what became of him ultimately I know not, but he was certainly taken out by some man he had swindled, and who had followed him from another town.
Thus after having been so frequently taken for an impostor myself, I at last met with a person who was really one; and this
"petty larceny rascal,"
after all, was probably in many places more respected. Here I recal to mind your kind letter now printed, and the several friendly remarks you have since made—all which convince me how much credit I do myself in so often assuring you that I am,
Yours, Very truly, C. DIBDIN.
London,
April
17, 1788.
LETTER LX.
A THANKFUL ADIEU TO LIVERPOOL.
"
Hail dear retirement!
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
HAVING returned to SHEFFIELD, and given directions for advertising three nights at LIVERPOOL, I repaired thither, and arrived on Tuesday the fourth of March. As I necessarily passed through MANCHESTER, I thought I might as well make some enquiry concerning the subscription, which would of course set me to rights as to the attention that had been paid me in my absence. Finding, as I before represented, that not a single name had been added to the list, I thought it would be a folly to see MANCHESTER any more.
At LIVERPOOL—the only place in all my
tour
to which I
returned
to any good purpose—I had six handsome nights, taking the average of them, and it gave me pleasure to announce that I should finish my career in that spirited town. My reception was certainly flattering to an excess—if I could have dined in ten places at once,
LIVERPOOL is remarkable of course for fine turtle. A gentleman who is well known for distinguishing the best morsels, received two cards of invitation, to dinc on a turtle, the same day, at the same hour. After balancing for some time which he should accept, he determined to dine at both places. To manage this, he waited on the stewards of one feast, and represented what an awkward hour they had chosen for their dinner—
"What an absurdity,"
said he,
"to dine at
three o'clock
; people who are on business all the morning will be starved; besides, all the world is getting into early hours now."
The stewards, in short, consented to have the dinner at
two.
This point gained, he posted away to the other stewards—
"Good God,"
said he,
"what could possess you to appoint your dinner at
three o'clock?
—we shan't have done upon 'Change—our appetites won't be half up—besides, how unfashionable!—all the world is getting into late hours. In short, when people meet at a feast business is over, and therefore you should always have it as late as you can."
Here also he carried his point. Repairing to the dinner at
two o'clock,
he stuffed unmercifully—when having previously ordered himself to be called out, he went home, took an emetic, and appeared in high spirits at the other feast, which had, to oblige him, been appointed at
sour.
To keep my consistency, however, perfectly clear, this gentleman is not a
merchant
—but a
physician.
I should have been welcome, and indeed kindness of this sort came so thick, that I was obliged to decline all invitations, lest I should be incapacitated from affording that entertainment for which purpose I went among them.
On Tuesday the eleventh, I attended at their concert, and declare that I heard two acts from the
Messiah
performed much more respectably than I could have conceived. Mr. MEREDITH and Miss HARWOOD are known to have much merit in this style of singing. Mr. WILTON's precision and care in leading the band cannot be too much praised; and Mr. WAINWRIGHT conducted the chorusses in a very able and spirited style, and also, in a very delicate way, gave us the second of HANDEL's concertos. I have already noticed how expert the singers of YORKSHIRE and LANCASHIRE are at chorusses. Those who performed them the night I speak of at LIVERPOOL, did HANDEL as much credit as if they had been drilled by Mr. JOAH BATES, which between seven and eight hundred persons who were present can testify.
Were I to speak fully of the attention paid me at LIVERPOOL, I should have nothing else to say. As, therefore, those who were so forward to please and serve me are the least conscious of it—the whole sum of their kindness being no more than the common exercise of that liberality which so remarkably characterises them—I must content myself with feeling that which I cannot properly describe.
I quitted LIVERPOOL on Friday the fourteenth of March, having the night before exhibited myself as a public character for the
last time,
passed on through BIRMINGHAM, in my way to BRISTOL, whither I went on private business, spent three or four days with my friend BOYTON, and finally, arrived in LONDON on Saturday the twenty-second.
My running account of places, inns, &c. and a few more gleanings, will now wind up my TOUR—previous to which, however, I shall go into the business of my negociation with Mr. HARRIS, and endeavour to account for its failure. This I shall enter upon in my next letter. That done, my last remarks on the subject of music will naturally introduce a statement of my pieces, and the profits which arose from them. Thus every letter will lessen the frequency—though never the pleasure—with which I assure you I am
Most cordially Yours, C. DIBDIN.
London,
April
17, 1788.
LETTER LXI.
THEATRICAL MATTERS.
"
—Time was when my approach
"
Had made a little holiday.
To the Rev Mr. —
DEAR SIR,
YOU already know the nature of my application to Mr. HARRIS, in March, 1787, and the substance of the answer I received. From YORK, in the following October, I sent that gentleman a musical farce, telling him that I had a first-piece nearly ready, and three other after-pieces, which in a very short time I could perfect, and also some good materials for pantomimes.
I will confess to you, that I chose to send the piece I set the least store by first—for I have, unfortunately, upon these occasions, a sort of
pre-sentiment,
and my feelings at that time, I am free to declare, did not very much lead me to place any great faith in Mr. HARRIS's sincerity. It was however a farce that, as times go,
Covent-Garden
need not have been ashamed of. Mr. HARRIS returned one act of it, saying,
"it was taken from the French, and like Sir JOHN VANBRUGH's
Country House,
therefore it would not do; but that whenever I would send any thing
completed,
that would be of service to the theatre, he should be glad to treat with me; but not for hints, or detached music, for that they were crowded with unappropriated music, by the
best composers.
"
I wrote him an answer to his letter, saying,
'I should be glad of
the other act of the farce
—that I was sorry he thought indifferently of it—that I certainly took partly the idea of it from a French piece, but I had not literally translated a single speech; nor had I ever read VANBRUGH's
Country House,
therefore it could not be so like either as to make his objection a substantial one; for it was very easy to shew from whence almost every piece that had appeared for some years was taken, and one might venture to add, the same of those which would appear for some years to come. I went on saying, that I hoped he and I should agree better on what I should next send. I begged however that he would explain himself in one point. If he meant by the word
completed,
that he expected me to send music, as well as words, I certainly could not consent to it, as I thought I ought to be considered as perfectly competent to decide on its merits myself—that I desired fairly and honourably to be understood to mean exactly what I had asserted that I was going to INDIA, and wished very much to leave something behind me, to have my fame remembered—for which I should never stand candidate again. I said, that when I wrote to him, some years ago, on the same subject, he thought that
hints,
or
any thing else
from ME, would be valuable to him, and that I really did not believe my rivals had since given him reason to alter his opinion. I had a variety of materials which would certainly be useful, and indeed he must think so, otherwise why
crowd
his theatre with
unappropriated music
—for I flattered myself I had no right to be considered as an
inferior
master. In short, I told him, if he thought I could leave him nothing that would be of advantage to him, it would be a folly for us to have a single moment's further trouble on the subject.'
This was the substance of my letter; to which, at GRANTHAM, five weeks afterwards, I received an answer, and the second act of the farce.
Mr. HARRIS said,
"He was sorry I had the trouble of sending again for the second act—it had been mislaid by an accident."
"He had only to repeat to me, that any work I might send completed, should be read with attention, and without delay, and if found likely to succeed, he should readily treat with me for the purchase of it—but not for any unappropriated or detached music."
This letter determined me to let nothing out of my hand till I had come at a fair explanation of the word
completed,
and to do this, I once more wrote to Mr. HARRIS, telling him,
'that till he should please to explain that word matters must stand in
statu quo,
for that I could not consent to send music for
inspection.
Having received no answer to this letter, not even when I arrived in LONDON, the first thing I did was to take my final leave of Mr. HARRIS, in a letter, a copy of which shall be transcribed for your perusal, after I have once more subscribed myself
Your very faithful And obliged friend, C. DIBDIN.
London,
April
17, 1788.
LETTER LXII.
AN ADIEU TO THE THEATRE.
"
The post of honour is a private station.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
I Shall now lay before you my letter to Mr. HARRIS.
To THOMAS HARRIS, Esq.
SIR,
I have waited three months—which is something more than good manners allows—for an answer to my last letter; but as that quality makes no part in the
etiquette
of a MANAGER, your silence excites in me no wonder. It speaks, however, pretty emphatically, and tells me—which I really did not think in this instance—that you have been near a twelve-month laughing at me. In the month of March last, I wrote to you offering to sale such materials as I had by me or could finish before I should quit ENGLAND. You encouraged me, in answer, to send either pantomimes, first-pieces, or after-pieces,
completed.
Of this indefinite expression I have since repeatedly entreated an explanation, telling you, that if you expected me to send music for inspection, I could not agree to it—nor would, I believe, any man in his senses advise me. The only answer I have received from you is, a reiteration of the word, without any elucidation of it; and upon my pressing you, three months ago, for a
final
answer, you think proper to drop all correspondence with me. I shall therefore take the liberty, in this letter—which you will be charmed to hear is the last you will receive from me—to say that it is impossible but you must have a predetermined resolution not to accept any thing of mine.
Had I gone upon the extensive sense of the word completed, I must have sent you models for pantomimes, as well as the stories and the music—and to what end? To have had my pains requited by a refusal, and hints taken from the materials. Not by you however. I acquit you of any such idea—but your people, barren of genius, would have been happy to catch at any thing original. As to music—I must have been mad to have sent any—that would have been a glorious feast indeed for your compilers—still without your knowledge; for they would find no difficulty in passing it on you for theirs. I once imposed on you as
completely,
though not so
nefariously,
myself. I certainly, the first season after I returned from FRANCE, took a particular pleasure in implicitly complying with every request you made me; and this is, I suppose, what you meant when, at the end of that season, you said something very handsomely in a letter of my
zeal
for the interests of the THEATRE. During the getting up of the
Touchstone,
you desired me to remove a tune, and make a new one in its stead. It was my full intention to have been as complaisant in this instance as the rest, but having an engagement, I forgot it till the next morning. There being no time to get it ready, when I came to the THEATRE, before the rehearsal, and in FOULES's
The copist.
room, I made some trifling alteration in the accompaniments, and marked the tune to be played a tone higher;
I frequently did this with GARRICK—for why should one be dictated to by the absurd observations of men without cars, who give unnecessary trouble to shew their own consequence.
as to the melody there was not a note altered, and every body but yourself knew it to be the same tune. Thus,
their
remarks that it was better—meaning the alteration—
your
coinciding with them—thinking it a new tune—and
my
acquiescence with both, made as good an equivoque as ever Mr. O'KEEFE introduced into any of his pieces.
You
must
have known that I meant not to have sent you music subject to inspection, but that you should take it upon my promise that it would be original, and the best I could make. Nay, I particularly marked, that in what I left behind me, I should look to my professional fame in the strictest manner. Upon this footing, you certainly did not think proper to receive my productions—otherwise you would not have trifled with me.
The conclusion is, you either think my abilities impaired, or that I have not now so much
zeal
for the interest of the THEATRE as I had ten years ago.
'Tis evident I cannot now write any thing to please you, for you return every thing I send you; whereas, formerly—and I can shew your own hand writing to prove it—you admit the merit of six pieces sent at one time—all of which it is true had success.
See the statement of pieces.
Will not the world be apt to think that the decay is rather in your judgment than in my abilities? You very well
know,
and I believe have
allowed
that I have as little of arrogance, as to my productions, as any man; and yet I cannot but be alive to what I hear every day. It has been my good fortune, in the course of the last twelvemonth, to see the public a little face to face, and it happens to have been that part of the public which in great measure makes up your boxes—and they assure me, to an individual, that I greatly improve both as an author and a composer; you will, therefore, excuse me, if I rather credit my benefactors than you.
This allowed, it can be nothing more than that, in your opinion, my
zeal
for the interest of the THEATRE
slackened.
If vamping up old matter by giving it a new face; if introducing stale, hackneyed tunes and passages to the disgrace of taste, and the total exclusion of genius and originality; or if a servile obedience to the
ipse dixit
of the manager, against the evidence of plain reason and common sense, be
zeal
for the interest of the the THEATRE—away with such zeal—I'll have none on't!—and for this I believe I shall again be praised by the public.
I should not have written this letter, but have let the whole business die away—for it otherwise had been scarcely worth a thought—had I not been accused, by many opulent and respectable characters, of having in some way so deported myself as to have made it impossible for MANAGERS to treat with me, otherwise I could not set up as an excuse for going to INDIA my having been driven from the THEATRE.
I am sure you will allow that I have fairly stated the matter, and that there is nothing between us but a difference of opinion concerning the meaning of a very common word, which, like TOUCHSTONE's
if,
has so operated as to prevent any thing coming of our negociation; in the course of which we have both acted in our situations:
I
have, as dependants should, entreated—and
you
have not deigned to answer.
My time, therefore, being so short as to make all accommodation impossible—and indeed were it longer nothing should shake my resolution of having done with the THEATRE—I shall finish this letter—which I dare say has sufficiently tired you—with a most serious and solemn assurance that, as a man, I have and ever had the highest respect for you—that I have to thank you for a thousand instances of attention and politeness, and the part of your conduct wherein I had only to consider you as a private gentleman was ever handsome and manly; and this opinion you may remember I felt and professed, at the very moment those around you falslely persuaded you I had written a libel against you.
A pamphlet was published in the year 1782, called
Coalition,
or
Theatrical Monopoly,
I really know not which. It abused Mr. HARRIS, and I was said to be the author. Mr. HARRIS was undeceived, and behaved very handsomely upon it. Some of his privy counsellors however
now
are the same who were
then.
Feeling these sentiments, let me conjure you as a manager, to open your eyes—banish every thing from your stage that can check the growth of genius—let not quaintness, tricks, and shifts, usurp the place of
weeping taste
and
desponding originality!
In short, with the MANAGER blend the MAN—so shall judgment rear its fostering standard, and COVENT-GARDEN be no longer the fountain of caprice, but the source of real merit.
Yet think not, in this arrangement, I affect to include myself—for I declare upon my veracity, and let the world judge of its validity as I adhere to the declararion or recede from it, that half the profits of your THEATRE should not bribe me to return. I am sure never was the post of honour more a privater station than at present.
Sir, Adieu.——Though I have considered it as a duty incumbent on me to write you this letter, be assured I do not mean it in any respect to breathe rancour. You have seen how I make the distinction; and I once more assure you that, as a
man
and a
gentleman,
you have not in the world a truer advocate, or a sincerer well-wisher than
Your most obedient servant, C. DIBDIN.
London,
March
24, 1788.
This matter has thus terminated, and through you I give to the public a strong fact—which is worth a thousand arguments. As a proof that every man who thinks independently must lay his account to having no concern with the THEATRE, Mr. SHERIDAN has the boldness to say in
The Critic,
"that very few go through the fatigue of thinking for themselves."
If so, we have only to lament that stage manoeuvres are not as
honest
as they are INGENIOUS, and that the first dramatic writer of the day holds out fallacy as the principal ingredient in a theatrical composition. That he has as little of originality in the plots of his pieces as Mr. CUMBERLAND—against whom he seems to head the whole force of his satire—is certain. I do not mean however to accuse him of imbecility—he has genius equal to any thing; but the generality of English audiences have been so used to
cayenne
and
high cookery,
that he knew plain nature would stand no chance among them. He is however the only man who has ventured to impose upon them, and tell them so in the same breath; but the English have such a redundancy of good nature, that if a man arrogates a superiority, supporting his pretensions at the same time with any formidable shew of ability, their characteristic benevolence is at once appealed to, and they implicitly give him credit for the very merit he asssures them he possesses.
Thus, men who have the constancy and resolution to climb any given height, atchieve the task they have set themselves, by adding perseverance and intrepidity to strong intellectual endowments, strengthened by intense, wary, and correct observation. There is however a want of feeling in this—'tis a sort of poaching for fame—
"while the fair hunter's cheated of his prey."
I know you think it a sort of dramatic sacrilege to attack the works of Mr. SHERIDAN, and this will, in my next letter, put me upon a cursory view of them; for if I were capable of advancing any thing I could not prove, I should be unworthy your friendship, and have told you a falsity every time I have asserted that
I am, Sincerely, yours, C. DIBDIN.
London,
April
18, 1788.
LETTER LXIII.
A BOLD UNDERTAKING.
"
One man may steal a horse better than another look over the hedge.
"
To the Rev Mr. —
DEAR SIR,
A Few words on Mr. SHERIDAN's dramatic works, and adieu to the
Theatre
—except such circumstances relative to it as will necessarily come out in my statement of pieces.
The Rivals
has had the least success, and yet it is the most original of all his pieces. It was nearly damned on the first night, and Mr. SHERIDAN—profiting by the experience with which its reception furnished him—withdrew it with this remark.
"I have now got the
last,
and it shall be my fault if I don't make the shoe to fit next time."
His labour however being only cobler's work, it required too much of method for his volatile genius to buckle to, and we may venture to pronounce, without any great outrage on probability, that had not Mr. SHERIDAN so much influence in the
theatre, The Rivals
would never have made its appearance a
second season.
It is a neat, well written piece, but has that sort of cold correctness which will not go to the galleries. The incident, from
The Nut-brown Maid,
though written with great sweetness and delicacy, is no more proper for the
theatre
than the fine strokes of a miniature painter would be in the finishing of flats and wings.
All this perhaps inducing Mr. SHERIDAN to think with the chairman in relation to POPE, he produced
The Duenna
—where there is not a single new situation from beginning to end. The whole plot of turning the daughter out of doors, and passing the maid for the mistress, is conjointly the
Scicelienne
of MOLIERE and
Il Filosofo di campagna
—where every circumstance is to be found, from the serenade at the beginning to the marriage at the end. The other plot is
The Wonder
—which, the moment it is told, must be obvious to every body—because every body knows both pieces. Not even any single subordinate circumstance is original.
Father Paul
is MARMONTEL's
Philosophe soi disant
—who, as he eats delicacies, talks of the roots of the earth—and, as he drinks burgundy, praises the wholesome chrystal stream. The dialogue is by no means brilliant; but Mr. SHERIDAN was determined it should penetrate every where, and in particular the
aside
speeches of
Isaac
—shewing beforehand how clearly he shall himself be taken in by his different attempts to deceive others, is the most artful species of anticipation that ever was practised, and shews a judgment of theatrical effect powerful, new, and extraordinary.
The School for Scandal
is no more original than
The Duenna.
The
school
itself is CONGREVE's
Cabal,
and the play may fairly be called a sequel to
The Way of the World.
The scandal has all been detailed in different pieces, but principally in
The Plain Dealer.
When in NOVEL,
Lord Plausible, Olivia,
and
Eliza,
will be found
Sir Benjamin Crab, Lady Sneerwell,
and
Mrs. Candour.
The brothers have been in a variety of things, from
The Adelphi
to Mr. CUMBERLAND's
Fashionable Folly
—but the
Squire of Alsatia
on the stage, and
Blifil
and
Tom Jones
in the closet, are the closest resemblances. The uncle lately returned from abroad, and introduced to the drunken company, is extremely like the
The Intriguing Chambermaid.
The circumstance of the uncle's picture is in a French piece called
L'ecole de la Jeunesse
; and
Joseph
and
Lady Teazle
—are
Constant
and
Lady Brute.
Mr. SHERIDAN has said that there is not a new character or incident—and all that can be done is to take old matter and give it a novel appearance. Had he said that it is safer to do so, I would join with him; for certainly when any thing comes in contact with the imagination that has been before familiar, or rather congenial to it, without consideration, we give credit for its merit on the spot, whatever we may do upon reflection—and having once praised a thing, a false pride prevents us from discovering that we were deceived. The dialogue of this piece is as accommodating as the rest of it. Mr. HERON points out the tinsel scattered up and down by way of sentiments, which, by the theatrical people, are known by the name of
clap traps
; and Mr. SHERIDAN cannot take it amiss, if in justice to his abilities and our own discernment, one is obliged to say, that he can—whenever he pleases, write ten times better.
The
Monody,
which seems written expressly to desire all the world to
forget
GARRICK, has again very little of originality in it. LLOYD's
Actor
furnished the outline, in addition to which Mr. SHERIDAN certainly has touched in some beautiful strokes; but, after all, it is but a sketch, and much more likely to be forgotten than him whose memory it laboriously professes to prove ought to be buried with his ashes. My great quarrel with Mr. SHERIDAN in this business is, that he has with great skill and ability spoken of all the arts, except
music.
He has shewn that the same of the statuary is most perfect when the statues themselves are broken to pieces—that RAPHAEL and SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS are cotemporaries,
I once saw, at Blenheim-house, what would make this line pass for satire. It was a portrait of the DUCHESS OF MALBOROUGH and her CHILD, in which the colours were all flown, by the side of the VIRGIN and our SAVIOUR, by RAPHAEL, in which the tints were in as high preservation as if it had not been painted six months.
and that these arts are subordinate to
poetry
; but he has not once even hinted that there is any such study as music—to which, I insist upon it, none of the arts are superior. I beg to ask Mr. SHERIDAN a question. Does he believe if—added to his own consummate knowledge of stage effect—he could borrow the pen of SHAKESPEARE, and by blending such talents, form a play beyond all conception the most perfect: that ever graced a theatre, that the audience would not—spite of their anxious suspence—spite of their bruised hides in crowding to the house—hiss down the curtain, if they were deprived of the first music. But indeed whatever may be the conscious haughtiness with which this gentleman may think proper to look down on an art, to which I hope he owes no grudge, he had good sense enough to court its alliance before he thought proper to put his
dramatic
fame to a
second
trial.
The Critic
is surely nothing equal, as a satire, to
Tom Thumb
—and when we talk of
The Rehearsal,
it sinks to nothing. FIELDING and BUCKINGHAM have taken in the whole round of tragedy, and properly conceived that DRYDEN, LEE, and the old standards, were fair game. What has Mr. SHERIDAN done? Why truly, except indeed where he chuses to ridicule SHAKESPEARE—which, by the bye, I do not think an English audience would have suffered in any body else—he has exposed the puerile, modern stuff, which if it be deficient in merit, he—as a manager—must bear his share of reprehension for obtruding it on the public. The business of
Sir Plagiary
is severe enough; but, unfortunately, the very words he intends should give the deepest wound, recoils on himself—for they are a
plagiary. Puff,
is full of pointed observation, but that part of the piece is the first instance—as I before observed—where an audience have quietly sat down and consented to be laughed at by an author. As to the drift of the piece, it appears to be written with a view alone to discourage writers of tragedy; for there is no possible situation that can excite pity, terror, or any of those passions which it is the business of tragedy peculiarly to call forth, but this work, which
"professes to be critical,"
attempts to laugh at—and really not always with success; for, if figure and imagery may at all be introduced in this species of writing, the criticism itself is more an object of ridicule than the thing it professes to criticise. In short, I defy Mr. SHERIDAN himself to write a tragedy so as to steer clear of his own lash; and how absurd must a man appear who provides a castigation for himself! The matter relative to the clock, at the beginning of
The Duenna,
shews evidently that he is vulnerable, as well as his neighbours; and as the circumstance goes to a reprobation of the unities, it were as modest to propose some better criterion before he invited us to explode the admitted standard:
"but one man may steal a horse better than another look over the hedge,"
says the old proverb. Mr. SHERIDAN can write in any style, and to any degree of perfection he pleases, but his public writing, like his public speaking, is more
catching
than CAPTIVATING; it
dazzles,
but does not IMPRESS—it
charms,
but does not CONVINCE. In short, as that gentleman's aim is popularity, he does every thing for the moment, and it is a question, after he has sunk into ease and independance, from his natural indolence of mind, whether he will ever again be known but by a few eminent trifles written to grace the private cabinet, and make up the
delices
of the elegant and euridite.
Mr. SHERIDAN having most probably done with the stage, as an author, it is but fair to examine how far, in that capacity, he has been an acquisition to the public; and when we consider that he has deprived the world of the best singer, beyond all comparison, that we have ever heard, it is very doubtful whether what he has given be adequate to what he has taken away—and, admitting this, the public would rather have gained than lost had Mr. SHERIDAN originally kept to politics, and have had nothing to do with the theatre.
This gentleman, from his earliest youth, resolved to be at the top of his profession, be it what it might. May his integrity equal his abilities, and there is no situation but he will adorn!
Adieu.
Yours most perfectly, C. DIBDIN.
London,
April
21, 1788.
LETTER LXIV.
MUSICAL JUSTICE.
"
So ceas'd the rival crew when
PURCEL
came
"
They sung no more, or only sung his fame.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
FINDING in LONDON the musical world up in arms at what they had heard concerning this book, I cannot resume the subject better than by taking them while they are warm. I am only sorry the small remaining portion of room which I can dedicate to this subject will prevent me from going into it so fully as I could wish—for it is prolific, and cannot, for the sake of the public, be too closely inspected.
I have advanced that PURCEL had a
stronger mind
than HANDEL, and that had ARNE been encouraged, he would have been a greater man. At the time PURCEL lived, music was in its infancy in this kingdom, and all the perfection composers had an idea of, was to shackle themselves with rules, and thus they dared not give way to the brilliancy of their genius—for there was as much good sense in this practise as there would be in tying a man's legs to make him run the faster—but where, in spite of dull custom, the imagination of PURCEL beamed forth. It had a majesty and a resulgence, like the sun breaking from a cloud. How beautiful is that heavenly bit,
"I call you all to WODEN's hall!"
What a bar or two will be found in,
"Let not a moon-born elf!"
Can any thing, for exquisite simplicity and sweetness, exceed
"Lovely isle?"
Nor will I go out of this very piece to prove my position relative to HANDEL.
"Come, if you dare, the trumpet sounds,"
gives me a fine opportunity to throw down my gauntlet, and I challenge all the world to shew me any thing in music that can go beyond it. HANDEL had a glorious opportunity, had it been possible; but, in his attempt to excel it, he has fallen to an immense distance indeed. The words for both are written by DRYDEN, and those which HANDEL set, for grandeur, has the pre-eminence: one runs
"Come—if you dare—the trumpet sounds,
"Come—if you dare—the foe rebounds;
"We come, we come, we come,
"Says the double, double beat of the thundering drum."
I cannot correctly remember the remainder—but this will be enough for my purpose: the other words are,
"The trumpet's loud clangour
"Excites us to arms,
"With shrill notes of anger
"And mortal alarms;
"The double, double, double beat
"Of the thund'ring drum
"Cries, hark! the foes come;
"Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat."
PURCEL's expression, is one great, soul-felt effusion of simple sublimity; and as it ever will be the case with great minds, at the same time that these few bold notes carry us to the rough manners of the court of King ARTHUR, there is a natural ease and irresistable grace in them that will vainly be imitated by all the studied polish of the Italian school; and indeed so strongly from genius did PURCEL possess that symmetry in fancy, which—like the native dignity of some forms—cannot in any position be ungraceful, that the very error Dr. BURNEY reprobates in HANDEL—which he qualifies, by the bye, saying that it was not reformed till
lately
—is here in PURCEL, who lived in ruder times, better than
corrected
—it is
avoided
; for his great conception—while others
labour
to improve
nature
into
ease
—derived
ease
from
nature.
What I allude to is, the accommodating the melody of the capacity of the trumpets—which HANDEL scarcely ever does—and surely there is something like barrenness of invention in this. But to examine what HANDEL has done with the other words—and here I am afraid integrity obliges us to say he has servilely imitated PURCEL. I say servilely, because the time and the construction is the same, but—like a clumsy translation—the literal intention is barely preserved, and all the beauty and correctness left out. Indeed the curious mode of accenting the beginning of every bar—for it runs thus,
"The
trumpets
loud
clangour excites
us to
arms,
"
the
lovely
introduction of the
fourth
for the trumpet, and the lameness of the double beat of
the
thundering drum—though thundering happens to be of three syllables, and thus there can be no excuse for it—shews that though HANDEL came
after
PURCEL—which is admitted to be an advantage—it was in such a
hobbling
kind of way, and he was at such a distance, that he never was able to come up to him. The words
"Charge, 'tis too late to retreat,"
though they are materially hurt by the continuation of that bastard kind of minuet which accompanies them throughout, have much of HANDEL's natural grandeur which certainly characterized him, wherever he is helped out by instruments, but which seems perpetually to forsake him when the
voice
should convey the MIND.
PURCEL—though probably very unconscious that he had successfully challenged all the world to excel him—follows up
"Come—if you dare,"
with
"To arms,"
which harmony HANDEL has twenty times played upon, and
"Britons strike home"
—and if any man will shew me a superior selection from any one piece composed by HANDEL—as no man is more open to conviction—I will confess that PURCEL and I are conquered.
ALEXANDER is said to have emulated ACHILLES, and CHARLES XII. ALEXANDER. It has also been remarked that SPENCER had only the ANCIENTS to consult—DRYDEN the ANCIENTS and SPENCER—and POPE all these—and that we may by deduction pronounce that SPENCER was the greatest
poet,
DRYDEN the
next,
and POPE the
most inferior.
It is certain whatever DRYDEN and POPE have come in contact—witness, for example, the
Ode on St. Cecilia's day
and
Alexander's feast
—POPE has constantly been worsted, and probably all the fancy in DRYDEN's works together bear no proportion to the wonderful imagery in the teeming imagination of SPENCER; let me therefore be allowed, when I speak of PURCEL, the time in which he lived, the little information he could have gathered from what went before him, and the many discouragements he laboured under, and I am not afraid but every man who has the candour to take up my arguments upon this liberal ground, will allow me that this wonderful composer had a
stronger mind
than HANDEL.
My next task will be to prove my position in relation to ARNE, and this I shall endeavour to do in my next letter. In the mean time, I cannot either introduce
that
or finish
this
better than by remarking, that when ARNE came to alter the music of King ARTHUR for
Drury-lane,
with that good sense and philanthropy of which no man possessed a larger share—though he introduced some charming things—so far from mutilating PURCEL, as a modern compiler would have done, with proper reverence for such great abilities, his whole study was to place his idolized predecessor in that conspicuous situation, the brilliancy of his reputation demanded; for ARNE—and I well know it—had as much of the harmony of
humanity,
as of
sounds.
His latter excellence I am now going to examine. Give me however an agreeable relaxation, by suffering me once more to repeat that I am
Yours, most heartily, C. DIBDIN.
London,
April
21, 1788.
LETTER LXV.
MORE MATTER OF THE SAME COMPLEXION.
"
Till the rapt soul, earth forsaking,
"
Heaven-ward its flight is taking
"
On the wings of harmony.
"
To the Rev Mr. —
DEAR SIR,
IF any of the lovers of HANDEL were to open this book exactly at this page, they would think it was written in
Bedlam,
and immediately, pitying the poor maniac of an author, shrug up their shoulders, and lay it down. As to their opinions, whose minds are shut against conviction, I am perfectly indifferent—but I will not let them pass without remarking, that those who admire one man of genius to the exclusion of all others, must naturally possess such narrow, contracted sentiments, that their very blandishments are tainted with poison, and destroy that reputation they profess to cherish.
I start ARNE against HANDEL, by saying that HANDEL has not produced a piece so complete, from first to last, as
Comus.
As a man of
genius,
by infinite degrees,
Acis and Galatea
is HANDEL's best work; and I will venture to say, but for that piece, he could not have borne that great rank, notwithstanding all that has been vaunted of the
Messiah,
among men who know
really
how to distinguish.
Acis and Galatea
contains a number of beautiful melodies; and what lists it into great consequence is, that the subject is every where
pastoral,
and yet HANDEL has contrived, without injuring it, to make it every where
different.
Even
Polypheme
and the
octave flute
are
consistently
coupled together. The famous trio,
"The flocks shall leave the mountains,"
is a composition replete with sweetness and expression, and
"Wretched lovers,"
is an astonishing chorus.
"Hush! ye pretty warbling quire,"
and
"Love in her eyes,"
are delicately pretty, though if there were not so great a maze of modulation in the latter, it would be more pleasing. In short, there is prodigious merit in
Acis and Galatea,
and yet I am not afraid but ARNE can stand fairly up to his competitor. I would not wish to match my HERO with a
pigmy.
Comus
has one character as well as
Acis and Galatea
; and the
bacchanalian revels
of ARNE is every where
equal
to the
pastoral simplicity
of HANDEL, and in many places SUPERIOR. ARNE has diversified his subjects, and in a very peculiar way given them a
masculine
and a
feminine
colouring. Among the first are,
"When Phoebus sinketh in the west,"
"By the gaily circling glass,"
"Fly swiftly ye minutes,"
and several others; and amongst the latter,
"By dimpled brook,"
"Would you taste the noontide air,"
"Come, bid adieu to fear,"
and many more. Nay, he has contrived to
blend
this colouring in
"Live and love, enjoy the fair,"
which is a most happy composition indeed, and fairly equal, in its kind, to
"The flocks shall leave the mountains."
