MADRIGAL AND TRULLETTA.
A MOCK-TRAGEDY.
ACTED (Under the Direction of Mr. CIBBER) AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL IN COVENT-GARDEN.
WITH NOTES by the AUTHOR, and Dr. HUMBUG, Critick and Censor-General.
By J. REED.
Things unattempted yet in Prose or Rhyme.
MILTON.
LONDON: Printed for W. REEVE, at
Shakespear's Head, Fleet-Street.
1758.
[Price One Shilling and Six-pence.]
PREFACE.
AS I am under a necessity of giving a preface to the following work, I shall, in the language of our immortal countryman,
imitate the
ROMANS
in brevity,
as
brevity is the soul of wit;
and not be so studious of the necessary ornaments of stile, as of relating FACTS, with the unbiass'd integrity of a faithful and impartial historian. This I have thought fit to premise, that the reader may not imagine he is running over a jumble of
facts and fiction;
since it is but too common, with modern authors of the poetical cast, to lard their prefaces with a set of
ingenious
flourishes, which carry a greater air of rhodomontade than truth.
The following tragedy was originally written in
Italian,
by the celebrated Signior FUNIDOSO DELL'ARUNDO, formerly a ropemaker in
Civita Vecchia;
from which place he prudently retir'd, to avoid the addresses of the lady INQUISITION, who had a strange hankering after his person, on account of his libertinism in religion; for, though a
Catholic
in appearance, he was a
Lutheran
at heart. In the year 1751 he arrived in
London,
with that theatrical family of
Italians,
who gave the town such exquisite pleasure, in the performance of several incomparable
burlettas,
all, or most of which, are said (with what truth I will not venture to ascertain, as I am writing a narrative of FACTS) to be the production of our
hempen genius.
In the following year, which the reader, without my chronological assistance, will be able to discover to be the year 1752, Signior DELL'ARUNDO took shipping for
Newcastle,
with an intention of residing in that part of the world, on account of the cheapness of the necessaries of life, and accordingly settled in a sea port about thirty miles to the southward of that place. He had not been many months in his new residence, till he married a widow, who was somewhat past the
heyday of her blood;
or, to speak less poetically, pretty well stricken in years; and before he had been a dozen moons in his alter'd state, to his great affliction, he lost his lady. I might here, according to the usual prolixity of historians, take up my reader's time, by telling him of what distemper the
Signiora
departed this life; but, as I don't intend to clog my narrative with
useless matters,
I shall be totally silent on the occasion: nay, I am so great a lover of conciseness in history, that I shall not even so far intrude on my candid reader's leisure, as to inform him that the lady died of a fit of the cholic.
As our
Italian phoenomenon
was a great admirer of poetry, it is no wonder, after he had acquir'd a competent knowledge of the
British
language, that he receiv'd so sensible a pleasure from the perusal of the
English
poets. He was so captivated with the
masterly style and expression
of our dramatic authors (especially
the more modern ones)
that he resolv'd to collect the principal beauties in our language, and throw them into a tragedy, form'd on the
British
plan, in his native tongue; which he at length so happily executed, that his performance will
undoubtedly
be an honour to literature in general, and to the
Italian
language in particular.
In
October
1756, our celebrated foreigner departed this life; and, according to the phrase of our diurnal scribblers,
universally lamented by all his acquaintance;
and as a perpetual monument of the friendship, which had long existed between
us,
left his valueable performance to my care, in the following words contain'd in the body of his last will and testament.
Item, I give and devise to my most dear friend, brother bard, and brother rope-maker,
JOSEPH REED,
late of
STOCKTON
aforesaid, now of
KING DAVID'S FORT,
near
Sun-Tavern-Fields, London,
all and singular my piece, production, performance, drama, or tragedy, called
MADRIGAL
and
See Note 1. in the First Act.
TROLLETTA,
with the prologue, epilogue, airs, odes, dirges, and all appurtenances thereunto belonging, or in any wise appertaining; to be translated, alter'd, imitated, and made fit for the
English,
or other stage, by him the said
JOSEPH REED.
I also will and require that the profits, arising from the publication, or theatrical exhibition of the said tragedy, be applied and issued to, and for the sole use, interest, behalf, ad-vantage, and emolument of him the said
JOSEPH REED,
his heirs, executors, administrators, and assigns; only
willing and requiring
of him the said
JOSEPH REED,
after such translation, alteration, or imitation is compleated, that the original
at the sole expence of the said JOSEPH REED,
may be sent to the
Vatican
library at
Rome,
to be there preserv'd as a perpetual monument of my dramatic genius.
I have given this extract to prove my legal title to the Piece; for I must confess, not withstanding that clause in the
bard's
MAGNA CHARTA, call'd
poetica licentia,
I think it little less than downright robbery, to raise any considerable sum from the translation, or alteration of the works of an
exotic
brother, unless such brother, or his descendents, be admitted to go snacks in the profits. I could wish that Mr. POPE had been of my opinion in this particular, but am sorry to tell the world he
was not,
which I think no small blemish in his character. It is universally known this great, tho' little man, pocketed
some thousands
by his translation of the works of MEONIDAS HOMER,
Esq
one of the
fine old Grecians;
yet I could never learn (though I have made very strict enquiry) that he had the gratitude or good manners, to send even a bill of exchange, or bank note of a cool hundred, to any of Mr. HOMER'S lineal descendents. I am aware that some of Mr. POPE'S advocates will be ready to bellow out,
Zounds! the fellow's mad! Where the devil could be find such descendents?
— But pray, gentlemen, why did not your admir'd
little friend
advertise in all the public papers in
Europe,
and
Asia,
to effect such discovery? Instead of this, I could never find he advertis'd at all. — Had he but even issued out a notice to that purpose in our
Daily Advertiser only,
I make no doubt but he would have had, within eight and forty hours of the publication, one or more claimants, who would have proved their lineal descent
upon oath,
which I think is as much satisfaction, as any reasonable person, who is not a downright infidel, would require. — But to return to my subject.
If it be plagiarism, without benefit of clergy, to borrow a few lines from a native author, it is certainly as criminal to steal whole plays from a foreigner. — When I reflect on the prevalency of this iniquitous practice, I am ready to fall down on my
marrowbones,
to return my humble and hearty thanks to goddess NATURE, for so kindly disqualifying me for the perpetration of such offence, by giving me the knowledge
of one language only
— The filching of plays, under cover of translation, heaven knows, is a crime of no short standing — Nay, some of our countrymen have carried their villainy to a yet greater height, and stole plays with little or no alteration at all. Among these abandon'd plagiaries, I am told, was AARON HILL,
Esq
of turgid, altering, and translating memory.
I have heard a report of his
borrowing
the tragedy of ZARA; and, as the story is in few hands, I shall, by way of secret, give it to my readers; at the same time most earnestly conjuring and requiring my said readers that it
may go no further;
for I would not be known to propagate any rumour, to the disadvantage of an author, for whose memory I have so profound a veneration.
In the year one thousand seven hundred and — I have forgot what — Mr. THOMAS HUDSON, then an usher to a grammar-school at
Durham,
now a clergyman in
Northumberland,
translated Mons. VOLTAIRE'S
Zaire.
On sending such translation to
London,
for the perusal and examination of some connoissieur in drama, it unfortunately fell into the hands of a considerable dealer in hats: this
beaverite
having a more delicate taste in the
outside,
than
inside
ornaments of a
head,
gave the piece to a friend for such examination; by means of which friend poor Miss
Zara
fell into the hands of the aforesaid poetical ravisher, AARON, who
Crop'd this fair rose, and rifled all its sweetness,
Then cast it, like a loathsome weed, away.
Otway's Orph.
that is, in plain prose, pilfer'd the copy; and, the better to conceal the theft, gave out that
the piece was absolutely unfit for the stage;
but, notwithstanding such insinuation, in that, or the following season, Miss
Zara
was thrown upon the town, and receiv'd with universal applause. It is true the play,
in the strictest sense,
could not be HUDSON'S, as HILL had misplac'd
a single scene,
and made the
considerable
alteration of
fifty lines or upwards,
by which the property (according to modern authors' latitudinarian notions of
meum
and
tuum) undoubtedly
became his own—The above anecdote I had from Mr. HUDSON; wherefore if brother AARON'S ghost know it to be a fib, I humbly desire the said ghost to take a trip into the
north,
and confront the sermonizer. I shall not pretend to ascertain the truth of this charge, but only offer, as my private opinion,
on the side of the church,
that the stiles of the
English Zara
and
Merope,
(both the same author's in
French)
are almost as different, as those of
Jane Shore
and
Irene.
