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 POEMS 
 
 ON 
 
 VARIOUS SUBJECTS.
 
 
 POEMS 
 
 ON 
 
 VARIOUS SU EJECTS, 
 
 CHIEFLY THEATRICAL. 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM THEW. 
 
 TO WHICH IS PREFIXED, 
 
 A LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 *♦ Nothing extenuate, nor set down auglit in malice." 
 
 SlIAKSPEARB. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR, 
 
 AND PUBLISHED BY C. CHAVl'LE, 1' ALL-MALL ; AND SHEJIWOOIJ, 
 
 iONES, AND CO., PATERNOSTEB-ROW. 
 
 1825.
 
 W. Wii.soN, Prinlor, 57, SkinntT-Stieut, Loudon.
 
 /5f 
 
 TO 
 
 MRS. CO U 'ITS. 
 
 London J Feb. 1, 1825. 
 Madam, 
 
 In consideration of the high rank which some 
 ^ears ago you held in the Mimic World, and of the many 
 amiable qualities which have distinguished you on the 
 Great Stage of Life, I take the liberty of inscribing to 
 you this Little Volume of Eftusions, respectfully re- 
 maining, 
 
 Madam, 
 
 Your most obedient, 
 
 Humble servant, 
 
 WILLLVM THEW. 
 
 87031)1
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The author of the present work did not 
 at first deem it essential to publish his hfe; 
 but fcehng that it is due to the cause, if 
 not to himself, he has (with profound sub- 
 mission) intruded it on the candour of a 
 generous and impartial public : and, under 
 the assured conviction, that every liberal 
 mind feels it an act of cowardice to cen- 
 sure those whose sole motive is to please, 
 he trusts, that, if in the following pages he 
 should have fallen into any inaccuracies 
 (and no doubt there are many,) his readers 
 will attribute them to his first essay in 
 writing for the press. He is very ready to 
 admit the mediocrity of his pen, and hopes 
 the public will dismiss with candour the
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 errors of a man, who, though no poet, is 
 one, who being perfectly satisfied with the 
 honesty of his intentions, will think for 
 himself, and whose sole comfort is centered 
 in the independent happiness of his own 
 mind. 
 
 And here (but with the greatest defer- 
 ence to the judgment of others) he begs 
 leave to introduce a few remarks on the 
 criticisms, &c., in the following pages. 
 First then — the author is very ready to 
 admit the plainness and simplicity of his 
 style : elegance, and those fine brilliant 
 ideas, which abound in the works of a 
 Byron or a Scott, do not appear to him 
 at all essential for this sort of writinc: • 
 ease and perspicuity are the only re- 
 quisites to describe the common transac- 
 tions of life. The chief end of a critic is 
 to persuade ; consequently the beauty docs 
 not consist so much in the copiousness of his 
 style, as in the originality and correctness
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 of his thoughts. This is what the author 
 conceives must have given Garrick the 
 superiority over all his competitors in this 
 sort of writing: his Prologues, Epilogues, 
 &c., are exceedingly simple, and as Davies 
 justly observes, " That whatever defects 
 the critical eye may discover in reading his 
 compositions, they were all amply supplied 
 by the speaker. The archness of his look, 
 the propriety of his action, and the general 
 touch of humour and pleasantry, which 
 accompanied every line he spoke, drew 
 from the audience loud and involun- 
 tary mirth, with the greatest ap[)lause 
 which had ever been known in a theatre.'' 
 So that, in fact, every thing depends on 
 the genius of the actor, who, by his con- 
 sununate knowledge of the passions, will 
 even make a speech, which is, perhaps, in 
 itself of no inij)ortance, appear " of great 
 pith and moment." But a Tragedian of 
 this stamp only makes his appearance
 
 / PREFACE. 
 
 once in fifty years. To return to the 
 subject. 
 
 What boots it for a man to pour out an 
 empty pomp of words, which do not 
 make the sense a jot more expressive? 
 Whereas a style that is plain, generally 
 (though not alwa3^s) carries with it an air 
 of truth that strikes the mind ; loesides 
 havino; the advantao;e of beins: often better 
 calculated to excite the feelings, which is 
 the principal object, not onl^' of acting but 
 of oratory. In short, the author's chief 
 aim has been to give his readers plain 
 argument, or (in the words of" a respectable 
 writer) " plain truth in plain language/' 
 
 The attempt at originality is in all pur- 
 suits laudable ; for, in the words of an 
 immortal bard, " Invention is the no- 
 ble attribute of the mind." What then 
 can prove a more manly independent
 
 PRF.FACE. 
 
 spirit, than owing distinctions to our own 
 exertions? *Tis not in mortals to command 
 success, but in every one's power to deserve 
 it." i\nd may not a man be allowed to 
 write as a relaxation from other studies ? 
 
 Upon the whole, I shall rest my argu- 
 ment on the following well known, just, 
 and forcible remark : — 
 
 •" Til' attempt and not flie deed 
 
 " Is in our pow'r, and therefore who dares greatly, 
 " Does greatly !"
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAOIK 
 
 Life of the Autlior 1 
 
 Poems 41 
 
 Theatrical Criticisms on Kean, the late Kctiibleand Cooke, 
 Mrs. Siddons, and Miss O'Neil, written about 
 
 ten years ago 43 
 
 Observations on tlie Profession of an Actor 59 
 
 Miscellaneous Pieces 77 
 
 An Extemporary Effusion, written a few years ago at the 
 Cape of Good Hope, in consequence of the 
 
 author's having been accused of plagiary 79 
 
 A Prologue on the author's having been solicited to play 
 
 '^ Richard the Third" 80 
 
 The Dream 82 
 
 Poor Jessy, a Tale 85 
 
 On the Queen, during her trial • 89 
 
 On the Queen's late indisposition and recovery 91 
 
 On reading that the Bill of Pains and Penalties, lately 
 
 pending against her Majesty, had been witlidrawn 92 
 
 The Man of Blood, a Satire 93 
 
 To Miss P 95 
 
 The Beauty of Brighton, a Comic Song, written expressly 
 
 for the stage 97 
 
 A Sketch of Mankind, written before the author left 
 
 school 99
 
 LIFE OF THE AUTHOR.
 
 LIFE 
 
 OF 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 Or what avail is a man's birth provided he 
 have honorably passed his days in endea- 
 vouring to deserve well of his country? 
 But as my life, perhaps, may not be found 
 uninteresting, I shall, with all due submis- 
 sion, unfold a plain unvarnished tale. 
 
 1 am the youngest of six children, and 
 was born in Suffolk, on the sixth of No- 
 vember, one thousand seven hundred and 
 ninety-four, at the noted place where the 
 celebrated Garrick first made his deb^t. 
 My poor mother died when I was a babe 
 
 B
 
 2 LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 in arms, and, in my puerile days, (with the 
 exception of my beloved father, now no 
 more), I was never treated with much kind- 
 ness by any one. My great-grandfather 
 and grandfather were clergymen, and my 
 father a lawyer, who sent me at the early 
 a2;e of eisjht to the grammar-school in the 
 before-mentioned town, under the tuition 
 of a Mr. King, who thought me a dull boy. 
 I had an impediment in my speech, which 
 totally prevented my being understood ; so 
 much so, that the ushers, in order that they 
 might know whether or not I had learnt 
 my lessons, used to make me write them 
 down from memor}'. Yet there seems to 
 be something in the dispensation of Divine 
 Providence ; for, notwithstanding this na- 
 tural delect, I anticipated with delight the 
 period which would give scope to my talent 
 in recitation. 
 
 My father, thinking I had made little 
 progress in classical learning, placed me
 
 LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. 3 
 
 under the direction of the Reverend Dr. 
 Grim wood, who, it is but justice to add, 
 paid due attention to my studies. But 
 whether he deemed my impediment insur- 
 mountable, or that 1 occupied too much of 
 his time, he wrote to my father, indicating 
 his fears that [ would never overcome my 
 misfortune; which caused great uneasiness 
 to my relations, my father having designed 
 me for the law. For some years, I was 
 under this gentleman, and in consequence 
 of the defect in my speech, was always 
 placed at the bottom of my class. But this 
 unfortunate circumstance proved a still 
 greater calamity : for, whenever my master 
 missed a fruit from his orchard, my com- 
 panions (to screen themselves) would inva- 
 riably ascribe the theft to me, well know- 
 ing, as I could not speak plain, 1 was less 
 able to vindicate myself: and here, per- 
 haps, it may not be amiss to introduce the 
 following little anecdote.
 
 4 LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 1 need scarcely say that schoolboys are 
 are often fond of talkino; about their mas- 
 ters, and of stating their wishes as facts. 
 Accordingly, one of them happened to say 
 that we should soon see our master's name 
 in the Gazette (a London newspaper where 
 bankrupts are inserted.) This reached the 
 Doctor's ears, and, as usual, the calumny 
 was laid upon me, who, though innocent, 
 was doomed next mornino- to a llosoins:. 
 I thought this very hard, and vowed ven- 
 geance against my master. I therefore set 
 a})out writing a satire, which, 1 thought, 
 would not only annoy him, but, what was 
 still better, that he would be so taken up 
 in endeavouring to find out the boy who 
 wrote it, that he would forget my flogging 
 altogether. 
 
 The old gentleman had a very fierce bull 
 dog, named Hennel, which having once bit 
 him, he caused to be tied up at a consider-
 
 LIPK OF THi: AUTHOR. O 
 
 able distance from the house. 1, in the 
 evening, instead of learnino- my task, wrote 
 the following lines, which I slily put next 
 morning on his desk, before he entered the 
 school : 
 
 If you wish to see dog" Hennel, 
 You must go unto his kennel ; 
 If you wish to see an ass. 
 You must get your looking-glass. 
 
 These lines, though simple in themselves, 
 had the desired etiect. He was so severely 
 stung, that, in a great rage, he instantly 
 summoned all the head scholars to his desk. 
 Not beino; able to find out the offender, he 
 confined them to the school-room for a 
 week, and gave each seventy lines of Virgil 
 to get by heart. 1, being considered a little 
 boy, was not even questioned about it ; 
 yet, little as I was, 1 had art enough to 
 disguise my hand-writing.
 
 6 LIFE OP THE AUTHOR. 
 
 On my return home for the hohdays, my 
 father, who happened to see these lines, 
 showed thtm to my godfather, (the late 
 Mr. Crickitt, one of the members of Par- 
 liament for Ipswich,) who one day asked 
 me in a jocular manner, if I thought I could 
 write a song on his election. I replied, I 
 would endeavour ; but in the meantime, if 
 he pleased, I would give him a riddle to 
 solve; at which he seemed highly diverted. 
 When he came in the afternoon to dine 
 with my father, I put the following into his 
 hand : 
 
 There is a diminutive tbing to be found. 
 That's chirping about during- all the year round ; 
 Though you don't in the least partake of its nature, 
 Still you much, in one thing, resemble this creature. 
 
 Answer—" A Cricket." 
 
 With the hope that these puerile effu- 
 sions may be entertaining to the chief
 
 LIFE OP THE AUTHOR. 7 
 
 number of my readers, I shall introduce a 
 few more little anecdotes of the same 
 nature. ^ 
 
 During the Christmas vacations, I was 
 often in the habit of visiting a Mr. Thomp- 
 son, a clergyman, who, though possessed of 
 considerable property, was considered by 
 his parishioners very parsimonious ; yet 
 it is but justice to add, he left, at his death, 
 a large legacy to charity. 
 
 This gentleman would frequently ask 
 me odd sorts of questions ; and one day 
 after dinner, lie said, in a humorous way, 
 that he thought I intended to write his 
 epitaph ; and as he could not tell what 
 might be said of him when he was dead, 
 he begged me to do it as soon as pos- 
 sible. Soon after I gave him these lines : 
 
 Here lieth Parson Tliompsou — who, to save, 
 Hath wiird no tombstone shou'd be o'or his grave ;
 
 8 LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 Altho' a clergyman, yet (strange to say) 
 The dence a farthing- would he give away. 
 Most of the clergy, tho' possess'd of sense, 
 Have scarce so much as ev'n a competence ; 
 But he who lies in this unhallow'd pit. 
 Was one possess'd of money, not of wit. 
 
 The old gentleman at first laughed hear- 
 tily ; but the satire was said to h^ve se- 
 verely stung him. Indeed, he asked me if 
 I understood the true meaning of the word 
 " Unhallowed/' To get out of the scrape 
 1 pretended to think that it meant sacred. 
 
 One morning I went to pay a relation 
 a visit, when a certain nobleman happened 
 to call ; and as it was raining very hard, 
 the coachman and footman went down to 
 the kitchen. When 1 was going away, as 
 I came down stairs I heard a great noise ; 
 and what should it be but his lordship's 
 servants quarrelling. Their language was 
 so amusing that 1 stood on the stairs to 
 listen ; and overheard the footman say to
 
 LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. 9 
 
 the coachman,—" Now, I'll tell you Avhat 
 it is, Jack : you have long been playing 
 your pranks o'er mc, but Til stand no more 
 on't : 1 can tell by a little what a good 
 deal means." 
 
 The oddity of this saying so amused me 
 that I returned back to the drawing-room, 
 and related the circumstance. It hap- 
 pened a certain poetess was present, who, 
 being somewhat satirical, said — " Aye, 
 make something out of that if you can." 
 I replied I would endeavour, and show it 
 to her the next morning. " Oh no,'' says 
 she, " if you wait till to-morrow, you'll 
 have time to think what to write." So, 
 after a pause, I gave her the following : 
 
 Collegians could not tell, that I have seen, 
 What, by a little, a good deal can mean : 
 But here's a footman, scarcely oVit of teens. 
 Knows, by a little, what a good deal means.
 
 10 LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 My father was in the habit, when he had 
 a party, of sending for me into the parlour 
 to see and converse with the gentlemen. 
 One day, some of them said they would 
 buy me a fine poney, if I would write 
 something satirical on the fair sex. I gave 
 them the following : 
 
 I 
 
 That in the Scriptures you are all remiss 
 Is clear, or you wou'd not have ask'd me this ; 
 And I may add, altho' you're grown up people, 
 A church not one knows scarcely from the steeple. 
 What you can't tell, a very youngster can. 
 That God made woman from the rib of man. 
 I must not then, for the Almfghty's sake, 
 Talk against those whom he thought fit to make. 
 You'll gibe me now — but I don't mind your rod ; 
 Shall I, for your amusement, offend God ? 
 
 I spent a holiday with a rich lady, who 
 was going to be married to a gentleman 
 very poor in comparison to herself. She 
 smilingly said, if I would write something
 
 LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. 1 I 
 
 about her admirer, she would give me half- 
 a-crown. I accordingly wrote as follows : 
 
 The reason, Ma'am, he offers marriage. 
 Is, to ride in your fine carriage ; 
 And there's another reason too — 
 He likes your money more than you. 
 