All these songs are full of rich and pleasing melody, and in them there is not a superfluous note. There ARNE takes the lead of HANDEL—because music does not want alone fancy to
conceive,
but judgment to
complete
it; and in many of the songs of
Acis and Galatea,
"Shepherd what art thou pursuing,"
"Consider fond shepherd,"
"Cease to beauty,"
and some others, the subject is
worked
on, till the ear can bear it no longer, and the composer seeming to be aware of this lassitude, takes his advantage of it, and comes any how to a close while the stupor prevails, that so the hearer may not with precision judge of his desects.
So far,
Comus
is at least upon a par with
Acis and Galatea,
and when we call in
"Nor on beds,"
that heavenly melody, so greatly conceived, so delicately pursued, and so exquisitely finished—
"On every hill,"
which is a species of pastoral music peculiar to ARNE, and being in a minor key, and consequently of a more primitive nature, especially as its simplicity appeals wonderfully to the heart, may be said to be superior to any other.
"Sweet echo,"
which
"takes the rapt soul and laps it in elysium,"
and many of inferior kind, such as that pretty song,
"By the rushy, fringed bank,"
there can be no doubt but
Comus
is a greater effort of genius than
Acis and Galatea.
But there are more complete pieces to assist this argument.
Artaxerxes
is a most powerful performance—there the
hearer
may be gratified with every style of serious music, and yet the whole is managed with such judgment—which outgoes Mr. SHERIDAN—that though perfectly in nature, the
stage boxes
are not more satisfied than the
upper galleries.
If we search further, we shall find
Judith,
an oratorio, that does honour to English genius—where we may see sacred ideas, without burlesque accompaniments—sweet air and forcible expression—capital songs, perfectly
vocal
—and astonishingly brilliant
chorusses,
without a
fugue.
If we have still to shew—for I would willingly satisfy every body—whether ARNE knew music
scientifically,
I'll beg leave to instance the chorusses in
Abel,
which, it must be admitted, explore the regions of harmony with a latitude as bold and as masterly as any thing in music. And now I think, if ARNE had been equally patronized with HANDEL; if he had not been obliged to humour managers; to consult the caprice of actors and actresses; to witness the arrogance of Italians, whose base metal became a fashion, while his sterling coin was disregarded; to do jobs for now and then twenty guineas; and dance attendance at catch clubs to make up an annual benefit, he would have had better reason to think himself properly encouraged, and perhaps been stimulated to the accomplishment of various other works, for which his exalted genius so eminently qualified him. This alone has made him apparently inferior to HANDEL, and this induced him to keep within the limits of his mediocre situation, contenting himself by the exercise of his own cheerful and even temper, with that precarious pittance which is too often allotted to real merit in this country.
Certainly ARNE's faults were
few
—HANDEL's
innumerable
; and when we consider that HANDEL composed when he was in the humour, and to please
himself
—ARNE when he could get a job, and to please his
employer
; that HANDEL was rich, and ARNE was poor—our wonder ought rather to be, that he left so many and such admirable compositions behind him. But DRYDEN is said to have been prevented from writing an epic poem by his engagement with the theatres, which obliged him to write four plays in a year; and thus are we constantly deprived of the best efforts of English genius by lavishing that on foreigners—who laugh at us—which is so honourably due to our own countrymen.
My next letter will speak of teaching—which will be all I shall have occasion to say
generally
of music. I am charmed that I have opened your eyes relative to Mr. SHERIDAN. ARNE is a favourite of yours, and therefore this last task has not been so hard. I hope you believe me just to every body; is I were not so, I should not deserve the pleasure with which I subscribe myself,
Yours, Most faithfully, C. DIBDIN.
London,
April
22, 1788.
LETTER LXVI.
MORE QUACKERY.
"
Reform it altogether.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
A Shall now speak of that mystery by which so many young ladies, at a great expence, in the course of seven years, attain the supreme felicity of exposing themselves by playing MALBROOK out of tune, and hammering out unmeaning, progressive lessons, by which the taste of whole families is vitiated, through the ignorance of mere strummers and octave players, through which the foundation of genius is sapped and destroyed, and through which pretenders to a liberal profession—mere
quacks
—are lifted into consequence, and permitted to vilify and
traduce
those productions they have not the taste and judgment to
understand.
A
teacher
nurses a
scholar
as an
apothecary
does a
patient
; and a
slow sever
and a
dunce
are much about upon a par: it is not the intention that one should
recover,
or the other
improve
—the business is to keep them in hand as long as possible; and if a
robust constitution
in one, and
strong intellects
in the other, manifest signs of
health
or
merit,
'tis wonderful to what shifts the poor devils are put—to curb
nature,
in order to swell out the bill.
Good teachers—like good lawyers—are very scarce. Those who are really good ones, will first of all inculcate the principles of music to a certain degree, prove those principles in every possible manner, and strongly root their efficacy in the scholar's mind—and nothing in nature, to men of real ingenuity, is easier than this.
Bad
teachers swarm all over the kingdom, and their practice is to their scholars immediately to the instrument, to explain nothing but as it occurs, to make a mystery of every thing, and at length—some wilfully, and others out of ignorance—to confirm in their scholars so many bad habits and perplexities, that they are further from the real mark when they leave off, than when they began.
A third sort of teachers—who are certainly bad ones too, but not so mischievous—are those who go about every thing scientifically, and teach
thorough bass, fugue, and counterpoint,
instead of
Foot's minuet.
One of these had taken a young lady in hand, and taught her, in the course of three quarters of a year, every possible situation of the sixth, and fourth, and common chord. Dr. MILLER and
I
had a laugh about this, for we calculated that, taking in all the concords and discords, with their proper and inverted relations, this young lady might entertain lively hopes, in the course of two and thirty years and a half, of accompanying a concerto.
Both sorts of
bad
teachers do equal mischief—for those who wilfully impose on parents, decry the works of genius
out of envy,
as much as the other description
out of ignorance
; and the consequent evils are, the loss of time and expence, and the introduction of bad taste. From this last abuse springs half the musical folly for which this country is so celebrated, which, like Vesuvius, is frequently breaking out, bearing down taste, genius, and every cultivated object in its way; for whether a human voice an octave above a blackbird—a French-horn that plays every thing but what is natural to it—a fugue, or an Irish jig—a double drum, or a bagpipe—be the object, this monster, this devourer, rages like the
Minotaur,
and taste is the bleeding sacrifice devoted to appease his ravages. Alas, that some musical Theseus would but destroy this pest, and rid our country of its barbarism! But a clue to the labyrinth where it is concealed, will hardly be found while there are so many to participate the golden fleece.
There is no coming to the end of this subject, especially circumscribed as I am. I can therefore only say, in addition to the above remarks, that a practical knowledge of music, as far as it can be necessary for common purposes, is very easily attained; for it consists of nothing more than learning the gamut—the names, lengths, divisions, and measure of the notes—distinctions of all the major and minor keys—the situations of the semitones, and the doctrine of using the sharp seventh to modulate into the fifth of the key, and the flat seventh to return to the original key. These, with all colateral matters, are nothing like so difficult as the first four rules of arithmetic, with the fractions relative to them; and yet, upon the same principle that Addition, Subtraction, Multiplication, and Division comprehend the whole study of figures, so do these rules in music comprehend the whole system of harmony; and all there is more to be done is, to blend, separate, diversify, and in short, use them in every possible point of view. Let not a scholar then learn more than this, let it be learnt perfect, and then put in practice—which done, it is a thousand to one—if there is any genius to assist study—but the whole science will lay clearly open to view:—if it should not, by the union of what has been learnt, it may be easily attained; and it would be as absurd to teach music upon any other plan, as to set a sum in the
Rule of three
for a scholar who had not learnt his Numeration Table.
With all this, great care must be used in the choice of a master; and as to teachers decrying good music, and introducing false taste, I see no cure for this but my former rule, which is—let no man subscribe to the
goodness
of any music that is not
pleasing.
It would be good indeed if it were as pleasing as the sensation I feel when I repeat to you that I am,
Very heartily, Yours, C. DIBDIN.
London,
April
22, 1788.
LETTER LXVII.
A FINAL ACCOUNT OF PLACES.
"
Such marches and countermarches!
"
To the Rev Mr. —
DEAR SIR,
AS a dramatic writer collects all his matter together at the beginning of the last act, in order to introduce his
Coup de Theatre,
which, as it may suit him, either leads to, or finishes the catastrophe, so shall I immediately carry into one general account all the remains of places, inns, and other subordinate matter, in order to introduce such a
Coup de Theatre
as shall command applause at the fall of the curtain.
I have mentioned already the opulence and populousness of LEEDS, and shall take my final leave of the inhabitants as a spirited, manly, and enlightened people, who have the industry to get money, and the liberality to spend it, It has two very large cloth-halls, and the assembly-room is by far the handsomest I saw in my tour, for a single room.
HALIFAX is an astonishing trading town for its size. I saw the cloth-hall on a market day, and it gave me an idea of a bee-hive; the prodigious number of cells, and the porters coming in and out with their bundles of cloth, were exactly the loaded bees. The parish contains twelve chapels of ease, and is said to be worth about twelve hundred a year.
MANCHESTER is a charming town, and I have seen nothing superior to
Mosely-street,
but
Portland-square.
The number of people on a market day is astonishing, and the entrance into the town from STOCKPORT—which is to MANCHESTER what WOLVERHAMPTON is to BIRMINGHAM—is very magnificent. The choir in the Collegiate church is beautiful, and the progress of the manufactories, and in particular the cutting fustians, and passing even the finest muslins over a red hot iron, are matters astonishingly curious, and which, if time permitted, I should have great pleasure in dwelling on.
LIVERPOOL is beyond all question the first town in the kingdom after LONDON; its capacious docks, its roomy storehouses, its entensive and well-filled harbour, the prodigious plenty in its markets, particularly of corn—its spacious squares, its magnificent public buildings, of which the Change is a most capital one—its churches, and indeed all that great variety of edifices for duty, business, and pleasure, to which by act of parliament they are now making considerable additions, abundantly prove the truth of this assertion. I did not see the theatre at MANCHESTER, but that at LIVERPOOL, which is altering upon an admirable plan, under the direction of Mr. TAYLOR, is spacious, convenient, and handsome. I counted in the directory nearly an hundred streets, and this circumstance obliges me again to speak disadvantageously of MANCHESTER, which place has, unlike LIVERPOOL, neither
directory
nor
hackney coaches.
DURHAM, in summer, must be one of the most beautiful situations in ENGLAND. The river, the castle, the cathedral, the bishop's palace, and the straggling suburbs, present you with a new and picturesque view wherever you turn. It is remarkable for a good choir of singers; indeed the salaries are higher here than any where, and in consequence—for encouragement wonderfully nurtures genius—our concerts have been well stocked from thence. The more genteel part of the inhabitants are more a community than a neighbourhood, a family than a society.
NEWCASTLE is ancient and romantic, and the inhabitants seem to relish of both. They give you an idea of a man who piques himself on his birth and extraction, though his mansion is mouldering and his estate falling to decay. I do not mean to say that NEWCASTLE is not rich—it is remarkably so, and I am informed hospitable. However, there must be a manner with me—it is not the size of the dish, but the style in which it is dressed; not the number of eatables, but the mode of their being put on the table; and, after all, it is not the wine, but the conversation that accompanies it. NEWCASTLE seems to have very little taste. There is a new and remarkably handsome
theatre,
which is a hobby-horse at present, and will, in all probability, be thrown away next year for some other bawble. In short—for I am always obliged to have recourse to LIVERPOOL when I would make an advantageous comparison—NEWCASTLE is proud, LIVERPOOL industrious—NEWCASTLE is near, LIVERPOOL liberal—and one may pretty well conclude, that if they did not dig their riches out of the bowels of the earth, and unload them in the river Thames, they would not count on their riches; for they would never have the spirit and courage to adventure for them, with any degree of intrepidity, to the farthest corner of the world. The road from YORK to DARLINGTON is beautiful. It is a heavy stage from DARLINGTON to DURHAM, and, on account of the hills, still heavier from DURHAM to NEWCASTLE.
For the inns I must go back again to BIRMINGHAM, where there are several good ones, but all immoderately dear. At LICHFIELD, which is in the public road from LONDON to LIVERPOOL, they are pretty good and tolerably reasonable. At DERBY much better for accommodations, but much the same as to their charge. At NOTTINGHAM, the
Blackamoor's Head
is an inn where travellers will be shewn every civility, get good entertainment and accommodation, and upon moderate terms. I have spoken of NEWARK.—At LINCOLN I would recommend the
Spread Eagle,
which is a decent, civil house, and reasonable. At BARTON, where it may sometimes happen that you are obliged to stay several hours, and where you generally arrive wet from HULL, there is but one miserable inn, the smallest accommodation or any thing decent by way of eating and drinking. BAKER's, at HULL, is a very good inn—and so is the
Tyger,
at BEVERLY At YORK, and every where in the north road, there are good inns, but in general very dear—the
Angel,
at DONCASTER, in particular. At LEEDS there is not a real good inn in the town. At HALIFAX they are not remarkable for appearance, but they are for decent neatness, and good eatables and drinkables, and the lowest charges any where in Yorkshire. At WAKEFIELD, the
Stratford Arms
is a very good inn, and they pay you attention, and charge pretty reasonable. At MANCHESTER there is not a single good inn, and the treatment is insolent beyond description—at least where I have been. Only see the gradation—at HALIFAX I paid
four
shillings for the same tea, supper, and breakfast, which at DONCASTER cost me
nine,
and at MANCHESTER
thirteen
;—but this last was at the
Hotel,
which exactly gives you the idea of a bagnio in LONDON.—This
Hotel
belongs to the man who keeps the
Bull's Head,
at which house I had a room, and an indifferent one for the performance, yet were my friends under a necessity of asking it as a sort of favour, though the man was handsomely paid, and the accommodations were very contemptible indeed. As to DIXON, at the
Swan,
the last time I was at MANCHESTER I was from seven o'clock in the morning till eleven getting away in a post-chaise, and during that time, having a letter to seal and a parcel to tie up, after—in the course of an hour and a half—intreating the favour of a wafer and a bit of pack thread; I was at length obliged to go to a shop to buy it, and the man told me he did not wonder at it, for it was a remark that the innkeepers of MANCHESTER spit in people's faces in return for their favours. As far as my experience goes, this usage extends also to lodging-houses. Every body knows where I lodged at MANCHESTER, and I paid there for board and lodging full
four times
as much as I was charged at LIVERPOOL for
better living.
I did not think, when I was most shamefully imposed upon in FRANCE, I should have an opportunity of celebrating a more scandalous piece of knavery in ENGLAND. At NANCY, in LORRAINE I lodged in the house of a Mr. VILLEMETTE, and having experienced a few of their tricks, I had previously determined to be on my guard. I paid him at the end of every week, and took his receipt. When I came to a final settlement, he gave me the week's receipt as usual, but begged I would settle the remainder. I asked what he meant, for that I had paid him every thing. He said it was true that I had paid him every thing, supposing our agreement to have been in money of LORRAINE, but that it had been in money of FRANCE, and, reckoning the difference of the currency, I was then in his debt just thireen guineas. I answered that fortunately I knew so much of their laws as to be well convinced that all bargains were good only for money of LORRAINE, unless made before two witnesses: this he said he had taken care of, and immediately produced the witnesses, whom I had never seen before. I saw I was to be tricked, and asked them if they would go before the general of the police, and swear it. VOLUNTIER MONSIEUR, was the answer. I put them to the test, and they swallowed the oath with all the calmness imaginable. I asked the general of the police what he thought of the business: he said he knew them all to be infamous scoundrels, that it was a pity I could not stay to do myself justice; but if I would leave ten guineas in his hand, he had no doubt but he should give me a good account of the
siness. I however contented myself with my first loss, and went away without even thanking the general of the police for his politeness.—The imposition at MANCHESTER was proportionably more shameful than this.
The inns at LIVERPOOL are pretty rich, and therefore of course pretty consequential. Master FORSHAR, in particular, whose room I had, has a good deal of consequence, but he has an idea of respect, and would be the first to reprove his waiters for the smallest incivility to strangers. As to their charges, the diligence took me to the
Cross Keys,
where I was very comfortable for a day or two, upon very reasonable terms. The roads in Lancashire are, in general very sandy and bad, but this is sometimes remedied by paving them, and in great part of Yorkshire there is a stone causeway, which is a very agreeable recommendation to foot passengers.
Leaving all these, and ceasing at once to be a public character, I arrived in TOWN, as I told you, where the first news that I heard was, that GRIMALDI, that incendiary by whom was bred so much of my public uneasiness, that viper who bit me because I fostered him, was no more. Perhaps it is a good omen—and having completed my resolution of quitting all theatrical pursuits, in which it is plain I could not hope for prosperity, the malignant fiend has ceased his detestable influence. He has not living left his equal—for if fifty ABURNOTS were to lend their assistance, they could not write an epitaph expressive of him whose corrupt heart harboured more vice than could reside in the soul of fifty CHARTERISES.
I could not refrain from writing a few lines on the death of this monster, and I was induced to do it by being informed that just before he died, he said the devil was waiting for him, and that he knew he was going to hell; and yet had the wretch an idea of being spoken of after his death. He said
"Oh I go the Devil, and if any body write 'bout me, let them finitch—alas poor Grim!"
EPITAPH.
GRIMALDI's gone—were we to say at rest,
'Twere to make truth, what he was wont—a jest.
Internally convuls'd, AETNA will roar,
And storm-swell'd seas lash the affrighted shore;
So conscience struck—spent his pestiferous breath,
Yet shall he fear "that something after death."
He's gone—nor more on holy rites can trample—
"To guilty minds a terrible example"—
Fiends, as they catch him, tear him limb from limb,
'Till e'en the devil cries—
alas poor Grim!
See how my plot winds up! The monster is dead that obstructed my former fortune—in my next I shall introduce the guardian spirit, whose benign goodness has sent me smiling hope to protect my fortune in future.
Adieu.
Yours, Most faithfully, C. DIBDIN.
London,
April
22, 1788.
LETTER LXVIII.
THE COUP DE THEATRE.
"
A combination and a form indeed,
"
Where every god did seem to set his seal,
"
To give the world assurance of a man.
"
To the Rev Mr. —
DEAR SIR,
IT had long been my ambition to bring out this work under the protection of the PRINCE OF WALES. For this purpose I solicited the kindest and most generous friend I have, who frequently has the honour of being where his ROYAL HIGHNESS visits, to do what he could with propriety to procure me this high and flattering advantage. Indefatigable to oblige and serve me, he did not let the matter rest a single moment, but watching the first opportunity to mention it with proper decorum; the PRINCE, with all that amiable affability which ever distinguishes the truly noble, condescendingly signified a wish to see me.
By his ROYAL HIGHNESS's gracious appointment, I had the great honour, at the house of a gentleman where my kind friend is very intimate, of playing and singing in his presence those songs with which—not less as a correct and perfect judge of music, than of nature, expression, and discrimination—I thought he was most likely to be entertained; and though I did not perform fewer than twenty, I had the singular satisfaction to find I did nothing but what received perfect approbation, nor for nearly two hours did the time seem to wear—even tho' MARCHESI had, during the interval, made his first appearance
The PRINCE did not get to the
Opera
till twenty minutes before
ten o'clock.
at the
Opera,
and vainly looked round for this illustrious auditor, who, at that moment, was perhaps paying the tribute of a sigh to the memory of poor JACK RATLIN, or regretting the unhappy fate of the worn out race horse.
I must take the liberty to mention, that his ROYAL HIGHNESS, upon my singing the
Race Horse,
informed the company, that he had fortunately, about a fortnight before, rescued a poor old half blind race horse from the galling shafts of a hakney post-chaise.—
"Why, 'twas a princely act."
My friend took an opportunity, before the PRINCE retired, to request the honour of his name to my subscription; to which his ROYAL HIGHNESS thought proper to answer
"I might use his name in any way that I thought would be of service to me."
No terms can convey a panegyric adequate to this noble condescension; what could induce it but that true greatness of mind which, as PORTIA says of mercy,
"becomes the throned monarch better than his crown."
But the genial sun cherishes not more the
spreading
ROSE than the
humble
VIOLET.
Having this honourable and flattering
Carte blanche,
my first wish I own was a
dedication
; but, upon considering how many of these sort of addresses teem with such ridiculous hyperbole and fulsome adulation, as would make one think they attempted to
satyrize
that PATRONAGE they professed to
solicit
—though never did opportunity occur where flattery was so impossible—I thought an
inscription
—for what with such a name is not an advantage—would be most adviseable, and I could then give a latitude to those
feelings,
in a letter to you, which addressed to the ROYAL PERSONAGE from whose bounty I have the happiness to derive them, could not, without wounding respect, have been dressed in terms forcible enough for the purpose; nor indeed, with this scope, do I flatter myself with perfect success—for the real language of a susceptible heart never yet found its way to the pen.
Yet I cannot finish without a word or two more on this generous subject. In this TOUR will be found many noble and illustrious persons, with whom I have had the honour to converse. I have, in that warmth which truth alone inspired, spoken of these in terms of praise, and I do not, upon recollection, repent of any syllable to this effect. I have seen courtly breeding in FRANCE—I have ever made it my particular felicity to notice the talents of ingenious men—but I confidently declare that all I have witnessed sinks into nothing before the object of my present panegyric. In deportment, never was there such an union of
ease, grace,
and
dignity,
as in the PRINCE OF WALES. His manners are
gentle, mild,
and
affable,
or as SHAKESPEARE has it,
"sweet as summer"
—and yet always PRINCELY.—His observations are
keen
and
penetrating
; his intellectual intelligence
strong, diffusive,
and
refined
; his information
select
and
judicious
; in short, that beautiful picture in which HAMLET paints the mental as well as the personal perfections of his father, never called for application so strongly as in the present instance; for if ever
countenance, form, manner,
and
understanding
are to be relied on, those of this ILLUSTRIOUS YOUTH clearly point him out as the
protector, benefactor,
and FRIEND of MANKIND.
But I must force myself from this indulgent employment, lest
that
should become
disrespect
which ought to be
humility
—for who can trust the effusions of a HEAD full of
praise
and a HEART full of
gratitude!
With these auspicious feelings I finish my TOUR, and beg you to believe that I am now, as ever,
Very truly, Yours, C. DIBDIN.
London,
April
23, 1788.
LETTER LXIX.
STATEMENT OF PIECES.
"
And then Nab has no head.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
I shall now, as faithfully as my memory will permit me, proceed to state the success, both in profit and reputation, of every piece I have produced to the public. I am afraid, however, I shall not be very accurate in my account of the more subordinate kind; for were I to be put to the torture, I could not enumerate some of the interludes and pantomimes which have been done at
Sadler's Wells
and some other places; nor can I place those I do recollect in accurate order, as to their dates; I shall, however, be as correct as possible, and where my intelligence is uncertain, I will myself sustain the loss rather than fill up the blank by exaggeration.
1.
The Shepherd's Artifice,
performed in May 1762, and 1763. This piece, which I wrote and composed at
seventeen,
was only got up for my own benefit. It has a thousand faults, and in particular, as at that time I did not know how to put my musical thoughts upon paper but by mere strength of imagination, 'tis impossible to describe the number of its inaccuracies. These however the same force of fancy enabled me to correct, and, without any assistance, I produced the same piece in a perfect state, by only listening to the faults as I heard them in the band. It was performed at two of my benefits, and each time brought a tolerable house—but it never came forward in the common business of the
theatre.
The music was very much applauded.
It will not here be improper to remark that I never learnt more of music than the gamut and the table which points out the division of the time. Mr. FUSSEL, the organist of WINCHESTER cathedral, I am told, says I owe my musical education to him—which assertion contains so much truth, that five or six very common tunes, which I now have in his hand writing, are all I ever was taught. Mr. KENT had afterwards the credit of having taught me—but, except some anthems which he composed for me, and which I learnt by ear, I never received the smallest instruction from him. The music I have was strongly in my mind from my earliest remembrance, and I do not think any master would have been of the smallest service to me. It lay quietly, a hidden spark—which, in the country, found nothing to vivify it—but, coming in contact with that proper fuel for it, the different musical performances in town, it at once expanded, and nothing could keep it within bounds. I scarcely knew this myself till being present at a rehearsal of
Thomas and Sally,
all that past so tenaciously adhered to my memory, that I went home, drew out a score, and, after attending another rehearsal, filled up the accompanyments. It was certainly incorrect—but, for such an effort, in a very trifling degree; for I was not then sixteen. I found, however, I was in the secret, and immediately took the concertos of CORRELLI, in single parts, and put them into score. Here I went, upon good authority, through every turning and twining in the labyrinth of harmony. I next got hold of RAMEAU, and having proved theoretically by one, and practically by the other, the difference between passing and emphatic notes—the nature of supposed basses—and found, by a fair trial of these matters in every point of view, that two chords comprehend the whole system of harmony, I determined fearlessly to give a loose to my fancy:—to what purpose is pretty well known.
2
Love in the City,
performed in the year 1764—a piece written by Mr. BICKERSTAFF, and performed but six nights. In this I composed the
overture,
the
firste horus,
the
finales
of the
first
and
second acts,
and three songs.
Love in the City
has since been altered into the farce of the
Romp,
in which the
chorus,
the
quintetto,
the
boxing trio,
and
"Dear me how I long to be married,"
are mine.
I cannot here omit an anecdote which tells greatly to the honour of Dr. ARNE. SIMPSON, the hautboy player, and some others persuaded Mr. BEARD t at my music would do his theatre discredit, and that in particular the overture and a song beginning
"Ah why my dear,"
were written entirely against the
rules of harmony.
This Mr. BEARD—who had more goodnature than any other quality in the world—was easily brought to believe. Hearing what was going forward, I took the copy of the overture and song and prevailed on honest TOMMY BAKER—whom all the world knows—to accompany me, waited on Dr. ARNE. The Doctor, after looking carefully over the scores, said there was nothing against the rules of harmony, that it was a pity Mr. SIMPSON would not stick to his hautboy, without pretending to judge of what he was not at all acquainted with, and that if I would privately inform him when there was to be another rehearsal, he would himself attend. This I sailed not to do—and finding those pieces altered by some other person, the Doctor begged to hear the original copies. These were produced, and played over, when he pronounced the whole business a scandalous attempt to injure the reputation of a young man, whom, if they had had any liberality, it would have been their duty to encourage. In consequence of the Doctor's decision, my music was restored and performed with success.
This music I made Mr. BICKERSTAFF a present of.
3
Lionel and Clarissa
—written by Mr. BICKERSTAFF, and performed in the season of 1767 and 1768. By looking at the index it will be seen that, from first to last, I composed for this piece about twenty-five things, for which trouble I received, at different times, forty-eight pounds—giving up the copyright. The sale of this music did not yield much, till it came out under the title of
The School for Fathers
; otherwise I think I should not have been so completely overreached in the following agreement.
4
The Padlock
—written by Mr. BICKERSTAFF, and performed at
Drury-Lane,
in October 1768. The success of this piece is pretty well known all over the kingdom; it may not, however, be amiss to mention that no conception can be formed of the sale of the music.
Comus
is known to have sold very extensively, but after upwards of thirty years, three fourths of the original plates are still in use. What then will be said when I assure the public the
Padlock
had,
seven
years ago, nearly worn out three entire sets! But how will their wonder be augmented when I declare, upon the faith of a man, that I never received, in the whole, for composing that music, but forty-five pounds; though I dare say the sale of the music alone yielded Mr. BICKERSTAFF nearly five hundred pounds. In addition to this, his benefit yielded two hundred pounds, Mr. GARRICK made him a present of one hundred pounds,
It has been some times a private compact from
managers
to
authors
to give an extra benefit on the twentieth night of a piece. Mr. RICH introduced this custom in a very handsome way. On the twentieth performance of
Miss in her Teens,
GARRICK, when he received the bills in the morning found the farce advertised, without any previous notice, for the benefit of its author, which was himself. In the instance of the
Padlock,
he gave Mr. BICKERSTAFF his choice of an extra benefit or an hundred pounds.
and the words must have also been greatly productive, for he kept the copyright—and, twelve years ago, there had been upwards of twenty three thousand copies sold. My agreement, however, was made before the piece came out, and I conceived his recommendation of me to Mr. GARRICK, in the light of a great obligation; whereas, had I not been the stupidest of all idiots, I might have seen that my being pinned to
Drury-Lane
upon such
easy terms,
was a matter concerted between them. I hate to think of it—therefore, let me pause, and bring myself into temper, by assuring you that I am
Ever yours, C. DIBDIN.
London,
April
23, 1788.
LETTER LXX.
THE STATEMENT PURSUED.
"
But to whom am I to make out my bill?
"
Doubtless to the vestry.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
PLEASE to go on with me.
5
The Maid the Mistress
—performed in the summer of 1769, at
Ranelagh,
and written by Mr. BICKERSTAFF. Having made an agreement that season to compose for
Ranelagh,
and occasionally sing, for which trouble I was to have an hundred guineas, this piece comes within that article, and the music has never yet been published.
6
The Recruiting Serjeant
—performed the same season, on the same terms. I published the music on my own account, and found it unsuccessful.
7
The Jubilee
—written by Mr. GARRICK, and performed in October 1769. It would be an endless task to go through the variety of circumstances which distinguish this memorable business; but nothing deserves notice more truly than that SHAKESPEAR might have laid very quietly in STRATFORD church—nobody would have disturbed his ashes—had not such a popular measure been the probable means of insuring a plentiful harvest to
Drury-Lane
on the following season. And yet, it was
managed
with so much caution, so much wariness, that, according to the representation of the matter to every body who was concerned in it, there did not appear any such thing in agitation. This cautiousness answered two purposes—it not only drew many to STRATFORD who would otherwise have suspended their curiosity till they should see it in LONDON, but it served as a feasible excuse for requesting every body's trouble and attendance for nothing. Thus, among the rest, I took unwearied pains—not seeing that I should materially assist in filling the coffers of
Drury-Lane
treasury—without any emolument to myself. All this, however, I could have forgiven, if I had not been obliged to sustain fifty humiliations. I will venture to say that had it not been for
my
music the audience would have shewn much more dissatisfaction. They were not in very good humour as it was. They heard certainly Dr. ARNE's beautiful Oratorio of
Judith,
and his charming music of the Ode—and what was the most exquisite and inexpressible treat that ever transcendent abilities could convey, or longing ears experience, they heard GARRICK repeat that Ode. Yet, being disappointed of the Pageant—being wet through at the Masquerade
The booth being built on a swamp close to the river, and nobody having considered that sometimes in the month of September it rains, the company had scarcely assembled, when the wet began to ooze through the crevices; in five minutes after they were paddling in the wet; five minutes after that it was over their shoes, and presently they were obliged to take to the benches, then to the orchestra, and then to the windows—thus there was not a creature out of about four hundred people that escaped being wet through.
—they were certainly very much discontented; which dissatisfaction would more than silently have manifested itself, had not
"The Warwickshire Lads, &c."
brought them into good humour:—yet was that very song privately set by Mr. AYLWARD, and the
"Mulberry Tree"
by Dr. BOYCE, and had not my kind friend, Mr. GARRICK, been told at a rehearsal, where I was
not present,
that mine were set the best for effect, he would have waved all delicacy to me, and have had theirs performed. GEORGE GARRICK, who, where DAVID's immediate interest did not clash, could be just to all the world, informed me of this fact.
GEORGE GARRICK, who I have said before was warmly attached to his brother, was remarkably attentive to all his little whims and caprices upon this great occasion. Indeed he had so many admirable traits of real goodness that it is no wonder, partly from gratitude, partly from the amiable worthiness of his heart, he should consider DAVID as a being who had a right to exact an extraordinary degree of attention from every body, but particularly from him. The other, who never failed to encourage adulation wherever he found it, improved the influence he had over GEORGE, till he brought it to something so very like meanness, that it could not be palliated but by the real motives to which I have ascribed it. In consequence of this slavish attention, GEORGE was always in anxiety lest in his absence his brother should have wanted him, and the first question he constantly asked on his return was,
"Did DAVID want me?"
GEORGE GARRICK died about three months after his brother, which circumstance being mentioned in the green-room, and marked as something extraordinary—
"Extraordinary!"
aid BANNISTER,
"not at all—DAVID
wanted him!
"
In short, GARRICK, in relation to the
Jubilee,
manoeuvred every where, and with every body. He procured abuse to be inserted in the papers, which he got all his friends to answer. He enlisted a prodigious number of volunteers, whose exertions he pretty liberally extracted, at their expence; and at length performed the same entertainment ninety-five times, in one season, at
Drury-Lane,
which he sent people an hundred miles
not
to see. The music of the
Jubilee,
having sold it, previous to the performance, at STRATFORD—except some trifling part of it—yielded altogether about forty-three pounds.