After this digression, I shall lay before the public my embarrassments concerning this tragedy. Signior DELL'ARUNDO had unfortunately forgot, that his
most dear friend
understood no human language but that of his mother tongue: however, that no pains might be wanting, on my side, to do as much honour as I could to the production of my deceased brother, I got one of the
Opera-Translators
to give me the piece in
English;
but alas! the version was
so very sublime,
that I could not possibly understand any three lines of it together. After this I employ'd my friend, PETER RONE, professor of languages, to give me a literal translation, which answer'd my purpose so well, that I was able to trace many of the beauties, our foreigner had borrow'd from the
English
playwrights. Where the context would allow, I have given the many
striking
passages in the very dress of the respective authors, from whom they were undoubtedly borrow'd: where the text would not allow me such passages in the very words, I have by parody, or imitation, kept as near the
sublime originals
as I possibly could.
Signior DELL'ARUNDO, in a codicil to his will, hath also left me, subject to the aforesaid conditions, the farther legacy of three plays, viz. one Comedy and two Tragedies, called the
Contrast,
the
Distress'd Princess,
and the
Distress'd Wife.
The Comedy is thought to be a tolerable piece; but as to the Tragedies, I must own I think them greatly inferior to the following work. They have no
triumphal entries,
ROMAN
ovations, sacrifices, dirges, processions, ghosts, drums, trumpets, thunder, lightning, battles, miraculous revolutions
(so necessary, according to Mr. BAYES'S rule, to ELEVATE and SURPRIZE) or any of that
sublime rant,
which may be call'd the very soul of modern tragedy. In short, they have nothing but nature, propriety, and simplicity of fable and diction to recommend them. I have been advis'd to lard them plentifully with the above
tragic artillery;
but, so deprav'd is my taste, that I cannot listen to such innovation: I rather chuse to wait till
nature
and
common sense
come into play again on the
British
stage. In the mean time, if the town have a desire to see the theatrical exhibition of the said pieces; and the said town can or will raise me a patron, that hath influence sufficient to procure their representation,
one,
or
more
of the said pieces shall be at the service of the public in the ensuing season.
That nothing might be wanting to render the following production as entertaining as possible, I have prevailed on my learned and ingenious friend, Dr. HUMBUG, to assist me in writing annotations to the piece.
I can hardly conclude this preface, without an intimation of the excellency of Mr. DAVIS in the character of BUCKRAMO. I hope his
voice, figure
and
abilities for the stage
will, in the ensuing season, intitle him to the regard of the Public on a PATENT THEATRE.
PROLOGUE.
YE awful censors of the tragic scene,
Who come, from principle of
fun
or
spleen,
To rob the bard of fame and profit too,
(Rob him of that, which not enriches you,
Othello.
And make him
poor
indeed) for this
one
night
Forgo the pleasantry of
damning spite.
Prologue to Cato.
Our author shuns, in scenes of sound and show,
To move by
buckram
springs of
royal
woe;
Where
struts,
and
starts,
and
twists,
and
lungs
supply
The want of nature, sense, and energy.
He casts his drama in life's
humbler
sphere;
That the
small vulgar,
with the
great,
may share
The mournful pen'orths of his tragic ware.
No hackney'd tale or plan, our bard would chuse
For the sad subject of his
melting
muse:
Hoping from
novelty
to draw renown
(For
novelty's
the darling of the town)
His many
moving
incidents are ta'en,
From whence?
The book and volume of his brain.
Hamlet.
Our bard — (he hopes without offence) presumes
To deck his
mimic play
with borrow'd plumes.
Whene'er the nature of his subject brought
A
known
similitude of tragic thought,
He snatch'd the sentiment
already
penn'd,
Afraid to
alter
what he could not
mend.
Then to his motley scenes give patient ear,
Each line with caution scan, with candour hear;
Your kind compassion with your judgment blend,
Prologue to the Drummer.
Least, in attacking him, you wound a
friend.
Besides the errors in the pointing, please to correct as follows.
In Note 9. p. 3. after
omitting
add
the explanation of.
p. 15. l. 12. for
hum'd
read
humm'd.
p. 18. for
curs
d
read
cursed.
p. 18. l. 16. in the notes, for
akes
read
aches.
p. 19. note 25. for
tipperanian
read
tipperarian.
p. 28. l. 11. in the notes, for
are
read
is.
p. 30. l. 22. in the notes, for
honours
read
honour.
p. 41. l. 7. for
gods
read
o god.
In some of the copies, p. 34. l. 21. for
(bell sounds that dreadful knell)
read
(bells sounds)
that dreadful knell. p. 30. l. 16. for
a street
read
the street.
p. 48. l. 1 and 2. for
Guelderstern
read
Guildenstern.
Dramatis Personae.
MEN.
MADRIGAL, a Bard,
BUCKRAMO, a Taylor, Mr. DAVIS.
STRAPADA, a Cobler, Mr. BLAKEY.
As these TWO were the only persons, who receiv'd the applause of the publick, it is unnecessary to add the names of the other performers.
Ghost of CABBAGINO.
Chiefs of MADRIGAL'S Party.
LYRIC,
ACROSTIC,
FUSTIANO,
EPIGRAM,
Chiefs of BUCKRAMO'S Party.
GOOSINO,
BODKINDA,
PRESSBOARDALIO,
YARDWANDELLI,
Pages to TRULLETTA.
BUTTONELLI,
THIMBLETONIO
WOMEN.
TRULLETTA, a Taylor's Daughter.
SCULLIONA, her Confident.
SCOURELLA, a Chair-Woman.
Poets, Taylors, Drums, Trumpets, Thunder, Lightening, Processions, &c.
SCENE;
St. Giles's
and
West-Smithfield.
In the original it is
Madrigal
and
Trolleta.
As sound may be reckon'd among the primary beauties of the
Italian
drama, I am almost persuaded our author fix'd on TROLLETTA, to render the name of his heroine more musical and harmonious. A
British
author should prefer sense to sound; wherefore I have, by the alteration of a single letter, made it
Trulletta;
the force, the significancy, and the propriety of which name, will be obvious to the most illiterate
English
reader. I wish, for the honour of my country, the preference of sound to sense were confin'd to ITALY only. We have melancholy instances in some of our modern tragedies, that such infection hath reach'd even the
British
climate.
MADRIGAL AND TRULLETTA. A MOCK-TRAGEDY.
ACT I.
SCENE I.
A Garret.
BUCKRAMO, STRAPADA
(embracing.)
In the first six lines of this tragedy, our author seems to have had his eye on the beginning of the 3d act of
Cato,
viz.
Thanks to my stars, I have not rang'd about
The wilds of life, e'er I could find a friend
Nature first pointed out my
Portius
to me,
And early taught me, by her secret force,
To love thy person, e'er I knew thy merit;
Till what was instinct grew up into friendship.
Which lines, tho' extremely beautiful, are far short of the sublimity of our author.
Instead of
thanking his stars,
which is the hackney'd phrase of every mechanic, and
nature pointing out,
he puts into BUBKRAMO'S mouth,
Thanks to all-bounteous fate, whose index hand
Hath pointed out,
&c.
which undoubtedly is more pompous and sublime. Not to mention any thing of
white moments, informing instinct plucking a soul by the sleeve,
and other beauties in this passage; it will be sufficiently apparent to a reader of even ordinary sagacity, how much our author has improved on Mr. ADDISON.
Dr. HUMBUG.
THANKS to all-bounteous fate, whose index hand
Hath pointed out STRAPADA for my friend!
The moments sure were white and lucky all,
A better order of succeeding days
Comes smiling forward, while and lucky all.
Fair Penitent.
When by the sleeve informing instinct pluck'd
BUCKRAMO'S soul, and cried, "BUCKRAMO, list!
"BUCKRAMO, take STRAPADA to thy heart —
Happy BUCKRAMO! Thrice more happy far
The beauty, elegance, and the propriety of this, and the following simile, are scarce to be equalled in any language.
Dr. HUMBUG.
Than whisker'd Turk, who on Elysian plains
Satiates his fancy with immortal nymphs;
Or half-starv'd 'prentice; whose supplying purse
Can gratify, when tiresome shop is shut,
A punning critick of my acquaintance, to whom I lately shew'd this tragedy, made the following remark;
Tripe is partly deriv'd from guts; wherefore your Italian friend hath given the world a proof he had some guts in his brains, when he hit upon this simile.
With tripe, or sausages, his craving maw —
A figure of such universal use among tragic writers, that if I were to give all the examples, which have occur'd to me in the perusal of
English
tragedy, they would make as large a folio, as any of the ancient fathers.
Dr. HUMBUG.
But oh, STRAPADA! oh! my friend, amid
This flow of joy, BUCKRAMO'S soul is pierc'd,
As with a paring knife, or bodkin sharp.
O ye immortal powers! that guard the just,
O ye immortal powers that guard the just,
Watch round his couch, and soften his repose!
Cato.
And govern all contingences below;
With careful watch beset BUCKRAMO'S soul,
And keep, for ever keep it free from woe!