 The lady gave me five shillings, and told 
 nie not to repeat the lines to my papa. 
 
 A Doctor Gee, who lived near my father, 
 was considered a most eccentric character. 
 Among his oddities, he had his coffin and 
 grave-stone made during one of my Christ- 
 mas vacations. I used often to walk in his 
 garden, and happening to go into one of 
 the summer-houses, I espied up in a corner 
 the said grave-stone, with the following in- 
 scription on it : 
 
 " Here lie the remains of the late Dr. Gee." 
 
 Now as he had complained to my father
 
 12 LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 that I picked the unripe fruit off his trees, 
 I tliought this a good opportunity to be 
 even with him : so I added to the above 
 hne, 
 
 Hold ! hold ! quoth the devil, he now lies with me. 
 
 My father was in the habit, during the 
 Midsummer and Christmas vacations, of 
 giving me severe lectures about the slow 
 progress I made in learning. He insisted 
 on my paying the utmost attention to my 
 Greek and Latin, when I returned to 
 school, as he intended to make nie a lawyer. 
 Soon after, he asked me how I liked the 
 law ? I candidly replied, not at all ; upon 
 wiiich he became somewhat angry, ob- 
 serving, that the assertion was ridiculous, 
 without giving some reason. The next 
 morning I gave him the following : 
 
 I don't like the law, and I hope that in this 
 You will not consider my reason amiss ;
 
 LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. 13 
 
 At school to play marbles to me is a treat, 
 And yet when I play I am reckon'd a cheat ; 
 For beinjj the son of a lawyer, they say 
 That's cause enough to debar me from play. 
 If, therefore, I now. Sir, am so much the dread, 
 When I'm really one what will not be said ? 
 
 I now (to use a school phrase) was get- 
 ting a biggish boy ; and as my unfortunate 
 impediment caused me to be the laughing- 
 stock of the scholars, I generally avoided 
 the juvenile sports of my companions and 
 sought the most retired part of the play- 
 ground. My own natural inclination now 
 led me to the perusal of the authors, ancient 
 and modern, particularly Shakspeare. 
 
 Having completed my scholastic studies 
 and nearly reached my eighteenth year, 
 my father one morning called me into his 
 study and communicated to me his inten- 
 tion of sending me into the Avide world to 
 provide for myself. He again asked if I 
 iuul still any objection to the profession of
 
 14 LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 the law. I regretted, I assured him, that 
 my inclination should lead me so strongly 
 against his will ; but I thought that the 
 stage would better suit my turn of mind. 
 This put him into a great passion ; and 
 having expostulated with me very warmly 
 on the subject, declared I should not already 
 play the young man, and wished to know 
 what reasons I had for such a life. He also 
 gave it as his opinion that I should never 
 make a fortune or figure on the stage, as my 
 impediment was at once a complete bar to 
 it. To all this I listened with no little at- 
 tention ; but taking the advantage of a 
 pause which ensued, I said that the love ot 
 lucre appeared to me cpiite a secondary 
 consideration — that I thought the question 
 in life ou^ht to be, not whether a man was 
 possessed of more money than another, but 
 whether he had more mind than another 
 man — that if the celebrated Demosthenes 
 overcame his impediment, why might not 
 1 ? Then to support my argument I quoted
 
 LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. 15 
 
 the following passage — " Are not all men 
 of the same species ? what can make a dif- 
 ference between one man and another but 
 the endowments of the mind ?" All this I 
 urged with no little warmth — so much so, 
 that he seemed greatly moved, and desired 
 me to leave the room. 
 
 Shortly after, my father proposed send- 
 ing me a voyage to the ^Vest Indies, with 
 a view, no doubt, of diverting my mind from 
 a theatrical life. This I was not at all 
 averse to ; my thoughts being somewhat 
 bent upon seeing the world, as it would 
 afford me an opportunity of observing the 
 manners anddispositionsof people inforeign 
 parts, which, I thought, would greatly facili- 
 tate my study of Shakspeare. 
 
 Having now visited most of the Islands, 
 I turned my thoughts towards my native 
 land. Shortly after, I had the unhappiness 
 to lose my father ; who, though the greater
 
 16 LIFE OP THE AUTHOR. 
 
 part of his life he kept his coach with a 
 suitable equipage, and was worth thirty-five 
 thousand pounds in specie (twenty one of 
 which was bequeathed him by his grand- 
 father) left but a little behind him, so many 
 and unforeseen are the vicissitudes of for- 
 tune. When this little was divided among 
 six children, a very small portion of course 
 fell to my share : therewith, however, I was 
 content. Being immoveable in my resolu- 
 tion to conquer my impediment, I accord- 
 ingly communicated my intention to my 
 friends ; but they unanimously declared it 
 to be no less than a frantic undertaking. I 
 remained about ten months, till 1 had made 
 myself acquainted with some of the best of 
 Shakspeare's speeches. One day being in 
 a melancholy mood (for I am by nature of a 
 sedate turn of mind, and delight in solitude 
 and tears) I began to reflect seriously on 
 my condition ; for I had not only the im- 
 pediment to encounter, but I thought that j 
 I might perhaps have fallen into the error i
 
 LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. 17 
 
 (too frequent with the young) of being what 
 is commonly called stage-struck, without 
 having a single (jualification to render the 
 attem[)t successful, and which, in the end, 
 might consequently prove my ruin. Thus 
 having seriously turned the matter over 
 in my mind, I resolved upon having the 
 opinion of some one well skilled in theatri- 
 cal affairs, and accordingly set off for 
 Sheffield in Yorkshire, where the well-known 
 Mr. Hough (late tutor to the young 
 Roscrus) then resided. My impediment 
 at this time was so great that 1 could 
 scarcely make him acquainted with the 
 purport of my visit ; at which, (as my 
 readers may easily imagine) he appeared 
 not a little surprised : particularly when he 
 understood that I came a distance of one 
 hundred and sixty one miles for the sole 
 purpose of having his opinion of my abilities 
 as an actor. Ht:re I must not omit men- 
 tioning the kind manner in which he re- 
 ceived me ; and, after the usual forms of 
 
 c
 
 18 LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 introduction, he appointed that I should 
 meet him the next morning, at the town 
 theatre. He then heard me recite (as well 
 as my impediment would permit) some 
 passages from the " Merchant of Venice" ; 
 but declined giving a decided answer as to 
 my abilities. I remained at Sheffield about 
 a week, and being on the eve of departure, 
 he at once told me that the defect in my 
 speech was so great he thought 1 should 
 never be able to overcome it, and advised 
 me to think of some other line of life. This 
 was certainly candid, but, as I remarked, 
 it was no answer to my question, which 
 was simply this— that supposing I did sur- 
 mount the impediment, whether he thought 
 I had sufficient talent to become a first-rate 
 tragedian? he replied, that, in the event of 
 my being so fortunate, he saw no reason 
 why 1 should not. This was indeed highly 
 gratifying : but I was not a man to be led 
 away by flattery — no — still apprehensive 
 that he might have over-rated my abilities,
 
 LIFE OF THE AUTHOR 19 
 
 I set ofT for Liverpool to have ihe opinion 
 of Mr. Knight also — the then pro[)rietor 
 and manager of the theatre in that town. 
 Here I was also received in tlie most friendly 
 manner; and one day, after dinner, having 
 recited some speeches from " Richard the 
 Third," he candidly told me that it was 
 a great pity I had an impediment, for, if it 
 had not been for this unfortunate circum- 
 stance, I might have become an ornament 
 to the stage. 
 
 Now, to introduce to my readers, espe- 
 cially in a work of my own, the relation of 
 facts like these, would, under almost any 
 other circumstances than the present, be 
 highly reprehensible ; but such is their 
 peculiarity, that it will, I am confident, be, 
 by every lover of truth, deemed perfectly 
 justified. 
 
 I also trust that my readers will now 
 acquit me of having proceeded too hastily r
 
 20 LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 seeing I had taken the opinion of two ex- 
 cellent judges; who, though they deemed 
 it an impossibihty that 1 should be able to 
 overcome the impediment in my speech, so 
 as to become an actor, still admitted that 
 nature had been very bountiful to me, par- 
 ticularly in the knowledge of the passions. 
 
 I now returned to London, where I re- 
 mained for a short time and then removed 
 to Portsmouth, where I took up my abode 
 in an obscure part of the town. My library 
 consisted of a few choice books, principally 
 Shakspeare, and, at this time, I was a com- 
 plete hermit. Here it may not be amiss to 
 mention that the defect in my speech was 
 now so great, that in endeavouring to speak 
 (particularly some words that began with 
 a T) I would hold my breath so long that 
 my stomach was in a complete ferment ; 
 and I was of course obliged to wait for a 
 more favourable opportunity before I 
 attempted to speak again. I had now been
 
 LIFE OF THK AUTHOR. 2\ 
 
 labouring (according to my feeble endea- 
 vours) for upwards of two years, and had, 
 as well as the impediment would allow me, 
 repeated aloud from memory the character 
 of Cato thirteen hundred and twenty-seven 
 times ; when my strength at last failed me, 
 or, what I deemed still worse, my unfortu- 
 nate impediment had but little abated, and, 
 for the first time, I began to despair of 
 success. 
 
 One evening, as I was in a very pensive 
 mood, reflecting on the calamity with 
 which it had pleased nature to afflict me, 
 my tears began to flow, and I called upon 
 God (without whose aid nothing can be 
 accomplished) to grant me his powerful 
 protection, and crown my labours with 
 success! I arose next morning and com- 
 menced my day's work, if possible, with 
 redoubled ardour. It was my usual cus- 
 tom to go through a character twice every 
 morning ; and when I was studyinsj
 
 ^2 LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 Hamlet (a part which, above all others, 
 I wished to excel in) I thought I would go 
 through it a third time ; but before I had 
 finished the second act, I was seized with a 
 sensation in my head, as if raj brain was 
 turning : the book dropped from my hand, 
 and rushing towards the bed, I immediately 
 threw myself on it. A profound sleep 
 came over me, and on waking I was quite 
 unnerved ; my limbs shook to a terrible 
 degree, and I was not myself for some days 
 after. It is impossible that I can ever 
 forget the sensation I felt, when the book 
 fell from my hand. 
 
 It was at this place (Portsmouth) where 
 I adopted the plan of the celebrated De- 
 mosthenes. In the night I often rose 
 from my bed and took a solitary walk to the 
 sea-shore, where I repeated my childhood 
 sj)orts ; and while the waves were in the 
 act of bursting, instantly recited some 
 passage iVom Shaksteaije. Thus, I
 
 LIPF. OF THE AUTHOK. i(3 
 
 had an opportunity of knowing the ex- 
 tent of my voice, as I always endeavoured 
 to make myself heard above the waves ; I 
 also recited with two pebbles underneath 
 each side my tongue. Indeed there seems 
 to be some truth in the adage that " Custom 
 is a second nature;" for when I put away 
 the pebbles, I, at first, could not speak so 
 well without them : however (to my un- 
 speakable joy) I soon began to recite with- 
 out the least impediment. I now returned 
 to my friends, and having assembled them, 
 I said, in a merry mood, " Come, now you 
 shall see the benefit I have derived from 
 my frantic undertaking, as you were pleased 
 to term it.'' I now commenced Richard's 
 fifst soliloquy, but had not got half through 
 it, before they shed tears and left the 
 room. 
 
 My readers must now be informed that 
 I had as yet only a theoretical knowledge 
 of the stage, and as I was desirous of
 
 24 LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 knowing what effect my acting would have 
 upon an audience, 1 went down to some of" 
 tiie country theatres, where I used to per- 
 form for my own amusement, under a fic- 
 titious name. Shy lock, in the " Merchant 
 of Venice," was the first character I ever 
 played, and this was at Buxton in Derby- 
 shire. 
 
 The ardency with which I now pursued 
 my studies quite overpowered my constitu- 
 tion, and made such a visible alteration in 
 my health, that, being considered in a de- 
 cline, I was ordered by my physician a voy- 
 age toSpain. Ireadily complied with his ad- 
 vice, to which I ascribed my convalescence. 
 Here a circumstance occurred which will, 
 perhaps, astonish the reader : 1 abso- 
 lutely laid a wager of One hundred 
 Guineas, that I would surpass the great 
 Mr. John Kemble, in the character of 
 Richard the Third. Now that a 
 plain, humble man, scarcely out of his
 
 LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. 25 
 
 teens (for I was not more than twenty-two 
 years old) should dispute the palm with 
 so celebrated a tragedian, who had trod 
 the boards near forty years, and amassed 
 as many thousands of pounds — nay, who 
 had received princely honours — was thought 
 no doubt, by many, consummate presump- 
 tion. But a man's being thought so, is no 
 proof that he is so : — indeed it would ill 
 become me to state the result of this event 
 — let my actions speak for me — whatever 
 they say, nuist be believed. 
 
 Again I returned to my native land ; but 
 conceiving I had not yet completed my 
 knowledge of Shakspeare, I retired to 
 Kensington. Here, in the day, I always 
 got by heart, and in the evening (just be- 
 fore the gates were closed) I sallied forth 
 to the gardens (as the silence and solitude 
 of this place very much favoured my medi- 
 tations) and there remained till about ten
 
 26 LIKE OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 o'clock at night, when I would commence 
 reciting. I used to take great delight in 
 speaking the first part of one of Richard's 
 soliloquies — viz. 
 
 *' 'Tis now the dead of night, and half the world 
 
 Is in a lonely solemn darkness hung ; 
 
 Yet I, (so coy a dame is sleep to me) 
 
 With all the weary courtship of 
 
 My care tir'd thoughts, can't win her to my bed ; 
 
 Tho' even the stars do wink as 'twere with over- 
 watching. 
 I'll forth and walk awhile — the air's refreshing. 
 And the ripe harvest of the new-mown hay 
 Gives it a sweet and wholesome odour- 
 How awful is this gloom !" 
 
 Here it should be observed, that at this 
 time it was the very height of summer, 
 " and the ripe harvest of the new-mown 
 hay" — the solemnity and serenity of the 
 night — the stars winking, &c., were so 
 applicable to the subject, that I actually
 
 LIFE OP IHE AUTHOR. 27 
 
 used to fancy myself King Richard in 
 reality. Indeed I was so led away by the 
 force of feeling, that I positively would 
 say to myself, " Am I Richard or am I 
 not ?" When I was tired I used to He 
 down in the summer-house and sleep till 
 morning ; but this was a mere bagatelle ; 
 for the eagerness with which I pursued 
 the study of nature inspired me with 
 courage to face every obstacle. Lest any 
 of my readers may suppose that I was one 
 of those fortunate youths who never knew 
 the want of money, I can assure them, 
 that, as my beloved and venerable parent 
 left me only a trifle, I have frequently de- 
 barred myself of many comforts, in order 
 to enable me to purchase books and all 
 the appendages necessary for my under- 
 taking. 
 