8
Damon and Phillida
—the same season. This piece I was desired, by Mr. GARRICK, to alter and new set. I was told that there was no settled price for such a job, but I might make out a bill. I conceived this a good opportunity to make me amends for the trouble I had with the
Jubilee,
and did it cheerfully. The piece was not often performed, but before the time arrived to talk of settling for it, Mr. GARRICK proposed to enter into an article for seven years, at six pounds a week for the three first years, and seven pounds for the other four; and in making the agreement he contrived—or LACY, instructed by him, as I mentioned before—to include every thing that was yet unaccounted for; so
Damon and Phillida
went for nothing, except fifteen pounds, for which I sold the copyright of the music.
9
The Ephesian Matron
—written by Mr. BICKERSTAFF. The same article went over to a second season at
Ranelagh,
where this piece was performed, and under this article I composed it. The publication of this music was sold on some eventual agreement, and I think yielded me only a few pounds—but I cannot at this moment say what. This piece was performed about thirty times.
10
The Brickdust-man,
a little musical piece, performed at
Sadler's Wells,
written by Mr. BICKERSTAFF. This trifle had great success, and introduced an engagement which I entered into with Mr. KING, which though no great matter as to emolument, was as good as
Sadlers Wells
could afford, and one of the pleasantest I ever made. Indeed I am happy to have this opportunity of acknowledging my great regard and respect for this gentleman, which I hold from principle, and the result of many years experience of his manly, liberal, and uniform conduct; and he must forgive me if, feeling thus, I here make a public acknowledgment of the letter I received from him at MANCHESTER, wherein he subscribed to this book, and gave as a reason, that
"he should be sorry to be left out of the list of my well-wishers."
This friendship, dear sir, is of the complexion of yours—for which, give me leave to say,
I remain your kind friend, And obliged humble servant, C. DIBDIN.
London,
April
23, 1788.
LETTER LXXI.
FURTHER STATEMENT.
"
Why he deals them by the score.
"
To the Rev Mr. —
DEAR SIR,
WE now return to
Drury-lane.
11.
The Pigmy Revels
—a pantomime which was performed in the season of 1770 and 1771, with considerable success. I know not who wrote the words, I only set the music, and it produced me no emolument, as it came under my article.
12
The Wedding Ring
—the season of 1771 and 1772. This piece I wrote and composed—but foreseeing the difficulties I was likely to encounter, had no intention of making myself known as the author. The world recollects the ignominy with which Mr. BICKERSTAFF left this kingdom, and an invidious public print had the audacity to attribute this piece to him. Finding the attack a very serious one, I immediately made an affidavit that Mr. BICKERSTAFF was
not
the author, and published it. This oath was called a prevaricating one, because it did not say
who was
the author, and a whole string of paragraphs of a most abusive kind were immediately levelled at me, in the same paper. I did not wait for the tedious forms of law, but endeavoured to take that sort of revenge which men perhaps imprudently endeavour to do, when the offence is beyond legal reparation. The printer however had as little courage to meet my anger as he had principle in seeking to wound my character. He left town to avoid me, and for some time was not to be seen. I therefore moved the Court of King's Bench for him to shew cause why an information should not lodge against him for printing a libel. The rule was
granted,
and afterwards
made absolute
; and there is no doubt but the gentleman would have been publicly exhibited, had not my attorney taken it into his head, to decamp to FRANCE with the money, which, to the great credit of the
Drury-lane
performers—who insisted upon taking up this attrocious matter as a public cause—was raised by a subscription among themselves to defend the action. On the first night of this piece, I was called on the stage, and required to declare the author, which I did without hesitation; and the matter taking this turn, I resolved, instead of concealing my name, always in future to announce it, and rely on the public for the event. I had a benefit for this piece over and above my article, which yielded me upwards of an hundred pounds. The publication of the music I undertook myself, and got nothing by it. Indeed I have always made this remark, that the music I have sold has yielded but very little, except to the publishers; and that I have published on my own account has constantly brought me in debt.
13
The Installation
—the same season—written by Mr. GARRICK, and composed under my article. This I sold, with a set of harpsichord lessons, for a conditional sixty-five pounds. The conditions were fulfilled, and I received the money.
14
The Ladle
—a little piece for
Sadler's Wells,
in the season of 1772, written and composed by me.
15
The Mischance
—the same place, and also written and composed by me. For the publication of this piece,
The Ladle,
and
The Brickdust-man,
I received thirty guineas.
16 & 17 Two pantomimes—the names I cannot recollect. The publication of one of these I sold for ten guineas.
18
The Grenadier
—written for
Sadler's Wells,
the same season, by Mr. GARRICK.
19
The Widow of Abingdon
—written also for
Sadler's Wells,
the same season, by Mr. HULL. All these were composed under my article. They made up the entertainment of the whole season.
20
Trip to Portsmouth
—written by G. A. STEVENS, and performed at the
Haymarket
with good success. I received for the composition and the publication of the music nearly fifty pounds.
21
The Deserter
—altered from the French, and performed at
Drury-lane
in the years 1772 and 1773—the music partly retained, partly supplied from
Philidor,
and partly mine. For this piece I had a benefit, which yielded me about ninety pounds—the music turned out a very trifle—I got by the publication of the words about thirty pounds.
22
The Christmas Tale
—written by Mr. GARRICK, and performed the same season. The intrinsic value of this composition being equal to my whole salary, I expostulated with Mr. GARRICK—who said he considered it in the same light, and I should have no reason to complain. My trouble on this occasion was inconceivable, and I expected my extra reward would be proportionable; but when the end of the season arrived, in the office were found two promissory notes of ten pounds each, which I had given by way of memorandums at two different settlements, and these were sent me by GEORGE GARRICK, as a valuable consideration for my additional trouble. The publication of the music I sold for twenty-five pounds down, twenty-five pounds on the twelfth night, twenty-five pounds on the eighteenth night, and twenty-five pounds on the twenty-
fifth.
The piece was performed twenty-
four
times.
24, 25, 26, 27, 28 & 29 Two pantomimes, and four little pieces for
Sadler's Wells,
under my article.
30 A short masque in
Amphytrion,
in the season 1773 & 1774, under my article of course. I sold this music for some trifling sum.
31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36 Two pantomimes, and four little pieces for
Sadler's Wells.
Two of these I wrote, but though I recollect the subjects, I really do not the titles—'tis however no great matter, these six performances made up the entertainment of the season. I had nothing of consequence bid for the music, and I did not chuse to venture the publication of it on my own account.
37
The Waterman
—performed the same summer, 1774, at the
Haymarket.
The success of this piece is well known. The benefit yielded me but thirty-five pounds. The publication of the words about forty-eight, and the music I believe about thirty pounds.
38
The Cobler
—performed in the season 1774 and 1775. Mr. GARRICK would insist upon having this piece. I had taken to him
The Seraglio,
which was afterwards performed at
Covent Garden
—and which if I had been on the spot I am convinced would have had better success—but he had conceived great displeasure at my bringing out
The Waterman
at the
Haymarket,
though under different pretences he refused to perform it himself, and therefore I must write, he said, a direct
farce,
and nothing else, which the more I altered the less I liked, though the alterations were to please him. At length, I understood he did not intend to perform any thing; but having urged him pretty strenuously, he said it should be done if I would get it up in a week. This I did to his astonishment; and the next news was that the Lord Chamberlain would not license it. Upon my talking of waiting on Lord HERTFORD about it, as there was nothing immoral in it, all of a sudden a license arrived, and the picce came out. It was not greatly received, but after the fourth night it went on very well till the
tenth,
when—like
Liberty Hall
—it was
damned by a party.
I got from first to last by it about an hundred and twenty pounds.
I am afraid this matter of fact business tires you. I'll please you however with another matter of fact, which is, that I am
Yours very sincerely. C. DIBDIN.
London,
April
24, 1788.
LETTER LXXII.
MANAGEMENT.
"
A man who can write, can draw petitions—therefore, I say, discharge him!
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
FOR BRERETON's benefit in 1775, I brought out
39
The Quaker.
This piece meeting with success, he bought it of me for seventy pounds, and sold it afterwards to GARRICK for an hundred. Had I not parted with it in this way, however, I might have kept it by me, for GARRICK had for some time determined not to produce any thing of my writing, if he could possibly avoid it. He had no idea that I intended to dabble in this way, when he signed the article, and therefore conceived my whole employ would be to set words of his writing; and a blessed time I should have had on't, if I had never done any thing else. For this purpose, he was scheming to get rid of Mr. BICKERSTAFF as fast as he could, and the very particular civilities he just then shewed that pretty gentleman, to cover his intention, probably procured him that scandalous and undeserved poem from Dr. KENRICK—his wishes however were anticipated, as the world knows. When I produced him the
Wedding Ring,
and afterwards the
Deserter,
he found I could make some stand in this way, and his discontent from that moment was evident to every body. He was like
Captain Plume,
he would not have a man who could write in his company. Indeed, the most tremendous weapon in the world to GARRICK—was
a pen. The Waterman
following up the
Deserter,
and becoming also very popular, my business was done. I have shewn how he behaved in the affair of the
Cobler
; and as to the
Quaker,
he would not have suffered it to be got up at BRERETON's benefit had not the latter insisted upon it as his right. Even then, the copy was submitted to his inspection, and he returned it with a sneer, saying,
"he wished him success, but he was rather afraid the spirit would move the audience to damn it."
BRERETON took fire at this, and shewed it to his friend Mr. SHERIDAN, who spoke of it in terms of commendation. All difficulties were now at an end, Mr. SHERIDAN's pen was more to be feared than mine. The next season. Mr. GARRICK purchased it, as I mentioned before, but not with a view of performing it, for this piece did not make its second appearance till the management of
Drurylane
fell into other hands. Added to the seventy pounds, I received forty pounds for the publication of the words, and about the same sum for the music. It will be seen that I did nothing of consequence under my article, since the
Christmas Tale,
which was entirely owing to this jealousy of GARRICK's—in consequence of which he gave the
Maid of the Oaks
to Mr. BARTHELEMON, and
Alfred
to THEODORE SMITH—in both of which pieces, by the bye, I received
orders
to make alterations, and set additional songs. Alterations I peremptorily refused to make, thinking it scandalously indelicate to those gentlemen; nor would I compose an additional song for
Alfred
—which Mr. BLANCHARD, of
Covent Garden,
then a child, may remember was intended for him—but, menaced with an action for the penalty of my article, rather than incur the forfeiture of five hundred pounds, I reluctantly set the song beginning,
"What cannot beauty, lovely beauty do?"
in the
Maid of the Oaks.
40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45 My usual quantity of business for
Sadlers Wells,
ia the season 1775.
46
The Metamorphoses
—an after-piece, brought out at the
Haymarket
in the summer of 1776. When this piece had been performed four nights, I left the care of it to Mr. FOOTE, who promised to do every thing handsome in it, and went to FRANCE. The moment my back was turned, however, he forgot his promise—for he only performed it once more, and I reaped no manner of emolument from it whatever. Indeed, every thing, about this time, went at sixes and sevens with him, for he never
"joyed himself,"
after the business of the coachman.
At the end of this season, as every body knows, FOOTE was advised to go to FRANCE, to dissipate his chagrin. The morning he left NORTH END, going into his parlour, he fixed his eyes for some time on the print taken from that picture, so admirably painted by ZOFFANI, of FOOTE and WESTON' in the
Devil
and Dr.
Last.
At last, heaving a deep sigh, he exclaimed,
"Alas! poor WESTON!—very soon it will be, alas! poor FOOTE!"
He died about three weeks after.
On the words I had a loss, and the music was never published.
47, 48, 49, 50 Business for
Sadlers Wells.
Mr. KING did not call on me for more work this year.
51
The Seraglio.
This piece was accepted by Mr. HARRIS, previous to my departure for FRANCE, and performed in the season 1776 and 1777. I should mention also that I then left my affairs in the hands of Dr. ARNOLD, who superintended them till my return, and common justice bids me say, that he discharged his trust with great honour and fidelity, for which kindness I now give him my public thanks. I have yet every letter he wrote me, and really there are many of the kindest and most disinterested sentiments of friendship I ever read. To say the truth, he had trouble enough on my account; for the first stipulation Mr. HARRIS made was to alter the pieces in whatever way he pleased. In consequence of this, when I came to read in the paper the plot of the
Seraglio,
at CALAIS, I found it totally different from that which I had sent, and I remember the doctor's letter that accompanied the account of its reception, says, that if I were to see it I should scarcely know my own piece. Mr. HARRIS also obliged him to new set some of the songs, which he assures me was a most irksome task, but he rather undertook it than that the piece should not be performed. The benefit for this yielded me forty-eight pounds, the words fifty, and I sold the music for an eventual sixty pounds—forty-five of which became due.
52, 53, 54, 55
The Razor Grinder—Yo, Yea, or the Friendly Tars—Old Woman of Eighty
—and
The Mad Doctor
—four pieces which I sent Mr. KING from FRANCE. These pieces were sold out and out at a very reasonable price. But I again repeat that all my engagements with Mr. KING were pleasurable ones, and had I made him a present of half I have done for him, I should still be under obligations to him.
56
Poor Vulcan
—a burletta, performed in the season 1777 and 1778, at
Covent Garden,
and which I boldly pronounce, had it been given to the public in the state I sent it, would have had much greater success. It is uniformly said that the first act of this piece is remarkably complete; and it must be confessed that from the beginning of the second act to
Vulcan's
soliloquy is as dull as any thing possibly can be, and the reason is, the burlesque is totally dropt, and
Adonis
—by the assistance of Mr. HULL's somniferous muse—converted into a sighing, dying, sleeping swain; whereas I had made him a burlesque character, as well as the rest.
I am glad of this opportunity of shewing how authors are treated by managers and their privy counsellors; and am ready to stand or fall by the decision of the public on the merits of what has been taken away, and what substituted. This shall be considered in the next letter. In the mean time, rejoice with me, that at the end of two more, we shall have waded together through this rubbish.
Yours, C. DIBDIN.
London,
April
24, 1788.
LETTER LXXIII.
THE THEATRICAL PRUNING KNIFE.
"
The king's a good poet—with a little of my help.
"
To the Rev Mr. —
DEAR SIR,
MY idea of making
Adonis,
a
burlesque shepherd,
I thought perfectly a new one.
His first song was a parody on
"When forc'd from dear Hebe to go."
The first verse ran thus:
When forc'd from dear MAUDLIN to go,
Of a large humming glass she drank part,
And I thought—but it might not be so,
That the poor creature took it to heart.
We guzzled, till tipsy we grew,
For my path I could scarcely discern;
And, for her, stead of saying, adieu,
She hiccup'd out—"Prithee return."
His second song was a parody on
"Dear Chloe, come give me sweet kisses."
I shall not have room for it at length, but I'll give you the last verse.
Count the coin at the mint they are weighing,
Count the cash at the bank that's conceal'd,
Count the rouleaus at BROOKES's they're paying,
And what Pharoah and Quince nightly yield.
Count the Exchequer tallies so even,
Go number the Treasury's store,
And when so many guineas you've given,
I still shall be asking for more.
But my great favourite is the following imitation of HORACE and LYDIA.
JOE.
When Serjeant BELLSWAGGER, that masculine brute,
One day had been drinking to swear a recruit,
He kiss'd you, I saw him, or else may I die,
And you,
cruel
MAUDLIN, ne'er once cried, O fie!
Again, when the squire had come home from the chase,
You receiv'd him, O Gods, with a smile on your face,
Henceforth, then, my sheep harum skarum may run,
For MAUDLIN is faithless, and I am undone.
MAUDLIN.
Ah! JOE, you're a good one—one day in my place—
My husband at home, I was forc'd to send GRACE;
I know for a truth, which ye cannot gainsay,
You touzled her well on a cock of new hay.
Nay, swore you'd be hers—and what is worse yet,
That you only lov'd me, just for what you could get;
As for charms then, I ne'er will believe I have one,
For JOEY is faithless, and I am undone.
JOE.
Will you know then the truth on't—I touz'd her, I own,
Though I rather by half would have let it alone;
But I did it to see if you jealous would prove,
For that, people say,
is a sure sign of love.
MAUDLIN.
And for me, if the SQUIRE said soft things in my ear,
I suffer'd it, thinking he'd call for strong beer;
And as to the serjeant, 'tis always a rule,
One had better be kiss'd, than be teaz'd—by a fool,
I could not resist the insertion of these songs, that it may be seen whether either justice or judgment is generally exercised in mutilations of this sort.—The benefit for
Poor Vulcan
yielded about ninety-five pounds, the music was sold for fifty pounds, and the words for sixty pounds. At this time the expence of the benefits was raised, by the famous coalition of Mr. SHERIDAN and Mr. HARRIS, to an hundred guineas. I however would not pay it, nor was it, after my positive refusal, insisted on.
57
The Gypsies
—an after-piece, written by me, and composed by Dr. ARNOLD. It was performed at the
Haymarket
in the summer of 1778, but was rather a losing game. The profits—had there been any—were to have been divided.
58
The Touchstone
—performed in the season 1778 and 1779, a pantomime, written and composed by me, under a verbal agreement with Mr. HARRIS, at the rate of three hundred pounds for the quantity of three after-pieces, and every thing over and above to be paid for in proportion. This piece has been attributed to Mr. PILON, and to Mrs. COWLEY. The fact is, that in spite of all I could do, Mr. HARRIS would be trying to foist in alterations, which had very nearly parted us before this entertainment came out. I consented however to none but a few that were made by Mr. GARRICK. After the piece was out however, and fairly Mr. HARRIS's property, it was not in my power to prevent his doing what he pleased with it; and by this means that contemptible scene got into it of the
rout,
which I with particular pleasure acknowledge is
not
mine: the emoluments however
were,
and they consisted of an hundred pounds for the piece, as a performance, an hundred pounds by Mr. HARRIS for the copy-right of the words, and twenty pounds for the music.
59
Rose and Colin
—a piece of one act, performed very frequently, and with great applause.
60
Annette and Lubin
—of the same description, and performed as successfully.
61
The Wives revenged
—rather longer, but of the same description. These pieces—together with the
Saloon,
the
Graces,
and the
Statue,
afterwards performed with great success at the
Circus
—are what I allude to in my letter to Mr. HARRIS. I received fifty pounds for each of them, and sixty pounds for the music of the three from Mr. HARRIS—the words I kept, which, according to custom, were unproductive.
62 A pantomime—the name of which I do not recollect. In it was introduced that song,
"Give round the word dismount, dismount."
It was only a revived thing, and together with the song sung so well by Mrs. KENNEDY, in the
Comedy of Errors,
and some other matters, estimated at fifty pounds.
63
The Chelsea Pensioner
—same season. This piece came out with Miss MORE's
Percy
—which tragedy, though it is by no means devoid of merit, was not well received; and my opera had like to have suffered by being in company with it. The success of the
Chelsea Pensioner,
however, afterwards was very flattering; yet it was done but three nights in all—owing to the lateness of the season. Why Mr. HARRIS has not repeated it since, he knows best, as there were four songs encored on the last night it was performed. This piece was an overplus charge of an hundred pounds. The words I published according to custom at a loss, and the music—except a few songs which were introduced into a periodical work—never was made public.
Yours, Most faithfully, C. DIBDIN
London,
April
24, 1788.
LETTER LXXIV.
THE STATEMENT FINISHED.
"
Othello's occupation is no more
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
I Shall not have room particularly to mention how much my pieces have suffered from mutilation; however what I neglect in
detail,
I must make up in
point.
64
Mirror
—a pantomime burletta, performed with considerable success at
Covent Garden,
in the season of 1779 and 1780. This piece was strong satire, and therefore
"
cavier
to the multitude,"
who, however, were charmed with the scenery. One circumstance marks this performance very strongly. The character of
Punch,
whose
bibbery bino
begot all the
fal de rals
and
te de rees,
which have so largely contributed to make up the reputation of Mr. EDWIN, and which was a satire upon
nonsense,
is now forgotten for nonsense itself. For this piece, I received a sixth of the six first nights, amounting to about an hundred and thirty pounds. The words yielded me about twenty pounds, and the music ten pounds.
65
The Shepherdess of the Alps
—an opera in three acts. This piece fell for want of support. I remember VERNON's saying, when he was asked why he did not get perfect, and play his best,
"that he saw it was the general wish the piece should be damned, and, as in duty bound, he lent it a hand."
My agreement for this piece was, to have a third of the nine first nights. It was performed but three. I received about seventeen pounds.
66
Plymouth in an Uproar
—a piece brought to me by a seafaring gentleman. I made some alterations in it at his desire, and it succeeded pretty well, being performed about twelve nights. My share of the profits came to about sixty-five pounds.
67
The Islanders
—an opera of three acts, performed in the season of 1780 and 1781. This piece had very good success, and is remembered to have contained some of Mrs. KENNEDY's most favourite songs, and many other very popular things. I was to have had for it a third of the nine first nights; but the KING coming to the performance on the sixth, I was obliged to submit to take in the tenth, which made a difference to me of more than fifty pounds. I however, from first to last, got by this piece about three hundred and fifty pounds. Instead of coming out in the course of the business in the second season—which it might have done with considerable reputation—Mr. HARRIS made me cut it down into a farce, and call it
The Marriage Act.
The alterations this piece underwent, previous to its coming out, were innumerable. Some few of them were suggested by Mr. HARRIS, but I'll venture to say it gained nothing by that. Mr. WOODFALL saw a sketch of the first act, in a rough state, and in a letter which I have by me, declared it bid the fairest for popularity of any thing he had seen. It was certainly a very great favourite with Mr. HARRIS, who advised me not to confess myself the author, urging me with words
"more than belonged to such a trifle;"
for he said JUNIUS was not yet known—and therefore he would not advise me to declare myself. To be sure there were some flying reports that Mr. HARRIS wrote it himself—but it will hardly be thought he wished those to be credited.
68
Harlequin Free Mason
—same season. This piece had a prodigious run. I wrote the words and composed the music. My emoluments were seventy pounds from the theatre, I sold about 2700 books, which yielded me—for so well are these things managed—about thirty-five pounds, and the music was distributed in a work called the
Lyrist,
which publication yielded me nearly fifty pounds.
69
Amphytrion
—performed in the season of 1781 and 1782. This piece was the only instance in which I made a point of
securing myself.
Mr. HARRIS and I parted, as I have before mentioned. I had nothing to do with conducting it, and it was performed but two nights. I received for it two hundred and eighty-five pounds.
70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84
The Barrier of Parnassus, The Graces, The Saloon, The Milkmaid, The Refusal of Harlequin, The Land of Simplicity, The Passions, The Statue, Clump and Cudden, The Benevolent Tar, The Regions of Accomplishment, Lancashire Witches, The Cestus, Pandora, The Long Odds.
These, two or three other pantomimes, four or five
intermezzos
of a more trifling kind, and at least fifteen ballads, each taking twelve or fourteen airs and an overture, with a variety of other matter, make up what I did for the
Circus
; where, in the first season, I cleared upwards of nine hundred pounds—but from that moment, my connexion with this place has been a series of trouble, loss, and vexation, which, to enumerate, would make up as long a work as this I shall say a few words on this head however in a future letter.
85
Liberty Hall
—performed with the success I have already stated, at
Drury-lane,
in the season of 1785 and 1786. The benefit yielded forty-eight pounds, the words
nothing,
and the music—by which if it had been performed oftener I should have received a considerable sum—brought, though handsomely bargained for, no great matter.
86
Harvest Home
—performed at the
Haymarket,
1787. I was nine pounds in debt on the benefit, the words I sold for forty pounds, and the music did about as much as
Liberty Hall.
These pieces, were I to go over every ground, would come up to very near an hundred, but
Richmond, Marybone, Exeter Change,
and some other places where I have produced performances, shall be given in to heap up the measure. What I have done will astonish the reader sufficiently—for he will see that, in twenty-three years, I have received only about five thousand five hundred pounds, even when I add my different salaries and annual benefits.
Think of this, and all my drudgery, and tell me if you do not wish safe in CALCUTTA
Your very obliged friend, C. DIBDIN.
London,
April
25, 1778.
LETTER LXXV.
READINGS AND MUSIC.
"
What have we here, players!—that is to say, strollers?
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
IT now remains to add to my TOUR and the statement of pieces already given—the entertainment which I have so often delivered, and frequently to very little purpose, under the title of READINGS and MUSIC. This I shall follow up with some finishing observations, a very brief recapitulation of all I have advanced—placed by way of critique on myself in every possible point of view—and, at length, a farewel to that country which I hope I have shewn that I quit not upon slavish and narrow, but liberal and laudable principles.
You
have seen, but others will please to suppose me upon my platform, with a piano forte before me, mustering up either a patient, contented, or delighted smile—but never a contemptuous one—according to the number either scattered about or crowded in the room—and beginning, by way of
EXORDIUM,
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,
The introduction to my entertainment ought to explain its nature and tendency. The first would be no very easy matter to accomplish, for it is of so eccentric a kind that it will not in any respect tally with whatever may be measured by the standard of regularity. But as to its drift, I believe it may have as legitimate pretensions to public favour as any other amusement.—Matters of this kind in general aim at satisfying the auditors, with an eye to the advantage of their fabricators; like the physician, who, as he held out his hand for a see, and was professing how disinterested he gave his advice—saying
'I take all this pains for you'
—was answered by the sick Irishman, as he put the guinea into his hand—
'true, true,
all
for me, and a little for yourself, doctor.'
Were I kept to the letter of my promise, it would be my indispensible duty to improve and amuse. This text, however, I shall divide; leaving it to others to instruct, while I try the utmost of my poor endeavour to entertain. The best regulated understandings may pant for relaxation, at which time, trifles light as air are the welcomest pleasures. The mind unbent from its severer duty, shall find a very nothing full of charms. An
anecdote,
a
bon mot,
a
jeux d'esprit,
shall be delicious. These will be my moments of triumph. Besides, I have a resource to which many have resorted with wonderful success. Sound has often proved a fortunate succedaneum for sense—for music, like charity, covers a multitude of faults. How often has the rickety deformity of a hobbling line been wrought into symmetry by the elegance of a beautiful passage—an uncouth rhime rendered as smooth as the honey of Hybla by the force of modulation—and a whole mouthful of expletives gracefully swallowed by the operation only of a few chromatics.
Various friends, however, have suggested various improvements on my own ideas. One of these you would have taken for a cook, for he said he would undertake to supply my mental banquet with a curious and plentiful collection of dishes, suitable to all palates. He told me he had
roasted
NABOBS, and
stewed
PATRIOTS—
surprized
GENERALS, and
devilled
LAWYERS. For needy gentlemen, become gamblers in their own defence, he had a choice quantity of
pigeons.
He had
ducks
and
drakes
for speculators in the alley. Then for fish, he had a
plaise
for
sycophants
who chose to apply for it. He had
good soles
for the promoters of
conviviality
—and he had
gudgeons
for political and physical quacks. That to be sure he could not brag much upon the article of
maids
; but then, to make amends, he had a liquorish
old wife
in high season for a ruined
spendthrift.
Then for a desert—he had
sugar plums
for the
conscientious; trifles
for
fops; whip syllabubs
for
orators; ice
for
young widows
; and
hard crusts
and
bitter almonds
for—
critics.
But what he most of all recommended was his
flummery,
which he said was made of such delicious materials, that it would be greedily swallowed by all distinctions, from a
bishop
to a
beggar.
A Frenchman advised me to fill my entertainment with dances, which he assured me was not only the very essence of all public amusement, but contained every requisite accomplishment for the completion of a fine gentleman. But I will endeavour to give you his own words.
'
Monsieur—Sare
—look all over de varld, every ting depend pon larn to
danse. Sans cela
vidout larn to
danse
you cannot vat you call see life—you cannot know noting. De younk chentelmen
danse
away vid dere money before dey come to dere estate; de lofer
danse
away vid de laty to Scotland; de
marchand
clerk
danse
away vid de English bank note. Ven de housband find chentelman little too kind to his wife, he don't quarrel, make no noise, he make one very low bo—
serviture Madame.
Vat de devil you call dis but larn to
danse.
If you would do any ting vid great man, begar you must
danse
attendance.
C'est encore
—larn to
danse. Enfin
—in short, if you vould go vit great
eclat
troo de varld, you must do
comme en France
—vare de
pauvre danse
avay dare
misere,
de
riche danse
avay dare
conscience,
de
general dance
avay from de
enemy,
and all the rest of de varld
danse
away from dare friend,
ma foi.
'
I referred the gentleman to the Opera house, telling him, if he should chance to get paid, he might perhaps dance away with English bank note too.
An Italian let me into the secret of all that has been done in the way of taking people by the ears since this country could boast an opera house. He told me it was as easy to make music by receipt as macaroni. But as an Italian never explains himself so well at when he sings, I will endeavour to give you his idea of a recipe for a
bravura
song to music—and to music in the next page follows the very song I introduced upon this occasion. I therefore finish this letter with recommending it to your attention, and myself to a continuation of your good wishes, being,
Very sincerely, Your thankful and humble servant, C. DIBDIN.
Liverpool,
March
6, 1788.
POMPOSO
You must begin Pomposo
Then incline to th'affettuoso
Then of the furioso
A little touch
and then so much
so much for the motivo
Further in your progression
no matter for expression
so that for relievo
you ha and he
and la and mi
and sink and break
and sink and break
and tril and tril
and tril and shake
then on a long division soar
twil set the audience in a roar
in a roar
in a roar
And now have done with that key
and get into a flat key
now give us that once more
and take it a note lower
the flutes obbligato
the fiddles pizzicato
the flutes obligato
the flutes pizzicato
and now a long fermato
Then to the subject come again
and after the motivo
and after the motivo
be sure repeat that hum again
be sure repeat that hum again
of ha and he
and la and mi
and sink and break
and sink and break
and tril and tril
and tril and shake
Then you must go low
that the horns may have a Solo
then you must go low
that the horns may have a Solo
then on a long division soar
twill set the Audience in a roar
in a roar
in a roar
in a roar
LETTER LXXVI.
THE EXORDIUM FINISHED AND THE ENTERTAINMENT BEGUN.
"
So proceed you
"
To the Rev. Mr. —
DEAR SIR,
THE song over, I thus went on.
I could not help confessing there was certainly some ingenuity in this mode of spinning music; but I thought it too much like the labours of the spider, which—though curious—have neither
beauty
nor
durability,
I consequently determined to rely on my own judgment. You will, therefore—proceeded I—suppose me a painter, with my canvass upon an eifel and my whole apparatus lying before me, preparing to present you with a faint sketch of human nature; not as I have sometimes seen it described, with the virtues rising on each other like the Alps and Apenines, altogether as STUPENDOUS, and altogether as
cold:
nor again, as a thing so fraught with depravity, so pitiably contemptible that a man would rather be an
oyster
than an
emperor
—but as we see it every day, without making it either a flattering likeness or a
caricature
; for, though I shall throw the human mind—if I may be allowed the figure—into every possible situation, yet I shall not place it where I have not actually seen it. It may sometimes be
ludicrous,
but it shall be always
like.
Imagine, then, that I have now filled my canvass with a number of lines, curves, parallels, perpendiculars, and dots; faintly to represent a large groupe of characters—one projecting a leg, another an arm, and another a head; and then suppose me—like the man who shews the tombs in Westminster abbey—about to explain their good, bad, and indifferent qualities—just as it may suit to illustrate my position; and to this man I may be aptly compared—for, like him, I have all the talk to myself, and, like him, am paid before I shew any thing.
Very poor, however, would be my reward if it was only derived from pecuniary gratification. A warmer and more thankful sentiment fires my breast, no less than that as I am impelled alone by gratitude to appear before you, I may hope for your kind and gentle wishes for my safety, health and prosperity.
When I did not finish the exordium in this manner, it ran as follows—from the words
"my own judgment."
I shall therefore present you with a melange; which I trust will be found to be neither regularly dull, nor ridiculously eccentric, but a sort of medium between these extremes; tending sometimes to provoke an involuntary sigh, but much oftener a spontaneous smile; and though I profess it to be out of all rule, class, or distinction, yet I am sanguine enough to hope it will have as regular a beginning, middle, and end, as an epic poem; that it will commence with
curiosity,
be followed up with
attention,
and conclude with—APPROBATION.