What is it that torments STRAPADA'S friend?
Two games well known to gamblers—The reader may observe, in this definition, that I have imitated the manner of the ingenious N. BAILEY, Philologos. A specimen of this judicious author's abilities may be seen in his explication of the word thunder, which he defines,
"A noise known by persons not deaf."
Hath Put, or Cribbige, with insatiate sweep,
Of all thy coin despoil'd thee, left thee bare
And pennyless? or
salamander
nymph,
Inhabitant of DRURY, from thy fob,
With faithless palm, decoy'd thy gutless watch?
Or infidel retailer of INTIRE
I cannot, in this place, forbear taking notice of the negligence of our dictionary-mongers, in omitting the word INTIRE; or, as it is frequently written, ENTIRE, in the sense I have now used it. I am persuaded they cannot plead the obsoleteness of the word, since there are so many
signal
instances of the use and propriety of it, in and about this metropolis. For want of such previous explanation, I am not ashamed to own, that I was led into a very great error in regard to the true meaning of the word, when I first came to
London.
On seeing
Parsons Intire
at the bottom of a sign, I took it for a laconic advertisement; That intire or finish'd clergymen might be hired, or heard of at that place — This mistake of mine I have thought proper to mention, that the future publishers of dictionaries may not slip over the explanation of a word of such consequence.
Denied a morning draught of purl on tick?
Say why is this? speak, speak, I charge thee speak.
Speak, speak, I charge thee speak.
Hamlet.
If our author had not visibly borrow'd this expression, I should scarce have imagin'd the preceding part of the speech was intended as an imitation of
Horatio
's beautiful address to the ghost.
Yes I will speak; will to STRAPADA tell
The latent secrets of my inmost soul —
Know then — but by the sacred ties of friendship;
A solemn conjuration to secrecy, and of equal importance to the secret about to be revealed — there are so many resemblances of this speech in our dramatic writers, that I hardly know from which of them our
Italian
hath borrow'd.
By all the spangled train of glitt'ring stars;
By my grim father's shade, who pendent died
That no future critick may plume himself with the discovery of a blunder, I have thought proper to inform my readers, it was not the father's shade, but the father himself,
who pendent died
On gallow tree.
On gallow tree, I charge thee keep it lock'd
From mortal cognisance, from human ear,
An alien — yes, STRAPADA — wouldst thou think it?
I am — yes, by the Gods, I am in love.
Ye heavenly powers, in love! astonishment
On my corporeal faculties hath made
Sudden arrest — unsay it, and I'm happy —
Thy head, with melancholly shake, confirms
The doleful truth — ah! what a falling off
Oh!
Hamlet,
what a falling off was there!
Hamlet.
Is here — in love! O lost, undone BUCKRAMO!
But say; what witching nymph with magic glance
Hath stung BUCKRAMO'S soul?
What if it were
TRULLETTA — wouldst thou disapprove the choice?
A very imperial, but
foolish
oath, reply'd the punning critick.
By JOVE'S imperial bird, not I, not I.
The simplicity, beauty, and propriety of this thought cannot be sufficiently admired. Some criticks may possibly disbelieve the story of the
wand'ring Jew;
but that does not at all affect our author in the choice of this image, since fiction, as well as fact, is allowable in poetry. Our Bard liv'd in a country where tradition had greater weight, than in this infidel island. But that our author may not be suppos'd to have taken this image from tradition only, I can assure the world I have seen several editions of the history of this remarkable traveller, and could produce a hundred gentlemen of veracity to attest the like; and as none of our criticks have yet shewn the falsity of such history, it is to me a sufficient proof that there was, is, and must be such a person as the
wand'ring Jew.
A certain modern author hath intimated the image is too low for the dignity of tragedy, and advised the following alternation, viz.
For sure the sun, in his diurnal round,
Nor moon, nor stars, e'er saw a form so fair —
but I would ask the judicious reader, whether, according to our present knowledge of the heavenly bodies, it would not be downright nonsense to talk of the sun, moon, or stars
seeing a form so fair.
Several dramatic authors make no scruple of affirming these bodies are capable of vision, and among the rest the ingenious Mr. ROWE; who says,
— if only
The midnight moon, and silent stars had seen it.
Fair Penitent.
but unless Mr. ROWE means the man in the moon, or the supposed inhabitants of the starry orbs
seeing it,
he must mean nothing at all.
Dr. HUMBUG.
For should the
Wandring Jew,
with restless search,
Rumage this ball of earth from east to west,
From south to north, thro' all its different climes,
He could not find a fairer, lovelier she.
Our author seems to have drawn this beautiful image from the
French-English
song of
Sweet a prittee
Bettee,
den de moon brighter,
Or scow'r pewder, or silver spoon.
No splendent pewter from the scourer's hand
Comes half so bright — shea's beauty might ensnare
— shea's beauty might ensnare
A conqueror'; soul, and made him leave his crown
At random, to be scuffled for by slaves.
Caius Marius.
A miser's soul, and make him leave his bags
At random, to be scuffled for by th' Mob.
So radiant is her form, so more than mortal,
That if perfection were with her compar'd,
This may be stiled, in Mr. BAYES'S phrase, the poetical
non ultra.
Dr. HUMBUG.
'Twould seem imperfect.
Hold thy lavish tongue,
Or jealousy will mad my raging soul.
Far as futurity's untravel'd waste
This and the following line from
Irene,
a tragedy of the sublimest diction in the
English
language.
Dr. HUMBUG.
Lies open to conjecture's dubious ken,
It seems to me thou wilt not, canst not win
The peerless virgin, but by blood and broil:
For MADRIGAL, a Grub-street sonetteer,
Her senses fascinates with magic rhyme.
The bard incessant tunes the sapphic lyre,
And paints her in his song of mien divine.
Well-pleas'd she hearkens to the praiseful strain,
As venal statesmen to the chink of gold;
And deems herself the goddess he pourtrays.
Too well, alas! alas! too well I know
Her fond affection for the starvling bard —
Bard did I say? a ballad-monger rather!
A wilful murderer of sense in rhyme —
Now, by the powers! his ditties scarce outvie
The pasted ornaments of cobler's stalls! —
Do we not know that GARRICK hath refus'd
DAVID GARRICK,
Esq
an actor, and manager of the theatre in
Drury Lane,
in the 18th century. This great man, though not above five feet six inches in stature, was the most celebrated, and universal performer, that ever trod the
British,
or any other stage in the known world. In all his theatrical personations he was so exact a copyer of nature, that it was a proverb in his day, with the best judges of the stage,
Nature and
GARRICK
are the same.
This note, my readers are desired to remember, is made for the benefit of the lovers of drama, in the year two thousand and upwards. It would be an affront to the above gentleman's merit and universality, to add a note, to inform the world who, and what he is; or even to suppose that his memory would not outlive his theatrical performances, at least, a brace of centuries.
The horrid fustian he so vainly stiles
A tragedy, at which the caitiff swears
That GARRICK is a dolt, a goose, a fool?
True, my brave friend: would she, like GARRICK too,
Refuse his suit —
She must; she shall, STRAPADA.
By hell! in spite of all her wayward pride,
I'll have her still — spite of her self, I'll have her:
This may, at first sight, appear a kind of
Tipperarian
rhodomontade; but, according to the method of bringing about many modern marriages, I believe my readers will soon be convinc'd, that several young ladies have been drawn into the nuptial state in spite of their own inclinations: which is all our author means.
Dr. HUMBUG.
Tho' fate, and all the world should join t'oppose me:
Or, by the gods, I'll lay a scene of blood,
Shall make this dwelling horrible to nature!
I'll do't! — bark you, my lord —
Orphan.
Or, by the gods, I'll lay a scene of blood
Shall make her dwelling horrible to nature! —
I'll do't! — hark you, my friend! — this very night!
I'll put her to the trial — should the maid
With uncomplying stubbornness refuse,
On horror's head, horrors accumulate.
Othello.
On horror's head horrors accumulate
Shall wait her mansion — see this trusty bodkin,
And guess the rest.
What means my noble friend?
O blood! Iago, blood!
Ibid.
Blood! blood! STRAPADA, blood! — by th' powers of hell,
— By the powers of hell
I will be drunk with vengeance.
Regicide.
A liquor I never yet heard of.
Dr. HUMBUG.
I will be drunk with vengeance! princely drunk
With blood's rich nectar — I will murder all,
That suck-in vital air beneath her roof!
Nay not a louse shall 'scape to tell the tydings.
How! not a louse escape! a single louse!
On what extremes extreme distress impells me.
Brothers.
An extreme pretty line!
Dr. HUMBUG.
To what extremes extreme revenge impells thee?
What! turn a murderer ten thousand fold,
To glut thy vengeance on the marbled maid!