 It was about this time I got acquainted 
 with one of the Committee of Drury-Lane
 
 28 LIFE OP THE AUTHOR. 
 
 Theatre, who said it was his wish that the 
 late Lord Byron should hear me recite. 
 This gave rise to my introduction to this 
 divine man of genius. Now I do not men- 
 tion this circumstance from ostentation, 
 but because it seems due to the cause, as 
 must be evident to every man of common 
 sense. Indeed, I conceive that a man, 
 who writes his life, has a just right to 
 record fairly and candidly every circum- 
 stance (although it should tend to be in 
 his own praise ;) which, in fact, is nothing 
 more than a man's speaking in his own 
 defence in a court of justice. In my own 
 opinion, the case has some similitude ; for 
 as I expect to be summoned at some 
 future period before a tribunal of critics, I 
 certainly ought to say something in de- 
 fence of my present pursuits. Under this 
 impression, I beg to state, that I related 
 to his Lordship all the various circum- 
 stances of my youth ; and having assured
 
 LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. 29 
 
 liHii that it was my intention to dispute 
 the pahn, at some fit opportunity, with 
 the greatest tragedian of the day, previous 
 to which I should publish an impartial 
 review of my life, he kindly granted me 
 permission to dedicate it to him — but, alas ! 
 " Heaven has called its own away \" It 
 was chiefly this circumstance, together 
 with the opinions of Messrs. Hough and 
 Knight, that induced me to think some- 
 what favourably of my humble endeavours 
 in the tragic art. 
 
 Poetry, I am well aware, consists in 
 imagination and versification ; and, in the 
 words of a celebrated author, should be 
 embellished with brilliant ideas and de- 
 scriptions. I boast of none of those re- 
 quisites. I merely tell a plain tale, couched 
 in plain language, and this publication is not 
 to display my talents as a poet, but to in- 
 troduce myself to the notice of the public 
 as a tragedian.
 
 ;]0 LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 It was my intention some years ago 
 to have disputed the palm in London with 
 the first tragedian of the day; but as I 
 then suffered considerably from ill health, 
 I deemed it prudent to rest from my la- 
 bours, and used, by way of recreation, to 
 paint, write little pieces of poetry, and sing. 
 The paintings I considered such daubs, 
 that I gave them to little children to play 
 with ; much of the poetry I committed to 
 the flames, and as for my singing, 1 would 
 willinglj^ forget it. 
 
 In 1815, I entered the matrimonial state, 
 and was so happy as to celebrate the tenth 
 anniversary of my wedding day in the 
 following lines : — 
 
 'Tis twice five years since Hymen's bands 
 
 United us together; 
 At whose great shrine we join'd our hands 
 
 To love and never sever.
 
 LIFE OP THT AUTHOR. -M 
 
 Unlike the noble bard who says * 
 
 This day hath done its worst, 
 A brighter theme now swells my lays, 
 
 Each year being- like the first. 
 
 Thanks be to Heaven ! our nuptial day 
 
 Hath proved to us so true. 
 That nought but death's dissolving sway 
 Can separate us two. 
 
 What did I say ? Alas, my brain ! 
 
 Must I then be undone ? 
 No, no ; e'en death can't loose the chain 
 
 That links us into one. 
 
 For e'en, when the last trump shall sound- 
 When angels crowd the skies 
 
 Our hearts with one accord shall bound, 
 And both together rise. 
 
 ♦ Alluding to the late Lord Byron, who was married the 2d of 
 January, 1815; and, if we may believe the " Literary Gazette," 
 his Lordship on the 2d of January, 1821, sent Lady B. the an- 
 nexed Epigram : — 
 
 " This day of all hath surely done 
 
 Its worst to me and you ; 
 'Tis now six years since we were one. 
 
 And five since we were two."
 
 32 LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 Thus lockt in hearts, we still shall be 
 
 United as in one ; 
 And thus to hear great God's decree 
 
 Shall stand before his throne ! 
 
 In 1822 I wrote the following Lament 
 on the death of my eldest child, who left 
 this world at the age of six years : — 
 
 This delicate child, who was nurtur'd with care, 
 
 Did like a bright angel appear ; 
 For all that was heavenly, charming, and fair, 
 
 Was center'd in this little dear ! 
 
 I hail'd every morning with rapturous joy, 
 
 And, from the first hour of her birth, 
 Indulg'd in the hope that she'd live to enjoy 
 
 The greatest of blessings on earth. 
 
 But, Oh! 'twas the will of th' Almighty on high 
 
 T' afflict her with sickness so sore 
 That now the sad period was fast drawing nigh, 
 
 When I should behold her no more. 
 
 With how much J/olicitude I watch'd her frame. 
 
 To catch her departing sweet breath : 
 A lingering victim she four days became. 
 
 Ere seiz'd by the cold hand of death !
 
 LIFE OP THE AUTHOR. 33 
 
 Oh, may her dear soul in beatitude rest. 
 
 May angels her slumbers still guard ! 
 May she in the heavenly mansions be blest ; 
 
 Be bliss without end her reward ! 
 
 Ah ! when I recal th' happy days that are fled. 
 
 How great is my anguish and grief! 
 The tear of aflection, which falls o'er the dead. 
 
 Is the balm that affords me relief. 
 
 Thou pride of my soul ! thou delight of my heart. 
 
 Though gone to a happier bourne, 
 Still, love, thou art dearer because we're apart, 
 
 Because from my arms thou art torn ! 
 
 The tears that now fall down my pale worn cheeks 
 
 Are proofs of a sorrow sincere ; 
 'Tis the language of nature — sweet nature that speaks ! 
 
 What evidence can be more clear? 
 
 Alas ! thou art deaf to thy mother's fond cries, 
 
 A stranger thou art to her woe— 
 Thou seest not the tears that start from her eyes--- 
 
 The tears that incessantly flow ! 
 
 Her cheeks, which once vied with the bloom of the rose. 
 
 Are now deeply sunk in her head ! 
 And, oh ! the pale visage which true sorrow shows 
 
 Has taken its station instead !
 
 34 LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 Tho' three tedious sad years have now glided by. 
 
 Since gone from this earthly domain, 
 So fresh thy dear features are still in my eye 
 
 Methinks I could trace every vein— 
 
 Methinks that I still hear thy fond prattling tongue 
 
 Now lisping out accents most sweet! 
 Oh, thy delicate form, on which I once hung. 
 
 With rapture I'd now fly to greet. 
 
 Tho' cold he the lip that so often I've kiss'd, 
 The remembrance thereof is so dear, 
 
 That 'tis like the torn bark that is lost in the mist, 
 And then hails the bright atmosphere. 
 
 Oh, farewell to the world, a long lastiug adieu 
 
 To all that is charming and gay ; 
 For pleasure, unless, my dear love, shared with you. 
 
 Resembles the false hopes of day ! 
 
 Oh, grant, thou Almighty disposer of men, 
 Whose will it hath been we should part, 
 
 That I may, in heaven, my child see again, 
 For this is the wish of my heart ! 
 
 I shall now close this little work by ob- 
 serving, that great will be my gratification
 
 LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. 35 
 
 if my biographical sketch and observations 
 on the stage meet with pubhc attention. 
 That I am ambitious of excelhncj to the 
 very pinnacle of fame, my actions will 
 bear record : and notwithstanding the 
 sneers of weak-hearted enemies (for what 
 iiian is without them ?) I will be bold to 
 aver that I feel such a conscientious pride 
 in having overcome the impediment in 
 my speech, with which it pleased heaven 
 to afflict me, in spite of protracted ill 
 health, occasioned by incessant toil and 
 study, that I am anxious that the public 
 should witness my success. Now, that 
 the prince of [)oetry * is no more, I stand 
 alone in the world. But what of that? 
 I had not a single friend to uphold me 
 in my endeavours to correct my speech: 
 on the contrary, my actions were by many 
 turned into ridicule, (among whom were 
 some of my own relations) ; but the day of 
 trial may at length arrive, and I shall 
 
 * The late Lord Byron.
 
 36 
 
 LIFE OF THE AUTHOR, 
 
 willingly dispute the palm with the greatest 
 tragedian of the day, for 
 
 ONE HUNDRED SOVEREIGNS, 
 
 in the following characters 
 
 HAMLET, 
 KING LEAR, 
 MACBETH, 
 RICHARD 111. 
 SHYLOCK, 
 HOTSPUR, 
 
 CORIOLANUS, 
 KING JOHN, 
 ROLLA, 
 OCTAVIAN, 
 ZANGA, and 
 CATO. 
 
 It is also my wish that the matter should 
 be decided by seven of the most competent 
 judges that can be found in London *. 
 This I conceive to be the fairest way for 
 
 * If it were left to myself (and the following persons would be 
 kind enough to be the umpires) I would choose G. Cohnan, D. E. 
 Morris, S. J. Arnold, W. Hazlitt, L. Hunt, W. H. W. Betty, and 
 C. Mathews. Esqs.
 
 LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. M 
 
 my opponents as well as lor myself; as 
 party-work could be then of no avail. 
 
 I srorn to tread the same paths that 
 have been traversed by others ; and am 
 well aware that my manner of representing 
 these characters, is essentially different 
 from any actors now on the stage. 1 do 
 not pretend to say, that 1 have more judg- 
 ment than others ; but 1 am firmly of 
 opinion, that the Supreme Being has 
 gifted me with that quickness of feeling, 
 which alonecan constitute the real greatness 
 of a Tragedian. Now supposing this to 
 be the case (for until the umpires give 
 their verdict it can only be a supposition 
 on my part) how much have I to encounter, 
 and how many enemies must I necessarily 
 have ! But 1 trust every impartial man 
 will admit that I meet my adversarie 
 manfully, and under many disadvantages. 
 Davies tells us, that an actor, who, in 
 the first display of his talent, undertakes a
 
 38 LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 principal character, has generally amongst 
 other difficulties, the prejudice of the 
 audience to struggle with, in favour of an 
 established performer. 
 
 Actors always choose their best cha- 
 racter to make their appearance in, before 
 a London audience. I, on the contrary, 
 have some idea of coming out in Cato, 
 which I conceive to be my worst. But I 
 feel more than ordinary pleasure in playing 
 this character, it being, after long per- 
 severance, the first part I recited, from 
 memory, without the least hesitation in my 
 speech. I am well aware that my person 
 is not so well adapted, as I could wish, to 
 a Roman character ; but I will endeavour 
 to make amends for this, and do my utmost 
 to rivet the attention on sentiments which 
 I will make the audience feel. I consider 
 (if I may be allowed to judge) Hamlet, 
 Richard, Lear, Macbeth, and Shylock, to 
 be my best performances. 1 am a great
 
 LIFE OP THE AUTHOR. 89 
 
 admirer of energy of passion ; and it ap- 
 pears to me, that my humble abilities are 
 more calculated to the various passions ol 
 the human heart, and to the rapid tran- 
 sitions of them, than to dionity of cha- 
 racter or weight of sentiment. 
 
 An actor, on his first appearance in 
 London, always looks for that indulgence 
 which is given to every stage adventurer. 
 But as 1 come forward to dispute the palm 
 with the tirst Tragedian of the day, my 
 situation is widely different ; and I con- 
 sider it would be acting with injustice 
 towards my adversaries, were I to expect 
 favour from the public. No — alone J have 
 held my way, alone I'll stand the contest. 
 I only ask for that, which all candidates 
 have an equal right to expect, — namely, 
 fair-play. 
 
 Here, perhaps, it will be as well to state 
 that as mere money has ever been with
 
 40 LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 me through ht'e a secondary consideration, 
 I have given instructions to my bookseller, 
 to dispose of this work for no more than 
 what will cover the expences of the pub- 
 lication ; and, moreover, in the event of 
 my gaining the wager, let the money be 
 appropriated to the benefit of some chari- 
 table institution; for, if the umpires say I 
 have surpassed the greatest actor of the 
 day, my ambition is satisfied.
 
 POEMS.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 THE FOLLOWING 
 
 THEATRICAL CRITICISMS 
 
 ON 
 
 KEAN, THE LATK KEMBLE and COOKE, Mrs. SIDDONS, 
 AND Miss O'NEIL, 
 
 IVere written about ten years ago. 
 
 I'll first commence with the great-little KEAN *, 
 
 Who^ by the bye, I frequently have seen ; 
 
 Of his consummate pow'rs I'd often heard, 
 
 And of his RicHARD too— I mean the Third. 
 
 Accordingly, I went into the pit, 
 
 The usual place where serious critics sit. 
 
 The scene now cJiang'd and Glos'ter then appear'd. 
 
 Before he spoke what great applause I heard ! 
 
 * Mr. Kean, although a great actor, is, in figure, some\vh8t 
 short.
 
 44 POEMS. 
 
 But in adherence to the proper plan *, 
 I didn't applaud until I heard the man. 
 His entrance, I confess, was very fine ; 
 But in the speech, methinks, he did not shine. 
 He was by far too pensive — too sedate f, 
 O'erwhelm'd with some impending heavy fate. 
 Why seem to have a discontented mind ? 
 For victory should be to joy inclin'd— 
 
 * An audience generally applaud a new actor the instant he 
 enters ; but critics seldom do, lost he should prove to have uo 
 abilities, for it does not follow because a man has a fine tragic 
 countenance, figure, &c., that he must be a great performer. 
 The Mind is the Man. 
 
 t Of all Richard's soliloquies, I think this excites most interest, 
 and gives greater scope to the actor to display his talent ; but, 
 however much I admire Mr. Kean in other passages of the play, I 
 was here highly disappointed. Richard has gain'd the battle, 
 and carries every thing before him, as the very text tells us : — 
 
 " Now is the winter of our discontent 
 ' Made glorious summer by the sun of York ; 
 
 And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house 
 In the deep bosom of the ocean buried." 
 
 Meaning that he comes from adversity into prosperity. Now 
 the question is, how would a man feel upon such an occasion ? 
 Would he be serious or exult in the event ? Mr. Kean is so sedate 
 that he by no means exhil)its the picture of a man crowned with 
 success. Surely if this part of the soliloquy was delivered with a 
 secret joy, or crafty smile depicted on the countenance, it would 
 be more appropriate to the character. But injustice to Mr. Kean 
 T must observe, that he does not fail from want of judgment, but 
 because nature has not given him the artifice of Richard.
 
 POEMS. 45 
 
 I mean an inward joy — a crafty smile, 
 
 That stamps King Richard in his secret guile. 
 