THE CAPE OF GOOD HOPE
When impelld by my fortune new worlds to explore
I shall cheerfully leave the deminishing shore
Each hour bearing gratefully proudly in mind
How nobly a generous Public was kind
How nobly a generous Public was kind
How freely they'll give to their kind wishes scope
As gayly I double the Cape of Good Hope
As gayly I double the Cape of Good Hope
How freely they'll give to their kind wishes scope
As galy I double the Cape of Good Hope
2
When from perils of dangerous Neptune set free,
Trade winds and monsoons left behind me at sea,
I make Rajahs, and Nabobs in harmony chime,
And gay palanquins march in regular time;
Through the wishes to which you shall then give a scope
I shall double with ease for fortune's Cape of Good Hope.
3
When by dint of my crotchets my catches and glees,
I have chang'd current notes into sterling rupees;
Sighing still for that pow'r of attraction sweet home,
I'm no longer impell'd by a motive to roam;
I shall still to my strong grateful feelings give scope,
That through you I first doubled the Cape of Good Hope.
This song finished the exordium—I then began as follows:
PART I.
CASSANDER, cut to the soul at being torn—through the avarice of her father—from the arms of his SOPHRONIA, retired to a remote part of the kingdom, to contemplate on her virtues.
HORTENSIA, the beautiful and envied wife of the gallant FERDINAND, had been married but a little month, when, provoked by the insolence of a saucy calumniator, her husband fell defending her honour. Grief induced her to retire, and chance directed her to where CASSANDER sighed in secret for the loss of his SOPHRONIA. Accident brought them together—when, urged by the congeniality of their sentiments, they vowed on the spot an eternal friendship, and agreed to meet every morning in the same place to recite such stories of private misery as had fallen within their notice, occasioned either by false honour or the insatiable cruelty of avaricious parents.
CASSANDER, on his return, ransacked his library to find food for new friendship, which at its birth demanded to be nourished. HORTENSIA came home—sat down to her harpsichord—sighed and sung
AIR.
Who to my wounds a balm advises
But little knows what I endure—
The patient's pain to torture rises
When med'cine's try'd—and fails to cure.
What can the wisest counsel teach me
But sad remembrance of my grief?
Alas! his counsel cannot reach me,
It gives but words—I ask relief!
After this the subject changes—I shall therefore stop short for the present, with a fresh assurance—and as true as the rest—that I am,
Most sincerely, Yours, C. DIBDIN.
Liverpool,
March
6, 1788.
LETTER LXXVII.
A JOVIAL MEETING.
"
Mirth admit me of thy crew.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —
DEAR SIR,
To chequer the entertainment, and render it a little more lively, I thus went on.
I shall now introduce you to a set of gentlemen whose evenings were
jovially
employed in the same degree, as the mornings of CASSANDER and HORTENSIA were devoted to despondency.
This company consisted of a PROJECTOR, who had tired the royal society and impaired his fortune by schemes that had every thing to
perfect
them but
practicability.
A SPECULATOR who had invented an instrument which was to foretel the coming change of the stocks, upon the principle of a barometer, but who—unfortunately trusting too far to the infallibility of his project—was obliged to
waddle out.
A COMMODORE, who had risen by his merit from the forecastle, and had retired in disgust. A POET, who had never been able to get a play heard to the end of the first act. A wild IRISHMAN, who had blundered through a large patrimony fill he had nothing left—to use his own words—but the
purse
of a
beggar
and the
heart
of a
prince.
And a LEVEE HUNTER, who, in the course of
thirteen years,
was
once
within
five minutes
of seeing the
great man himself.
These six, grown wise from their disappointments, had gathered together the scattered remains of their broken fortunes, and determined to laugh away the rest of their lives. Health followed them to the chace; pleasure filled the teeming bowl; and the only contention at their meetings—where ANACREON might have been proud to sit president—was—who should be forwarderst to promote harmless mirth and inoffensive hilarity.
The board being met, and a few toasts drank, the poet was called upon for a song. He said he would give them a little satirical touch, which he had that morning written against a lady, who had been cruel to him. He confessed it was malicious—or so—but he sincerely believed exactly in point for all that.
AIR,
That all the world is up in arms,
And talks of nought but CELIA's charms;
That crowds of lovers, near and far,
Come all to see this blazing star,
Is true—who has not heard on't?
But that she all at distance keeps,
And that her virtue never sleeps—
I don't believe a word on't.
II.
That for one lover had she ten,
In short, did she from all the men
Her homage due each day receive,
She has good sense, and I believe
Would never grow absurd on't:
But for soft dalliance she'd refuse
Some favourite from the crowd to chuse—
I don't believe a word on't.
III.
That in the face of standers-by
She's modesty itself's no lie;
That then were men rude things to say,
'Twould anger her—oh I would lay
A bottle and a bird on't—
But to her bedchamber d'ye see
That BETTY has no private key—
I don't believe a word on't.
The conversation next turned on the law—and one of the company had mentioned the frequency of executions in this country. From this the PBOJECTOR, who was a bit of a wag, took occasion to relate the following anecdote.
A carpenter, who could not get his money for two gibbets that had been bespoke, refused to make a third; and an execution having been in consequence delayed—the jailor being called to account—blamed the carpenter, who was at length summoned before the judge. The judge told him he had ordered the gibbet, and demanded in a very preremptory way the reason it had not been made. The carpenter, with the greatest simplicity in nature, excused himself by telling the truth—saying—
'I refused the hangman and the jailor to make a
third
gibbet, because I had not been paid for the
two first
; but if I had known the gallows had been for your LORDSHIP—why lord love you it should have been
done out of hand.
'
The POET was noticing how sometimes the most trivial and unforeseen accident overturns an author's hopes.
'A thing,'
said he,
'once happened to me which was enough to make a man forswear ever taking a pen in hand. I had a tragedy—GARRICK performed in it—I must confess the principal incident was a little similar to LEAR's abdication of the throne in favour of his daughters. Mine were two daughters; and the king—after giving them a lesson, fraught with legislative advantages that might have done honour to SOLON or LYCURGUS—finished his harangue with saying
"and now I divide this crown between you"
—Sir, a malicious scoundrel peeping over the spikes of the orchestra, and staring GARRICK full the face, cried out—
"Ah, that's just
half a-crown a-piece.
"
Sir, an incessant laugh immediately prevailed, and if it had been to save your soul, another syllable was not to be heard; and thus the world lost for ever four acts, and a half of the finest writing—'
"I am glad on't,"
said the COMMODORE,
"if you had not been disabled in giving chace to the public, you would never have come to safe moorings in grog harbour. Here,"
said he—taking the bowl—
"is the only sheet anchor a seaman can trust to. Blow high, blow low, let the storm tear the cable from the cat-head, or the shrouds from the cat-harpin,
grog
will bring us through all weathers, and shew a smiling face in the bowl when clouds and billows are in the maddest contention."
The COMMODORE's song of
grog
shall begin my next letter; in the interim I finish this as usual, with assuring you that I am
Ever yours, C. DIBDIN.
Liverpool,
March
7, 1788.
LETTER LXXVIII.
A SEA SONG, AND AN IRISH ONE.
"
Drink, drink, and defy
"
The mad spirits that fly.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —
DEAR SIR,
NOW for the COMMODORE's song.
AIR.
A plague of those musty old lubbers
Who tell us to fast and to think,
And patient fall in with life's rubbers,
With nothing but water to drink.
A can of good stuff—had they twigg'd it—
'Twould have set them for pleasure agog,
And spite of the rules
Of the schools,
The old fools
Would have all of 'em swigg'd it,
And swore there was nothing like
grog.
II.
My father, when last I from Guinea
Return'd, with abundance of wealth,
Cried Jack never be such a ninny
To drink—said I—father, your health.
So I shew'd him the stuff, and he twigg'd it,
And it set the old codger agog;
And he swigg'd, and mother,
And sister, and brother,
And I swigg'd, and all of us swigg'd it,
And swore there was nothing like
grog.
III.
'Tother day, as the chaplain was preaching,
Behind him I curiously slunk,
And while he our duty was teaching,
As how we should never get drunk;
I shew'd him the stuff, and he twigg'd it,
And it soon set his rev'rence agog,
And he swigg'd, and Nick swigg'd,
And Ben swigg'd, and Dick swigg'd,
And I swigg'd, and all of us swigg'd it,
And swore there was nothing like
grog.
IV.
Then trust me there's nothing like drinking
So pleasant, on this side the grave;
It keeps the unhappy from thinking,
And makes e'en more valiant the brave.
As for me, from the moment I twigg'd it,
The good stuff has so set me agog,
Sick or well, late or early,
Wind foully or fairly,
Helm a-lee or a-weather,
For hours together,
I've constantly swigg'd it,
And—damme—there's nothing like
grog.
The COMMODORE then gave, May our sea of delight never ebb! The POET said it was impossible—for they drew their mirth from the follies of mankind, which source was inexhaustible. This gave rise to a mixed conversation, in which scarcely any subject escaped them. Impostors of all denominations were severely handled, and particularly pretenders to courage. This naturally brought up duelling; and one of them said, in a country like this, where there are such admirable laws, he wondered it was not put a stop to. Laws! exclaimed the Irishman—
AIR,
Fait, honey, in Ireland, I'd find out a flaw
In each capias, each batt'ry and action;
For dere—Oh my soul—satisfaction is law,
And what's better—fait, law's satisfaction.
When to cut your friend's trote dat affronts you's the word,
From dat argument none will be shrinking;
For we clear
knotty points
by the
point of the sword,
And make
slaws
large enough with out
pinking.
And great is the pleasure it yield,
While our seconds are hard at our back,
And boldly we both take the field,
Wid our tierce and our carte—sa, sa—whack!
II.
Arrah troth were a jolmon pursu'd at his heel
By a constable, fait, or a baily,
To be sure in three minutes the taef would not feel,
O'er his sconce a tight bit of
sheldly.
Then for actions and bonds, and that charming long lift
Of returns dat in law cut a figure,
Oh we make out
returns
by a
turn of the wrist,
And draw
bonds
by the
pull of a trigger.
And great are the pleasures it yield,
And our seconds are hard at our back,
When boldly we both take the field,
Wid our tierce and our carte—sa, sa—whack!
Oh, my soul, cried the Irishman, a little pinking is the only way to bring a jolman to good manners. Why, Sir, a friend of mine has made a book, where he has set down all manner of insults and reparations, possible and impossible. Ah! twenty fine fellows that he stretched, but for dat book would have been alive and merry; but then their honour will never die, you know: what the devil would they have!
I shall reserve his further remarks and other matters; and having here written about my usual quantum, say adieu for the present, professing myself what I truly am,
Yours, Most sincerely, C. DIBDIN.
Liverpool,
March
7, 1788.
LETTER LXXIX.
BRAGGING REPROVED.
"
Thou art as errant a Jack in the wood as any in
ITALY—
"
If there were
two
such we should be
none
presently.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
THE COMMODORE, in answer to the IRISHMAN's remarks, said,
'Well, but surely you don't mean to countenance those pretenders to courage—those petulent wasps, who'
—
"All now do stop a minute,"
retorted the IRISHMAN—
"I countenance!—be my soul, I'll tell you how I served one of these spalpeons. The gentleman, d'ye see, was telling a long, roundabout rhodomontade story about fighting, which he finished the conclusion of by saying he had killed three men. I told him that his three men was nothing at all at all, a jolman in my country would kill thirteen, and eat them afterwards. I myself, said I, have had eleven duels, and kilt my man every time, and in a twelft—But, said I to the company, you shall hear gentlemen. I was a sad, wicked, rakehelly, young dog—played deep—dranked hard. Well Sir, I had a quarrel wid a box-lobby beau—called him out—kilt him. I did not fly, you see—I knew I had pinked a puppy, and should be thanked for it. This affair, however, being wid a fly, a gnat, a muskito, my courage was only tought a flash in the pan, and I was presently insulted by five of the most resolute among them, dat wanted to
quarrel
with me. Oh to be sure I was not a scoundrel, paltroon, and a puppy. Oh it would have done your heart good to see me rouse from my lethargy of passive endurance. I appointed them all at different times and places on the same morning—kilt 'em, and retired to the Continent. About a month afterwards, I was in a coffee-house in France, where a great, big Swiss officer, who was poring over the papers, seemed extremely offended at the vacant silliness of a young Frenchman, who—as SHAKESPEARE says of
Gratiano
—was talking a great deal about nothing at all at all. Ah—said old crusty—
le diable soit le petit jean foutre.
The youngster, in a
hop step
and
minuet jump
skipt up to him, and demanded, in the civilest manner, who he had thought proper to honour with so elegant an appellation? He was answered,
Vous—Moi!—Vous—vous etes un petit jean foutre.
They went out, and in ten minutes the Swiss returned, in all the easy tranquillity imaginable, having killed the Frenchman. The affair became presently the talk of the coffee-room—
c'etois bien dommage mais comment faire
—Monsieur
avois le humeur noir.
I could not help saying that
Monsieur's humeur noir
was but a poor excuse for having kilt the young man. I was asked to explain myself. To be sure I did not civilly comply with his request, by knocking his Ramilee wig about. Out we went, and by as pretty a little, genteel, cunning lunge as ever made an eyelet hole—I cured Monsieur of his
humeur noir,
and, fait, every other care. This was my seventh man; my eighth was a Dutchman, whom I was obliged to fight with knives over a table, for nothing in life only because I happened to say by accident that their women, their ships, and their pugs dogs were all cast in the same mould. My affair in ENGLAND being now pretty well blown over, I ventured to return; but that I might be sure every thing was sung, I got a friend to look out for me while I lay quiet at a lodging in DEAL."
"In the family, you see, dere was an old gentleman, who out of four children had three sons and a daughter. I had not been there a week before the daughter fell in love with me. Dat you know was natural enough. 'Tis a dillycate affair—but a pregnancy was the consequence. What was to be done! The brothers—Oh they watched me with the eyes of a cat or a rattle snake. They were determined, it seems, to massacre me. I had an intimation of their design from the dear girl herself—a charming, lovely, dear, tender, delicious creature. I appeared before them, and desired I might be permitted to defend myself. My request was generously granted. Oh it cut me to the soul, but I performed my part as nobly as
Horatius
with
Curiatii
—I kilt 'em all three. The father was now determined to have a touch with me—a fine, stately, vinnerable parson—about sixty-seven—aquiline nose—silver hair. Oh if I was to explain myself ever so, it would be impossible to tell you what I felt. Well, Sir, we met. After a genteel salute—which you know good breeding always allows—he made a lunge in tierce—I in flanconade. To make short of my story, after an ineffectual attempt to disarm him—taking advantage of my confusion, and whipping in a well imagined lunge in carte over arm—
arrah sait
—HE KILT ME!"
The jolmon would not believe a single word of all I had uttered; at which I told him, that as I had not discredited his story, I should insist on his not doubting mine. At this the laugh became general, and the poor devil of a duellist was glad enough to sneak out of the room.
And serve him right too—said the COMMODORE. There are three occasions, and only three, that justify a man's risking his life—his country, his wife, and his friend; for life, d'ye see, is a ship that providence has given us to command, and he who runs her on the rocks of folly, goes beyond his instructions, and may be sure to be called to a severe court martial for it.—Give me a fellow like JACK RATLIN.
AIR.
JACK RATLIN was the ablest seaman,
None like him could hand reef and steer;
No dang'rous toil but he'd encounter,
With skill, and in contempt of fear.
In fight, a lion—the battle ended,
Meek as the bleating lamb he'd prove;
Thus JACK had manners, courage, merit,
Yet would he sigh—
and all for love.
II.
The song, the jest, the flowing liquor—
For none of these had JACK regard;
He—while his messmates were carousing,
High sitting on the pendant yard—
Would think upon his fair one's beauties,
Swear never from such charms to rove,
That truly he'd adore them living,
And dying—sigh,
to end his love.
III.
The same express the crew commanded
Once more to view their native land,
Among the rest, brought JACK some tidings—
Would it had been his love's fair hand!
Oh fate!—her
death
defac'd the letter,
Instant his pulse forgot to move,
With quiv'ring lips, and eyes uplifted,
He heav'd a sigh—
and dy'd for love!
As I never sung this song but I was obliged to pause a little till the buz of the company ceased, I will now make a pause to tell you that I am as much and as warmly yours as ever.
C. DIBDIN.
Liverpool,
March
8, 1788.
LETTER LXXX
MORE OF THE WONDERFUL, AND OTHER MATTERS.
"
Twenty more—kill them too.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —
DEAR SIR,
YOU may remember, after the song—I said
Neither the COMMODORE's remarks nor his song could do away the vein of conversation that had before taken place. Every notorious lie that could be thought of was related. One said he had heard a lawyer aver his business was of so vast and extensive a nature, that he cleared two hundred a year by only melting the wax of the chancery and other seals, in the course of his practice. This gentleman, however, was outdone by another, who said he had such a counting-house full of clerks, that he saved double that sum, in ink and expedition, by only leaving out tittles and dashes. But the thing that seemed to be best relished was an account of a man who undertook to jump off the monument.
'The fact,'
said the speculator who told the story,
'was as follows. One PETER WILKINS, a biscuit maker by trade, undertook to jump off the monument. He was to mount on the rails when St. PAUL's clock should strike twelve, and he was to jump off at the last stroke. Every precaution was of course taken to keep the poor devil from breaking his neck. Feather beds, loads of straw, and woolpacks were piled upon each other to an immense height. The day came—the streets seemed to be paved with faces, and the houses roofed with people. The usual accidents happened. Broken limbs, dislocations, fractures, and contusions were plenty. Women with children in their arms were thrown down and trod upon; while old chimney stacks, tiles, and brick-bats flew about like hail. Well Sir, the moment arrived—the clock struck—and honest PETER, true to his trust, mounted upon the balustrades. At the last stroke—off he went. Icod Sir—when he was half way down—his heart failed him—
and
—HE JUMPED BACK AGAIN.'
The company getting a little into disorder, silence was commanded, and a hunting song called for, which was given them by the POET.
AIR,
At the sound of the horn,
We rise in the morn,
And waken the woods as we thunder along—
Yoix, yoix, tally-ho!
After reynard we go!
While echo on echo redoubles the song.
II.
Not the steeds of the sun
Our brave coursers outrun,
O'er the mound, horse and hound, see us bound, in full cry.
Like Phoebus, we rise
To the heights of the skies,
And careless of danger, five bars we defy.
III.
At eve, Sir, we rush,
And are close to his brush,
Already he dies, see him panting for breath!
Each feat and defeat
We renew and repeat,
Regardless of life, so we're in at the death.
IV.
With a bottle, at night,
We prolong the delight;
Much Trimbrush we praise, and the deeds that were done:
And, yoix tally-ho!
The next morning we go!
With Phoebus to end, as we mount with the sun.
I then returned to my desponding lovers; but—lest the matter should grow too grave—I gave it the following turn.
CASSANDER met his friend HORTENSIA as usual, and while they were moralizing on the uncertainty of sublunary felicity, a conversation on the other side of the hedge attracted their attention. I should have told you that ROBIN, CASSANDER's confidential servant, retired from a disappointment in love, as well as his master; nor was JENNY, the handmaid of HORTENSIA, behind hand with her mistress in heroic sentiments. These two it seems—profitting by the lessons of their superiors—had sought also for consolation in each others friendships.
'And so Mr. ROBIN,'
said JENNY,
'you really say you have a pleasure in my company?'
"So much, Mrs. JENNY,"
said ROBIN,
"that I almost begin to forget PEG already. But if this is the case, what sort of things we lovers must be! I certainly did love that jade, else what need had I to run two hundred miles to shut myself up among woods and grottos, dripping fountains and murmuring brooks. I'll tell you how the thing is—"
'No, no,'
said JENNY,
'let me tell you how it is. You men are a set of easy, credulous, foolish creatures, and the simplest of us women can wind the cunningest of you about her finger.'
AIR.
Oh men what silly things you are,
To women thus to humble,
Who—fowler like—but spreads her snare,
Or, at the timid game
Takes aim,
Pop, pop, and down you tumble.
She marks you down—fly where you will,
To hedge, or meed, or stubble,
Can wing you, feather you, or kill—
Just as she takes the trouble.
Oh men, &c.
Then fly not from us, 'tis in vain,
We know the art of setting,
As well as shooting—and can chain
The slyest man our net in.
Oh men, &c.
Before I return to the company, I will just take leave to say that I am
Yours, Most sincerely, C. DIBDIN.
Liverpool,
March
8, 1788.
LETTER LXXXI.
SUPEREROGATE VIRTUE, AND RULES TO WRITE MECHANICALLY.
"
Why every fool can play upon the word.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
WE are going to visit the club again, who being still very loud on the subject of braggadocias, are stopped short by one of the company, who sings the following song.
AIR.
CURTIS was old HODGE's wife—
For vartue none was ever such
She led so pure so chaste a life,
HODGE said 'twas vartue over much.
For says sly old HODGE, says he,
Great talkers do the least, d'ye see.
II.
CURTIS said if men were rude
She'd scratch their eyes out, tear their hair—
Cry'd HODGE—I believe thour't wond'rous good;
However, let us nothing swear.
For says, &c.
III.
One night she dreamt a drunken fool
Be rude with her in spite would fain;
She makes no more, but with joint stool
Falls on her husband might and main.
Still says, &c.
IV.
By that time she had broke his nose,
HODGE made a shift to wake his wife;
Dear HODGE, said she, judge by these blows,
I prize my vartue as my life.
Still says, &c.
V.
I dreamt a rude man on me fell;
However, I his project marr'd:—
Dear wife, cried HODGE, 'tis mighty well,
But next time do'nt hit
quite
so hard.
For says, &c.
VI.
At break of day HODGE cross'd a style,
Near to a field of new-mown hay,
And saw—and curst his stars the while—
CURTIS and NUMPS in am'rous play.
Was not I right, says HODGE, says he,
Great talkers do the least d'ye see.
They then talked of authors. The PROJECTOR, who once had an idea of inventing a windmill to grind poetry, maintained—throughout the whole time he was bit with this scheme—fourteen authors. The company being very desirous of hearing something of the project and these scribbling dependants, he gratified them by saying that his plan was in
idea
so constructed as to grind poetry according to the degree of violence or serenity with which the wind blew. Zephyrs were to make pastorals—an unequal squally wind was to write pindaric odes—May breezes were to fabricate love songs—and thunder storms were to give a faithful description of warlike exploits. Then, proceeding to speak of his poets—what was the most extraordinary, said he, no two of them seemed to know each others profession any more than if they were of different professions. Upon inquiring how this came about, I found that poetry, no more than physic, is ever done in the
lump
; for that one is employed to write tragedies and another dying speeches, just as you have one doctor for the
teeth
and another for the
corns.
Thus, of one I learnt punning by rule.
"By rule?"
said the POET. Yes—thus. A man says
'Mr. LOCKE was a great
metaphysician.
'
"Oh Lord!"
says you,
"that's nothing at all—I
met a physician
myself yesterday."
The next rule is to lay a trap for a pun, by a previous question. Says you
'do you think the dinner is ready?'
"I really don't know,"
says one of the company,
"I am going to
see.
"
'Oh, to
sea
are you!'
says you,
'I wish you
a good voyage.
'
—Or thus—says you
'what do you think of this business of the EMPEROR and the TUKRS?'
"Think!"
says one,
"why that the EMPEROR will play the very devil with them. Why, Sir, in another twelvemonth there will be
no Turkey
in EUROPE."
'Upon my word,'
says you,
'I am very sorry for that—it is a very charming dish, especially with a pudding in its belly.'
Thus when you have learned to pun with facility, you may do what you please. One says—
"Come, pun away."
'
Away!
'
says you—
'I had better pun
here
had not I?'
"Icod,"
says another,
"he is in for it,
stop
him who can."
'Nay,'
says you,
'what the devil should they
stop
me for, I have
stolen nothing.
'
"Well, upon my word,"
says the first,
"that is
beyond
every thing."
'Oh,'
says you,
'if that is the case, you know I can
go no farther.
'
So much for punning. Another sets up for superficial learning—that is to say—teaching you to lard your conversation with quotations, which if you cannot do off hand, you must
invent.
'Arrah is it
invent
you mean?'
said the IRISHMAN,
'to be sure that is not as natural a bull as if I had made it myself.'
I am perfectly right for all that, said the PROJECTOR. A man asks your opinion of a work, which, though you know nothing at all about, you must pretend to be critically acquainted with.
'Why,'
says you,
'TULLY says—'
It does not signify a halfpenny whether he ever said it or not. But if your man seems to know any thing about TULLY, you must add—
'
somewhere.
'
Says you
'TULLY says—
somewhere
'
—so then you may say any think out of your own head.
"Well, upon my word,"
said the POET,
"that is all mighty well, but suppose it should not be a very
bright
thing."
'Oh, why then you know that is TULLY's fault—
not yours.
'
"Oh, but upon my soul this is treating poor TULLY very ill."
'Oh Sir,'
said the PROJECTOR,
'these poets care not three-pence who they treat ill, so they are but clever themselves; but I am too sore when I think of my follies—therefore let us talk of something else.'
—
"With all my heart,"
said the COMMODORE—
"come POET give us a song."
'I'll give you,'
said the POET, the
'musicians lamentation for the loss of his mistress.'
This song with the music immediately follows, I shall therefore finish my letter assuring you, with no less truth than pleasure, that I am
Yours, very faithfully, C. DIBDIN.
Liverpool,
March
9, 1788.
The Musicians lamentation for the loss of his Mistress
Andantino.
I thought we were Fiddle and Bow
So well we in concert kept time
But to strike up a part base and low
Without either reason reason or rhime
Without either reason or rhime
What a natural was I so soon
With pleasure to quaver away
With pleasure with pleasure to quaver away
For I'm humm'd I think now to some tune
She has left me the Piper to pay
I'm humm'd I think now to some tune
She has left me the piper to pay
She has left me the piper to pay
2
I plainly perceive she's in glee,
And thinks I shall be such a flat
As to shake, but she's in a wrong key,
For she never shall catch me at that.
Whoe'er to the Crotchets of Love,
Lets his heart dance jig in his breast;
Twill a bar to his happiness prove,
And shall surely deprive him of rest.
LETTER LXXXII.
HOMER IN A NUT SHELL.
"
Oh what a charming thing's a battle!
"
To the Rev. Mr. —
DEAR SIR,
I sometimes, instead of this song, introduced a ballad—the hint of which I took from the origin of the patten in GAY's
Trivia.
I suppose a
blacksmith
sings it to a
milkmaid.
AIR.
Sweet ditties would my PATTY sing,
Old chevy chace—God save the king—
Fair Rosemy
—and
Sawny Scot
—
Lilebularo—The Irish trot—
All these would sing my
blue-ey'd
PATTY,
As with her pail she'd trudge along,
While still the burden of her song
My hammer beat—to
blue-ey'd
PATTY.
II.
But nipping frosts and chilling rain
Too soon, alas! chok'd every strain;
Too soon, alas! the miry way
Her wet-shod feet did sore dismay,
And hoarse was heard my
blue-ey'd
PATTY:
While I for very mad did cry—
Ah could I but again, said I,
Hear the sweet voice of
blue-ey'd
PATTY!
III.
Love taught me how—I work'd, I sung,
My anvil glow'd, my hammer rung,
Till I had form'd from out the fire,
To bear her feet above the mire,
An engine for my
blue-ey'd
PATTY.
Again was heard each tuneful close;
My fair one on the
patten
rose,
Which takes its name from
blue-ey'd
—PATTY.
'Now you have been after giving us a song,'
said the IRISHMAN,
'to be sure I have not a pretty little bit of a chaunt for you myself. Do you know I have been all this week translating HOMER!'
"Translating HOMER!"
said the POET.
'Why yes sure—
out of
POPE. And my head has been ever since so full of flaming chariots and speaking horses, that I have turned poet for the first time in my life, and set the whole siege of TROY to an
Irish tune.
'
"Oh pray let us have it,"
said the POET.
'Oh to be sure you shan't,'
answered the IRISHMAN,
'but pray now don't be laughing at my brogue.'
THE SIEGE OF TROY
Allegretto.
I sing of a War set on foot for a toy
And of Paris & Helen & Hector & Troy
Where on Women Kings Genrals & Coblers you stumble
And of Mortals & Gods meet a very strange jumble
Sing didderoo bubberoo
Oh my joy How sweetly they did one another destroy
Come fill up your bumper the whisky enjoy
May we ne'er see the like of the siege of Troy.
2
Menelaus was happy wid Helen his wife,
Except dat she led him a devil of a life,
Wid dat handsome taef Paris she'd toy and she'd play,
Till they pack'd up their alls and they both ran away,
Sing didderoo &c.
3
Agamemnon and all the great Chiefs of his house,
Soon took up the cause of his hornified Spouse;
While Juno said this thing and Venus said that,
And the Gods fell a wrangling they knew not for what.
Sing didderoo &c.
4
Oh den such a slaughter and cutting of trotes,
And slaying of bullocks and off'ring up Goats;
Till the cunning Ulysses the Trojans to cross,
Clapt forty fine fellows in one wooden Horse.
Sing didderoo &c.
5
Oh den for to see the maids, widows and wives,
Crying some for there virtue, and some for their lives;
Thus after ten years they'd defended their town,
Poor dear Troy in ten minutes was all burnt down.
Sing didderoo &c.
6
But to see how it ended's the best joke of all,
Scarce had wrong'd Menelaus ascended the wall;
But he blubb'ring saw Helen, and, oh strange to tell,
The Man took his Mare, and so all was well.
Sing didderoo bubberoo, Oh my joy,
How sweetly they did one another destroy;
Come fill up your bumpers they whisky enjoy.
May we ne'er see the like of the siege of Troy.
After the
Siege of Troy,
I again adverted to the lovers—the better to relish the society's mirth when I should return to them. I said—
To follow CASSANDER and HORTENSIA through all their meetings would considerably exceed my plan. They continued, something more than a fortnight, during which time so remarkable a parity of sentiment manifested itself, that they seemed animated with one soul. Every look—every sigh—every wish was the same; and they neither of them believed—though nothing could be more certain—that
friendship
had long since softened into
love.
—About this time—as CASSANDER was preparing to entertain HORTENSIA with a story calculated to awaken the whole force of her sensibility—a shower of rain obliged them to take shelter in the house, where the first object that presented itself was a portrait of SOPHRONIA. It is wonderful to what advantage the little subtel god turned this accident. CASSANDER could not find a feature that was not imcomparably outdone in the face of HORTENSIA.—One was
pretty,
the other BEAUTIFUL—one
easy,
the other GRACEFUL. In short, I am afraid one was
absent,
and the other PRESENT. His heart out-went his reason, and he finished a rhapsody—which, not to conceal his weakness, was a plain declaration of love—with a song, which he intended should shew HORTENSIA the superiority of her charms to those of SOPHRONIA.
AIR,
Bright gems that twinkle from afar,
Planets, and every lesser star,
Which, darting each a cheering ray,
Console us for the loss of day,
Begone!—e'en Venus, who so bright
Reflects her visions pure and white,
Quick disappear, and quit the skies—
For, lo! the MOON begins to rise.
II.
Ye pretty warblers of the grove,
Who chaunt such artless tales of love,
The
Throstle,
gurgling in his throat,
The
Linnet,
with his silver note,
The soaring
Lark
—the whistling
Thrush
—
The mellow
Blackbird—Goldfinch
—hush!
Fly!—vanish!—disappear!—take wing!
The NIGHTINGALE begins to sing.
Adieu. In my next we will return to the company. Mean time, accept my sincere assurance
That I am Yours, C. DIBDIN.
Liverpool,
March
9, 1788.
LETTER LXXXIII.
A RETURN TO THE SOCIETY.
"
Sport that wrinkled care derides,
"
And laughter holding both his sides.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
TAKING a final leave of the lovers, we will now visit the club, for the last time. Their topic was that noble animal, the horse: and the vicissitudes of fortune that mark that creatures different stages of life, naturally introduced a song, which it seems was a favourite of the company.
AIR.
See the course throng'd with gazers, the sports are begun,
The confusion but hear—I bet you Sir—done, done—
Ten thousand strange murmurs resound far and near,
Lords, hawkers, and jockies assail the tir'd ear;
While—with neck like a rainbow, erecting his crest,
Pamper'd, prancing, and pleas'd—his head touching his breast—
Scarcely snuffing the air, he's so proud and elate—
The high-mettled racer first starts for the plate.
II.
Now reynard's turn'd out—and o'er hedge and ditch rush
Dogs, horses, and huntsmen, all hard at his brush;
Through marsh, fen, and brier, led by their sly prey,
They, by scent and by view, cheat a long tedious way:
While—alike born for sports of the field and the course—
Always sure to come thorough—a staunch and fleet horse—
When fairly run down, the fox yields up his breath,
The high-mettled racer is in at the death.
III.