Thy inclination to shed blood rides post.
Fatal Secret.
If Mr. THEOBALD, at the time of writing this celebrated line, were not riding post on
Pegusus,
we may fairly conclude, there is no such beast as a poetical post-horse.
Dr. HUMBUG.
Thy inclination to shed blood rides post.
Art thou so lost to virtue, to revenge
Thy slighted vows on a poor peaceful tribe;
A harmless people, that have wittingly
Ne'er done thee wrong? — Now, by my awl I swear,
Such cruelty ensanguin'd speaks a mind
Of temp'rament infernal — fare thee well!
I'll never hold communion with thee more:
But from the day-book of my dearest friendship
I'll cross thee out — I love thee yet, BUCKRAMO,
—
Cassio,
I love thee,
But never more be officer of mine.
Othello.
But, never more be intimate of mine.
What means STRAPADA?
Like the faithless boy,
A simile as simple, natural, and beautiful, as ever appear'd in the
English
language.
Dr. HUMBUG.
Who hath by secret felony despoil'd
The feather'd parents of their unfledg'd brood,
To which his partner had an equal claim,
Thus, thus, I ring thee off.
joining his little finger to
BUCKRAMO'S.
O stay! my friend,
A very common tragical expression — nay, I have known many dramatick heroes uttering such complaints, when they have been absolutely
mad
from their first speech in the play. An instance of this
dramatic madness,
may be found in a tragedy, which was publish'd by subscription in the present century.
Dr. HUMBUG.
Or thou wilt run me into madness — nay,
By all the shades of my great ancestry;
By all thy virtuous friendship to SCOURELLA,
The dame, who give me birth, my more than mother,
Oh, my
Sciolto!
oh, my
more
than father!
Fair Penitent. Which phrase may probably mean
grand
father, or
great grand
father.
HUMBUG.
Thou shalt not leave me thus!
Let go my arm;
My friend, Mr. RONE, hath translated it soul; but I am of opinion it ought to be
soal,
as there is an antithesis of
awl
and
end
in the sequel of the line.
Or, on my soal, this awl shall be thy end.
But, hear me, noble youth —
The solemn vow
Hath reach'd the skies, and is recorded there
In characters indelible — forgo
Thy hold! nor vainly hope to shake my purpose.
But think upon our friendship —
Damn our friendship!
What fellowship can virtue have with murder?
Still dost thou hold me! — think on what I've sworn;
Nor dare provoke th'impending blow — unhand me!
Or, by the gods! — nay, if thou'rt obstinate,
Take this, and this.
wounds him with his awl.
SCENE II.
I'm hurt — but not to death:
What are you hurt, lieutenant?
Past all surgery.
Othello.
Yet past all surgery — alas! I've lost
The dear companion of my early youth;
Life's now not worth a quid — O, woe is me!
— O woe is me!
T' have seen what I have seen, seeing what I see!
Hamlet.
T'have seen what I have seen, seeing what I see!
SCENE III.
A Parlour.
TRULLETTA
mournful on a couch;
SCULLIONA
and
SCOURELLA
attending:
BUTTONELLI
playing on a
Jew's Harp, THIMBLETONO
on a
Strum.
See where the lone majestick mourner weeps!
Lost even to musick's power — try, strain each note —
— — —
First in low sympathy of sorrow's softness
Sooth her dejected soul — then start at once
To swells of joy, and storm attention's ear.
Merope.
SEE where she weeps! — lost even to musick's power —
SCOURELLA! try — strain every varied note:
First, in low sympathy of sorrow's softness
Sooth her desponding soul — then start at once
To swells of joy, and storm attention's ear.
SCOURELLA
sings.
AIR 1.
Accompanied by the Jews harp.
This, and the following air, were extracted from that inimitable musical dialogue, between Messieurs
Flute
and
Trumpet
in the same tragedy.
Stay, stay, despair — be gone, vain hoper, go;
Sorrow can hear no voice, but that of woe.
Away with your tears where enjoyment should flow.
Did defiance to pain — let her go, let her go.
Do the gods love complainers? No, no, no.
Ah! 'tis in vain to strive! — farewel, believing;
Death is the sure short road — to shun deceiving.
— — —
Rest and the grave will meet — but ah! — till then
Joy flies, the vain pursuit of hopeless men.
As our author hath borrowed so largely from the above tragedy, I would refer the reader to the opening of that play; which, if he apply to the bookseller for, let me advise him in the
cautionary phrase
of our modern advertisers, to be
careful to ask for
HILL'S Merope.
Vain hoper, begone — stay, despair:
Despair, stay — vain hoper, go, go.
For sorrow no accents should hear,
But those of lamenting and woe.
Believing, farewel — the sure road
Is death all deceiving to shun;
Till plac'd in our clay-cold abode,
Joy flies man's pursuit like a nun.
AIR 2.
Accompanied by the Strum.
Away with your tears, where enjoyment should flow;
Bid defiance to pain — let her go, let her go:
Do the gods love complainers? No, no.
Away with your tears, from your eyes, have them bang'd:
Bid defiance to pain, let her go and be hang'd;
Let her go, let her go, let her go, let her go,
Let her go, and be hang'd, let her go, let her go:
Do the gods love complainers? No, no.
Away — she rises — angels, that have tun'd,
Reward the vocal magic of thy pipe.
SCENE IV.
TRULLETTA, SCULLIONA.
When next thy too-officious kindness tries
Th' harmonious charm of jew's harp, strum, or voice,
Let me have musick solemn all and slow,
Sad-suited to my thoughts — no tydings yet
From my dear father, or my dearer bard?
Our emissary yet hath hardly reach'd
The street
Grubaean,
For the benefit of my less learned readers, I must remark that street
Grubaean
signifies
Grub-street.
residence of bards.
Ah me! the lazy minutes seem to halt
Our heroine seems to be of the same opinion with
Juliet,
where she wishes for
such a charioteer as
Phaeton, &c.
Dr. HUMBUG.
On crutches!
As just an observation as ever was made.
Ibid.
Thus they ever seem to grief.
SCENE V.
TRULLETTA, SCULLIONA, FUSTIANO.
Queen of the verseful kingdom's lord: his heart's
Queen of the kingdom's lord: his heart's high empress.
Merope.
High empress, hail! — this tender greeting sends
Thy bard enamour'd — tho' his bosom feels
Th' incessant flame of love's devouring fire,
Tho' much he wishes to behold thy beauties,
As much, I think, as a fond parent can.
Fair Penitent.
I think a very beautiful line.
Dr. HUMBUG.
As much, I think, as a fond lover can,
And bask him in the sunshine of those eyes;
A very common tragical phrase.
Yet necessary prudence stays his visit,
Till night hath spread her sable mantle o'er
The azure hemisphere — this afternoon —
Probably in imitation of
Oh horrible! oh horrible! most horrible!
Hamlet.
O horrible to tell! most horrible! —
Nine of the verseful train — by all the gods,
Not less than nine — the tuneful sister's number —
Unwary, unintent, uncircumspect,
Or deeply wrapt in meditation, fell
In legal ambush, and were vilely dragg'd
To spunging dome by slaves, that know no mercy.
Ice at my conscious heart were warm compar'd
This line, and following hemestic, from
Merope.
With what thou chill'st my soul with! — hapless nine!
Tear-touch'd,
one of AARON HILL'S sublime epithets.
My tear-touch'd eye, in sympathetic woe,
Wails their disaster.
More I would unfold
Of misery poetic; but my stay
Admits no farther parle — illumin'd maid,
Adieu.
Exit.
O iron-hearted law! what cause
Have bards to curse thy rigour — SCULLIONA,
Thy arm — to my sad chamber guide my steps —
Griess rush on griefs, on passions passions roll,
And in the rapid torrent whelm my soul.
End of the FIRST ACT.
ACT II.
SCENE I.
The Street.
THUS far into the bowels of this street
Thus far into the bowels of this land
We've march'd without impediment.
K. Richard III.
We've march'd without impediment — O night!
This invocation to night is certainly one of the sublimest pieces that ever was written.
Dr. HUMBUG.
Alternate regent of the lapsing hours,
Sister of
chaos,
e'er the upstart sun
And world had being, thou, with sable sway,
Didst rule the uncreated mass of things.
Didst rule the uncreated mass of things.
Paradise Lost.
What golden 'vantage from thine eyeless reign
To mortals flow! beneath thy friendly veil
The meagre bard oft 'scapes the prying ken
Of lurking catchpole, and eludes the touch
This image seems to be borrow'd from that ingenious poem, the
Splendid Shilling.
Unhallow'd. City prigs, of sober seeming,
Quaff their nocturnal beverige, and reel
Unnotic'd home. The painted courtezan,
Who with her quartern, and the liquid food
Of
Indian
shrub, repels the keen attacks
Of raging hunger, all the live long day,
Now in full blazon, with alluring leer,
Patroles the slippery streets — the — but that lovely vision
TRULLETTA
appears at the window.