 Doesn't the soliloquy itself express 
 
 " A glorious summer" — that is — great success * i 
 
 But candidly I must acknowledge, Kean 
 
 Rises superior in the courtship scene f 
 
 With Lady Ann ; and when that he prevails, 
 
 With admirable looks the tyrant rails ;{:. 
 
 This actor, in the tent scene, does no more 
 
 Thau Booth, and other Richards, did before. 
 
 * Many actors as well as amateurs, endeavour, as near as 
 possible, to copy the style of Kean and Kemble, little thinking 
 how much they expose themselves to the lash of the critic's pen. 
 Any one, who aspires to the top of the profession, will never 
 succeed if he thus dei,'rade himself with the epithet of a copyist. 
 Lloyd's lines in " The Actor" are well worth the Amateur's 
 attention, particularly the following: — 
 
 But let the generous actor still forbear 
 
 To copy features with a mimic's care ! 
 
 'Tis a poor skill which every fool can reach, 
 
 A vile stage custom " honoured in the breach." 
 
 Worse as more close the disingenuous art. 
 
 But shows the wanton looseness of the heart." 
 
 t Mr. Kean far surpassed my expectation in the courtship 
 scene : his manner of delivering 
 
 " Fair creature, he that killed thy husband 
 Did it to help thee to a better husband," 
 
 Was excellent. 
 
 I Was ever woman in such humour woo'd ! 
 Was ever woman in such humour won !
 
 46 POEMS. 
 
 The evident transition from dismay 
 
 To desperation, very few portray : 
 
 " Here will I pitch my tent:" this said, he cries 
 
 " But where to-morrow t" sudden fears arise : 
 
 And then he ought to add, " No matter where," 
 
 With all the rapid wildness of despair *. 
 
 * " Here will I pitch my tent — but where to-morrow ? 
 No matter where- " 
 
 Having calmly uttered " Here will I pitch my tent," the actor 
 should, as if seized by a sudden sting of conscience, come hastily 
 forward with convulsive agitation to exclaim — " but where to- 
 morrow?" On his terrors gradually subsiding — " No matter 
 where," should be said with frantic rapidity. 
 
 The finest part in Richard is certainly when he starts out of his 
 dream. But in this, as in many other passages, there is a par- 
 ticidar line in which the actor should direct the whole of his judg- 
 ment. Mr. Kemble was a bright example of this in " Coriolanus," 
 when he says to Aufidius, " Alone I did it, boy." In delivering 
 these five simple words, he got four rounds of applause. Mr. 
 Kean, in exclaiming 
 
 " Give me a horse ! bind up my wounds ! 
 Have mercy, heaven !" 
 
 Is thus far correct ; but when he adds, 
 
 " Ha I soft ! 'twas but a dream !" 
 
 Which is the grand point to hit off', I think him totally wrong : 
 he merely says it with little or no feeling, and gets scarcely any 
 applause. Now my conception is quite different: for after 
 Richard has exclaimed, "Give me a horse! bind up my wounds ! 
 Have mercy, heaven !" he shoidd look around him for a moment.
 
 POEMS. 47 
 
 Kean's preparations for the dreadful light 
 The most fastidious critic must delight : 
 Behold him, when wrapt up in thought profound, 
 Drawing a model of it on the ground : 
 Behold him also in the battle scene ; 
 His equal here, perhaps, has never been : 
 
 (which is very natural in a man's waking from a terrific dream,) 
 and in low accents say,"with sudden delight, or rather satisfaction, 
 
 " Ha ! soft, 'twas but a dream !" 
 
 Of course the next sentence, 
 
 " But then so terrible it shakes my soul !" 
 
 Would have double the efifect. Surely a man like Richard, 
 dreaming he is wounded— his horse slain— the battle going against 
 him, &c., would feel an inward joy at finding it to be but a 
 dream. I wish not to be misunderstood; I mean an inward joy ; 
 for were a man to laugh right out, it would be ridiculous in the 
 extreme. It is, however, almost impossible for a person to form 
 an idea of the effect some passages have, when spoken in a whisper, 
 unless they hear them on the stage. This is the reason why some 
 theatres would not suit a great tragedian, being so badly con- 
 structed, that a whisper is not heard. Lloyd gives two excellent 
 lines on this head, viz. : 
 
 " More nature oft, and finer strokes are shown. 
 In the low whisper than tempestuous tone." 
 
 This inward joy, however, at finding his wound, &c., visionarj', 
 must be only momentary. " Shadows" strike such terrors in 
 Richard's soul, that every noise or entrance creates alarm : 
 and it is not till he can order " Conscience avaunt" that Richard 
 is himself again,"
 
 48 POEMS. 
 
 Th' effect produced by a stage-trick is grand, 
 For when disarm'd, he pushes with — his hand* 
 
 * As simple as this may seem, Mr. Kean has the honour of 
 being the first actor who ever did it, and, by this admirable point, 
 evinced great depth of genius. It is not always that an audience 
 see the beauties of a great genius ; and had it not been for the 
 critics, probably this beautiful point would have been half lost. 
 
 Davies, in his Life of Garri<ck, tells us,when that great archetype'of 
 actors first made his debut in London, his manner was so different 
 from every other actor, that the people did not know whether to 
 hiss or applaud ; and it was not until he came to the fourth act, 
 when he exclaims "Off with his head ! So much for Buckingham," 
 they saw his wonderful merit. By-the-bye, Mr. Kean does not 
 deUver this passage at all well. When Catesby brings the joyful 
 tidings to Richard, that the Duke of Buckingham is taken, 
 Richard's countenance should be lighted up, when exclaiming 
 '' OflFwith his head!" and the utmost contempt shown in deliver- 
 ing, " So much for Buckingham." Besides, he gives it in the same 
 tone of voice, which, in my opinion, is totally wrong. Nature 
 instructs us to vary, not only the looks and gestures, but also 
 the tones ; for as Lloyd observes :— 
 
 " 'Tis not enough the voice be sound and clear, 
 'Tis modulation that must charm the ear." 
 
 Nevertheless, it is but justice to add, that Mr. Kean, with all his 
 glaring faults, has doubtless many original beauties. 
 
 But Garrick appears to have been of all others the best suited 
 for Richard. As some of my readers may not be aware of his 
 wonderful powers, I shall, in the words of Davies, give a concise 
 account of him. As nature unlocked her cxhaustless stores to 
 Shakspeare's eye, giving him the faculty of discovering them, so 
 she distinguished Garrick as her favourite child, and gave him 
 the various faculty of personifying them. Hence it was that he 
 burst upon the world in a full meridian of blaze, untutored and un- 
 rivalled. In the course of a few nights he mounted the most
 
 POIOMS. 10 
 
 It was original — sweet nature's plan — 
 
 And in the actor we beheld — the man. 
 
 In ecstasy I rose up from my seat. 
 
 Talent, so new and wondertul, to greet ; 
 
 While prostrate Richard lay and gasp'd for breath 
 
 Till he was seiz'd by the cold hand of death. 
 
 Thus I've essay'd, as a true critic ought, 
 
 To point oulev'ry beauty — every fault; 
 
 brilliant pinnacle of the temple of fame ; he excelled the most ex- 
 cellent in that art ; he surpassed all that ever went Ijcfore him ; 
 and he gave an example to posterity, wliich they will never be able 
 to imitate. He was in figure low. His voice was harmonious, and 
 could vibrate through all the modulations of sound — could thunder 
 in passion, tremble in fear, dissolve mto the softness of love, or 
 melt into every mood of pity and distress. These were powers with 
 which he charmed an astonished age, and with these powers he had 
 all nature at his command. 
 
 " He could without the least preparation, transform himself into 
 any character, tragic or comic ; and seize instantaneously upon any 
 passion of the human mind. He could make a sudden transition 
 from violent rage, and even madness, to the extremes of levity and 
 humour ; and go through the whole circle of theatric evolution with 
 the most surprising velocity. He moved with dignity, spoke with 
 dignity, acted with dignity. Our ancestors, who saw him, tells us 
 wonders of this great actor. He had in his possession every key 
 of the soul. He transported his hearers where he pleased ; he was 
 the master of the passions, and tuned them to his will ; he waked 
 them, swelled them, soothed them ; he melted them into softness 
 or roused them into rage. If he were angry, so were you ; if he 
 were distressed, so were you ; if he were terrified, so were you ; 
 if he were merry, so were you ; if he were mad, so were you. He 
 was an enchanter, and led you where he pleased.
 
 50 POEMS. 
 
 For criticism, to meet attention, must 
 Be truly fair, ingenuous, and just: 
 Indeed the name of Critic is disgraced, 
 If that lie flatter or condemn in haste : 
 'Twould be injustice to the public cause, 
 To say Kean always merits our applause *. 
 
 " There is a most extraordinary circumstance related of this 
 wonderful genius. When in France, he was asked by some French 
 gentlemen to show his wonderful talent ; and as the greater part of 
 them were but little acquainted with the English language, he was 
 'nduced to relate a certain fact, and aftenvards to exhibit it by 
 action, which happened in England, and of which he had been an 
 eye-witness. He was acquahitcd, he said, tv^th a very worthy man, 
 who lived in Lemon-Street, Goodman's-Fields. This friend had an 
 only daughter two years old : he stood at his dining-room wmdow, 
 fondling the child, and dandling it in his arms, when it was his 
 misfortune to drop the infant into a flagged area, and killed it on 
 the spot. What followed, he said, was a language which every 
 body understood, for it was the language of nature. He imme- 
 diately threw himself into the attitude in which the father ap- 
 pearcd at the time the child fell from his arms. The influence 
 which the representation of the father's agony produced on the 
 company, and exhibited by this darling son of nature in tlie silent 
 but expressive language of unutterable sorrow, is easier to be 
 imagined than expressed : let it suffice to say, that the greatest 
 iistonisluuent Has succeeded by abundance of tears." 
 
 Such was David Garrick— and it would be equally as ridiculous 
 to compare Mr. Kean to such an actc r as to place myself on an 
 equality with Shakspearc as a poet. 
 
 * How is it possible for Mr. Kean, who has a bad voice, scarcely 
 any <lignity, in figure rather short, &c. to play all chaiactcr.s well ? 
 I am far from depreciating his merits, and, in justice to this great
 
 POKMS. h] 
 
 Now KEMBLE claims attention — let us scan 
 The merits and demerits of this man. 
 In person tall — with an expressive face — 
 With dignity, and with appropriate grace ! 
 How strange a man with requisites like these, 
 Cou'd e'er his auditory fail to please ! 
 But 'tis not always Figure will succeed. 
 Or a fine face will bear away the mead *. 
 Where Kemble most display'd the tragic art, 
 Was when he acted the proud Roman's part : 
 In this, I shall not hesitate to say. 
 He far surpass'd all actors of his day. 
 His Roman hero is without a flaw, 
 The best performance that I ever saw. 
 He, in " Coriolanus," is so fine, 
 That he was made by nature for this line. 
 
 actor, notwithstanding these imperfections, acknowledge he is the 
 best tragedian now on the stage. 
 
 \Miat Lord Chesterfield says in one of his letters to his son, may 
 be, with great propriety, applied to this excellent tragedian; 
 namely,—" That it is those who have the best sense always speak 
 the best, though they may happen not to have the best voices. 
 They will speak plainly, distinctly, and with a proper emphasis' 
 be their voices ever so bad." 
 
 » The following severe, though just criticism, appeared a few 
 years back on a certain actor:—" As far aa outward appearances 
 go, he was all that could be desired } but wc wish the thing had not 
 been made to speak."
 
 5'i POEMS. 
 
 'Tis said that the great Kean attempted this ; 
 If so, I'm sure his acting was amiss *. 
 How strange that a performer, in his way, 
 Cou'd e'er " Coriolanus" think to play ! 
 Qompare them both, and it must be confess'd 
 That both of different talents are possess'd : 
 Yes — different talents — yet it must be seen 
 That Kemble was superior far to Kean f. 
 
 * " OoRioi.ANUs" is SO little adapted to Mr. Kean's style of 
 acting, that he never could have played it from choice ; but the 
 managers no doubt introduced him in the part, well knowing that 
 the novelty of the thing would attract. 
 
 I have heard it frequently observed that Mr. Kean cannot per- 
 form this character, because he is not tall enough ; this is truly 
 ridiculous ; for as Lloyd justly remarks : — 
 
 " The feeling sense all other wants supplies ; 
 I rate no actor's merit from his size ; 
 Superior height requires superior grace. 
 And what's a giant with a vacant face ?" 
 
 The true reason of Mr. Kean's failure in this part, is, because 
 he cannot move with dignity, nor give force to weight of sentiment ; 
 consequently he is not calculated to personate the Roman. 
 
 t The reason that I give the palm to Mr. Kemble, is, because 
 his Penruddock, Coriolanus, and Cato, arc finished perfor- 
 mances. Mr. Kean (and I believe the greater pftrt of the critics) 
 will agree with me) has not one. It is only in certain parts that 
 this excellent tragedian displays his talents, for, in olhvrs, he 
 equally disappoints— for instance, in the " Merchant of Venice,'* 
 when Shylock says, " Let him look to his bond," his look and 
 action arc uncommonly fine; but in the subsequent passages.
 
 POKVIS. ,')'^ 
 
 The paramount, indeed, was the late Cooke ; 
 'Twas he that cou'd portray King Richard's look *. 
 
 when he should assume the vehement tones of the Jew, and depict 
 the passion of anger, he entirely fails; not from want of judgment, 
 but because Nature (without which precepts and art can do no- 
 thing) has not given him a thorough knowledge of the human 
 heart. In Richard and Shjlnck he certainly has the advantage of 
 all his brother actors ; but nevertheless, they are by no means 
 tinished pieces of acting. In tine, take Mr. Kemble, on a whole, 
 and he was certainly a better tragedian. 
 
 The late Dr. Goldsmith said of Garrick : — 
 
 " On the stage he was natural, simple, poetic, atl'ecting, 
 " It was only that when he was otF, he was acthig." 
 
 These lines may be applied in certain characters to Mrs. Siddons 
 and the late Messrs. Kemble and Cooke ; but in a very slight de- 
 gree to Mr. Kean, who does not appear to be a profound investi- 
 gator of nature. 
 
 * The expression of Richard's countenance (generally speaking) 
 should exhibit craftiness. Garrick and Cooke were the only 
 actors as yet who possessed this qualification, without which no 
 man can play Richard to perfection. Although I was much 
 pleased with Mr. Kkan in the courtship scene (as before men- 
 tioned) yet he entirely wants Richard's artifice. The artifice in 
 particular is what gave Garrick the superiority over all his compe- 
 Mtors : besides which, (as the late Mrs. Inchbald justly observed) 
 he had the first abilities as a mimic; and Richard is a mass of 
 mimicry except in his ambition and cruelty. Kean and Kkmblk 
 have neither of these qualifications : Cooke had the artifice with . 
 out the mimicry : Garrick had both. 
 