Grown aged, us'd up, and turn'd out of the stud,
Lame, spavin'd, and wind-gall'd—but yet with some blood—
While knowing postillions his pedigree trace,
Tell his dam won this sweepstakes, his sire gain'd that race,
And what matches he won to the ostlers count o'er,
As they loiter their time at some hedge alehouse door,
While the harness sore galls, and the spurs his sides goad,
The high-mettled racer's a hack on the road.
IV.
Till at last, having labour'd, drudg'd early and late,
Bow'd down by degrees, he bends on to his fate;
Blind, old, lean, and feeble, he tugs round a mill,
Or draws sand, till the sand of his hourglass stands still:
And now, cold and lifeless, expos'd to the view,
In the very same cart which he yesterday drew,
While a pitying crowd his sad relicks surrounds,
The high-mettled racer is sold for the hounds.
A whimsical extract from an entertainment was next produced—where a magician had confined two unfortunate lovers, who were tormented with the severest and most ingenious rigour. This duty sometimes fell on a journeyman conjurer, who not being exactly
au sait
to this diabolical business, did not always execute it so as to operate to his master's wishes. In the extract I mentioned, he is left with an injunction to conjure up every spirit of distress he can think of, to terrify these lovers. Poor TYCHO is horribly put to it to conceive how he can possibly find out these
spirits of distress.
Having, however determined to make the best of it, he thus begins his incantation.
AIR.
Spirits of distress, of ev'ry occupation,
Persuasion, mode, complexion, temper, climate, inclination,
Come here! come here!
Spirit of a friar oblig'd to go to mass,
Spirit of a sailor who leaves his pretty lass,
Spirit of a drunkard deprived of his glass,
Appear! appear!
II.
Spirit of a virgin old and antiquated,
Who forty long winters has sigh'd out unmated,
Come here! come here!
Spirit of a quaker deceiv'd in pretty RUTH,
Spirit of an old man who apes the tricks of youth,
Spirit of an hypocrite oblig'd to speak the truth,
Appear! appear!
III.
Spirit of a BRITON just arriv'd gay FRANCE in,
Who, 'stead of beef and fighting, meets with nought but frogs and dancing,
Come here! come here!
Spirit of an alderman the dinner thrown down,
Spirit of a lover who has just receiv'd a frown,
Spirit of a beauty disappointed of her gown,
Appear! appear!
Our TYCHO did not conceive there could be greater spirits of distress than these. The poet, however, could not get his piece on the stage. The history of its refusal brought up the subject of the theatre, and this introduced several theatrical anecdotes, among which the following one, relative to THE. CIBBER, gave the company some pleasure.
THE.—who all the world knows to have been a great voluptuary—and who would give his last guinea for an ortolan, and confiscate something to get it dressed—had dined in the city at a public entertainment, and rendered himself very agreeable by relating a number of anecdotes, and sporting other sallies of wit. A few nights afterwards, being in the boxes of the theatre, he saw there one of the citizens he had dined with. He spoke to him with great familiarity, but was astonished to find his salute scarcely returned. A second and a third attempt were as unsuccessful. He, therefore, went into another box, where sat one of his boon companions, who had noticed the transaction. The
bon vivant
began upon THE. immediately.
'What,'
said he,
'the old gentleman would not speak to you.'
"No,"
answered THE.
"and I cannot, for the life of me divine the reason. It was but three days ago we were as intimate as gormandizing and hilarity could make us. Why, Sir, I made him chuckle and shake his fat sides and rosy gills as often as there was a pause between a glass of
burgundy
and a mammoc of
green sat.
Now he affects not to recollect me."
'And you pretend you don't know why,'
said the other.
"I have not the smallest conception,"
said THE.
'I'll set you right then,'
said his companion.
'Your intimate friend over a bottle chuses to disclaim you in the face of the world, that's all. He is a merchant of the city of LONDON—a man of credit and reputation—pays twenty shillings in the pound—'
"Oh that's it, is it!"
said THE.—
"why then damme if I speak to him, for
I pay
FIFTY."
I shall let the company enjoy their laugh, and take that opportunity to give myself pleasure, by assuring you once more that I am, with great truth, yours,
C. DIBDIN.
Liverpool,
March
12, 1788.
LETTER LXXXIV.
MORE VIVACITY AT THE EXPENCE OF ACTORS.
"
For they are the abstract
"
And brief chronicle of the times.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —
DEAR SIR,
AS one anecdote naturally produces another, I at different times took the opportunity, while the club were on the subject of the theatre, to introduce those which follow.
An actor who had been used to perform
tragedy
and
comedy
indiscriminately, was sent on for BUCKINGHAM, in
Richard the Third,
but not being very perfect, he floundered through the part with great hesitation, and in much confusion. When he came to that soliloquy where RICHARD leaves him with these words—
"I'm busy—thou troublest me—I am not in the vein"
he was quite at a loss—and so intimidated, that he could not catch the word from the prompter. The audience began to hiss, and poor BUCKINGHAM—after the loss of the
"Earldom of HEREFORD"
—had very nearly been pelted with rotten apples. At length he recollected that he had played HODGE in
Love in a Village
the night before, and feeling the situation to be exactly the same as that of BUCKINGHAM, he hollowed out—
"I thought it would come to this, I'll be shot if I did not."
Another related an anecdote of Mrs. CHARKE, the daughter of COLLEY CIBBER. She was playing IAGO in a barn, and they were in great confusion about the difficulty of managing the business of the quarrel between CASSIO and RODERIGO—for which they wanted
three
swords, whereas they had among them but
two.
It was agreed, however, that one of them should stagger into the corner, and so let his sword fall, as if by accident, between the scenes, that thus she might find it, and come on to wound CASSIO.—This, however, was neglected—and seeing it was impossible to get a sword—
'What the devil shall I do?'
said she,
'I must knock the fellow down.'
Saying these words, she ran into the dressing room—which was also a bedchamber—and catched up an old bedpost, with which she ran furiously at CASSIO, and not to be worse than her promise, laid on him pretty severely. He speaking mechanically, when he heard his cue—which was accompanied by a blow on the
head
—cried out in the words of his part—
"Oh my LEG is cut in two."
The company being all lovers of theatrical merit, these anecdotes induced them separately to hold forth in praise of those actors or actresses who had been their greatest favourites, and having arrived to that pitch of tenacity when no one of them would cede his opinion, the poet set them to rights by saying—
'Gentlemen, we have all our prejudicies. I once illustrated this position pretty strongly in a fable.'
A large company went to see a collection of various animals. A
soldier
admired the
lion,
a
sailor
the
nautilus,
a
fine lady
the
ostrich,
a
courtier
the
jackall,
and an
hypocrite
the
hyena.
A
hump-backed man
declared they were all fools; each, he said, might have its particular merits, but he would venture to prove, beyond contradiction, that for beauty and symmetry no
animal
upon the face of creation could equal the—CAMEL.
This reproach set them all into good humour, and produced the folowing song from the COMMODORE.
AIR.
A sailor's love is void of art,
Plain sailing to his port, the heart,
He knows no jealous folly:
'Twere hard enough at sea to war
With boisterous elements that jar—
All's peace with
lovely Polly.
II.
Enough that far from sight of shore,
Clouds frown and angry billows roar,
Still is he brisk and jolly:
And while carousing with his mates,
Her health he drinks—anticipates
The smiles of—
lovely, Polly.
III.
Should thunder on the horizon press,
Mocking our signals of distress,
E'en then dull melancholy
Dares not intrude:—he braves the din,
In hopes to find a calm within
The snowy arms of
Polly.
The COMMODORE now cried out
'POET I shall call upon you—what will you give us?'
"Why,"
said the POET,
"you may remember Mr. O'SHOCKNESY, the other night, favoured us with the whole
siege of Troy
to an
Irish tune
—for my part, I felt my consequence as a poet a little touched at it—and so, not to be outdone, I have brought ULYSSES back to ITHACA safely through all his perils, to the tune of—
Yankee doodle.
You must suppose him unknown to PENELOPE, in the character of an OLD BEGGAR, giving her an account of his adventures. It is preceded by a few lines of recitation—in which you'll see how poetically PENELOPE interrupts him.
He says
Madam, I've seen the Ganges, Nile, and Eissel,
I've seen St. George's Channel, and the Weisel,
I've seen, indeed I have, and 'tis not long since,
I've seen—
Now for her.
Thou stupid fellow hold thy nonsense—
Hadst thou o'er all creation ta'en a look,
And voyag'd with ANSON, and with CAPTAIN COOK;
And been strange places—more by half than both—in,
If thou saw'st not ULYSSES—thou saw'st
nothing.
To which he replies with great complaisance.
I have—and when, and where, but have the kindness
To curb your anger, I'll inform your highness.
Here will follow the song and its music; as, therefore; it is a favourite of yours, I'll leave you to hum it, first telling you that I am
Yours, very faithfully, C. DIBDIN.
Liverpool,
March
13, 1788.
The return of ULYSSES to ITHACA
Allegretto.
I sing Ulysses and those chiefs who out of near a million
So luckily their bacon sav'd before the walls of Ilion
Yankee doodle doodle doo black Negro he get sumbo
And when you come to our town well make you drink with bumbo
2
Who having taken sack'd and burnt that very first of Cities,
Return'd in triumph while the Bards, all struck up amorous ditties.
Such a Yankee doodle &c.
3
The Cyclops first we visited, Ulysses made him cry out,
For he eat his mutton, drank his wine, and then he pok'd his eye out.
Yankee doodle &c.
4
From thence we went to Circe's land, Who faith a girl of spunk is,
For she made us drunk, an chang'd us all to asses goats and monkies.
Yankee doodle &c.
5
And then to hell and back again, then where the Syrens Cara
Swell cadence, tril and shake, almost as well as Madam Mara.
Yankee doodle &c.
6
To fell Charybdis next, and then where yawning Scylla grapples,
Six men at once and eats them all, just like so many apples.
Yankee doodle &c.
7
From thence to where Appollo's bulls and sheep all play and skip so,
From whence Ulysses went alone to the Island of Calypso.
Yankee doodle &c.
8
And there he kiss'd and toy'd and play'd, tis true upon my life Sir,
'Till having turn'd his mistress off he's coming to his wife Sir.
Yankee doodle doodle doo black Negro he get sumbo,
And when you come to our town, we'll make you drunk with bumbo.
LETTER LXXXV.
THE FIRST PART CONCLUDED.
"
Fore heaven, that's a more exquisite song than t'other!
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
THE SPECULATOR, before the company broke up, entreated the POET to favour them with a song, for which he had a great partiality. It was a description of the confusion that about two years ago happened at Westminster-hall, when an officious maid servant was washing the leads of the house of commons, upon which a general panic ensued, and in two minutes the court of king's bench exhibited the most ludicrous scene of whimsical consternation that ever was beheld.
AIR,
I'll tell you a story—a story that's true—
A story that's tragic and comical too—
'Tis of a mischance that was ready to fall
On this
realm
through the
skylight of Westminster-hall.
Sing bags and briefs, bands, gowns, and other like rigs,
Queues, bags, ties, and full-bottom wigs, wigs, wigs.
II.
The court was just open'd, and each learned brother
Preparing which readiest could puzzle the other,
When on top of the house a poor ignorant wench
Puzzl'd judge, jury, counsel, and all the whole bench.
Sing bags and briefs, &c.
III.
Some say they a knotty dispute were upon,
Of some trifle like perjury, bail, or
crim con,
When this maid, with goodnature alone for her object,
Wash'd the windows to let in some light on the subject.
Sing bags and briefs, &c.
IV.
Others say, and that boldly, this sly little quean
Was determined to wash all their consciences clean—
But that would have taken, so wrong was her notion,
Instead of
some drops,
more than all the WHOLE OCEAN!
Sing bags and briefs, &c.
V.
But the lawyers, with consciences ever awake,
Did the poor girl's civility strangely mistake,
And augmenting this mouse to a mountain of evil,
Took her mop for a
pitch-sork,
and her for the DEVIL.
Sing bags and briefs, &c.
VI.
One appearing, however, less scar'd than the rest,
Their absurd apprehensions soon turn'd to a jest;
Crying, courage! old NICK will not take you this bout—
He'll be punctual ne'er fear—but your time is not out.
Sing bags and briefs, &c.
VII.
And now, lest the roof on their noddles should fall,
In two minutes deserted was Westminster-hall,
Pris'ner, judge, and jew-bail, 'gainst each other did squeeze,
And the counsel bags, wigs, and all lost—
but their fees.
Sing bags and briefs, &c.
VIII.
No longer let FRANCE then her JOAN of ARC boast,
Of her country's stout foes who subdu'd a whole host,
On the maid of the skylight more honour shall fall,
For she routed the
lawyers
from—
Westminster-hall.
Sing bags and briefs, &c.
After this, I have sometimes introduced the following glee.
GLEE.
We, on the present hour relying,
Think not of future nor of past,
But seize each moment as 'tis flying—
Perhaps the next may be our last.
Perhaps old CHARON, at his ferry,
This moment waits to waft us o'er;
Then charge your glasses, and be merry,
For fear we ne'er should charge them more.
With brow austere, and head reclining,
Let envy, age, and haggard care
Grow sour, and at our joy repining,
Blame
pleasures which they cannot
share.
Put round the glasses, and be jolly,
In spite of all such idle stuff—
Whether 'tis
wisdom
or 'tis
folly,
'Tis PLEASURE boys—
and that's enough.
Here I begged leave to pause, and I particularly well remember—the first time I had the pleasure of seeing you—you said it was high time I should do so. I shall, therefore, take the same liberty now, assuring you, in the old tone or key—which I am sure is a natural one, because it is truth—that I am,
Most heartily, Your's C. DIBDIN.
Newcastle-under-line,
March
14, 1788.
LETTER LXXXVI.
EXTRANEOUS MATTER.
"
About it, goddess, and about it.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —
DEAR SIR,
AT this place you may remember I paused—during which interval I never failed to receive much kind attention from some part or other of my auditory: to go into which would be, in a degree, to recapitulate
briefly
all those public remarks that I have already given AT LARGE. I shall, however, though the harvest is over, look through the field, and pick up the gleanings. For—as I set out with remarking that by means of taking my hearers at the moment I made them feel, I became possessed of their fair, unadulterated sentiments, in a purer and more ingenuous manner, than I should otherwise have been competent to do—so you and my readers in general may not be displeased to get the essence of these cursory conversations.
They consisted of kind enquiries whether I was not fatigued? congratulations on a full room; condolence on a thin one—which last was nine times out of ten the case; the solicitations that
never
failed to be made on a first night for a repetition of the performance; all the insinuating cunning of asking whether I
really
meant to go to INDIA? solicitude to know how I came to leave the
Theatres?
questions concerning the present state of them; wishes to know why MALLET, MURPHY, and other ingenious men do not write for the stage? how the town, formerly so fond of trite sentiment, is now become altogether as mad after puns and jests? if Mr. SHERIDAN has really given up the management of Drury-lane theatre? what can be the possible reason why
ladies
who write for the stage always introduce more balderdash than
men?
A gentleman, who I am sure would not care if I mentioned his name, assured me he took some pains to get acquainted with one of these
soi disant
FEMALE SHAKESPEARES, and very gravely recommended the following anecdote—which I shall tell as decently as I can—to be introduced as a monstrous good thing in one of her
comedies.
He said it was in the stile of FOOTE, only a little
fatter.
A juryman, who was troubled with the strangury, entreated one of the gentlemen of the bar, sitting near him, to represent his situation, and beg that he might be permitted for a short time to go out of court. The judge having heard the request, interrupted the trial by saying he had a new question for their observation, and on which indeed he should be remiss in taking any step till he had submitted his reasons for so doing to the court. Said he—
"one of the jury hath craved leave to retire for a few minutes only—for an urgent purpose, procured and caused by a grievous malady with which the poor man had the misfortune to be greatly afflicted. The malady I allude to is the strangury—and it is a disorder which has some similitude to the stone, or gravel, or indeed both, inasmuch as some learned physicians are of opinion"
—
'Indeed my lord,'
said the juryman, making a wry face,
'it is very painful, I wish your lordship would permit me to go out of court.'
"Patience, my good friend, patience,"
replied his lordship.
"I greatly wish to oblige you, but every thing here must be done according to form. There are, if I mistake not, some cases on record, and I believe on a cause folio B. Yes, I am right, it was on an action brought for the recovery"
—
'Indeed, my lord, if you will let me go out of court,'
cried the tortured juryman,
'it will be the kindest
action
your lordship ever did in your life.'
"Pray,"
said his lordship,
"don't interrupt me when I am expounding the law. Yes, yes, it
was
so; and then in another case HOGES
versus
WATKINS"
—
'Oh dear!'
cried the juryman—
"Where,"
continued the judge,
"a juryman, as in the present case, had, with modest and becoming demeanour"
—
'Oh!'
cried the juryman, screwing up his muscles—
"preferred to the bench, upon the same emergent occasion, a similar request"
—
'What shall I do!'
bellowed out the juryman—
"and if my memory fails me not, there are two or three other cases, which I could cite at length."
After reiterated pain, which he was no longer able to endure, the juryman cried out—
'My lord you need not cite any more cases, for I have p—d my breeches.'
If this elegant anecdote should grace the
lady's
next play, I hope she will have gratitude enough to acknowledge to what patron she is indebted for it.
why I always cut harder at the
law
than any other profession? how much I am more than thirty years of age? and whether the
Padlock
was not performed five and twenty year ago?—thus endeavouring to make it appear that I was on the stage before I was born, and composed music before I could speak. How I should have acted if ever I had been hissed?
I had made up my mind upon this. Had it ever happened, I was determined to relate the following circumstance, which really occured at EDINBURGH. LEE and LOVE were mutually concerned in that theatre, and they disputed as to the mode of conducting their different departments, till at length the controversy arose to such a pitch that the town took part in it. Thus, whenever LOVE appeared LEE's friends hissed him, and
vice versa.
That part of the town that came merely to be amused, and had too much good sense to interfere in so ridiculous a business, by this means deserted the theatre, and left it wholly occupied by the hissers—who, also getting tired, mustered thinner and thinner, till the house exhibited very little more than empty benches. LOVE, finding his interest materially injured, came to his senses first, and determined if possible to put a finish to the matter. For this purpose, the first time he was hissed he came forward, and having obtained a hearing, said—
"Ladies and gentlemen—the next time you come to
hiss
I should be much obliged to you if you would bring
a few more with you.
"
The consequence was inevitable—not only the audience, but LEE him self felt the propriety of the reproof, and the quarrel was made up from that moment.
whether every thing I had given them was my own? and in particular whether I wrote the words of the race horse? which was the proper way to learn
music?
whether it were better to begin with
thorough bass,
the
gamut,
or
by ear?
and if a scholar should touch the instrument
at first,
or a
year and a half afterwards?
These, together with many tenders of civility, particularly letters to INDIA—which I always took the freedom to accept—made up the interval between the first and second parts of my entertainment; and these having loosely set down, in this letter, as it were by way of act-tune, I shall in my next call your attention to the performance, first pausing to tell you how very sincerely I am
Yours, C. DIBDIN.
Birmingham,
March
16, 1788.
LETTER LXXXVII.
A LEGAL ARGUMENT.
"
Thou almost mak'st me waver in my faith,
"
To hold opinion with Pythagoras,
"
That souls of animals infuse themselves
"
Into the trunks of men,
"—
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
YOU may remember I began my performance,
PART II,
With saying—I shall now diversify my entertainment by running still further into eccentricity; adhering to no settled plan, but merely taking up detached subjects, ushered in only by a few explanatory words.
The following is an extract from a piece which conveys a strong general satire. Tired with each other's society, ULYSSES and CIRCE agreed to part. He entreats her, however, as the last proof of her kindness, to disenchant his companions, and suffer them to accompany him to ITHACA. To this she has not the smallest objection, provided they themselves will consent. ULYSSES thinks he shall not find the smallest difficulty to persuade ASSES, BULLS, and BEARS to resume their original forms of MEN. He is, however, mistaken; and cannot prevail on even
one
of his companions to exchange
instinct
for
reason.
His conversations with a WOLF who had been a LAWYER, a HOG who had been an ALDERMAN, and a BULL who had been an IRISH FORTUNE HUNTER, will elucidate this matter better.
The WOLF comes on in
recitative.
RECITATIVE.
ULY.
What beast art thou, my good friend hard-phiz?
WOLF.
I am a WOLF, Sir, at your service.
ULY.
Poor devil!—
WOLF.
Pray friend how art
Sure I'm a poorer devil than thou art.
ULY.
I am a man.
WOLF.
Which thou art vain of.
ULY.
Why is't a matter to complain of?
WOLF.
This same conceit is out of season;
Think'st thou, vile
biped,
with thy reason,
Or folly rather—thou shalt not droop head,
Truckle, and bow to me, a
quadruped?
ULY.
But this is matter of suggestion.
What man wast thou?—answer that question.
WOLF.
Why, Sir, I was a man destroyer.
ULY.
Ah!—what a general?
WOLF.
No—a lawyer.
I kept a coach, liv'd in a palace—
ULY.
What could'st thou fear then wolf?
WOLF.
The gallows.
Lawyer,
or WOLF, I do not alter—
But here hangs no impending halter:
For members of the wolf community
Ransack the fold, Sir, with impunity.
ULY.
Suppose, with power for the sconce, I wish you
To become man.
WOLF.
I'll not join issue.
To conscience or remorse a stranger,
Here will I pillage out of danger.
AIR.
By roguery 'tis true
I opulent grew,
Just like any other professional sinner:
An orphan, d'ye see,
Would just wash down my tea,
And a poor friendless widow would serve me for dinner.
I was, to be sure,
Of the helpless and poor
A guardian appointed to manage the pelf;
And I manag'd it well—
But how?—says you—tell.
Why I let them all starve, to take care of myself.
II.
With these tricks I went on
Till, faith Sir, anon
A parcel of stupid, mean-spirited souls,
As they narrowly watch'd me,
Soon at my tricks catch'd me,
And—in their own words—haul'd me over the coals.
In the pillory—that fate
For rogues, soon or late—
I stood, for the sport of a dissolute mob;
Till my neck Master Ketch
Was so eager to stretch,
That I gave the thing up as a dangerous job.
III.
Now a WOLF, from their dams
I steal plenty of lambs,
Pamper'd high, and well fed—an insatiable glutton—
In much the same sphere
When a man, I move here;
Make and break laws at pleasure, and kill my own mutton.
Then since, for their sport,
No one here moves the court,
Nor am I amenable to an employer—
I shall ever prefer,
With your leave, my good Sir,
The life of a WOLF—to the life of a
lawyer.
The lawyer's argument being so clear and decided, ULYSSES begins to tremble for his success:—he takes comfort, however, in hopes of better success in his next experiment. He is interrupted in the mid'st of his cogitations by a HOG, who you shall have in the next letter. In the mean time, like ULYSSES, ponder upon the lawyer's ingenious reasoning, and believe me to be
Yours, Most heartily, C. DIBDIN.
Birmingham,
March
16, 1788.
LETTER LXXXVIII.
A HOG AND A BULL.
"
Once in a season too they taste of love—
"
Only the beast of reason is its slave.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —
DEAR SIR,
PLEASE to listen to the HOG.
RECITATIVE.
HOG.
This asthma gives me such a dizziness.
ULY.
Hear me friend Hog!
HOG.
What is thy business?
ULY.
I'd know, ere on all fours you crawled here man,
Your human form.
HOG.
A Grecian alderman.
ULY.
Heavens what a change! it moves my pity.
HOG.
What change!—I still seem in the city.
ULY.
Why you've your paunch, if I peruse you well.
HOG.
Why yes—I eat and drink as usual.
ULY.
Yet still live in my court.
HOG.
Not I.
I'd rather wallow in my sty.
ULY.
Hear reason.
HOG.
I've no inclination.
I'll die in this my first vocation.
ULY.
If thou hast in thee ought ambitious,
I'll tempt thee with all things delicious;
All dainties that the senses steal—
HOG.
I'd rather eat my barley meal.
Appetite's all.—In MAN's array
I made but
three
poor meals
a-day
;
But since of HOGS I've join'd the throng,
I eat and guzzle—
all day long.
AIR,
For dainties I've had of them all,
At Taverns,
Lord Mayor's
and Guildhall,
Where the purveyors nothing stingy,
To fill the wallet,
And pamper the palate,
Have rarities brought from INDIA.
Then what signifies what one takes in,
For when one's cramm'd up to the chin,
Why, really, good friend, to my thinking—
If on venison and wines,
Or on hogwash one dines—
At last—'tis but—
eating and drinking.
Besides, I've no books I arrange,
Nor at two need I e'er go to change;
Have no business with note, bond, or tally:
Nor need I, from any ill luck,
Either bull, or a bear, or lame duck
Ever fear waddling out of the alley.
ULYSSES does not wonder that so sensual a creature as a HOG should pant so little to repossess his former reason:—his hopes are, however, revived at the sight of a BULL, and he exclaims—
RECITATIVE.
ULY.
What's this a BULL! by the ghost of PRIAM
This is too much!—Know'st thou who I am?
BULL.
Arrah not I.
ULY.
What a disaster!
I am thy king, my friend, and master;
Who can relieve thee from thy distresses.
BULL.
Honey, my masters are all mistresses,
And all my kings are queens, d'ye see.
ULY.
Bull, wilt thou go along with me,
And become man?
BULL.
Fait I will nat.
ULY.
I must persuade thee, and that's flat.
Thy life shall be a life saturnian?
What Greek art thou?
BULL.
Me!—an Hibernian.
ULY.
Well, since man's form thou once did'st wear,
Thy country's neither here nor there.
What's thy employment?
BULL
Fait my trade is
Just what it was—to court the ladies.
AIR.
Is't my story you'd know?—I was PATRIC MULROONEY,
A jolmon, and IRELAND my nation:
To be sure I was not a tight fellow too honey,
Before my transmogrification.
I did not at all talk of flames and of darts,
To conquer the fair—the dear jewels!
And wid husbands—because why I won the wives hearts—
I did not fight plenty of duels.
Then arrah, bodder how you can,
You'll never persuade me, honey—
For I shall always—BULL or MAN—
Be PATRIC MULROONEY.
II.
When at ALMACK's, or WHITE's, or at BROOKE's or BOODLE's,
I've sat up all night in the morning;
'Mongst
black legs,
and
coggers,
and
pigeons,
and
noodles,
The calling to use I was born in.
To be sure many
honest
gold guineas it yields,
But since 'tis a service of danger,
I'm a better MAN now I'm a BULL in the fields—
To popping and tilting a stranger.
Then arrah, bodder, &c.
I shall finish this article in the next letter, and begin a fresh one.—In the mean time adieu.
Yours, C. DIBDIN.
Birmingham,
March
16, 1788.
LETTER LXXXIX.
A SKETCH OF CRUDE VIRTUE AND VICE.
"
Nature's nature every where.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —
DEAR SIR,
WHILE ULYSSES is lamenting his bad success, he is surrounded by an APE who had been a COXCOMB—a SPARROW who had been a COQUETTE—a BEAR who had been a PLAIN DEALER—a HEN who had been a WIDOW—and several others, who wondering at his impudence in attempting to set up the blind and uncertain dictates of REASON against the sure and unerring impulse of INSTINCT, fairly hoot him off the island.
This
extract
was then succeeded by the following sketch—which I thus introduced.
I shall now proceed to shew that the passions of
envy
and
resentment
are as
implacable
and as full of
subtile refinement
in the hearts of the most
uninformed
as the most
polished.
CUDGO was a NEGRO, and QUACO a MULATTO. See how QUACO ridicules CUDGO for being further degenerated only in
one
degree from the European complexion than himself.
"Ah damn you,"
says QUACO,
"you a black dog—you a
Jenny Neger
—you don't tan like a me."
He then sings—
"Common NEGER go down the road side,
"UUCLE BEN walk up in the high road,
"Tan yanda you black
Jenny
rascal.
"Common NEGER drink out of
wooden bowl,
"UNCLE BEN drink out
of china bason
"
Can there be more pointed satire than this? Does it not convey all the conscious force of pride, pre-eminence, place, and precedence, as strongly as words can express? He then goes on upbraiding him with his ignorance.
"Ah you black dog, do'nt you know bout the rum, when you savee put letter under a tone."
CUDGO, it seems, was carrying a jug of rum and a letter to a friend of his master, but meeting with another negro on the road, he accosted—
"Ah how you do buddy."
'Ah,'
replied the other,
'what buddy CUDGO! wat a divle you carry one someting dere.'
"Oh dis—he da buckra rum master savee send um to anudder buckra lib in great house yonder."
'Ah buddy—let us all two take a lilly sup.'
"Ah dam,"
says CUDGO,
"you no see paper? Paper la talk—he savee tell massa."
'Ah buddy—appose we put paper under a tone—den he no see.'
Charmed with this idea, they agreed to hide the letter under a stone.
'Ah buddy, dis be good stuff! savee make a heart jump!'
Having drank pretty heartily, they begin to think of the consequence.
"Ah dam—jug no full now."
'Buddy, buddy,'
says the other,
'come to the ribbor, put lilly wee drop water.'
This executed, CUDGO takes the letter and jogs on with the jug to his master's friend, who not finding the rum above proof, exclaims—
'Why what is all this, you scoundrel? You have been drinking the
rum
and filled the jug with
water.
'
"Ah massa,"
says CUDGO,
"do'nt you vex—indeed I no do nothing."
—
'Nothing!—what do you think I can't read?
"Ah, massa, if I no tell buddy Tom so—dat dam paper savee talk very wicked for poor neger man."
These and other taunts and reproaches, which have in them all the ridiculous pride and contemptible folly of self-consequence, at length rouses the NEGRO—who falls foul of the MULATTO with equal success, and in such terms, that had JUVENAL been a NEGRO he would have written in the language of CUDGO.
"Why now,"
says CUDGO,
"you tink you dam creber fella too I appose—you no NEGER—no BUCKRA—no
any ting.
You dam
yellow copper kin
—you
no nation
—you a
mule
—I make a sing upon you.
SONG.
QUACO BUNGY go about,
Ca'nt tell him nation—
BUCKRA make him foot ball,
JENNY NEGER hate him,
MUSTER won't own him,
So he ca'nt tell him nation.
Now I make a sing upon your sissy.
II.
FANNY BUNGY have
pickiny,
No know him fader,
Some say the soldier man,
Some say the sailor man,
Some say the fisherman,
But he no know him daddy.
The MULATTO, who bore with great patience the satire on
himself,
is roused to the highest pitch of indignation at the lampoon on his sister—at which moment the gentle ORRA—a real Indian, who had imbibed nothing beyond the uncontaminated simplicity of her native wilds, and consequently approached nearer to primitive virtue—ORRA, who had for the first time left her home in search of her YANKO, whose absence, though compelled by duty, she could no longer bear—this ORRA surprized the uplifted arm of the MULATTO, just when his insidious revenge impelled him to aim a death blow at the heart of CUDGO. ORRA, though a
woman,
seized QUACO like a
lioness
—crying out
'Ah shame, kill your buddy.'
This enraged QUACO the more. He cried out
"Buddy!—what dam neger rascal from Jenny, QUACO buddy?"
'Yes,'
replied ORRA,
'
every man
your
buddy, every woman
my
sissy:
—poor dear YANKO tell so—and he honest man for true.
AIR.
Poor ORRA tink of YANKO dear,
Do he be gone for ever;
For he no dead, he still live here,
And he from here go never.
Like on a sand me mark him face,
De wave come roll him over;
De mark he go, but still the place
He easy to discover.
II.
Me see, fore now, de tree de flower
He droop like ORRA surely,
And den by'm by dare come one shower,
He hold him head up purely.
And so some time me tink me die,
My heart so sick he grieve me;
But in a lilly time me keiy
Good deal—and dat relieve me.
With ORRA's song I shall finish this letter, assuring you with my customary warmth and truth that I am yours, very truly,
C. DIBDIN.
Bristol,
March
17, 1788.
LETTER XC.
AN ENGLISH SAILOR AND A WELCH CURATE.
"
Thou nature art my goddess.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
SOMETIMES instead of the foregoing song, in the mouth of ORRA, I substituted the following.
AIR.
When YANKO dear fight far away,
Some token kind me send:
One
branch of olive,
for dat say
Me wish the battle end.
De
poplar
tremble while him go,
Say of dy life take care;
Me send no
laurel,
for me know
Of dat he find him share.
II.
De
ivy
say my heart be true—
Me droop say
willow tree
—
De
torn
he say me sick for you—
The
sun flower
tink of me.
Till last me go weep wid the
pine,
For fear poor YANKO dead:
He come, and I the
myrtle
twine
In chaplet
for him head.
She then relates how many enemies she had forgiven in battle, and shews, with wonderful force and energy, the comfort, the convenience, and even the strong political necessity of universal philanthropy and benevolence, till at length, won by her exemplary virtue, both NEGRO and MULATTO forget their animosity, and agree in their own language, to take MISSA ORRA to de house, and give her
nin yam.