Forbids all further simile — she beckons —
He comes, TRULLETTA: most refulgent maid,
Thy MADRIGAL — with hasty strides he comes —
The comparison of ladies' eyes with the sun is very frequent in tragedy. Among numberless passages of this kind, that of ROWE is not the least poetical, viz.
Those eyes, which could
his
own fair beams decay,
Might shine for him, and bless the world with day.
Amb. Step.
but the thought of our heroine's eyes eclipsing the sun, is certainly a more striking, and sublime allusion, than ever was yet met with on the subject of eyes.
Dr. HUMBUG.
Now, would the sun, in his meridian glare,
Suffer eclipse from her more radiant eyes.
SCENE II.
MADRIGAL, SCULLIONA.
O! Mr. MADRIGAL, I'm glad you're come.
To all judges of nature, how beautiful must the unaffected simplicity of this line appear! some of our modern wholesale dealers in fustian, would have express'd this image in the following words,
O bard sublime! thy coming glads my soul.
but how far the simplicity of our image excels the force of such rant, I leave the learned to determine.
Dr. HUMBUG.
Thanks, gentle SCULLIONA — for this kindness,
And all thy other curtesies, e'er long
I will fulfil my promise — thy bright charms
Shall be the subject of my tuneful song.
For thee I'll strain each faculty of thought,
Here's room for meditation, even to madness,
Till the mind burst with thinking.
Fair Penitent.
Till my brain burst with thinking — every tongue
Shall chaunt the beauteous SCULLIONA'S name.
In verse immortal I'll record thy charms;
And when dear
A little poem, or sonnet, which was sung by all
Britons,
who had the faculty of humming, or chanting. The sublimity of this little piece was so great, that the connoissieurs affirm'd it to be equal, if not superior to any of the odes, or sonnets, antiquity can boast.
Dr. HUMBUG.
Ally Crocar
is forgot,
Thou shalt be hum'd, or warbled thro' each street,
From
IIyde Park Corner
to
Limehousian Hole
In plain prose,
Limehouse-hole.
.
Our author, in this scene, hath given us a second proof of his knowledge of human nature, in preferring simplicity of expression to a chain of pompous words. In most of our modern tragedies, the chamber maid; or, to speak more politely, the
confident,
is drawn a person of better sense than the mistress (which is indeed sometimes the case) and her diction is generally more elevated; but our author shews his dislike of such practice, by making a chamber maid speak like a chamber maid.
Dr. HUMBUG.
That will be pure! — but come; TRULLETTA waits.
SCENE III.
A Parlour.
MADRIGAL, TRULLETTA.
meeting.
My fair TRULLETTA!
embracing.
Oh! my MADRIGAL!
embracing.
Thou nature's whole perfection in one piece!
Thou nature's whole perfection in one piece!
Orphan.
I'll hold thee thus, till we incorporate,
An original image, and of double beauty of any I ever yet met with in the
English
language.
Dr. HUMBUG.
And make between us an hermaphrodite.
So closely will I clasp thee in my arms,
That the big wedge, which cleaves the knotted oak,
Could hardly rend me from thy lov'd embrace —
Oh! my TRULLETTA, let me press thy lips,
My eager, my devouring lips to thine,
Devours his lips; eats him with hungry kisses.
Alexander the Great.
The expression of eating with hungry kisses is undoubtedly very sublime; but the same author in his
Massacre of Paris,
carries the image yet
higher,
where he says,
And eat your
Marguirite
with your hungry eyes.
The epithet
hungry
is frequently used by tragic authors, which may probably be occasion'd by the hunger they so often expeperience. The sublime Mr.
Banks,
in his
Earl of Essex,
hath the elegant phrase of
hungry nostrils:
with hungry nostrils
waits for my blood,
which last word I am apt to imagine an error of the press: I am of opinion it ought to be read
snuff,
as
snuff
is almost the only food for the nostrils.
Dr. HUMBUG.
And eat thee with my hungry kisses — Now
Ye envying deities
Olympian!
Aquatic!
and
Infernal!
see, behold!
An author of less sagacity, would have only desired the gods to look down.
Dr. HUMBUG.
Look down, look up — confess — but speak the truth —
In my opinion a very reasonable injunction.
Ibid.
Say, would you not ungod yourselves, to be
The happier MADRIGAL? to clasp her thus?
Thus, thus to strain her to your panting bosoms?
To suck th'
Ambrosia
of her
Hybla
lips?
To banquet on her eyes? to be, like me,
This is the
most superlatively grandest
expression, I have met with in any dramatic author, and may justly be called, a carrying the
English
language, as far as it can possibly go.
Dr. HUMBUG.
So more than most superlatively blest.
Alas, my MADRIGAL!
That deep-fetch'd sigh,
Sorrow's sad offspring, speaks thy tender soul
An epithet of vast use, and beauty.
Ibid.
Lab'ring with woe — thy brilliant eyes appear
Studded with pearly drops — oh! let me kiss them off,
These richer jewels, than embowell'd lie
In pregnant
India
's gem-prolific womb —
The most brilliant thought, that ever issued from the womb of the human brain.
Ibid.
Why all this grief? — and is it thus we meet? —
Yes, I must chide; perforce, must chide thee, fair one:
But oh, our meeting was not like the former!
Fair Penitent.
See 38th note of this act.
For, oh! our meeting is not like the former;
When every look, when all our talk was love —
— And all our talk was love.
Orphan.
Yes, changeful beauty! once there was a time,
When my TRULLETTA rush'd into my arms,
Swift as the iron messengers of death,
Forc'd from the mortal engines, whose wide throats
And O! ye mortal engines, whose wide throats
Th' immortal Jove's dread clamours counterfeit.
Othello.
Th'immortal JOVE'S dread clamours counterfeit.
Well might'st thou think my heart encrusted o'er
With marble; or insensible, as rocks,
Should my unfilial niggard eyes refuse
To sympathize my father's threaten'd ruin.
Thou know'st the angry sentence of the law
Hangs heavy o'er him, like a gather'd cloud;
And, e'er to-morrow's journeying sun hath made
His lucid progress to his noon-day summit,
His thread of life, like an unheeded remnant,
Must by the law's fell shears be cut in twain —
Ye gods! what havock does the
Ye gods, what havock does ambition make
Among your works!
Cato.
Our author hath certainly given the world the most striking instance of humanity, and universal benevolence, that was ever known. Though his bread depends on
halter-making,
yet this tender image is a sufficient evidence, that he prefers the welfare of his fellow creatures, to his own private interest. How few such instances of generosity are to be met with among the trading part of mankind!
Dr. HUMBUG.
halter make
Among your works!
Alas! angelic nymph;
Even with a more, far more than filial woe,
I mourn the good old CABBAGINO'S danger:
For, should the fatal noose — the stinging thought
Alas! hath bred ten thousand scorpions here,
And given my very soul a fit of th' gripes:
This line may possibly admit of a cavil among some quibbling criticks; but there are innumerable dramatic authorities to justify our author, and incontestably prove the soul is subject to the disorders of the body. Among such authorities is one of the judicious
Aaron Hill,
Esquire, who says in his
Merope,
And my shock'd soul
akes
at him.
Now if the soul be liable to
akes,
I would ask these pitiful carpers, the criticks, why it may not be as naturally subject to a
fit of the gripes.
Dr. HUMBUG.
That curs
d mercer for a web of velvet —
Web, did I say? by all the gods a remnant!
A paultry remnant! scarce a yard! to bring
Thy venerable father to the tree;
'Tis such infernal cruelty, and ire,
My translator, Mr.
Rone,
hath render'd it
horse-shoe bearded;
but as
circle-bearded
is a more genteel and musical epithet, I have given it, as it now stands in the text.
As circle-bearded
Israelites
would scorn —
Yes; he shall feel the terrors of my rage —
The slave shall feel — I'll tear him all to pieces.
By hell's grim king I will — in black and white —
I'll have a hundred hawkers bellow out,
Before his doors, the venom of my page,
In roar most dreadfully vociferous —
Oh! how I'll gall him — may this carcase rot
Our author, in this spirited image, which is taken from the
Regicide,
hath, in my opinion, follow'd the original too closely; for, with submission to so great a genius as the DOCTOR,
loathsome banquet
seems to border a little on the
tipperanian
idiom.
Dr. HUMBUG.
A loathsome banquet to the fowls of heaven,
If e'er my breast admit a thought to bound,
A single thought, the progress of my rage.
May the revengeful bloodhound never feel
A moment's respite from his gouty pangs:
And all the racking pains, that flesh is heir to,
— That flesh is heir to.
Hamlet.
Shall he accumulated underbear.
Mourning Bride.