 I do not mean to descry the brilliancy of many parts of Kean's 
 Richard : — that he is a very fine performer, all who see him must ac- 
 \<nowledge; but it is a duty every author owes to the public to point
 
 54 POEMS 
 
 He, with abilities, as yet unknown, 
 
 The celebrated Kemble soon outshone*. 
 
 He so surprised that he loud plaudits drew, 
 
 His style of acting was so very new. 
 
 There was no little contest who shou'd win, 
 
 But Cooke at last forced Kemble to give inf: 
 
 out (in the best manner he is able) the defects, as well as excellencies, of 
 an actor. And here perhaps it is as well to mention, that he does 
 not appear to me to have in some parts sufficient action. A late 
 celebrated French tragedian very pertinently observed, that '* Rules 
 may teach a man not to lift his hands al)ove his head, but if Passion 
 carries them, it is well done. — Passion knows more than art." 
 
 * I mean in certain characters, such as Richard, Shylock, lago, 
 &c. Kemble was certainly an excellent scholar, and in that had 
 the advantage of Cooke : but (in the words of an author)" what 
 Nature gave the latter was more than a balance for what learning 
 had given the former. It is greatly to the advantage of an actor 
 if he has received a classical education ; and much, no doubt, may 
 be attained by intense application : but no one can do justice to 
 the animated language of the Passion.s, who is not highly gifted in 
 the tragic art. It ia nature that contributes moet to the powers, 
 not only of acting but of speaking. The language of passion can 
 only be taught by nature : and as Cicero, the father of eloquence, 
 very justly ol)serves, " Such is the etFect of a feeling manner of 
 speaking, that it is often of more force tlian the merits of the case 
 itself." 
 
 t 'When CooKE first made his appearance in London as RicJwrd, 
 Kemble had hitherto sustained the part with unbomided applause; 
 but Cooke's fame soon .spread l)oth far and wide, which caused 
 (as is always the case) u jealousy between tlie two houses (I)rury- 
 Lane and Covent-Garden j) so much so, that, it is said, " Richard 
 the Third" was played at both theatres for thirty-five successive 
 nisrlits.
 
 POEMS. iylj 
 
 Altho' the hitter was acknowletlgtl line, 
 Yet Cooke was doem'd superior in thai line. 
 Another 'vantage had he, we must own ; 
 In Comedy, as well, he also shone : 
 He in Sir Periinax * so great appear'd. 
 That with incessant plaudits he was cheer'd : 
 His booing f, when a great man was in sight, 
 Was well described, and fail'd not to delight : 
 Not only claps of hands were heard, hut, true. 
 The ladies with their fans applauded too : 
 This token of approval is so rare. 
 That I was much astonish'd, I declare. 
 In short, his Scotchman was without a (law, 
 The finest Pertinax I over saw ! 
 
 The pride was Mrs. Siddons of our age! 
 She moved triumphant on the British stage. 
 A charming actress Miss O'Neil was too; 
 Injustice, we must give her -all her due. 
 Her acting never fail'd to reach the heart. 
 Which is a great point in the Tragic art : 
 
 • A Scotch character in the comedy of " The Man of the 
 Worhl." 
 
 t The Scotch manner of pninoniicum- the wor.l howiny.
 
 56 POEMS, 
 
 She also acted with coDsummate grace. 
 And only lack'd a more expressive face *. 
 To see defects in Tragedy we need 
 A sharp and penetrating eye indeed. 
 Let us reflect a moment, and we'll find 
 The face to be the index of the mind f ; 
 This granted, tlien, in Tragedy I am 
 Loth to bestow on Miss O'Neil the pahn ; 
 For Siddons's distress, rage, joy, disdain, 
 Are what the muse to paint would strive in vain, 
 'Twas in the countenance she sliow'd her skill, 
 And could express the passions at her will : 
 I^adij Macbeth (her best part, it is said) 
 Diffused throughout the theatre great dread t: 
 
 * I do not literally mean that Miss O'Neil has no expression 
 at all ; but in comparison to that great archetype of actresses, 
 Mrs. SiDDONS. 
 
 f Vultus est index animi. 
 
 X I am told that Mrs. Siddons has often been heard to say, that 
 in personating this character, she has felt the greatest agitation of 
 mind. This is the tnie spirit of acting. Her delivery of the 
 following passage, when she seizes the instruments of death from 
 the irresolute Macbeth— 
 
 " Infirm of purpose — give me the daggers," 
 
 Is inimitable ; her look and action are so truly terrific, that they 
 will never be ol)literated from my memory. And again —
 
 POEMS. 57 
 
 And anger well depicted on the stage, 
 Sliou'd put the very audience in a rage. 
 And, in like manner, sorrow, it appears. 
 Should not alarm, hut melt us into tears * : 
 According to this plan, it must he seen 
 That Mrs. Siddons was the Tragic Queen. 
 
 " I have given suck, and know 
 " How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me : 
 " I wou'd, while it was smiling in my face, 
 " Have pluck'd my nipple from his l)oneless giuns, 
 " And dashed the brains out, had I but so sworn 
 " As you have done to tliis." 
 
 * To draw tears from an audience is the most difficidt part of 
 acting — it cannot be learnt : — it is the peculiar gift of nature. ^ 
 
 FooTE, wlio was Garrick's mortal enemy, one day told him 
 
 that he thought actors were too well paid : — " By " says 
 
 Garrick, somewhat in a rage—" Not at all— a monarch may make 
 a captain; but the Monarch's master alone" — meaning the Al- 
 mighty — " can make the truly great tragedian."
 
 OBSERVATIONS 
 
 ON THE 
 
 PROFESSION OF AN ACTOR
 
 OBSERVATIONS 
 
 ON THE 
 
 PROFESSION OF AN ACTOR. 
 
 Having closed my theatrical criticisms in 
 verse, I shall now beg leave to otTer some 
 observations in prose on the profession of 
 an actor. Mr. Hazlitt, (who is certainly 
 an excellent critic) observes in his work on 
 the English stage, " That players are not 
 so respectable a profession as they might 
 be, because their profession is not respected 
 as it ought to be.'' Now I do not ac- 
 quiesce in this, for the profession hath 
 doubtless its due share of respect. But 
 supposing, for argument's sake, that it has
 
 62 OBSERVATIONS ON THE 
 
 not, it can only be attributed to the actors 
 themselves, many of whom do not seem to 
 be aware, that falling into low company 
 dissipates their faculties, and (what is al- 
 most of as much importance) lessens their 
 consequence with the public. This re- 
 mark, of course, does not extend to the 
 Kemble family, and many others, who 
 are Avorthy, respectable characters. But 
 players (generally speaking) are very ex- 
 travagant and intemperate : indeed the 
 very nature of the profession has a ten- 
 dency to dissipation. These remarks, no 
 doubt, will be deemed by the Theatrical 
 World as uncalled for; they may be 
 thought to have too much poignancy, but 
 I conceive it is a duty I owe to myself as 
 well as the public, to write impartially. 
 It ought also to be remembered that I reap 
 no pecuniary advantage from my opinion ; 
 '(I mention this because it is a well-known 
 fact that critics are often paid to speak 
 'well of performances) ; and that my per-
 
 PROFESSION OF AN ACTOK. 63 
 
 sonal acquaintance with any of the actors 
 is so shght, that whatever I advance does 
 not arise from private pique of any kind, 
 but from a sincere wish of promoting the 
 public good. Every one must know, of all 
 the occupations, that of a dramatic critic 
 is the most unpleasant and thankless, it 
 being impossible to please all. 
 
 The French and English pay the greatest 
 respect to players of superior rank. Mi- 
 chael Baron was the great actor of 
 France, the brother Roscius of Garrick. 
 Da VIES tells us that all the historians of 
 the French stage, speak of BARON as a 
 prodigy of the theatre. The richest and 
 noblest epithets in their language are se- 
 lected by them to express the beauties of 
 his action and the power of his elocution. 
 lie was caressed and almost idolized by the 
 French. He was the c^reat favorite of the 
 nobility, and conversed with them freely 
 and familiarly. He had a large pension
 
 64 OBSERVATIONS ON THE 
 
 bestowed on him by the King, and presents 
 from the princes of the blood : yet not- 
 withstanding all this, his companions some- 
 times made him feel the inferiority of his 
 situation. 
 
 There is an anecdote related of Moliere, 
 who was esteemed an excellent actor in 
 Comedy, and was, at the same time, a very 
 great author. He was indeed, as Boileau 
 and Racine told Louis XIV., the glory 
 and boast of his reign. Louis knew Mo- 
 lie re*s worth, and rewarded his merit. 
 He conversed often with him, and even 
 sometimes gave him a hint for a character, 
 particularly in the Facheiix. The great 
 Prince of" Conde admired Moliere, and 
 many of the Noblesse were his patrons. 
 In vain did Louis endeavour to raise the 
 humane and generous Moliere above the 
 prejudices which followed his occupation 
 of actor. To honor him as highly as his 
 condition woukl permit, he appointed him 
 one of the gentlemen of his Bed-chamber ;
 
 i»K()r£ssioN or an actok. 65 
 
 but this post, which was designed to pUice 
 him above reproach, exposed him to a very 
 gross affront; tor when, according to the 
 custom ot" France, he went t(^ assist at the 
 making up of the King's bed, his partner 
 refused to join in office witii him, on account 
 of his being a player. It is-true, the King 
 resented this gentleman's insolence, but that 
 could not wipe away Molierk's disgrace. 
 
 Pope goes further; for, in his preface to 
 Shakspeare, he tells us that in those days 
 the condition of the players was then so 
 mean that they were conducted by the 
 butler into the buttery ; so that it appears 
 there has existed almost from time imme- 
 morial a certain prejudice against the oc- 
 cupation of actor. And indeed, to speak 
 the truth, 1 have of late years imbibed the 
 same; so much so, that when 1 used to 
 perform in the country for amusement, the 
 managers always wanted to make me some 
 pecuniary recompense ; but although an ad-
 
 06 OBSERVATIONS ON THE 
 
 dition to my own little income would have 
 been of great service, yet my pride would 
 never suffer me to take a single shilling for 
 my humble eftbrts, thinking if I did, I should 
 be an actor. But my friends latterly seem 
 determined that I should become a player, 
 whether so inchned or not. 
 
 Acting is undoubtedly the most be- 
 witching of all arts, and highly calculated 
 to lead the young and unwary astray, who 
 are often smitten or stage-struck without 
 having even a single qualification ; conse- 
 quently, in the end, it frequently proves 
 their ruin. 
 
 We often in life hear it said, " What a 
 heavenly singer such a one is ! No wonder 
 he is invited to all the great public dinners.'' 
 Now the question is. Why is he ? Is it for 
 his superior manners or his singing ? If for 
 the latter, he is only made use of; for, as 
 Lord Chesterfield observed, " Whoever i^
 
 PROFESSION Ol' AN A( 'I OK. (j7 
 
 admitted or sought tor in conipany upon 
 any other account than that of his manners, 
 is never thoroughly respected ihere :" or 
 whoever is had (as it is called) for the sake 
 of any one thing singly, is singly that thing, 
 and will never be considered in any other 
 light. These are stubborn facts, and facts 
 which are incontrovertible. Now, unfor- 
 tunately for the actor, the very nature of 
 his profession often subjects him to this ; 
 and I have frequently known many of the 
 first-rate actors and singers invited to a 
 nobleman's party on this account — " We 
 will have such a one," they say, " for he 
 recites well. We will invite such a one to 
 our concert, for he (or she) sings divinely." 
 These are mortifying preferences, which will 
 never (if found out) be forgiven by a tho- 
 rough well-bred person, because it excludes 
 all ideas of respect, besides hurting that 
 secret pride which nature has implanted in 
 the soul of man.
 
 68 OBSERVATIONS ON THE 
 
 It may perhaps be thought somewhat 
 strange that 1 should speak, in many parts, 
 SO shghtly of an art which I have expended 
 so much time in endeavouring to attain 
 perfection in. But why should it ? No 
 circumstance should hinder an author from 
 giving an impartial opinion, even though 
 he himself feel the lash. And indeed such 
 is my nature, that, if it were to save me 
 from starvation, I do not think I could 
 conceal what is uppermost in my mind. 
 I cannot stop the career of my satire out 
 of respect for any one : it as readily strikes 
 at a great personage as the meanest man 
 upon earth. And I do most strenuously 
 maintain that the very nature of the pro- 
 fession hath a tendency to dissipation, and 
 strongly advise all those parents, who have 
 any regard for their daughters' happiness, 
 to deter them from such a pursuit, ever re- 
 membering, that 
 
 Where one Tragedian gains the golden prize, 
 Thousands there are who sink no more to rise.
 
 PROFESSION OF AN ACTOR. 69 
 
 1 could expatiate upon this subject, but 
 what I have advanced will, I trust, be quite 
 sufficient to show that the stage (particu- 
 larly to a thorough well-bred lady) is by 
 no means an object of ambition, unless the 
 person can arrive at the very acme of per- 
 fection, which is utterly impossible without 
 being endowed with a knowledge of the 
 passions. 
 
 Having said thus much on the actor's 
 profession, I shall, as well as I am able, 
 take the other side of the question. 
 
 First, then — It is but justice to observe, 
 that any one is respectable if he conduct 
 himself so, let his profession be what it 
 may ; for it is the rectitude of a man's con- 
 duct which distinguishes him from his fel- 
 low-creatures. Some men there are who 
 fawn and scrape, and (as it is called) dance 
 attendance on their superiors merely for 
 what they can get : and these vile syco-
 
 70 OBSERVATIONS ON THE 
 
 phants may succeed with those who have 
 risen by the same means. But this artifice 
 is ever the mark of a narrow mind, which a 
 real respectable man will never condescend 
 to — his very soul revolts at the idea. He will 
 always bear in remembrance that most ex- 
 cellent French proverb — Bonne renommee 
 vaut mieiijc que ceinture doree — " A good 
 name is better than a girdle of gold." It 
 is indeed preferable to wealth or splendor. 
 
 Secondly. — Of all professions the players 
 of this country can boast of the greatest 
 honor, namely, That Shakspeare, the 
 pride and glory of England, was an actor. 
 The merits of this great Poet have been so 
 ably discussed, that it would be superfluous 
 for me to expatiate on the subject ; parti- 
 cularly as 1 am very certain that all I could 
 advance would fall infinitely short of the 
 merits of this illustrious bard. 
 