At this moment comes by an English sailor, who highly applauding the sentiments of ORRA, bursts into the following
forecastle
song.
AIR.
What argufies pride and ambition?
Soon or late death will take us in tow:
Each bullet has got its commission,
And when our time's come me must go.
Then drink and sing—hang pain and sorrow—
The halter is made for the neck;
He that's
now
live and lusty—
to-morrow
Perhaps may be stretch'd on the deck.
II.
There was little TOM LINSTOCK of DOVER
Got kill'd, and left POLLY in pain—
POLL cry'd—but her grief was soon over,
And then she got marry'd again.
Then drink, &c.
III.
JACK JUNK was ill us'd by BET CROCKER,
And so took to guzzling the stuff—
Till he tumbl'd in old DAVY's
locker.
And there he got liquor enough.
Then drink, &c.
IV.
For our prize money then to the proctor,
Take of joy while 'tis going our freak;
For what argufies calling the doctor
When the anchor of life is apeak.
Then drink, &c.
To this sketch sometimes succeeded the following cantata.
RECITATIVE.
Curate AP HUGH driving a triple trade,
Who preach'd, drew ale, and on the crowdy play'd—
While, as the gaping rustics throng'd around,
To hear their mountain Orpheus' wondrous sound,
Would sing the cruelty of that fair maid
Who won his early love—bright WINIFRED.
While, all to make his poignant grief the sharper,
He join'd the aid of Taffy the blind harper.
AIR.
Was WINNY kind to me,
Oh he de nos,
Far plyther than a cote I'd pee,
Oh he de nos.
Leap, skip, and pound would poor AP HUGH,
And capriole, and caper too;
And frisk, and jump, and tance look you——
Oh he de nos.
II.
But false WINNY cruel is,
Oh he de nos,
With chipes, and cheers, and mockeries,
Oh he de nos.
Which makes to sigh and sop AP HUGH,
And whining his sad fate to rue,
And crieve, and croan, and crunt, look you,
Oh he de nos.
RECITATIVE.
Now changing, the transition quick as fire,
Taffy is told to poise again the lyre;
Which, as his nimble fingers rise and fall,
Echoes AP HUGH, who chaunts that madrigal
That erst he sung when to the church he led
Not now the coy, but yielding WINIFRED;
Which, as he warbl'd forth in artless rhyme,
His neighbours and the merry bells kept time.
AIR.
Do salmons love a lucid stream?
Do thirsty sheep love fountains?
Do Druids love a doleful theme?
Or cotes the craggy mountains?
If it be true these things be so,
As truly she's my lovey
As os wit i yne carri i,
Rooi fyt dwyn de garie di,
As ein, dai, tree, pedwar, pimp, chweck go
The bells of Aberdovey.
II.
Do keffels love a whisp of hay?
Do sprightly kids love prancing?
Do curates crowdies love to play?
Or peasants morrice dancing?
If it be true, &c.
In my next I shall introduce you into theatrical company, mean while am, as truly as ever,
Yours, C. DIBDIN.
Bristol,
March
17, 1788.
LETTER XCI.
A RETURN TO ACTORS AND ACTRESSES.
"
The play's the thing.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —
DEAR SIR,
HAVING dispatched Curate Ap HUGH—I introduced a set of theatrical characters, saying—
In a green-room conversation—a short sketch of which I shall next give you—little can be expected but dramatic anecdotes and quotations. We will suppose the members of the sock and buskin assembled—one says,
"Peace to this meeting wherefore we are met."
Another—
"Many I see are waiting round about you, and I am come to beg a blessing too."
"Oh ho!"
says one,
"are you there Mr. PROMPTER?—what a part you have sent me—There is no making head or tail of it—I can't find my last speech."
'Oh,'
says the prompter, dryly,
'never mind it—it will be found one day or other in the session's paper.'
"Well said, faith,"
cried one,
"you play upon the word very well this morning, master
catch cue.
"
"Come here,"
cried another,
"look at this part—a man has written a new
Tom Thumb,
and made GRIZZLE an
Irish general.
Here is a song where—to speak in the spirit of the original—the bagpipe plays first fiddle all the way. General O'GRIZZLE sings it to HUNCAMUNCA, who has just said she is determined to marry TOM THUMB."
AIR.
Is it little TOM THUMB dat you mean, and his battles?
Arrah send him for playthings some whistles and rattles:
At the sight of a sword all his nerves would be quaking—
He fight! he kill giants!—is it game you are making?
As well may you tell us that EAGLES fear LARKS,
That MICE eat up LIONS, and SPRATS swallow SHARKS:
Then talk not of any such nonsense to me—
With your confounded
boderum bumboodle liddle lee.
II.
TOM THUMB! such a shrimp sure no eyes ever saw—
He handles his arms as a fly hugs a straw:
To be sure in the wars danger's certain to quit him,
For the taef's such a flea dares no bullet can hit him.
And then as to courage, my jewel—hut hut—
Arrah did not I find him chin deep in my boot?
Then talk not of any such nonsense to me,
With your confounded
boderum bumboodle liddle lee.
III.
TOM TUHMB marry you! musha honey be easy,
Were it not for your sinse I should think you gone crazy:
Shall a fine stately OSTRICH thus wed a COCK SPARROW?
'Twere a HALBARD stuck up by the side of an arrow—
Or a FLY on a CHURCH, or a MOUNTAIN and MOUSE,
Or a PISMIRE that crawls by the side of a HOUSE—
Then talk not of any such nonsense to me,
With your confounded
boderum bumboodle liddle lee.
"What are we called here for?"
said one.
'For the new piece,'
says a second—
'I have five and twenty lengths in it, and not a single good thing from beginning to end.'
"Oh,"
cries another,
"you have a good right to complain—you fag a great deal to be sure—but what is that in comparison with my walk of characters? Why during the last fortnight I played
Hamlet, Richard, Oroonoko,
the
Earl of Warwick, Petruchio, Chamont,
and the
Drunken Colonel
—and make
nothing
of them."
Here enters the carpenter, with
"Gentlemen, if you please, you that act in tragedy, I wish you'd be so good to listen to the new thunder—it is spick and span."
'Stop a minute,'
says one,
'before you go any further, let me tell you a story about thunder. LEE, when he was manager at EDINBURGH, was determined to improve upon thunder, and so having procured a parcel of nine pound shot, they were put into a wheelbarrow, to which he affixed an octagon wheel. This done, there were ridges placed at the back of the stage, and one of the carpenters was ordered to trundle this wheelbarrow, so filled and accoutred, backwards and forwards over these ridges'
—
"And I hope,"
says the carpenter,
"he would not get any of them to do it for him."
'Not one,'
said the actor,
'they had too much partiality for their old friend the thunder trunk.'
"And they were right too,"
said the carpenter.
"The best feather in your wing Master
Tragedy.
You may rant
gemmen
—but if the thunder did not come for the
corps de resarve,
and introduce the
handy climax,
as a body may say, your lungs I believe would cut but a poorish figure."
'Well,'
said the actor,
'what was to be done? LEE was resolved to have his thunder, and employed an
Elve
of his, an actor of all work, to turn carpenter on the occasion. The play was
Lear,
and really, in the two first efforts, the thunder had a good effect. At length the poor bald-pated king was braving
"the pitiless pelting of the storm,"
when the thunderer's foot slipt, and down he came, wheelbarrow and all. The stage being of course on a declivity, the balls made their way towards the
orchestra,
and meeting with but a feeble resistance from the scene, presently laid it slat, on its face. LEAR was now to be encountered by a storm much more difficult to stem than that which he had before complained of. The balls taking every kind of direction, he was under the necessity of skipping about to avoid them, exactly like the man who dances the
egg hornpipe
; nor was this all—the fiddlers, fearing a demolition of their
catgut,
catched up their instruments and skuttled out of the
orchestra
as hard as they could drive, while, to crown this glorious scene of confusion, the sprawling actor, in the sight of the audience, lay prostrate like another SALMONEUS.'
The actors being gone to hear the new thunder, a female singer took that opportunity of trying a song, with which I shall begin my next letter, and conclude this the old way, by telling you that I am,
Very truly, Yours, C. DIBDIN.
Bristol,
March
18, 1788.
LETTER XCII.
THE GREEK-ROOM CONTINUED.
"
The best players in the world.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
PLEASE to listen to the lady's song.
AIR.
When fairies are lighted by night's silver queen,
And feast in the meadow, or dance on the green,
My CLUMP leaves his
harrow,
his
plow,
and his
flail,
By yon
oak
to sit near me, and tell his soft tail.
And though I'm assur'd the same vows were believ'd,
By PATTY and RUTH, he forsook and deceiv'd—
Yet his words are so sweet, and like truth so appear,
I
pardon
the
treason
—the TRAITOR'S SO DEAR.
II.
I saw the
straw bonnet
he bought at the fair,
The
rose-coloured ribbon
to deck JENNY's hair,
The
shoe-ties
of BRIDGET, and still worse than this,
The
gloves
he gave PEGGY for stealing a kiss.
All these did I see, and with heart-rending pain,
Swore to part—yet I know, when I see him again,
His words and his looks will like truth so appear,
I shall
pardon
the
treason
—the TRAITOR'S SO DEAR.
The song over, and the actors returned from making an experiment of the new thunder, the conversation became general again, and the story of LEE and his thunder insensibly produced another anecdote of LEE. When this strange man—who would have been a good MANAGER but for his
pride,
and second to but very few as an ACTOR but for his
particularity
—had the
management
of the theatre at BATH, one of the actresses wanted to get up
Tamerlane
for her benefit. LEE was determined not to oblige her—indeed he had done nothing but thwart her the whole season—but he found it difficult to find a
reasonable excuse.
She got the better of every obstacle—and at length, being driven fairly into a corner, he cried out
"Why zounds, Madam, what would you have?—I tell you I can't nor I won't get up the play—I have no
turkish habits.
"
'Oh,'
said the Lady,
'if that be all, I am sure of having the play performed, for I don't believe any man in the kingdom has so MANY.'
THRUM was now desired to try over another Irish song.
AIR.
As DERMOT toil'd one summer's day,
Young SHELAH, as she sat beside him,
Fairly stole his pipe away—
Oh den to hear how she'd deride him.
Where, poor DERMOT, is it gone,
Your lilly lilly loodle?
The've left you nothing but the drone—
And dat's yourself, you noodle.
Beum bum boodle loodle loo,
Poor DERMOT's pipe is lost and gone,
And what will the poor devil do.
II.
Fait now I am undone and more,
Cry'd DERMOT—ah will you be easy!
Did not you stale my heart before?
Is it you'd have a man run crazy?
I've nothing left me now to moan,
My lilly lilly loodle,
That us'd to cheer me so, is gone—
Ah DERMOT thou'rt a noodle.
Beum bum boodle loodle loo,
My heart, and pipe, and peace are gone—
What next will cruel SHELAH do?
III.
But SHELAH hearing DERMOT vex,
Cry'd she, 'twas little CUPID mov'd me,
Ye fool, to steal it out of tricks,
Only to see how much you lov'd me.
Come cheer thee DERMOT, never moan,
But take your lilly loodle,
And for the
heart
of you that's gone,
You shall have
mine,
ye noodle.
Beum bum boodle loodle loo,
SHELAH's to church with DERMOT gone,
And for the rest what's dat to you.
Talking of LEE, they went over the old matter of his being a strong object of GARRICK's
envy.
This brought up GEORGE GARRICK, and his attachment to his brother.
'Have not you observed,'
said one,
'how anxiously he always attended to the minutest matters that he conceived would give pleasure to DAVID—in particular the nights he performed all must be as still as death—not a mouse must stir—while through
affection
to the BROTHER and
gratitude
to the FRIEND, the worthy GEORGE was every where entreating, persuading, and threatening, to induce all those who were behind the scenes to be silent. Hush—hush—was he every minute heard to say.'
"Why if this be the case,"
said another,
"it is not wonderful DAVID should allow him so handsome a salary, for it is plain he received it for
hush money.
"
'His attachment to DAVID,'
said another,
'was exemplary; what trouble he had in the business of KENRICK. Do you know the story of the challenge?'
"Not exactly,"
said the first.
'I will tell it you then,'
said the other.
'KENRICK wrote an infamous poem, for which the world very justly held him in detestation, GARRICK's first feelings in this business were pretty
vif,
and he sent, by
his brother,
a message, which he called a challenge. GEORGE perhaps, out of tenderness, delivered it rather delicately, and KENRICK, taking advantage of this ambiguity, made an equivocal reply to it. GARRICK, after this, said he had challenged KENRICK, and he would not meet him. This, being the general talk, came to KENRICK's ears, who sent GARRICK the following letter.'
"Sir—As I find you report that you sent me a challenge, and that I have not spirit enough to meet you—I now inform you that I received no sort of message from you but through YOUR BROTHER, which was worded so doubtfully, that added to his being an
improper person
for the transaction of such a business, I did not feel myself obliged to understand it in the light you
now
say it was meant. To shew you, however, you have mistaken me, I will finish the matter in two words: You have a large fortune and no family—I have a large family and no fortune—If therefore you will settle only three hundred a year on those I leave behind—provided you kill me—I will not only fight YOU, but your brother GEORGE into the bargain."
I did not always, as you well know, introduce so much into this part of the entertainment; but I dare say, as the theatre is so popular a subject, every thing I can recollect will be welcome to the public.
Yours, C. DIBDIN.
Bristol,
March
18, 1788.
LETTER XCIII.
THE CURTAIN DROPT.
"
Men are but children of a larger growth.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —
DEAR SIR,
THESE anecdotes having received their due share of applause, one of the actors run through a song which had just been put into his hand by the copist. It was in the character of pantomine, and ran thus:
AIR,
I've made to
marches
MARS descend,
JUSTICE in
jigs
her scales suspend,
MAGICIANS in
gavots
portend,
And FURIES black wigs bristle.
To
prestos
PALLAS' Aegis blaze,
SNAKES twist to
fugues
a thousand ways,
And JOVE whole towns with lightning raze,
At sound of the
prompter's whistle.
II.
I've made a SUN of
polish'd tin,
DRAGONS of
wood,
with ghastly grin,
A
canvas
SEA, the which within
Did
leather
DOLPHINS caper.
I've strung with
packthread
ORPHEUS'
lyre,
Made SHEEP and OXEN dance with
wire,
And have destroy'd, with
painted
FIRE,
GRAND TEMPLES of
cartridge paper.
III.
I've made a SWAIN, his love asleep,
Chide
warbling
BIRDS and
bleating
SHEEP,
While he himself did bawling keep,
Like boatman at a ferry.
I've RACKS made that
no blood could spill,
Foul POISON that could
do no ill,
And DAGGERS QUEENS and PRINCES kill,
Who are
alive
and
merry.
In the same pantomime was a scene of a whimsical nature. PIERROT is left at a tavern to watch out for HARLEQUIN, who is expected there, and told he may call for what he chuses. If he wants any thing to eat, he has but to say
what,
and they will bring it to him. If he would amuse himself, he has only to say
how,
and he may take his choice of entertainments. And if he would chuse any sorts of wine, he has nothing to do but say
which,
and they will be instantly brought to him. Having conned his lesson, and beginning to get sleepy, he wishes for a little dancing and singing to keep him awake, and hollows out—
'
How!
'
After he had repeated this word several times, the waiter comes in, asks him if he called, and says he shall be very glad to wait upon him. PIERROT repeats
'
How.
'
The waiter answers in any way he pleases. Thus the word
how
is played upon till PIERROT finding it procures him no amusement, changes it to
what
—which bawling out pretty powerfully, the waiter thinks he is affronted, and begins to apologize, saying, he plainly sees he has mistaken him, being a foreigner, but that he meant no offence. There are good and bad of all countries. PIERROT by this time tired of calling out
what,
has recourse to his third expedient, and cries louder than ever—
'
Which.
'
"Why all countries,"
replies the waiter.
'
Which,
'
vociferates PIERROT. At length the waiter—getting nothing from him but
how—what—which
—says,
"why surely this fellow is either mad or drunk."
'
Which,
'
says PIERROT.
"Oh damme if I know
which
"
returns the waiter,
"but I'll swear you are either one or t'other."
A repetition of this scene, brought on an account of the plan of the pantomime itself. It was constructed—in the opinion of the actor who mentioned it, and who had the confidence of the poet—upon a very new and entertaining idea. HARLEQUIN runs away with COLUMBINE, the DOCTOR's wife, and leaves his own wife, HARLEQUINETTE, in the DOCTOR's house. These last two, with their familiar spirits, are, through the whole business, the pursuers—but, their power being rather inferior to that of HARLEQUIN, they obtain their wishes
figuratively,
but not
literally.
Thus HARLEQUINETTE dooms them in one place to
death and destruction,
and the scene immediately changes to an apothecary's shop. In another place she entreats her spirits to convey them to where they will be surrounded with
voracious animals,
and instantly they find themselves at a LORD MAYOR's feast.
This pantomime I put into the hands of the Drury-lane managers a considerable while before
Harlequin Junior
came out at that theatre. That piece has certainly some smack of mine, and as Mr. SHERIDAN spoke very handsomely of it to me, in
Great Queen-street,
without mentioning its having the smallest similarity to any thing else, it is not unfair to conclude that it furnished them with a hint, since they did not perform my pantomime. However, I will not say it was their intention to reject it, for before I knew their positive determination—which indeed might possibly have remained untold to this moment—I withdrew it myself, in conformity to my agreement at the
Circus,
which precluded me from getting any piece performed elsewhere.
I shall take this opportunity of mentioning that I sent a piece to Mr. COLMAN, through the
medium
of Mr. WOODFALL, called
The Wits,
which was returned. From this piece a whole scene was taken into the
Managers in Distress
almost literally. Mr. COLMAN may say—for no man, as may be seen by his works, has read more French authors—that the scene in question was borrowed from the FRENCH, and therefore—
fair game
; but it may be retorted, that it was
imitated,
not
translated
; and though the original will furnish a hint, which any body has a right to take, it is a very curious thing that two men should
imitate
a French author in almost the same words. Besides, the ingenuous way would have been, at the time the piece was rejected, to have given for a reason, that there was already in his hands something on the same subject.
They finished the subject of the pantomime by reading two of HARLEQUINETTE's songs, which they found to be a tolerable burlesque of
operatical poetry.
The first ran thus:
AIR.
Do but thy recollection jog,
And thou wilt soon remember,
That thou hast seen an English fog,
In the dull month of November.
At first 'twas thick—but changing soon,
Red tips did clouds
bedizen,
And ere the clock struck twelve at noon,
All
smiling was the horizon.
The other was as follows.
AIR.
No more of waves and winds the sport,
Our vessel is arriv'd in port,
Safely at anchor now she rides,
And gay
red ropes
adorn her sides.
The SAILS are
furl'd,
the SHEETS
belay'd,
The
crimson
PETTICOAT's display'd,
Deserted
are the
useless
SHROUDS,
And WENCHES come aboard in
crowds.
Pantomimes in general were now talked about, and one of the actors gave an account of a Dutch one, upon the subject of ABRAHAM and ISAAC. ABRAHAM is on the point of offering up his son, and having tied him to a stake, he very leisurely takes out an old rusty horse pistol, and measuring six paces with great deliberation, presents his piece, when, all of a sudden, he finds some wet descend into the pan and damp the powder, when, looking up, he sees an angel in a certain attitude, who had caused what he had mistaken for rain. In the midst of ABRAHAM's consternation, he cries out—
Der traple Abram wilt ta te youncker slauken.
In another scene there are a number of windmills which HARLEQUIN, in the most
delicate
way that can be imagined,
sets a going.
Getting further into the subject of Dutch pieces, they talked of their tragedies. The famous
Cid
of CORNEILLE it seems is curiously translated for the edification of the
Mynheers.
There is a well-known passage in the play where the father of RODORIGO stimulates his son to revenge, and not satisfied with the assurance he had before given him, stopping him
BONNY KITTY
Moderato.
When last from the straits we had fairly cast anchor
I went bonny Kitty to hail
With quintables stord for our voyage was a spanker
and bran new was every sail
But I knew well enough how with words sweet as honey
They trick us poor Tars of our gold
And when the sly Gipsies have finger'd the money
And when the sly Gipsies have finger'd the money
And when the sly Gipsies have finger'd the money
The bag they give poor Jack to hold.
2
So I chac'd her d'ye see my lads under false colours,
Swore my wishes were all at end,
That I'd sported away all my good looking dollars,
And borrow'd my togs of a friend.
Oh then had you seen her no longer my Honey,
Twas Varlet audacious and bold;
Begone from my fight now you've spent all your money,
For Kitty the bag you may hold.
3
With that I took out double handfulls of shiners,
And scornfully bid her good bye;
Twould have done your heart good had you then seen her fine airs
How she'd leer, and she'd sob, and she'd sigh,
But I stood well the broadside, while Jewel and Honey
She call'd me, I put up the gold;
And bearing away as I sack'd all the money,
Left the bag for ma'am Kitty to hold.
short, he says—
'
a tu un coeur Rodrigue?
'
He replies—which is surely very pointed—
"
Tout autre che mon Pere—Le trouvera sur l'heure.
The DUTCHMAN determined to be as
phlegmatic
as the FRENCHMAN was brilliant, has rendered it thus:
'Ap ye un
hart
RODRIGUE?'
"
Yaw Papa,
"
cries RODRIGUE.
'Come, come, have done'
cried one,
'with Dutch tragedies, and let THRUM try this song for me—it is in the character of a sailor—though, upon second thoughts, it is a little out of character too, for the author makes him too cunning to be duped by his lass.'
I will frankly own to you that I have introduced more into this greenroom scene than I ever gave in the READINGS, but I thought it good matter for that situation:—besides, it has given me another opportunity of noticing an instance or two of theatrical conduct, which I had before omitted. Indeed, if MANAGERS are to be considered as caterers for the PUBLIC, and will buy
refuse,
the better to snack a good handsome
market penny,
it is but common justice to shew those who sit down to this
mental ordinary
how they are
crammed,
and if afterwards they chuse to
swallow
it, they have nobody to blame but themselves.
I shall now drop the curtain on the actors and actresses, from whose theatrical world, in little, we are furnished with a specimen of the childish pursuits of mankind at large.
"Men are but children of a larger growth,"
says DRYDEN—and so true is the remark, that whether the TOY be a
crown,
a
sceptre,
a
ribbon,
or a
rattle,
the motive is the same, and the pleasure proportionably perfect. One of my greatest pleasures, which I will not call a
toy,
because it has
reason
torecommendit, is that which I feel when I assure you that I am,
Most cordially, Yours, C. DIBDIN.
Bristol,
March
19, 1788.
In the following page you will have the sailor's song to music.
LETTER XCIV.
THE WORLD IN CARICATURE.
"
The vizor speaks the art.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —
DEAR SIR,
MY last vehicle for the conveyance of my entertainment was, as you know, a masquerade—at which I suppose my audience present. I say it is made up of all those characters which generally distinguish it, and presents you with a mixture of pertness, insipidity, folly, tinsel, glare, and dulness. And first the DOMINOS—grave, elegant, genteel, and stupid—as vacantly solemn as a procession of undertakers. Then KINGS and QUEENS, as little what they represent as a straw-crowned monarch in bedlam. Next HARLEQUINS without
heels,
and POETS, LAWYERS, and STATESMEN without
heads.
FOXHUNTERS who were never far enough in the country to
see
a five barred gate. SCHOLARS who
decline
so well they are obliged to
decline
answering any question on the subject of grammar. DEVILS as harmless as LAMBS, and NUNS as impudent as DEVILS. FRENCHMEN in
boots, bob wigs,
and
round hats,
shaking hands with ENGLISHMEN in
stays, shoe strings,
and
cheek whiskers.
QUAKERS, whose inward light blazes in their faces, through the strength of the wine they have drank. SAILORS who can hand the bottle, reef the bill, and steer the glass to their mouths, but no more. In short, all that heterogeneous crew who break their constitutions, and run into expence, for no motive upon earth but to expose themselves. And yet, as pure spirits may be drawn from foul dregs, so we may, perhaps, gather some amusement from their folly. And see! a Punch and the master of a puppet shew.
'Ah Master Punch,'
says the puppet shew man,
'what do you want?'
"Want!—why odds
articles
and
arrangements,
I want an engagement."
'An engagement,'
says the other,
'why what can you do?'
"Do!—why odds
whims
and
conceits,
be sick and receive my salary."
'But that will not do for me, Master Punch—can you do any thing in
tragedy?
'
"Odds
bowls
and
daggers,
in
tragedy!
—why odds
coffins
and
shrouds, tragedy
is killed! annihilated! gone dead as it were!"
'Ah! by whom?'
"Why odds
drawcansers,
by
king critic.
"
'In
comedy
then?'
"Odds
puns
and
quibbles, comedy
is dead too.
Farce
and opera—odds
nonsense
and
stupidity
—are your only trade going."
'Why what can you do in the way of
opera?
'
"Do! why stun you—odds
bagpipes
and
drones
—with
Irish airs.
"
'Master Punch I am afraid you and I shall not agree.'
"Odds
Jacks in office,
who cares. I'll go—odds
goods
and
commodities
—and set up a trade."
'A trade! where will you get a stock?'
"Odds
dockets
and
Gazettes,
I will turn bankrupt, and so get one."
'Yes, but frauds of that kind are not, now a-days, so easily practicable.'
"Why then—odds
six and eight-pence
—I will turn
lawyer,
and then I shall want nothing but a stock of brass."
'Oh yes you will—you'll want a stock of law, without which you would cut but a poor figure in the courts.'
"Law! why if that is the case—odds
full bottoms
—I'll get upon the bench, and then—odds
Jefferies
—I will make what I please pass for law. Or suppose—odds
dactyls
and
spondees
—I turn poet, I have a choice subject."
'Ay, what is it?'
"Why PANDORA."
'An excellent subject I dare say, as you would handle it.'
"Handle it!—odds
sarcasms,
none of your sneers. I suppose the dear little heathen EVE—odds
cogitations
—deliberating about opening the box. Only listen to her recitative.
RECITATIVE.
To peep, or not to peep's the question—
Whether, from reason, each suggestion
'Twere nobler in the mind to suffer,
Or fairly out of doors to cuff her,
And say at once my cares are or'er—
To peep—to satisfy—no more—
And by this warm impetuosity,
To gratify my curiosity;
For woman 'twere a consummation
Devoutly—
'But stay, stay, Master Punch,'
cried the puppet shew man,
'do you think the world will thank you for putting SHAKESPEARE into doggerel rhime?'
"Odds
particularities,
master, what an odd man you are—why this is nothing at all to
Nity
in the Critic. Odds
attention,
hold your tongue and let me proceed. Just—odds
quandaries
—as PANDORA stands undetermined what to do, I come on—odds
sticks and rags
—in my own character, and—odds
sermons
—introduce a lecture of morality into a comic song. Odds
semi demis,
open your ears."
AIR.
What a pity 'twill be—odds
babies
and
lambs
—
To possess the young things by the side of their mams,
Not with innocent love, but—odds
pranks
and
curvettings
—
With oglings and learings, and airs and coquettings.
What a pity a widow—odds
prayers
and
religion
—
Who has mourn'd for her husband like any tame pigeon,
Should all of a sudden—odds
fruits that are mellow
—
To comfort her find out a sturdy young fellow.
And digadon deer,
Go on her career,
Digadon digadon,
Odds right turn'd to wrong—
Odds
bridewells
and
whipping-posts, pillories
and
stocks
—
When Madam PANDORA has open'd her box.
II.
What a pity 'twill be—odds
hearts
and odds
hands
—
That the man whose large soul generous pity expands,
Should turn quick as thought—odds
per cent
and
per annum,
A hunter of heirs, with a view to trepan 'em.
What a pity a statesman—odds
good of the nation
—
Who for hours without pension would make an oration,
Should plump in an instant—odds
Januses faces
—
Shut his mouth up till given half a dozen places.
And digadon deer, &c.
III.
What a pity 'twill be—odds
contusions
and
scars
—
That the world for ambition should plunge into wars;
What a pity young fellows—odds
rakes
and
hard livers
—
Should fall in their youth through consumptions and fevers.
What a pity 'twill be—odds
prison
and
palace
—
That a judge should erect, and a thief fear—the gallows;
And what pity—odds
venison
and
sturgeon
and
trout
—
That
eating and drinking
should give us the GOUT.
And digadon deer, &c.
Here I shall leave Master Punch for the present, who—through a very grotesque medium—tells a few truths.
"The vizor speaks the heart,"
says the poet, and I believe figuratively it does. I however wear none—nor need I, for there is no equivocation necessary—when I assure you
That I am, Faithfully, Yours, C. DIBDIN.
Bristol,
March
20, 1788.
LETTER XCV.
MORE CARICATURES.
"
To hold the mirror up to nature.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
MASTER Punch having made his exit, you will turn your eyes, if you please, to a lady who is entreating a quaker to mix in the general mirth.
AIR.
Thou man of firmness turn this way,
Nor time by absence measure;
The sportive dance—the sprightly lay
Shall wake thee into pleasure.
Spite of thy formal outward man,
Thou'rt gay—as we shall prove thee—
Then cheer thee, laugh away thy span,
And let the spirit move thee.
II.
None are more just, more true, more fair,
More upright in their dealings,
Than men of thy persuasion are—
But are they without feelings?
E'en now I know thy honest heart
Full sorely doth reprove thee;
Be gay then—in our mirth take part,
And let the spirit move thee.
We will leave this lady to make a proselyte of the quaker, and turn to another who is just arrived from PARIS, and entertaining a crowd around her with a whimsical parallel between that city and LONDON.
AIR.
In PARIS, as in LONDON,
Vice thrives, and virtue's undone—
Errors, passions, want of truth,
Folly, in age as well as youth,
Are things by no means rare:
But honest usurers, friends sincere,
And judges with their conscience clear—
C'est qu'on ne voit guere.
II.
In PARIS all things vary,
Sixteen and sixty marry;
Men presuming on their purse,
Heirs with their estates at nurse,
Are things by no means rare:
But doctors who refuse a fee,
And wives and husbands who agree—
C'est qu'on ne voit guere.
III.
In PARIS idle passion
And folly lead the fashion;
Attention paid to shew and dress,
Modest merit in distress,
Are things by no means rare:
But friendship in sarcastic sneers,
And honesty in widows' tears—
C'est qu'on ne voit guere.
The lady is displaced by a troop of fairies, who come on singing.
AIR,
Behold the fairies' jocund band,
Who firm—though low of stature—
'Gainst giant vice shall make a stand,
Portraying human nature.
We've characters of every mould,
All tempers, forms, and sizes,
The grave, the gay, the young the old,
Hid under quaint disguises.
They hey for the fairies, &c.
We have a priest who never swears,
But who is always ready
With money, or advice, or prayers,
To help the poor and needy.
They hey for the fairies, &c.
A man and wife who both on crutch
Are now oblig'd to hobble,
Who fifty years, or near as much,
Have never had a squabble.
They hey for the fairies, &c.
A magistrate upright and wise,
To whom no bribe is given,
And who before two charming eyes
Can hold the balance even.
They hey for the fairies, &c.
A learn'd physician of great skill,
All cures—like GALEN—pat in,
Who never does his patients kill,
Take fees, or jabber latin.
They hey for the fairies, &c.
A country squire who hates the smell
Of Stingo and October;
A modern poet who can spell,
And a musician sober.
They hey for the fairies, &c.
Away then, comrades, beat to arms,
Display your sportful banners,
Strike hard at vice, explore false charms,
And catch the living manners.
They hey for the fairies jocund band,
Who firm, though low in stature,
'Gainst giant vice shall make a stand,
Portraying human nature.
In my next I shall vary my characters, but never the sincerity with which I shall assure you that I am,
Very truly, Yours, C. DIBDIN.
Bristol,
March
20, 1788.
LETTER XCVI.
ANOTHER CROWD.
"
Oh your motley's the only wear.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —
DEAR SIR,
NEXT come a set composed of different professions, who are talking—
technically
you may be assured—for and against the present administration. Says a GLOVER—it is true the minister is but a
kid,
but then he has such
supple
and
lamb-like
way with him, that he
draws
us
on
and
off
as he pleases. Oh Sir, says a LAWYER, there are
errors
in all their
proceedings,
their
measures
are all made up of
flaws, sham pleas, nihils,
and
non est inventuses.
Come, come, says a FISH MONGER, you may deal about your
Billingsgate abuse,
but their measures have made us all
leaping alive
; we were as flat as
flounders
before they came into office—but there are some men who will
carp
at every thing, and can't see their own advantage till, like an
eel,
it has
slipt through their fingers.