May he accumulated underbear!
Eternal moths and mildews haunt his shop!
When, o'er his pipe, th' exhilerating juice
In the original it is
compound quadruple;
which phrase, I apprehend, is not so just as
compound manifold.
It is generally supposed that punch is sometimes made of more ingredients than four; especially when brew'd by the three-penny retailers.
Dr. HUMBUG.
Of punch, that compound manifold, he sips,
May my dear father's grinning spectre rise,
And snatch th' uplifted nipperkin away
From his untasting lips! when from his glass
Our author seems to have had an eye on the following passage in the dedication to
Merope,
viz.
— Life's evening gleam survey,
Nor shake th' out-hast'ning sands, nor bid them stay.
It may not be amiss to inform my less knowing readers, that the said dedication is in rhyme; and that it is indubitably the most sublime, and poetical dedication in the
English
language. There are such a variety of beautiful sentiments, figures, and metaphors in it, that it will bear reading over a thousand times, For my part, I must ingenuously own, the style is so very masterly and poetical, that I am not yet acquainted with all its beauties, tho' I have studied it like an enigma.
Dr. HUMBUG.
Of life th'out-hast'ning sands are shook, may fiends
Hurry the wretch into a hell, more hot
Ten thousandfold than elemental fire:
Then snatch, half-roasted, snatch him to a mount
In icy
Zembla
's keen-congealing clime:
There let him freeze, ye gods! unpitied freeze,
kneels
With shiv'ring limbs, blue nose, and chatt'ring teeth,
A spectacle of horror!
Amen to that, sweet powers!
Othello.
Amen to that, sweet pow'rs! — thy filial prayer
Is register'd above; and he is doom'd
To suffer all thy imprecated curse —
But come, my dearest; dry this crystal sluice!
Thou hast been tender over much, and mourn'd,
Thou hast been tender over-much, and mourn'd
Even too profusely.
Regicide.
Even too profusely mourn'd, thy father's danger —
Madam, 'tis prudent, I confess it is;
This, and the two following lines, verbatim, from the
Brothers.
But is it loving, as true lovers ought,
To be so very prudent in our loves?
What interruption this?
A tragical interrogatory; which, without the imputation of plagiarism, may be used by any dramatic writer.
SCENE IV.
MADRIGAL, TRULLETTA, SCULLIONA, SCOURELLA.
Horror on horror!
O inauspicious hour!
Ha! what portends
This tristful exclamation?
I am come
A secret to disclose, that would awake you,
And I am come a secret to disclose,
That might awake thee, were thou dead already.
Brothers.
If the DOCTOR would be kind enough to give up to the publick this grand restorative nostrum, I am persuaded he would have the thanks of a great many widows and orphans, who are starving for want of their deceas'd supporters.
Dr. HUMBUG.
Were you already dead. — My dearest master —
Alas! that I should ever live to tell it! —
This interrupted manner of telling a melancholy story, is used by a variety of tragic authors.
The best of masters, and the best of friends—
The sweetest, kindest, gentlest CABBAGINO—
Is now —O savage, marble-hearted fate! —
Is now — I cannot tell it for my tears —
A corseful shade.
Alamode de Merope.
O ye immortal gods!
A tragical exclamation — But why
immortal?
An unnecessary epithet, unless intended to convince an audience, that the speaker does not mean the mortal deities in the upper gallery.
Dr. HUMBUG.
Despairing of reprieve (the turnkey thus
Reports) and nobly scorning to be dragg'd
A publick spectacle up
Holborn Hill,
By plenteous draughts of
Juniperian
juice,
Death-dealing liquid, his undaunted soul,
Freed from corporeal limbo.
Oh!
The vocal picture of grief in miniature, and of great service to tragic writers, as it frequently helps to set a broken verse on its heroick legs. For example:
But oh, our meeting was not like the former!
Fair Penitent.
To touch thee's heaven; but to enjoy thee —
oh,
Thou nature's,
&c.
Orphan.
And I'm relaps'd into a coward —
oh,
Bear me,
&c.
Abra-Mule.
Oh!
Oh!
The deed was worthy of a
Roman
soul:
This line is borrow'd, but I cannot recollect from whom.
Dr. HUMBUG.
And sad necessity makes all things just.
A maxim, that may probably be of some comfort to future criminals at the foot of the gallows — I had almost forgot to inform the reader, this line is in
Merope.
Oh! 'tis too much; and life and I are lost.
This beautiful line may be found in
Merope
also.
faints.
Alas! she faints: she dies: — SCOURELLA, haste;
Swift as a witch upon a broomstick fly;
Nay, swifter than the lightning's swiftest speed,
And bring a son of
Galen
to her aid —
Among the many bleeding heroines I have seen on the
British
stage, I remember but one, whose lover had the presence of mind to call an
Aesculapian
to her assistance. If the reader can recollect the lady, I need not inform him that the dedication of our heroe's tragedy is an imitation of the vast reward to the surgeon, whose art should restore her.
The dedication of my tragic piece
To him, who saves her — draw thy smelling phial,
And try the odoriferous charm to lure
Her fleeting spirit back — alas! she's gone!
Gone! irrecoverably gone — she stiffens
A monument of grief — her eyes have lost
Their fire — ah! where is that Promethean heat,
— Where is that Promethean heat
That can thy light relumine!
Othello.
That can their light relumine? — wake, my fair!
Shake off that ghastly ravisher, grim death;
Whose ruffian arms detain thee in his clasp,
Or thy bard rushes on his point to join thee —
Or
Portius
rushes on his sword to join thee.
Cato.
She hears — the fair one hears my well-known voice —
She breathes — she wakes — returning colour 'gins
T'illume her reddening cheek.
Ill-fated hour!
Undone TRULLETTA!
Pious maid! forbear
This heart-felt woe — to her apartment lead —
I'll hence, and for th' interment of thy sire
Make preparation — lovely nymph! farewel!
'Tis heaven to have thee; and without thee hell.
This line is taken from the
Orphan
— Methinks so beautiful a thought should be cloath'd in a more grammatical dress.
Dr. HUMBUG.
End of the SECOND ACT.
ACT III.
SCENE I.
The Street.
A Yearning fondness hangs about me still:
A woman's softness bangs about me still.
Fair Penitent.
I'd give the empire of ten thousand worlds
Our author could not have given a finer demonstration of the virtuous and philosophical character of STRAPADA, than in this and the following line. I could wish that all mankind would imitate our virtuous cobler in the conscientious observance of his vow. He hath so strict a regard to what he has sworn, that he would even give the empires of ten thousand worlds for the bare privilege of unswearing a rash oath. The height of that
yearning fondness
to BUCKRAMO, as our author most pathetically expresses it, could not be more strongly drawn, than in these two happy lines.
Dr. HUMBUG.
For privilege to unswear what I have sworn —
His father was my friend, and taught me first,
This and the two succeeding lines are a distant imitation of somewhat in the character of
Horatio,
in the
Fair Penitent.
With curved awl, to pierce the rugged foal,
And join the horny bristle to the thread.
Such benefits demand no vulgar gratitude —
His mother too — be hush'd, my fluttering soul —
A tragical lullaby, frequently met with in drama.
Dr. HUMBUG.
GOOSINO tells me, he resolves on blood;
A rival's blood: yet, which of them must fall
None but th'
Olympian
gods alone can tell.
Th' event of battle, like a growing foetus,
Lies 'prison'd in futurity's dark womb,
Till midwife time do bring it into birth —
Whoe'er the conqueror, BUCKRAMO dies;
For should he MADRIGAL'S quietus make
It would be loss of time to tell the reader this image is borrow'd from
Shakespear.
With a bare bodkin, justice acts the second,
And brings the victor to the shameful tree —
It is resolv'd
This laconic sentiment may be found in almost every tragedy, but it is a plagiarism from the speech of
Prince Prettyman
in the
Rehearsal.
— I'll watch him to prevent
His rage, and save him from the double danger
Of steel and hempen noose — It shall be so:
It shall be so:
Madness in great ones must not unwatch'd go.
Hamlet.
Madness in taylors must not unwatch'd go.
SCENE II.
STRAPADA, BUCKRAMO.
My ears deceive me, or I heard the voice
Of dear STRAPADA once; but, now alas!
No more my friend — 'tis he — avenging steel!
puts up his bodkin.
Rest here unseen — his lab'ring mind is lock'd
In contemplation's closest cell — I'll try
To rouse him from this trance of thought—what, ho!
STRAPADA!
Ha! — BUCKRAMO! — Thou wast once
My trustiest friend: in my heart's core I wore thee;
Ay in my heart of hearts.
In my heart's core I'll wear him;
Ay, in my heart of hearts.
Ibid.
If we admit the heart to be form'd like an onion, I suppose this phrase means the innermost coat.
Dr. HUMBUG.