 Thirdly. — There is also a circumstance,
 
 PROFESSION OF AN ACTOR. 71 
 
 which pcM'haps the greater part of" mankind 
 are totally ignorant of. 1 have perused the 
 lives of the most learned Fathers of the 
 Church and other eminent characters, and 
 find that the two most humane and gene- 
 rous persons were actors — namely, Roscius 
 of ancient Rome, and Garrick. Be this 
 recorded to the eternal honor of the actor's 
 profession ! 
 
 Davies tells us, the very high encomiums 
 bestowed on Roscius, exalt him in the 
 opinion of all men. His integrity, modesty, 
 liberality, and benignit}^ were as great es- 
 sentials in his character, as his skill in 
 playing. And such was the generosity of 
 his temper, that for the last ten years of 
 his life, he performed without any fee or 
 reward. Cicero, speaking of Roscius, 
 says. That while his wonderful skill places 
 him at the head of his profession, his mo- 
 deration and virtue render him worthy of a 
 place in the senate *. The Greeks also did 
 
 * Ciceronis oratio pro Q, Roscio Comoedo.
 
 72 OBSERVATIONS ON THE 
 
 not think acting a disqualification for any 
 office of the state, civil or niihtary. 
 
 In speaking of Garrick, Dr. Johnson 
 (who was not much in the habit of extoll- 
 ing others) says, " That to those who knew 
 the sums he constantly gave away, it would 
 appear that his sole end of acquiring wealth 
 was for tiie benefit of others ; and that 
 he gave more money than any man in 
 London/' He had almoners, to whom 
 he gave sums of money to distribute 
 to such objects as they approved. But 
 Da VIES records two very remarkable deeds 
 of this actor's generosity, which in honor 
 to his memorv, ouo;ht hereto be mentioned. 
 "A gentleman of fashion, and a man univer- 
 sally beloved and esteemed, borrowed five 
 hundred pounds of Mr. Garrick, for 
 which he gave him his note of hand. By 
 some vicissitude of fortune, the affairs of 
 this gentleman were greatly distressed. 
 His friends and relations, who loved him,
 
 PROFESSION OF AN ACTOR. 73 
 
 were determined to free him from uneasi- 
 ness, by satisfying his creditors. A day 
 of meeting for that purpose was appointed, 
 on which they were to be very cheerfuh 
 Mr. Gar RICK heard of it, and instead of 
 takino; the advantao-e of the information to 
 put in his claim, he enclosed the five hun- 
 dred pound note in a letter, in which he 
 told the gentleman, that he had been in- 
 formed that a jovial meetins; was to take 
 place between him and his friends, and that 
 it was to be a bonfire day. lie therefore 
 desired that he would consign the note to 
 the flames.'' 
 
 The other anecdote is still more to Mr. 
 Garrick's honour. He was very intimate 
 with an eminent surgeon, who died several 
 years since — a very amiable man, who 
 often dined and supped with Mr. and 
 Mrs. Garrick. One day after dinner 
 the gentleman declared that his affairs 
 were in such a situation that, without the
 
 74 OBSERVATIONS ON THE 
 
 assistance of a friend, who would lend him 
 a thousand pounds, he should be at a loss 
 what to do. "A thousand pounds \" said 
 Mr. Garrick ; "That is a deviHsh larse 
 sum ! Well now, pray what security can 
 you give for that money ?" Upon my 
 word,'" replied the surgeon, " no other 
 than my own/' " Here's a pretty fellow!" 
 said Roscius, turning to Mrs. Garrick, 
 " he wants a thousand pounds upon his 
 personal security! Well, come — Til tell you 
 one thing for your comfort. I know a man 
 that at my desire, will lend you a thousand 
 pounds." He immediately drevv upon his 
 banker for that sum, and gave the draft to 
 his friend. Mr. Garrick never asked 
 for, or received a shilling of it. 
 
 Hence it must appear, that the profes- 
 sion of an actor may be rendered highly 
 respectable, though it is too often sullied 
 by intemperance and vice. Tragedy, when 
 well represented, is doubtless a most ad-
 
 PROFESSION OF AN ACTOR. 7.0 
 
 mirable imitation of nature*. Nay, Quin- 
 TiLiAN and Cicero go further, and main- 
 tain, that the knowledge of the passions is 
 the greatest gift heaven can bestow. The 
 Spaniards have a good proverb on this 
 h ead ; Ciencia es locum se huen senso no la 
 ciira, *' Science or learning is of little use, 
 if it be not under the direction of good 
 sense/' 
 
 I have now only to add, that though it 
 be highly desirable to be admired as an 
 eminent Tragedian, yet surely it must be 
 admitted that it redounds much more to 
 a man's honour, if, as a private gentleman, 
 he should be so fortunate in any of the 
 arts, to bear away the palm from those who 
 make them their profession. The value of 
 
 * St. Paul, in his epistles, has given quotations from 
 a Greek tragedy ; particularly that excellent sentiment, 
 " Evil communications corrupt good manners :" yet the 
 ignorant Canltvells of the day have the impudence to 
 say, that plays arc profane performances.
 
 76 OBSERVATIONS, &C. 
 
 a taste for the arts, is much greater than is 
 commonly perceived ; for, in the words of 
 an eminent author — " in sohtude the ele- 
 gant entertainment they afford, is an effec- 
 tual security against the intrusion of idle- 
 ness. In society, they provide innumerable 
 topics of conversation which afford ample 
 scope for the display of judgment and taste. 
 By furnishing the mind with elevated 
 conceptions and refined sentiments, they 
 render it superior to gross and vulgar 
 pleasures. In fine, while science enriches 
 the understanding, the study of polite litera- 
 ture cultivates the taste and improves the 
 heart ; and both unite to form the accom- 
 plished and happy man.''
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 AN 
 
 EXTEMPORARY EFFUSION, 
 
 WRITTEN A FEW YEARS ACO AT THE CAPE Ol' COOU HOPJi, IX 
 
 CONSEQUENCE OF THE AUTHOR'S HAVINO BEEN 
 
 ACCUSED OF PLAGIARY. 
 
 I WRITE these few verses to let my friends see 
 Th' unmerited censure you've pass'd upon me. 
 How hard would the task be to please ail the town ; 
 While one sets me up, t'other pushes me down. 
 That line which appears to annoy you so much, 
 T wish had been written in German or Dutch. 
 The prologue, you say, you have read with attention. 
 And think that one line is not my invention ! 
 If such be the case. Sir, you certainly ought 
 To've pointed the line out and thus prov'd the fault. 
 You say there is one, or there's two at the most — 
 But not to my knowledge, T safely can boant.
 
 80 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 How happy am I we've a Sheridan here* 
 Whose name every friend to the stage must revere ; 
 Who surely can judge of a tragical part. 
 And value the force of each tone, look and start, 
 Altho' you've attempted my merit to raise f , 
 I care not a straw for your censure or praise ; 
 And if I judge rightly, I'm sure there are few 
 Who could be so blind as to take me for you. 
 
 A 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 ON THE author's HAVING BEEN SOLICITED TO PLAY 
 " RICHARD THE THIRD." 
 
 With doubt, with fear, and apprehension bound, 
 Once more I trespass upon Tragic ground. 
 How wou'd the crabbed critic vent his spite 
 Did he but see the Tragic Muse to night ; 
 
 * The late Tlioinas Sheridan, Esq., who was considered an ex- 
 cellent judge of tragedy. 
 
 t After the critic had found out that his accusation was ground- 
 leas, he began praising the author.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 8J 
 
 A surly cur who spares nor friend nor foe ; 
 To him unknown what actors undergo ! 
 However great an actor's powers may he 
 T' effect the higher walks of Tragedy, 
 Stage, dresses, scenery must all agree. 
 Doubly severe then is the task to-night, 
 Never were actors placed in such a plight : 
 No gaudy scenes adorn our minor stage ; 
 No splendid robes your fancies to engage. 
 The house so ill design'd — indeed to me 
 'Tis doubtful whether you will hear or see 
 Those finer strokes where genius points the way, 
 And nature darts her own refulgent ray — ■ 
 Where look and action mark the Tragic mien, 
 And music's charms add vigour to the scene. 
 
 Thus then forlorn, like culprits here we stand, 
 To wait the judgment from the critic's hand. 
 Or like the bark which scudding homeward bound, 
 Crowding all sail to reach her destin'd ground : 
 Sudden, alas ! dark clouds obscure the sky, 
 And dreadful thunder echoes from on high ; 
 Such vivid light illumes the darken'd main, 
 Strikes to the mast and rends the pine in twain : 
 At length the storm subsides, the raging deep 
 Is hush'd, as 'twere, in everlasting sleep. 
 
 G
 
 82 MrSCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 The joy which now pervades each anxious heart 
 This night we hope to realize in part : 
 Zealous to prove immortal Shakspeare's worth. 
 We venture here like blossoms in their birth ; 
 And trusting jou'U your wonted succour lend. 
 We'll do our best, and to your judgment bend. 
 Cheer'd with the fire that warms a Briton's veins, 
 We ask no more to recompense our pains : 
 Rejoiced if we shou'd please in Shakspeare's cause. 
 To see our efforts crown'd with your applause. 
 
 THE 
 
 D R E A M. 
 
 One night I had a dream, and from afar 
 Melhought I saw a rich resplendent car. 
 Drawn by two fiery steeds, who, in my sleep, 
 Foam'd like the angry surges of the deep : 
 In it sat Justice, like the rainbow dress'd 
 A placid smile his countenance possess'd. 
 
 The scene now changed — I heard a trumpet sound, 
 And peals that shook the very earth around :
 
 MISCELLANEOUS l>ll<:CES. 83 
 
 The shrine of Fame now opcn'd to my .sight, 
 Which seeni'd but one continued bhize of light. 
 Violent clamours then assail'd my ears : 
 And, lo ! the God of Justice now appears. 
 The car drew nigh, and vaulting from his seat, 
 The ji^azinf^ throng fell prostrate at his feet. 
 
 Another scene ! it was a sudden change ; 
 
 And as magnificent as it was strange. 
 1 saw him on a throne — in the left hand 
 A wreath of laurel — in the right a wand : 
 His awful looks bespoke him more than man, 
 And to the list'ning throng he thus began. 
 " Tiiose who are Candidates for Tragic fame, 
 Dra wnear, and now assert your mighty claim. 
 Behold ! this wreath of laurel is design'd 
 For him who bears the greatest Tragic mind." 
 Forthwith a man, whose looks and figure prov'd 
 That in the histrionic line he mov'd. 
 Bursts from th' assembly, anxious to lay claim 
 To that which would immortalize his name. 
 Tbe part in which he fancied that he shone 
 Was fam'd King Lear, deserted by his own ! 
 Alas ! poor man ! he could not move with grace ; 
 And when in grief — how vacant was his face ! 
 He stampt and roar'd, as others did before, 
 Because he thoutjlit a madman needs nnist roar.
 
 84 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 JCSTICE at length — whose eyes betoken'd rage, — 
 
 Address'd this mighty giant of the stage : 
 
 ** Forbear, rash youth, and hear my just decree : 
 
 A Tragic actor ne'er attempt to be : 
 
 Thinkst thou a handsome look — a form that's fine. 
 
 Are all that's wanted in the Tragic line I 
 
 Believe it not — for, 'tis a certain fact, 
 
 If thou've no feeling, thou canst never act. 
 
 Dost thou not know the secret of the art 
 
 Is to draw tears from the most harden'd heart ^ 
 
 To paint the passions, and the dill"rence show 
 
 'Tween love and hatred — between joy and woe — 
 
 To knit the brow when anger intervenes — 
 
 To look with kindness when compassion reigns ? 
 
 Thy vacant face by Nature's not design'd 
 
 To represent the feelings of the mind — 
 
 Love, transport, madness, anger, scorn, despair, 
 
 And all the passions should be painted there. 
 
 Mark David Garrick— did he not appear 
 
 The real Hamlet, Richard, and King Lear ? 
 
 He had such power o'er the human heart 
 
 That he made all the audience feel the part : 
 
 He lack'd thy figure — yet this little man 
 
 Attended faithfully to Nature's plan. 
 
 Where one Tragedian gains the golden prize. 
 
 Thousands there are who sink no more to rise.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 85 
 
 No earthly pow'r cau with eft'ect impart 
 The god-like knowledge of the scenic art : 
 The feeling sense from higher pow'rs must come, 
 AVithout which aid no actor is '' at home." 
 
 POOR JESSY. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 In a lone vale there liv'd retir'd 
 
 A happy smiling pair; 
 And all the country round admir'd 
 
 Their decent, modest air. 
 
 Contented in their humble sphere, 
 They passed their youthful days ; 
 
 And knew not what it was to fear. 
 Not knowing sinners' ways. 
 
 A lovely girl — an only child — 
 Was the first pledge of love ; 
 
 Fair as the bloom of May, and mild 
 As the soft cooing dove.
 
 86 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Her parents now had nought to moan. 
 
 So good a child was she ; 
 For like the morning star she shone, 
 
 Clad in simplicity. 
 
 A straw-roof d cot — twas all they had^ 
 
 Encircled by a ditch : 
 And tho' they were but homely clad, 
 
 They envied not the rich. 
 
 Content sat smiling at the door ; 
 
 Within too virtue reigu'd ; 
 No stranger came in vain t' implore, 
 
 For all a welcome gain'd. 
 
 Soon as the lark the sky ascends, 
 
 He, with a ready zeal, 
 Goes to the plough ; while she attends 
 
 With glee, the spinning wheel. 
 
 Young Jessy too^ — who knew no harm- 
 A kind good natured ihing — 
 
 The milk now fetches from the farm, 
 And water from the spring. 
 
 She then a nice, but frugal fare, 
 For her dear sire prepares ; 
 
 For unto her's consign'd the care 
 Of all the house affairs.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 87 
 
 Then going- to her mother dear, 
 
 She dolh a kiss beguile ; 
 Her father too she meets with cheer. 
 
 And welcomes with a smile. 
 
 If ever bliss was found on earth, 
 
 They now were surely blest — 
 Blest above those who prize high birth. 
 
 Or are in iinery drest ! 
 
 'Twas thus they liv'd in harmless glee, 
 
 Void of domestic strife ; 
 And hoped their Jessy soon to see 
 
 Made happy for her life. 
 
 This lovely girl had hitherto 
 
 The paths of virtue trod ; 
 And had, to all apparent view, 
 
 Sought refuge in her God. 
 
 Thus shielded by the potent arm 
 
 Of an Almighty power. 
 Nought surely now on earth could harm 
 
 So flourishing a flower. 
 
 But ah ! Melpomene's too frail 
 
 To paint the bitter woe. 
 Which this fair lily of the vale 
 
 Was doom'd to undergo.
 