The
little fry
of
opposition
have no more chance with the
administration,
than a
shrimp
would have with a
whale.
In short, the nation's hopes are as firm as a
turbot,
and the constitution as sound a sa
roach,
and none but a parcel of
cod's headed fellows
would ever attempt to say any thing to the contrary. I say, cries out a CORPORAL, they do'nt know the manoeuvre of the thing. If I was a minister, d'ye see, there should be no
jumping over heads.
I'd
drill em
—I'd
ratan 'em
into the
ranks.
Why I'll tell you what I'd do—I would raise the pay of all the
privates,
and make every
Corporal
a COLONEL. Come, come, says a DYER, don't you talk—I say the administration is a
colour in grain,
and will stand when
buff
and
blue
shall have entirely
flown off.
I am an honest man—never say
black's white.
I am willing therefore, d'ye see, to
die
for my country whenever I am commanded, and they who refuse to do the same ought to be beaten into all
colours of the rainbow.
They have got the
length
of the
nation's foot
to be sure, says a COBLER, where it will
end
is another matter—some men's belief is as hard as a
lapstone
; but then again, nobody knows where the
shoe pinches
so well as those who wear it. And yet I thinks if as how the people would but
buckle
too a little, every
soul
would have reason to be contented at
last.
Don't tell me, says a TALLOW CHANDLER, of the present ministry, has there been a single
rejoicing night
since they came in? Or—or—if there had, says a GLAZIER, where the devil would you find
windows
to stick the
candles
in. Very true, says a BARBER, I thinks the nations affairs are in the
suds,
and that we are all
shaved a little too close.
Don't go for to talk such nonsense, says a TAYLOR—I say they
cut out their work
very prettily. It is not a
button
difference to me who are the
foremen.
So they do but make up plenty of
birthday suits,
I shall always have a pleasure in drinking a cup of
three threads
to their health, and sitting every day
cross legged
for their prosperity; and that no
goose
may be able to
rip up
any thing against them, or
tear a hole
in their coats, may they
fine draw
every
rent
in the constitution, put all their
work
neatly out of hand, give satisfaction to their
customers,
and so
wind up their bottom
in a
workmanlike
manner, till the
remnant
of their lives shall be
snipt asunder
by the
sheers of fate! Amen,
cries the PARISH CLERK.
The politicians are interrupted by a recruiting officer, who enters the room with the following military rhapsody.
AIR.
This this my lad's a soldiers life,
He marches to the sprightly fife,
And in each town to some new wife
Swears he'll be ever true:
He's here—he's there—where is he not?
Variety's his envy'd lot,
He eats, drinks, sleeps, and pays no shot,
And follows the loud tattoo.
II.
Call'd out to face his country's foes,
The tears of fond domestic woes
He kisses off, and boldly goes
To earn of fame his due.
Religion, liberty, and laws
Both his are and his country's cause—
For these, though danger, without pause,
He follows the loud tattoo.
III.
And if at last, in honour's wars,
He earns his share of dangers,
Still he feels bold, and thanks his stars
He's no worse fate to rue:
At CHELSEA, free from toil and pain,
He wields his crutch, points out the slain,
And in fond fancy once again
Follows the loud tattoo.
The politicians were sometimes interrupted by a man crying old chairs to mend.
AIR.
Chairs to mend, old chairs to mend.
Like mine to botch is each man's fate,
Each toils in his vocation—
One man tinkers up the state,
Another mends the nation:
Your parsons preach to mend the heart;
They cobble heads at college;
Physicians patch with terms of art
And latin want of knowledge.
But none for praise can more contend
Than I,
Who cry
Old chairs to mend.
II.
Your lawyer's tools are flaws and pleas;
They manners mend by dancing;
Wigs are patches for degrees,
And lover's use romancing:
Fortunes are mended up and made,
Too frequently, with places—
With rouge, when their complexions fade,
Some ladies mend their faces.
But none for praise, &c.
Nor any for your friendship and attention more than yours,
C. DIBDIN.
Bristol,
March
21, 1788.
LETTER XCVII.
DOMESTIC FELICITY.
"
Dog and cat then?
"
Zounds! that's more like man and wife than t'other.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
AT other times the politicians were interrupted by a tinker, in the following manner:
AIR.
A tinker I am,
My name's NATTY SAM,
From morn to night I trudge it;
So low is my fate,
My personal estate
Lies all within this budget.
Work for the tinker, oh good wives,
For they are lads of mettle—
'Twere well if you could mend your lives
As I can mend a kettle.
II.
The man of war,
The man of the bar,
Physicians, priests, free-thinkers,
That rove up and down,
Great LONDON town,
What are they all but tinkers.
Work for the tinker, &c.
III.
Those 'mong the great
Who tinker the state,
And badger the minority,
Pray what's the end
Of their work, my friend,
But to rivet a good majority.
Work for the tinker, &c.
IV.
This mends his names
That cobbles his fame,
That tinkers his reputation;
And thus, had I time,
I could prove, in my rhyme,
Jolly tinkers of all the nation.
Work for the tinker, &c.
Next comes a man with ballads. Here are four and twenty pretty songs in one book for a halfpenny. The first song in the book is—
"Come live with me and be my love,"
to the tune of—
"Strife succeeds the honey moon."
The second song in the book is—
"Virgins are like the fair flower in its lustre,"
to the tune of—
"The world, my dear MYRA, is full of deceit."
The next song in the book is—
"Rouse Britannia, shake thy lance,"
to the tune of—
"An old woman clothed in grey."
The next song in the book is
"If you at an office solicit your due,"
to the tune of—
"sing tantara rara rouges all."
The next song in the book is—
"John, and Jean, or the comforts of matrimony."
AIR.
Sing the loves of JOHN and JEAN,
Sing the loves of JEAN and JOHN—
He for her would leave a queen,
She for him the noblest don;
She's his queen, he's her don,
JOHN
loves
JEAN, and JEAN
loves
JOHN.
II.
Whatever 'tis that pleases JEAN,
Is sure to burst the sides of JOHN;
Does she for grief look thin and lean,
He instantly is pale and wan:
Thin and lean, pale and wan,
JOHN
loves
JEAN, and JEAN
loves
JOHN.
III.
'Twas the lilly hand of JEAN
Fill'd the glass of happy JOHN—
And heavens how joyful was she seen
When he was for a license gone!
Joyful seen, they'll dance anon,
For JOHN
weds
JEAN, and JEAN
weds
JOHN.
IV.
JOHN has ta'en to wife his JEAN,
JEAN's become the spouse of JOHN,
She no longer is his queen,
He no longer is her don—
No more queen, no more don,
JOHN
hates
JEAN, and JEAN
hates
JOHN.
V.
Whatever 'tis that pleases JEAN,
Is certain now to displease JOHN—
With scolding they're grown thin and lean,
With spleen and spite their pale and wan:
Thin and lean, pale and wan—
JOHN
hates
JEAN, and JEAN
hates
JOHN.
VI.
JOHN prays heaven to take his JEAN,
JEAN at the devil wishes JOHN—
She'll on his grave be dancing seen,
He'll laugh when she is dead and gone:
Each wishes t'other dead and gone,
For JOHN
hates
JEAN and JEAN
hates
JOHN.
We will leave the audience tittering at JOHN and JEAN, and defer the remainder to the next letter, which will finish the READINGS—mean while
Adieu.
Yours, C. DIBDIN.
London,
March
22, 1788.
LETTER XCVIII.
THE READINGS FINISHED.
"
'Tis nothing unless 'tis done in a punto.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —
DEAR SIR,
NEXT comes a moving chronicle of the times. He is dressed up in newspapers—and look at him how you will, he exhibits a view of satirical cross readings!—of which take a short specimen.
"Yesterday the LORD MAYOR gave a public dinner,"
—
"And the carnage in this engagement was too shocking to mention."
"Last Friday a NABOB arrived in ENGLAND with his
whole
fortune,"
—
"The reason of his committing this rash action is not known."
"The
Chancellor of the Exchequer
proposed, on the opening of the budget, several new taxes,"—which he performed with ease in an hour and forty minutes."
"Last Wednesday three couple were married at St. Bride's church."
—
"They all behaved very penitent, and seemed truly sensible of their
unhappy condition.
The vender of news can no longer be heard for a bawling JEW, to whom, if you please, we will attend.
AIR.
Ye jobbers, underwriters, ye tribes of pen an ink,
Vid my fa lal dera delara lara la,
Who on te alley's gay parterre your tea and coffee drink,
Vid my fa lal dera delara lara la,
Rattling up your yellow boys, come hither at my call,
I'm puyer, and I'm sheller, and I can sherve you all.
Vid my fa lal dera delara lara la.
Vid my fa lal dera delara lara la.
II.
Ye pulls, ye pears, ye lame tucks, and all ye faddling crew,
Vid my fal, &c.
If 'twas not for us smouches I don't know sat you'd do;
Vid my fal, &c.
'Tis fee dat kive shecurities, 'tis fee dat find good pails,
A JEW being examined before LORD MANSFIELD touching his situation—first swore himself worth one large sum, then another, till his Lordship got up and said—
'I think we have indulged this gentleman long enough.'
'Why sho, my Lord?'
said the JEW.
'Why,'
said my Lord,
'with what face can you pretend to say you are worth this last mentioned sum of money?'
"I'll shwear it, my Lord,"
answered the JEW.
'I know you will,'
said LORD MANSFIELD,
'but I won't let you.'
Our frients tey lend te monish, but ten tey shumtimes fails.
Vid my fal, &c.
III.
If noblemen should want rouleaus, and all tare monish sphent,
Vid my fal, &c.
My heart relents, I traw te pont, and lend for shent per shent.
Vid my fal, &c.
Or if a life you foot enshure tat's olt and crashy crown,
Tee fays and means I'll let you know, to get tee business tone.
Vid my fal, &c.
IV.
Ye captains and ye colonels, ye chointer'd fidows all,
Vid my fal, &c.
To little ISAAC come when your shtocks bekin to fall;
Vid my fal, &c.
If dare be poshipilities for you I'll raise te tust,
But ten you most excuse me if I sherve myself the first.
Vid my fal, &c.
V.
Ye parsons fit koot livings, ye courtiers fit koot place,
Vid my fal, &c.
Adfice I'll kive you kratish, and tink upon your case,
Vid my fal, &c.
To blief MOSHES and te prophets the church will not refuse,
And courtiers, all te world knows, are little else than chews.
Vid my fal, &c.
VI.
I kive adfice to every tribe but physic and te law,
Vid my fal, &c.
But tey out fit te chews themselves, for bill at sight tey draw:
Vid my fal, &c.
Fee fen fee lend te monish run sum risk, to 'tis put shmall,
But tey take all te monish—and run no risk at all.
Vid my fal, &c.
We will now suppose that, tired with noise and inebriety, the company are dispersed. One character alone is left—'tis HOPE—the most
delicate
and yet the most
sanguine
of all the passions. We should HOPE for every thing, says the poet—for there is nothing that may not be HOPED for, nor that the gods are unable to give us. HOPE is the sick man's health—the poor man's riches—the course on which the lover starts to gain that goal—his wishes; the beneficent present left us by the gods as an antidote to counteract the malignity of all evils.
"There was a grain of sand,"
says the fable,
"that lamented itself as the most unfortunate atom upon the face of the universe—but, in process of time, it became a diamond—and is now the brightest jewel in the regal diadem of PERSIA."
How beautifully has COLLINS, in his incomparable ode, depicted this sweet passion! After speaking of
rapid
ANGER and
sullen
DESPAIR—he says—
HOPE
Andantino.
But thou Oh Hope with eyes so fair
What was thy delighted measure
But thou Oh Hope with eyes so fair
What was thy delighted measure
Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure
Still it whispper'd promis'd pleasure
Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure
& bade the lovely scenes at distance hail
Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure
& bade the lovely scenes at distance hail
Still wou'd her touch the strain prolong
Still wou'd her touch the strain prolong
And from the rocks the woods the vale
And from the rocks the woods the vale
She call'd on Echo
P. Pianisso. Mf.
She call'd on Echo
P. Pianisso. Mf.
She call'd on Echo
still on Echo
still on Echo
still through all her song
And where her sweetest theme she chose
And where her sweetest theme she chose
A soft responsive voice responsive responsive
Was heard from
Mf.
evry close
Pianisso.
And Hope enchanted smil'd
And wav'd her golden hair her golden hair
And hope enchanted smil'd
And wav'd her golden hair
And wav'd her golden hair
Having by this song wound up the feelings of my audience to the summit of a pretty high climax—I thus went on:
Animated with HOPE, I would fain pay you my acknowledgements for the attention I have received—but in what manner!
AIR.
Lawyers pay you with words, and fair ladies with vapours,
Your parsons with preaching, and dancers with capers;
Soldiers pay you with courage, and some with their lives,
Some men with their fortunes, and some with their wives:
Some with fame, some with conscience, and many throw both in;
Physicians with latin, and great men with—NOTHING:
I—not to be singular in such a throng—
For your kindness pay you—
with the end of a song.
II.
But pleading, engrosing, declaring, and vapouring,
And fighting, and hectoring, and dancing, and capering,
And preaching, and swearing, and bullying—prescribing,
And coaxing, and wheedling, and feeing, and bribing,
And every professional art of hum drumming,
Is clearly in some sort a species of humming.
Humming!—nay, take me with you—the term's very strong—
But I only meant humming—
the end of a song.
III.
For all who this evening have paid me attention,
I would I had language, of some new invention,
My thanks to return—but where's the expression
Can describe of your kindness the grateful impression!
May every desire of your hearts be propitious—
Be lasting success the result of your wishes—
Unimpaired be your joys—your lives happy and long—
And now I am come to—
the end of my song.
And with all these wishes with which I finished my READINGS am I, be assured,
Your very faithful Friend and servant, C. DIBDIN.
London,
March
22, 1788.
LETTER XCIX.
THE CORPS DE RESERVE.
"
Let your clowns say no more than is set down for them.
"
To the Rev Mr. —
DEAR SIR,
HAVING purposely reserved about forty pages for general observations, I shall methodize them, by recapitulating very briefly those parts of the work which may yet remain for explanation, and others, which at present, have probably a contradictory complexion. Also, as I have taken leave to speak with some freedom, and must of course expect to be treated as freely in return, I shall suppose what
will
be said of me; and as those snarlers, who doubtless mean not to spare their critical flings, cannot, fortunately for them,
bark
till I am out of hearing, I mean to
muzzle
them before I go—and first, as in duty bound, for the musicians.
I forbid all gentlemen of the
bow, reed,
or
finger,
to accuse me of ignorance or innovation—to assert that I am no musician—to laugh at my feeble efforts to overthrow their long established impositions—to advance
ipse dixits,
and flatter themselves that they will be creditted
facts
—to persuade the world they have silenced my objections, when they have only confused themselves—to hold out terms of art in place of candid argument. I forbid them also to publish any thing they do not write themselves—to have recourse to any but their own orthography—to attempt at wit—to believe they write calmly and in good humour, at the moment they are bursting with envy; and I require all persons whatever to pay no attention, nor give credit to any matter or thing that may be set down in such criticisms of the said gentlemen of the
bow, reed,
or
finger,
provided they come under the aforesaid prohibition. But, to shew my candour and openness of conviction, I hereby subscribe beforehand to all fair, dispassionate argument, which, without subterfuge, and in plain language clearly understood by readers of all descriptions, shall be so written as to overturn mine.
I desire all
gentlemen
of the LAW—whether licensed or unlicensed—whether they pursue
unjust
EQUITY, or
inequitable
JUSTICE—whether their line be
swindling
or
bankruptcy
—whether they are
affidavit-makers,
or
information hunters
—whether their favourite instrument of ruin be a
bond,
a
cognovit,
a
warrant of attorney,
a
mortgage,
a
post obit,
or
an annuity
—whether their nice distinctions between
perjury
and
false-swearing,
go most to
hang
the INNOCENT, or
save
the GUILTY—or indeed whatever legal infamy they may be most expert in—I desire all such will abuse, revile, and calumniate me whereever they go; being well convinced that this conduct on their part will operate much more to my advantage, than any thing they can say in my favour: the praise of ill men being the most wounding of all satire. And I particularly request all manner of persons whatsoever, if they hear of any encomiums, panegyrics, or any sort of commendations paid me by men of the above description, that they will have the liberality to consider such encomiums, panegyrics, or commendations, as so many studied attempts to abuse and injure me, and that they will, in their charitable goodness, treat them accordingly.
At the same time I beg leave to recommend myself and this work to the kind attention and good wishes of the
worthy very few,
who make the laws a benefit and a blessing to their fellow creatures—whose study is to spare, to mediate, and to console—who poise the balance of justice so even, that it may not
incline
in the estimation of a single hair while the reclined sword sleeps peaceably in its scabbard—to all such men do I commend myself, as the only description of characters competent to guard the lives and property of individuals, and to such I entreat all manner of persons to attend, as the only court where JUSTICE and EQUITY go hand in hand, and therefore, whose competency to determine they and I ought to acknowledge.
I desire all managers, and their adherents, not to have the smallest uneasiness concerning me, but to sleep perfectly at ease, depending upon their alliances with the newspapers, to blacken and confound those assertions of mine which they cannot controvert. I advise them also not to put themselves to any inconvenience concerning the style and manner of their entertainments; but, since genius and judgment are not to be commanded, jog on in the old way, relying upon the goodnature of the English, and the fecundity of their own imaginations in the art of puffing. In their report of me, I court their reprobation, upon the same principle, and for the same reason I do that of the lawyers. I desire they will indulge themselves to the full extent of their wishes; and in particular, let them not fail to
cut
a great many JOKES, and
let
a great many PUNS. As to my future intentions, I would wish them to believe that I am
not
going to INDIA, but, on the contrary, that I shall by and by solicit to be received among them; and I recommend them to enjoy, in
contemplation,
the slavery, subjection, and humiliation, which they shall hereafter see me in; and to meditate the most expedient modes of varying and continuing such treatment against the time—which I would have them flatter themselves will arrive upon holding up a finger—when they shall have me again in their clutches. And I entreat all and every person or persons to whose knowledge this subject may come, if it so happen that nothing shall be advanced by way of answer to whatever I may have asserted, to believe—in spite of the affected indifference such conduct may seem to convey—that it will be put on for no other reason than because my arguments are unanswerable, and because an attempt to refute them, would only shew the weakness of their cause, but betray that secret envy which would operate equal to a confession of the truth.
My next jubject will be the Reviewers, a few twigs of whose critical rod at least I shall be able to break; and, if every writer had the same constancy, that tremendous object, that terrific hobgoblin which men of weak minds and slender intellects worship—as Indians do the devil—out of fear, would very soon appear a poor, inoffensive thing, engendered only by splenitive ideas, and a contemplation of cobwebs in libraries. Adieu.
Yours, C. DIBDIN.
London,
April
26, 1788.
LETTER C.
CRITICAL ANTICIPATION.
"
Yes, and you shall hear what I'll say to the justice of peace.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
I THANK you for your fears, because they arise from friendship, but be assured they arise from a false view of the matter. Tell me what you think when you have read the following letter.
To the REVIEWERS.
GENTLEMEN,
I should be glad to know by what authority you take upon you to pronounce away the good name of those authors who come under the lash of your criticism, or bid others rise into fame whose works have the transcendant advantage of your decree in their favour.
If you are a chartered body—though I never heard of any power competent to confirm such establishment—and have an exclusive right to exercise laws not cognizable by other courts of criticism, I have only to lament that, in a country like this, there should be a literary inquisition; for as no persuasion is so likely to breed schisms as the study of letters, so every man's opinion may, by the exercise of very slender abilities, be construed into critical heterodox, for which impiety—should it really appear that he is amenable to your jurisdiction —what racks and slow fires may not be dreaded on the first day of every month, when you regularly celebrate your
aute de se.
Being an Englishman, therefore, I call upon all others to protest—as I do myself upon this present occasion—against the competency of your power; having no scruple to declare that, as wounding the mind is a torture of a much more exquisite nature than lacerating the body, so the cruelties you practise are as reprehensible a violence on erudition, as those of SPAIN or PORTUGAL were on religion. I know your advocates have thrown out to palliate the matter, that you wound with
blunt
arrows, which in my opinion is an aggravation of your inhumanity—for every body knows the
keenest
weapon inflicts the least pain.
I have often laughed at the susceptibility of literary men, concerning your criticisms. Some have gnashed their teeth, and imputed all you have said to ENVY, which, as far as my humble judgment serves me, does not appear—for, by the little I have seen, your temperaments are too frigid to admit of any such tingling passion. Others have been ready to burst, while they swore they endured their torture with all the intrepidity and resolution of primitive Americans. In short, the sensibility of all is in some degree wounded, and every one threatens you with a cutting answer—which he dares not write.
On these occasions, my constant advice is, not to read you at all, and then you might as well have not written at all; for if the writer himself be not hurt, the rest of the world find in you only what they expected; and after your reviews have wrapt up stuff, black pins, or pectoral lozenges, or been appropriated to other uses—which, if they were written to mortify unfortunate authors, are at least as worthy as those for which they were designed—you are as little regarded as any other temporary casualty, which excites our wonder to-day, and to-morrow is forgotten.
Some, however, look into you upon the principle of the man who wants to be taken up—in hopes of being abused. COLLEY CIBBER used to tell his son, that so he contrived to let the world speak of him, it did not matter what it said; and, as far as it relates to you, I look upon this maxim of his to be much about the fact. But, lest you should imagine I affect all this carelessness, in the moment I am under the keenest apprehensions as to what you may chuse to say relative to this TOUR, I'll put the certainty of my enjoying the very tranquillity I describe so far—even beyond
your
power to doubt or reason away—that you shall, in this instance at least, confess—those who review the imperfections of others do not always appear the most perfect, upon a review, themselves.
When a prejudice has taken root in an early mind, it is pretty difficult to remove it—especially when planted by
reason,
and strengthened by
experience.
Eighteen years ago, I wrote a piece called
The Wedding Ring,
and so much did I dread the reviewers, that in the most irresolute state, I walked up and down GEORGE's
coffee house,
with a review in each hand, for a considerable time, without the courage to open either of them. At length, plucking up spirits, I sneaked into the most obscure corner I could find, and was presently lifted into ecstacy by reading, as nearly as I can remember, the following words.
"This piece is an imitation of
Il Filosofo di Campagna.
It is done into English by Mr. DIBDIN, who has improved on the original, and rendered it a very pleasing entertainment."
Having swallowed with avidity these
"honey words,"
I began to think if I were to fortunate in my first search, that probably on a second, I should still have greater reason to rejoice; and like a man who, instead of quietly pocketing the money for a twenty pound prize in the lottery, leaves it behind for a ticket which comes up a blank, I was determined to stand another literary chance, regardless of what might be the consequence.
Upon opening the other review, I found these words, or at least perfectly the sense of them:
"This piece, which is taken from
Il Filosofo di Campagna,
has very little to recommend it to the notice of the public—'tis much inferior to the original, and Mr. DIBDIN has no pretensions, upon this occasion, to think himself capable of furnishing an agreeable entertainment to the public."
I have already said that this happened eighteen years ago, therefore I will not swear to the
letter
of these articles, to the
spirit
however I do most peremptorily. It had as strong an effect upon me, as being introduced behind the curtain of a jugler or a puppetshew-man, and so completely was I in the secret, that I made a resolution, which I have ever since religiously kept, not to read a single review of any thing I should write from that moment. As therefore I pique myself upon acknowledging obligations, I desire you will accept my sincerest thanks for grubbing up by the root, as it were, all those mortifications, which on reading that abuse sure to be levelled—deservedly or undeservedly—at public characters, I might have felt in common with other men; for to the detection of the inconsistency recorded above, I owe my never having answered in my whole life a single printed calumny, unless it has been of so injurious a nature that it could not be passed over, and then I have constantly signed my name. Whatever you say therefore of this TOUR will be unread by me—I advise you, however, to look to your own consistency; and properly to do so, it will not hurt you if you peruse the following letter to my reverend friend, which will treat wholly of general criticism.
I am, Gentlemen, Your obedient servant, C. DIBDIN.
And my dear friend, I am,
Yours, Most faithfully, C. DIBDIN.
London,
April
26, 1788.
LETTER CI.
A CRITICAL EXAMINATION.
"
Asham'd, she marks the passage with a blot,
"
And hates the line where candour was forgot.
"
To the Rev Mr. —
DEAR SIR,
IT has often been allowed that the talents for a
writer
and a
critic
are distinct and separate. If by this it be meant that the knack of finding fault is easier than the capacity to invent and improve, the position is a fair one; but this would prove mere cavilling to be true criticism, which I will not admit. The truth is, no man can with the proper degree of perspicuity, feeling, and tenderness, analyze the work of a writer,
but a writer
; and all those who poach for errors, and take away imperfections without the ability to leave beauties in their place, are not real judges of what they arrogate a right to decide on, and consequently, ought not to be entitled critics.
In this light perhaps the matter has not always been seen, and yet it is the only one which will give it its true colour. Modern criticism, is like looking at the sun to discover only the
spots,
while the
servour
and
brilliancy
of
his lustre
are disregarded: but ought an ingenious and enlightened age to pay the effusions of such folly a moment's attention? No. Let the decisions upon works of genius come from men who possess congenial sentiments; these only are qualified for the task, and will be most likely to treat with candour and delicacy that which they know the pain and labour of producing, and look with care and circumspection before they venture to wound those parts, in others, which, upon fair inspection, they may find vulnerable in themselves.
I will not say, should personal enmity or rooted difference of opinion interfere, that severity in place of lenity will not sometimes be adopted. Men are fallible, and a bold and flowing pen is a tempting instrument to accelerate the dictates of revenge; but even then, they will always remember that their antagonists can weild the same weapon, and, for the world's improvement, 'tis well such conflicts are: the
loss of victory
is some triumph in a noble contest. I know not whether KING JOHN of FRANCE, waited on by the BLACK PRINCE, is not almost at that moment as much an object of envy, as his ILLUSTRIOUS CONQUEROR.
I am clearly of opinion that if literary works were to appear only before such a tribunal, the press would be more employed, and the amendment have this operation: dawning merit would be fostered; mature abilities stimulated to a repetition of their exertions; and, what would be equally a public benefit,
pretenders
would be at once
silenced
—whereas, thanks to
reviews, newspapers,
and
pamphlets,
men of real talents are deterred from ornamenting the world with their productions, and the dull, vapid offspring of insipidity and ignorance puffed into fame. Let me beseech, therefore, all those who read, weigh, and approve these reasons, to prescribe for themselves the following simple and efficient rule.
When any man decries a work of genius, let him be asked if he can do as well; or, if his opinions be public, let enquiry be made as to his
own productions,
and do not let him be credited, unless something be found equal in consequence, as to every literary requisite, to the work he undertakes to criticise.
As to pointing out mere inaccuracies, it is not more invidious and contemptible, than it is an affront to the reader, by whom these critical gentlemen chuse to act in the quality of schoolmaster; besides, there cannot be a higher compliment to him they would affect to condemn—for it both implies that his FAULTS are
trifles,
and his MERIT
beyond the reach of their capacity.
The observations here made have this drift. I do not know that from any body a volume of this size would be more considered as a piece of consummate arrogance than from myself; and when it is understood that I have presumed to speak plainly of popular subjects, and advanced decided sentiments which, were they to obtain, would go to the correction at least of several favourite follies, I know not where the clamour may stop. Should it be very loud, however, I shall beg leave of the candid and ingenuous to enquire
who
are clamourous, and if it turn out to be the very men whose impositions on the public are the objects of my reprehension, every one whose opinion I have a legitimate right to value, will rank on my side, and then let us see whether an army of critical malecontents will stand any chance with such a phalanx.
Nothing in nature is so easy as to find fault.
Bright geniuses
as naturally breed
critics
as the
sun
engenders
flies.
Who has fed more grubs than Dr. JOHNSON
One of these was congratulating another on some recent success, when he was answered,
"Oh this is nothing at all—stay till I do the Dictionary."
"Why, surely,"
said the other,
"you would not have the impudence to attack that—no, no, he's safe there."
'Aye! how so?'
"Why he has given the real etymology of all words from every authority he could gather."
'God,'
said the critic,
'I did not know that,
for I never read it,
but if that is the case, it won't do, sure enough—for what
every body says,
MUST BE TRUE.'
—therefore let the witlings take care, for they may be assured, in proportion as they are abusive so they will lift me into consequence.
Yet will I, by way of caution to the judicious, say a few words. If when I am gone it should be advanced that any of my assertions are false, let the manner of my making them be considered, the proofs I adduce examined, and the ground of their probability looked into.
If it be said that while I reprobate criticisms I arrogate the title of critic myself, thereby insinuating that I have a right to rank with the only description which, according to my idea, are competent to decide on works of literature, I beg to say that mine are not
criticisms,
but mere
observations
; and that they do not go to the correction of
errors,
but
abuses.
For instance: What does all I say of Mr. SHERIDAN amount to, but that he could have written and invented much better, and probably would have done so, had he not conceived that if he had outgone WYCHERLY and CONGREVE, he would have been gazed at as a
comet,
and then lost; whereas his business was to move like a
planet
in the regular course of periodical revolution?
If it be remarked that I,
irregularly bred
—according to my own confession—in the school of music, have presumed to hold forth a rod for the correction of public taste—which has been formed by the combined excellence of men whose abilities have received universal admiration—let it be remembered, that I only wish to prune the luxuriant and superfluous branches off this
tree of taste,
and throw away the
rotten
and
withered fruit,
that so it may produce
vigorously
that
quantity
it is capable of bearing, giving it
beauty, maturity,
and
flavour.
My next will contain a discussion of these matters in a lighter way; by the end of which, I shall have pretty well anticipated all objections in a literary point of view—except my general errata, which I reserve for the last letter but one. Adieu. I shall soon have done
subscribing myself,
but never
being
Yours, Most faithfully, C. DIBDIN.
London,
April
27, 1788.
LETTER CII.
MORE ANTICIPATION.
"
Do not be too servile neither.
"
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
IT has been frequently considered by authors as a sufficient apology for the incongruity of their works, that they were written in a hurry—which by the way is the last excuse that ought to be made. Is it done to give an idea that the public will swallow any thing, be it ever so crude or immature? Or would they seem to say, See what an excellent composition I have given you in so short a time—what would it have been if I had taken
pains
about it.
How unfortunate am I then who am obliged to offer this hacknied excuse for the crudities that are to be found in this book, which has been written in a greater hurry than ever book was. A friend of mine was firmly of opinion that I should be at least a twelvemonth in getting it out from the first day I began to print; and I really may venture to affirm that so much
ground of argument,
and
English ground,
have never been gone over together, in so short a time; but I will not be so unfair, however, as to avail myself of this opportunity of getting off, but honestly confess, that though I have chosen a pretty extensive field, I do not think I could have explored it to better purpose, had I taken ever so much time—for I have put up plenty of game, and to have gone over all the shiftings and doublings, would perhaps have rendered the chace tedious, instead of amusing.
To speak literally, I might have expressed myself with more variety and closer accuracy than I have done; but
correctness
is with me a
cold word,
and if a revision of any thing take away of
spirit
more than it add of
elegance,
let me go into the world with whatever faults the critics can point out, so that men of strong feeling and candid discrimination will but acknowledge in me lively fancy, decent language, poignant remark, apt epithet, and argument something like axiom.
As times go, the art of keeping people awake has its merit; and if I can but accomplish this, I shall have triumphed over many writers, and those—not to speak it profanely—that I have heard praised too; who, believing that a man takes up a book to shun his thoughts, the more effectually to obliviate them—if they, literati, will admit my expression—seem as if they invented a sort of literary laudanum which should set him asleep without an obligation to the apothecary.
The temperatures of all authors are not alike. Some only muddy and confound their ideas by frequent thinking—like the actor, who reproved by RICH for being imperfect on the
fifty-third
night of the
Beggar's Opera,
cried out,
"Good God, sir, would you have a man remember a thing for ever!"
Others catch hold of superficial ideas which leave no perceptible trace in the mind, any more than a
meteor
in the air: these, though beautiful in the conception, come to nothing upon proof. They are as absurd as would be a specimen of a fine hand writing in vitriol, which would be lost upon being committed to paper, and destroy that which it solicited to embellish.
I shall be blamed by some for introducing so much figure—but I own I love imagery; and, where description is necessary—particularly in the latitude of epistolary writing, which it will be pretty difficult I believe to square by any rule as to its mode of language—I see no reason why this powerful literary auxiliary should not be called in to the assistance of
prose
as well as
poetry.