Ammonian
JOVE!
As I cannot, with all my sagacity as an editor, trace any imitation of the following prayer, I must conclude it to be an original.
Dr. HUMBUG.
kneeling.
And all ye gods, and goddesses: peruse
The folio of my past and present thoughts!
Peruse it page by page, or in the way
Of modern connoissieurs, videlicet,
Run o'er contents and index — if you find
A wish, unless to have TRULLETTA mine,
Preferr'd to good STRAPADA'S dearest friendship,
Hurl my thrice-thankless spirit vengeful down
Into th' infernal pitchy lake, prepar'd
For negro-soul'd ingratitude.
By
Saturn!
— By heaven!
His father's in his face.
Fair Penitent.
His mother's in his face — the dear SCOURELLA —
It is too much to bear — spite of my vow
This conflict in the bosom of
Strapada
plainly shews, that our author design'd to draw him a man, as well as a philosopher; two characters, which seldom meet in the same person; especially in dramatic philosophers. The struggle is so great, that the tenderness of the man overcomes the stiffness of the sage; and compells him to break that vow, which, a few minutes ago, he would have
given the empire of so many thousand worlds
to forswear with impunity. In the midst of the conflict, we still find him so great a friend to virtue, that he only pardons his repenting friend, on condition of his being
virtuous.
That this frailty, in regard to his vow, may not appear a blemish in the character of our heroic cobler, I must beg leave to inform my readers, that such breach of rash vows, in dramatic heroes, hath seldom or never been counted criminal. I could produce many instances of such frailty; that of
Pierre
in
Venice Preserv'd
may suffice, without quoting further authorities.
Dr. HUMBUG.
I must, I must relent — there is a way
To reinstate thee in my love: be virtuous.
The friends of virtue are STRAPADA'S friends —
Forgo thy black design on MADRIGAL,
And be as dear as ever — what incites thee
To seek his blood?
He robs me of my mistress:
And in return I rob him of his life.
The robber rob, and robbery grows virtue.
Our author seems to have had in view that moral and musical line, viz.
Deceive deceivers, and deceit grows virtue.
Merope.
The subtlety of schools may paint this maxim;
The schools, where learned error stalks abroad
— Faction stalks abroad
In such gigantic strides.
Virginia.
A sentiment that
stalks
very majestically in the road of blank verse.
Dr. HUMBUG.
With such gigantic strides, in wisdom's garb;
But truth, and sound philosophy, disclaim
The paultry dawbing — know, blood thirsty youth!
Know, thou death's orator! dread advocate
O thou death's orator! Dread advocate
For bowelless severity!
Brothers.
A man must have no
bowels,
who cannot feel the force of these wonderful metaphors.
Dr. HUMBUG.
For bowelless severity! forgiveness
Is greater, wiser, manlier bravery
Than wild revenge.
Ha! whither would'st thou lead me?
To virtue, to forgiveness — talk no more
Of fell revenge.
Not talk of it, STRAPADA?
I'll talk of it, tho' hell itself should gape
I'll talk of it tho' hell itself should gape,
And bid me hold my peace.
Hamlet.
And bid me hold my peace — not talk of it?
Not of revenge? the attribute of th' gods,
Revenge the attribute of gods; they stamp'd it
With their great image on our natures.
Venice Preserv'd.
Who stamp it in our natures to impell
Mankind to noblest darings.
Rather call it
The attribute of devils, stamp'd on man
To draw deluded mortals to destruction.
No more, no more — tempt me no more in vain —
No more, no more—tempt me no more in vain.
Black Prince.
My soul is wrought to the sublimest rage
My soul is wrought to the sublimest
rage
Of horrible revenge.
Regicide.
A very sublime way of telling the world he is in a damn'd passion. This image, in my opinion, would be more proper and intelligible, if the word
rage
were alter'd to
pitch.
Dr. HUMBUG.
Of horrible revenge.
And thou art fix'd
On bloody purpose?
Fix'd as
Cambrian
mountain
On its own base, or gaming lords on ruin.
Our author seems to be led away by the prevailing opinion of
Gaming,
which paints it as the effect of idleness and prodigality; but I am not yet so much a slave to vulgar prejudice, as to suppose that idleness and prodigality are the sources of
Gaming.
Yet should we judge of its merits, from its prevalency in the fashionable world, we might rather esteem it to be the effect of a laudable desire of acquiring riches, and a praise-worthy calling; under which character the worst of men insinuate themselves into the company of gentlemen, and nobles. And I am of opinion that the philosopher's stone (notwithstanding all the labours of the chymical tribe) will be found, if ever it be found, by a
gaming
projector.
Dr. HUMBUG.
Then all my flattering hopes of thy reclaim
Are lost; and my shock'd soul akes at thee
And my shock'd soul akes at him.
Merope.
See note 23 of the second act.
: yet
Attend my last request — defer thy purpose,
Till the cold earth, in her parental bosom,
Receive thy venerable master's corse.
E'er long the sad procession will begin:
Then do not with unhallow'd broil prophane
The dread solemnity of funeral rites:
But lend thy kind assistance to support
Thy sorrowing mistress thro' the mournful scence.
This thou wilt promise?
By yon silver lamp,
Less metaphorically speaking, the
moon.
Which stringless hangs, or hangs by string unseen
In azure firmament, I will!
Till then farewel!
SCENE III.
Farewel! — till then farewel! — so hot, my friend?
So very hot? — no matter — let him cool —
He thinks my reason a meer babe, a suckling,
To need the leading-strings of his advice —
But to th' interment — if I should appear
In this unseemly dress, they'll think I come
To laugh and fleer at their solemnity.
To fleer and scorn at our solemnity.
Romeo and Juliet.
Custom, that great, that venerable tyrant
Custom, a venerable tyrant.
Tancred and Sigismunda.
On such occasions, asks, requires, demands
A coat — a coat! — alas! — I have no coat.
In this, and the four following lines, our author hath imitated the complaint of
Othello
for the loss of his wife.
Oh insupportable! — oh heavy hour!
Methinks it now should be a huge eclipse
Of sun and moon, that the affrighted globe
Should yawn at the alteration of my dress —
Of all superfluous cloth necessity
Buckramo
's condition seems to resemble that of
Sharp
in the
Lying Valet.
Hath stripp'd me. My incarcerated coat
Lies in that infidel confinement, whence
Probably in the pawn-broker's custody — This thought has some distant resemblance of,
That undiscovered country from whose bourn
No traveller returns.
Hamlet.
No captive e'er returns unransom'd — how
To fetch the pris'ner thence puzzles the thought —
Lost in a labyrinth, I wander on
The want of these poetical
clews
are often complain'd off by buskin'd heroes.
Dr. HUMBUG.
Without a clew to guide — O dark estate
Of dull mortality! where reptile man,
With all his boasted intuition, is
More blind than reptile mole — GOOSINO'S counsel
Must guide me thro' this maze.
SCENE IV.
An apartment hung with black.
weeping over a coffin.
—
— Hail venerable ghost!
Hail heart-wept Manes of my murder'd lord!
Merope.
O earth-wrong'd goodness!
Ibid.
Hail venerable ghost!
Hail heart-wept Manes of my murder'd sire!
O earth-wrong'd goodness! — in
Newgatian
cell,
This inimitable description of
Newgate
is taken (with very little alteration) from the
Brothers.
That subterranean sepulchre of peace,
That home of horror, hideous nest of crimes,
Guilt's first sad stage in her dark road to hell,
Whose thick-barr'd, sunless passages for air
Do keep alive the wretch, that longs to die,
Was thy majestic eye-beam clos'd in blood.
Merope.
A very majestic description of murder; but rather too much on the sublime for common capacities. — In compassion to the benighted understandings of my countrymen in general, I could with the publisher of the sublime tragedy of
Merope
would, in his next edition of that wonderful production, annex a glossary, that the beauties of that piece might be more universally understood, and comprehended by those, who have not had the good fortune of an academical education.
Dr. HUMBUG.