 88 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES, 
 
 Lur'd by a villain from ber borne, 
 
 Tbis damsel once so fair. 
 Eventually was left to roam * 
 
 The victim of despair ! 
 
 Lost to all feeling, be, witb scorn 
 
 Now triumpb'd o'er ber pain ; 
 And joy'd to see that bosom torn 
 
 Wbereon be oft bad lain. 
 
 How faithless and bow vile is manf. 
 
 Who many vows will make ; 
 But wben successful in bis plan, 
 
 Those many vows will break ! 
 
 " Good God!" she cried, " bow oft he swore 
 
 Me only be esteem'd ; 
 And when a darling babe I bore. 
 
 How very glad be seem'd ! 
 
 * It is no unusual thing for men (calling themselves gentlemen) 
 to entice young girls from their homes, and then leave them friend- 
 less wanderers on the world's wide stage. Such characters arc 
 ten thousand times worse than highway rohhers ; for no one who 
 possesses a spark of manly feeling could desert the object of his 
 misguided passion. 
 
 f For the last fifteen years of my life I have been endeavouring 
 to attain a thorough knowledge of the human heart : and I am 
 firmly of opinion, that men, in general, are great rascals. 
 
 AV^omen are more generous, and far more noble-minded.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 89 
 
 " I can no more — my heart » riv'n — 
 
 Thou'rt welcome to me, Deatli !" 
 Then casting up her eyes to heav'n, 
 
 She vented her hist breath ! 
 
 ON THE QUEEN, 
 
 DURING HER TRIAL. 
 
 When, Gracious CaroHne, wilt thou be free 
 From all the poisonous shafts of calumny ? 
 Were not the sorrows of thy witlow'd bed 
 Enough ? Must other storms hang o'er thy head ; 
 Forbid it, Heav'n — thy wonted succour lend — 
 Avert the danger — and her cause befriend ; 
 O could but Charlotte from the tomb arise *, 
 Her piteous tears would drown the nation's cries ; 
 What grief, alas ! when she to Heav'n resign'd 
 Th' exalted virtues which adorn'd her mind. 
 
 * The Queen's daughter, who was cut oil' from the tlu"ead of 
 life, iu the very bloom of youth.
 
 90 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 To see fair Caroline with all her might, 
 Asserting claims to Sov'reign regal right ; 
 Nay, to behold her comfortless, forlorn, 
 Exposed to every infamy and scorn ; 
 Whvit man who boasts one drop of British blood. 
 But willingly wou'd shed it for her good? 
 
 Gods ! shall we not our sacred laws revere ? 
 Was it not proved that guilt did not appear * ? 
 Her matchless magnanimity of mind ; 
 Has beam'd fresh honour o'er her sex's kind. 
 
 May Heav'n look down with a benignant smile. 
 On one whose tongue was ever void of guile : 
 And when the secrets of all hearts are known, 
 Angels conduct her to a Heav'nly throne ! 
 
 * As a lover of justice and detester of tyranny, I espoused her 
 Majesty's cause ; and I beg, as a plain humble man, that I may 
 be permitted to ask, whether a subject of the realm, who has been 
 acquitted, or received an equivalent, is not by the law of the land 
 deemed innocent ?
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 91 
 
 ON 
 
 THE QUEEN'S 
 
 LATE INDISPOSITION AND RECOVERY. 
 
 When the loud trump convey'd the news by sound, 
 A gloomy cast o'erspread the Heav'ns around ; 
 Darkness came o'er the spirits of the deep, 
 And Nature's self seem'd wrapt in sorrow's sleep. 
 
 But gracious Heav'n decrees his blessing- now. 
 And rosy health fresh blooms upon her brow ; 
 May she enjoy a tranquil peace of mind, 
 For in affliction she has been resign'd. 
 And when this mortal life draws to a close, 
 May her asylum be sweet Heav'n's repose !
 
 92 MISCELLANEOIS PIECES. 
 
 ON READING THAT THE BILL OF PAINS AND PENAL- 
 TIES, LATELY PENDING AGAINST HER MA- 
 JESTY, HAD BEEN WITHDRAWN. 
 
 Rejoice, ye Britons! and, of fear devoid, 
 Strike loud the harp, and let the trump applaud ; 
 Swell, swell your vocal notes, beat doubling drums. 
 For lo ! Britannia's Queen in triumph comes. 
 
 Pure as the lily, or the damask-rose. 
 
 Her virtue triumphs o'er her deadly foes ; 
 
 Act then as Britons ; shew that genial worth 
 
 Which freeborn sons inherit from their birth; 
 
 Around her brows plant honorary bays. 
 
 And crown her with fair England's sov'reign praise.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS TIECES. 93 
 
 THE 
 
 MAN OF BLOOD*, 
 
 A SATIRE. 
 
 Oh! wbere's tliis arrani, this consummate knave, 
 Who for no mercy hioks beyond the grave f ! 
 Methinks I see him stretch'd on his deatli-bed, 
 And choirs of demons hov'ring o'er his head ; 
 Who anxious wait till the last gasp of breath, 
 Consigns him to the hungry jaws of deatb. 
 
 * \Vhen in the West Indies, I wrote this satire on an officer 
 (since dead) of hiijh rank in the army, in consequence of his having 
 ordered a girl about eighteen (for little or no crime) to be severely 
 flogged. I made my inquiries relating the circumstance, and all 
 I could learn from his other slaves was — " Massa bad man— 
 Massa flog too much — Massa no good." This fellow was not 
 content with having one driver (the man whose oflice it is to flog 
 these forlorn creatures) but he must have two; that is, one to 
 relieve the other. He also had three stakes planted in the groimd, 
 ui the form of a cross, to which her arms and legs were extended 
 and tied. After the flogging (horril)le to relate !) he ordered one 
 of his other servants to rub her with vinegar and pepper. The 
 poor helpless, and, I may add, innocent slave, died in less than 
 two days. 
 
 f Next to the satisfaction I receive in the prosperity of an 
 honest man, I am best pleased with the confusion of a rascal.
 
 94 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Tremble, tliou wretch, thou first of guilty men ! 
 Not all thy pow'r cau brave the Critic's pen *. 
 E'en Kings and Queens, the fearful and the brave. 
 Have felt the stroke vi^hich poignant satire gave. 
 And thinkst thou then, because so mighty grown, 
 Thou sitt'st secure upon thy martial throne ? 
 Believe it not — for the stern sat'rist's pen 
 Respects the great no more than humble men : 
 All who offend against the laws of God, 
 Shall feel the smart of honest satire's rod. 
 Cease then, vain man, thy former life review. 
 And what you wou'd expect from others — do : 
 Renounce thy guilt, and learn from me to know 
 That earthly joys must from pure virtue flow ; 
 Remember — lest to swift damnation hurl'd — 
 " There is another and a better world." 
 
 • "I tell thee, wretch, search all creation round. 
 In earth, in Heav'n, no subject can be found 
 (Our God alone except) above whose weight. 
 The poet cannot rise and hold his state."
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 95 
 
 TO 
 
 MISS P- 
 
 Mary, awake, and let thy soul 
 Breathe out her tender strains. 
 
 For friendship's zeal without controul. 
 Beats high within my veins. 
 
 Oh, thee, who boasts surpassing worth. 
 
 And art supremely fair. 
 To wish the greatest good on earth 
 
 Hath ever been my care. 
 
 Be sure that in good fortune's reign 
 Thoul't always have a friend * ; 
 
 But shou'd affliction chansie the scene. 
 Then friendship's at an end. 
 
 * In prosperity we are surrounded by a host of friends ; but 
 should we by any unexpected calamity be reduced to penury, our 
 friends (who before grew upon our smiles) shiui us as they would a 
 wild beast. Fordyce gives a beautiful description of a true friend, 
 viz. : — Concerning the man you call your friend, tell me, will 
 he weep witli yon in the hour of your distress ? If misfortunes and 
 losses should oblige you to retire into a walk of life in which you 
 cannot appear with the same liberality as formerly, will he still 
 think himself happy in your society, and, instead of gradually with-
 
 90 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 But when affliction presses hard, 
 
 In each a friend we'll find ; 
 Grief can't diminish thy regard, 
 
 Nor render me less kind. 
 
 When life is drawing to a close 
 
 I'll drop affection's tear ; 
 I'll mourn that death should interpose 
 
 'Tween friendship so sincere. 
 
 And should it please th' Almighty Pow'r 
 That thou should'st first depart, 
 
 I o'er thy silent grave will pour 
 The sorrows of my heart ! 
 
 drawing himself from an unprotitable connexion, take pleasure 
 in professing himself your friend, and cheerfully assist you to 
 support the burden of your afflictions ? When sickness shall call 
 you to retire from the gay and busy scenes of the world, will he 
 follow you into your gloomy retreat, listen with attention to your 
 " tale of symptoms," and minister the balm of consolation to 
 your faintmg spirit ? And, lastly, when death shall burst asunder 
 every earthly tie, will he shed a tear upon your grave, and lodge 
 the dear remembrance of your mutual friendship in his heart as a 
 treasure never to be resigned? The man who will not do all this, 
 may be your companion, but, believe me, he is not your friend."
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 97 
 
 THK 
 
 BEAUTY OF BRIGHTON. 
 
 A COMIC SONG, 
 
 WRITTEN KXPHESSLY FUK THK STAGE. 
 
 You must know, my good people, that in Brighton 
 
 town, 
 A lady once lived of great fame and renown ; 
 She had coral lips, and a beautiful face, 
 And was not deficient in manner and grace. 
 
 She had not only beauty but something else too, 
 Which, if you'll permit me, I'll now show to you, 
 
 (Holding up and shaking a purse of guineas) 
 It is evident then, not in beauty alone, 
 But in what is better this dear angel shone. 
 
 Oh, all the gay sparks went now hunting about 
 In hopes, by good fortune, they'd find the fair out. 
 And while one look'd here, and another look'd there, 
 I vow, my good people, they search'd everywhere. 
 
 H
 
 98 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Twas thought by the blades now a heavenly treat, 
 If they were so lucky this fair one to meet ; 
 And whether it rain'd, hail'd, thunder d, or blow'd, 
 Themselves at the Steyne every evening they show'd. 
 
 But some how or other she seldom was there, 
 She had no inclination to taste the fresh air ; 
 And when that she did, thro' a veil that she wore, 
 They saw, to be sure — but they wish'd to see more. 
 
 There was a young fellow more sharp than the rest, 
 Who said to himself, I will now do my best ; 
 So he went twice a-day to church every Sunday, 
 Tho' he every Sunday had treated like Monday. 
 
 It was in this manner the courtship began. 
 And many there were who now envied the man ; 
 Because, as I told you, 'twas not beauty alone, 
 But in what is better this dear angel shone. 
 
 ( The Singer here leaves the stage, as if the song 
 was finished; hut instantly returns, and 
 commences the other verse.) 
 
 I forgot. Sirs, to mention, she'd a virtuous mind. 
 As chaste as Diana, and yet very kind. 
 Was blest with a beautiful progeny too, 
 And may the same blessing attend all of you !
 
 MISCELLANEOUS VIEfES. 99 
 
 SKETCH OF MANKIMJ* 
 
 WRITTEN BEFORE THE AT.THOR LEFT STHOOL. 
 
 " By hiui that made ine, I ain much more proitd, 
 More inly satisfied to have a crowd 
 Point at me as I pass, and cry—' Tliat's he, 
 A poor but honest man, who dares be free 
 
 * The circumstance which gave rise to this poem, is as follows : 
 On a fine day one of the boys and myself played the truant, and 
 must needs go a bird-nestmg. We had not proceeded far before 
 we espied a rook's nest ; and, as the tree was very high, we went 
 (as was always the case in a hazardous enterprizo) odd and even, 
 who should ascend, and unfortunately it fell to my lot. Up I went, 
 but had scarcely got half way, when downi I came, and so bruised 
 my knee that I was totally unable to walk, which caused great un- 
 easiness to my companion, not on account of my fall, but lest it 
 should lead to his discovery : so off he set and left me to get home 
 the best way I could. Placed in this awkward predicament, I lay 
 in the fiekl for upwards of an hour ; till at last two plougluneu 
 happened to come by and carried me home. 
 
 When I was nearly well, my master one morning came into my 
 bed-room, and said, " I shall remember you, young gentleman, for 
 playing the truant, when you come down to school." And as he 
 was generally as good as his word, I immediately began to hit upon
 
 100 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.' 
 
 Amidst corruption'— than to have a train 
 Of flatt'ring levee slaves to make me vain 
 Of things I ought to blush for ; to run, fly, 
 And live but in the motion of my eye ; 
 When 1 am less than man, my faults t'adore, 
 And make me think that 1 am something more." 
 
 Churchill. 
 
 Happy the mau, who, on the world's great stage, 
 Walks uncorrupted in this sinful age — 
 Pursues the track which his forefathers trod. 
 True to his king, his country, and his God : 
 Who envies not the splendour of the great. 
 But is contented in a low estate* : 
 His house well known to all the neighb'ring poor. 
 Proud to relieve the wretched at his door ; 
 
 a plan how to escape punishment. First, I thought I would once 
 more try the effect of a satire. Then, on the other hand, I re- 
 flected, that if I should be found out, the former lines would im- 
 mediately be laid to my charge, and consequently should be paid 
 off for one and all : so in lieu of this, I thought I would write a 
 poem, which might so please him that he would forgi\e the pimish- 
 ment. My knee, I knew, would keep me to my bed-room for 
 three or four weeks ; and in the event of the poem not being 
 finished, I thought I could sham sick for a little time. Accordingly 
 I set about it, and contrived to put it on his desk the very morning 
 I came down to school. It had the desired effect, and the old 
 gentleman was very good to me ever after. 
 
 * " A contented mind and a good conscience will make a man 
 happy in all conditions."
 
 MISCELLANEOrS PIKCES. 101 
 
 Free from the cares of a rude biislling- life. 
 
 Supremely blest \vi(h a Iviud-hearted wife: 
 
 Of income clear — five hundred pounds will do ; 
 
 What need man more when nature's wants are few * ? 
 
 A small neat cottage — some few miles from town, 
 
 Where stages pass that take folks up and down. 
 
 Oh, this is happiness, yet few, we find, 
 
 Possess'd of such an humble turn of mind ; 
 
 For now the world adopts a dilFrent plan, 
 
 The Ion e of lucre sways the mind of man f ; 
 
 To this vile passion every thing- gives place. 
 
 And vice is held no longer a disgrace. 
 
 Of beasts and birds, of every thing- that moves. 
 
 Still man the worst and the most dang-(;rous proves. 
 