ADDISON writes on the pleasures of the imagination as critically exact, and in language as correctly chaste, as he introduces WILL WHIMBLE or SIR ROGER DE COVERLY's rookery—all which is perfectly laudable as far as it relates to establishing a reputation for a just and accurate style; but surely if he had been a little more volatile, and stretched a point to have given us a glowing description or two, on a subject so full of inspiration, it would not have hurt, but rather lent assistance to that sober solemnity which throughout his whole writings partakes a little too much of his Spectatorial taciturnity.—But it was his way—like the gravity of the BATH audience, or CERVETTO's
yawn
—and this granted, 'tis not impossible but that praise which POPE thought was meant to
damn
—it was so faint—conveyed, or was intended to do so, as warm an encomium as the frigid—or rather elegant—conception of the writer was capable of admitting.
For this reason, I think DRYDEN's prose is the best in our language—for though yet
prose
it has all the fire, strength, and imagination of
poetry.
—Yet cannot I quit this subject without noticing how much I admire the wonderful ease of SWIFT. I would indeed, go through a list of all those who have delighted me, but that I hasten very fast to a finish of my journey, and cannot stay to bait on the road, however agreeable may be the fare provided for me; and because, by the side of their superior productions, mine would shew like a simple
field flower,
compared to the beauty and richness of a variegated
parterre.
You, however, prize it, and for that and a thousand other reasons, I remain
Most sincerely yours, C. DIBDIN.
London,
April
27, 1788.
LETTER CIII.
A CURSORY RECAPITULATION.
"
There I gave it her home, brother Bruin.
"
To the Rev Mr. —
DEAR SIR,
I Have this moment finished reading, for the first time in a collected state, all the letters that are at present printed; and, instead of a general recapitulation of the whole matter, which I thought would be positively necessary, so well is the proper connection preserved—notwithstanding the manifest disadvantages I have laboured under—that I shall only have occasion to rub off hardnesses, and throw in some finishing touches, to make this picture have a proper roundness and harmony in its general effects.
I have said, early in the work, that I expected to leave ENGLAND in the beginning of
April
—which it was certainly my firm determination to accomplish, had it been eligibly practicable; but I will candidly declare, that when I found, should I do so, I must have gone abroad in a more unpleasant way than—I thank my
able
and
willing
friends—I am now likely to do, I thought I might take the liberty of altering my intention—especially as I can now make so desirable an apology to those who wish me well, which number I am sure is in a multiplied state, and by
no mean figure,
since I have had it in my power to tell my own story.
It was my intention to have gone into the laws respecting the regulations of public entertainments, but as that business has not only been argued on in every possible way, but at length taken the very form I long ago predicted it would, a further investigation of what is passed were totally unnecessary; I shall take the liberty, however, to offer a few words as to what may come of it, and mention how in my sense the matter ought to be. And first, it would be but common policy to introduce into the new bill, how the amusements are to be regulated beyond the circle of twenty miles out of LONDON, for I can assure Mr. MAINWARING that the proprietors of
Theatres Royal,
in the country, begin to grow very jealous of their privileges, and if they should form a mistaken zeal, or—what is full as likely—with an eye to their own advantage, put down all the
Unlicensed Theatres
; or indeed should any indifferent person—now the laws are explained—do so for the reward, there is not an actor out of LONDON who would not starve; for it is not by the
Theatres Royal,
where they have a large rent, a number of servants, and heavy nightly expences to pay, but by the snug, comfortable, returns, and reasonable disbursements, that a scheme of this kind maintains itself. YORK is sure to lose money, but LEEDS and WAKEFIELD never fail to bring the company up again. In short, let the matter be equalized—let men, without respect of persons, who pay a sum of money and give security, have licences, which may be of various prices, according to the nature of the entertainment meant to be given. This would exclude all possibility of monopoly, stimulate men of talents to exert themselves, and make the name of
Actor
—and why it should not be so no man upon earth can give a sensible reason—RESPECTABLE. It might also ultimately contribute towards the exigencies of the state, and, by a general regulation, be made, like the amusements in FRANCE, of national consequence. Mr. SHERIDAN has, I know, held out that it would not be productive, but the matter was not at that time pressed, otherwise there can be no doubt but he would have seen to the contrary; for it can be proved, without difficulty, that public amusements would yield, as a tax, forty thousand pounds a year. He has also talked lately that it would be a hardship, were the privileges of the TWO
Theatres
—as if they were guaranteed by patents to the exclusion of all others—
should be trenched upon,
for they are a property worth little less than two hundred thousand pounds. This is
speculatively
TRUE, but
substantially
FALSE;—but if it were literally the fact, there is not the smallest equity in this mode of argument. The
Royalty Theatre,
or the
Circus,
cost as large a sum
originally
as either
Drury-Lane
or
Covent Garden Theatre
; and if the
wardrobe, scenes,
and other articles have swelled the property to such an immense sum—which by the bye is a little extraordinary, for the last time they were put up to sale one yielded but sixty and the other seventy thousand pounds—is it
money
or
success
that has produced it?
But to ask what this boasted property is worth, stript of the patent, is the only way to know its intrinsic value; in which case I believe we should find, that the trappings would be about equal to the mock honours of the actor who wears them; that nine-tenths of the scenes have been considered only as so much spare wood and canvas ever since the tragedy, opera, or pantomime they embellished was damned, or finished its run; and the gilt chariots, plumed caps, spears, shields, and all that waste of spangles and gilt leather that make processions stared at—thrown by to crowd up the flies, or encumber the property-room. In short, to render Mr. SHERIDAN's meaning so as to make it consonant to common sense, is to suppose he says this: We had a large
ideal
property, which you
realized,
by giving us a power to exercise our trade of which that property is the
working tools
:—if you give these people an equal power, their property will be as large as ours—and this is not fair. Why?—Shall one merchant entreat government to prohibit the commerce of another, lest he also should grow rich? No—let each do his utmost, 'tis for the general good. Thus will a laudable emulation stimulate them to industry, and a watchfulness over each other prevent mutual abuses.
The sensible part of the world set down public amusements as ruined when Mr. SHERIDAN and Mr. HARRIS coalesced, and the short time that monopoly went on confirmed this truth so strongly, that it was clearly demonstrable a petition for the emancipation of
theatrical slaves
would soon have been full as necessary as those at present preferred in favour of the
Africans.
I profess to be a little
au fait
to this matter, and therefore it must not to
me
be objected that more than two public places cannot subsist in LONDON at the same time. Have not houses, at an immense price, been purchased to be pulled down?—has not invention been racked to prop the crazy walls and roofs of the
two theatres,
till they have been stretched into the size of
four?
and has not this expence been repaid, first by laying an additional charge on the benefits of authors and actors—which were first sixty guineas, afterwards eighty, and now an hundred—and then ten fold by the receipts of first nights; which, as the
theatre
is sure to fill, must of course pay all the expence of a first performance, whether it succeed or not, which clearly proves the manager is safe, whatever may be the fate of the poor author. In fact, ten places of public entertainment might, in the metropolis, thrive, supported by
real merit
and
proper variety
; for that wonderful place has grown more rich and populous every day since the establishment of the present
theatres.
But were this to obtain, there would be an actual necessity for calling in the assistance of men of real abilities, who will not, after the treatment they have received, lend their help without being properly rewarded—and this would overthrow the whole of the present system; for it is evident the
theatre
can, as it is, yield money enough without the smallest aid of genius or ability at all.
There are but two things:—either let the management of
theatres
be considered as a traffic that every body has a right to derive a benefit from who chuses to adventure in it, or let it be understood as a grant to the proprietors of
two houses
in LONDON, and, if you will, one in every other city or opulent town in the kingdom, who are to be considered as the purveyors of the public, and obliged, under that idea, to provide the best entertainment that can be had. How will it operate? No single
theatre
in the kingdom, except those in LONDON, produces the smallest novelty—if, therefore, performances void of merit are permitted at the
two theatres,
they go through the whole nation, and are sure, the source being contaminated, to poison the general taste. Thus genius—for whose support and encouragement
theatres
were surely originally intended—may retire, unknown and neglected, to deplore the ingratitude of the most benevolent country upon earth.
Had I time to go over the ground of establishing theatres by purchaseable licences, I should not despair of proving that it would answer every desirable end to the managers, the public, and the legislature; but since at present, however, the subject does not seem likely to take this turn, I shall content myself with saying—as more cannot be meant by vesting partial powers in the hands of individuals than that such men should act in conformity with the wish, and properly provide for the
pleasure
of the public—this law, like any other, should be watched, and managers laid under a restriction not to reject works of acknowledged merit. For this purpose, a sort of board of controul might be instituted, who should have power to take cognizance of every omission of this kind, and let the authority of that body determine in what way pieces should be produced, so as to conduce to the mutual advantage of author and manager. If it be objected that the cure is worse than the evil, it self-evidently proves, that the measure is in itself wrong, and that the legislature, by giving an unlimitted power to managers, will check that genius it is their duty to encourage, and cherish that very licentiousness they are so solicitous to curb.
In a word, as the laws now are, a manager—either from want of principle or ability—being absolute, may exercise what tyranny he shall think proper; I therefore hope, for the sake of consistency, this power will be in some way restrained, if it were only for the
propriety
of not countenancing
despotism
in a LAND OF FREEDOM. Adieu.
Yours, with great truth, C. DIBDIN.
London,
April
28, 1788,
LETTER CIV.
MORE ACCOUNT OF MATTER BROUGHT UP.
"
Is it in the newspaper? I don't like that.
"
Now I do—for then 'tis likely it mayn't be truth.
To the Rev. Mr. —.
DEAR SIR,
HAVING done with the theatres—to which subject I wish I could have allotted more room. I proceed to my task of looking further over those parts of the work which may need elucidation, and others that may with propriety be revived, in order to be heightened.
I have said that I should be able to point out many errors in Mr. PATERSON's Travelling Dictionary—which is certainly in many places incorrect. I have shewn how I calculated falsely, all the way from BURY to WORCESTER, owing to the faith I gave to that book. From HALIFAX to SHEFFIELD, which according to Mr. PATERSON is
forty miles,
is really no more than
thirty-six
; from SHEFFIELD to MANCHESTER, said to be
forty
miles, is
forty-two
; from MANCHESTER to LIVERPOOL, set down
forty
miles, is but
thirty-six
; from LEEDS to HALIFAX, said to be
sixteen
miles, is
eighteen
; from HALIFAX to MANCHESTER, set down
thirty,
is but
twenty-eight
—and indeed there are many other errors of the like kind.
I shall next take an opportunity of mentioning, which I look upon as common justice, that long after the letter was printed containing an explanation of the business between Mr. DALY, the Irish manager, and myself, the note of ten pounds was paid. This however I had no notice of till I received a letter at LIVERPOOL, mentioning it, on the eighth of March last—making very nearly a twelvemonth from the time of the original transaction; but I do not yet repent of noticing it in the way I have, for the pieces, which are far more valuable, are not to this moment returned.
At the latter end of the
twenty-first
letter, I have mentioned leaving my kind friends at COLCHESTER, before I have actually been there—this arose from writing the twenty-second letter
first.
Or the reader may, if he please, believe that I purposely left myself this opportunity of recurring to a circumstance which will certainly ever furnish me with grateful reflections: the fact is however as I have set it down.
I have to speak of newspapers; and the first thing I shall say is, that it is astonishing to see how they multiply. I remember when
The Daily Advertiser, The Public Advertiser, The Gazetteer, The Ledger,
and two evening papers, made up—except
The Craftsman
on a Saturday—the whole stock of public prints in LONDON, and
one,
or at most
two
papers
in a county,
contented the people in the country; and really, at that time, there was something like independent principles in the conduct of the public prints.
The Morning Chronicle
even outwent this, and for a few years was conducted—particularly as to theatrical strictures—upon the most disinterested and impartial plan that ever was characterized by candour and fearless truth; but, alas! what force of abilities and integrity can hold out against free tickets, countenance, attention, compliments, and, in fact, an anticipation of every little pleasurable wish and convenience! But TROY fell, and so did
The Morning Chronicle
—which, having first implicitly bowed to the mandate of managers, to finish the business, took a decided part in politics, and is now
decidedly
—NOWHERE.
The Morning Post
blazed on us at once—it attacked every thing, and seared nothing—consequently its popularity was very soon confirmed. This paper is memorable for teaching advertisers how to write; and what
Puff
says in the
Critic,
has certainly its origin from the superior style in which auctions were advertised in
The Morning Post,
which set every body mad for high-flown, paragraphical descriptions of trifles; for, as FOOTE has it, they had as much to say upon a
ribband
as a RAPHAEL. The dauntless attacks, however, were its staple commodity, its stamina, through which it presently grew vigorous and rich. At this time, thinking, I suppose, that abuse alone was necessary to lift a public print into popularity, a set of levelling gentlemen brought out
The General Advertiser,
which to be sure did deal about sheer mud and filth in a most liberal—or rather illiberal—way, without regard to sex, age, or condition. Having, however, forgot that the satire in the
Morning Post
was written in the style of a
gentleman,
and, though very severe, gave evident marks of genius, and conveyed good strength of argument, they presently found themselves decried among all those who had ability to judge, or taste to distinguish. Yet, as in this country are to be found plenty of those who love to feast now and then on a neighbour's reputation, this worthy paper, though full of nothing but the grossest and most ignorant scurrility—which accomplished quality it retains to this very day—became a great favourite among the lower sort of people.
I shall go through a remainder of this subject in my next letter—being the last but two on which I shall trouble the public, or telling you, except privately, how much I am
Your very obliged friend, C. DIBDIN.
London,
April
28, 1788.
LETTER CV.
MORE NEWS.
"
How are we ruined!
"
To the Rev Mr. —
DEAR SIR,
THUS did the newspapers, with all the calmness and goodnature imaginable, revile, abuse, and vilify each other, by mutual agreement, for a considerable time, without receiving the smallest interruption to their laudable endeavours.
At length, some of the underlings belonging to the
Morning Post
—headed by that renowned veteran, DOCTOR KENRICK—resolving to have a
Morning Post
of their own, without any previous intimation, came out all of a sudden with a new paper under that title. This scheme was as expeditiously stopt, as it was ridiculously put into practice. The malecontents however were continually fomenting disputes, till thinking themselves equal to the conduct of the paper without assistance from their principal, they proposed terms of separation, which were handsomely and honourably acceded to, and the establishment of
The Morning Herald
was the consequence; which is now, without doubt—except in that virulent and disgraceful party heat, which some have not spared to think is a convention with the
Morning Post,
to make both popular—is the most brilliant paper extant: indeed how should it be otherwise when, in addition to the keen and penetrating judgment and solid good sense of its fabricator, it is notorious that the flower of the opposition have at times made it the conveyance of their public sentiments.
After they had gone on in this manner for a time, gathering strength—like ANTEUS by being abased—
The Universal Register,
now called
The Times,
was produced, without a single recommendation, but being printed
logographically
; treading however in the steps, or rather edging itself into the situation of the
Ledger
—which paper began now to be on the decline—it circulated pretty well.
Last of all came out
The World
—of which paper I shall not say an unkind word, if it be only for its sensible and steady attachment to that most noble and manly of all subjects—the virtues of THE PRINCE OF WALES. Certainly it was stimulated to this theme, by an act of public justice unparalelled in the annals of any country; for is there an instance upon recordworthy equal attention to this—where the heir of such a glorious crown, with a ripened wisdom and Spartan greatness of soul,
at twenty,
preferred to see his palace in ruins, rather than his tradesmen should go unpaid. There are no words adequate to the praise of such an action. Admiration must tell it. It must be felt—nay it
is,
in that uniform, heart-felt transport with which men gaze on their idol, who gave them so early a proof that he is not more a
munificent prince
—than an HONEST MAN.
It would not be credited, were it not as evident as light, that these NINE papers are so pampered with success, that though advertisements—which are charged equally at the stamp-office—are now rated from five and sixpence to fourteen or fifteen shillings, they garble
what
they think proper, disappoint
when
they think proper, and advertise for
whom
they think proper. In short, the very end proposed in advertising is defeated by their shameful neglect, or scandalous perversion of what is committed to their care.
This it seems has roused a number of opulent and respectable men, who having themselves sustained great inconvenience from such kind of conduct, are now, at an immense expence, and with a spirit hitherto unequalled, bringing out a paper to be called
The Star.
This paper will be out before what I am now writing can be read, and this TOUR will finally go to press before this
Novel Hesperus
will have made its appearance, therefore I cannot, at any rate, give more than a blind judgment on the business. It will however be fair to conclude, that the immense property the gentlemen engaged in this undertaking are able to muster—which is an ingredient by the bye never yet possessed by the establishers of a new public print—will certainly, if they go the right way to work, render their undertaking a very popular one. It has one novelty to recommend it, it will be published
every evening
; and if their source of intelligence be genuine, and within themselves, and they can in consequence anticipate the articles of the following day, it will really become a very valuable acquisition to the public. Some amendment most assuredly has long been wanted, and by the easiest assent in the world they may rise to the summit of their wishes—for it consists of nothing more than to avoid the errors of the other daily prints, which are so glaring, that it is not only those who run may
read,
but those who run may
correct.
I shall not speak of
evening papers,
for they are a sort of moons to the others, and it would be only to
reflect
a
reflection.
In the whole, there are in LONDON—taking in the three Sunday papers—about twenty, under different titles—all which yield prodigious profit, indeed more individually, than when there were but
four
; which I think is a pretty conclusive proof that an increase of theatres would be proportionally productive.
In the country, where several fortunes have been made by newspapers alone, there are, I should suppose,
ten
for every
one
that was to be seen
twenty-five years ago
; and the short history of them, in general, is this: They are indefatigable to procure entertaining and useful intelligence, till they fill with advertisements, and then a pair of scissars become the editor, which are indiscriminately brandished by
compositors
and
devils,
to the great annoyance of
Lloyd's Evening Post,
and the unmerciful mutilation of the
St. James's Chronicle.
Some exceptions however there are to this rule, and the strongest I know, by infinite degrees, is
The Sheffield Register.
I do not know how soon my friend GALES may make a fortune, which ultimately must inevitably happen, if unwearied industry, fair dealing, the world's regard, and a well stocked head, as well as shop, are the materials to procure it; but, let it happen when it will, I shall change my good opinion of him—which is at present pretty strongly rooted—if he so far forget his patrons, the public, as to neglect them in return for their favours. I think however he will not; and so much do I approve his paper, that I have made choice of it to announce what will publicly be known of me in future; and I here, conformably to such resolution, give notice, that nothing relative to me is to be considered as authentic, but what shall appear in or through the medium of
The Sheffield Register.
There may be other matters which are yet untouched; if so, in that state they must remain, leaving it to the goodnature of my readers to overlook what in my haste I may have omitted—while I make use of the little time I have to draw up a general correction of errors in minuter matters.
Adieu. My next letter, though necessary, will be tedious; I shall endeavour therefore—in the way of a story or a song on a tiresome journey—to enliven it with a few remarks: not forgetting however first to remark, that I am as usual,
Yours very truly, C. DIBDIN.
London,
April
29, 1788.
LETTER CVI.
A GENERAL ERRATA.
"
All offences, my Lord, come from the heart:
"
Never came any from mine.
"
To the Rev Mr. —
DEAR SIR,
I Had a great mind not to write this letter; but there is something so easy in me, that I may be persuaded into any thing. What I am about to set down, is a candid exposition of all the errors this book contains—which, being given in a new way, I may perhaps from some be credited for having committed these faults on purpose to introduce
novelty,
even in my very ERRATA.
One reason for my wish to say nothing about it was, that the ingenuous part of my readers, when they meet with a typographical mistake, will have the goodness, and—what is better in the reading of a book—the
good sense
to believe that the best substitute for the improper word their invention could supply, was the very individual expression meant by the author.
A second reason was, that it would really be a pity to deprive the critical fry of a little nibbling—who live upon the errors of the press, as young trouts do upon May flies, till by and by the insects are all gone, when, searching for their prey with the usual avidity, they get
hooked
for their pains.
I had many others; but the most substantial was, that my modesty would become the sacrifice in such a trial—for if I say any thing about it at all, common justice will oblige me to pronounce, that this book, though abounding with
errors,
is the most PERFECT that ever was published.
Having so far dipped into this subject as to have been guilty of an apparent solecism, my reputation demands that I should set the matter to rights; relying, therefore, on the candour of the public, I blush, and go on.
Nothing can controvert that assertion which affirms that comparison is the only criterion by which any thing ought to be judged; let it then be considered, that when this book was first begun I had not the smallest idea what form it would take; that I have been three thousand miles to search for the matter with which it is furnished; that it was utterly impracticable I should myself superintend more than the first sixty-four pages; that I have not had recourse to a document of any kind—not even my own letters, of which it was impossible to write or keep a copy; that during the whole time, till my last arrival in TOWN, I had on my mind the weight of performing a most laborious entertainment—perhaps four times a week; that I have been under the necessity of accepting a great number of invitations; that in the course of the time I have not written so few as five hundred private letters; let all this I say be put against the advantages which attend the productions of writers in general in their way to the world, and then try by what degree of comparison this work is more or less perfect than any other. 'Tis CLEAR—and
every
reader has given it in my favour, confessing, that instead of so small a number of errors, 'tis wonderful there are not twenty times as many. Every reader? Yes. My friends have
proclaimed
it; and my enemies cursed me, bit their lips, and
owned
it—
in secret.
I shall begin with those errors which are of the greatest magnitude—but these are not typographical. The language in many places is not sufficiently perspicuous, and frequently aiming at strength—for I hate any thing lukewarm—I am afraid I have been now and then a little uncouth in my style.
The errors of the press are at least two-thirds of them chargeable to me. In the first place, I write—especially when imagination is hard at work—a most
villainous hand
; and as more than three-fourths of the copy has gone, letter after letter by the post, there was nothing for it but to print away—in doing which, Mr. GALES has proved himself possessed of no mean abilities at decyphering. But I'll go over the errors in the order they happened.
The first, p. 83, is a very curious one, for it describes LIVERPOOL to be
east
of LEEDS. Nine out of ten however upon reading it would have said this is an error of the press, it should be
west.
P. 106, l. 18, it will easily be credited, that I meant to say the dean and chapter of LICHFIELD were
providently
repairing their cathedral—and not
providentially.
P. 145, l. 3, dele
in
before
conduct
—for it should read, the men who conduct those passage boats. P. 158, l. 2, read, on the stage—and not, on
to
the stage. P. 169, l. 15, read POLLARD—and not HOLLAND. Same page, last line but two, dele
much
—and read, on being a MAN as well as a MONARCH. This ought to be set right, for it is that trait of his character on which our most gracious sovereign prides himself. P. 232, l. 20. Here is a mistake occasioned, without a doubt, by some omission of mine. How I intended to express myself at that moment it is totally out of my power at this distance of time to say, but the passage will read tolerably well, if the reader will entirely omit the words,
"then to say that."
After all, there is some whim in this kind of errata, for it looks—wholly without intention however—like a satire on the amendments of motions in the
house of commons.
P. 236, l. 5, read of a more
sane
nature—and not
sape.
In the letter to Mr. HARRIS, to say I did not mean to say
more privater
—though it might have been in the style of some of his people, is unnecessary, therefore the reader will please to dele
more,
and let
privater
stand alone. P. 258, l. 2, place a
comma
after
arguments,
and put a
period
to
theatre,
l. 4. Read
level,
instead of
head,
l. 10, same page. P. 260, l. 20, for
when
—read
where.
P. 266, l. 2, read accommodating the melody
to
the capacity of the trumpets—
Jack in the wood
—read
Jack in thy mood.
Every body knows it, 'tis a speech of MERCUTIO. P. 352, l. 3, for
sconce,
read
nonce.
P. 380, l. 19, read
der tiple,
instead of
der traple.
P. 383, in the motto of a few of the copies,
The vizor speaks the art,
instead of
heart.
P. 391, last line but one—
expose,
not
explore
false charms. P. 395, l. 18, after the word
dangers,
add
scars.
P. 280, l. 9 instead of
recommendation to passengers,
read
accommodation to passengers.
In the note, P. 287, instead of
prevailed,
read
having prevailed.
P. 291. In the account of GARRICK's manoeuvres relative to the
Jubilee,
it should be,
"he raised a prodigious number of volunteers, whose exertions he pretty liberally
exacted
"
—not
extracted.
In the song from
Poor Vulcan,
read
quinze
—not
quince.
P. 74, last line but one, instead of
wish safe,
read
wish me safe.
P. 409, last line but one, instead of
only,
read,
not only.
P. 412, read
auto de fe,
not
aute de fe.
P. 420, l. 2, instead of,
if they, literati,
read,
if the literati.
There are other errors of less note, such as
sensecutive,
instead of
consecutive—invetend,
instead of
invented—diving,
instead of
driving
—a
the
to be taken out before
theatre—subtel,
instead of
subtle—whetever,
instead of
whereever—seviture,
instead of
serviteur—pbojector,
for
projector
—ABURNOT, instead ARBUTHNOT, and perhaps a few others.
The pointing also has in some places altered the sense, and perhaps a turned letter or two will now and then be met with; in return however for all these imperfections, the work is beautifully printed; the letter is new and clean; the lines are leaded, that they may be read without confusion; and the presswork—which is no trifle in a large publication—carefully and nearly executed. Indeed, so much solicitude has Mr. GALES shewn in the getting out this work, and real judgment and understanding in being able to conduct it under such circumstances, that he has, as usual, anticipated my praise, by letting his labour speak his panegyric. I do not know what degree of influence my recommendation of him may have; but if his mode of treating others be equally obliging—and there is no reason to doubt it, for I am sure my pretensions to a preference are slight indeed—he will
recommend
HIMSELF, which, it must be confessed, is a very enviable style of patronage.
Before I quit this
comedy,
or
farce of errors,
if you please, I must not omit to set one very material matter to rights; in doing which however it will appear, that we were obliged to manoeuvre now and then, and pretty ingeniously, to get out this TOUR through the medium of the general post.
When I went last from SHEFFIELD to LIVERPOOL, the matter then written went no farther than Letter 44—which the reader will see is dated SHEFFIELD, March 4. As I well knew the hospitality I should find at LIVERPOOL, on my return, and the variety of pleasures that would be kindly chalked out for me, I felt myself conscious that to keep pace with Mr. GALES would be no easy matter. We therefore agreed that as soon as Letter 44 should be finished, to go on upon Letter 75, which begins
The Readings
; as, instead of
inventing,
I should in that case have nothing to do but
copy.
Thus we calculated that there would be a vacancy of thirty letters—a number sufficient to contain all that it would be necessary to say on the TOUR itself, and the statement of pieces. We outreckoned ourselves however two ways. In the first place, in bringing up the matter to page 307, instead of 305 or 309, we found ourselves entangled with an odd quarter of a sheet, and were thus obliged to have duplicates of the
pages
307 and 308, though the
matter
will be found different. This will all be clearly understood by noticing that Letter 44, is dated as above SHEFFIELD, March 4, Letter 75—which begins
The Readings
—is dated LIVERPOOL, March 6, Letter 98—which finishes
The Readings
—
s dated LONDON, March 22, and Letter 45—which returns again to the main subject, is dated LONDON, March 25.
The advantage of this manoeuvre, superadded to that which I have already mentioned, was
supposed to be,
that I should be able to superintend all that remainder of the work; the proposed end however was defeated—for I have not seen SHEFFIELD—except for about eighteen hours—since the fourth of March.
Another error necessary to be mentioned is this: letting the pages remain on the form after the matter was distributed, those two half sheets which are distinguished by the colating letters, 4 Q and 4 R, will be found to be the same pages, viz. 335, 336, 337, & 338, though different matter. These particulars are mentioned merely for the information of the public, you may remember I privately apprized you of them as we went on.
These are the hardnesses I thought it necessary to rub off; to which perhaps it will not be unnecessary to add, that as there can be no doubt but that my absence will be immediately taken advantage of, and as it is not impossible, not only that much spurious trash may be given out for mine, but also that my real compositions may surreptitiously get into the world, I entreat the public not to credit any declaration, either in print or otherwise, to this effect, not properly authenticated; and I also give notice, that I shall have left authority behind me to prosecute all those who shall either
perform
or
publish
any composition of mine, without my written permission.
This last declaration has put it in my power to finish this letter very pleasurably, by mentioning Mr. PRESTON in the Strand. I desire he will accept my public thanks for the innumerable kindnesses I have received at his hands; and I sincerely hope that the music of
Liberty Hall, Harvest Home,
the
songs
in
The Readings,
and the variety of other things he has liberally purchased of me, may, by being productive to him, in some degree acquit me of so large a load of obligations. To advise all persons who may have dealings in his way to apply to him, is only asking them to consider their own interest. 'Tis upon that principle I am happy to find that it has been in my power to contribute some little towards the extension of his immense country correspondence; for I have never returned to any place where I have not been thanked for my recommendation. In short, if a large capital, a strong back, a well conducted home manufactory, the best materials, a reasonable price, strict fidelity, the most minute care and attention, and a remarkable dispatch and punctuality, are the true requisites of an opulent and respectable man of business, Mr. PRESTON certainly answers the description; to which he adds—and my own feelings strongly evince it—all the
warmth, sincerity,
and
generosity
of a
faithful
and
valuable
FRIEND.
The heightening touches will come in the next letter, and finish this picture; after which it may be hung up—like of that of PRAXITILES—on
the second day
; when, I'll venture to say, if there be any beauties in truth, some of them will be here allowed—if it were only a repetition of those truths which have marked me as
Your very thankful friend, C. DIBDIN.
London,
April
30, 1788.
LETTER CVII.
CONCLUSION.
"
And now I am come to the end of my song.
"
To the Rev Mr. —
DEAR SIR,
I Come now to that moment to which I have so long looked with panting anxiety. To GARRICK it was
"an awful one;"
for he had every enjoyment
"his
little
heart could wish."
He was courted, encouraged, flattered, and caressed; his productions were shewn to all possible advantage; his very foibles were objects of imitation;
and all this
—HE LEFT. To me it is a welcome moment; for I have had but little enjoyment—except that chearfulness of heart which has so often galled my oppressors. I have been envied, discouraged, vilified, and traduced; obliged to sustain every possible humiliation—while my poor attempts have been ushered into the world under the most mortifying disadvantages;
and from all this
—I EMANCIPATE.
It was with peculiar propriety that I put this resolution in practice by an appeal to the public. In the course of such a length of time I must of necessity have noticed many shameful impositions. To communicate such information as might go to the
detection,
if not the
cure
of these, I conceived it my duty—as a mite of gratitude in return for the innumerable instances of kindness I have received at the hands of my liberal benefactors; and I flatter myself this duty is discharged in that proper, candid way, that actuates the feelings of all who aim at the good will of the benevolent, and can smile with contemptuous disregard at the malignant and unworthy.
I have purposely reserved this place to thank one more friend, whose exertions in procuring subscribers for this work have been as flattering as beneficial to me. I have already mentioned this gentleman; for it was owing to him I am honoured with that ROYAL NOTICE which so greatly distinguishes the—I hope—
propitious hour
that, if fortune smile, must lead me to independance. His generosity however did not stop here; for through the medium of his application has been procured the name of almost every noble personage in my list—besides a large number of others. My only difficulty is how to thank him. He will not feel the consciousness of any merit in what he has done—for
his
gratification has been equal to
mine
—nevertheless he must not be offended if I assure him, with all this philanthropy he cannot be more pleased than I am, nor more
disinterestedly
; for, when he shall have taken still further pains—which I know he meditates—his
kind wishes
and
unparalleled attention
will be a welcomer pleasure than—
the advantages arising from them.
And now—having paid this tribute of gratitude—nothing further remains than, most seriously and solemnly to assure the public,
That in the prosecution of this work I have not had an unfair, an unworthy, nor an unhandsome wish to gratify; that if I have spoken in
strong language,
it well became the dictates of TRUTH; and so may I prosper—as that cheerful, fearless, manly monitor prompts me—while I declare, that in this moment of parting from every public connection, I have not an ungenerous, nor unkind wish to any human being in the whole round of existence.
Thus, my dear friend, I commit myself to the world; and as to my particular good wishes to you, when you shall have summed up the finish of every letter, and seen what they all amount to, I desire it may be considered that I subscribe to the truth of the sum total, by assuring you
now,
that I am, as ever,
Most cordially yours, C. DIBDIN.
London,
May
1, 1788.
FINIS.
DIRECTIONS TO THE BINDER.
1 Place the song of Pomposo to face page 310
2 The Cape of Good-Hope page 312
3 The Musician's Lamentation for the Loss of his Mistress page 334
4 The Siege of Troy page 336
5 The Return of Ulysses to Ithaca page 342
6 Bonny Kitty page 381
7 Hope from Collins's Ode page 404