 * Nature's wants are without opulence supplied. 
 
 t The late lAIrs. BarhauUl has made some excellent remarks on 
 this head, namely, " But is it not some reproach upon the 
 economy of Providence, that such a one, who is a mean, dirty, 
 illiterate fellow, w ho cainiot construe the motto of the arms on 
 his coach, should have amassed wealth enough to buy half a nation? 
 Not in the least. He made himself a mean dirty fellow for that 
 end. He has paid his health, his lil>eity, his conscience for it. 
 And will you envy liini his bargain ? But (says the man of letters,) 
 what reward have I then for all my labours ? \Muit reward ? A 
 large comprehensive mind, well jjurgcd from vulgar fears, and 
 perturbations, and prejudices, able to comprehend and interpret 
 the works of man — of God. A rich, flourishing, cultivated mind, 
 pregnant with inexhaustible stores of entertainment and reflection. 
 A perpetual spring of fresh ideas ; and the conscious dignity of 
 superior intelligence. Good heaven ! And what reward ciui you 
 ask besides ?"
 
 102 MISCELLAMX)L8 PIECES. 
 
 Behold the lion (and what beast so mild) 
 The chief of all that range the forest wild ; 
 He, far remote from all the haunts of men. 
 Enjoys contentment in the cavern'd den ; 
 Nor does he (if tradition tell aright) 
 E'er kill, but to allay his appetite. 
 Not so with man — who, terrible to say — 
 Oft murders for revenge or sordid pay. 
 His Maker's image he presumes t' efface. 
 And, in himself, that image to disgrace. 
 But is this all ? No — other sins abound. 
 And vice in every corner may be found. 
 Th' adulterer, who plays a villain's part. 
 Smiles in your face and stabs you to the heart. 
 Perish the base Lothario, whose great joy 
 Is matrimonial comfort to destroy : 
 Who, in a country, civilized and nice, 
 Has made crim. con. a fashionable vice! 
 Perish the slanderer, who dares defame 
 And from his neighbour pillage a good name ! 
 Perish the woman-hater, who rejects 
 The lovely help-male Providence directs ; 
 For woman — charming woman — was design'd 
 To be the pride and glory of mankind *. 
 Oh, whither can we fly, when most distress'd, 
 But to a shelter in the fair one's breast? 
 
 * Without the fair sex the world woiiUl be a wilderness.
 
 MISCELLANKOl S PIECES. 103 
 
 Search every country — all creation round, 
 Woman's the greatest blessing to be found ; 
 Then think not man tliou art the chief on earth, 
 For 'tis to woman that you owe your birth. 
 
 How bold the man who on this world's great stage, 
 
 Lashes the vices of this sinful age! 
 
 He must be certain as the world now goes. 
 
 Instead of friends he gains a host of foes. 
 
 Do you of this the reason wish to know ? 
 
 It is because that every rogue's his foe *. 
 
 Look round the world, and for one honest man t 
 
 How many hundreds choose a difl'erent plan ! 
 
 The scripture says that we are born in sin — 
 
 Tho' fair without, that we are black within. 
 
 Trust not to outward show, for 'tis well known 
 
 That many a parson has disgrac'd his gown. 
 
 Not only parsons — others too, I ween. 
 
 Will wear religion's garb, their vice to screen — 
 
 * The luaa who acts a real, honest, upright part, is he " who 
 will faithfully reprove you to your face, for actions for which others 
 are ridiculing or censuring you behind your back." But a man of 
 this stamp will always have many enemies, because few people like 
 to be told of their errors. 
 
 •f It is equally as hard to find a truly honest man, as it is a true 
 friend.
 
 101 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Will visit church on Sunday — kneel and pray — 
 Yet slander and defraud you the next day*. 
 
 Vile are all those, who for mere paltry gold, 
 Will wed their daughters to some dotards old f ; 
 This is a traffic, infamous indeed, 
 Which must to strife and bitter anguish lead. 
 Love now has grown entirely out of date, 
 'Tis seldom found, I fear, among the great. 
 This is the reason, often in high life. 
 Of separations between man and wife. 
 Marriage, in days of yore, was much rever'd ; 
 The king and beggar equally it cheer' d : 
 
 * There are many who make an ostentatious disphiy of religion, 
 and often pass with the credulous for worthy characters, when if 
 their conduct was narrowly looked into, it would be found a mere 
 cloak for their sins. 
 
 " Their silken smiles, their hypocritic air ; 
 Their meek demeanor, plausible and fair, 
 Are only worn to pave fraud's easier way. 
 And make gull'd virtue fall a surer prey." 
 
 t It is no unusual thing to see parents wed their daughters to old » 
 men of fortune ; but surely such matches, instead of encreasing, 
 can only tend to diminish that harmony and peace, which is the 
 sole basis of conjugal happiness. Priestley's Considerations for 
 the use of young men, are well worth the attention of those who 
 intend entering the marriage state. " The only objection," he 
 says, " that ought to be made to a man's marrying to \vhat is 
 called beneath himself, respects education and manners, and not 
 fortuiie."
 
 MISCEJ.LANEOLS PIECES. ' 105 
 
 For mutual love thev married, and, of course, 
 There was no separation or divorce. 
 But no\v-a-days it is a sort of trade ; 
 They say of a fine girl her fortune's made. 
 Some men imagine that a pretty wife 
 Insures consummate happiness in life : 
 Provided she's as blooming as the rose, 
 That's quite sufficient as the world now goes. 
 But beauty cannot long retain its charms, 
 It quickly fades within a husband's arms ; 
 And they who marry for a face, will find 
 It little signifies without a mind; 
 For sense and beauty seldom are combin'd. 
 
 How often parents 'gainst their children's will 
 Place them in offices they cannot fill. 
 One says, •' My boy shall wear a scarlet coat," 
 Thinking, no doubt, he'll be a man of note ; 
 Although the youngster evidently needs 
 That martial spirit which to honour leads. 
 Another lad may to the law be bred : 
 Who'll put a wig upon an empty heutl. 
 One for the church his parents may design, 
 Although too profligate for a divine. 
 Another Ibr a doctor, tho' he lack 
 Sufficient brains for mountebank or ([uack.
 
 106 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 What is a title ? a mere empty name *, 
 
 Tho' oft the passport thro' the paths of shame. 
 
 And yet (how strange !) oft titles are bestow'd 
 
 On men who never any merit show'd : 
 
 Nay more, they're oft assum'd for sake of pride, 
 
 Or, what's still worse, some treachery to hide. 
 
 It is not all in an exalted station 
 
 Who are entitled to our commendation ; 
 
 For any fool may noble blood inherit ; 
 
 But what of that ? True nobleness is merit. 
 
 A nobleman committeth without blame 
 
 What oft would bring" a commoner to shame f. 
 
 When a great nobleman is named, I choose 
 
 The man and not the title to peruse J . 
 
 * There are three thhisfs wliich mark the distuiction between 
 one man and another. The first prhicipal one is — the rectitude of 
 our conduct. The second — the endowments of the mind. Lastly, 
 fortune and rank. " Nobility is to be considered only as an ima- 
 ginary distinction, unless accompanied with the practice of those 
 generous virtues, by which it ought to be obtained. Titles of 
 honour conferred upon such as liave no personal merit, are at best 
 but the royal stamp set upon base metal. 
 
 f " When a rich man speaketh, every man lioldeth his tongue, 
 and look, what he saith, they extol it to the clouds ; but if a poor 
 man speak, they say, what fellow is this ?" 
 
 I Though an honourable title may be conveyed to posterity, yet 
 the ennolding qualities, which are the soul of greatness, are a 
 sort of incommunicable perfections, and cannot be transferred.
 
 . MISCELl.ANKOl S PIKCIvS. 107 
 
 Let those who like, look up to pedigree, 
 > 
 Tis virtue only that bus weight with me. 
 
 A title often proves lor vice a screen — 
 
 *' My Lord's above't" — " His Grace can't be so 
 
 " mean* " 
 
 While a plain Mister olt encounters blame, 
 
 For bare suspicion tends to brand his name. 
 
 My boyish lays to some may give oflence, 
 
 Tho' void of grace, 1 hope not void of sense f ; 
 
 No pow'r on earth my thoughts shall e'er control. 
 
 Nor shake the independence of my soul : 
 
 As servile flattery I cannot bear, 
 
 With honest freedom I'll my mind declare ; 
 
 If a man could bequeath his virtues by will, and settle his sense and 
 learning upon his heirs, as certainly as he can his lauds, a noble 
 descent would then indeed be a very valualdc privilege." 
 
 * " Who shall go about to cozen fortune, and l)e honoraMe with- 
 out the stamp of merit ? Let none presume to wear an undeserved 
 dignity. Oh that estates, degrees, and offices, were not derived 
 corruptedly ; that clear honor were purchased by the merit of the 
 wearer ! How many then should cover that stand bare ! How 
 many be commanded that command I" 
 
 f " The chief advantage that ancient writers can boast o\cr 
 modern ones, seems owing to simplicity. Every noble truth and 
 sentiment was expressed by the former in a natural manner: in 
 word and phrase simple, perspicuous, au<l incapalde of improve- 
 ment. What then remained for later writers but aftectation, witti- 
 cism, and conceit?"
 
 108 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Yes, spite of hell, I'll always vice oppose*, 
 Tho' at th' expense of a whole host of foes t- 
 The muse, for motives just, holds up to view 
 A picture of mankind, in colours true ; 
 She gives to Virtue, what is virtue's due, 
 Lashing the vices of the sneak in <j^ crew. 
 Who, to gain favour, care not what they do. 
 And these, of which each day affords a test, 
 Do — wonderful to tell — succeed the best J. 
 Well practis'd in dissimulation's guile, 
 They cringe, and fawn, and wound you while they 
 smile : 
 
 * " The blessed saints above in numbers speak 
 
 The praise of God, tho' there all praise is weak ; 
 In numbers here below the bard shall teach 
 Virtue to soar beyond the villaui's reach.'' 
 
 "As to be perfectly just is an attribute of the divine nature, 
 to be so to the utmost of our abilities, is the glory of man." 
 
 t " L'nawed by numbers, follow nature's plan. 
 Assert the rights, or quit the name of man ; 
 Consider well, weigh strictly right and wrong ; 
 Resolve not quick, but once resolv'd, be strong: 
 In spite of dulness, and in si)ite of wit. 
 If to thyself thou canst thyself ac(iuit ; 
 Rather stand up assur'd with conscious pride 
 Alone, than err with millions on thy side." 
 
 + Bare merit does not always succeed. The celebrated Phile- 
 TAS once said to the no less celebrated Alcihiaue.s, " I am sure 
 you arc a man of merit, because you have been so often put by 
 preferment."
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 109 
 
 Tliey act the spaniel's part, whereby they're sure 
 To get a place, perhaps a sinecure : 
 But he who follows this deceitful plau, 
 Is undeserving of the name of man : 
 Tho' to preferment sycophants may rise, 
 They are whal honest men must sure despise. 
 
 Some men in puw'r are fond of flattery's ways, 
 
 The compliments which adulation pays *. 
 And, so delighted with the bended knee. 
 The narrow-minded sycophant may be 
 Assured of iilling the next vacancy. 
 
 Others again — if the muse judge aright — 
 Look on these men in a much different li<'lit. 
 Who'll give to merit what is merit's due. 
 And SLorn the flatt'ry of the smooth-faced crew; 
 Well knowing that of flatt'ry the intent 
 Is to obtain some great emolument — 
 Instinct directs me to appeal to those; 
 For such will be my friends, and not my foes; 
 And were it not for such impartial men 
 Success could ne'er attend the poet's pen. 
 Indeed some poets prostitute their lays 
 By dedicating them to undue praise. 
 
 * •< 
 
 rii(> coin that is most nirrcnt among mankind is flattery."
 
 no MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Making- the wicked good — the proud more vain, 
 
 In hopes some great emolument to gain. 
 
 Thank Heav'n, I'm quite a novice in the art, 
 
 And scorn the bard that acts this double part. 
 
 It seems, that the great secret of their pen 
 
 Consists in flattering all kinds of men ; 
 
 They will ascribe to merit all its due ; 
 
 But what of that ? for they'll praise blockheads too. 
 
 They'll praise all men alike, and ev'n the fair 
 
 Of adulation have an equal share. 
 
 Love-sonnets they'll occasionally write, 
 
 And tales, to suit their purposes, recite. 
 
 In morning visits, when chit-chat abounds. 
 
 What idle rhapsodies — what empty sounds ! 
 
 For want of other prattle, they may say, 
 
 " Oh, ma'am, you look quite beautiful to-day, 
 
 " Fresh as the primrose in the month of May *." 
 
 So fine they write— so well they play their cards, 
 
 They'd be ashamed to know their brother bards. 
 
 By flattery, and by a pack of lies. 
 
 To competence these poetasters rise. 
 
 But simple facts, which strike us to the heart, 
 
 Are better far than flatt'ry's silk-spun art: 
 
 There is a pride in knowing what we write 
 
 Is dictated by conscience, which speaks right. 
 
 * A sweet flower that appears early : it generally blooms in 
 May.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. Ill 
 
 W hen praising virtue where no virtue reigns. 
 
 It may be said indeed — the poet feigns. 
 
 Such praise to deal out shows no little wit ; 
 
 And 'tis the point which many wish to hil : 
 
 Some use perhaps finessing as a prop ; 
 
 It may be so — if they know when to stop : 
 
 But like the poacher trapping a poor hare, 
 
 They're often justly caught in their own snare ; - 
 
 And thus it is — because in lieu of praise 
 
 Contempt is all they meet with for their lays. 
 
 But tho' so many thus themselves disgrace, 
 
 Thank lleav'n, with all our bards 'tis not the case. 
 
 The meritorious do not want our praise, 
 
 For on themselves they an encomium raise. 
 
 If this a paradox you should believe, 
 
 From witty Congreve these four lines I'll give : — 
 
 " Myself I praise, while I thy praise intend, 
 
 " For 'tis some virtue, virtue to comniend ; 
 
 " And next to deeds, which our own honor raise, 
 
 " Is to distinguish them who merit praise." 
 
 'Tis said, " in truth lies all that is sublime, 
 
 " AVhether we write in prose, blank verse, or rhyme." 
 
 Whot hen ,[)rovided the bare fact appear, 
 
 Can justly say my lines are too severe I 
 
 Some fool, no doubt, will always be at hand *, 
 
 To censure what they cannot understand ; 
 
 * " Superior virtue, and superior sense, 
 
 " To knaves and fools will always give offence."
 
 112 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 And most indubitably, when they see 
 Their own vile character drawn to a T*. 
 
 * There were about one hundred and twenty more lines, which 
 comprised the encomiastic part of the Poem, but which have been 
 lost for some time. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 W. Wilson, Printer, r)7, Skianer-Street, London.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below.
 
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