Was thy majestic eye-beam clos'd in gin;
In the 18th century, the inhabitants of
Great Britain
were very much addicted to drinking a liquid, call'd
Geneva;
or, according to its usual abbreviation,
gin,
which was a slow, but sure poison. They swallow'd it, as the
Turks
do opium, meerly for the sake of intoxication. The consumption of this liquid was so great, that some thousands of
poisoners general,
distinguish'd by the
modest
appellation of
distillers,
got their livelihood; nay, some of them amass'd immense fortunes by the composition of this inebriating spirit. So great was the skill of these chymical poisoners, that they could extract this intoxicating liquor from molosses, juniper-berries, turpentine; nay, I believe, had they set about it, from the upper leathers of old shoes; but the chief, and most benefical principles, from which they could possibly draw this fatal juice, were wheat, barley, or other grain. In the years 1757 and 1758, on account of the real, or artificial scarcity of grain in
England,
these gentry were prohibited the use of it, which so affected the distillery, that, happily for the nation, several of its professors were obliged to leave off their pernicious trades, and launch into less destructive callings. During such prohibition it was remark'd, that human excrement, both
a priori
and
a posteriori
bore an advanced price, which might probably arise from the use of these fragrant materials in distillery. This conjecture is not at all unnatural, as
bread
and
porter,
after they have undergone the internal operations, must still retain some remaining part of their
wheaten
and
malten
qualities. For my part, I am almost confirm'd in this opinion, from the near analogy of flavour between
gin,
and that more
solid
species of excrement, on which the
honours of knighthood
hath been time immemorial conferr'd. After so long a note, it will be almost unnecessary to prove the truth and propriety of our author's stiling
gin,
the
bliss and bane of human life;
especially as drunkenness seems to be the primary happiness of the present age.
This note I have written partly for the present, and partly for the future tense.
Dr. HUMBUG.
In gin, that bliss, and bane of human life —
O could my pious drops recall thy breath,
My sluicing eyes should pour such cataracts
This seems to have been drawn from the following beautiful lines:
Pouring forth tears at such a lavish rate,
That were the world on fire, they might have drown'd
The wrath of beaven, and quench'd the mighty ruin.
Mithridates.
Of ceaseless tears, as would redeluge earth,
And pickle the huge mass in human brine —
The
napping
of the gods is very frequently intimated by tragic authors.
Dr. HUMBUG.
O all ye sleeping gods! why did you thus
Nod o'er your charge supine, and suffer one,
So sagely form'd, to close his death-shrunk reign,
Sagely-form'd,
and
death-shrunk reign:
two dramatic flourishes of the author of
Merope.
By copious swill of gin lethiferous?
Ye should have dash'd the untasted moisture from him —
Did he not dash th' untasted moisture from him.
Cato.
But hence this prophanation! 'tis impiety
To question the just gods, since reason's line
And reason's line wants depth to sound heaven's will.
Merope.
Here are two technical terms, viz.
line
and
sound,
which it behoves me to explain — The
line
in the text is a
lead
or
deep sea line,
a species of cordage, about three quarters of an inch in circumference; to which is fix'd a quantity of lead to make it gravitate, or sink to the bottom more expeditiously, when thrown into the sea to find the depth of water; which is called
sounding.
This, by the by, is a kind of proof that Mr. HILL imagin'd the will of heaven to lie
below,
and not, as commonly suppos'd,
above.
If Mr. HILL, in this remarkable image, had written
length
instead of
depth,
it would have been much more clear and intelligible; but as obscure phrases are generally more poetical than common ones, Mr. HILL was undoubtedly in the right to give the word, as it now stands in the text.
Wants depth to sound th' Olympian will.
SCENE V.
TRULLETTA, GHOST.
Some of our modern connoissieurs in drama mistakenly suppose, a
ghost
is a kind of unnecessary agent in tragedy. To those learned gentlemen, who are of such infidel opinion, I beg leave to recommend the authority of no less ingenious and judicious a writer, than Mr. JOHN GAY, of facetious memory, who in his
What d'ye call it,
puts into the mouth of the sagacious Sir
Roger
this conclusive argument, on the necessity of ghosts in dramatic exhibitions, viz.
A play without a ghost is like — is like — egad it is like nothing.
Dr. HUMBUG.
Dread powers!
What would your awful messenger?
A seeming imitation of
Ye heavenly guards, what would your gracious figure!
Hamlet.
I am
Thy father's spirit, doom'd for many years
To fry in liquid lakes of subtlest fire,
T'attone my manifold, my deadly sins
Of cabbage, and high bills.
Alas! poor ghost!
My furlo from my prison-house is short:
Brief let me be — I come to warn my child
Against — but hark! th' infernal boatswain calls!
A whistle within.
He pipes me hence! — my wasted respite grants
No longer stay — again! — relentless dog!
I come. — but this short prayer — not for my self;
Not for my self, but thee — hear me, all-gracious —
SCENE VI.
'Tis wanting what should follow — Jove should follow;
An imitation of
Osmyn
's complaint in the
Mourning Bride.
But 'tis torn off — why should that word alone
Be torn from his petition?
Quere,
whether a word, with as much propriety, may be said to be torn off from a
verbal,
as from a
written
petition? — This I recommend as a question to be debated by a
certain disputing society.
Dr. HUMBUG.
— why, indeed?
SCENE VII.
This, and the two foregoing scenes, (in imitation of many of our modern tragedies) appear to be introduced on Mr.
Bayes
's principle, viz.
"What a devil is the plot good for but to bring in fine things?"
MADRIGAL, TRULLETTA.
Hail to you horrors! hail thou house of death!
Hail to you horrors! hail thou house of death?
And thou, the lovely mistress of these shades.
Fair Penitent.
And thou, the mournful mistress of these shades!—
But, ha! what means this quivering in thy limbs?
This terror in thy eyes? these ghastly looks?
This image is taken from the greatest connoissieur in human nature that ever existed, I mean our inimitable SHAKESPEAR.
Even such a form, so faint, so spiritless,
So dull, so dead in look, so woe-begone,
Drew PRIAM'S curtain in the dead of night,
And told the mournful tale of blazing Troy.
Alas! some sudden ruin waits TRULLETTA—
My father's spirit hath been here to warn me
'Gainst something fatal, but I know not what;
For just as he began the tender caution,
A noise, not much unlike the catcall's knell,
Abridg'd the mournful tale, and down he sunk
Reluctant; yet obedient to the sound.
O day and night, but this is wond'rous strange!
This line from
Hamlet.
The world's last groan, wrapt in surrounding fires,
This line, and succeeding hemistic, from
Merope.
Had less amaz'd me! — was he cloath'd, or naked?
Cloath'd in his 'custom'd garb from top to toe.
Wore he his beaver on his head? — or cap
With cat-skin lin'd?
His head arm'd
cap a-pe.
With, or without his apron?
With it, Love!
His sandals — shoes, or slippers?
One of each.
His beard was red?
It was, as thou hast seen it,
Almost the colour of the rising moon.
Seem'd it not sing'd?
The above interrogatories, with the major part of the foregoing scene between TRULLETTA and the ghost, an imitation of
Hamlet.
Not in the least.
That's strange! —
I would I had been there!
Hamlet.
I would I had been here! — it must portend
Some festinating evil — but to whom,
Or what, my comprehension fathoms not:
It hath been often observ'd, that mechanics generally speak in the terms of their respective callings. The word
fathoms
is a proof, that our author is not free from this almost-universal absurdity.
Dr. HUMBUG.
This is however sure, so sage a ghost
Would hardly come on an unmeaning errand.
But more of this hereafter — come, my Love!
The sad procession waits — now summon all
Thy reason's fortitude to grapple with
Affliction's potence — hark! —
(Bell sounds.)
that dreadfull knell
O CABBAGINO, is thy passing-bell.
A Procession.
End of the THIRD ACT.
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
An Apartment.
MADRIGAL, TRULLETTA.
THY last sad duties to thy sire are paid:
The grave hath op'd its consecrated maw
To swallow down thy father's hallow'd corse.
For the benefit of our less learned readers, we have thought proper to signify, that the
Stygian tar
is
Charon,
the owner of the
infernal ferry boat.
The
Stygian
tar no longer can refuse
His spirit passage to th'
Elysian
shades.
SCENE II.
MADRIGAL, TRULLETTA, SCULLIONA.
Oh! Sir, these wretched eyes have newly seen
BUCKRAMO skulking 'hind a cobler's stall.
Some hint's officious note had reach'd his ear
Those who are acquainted with the sublimity of Mr. HILL'S style, need not be inform'd from whom this line is borrow'd.
Dr. HUMBUG.
That you was here — In his right hand he bore,
Most terrible to tell! a glitt'ring bodkin;
And ask'd, if I had seen you: I replied,
(Forgive me,
Jove,
the pious falshood!) no:
On which, with sullen aspect, he rejoin'd;
"Well! I may meet him e'er the noon of night."
That is, I presume, when the moon is in her meridian, and not as commonly suppos'd, at midnight—Many tragic authors are fond of this beautiful phrase.
Dr. HUMBUG.
Lean wolves forget to bowl at night's pale noon.
Theodosius.
But see where silent, as the noon of night,
These lovers lie.
Regicide.
Where is the stall, my gentle SCULLIONA?
This line, and the remaining part of the speech from
Hamlet.
Our hero seems to be in greater earnest than the young
Dane,
as he flies with greater expedition to his revenge.
Haste me to know't, that I with wings as swift
As meditation, or the thoughts of love,
May fly to my revenge.
A breathless horror
I am persuaded our author would scarce have ventur'd on this expression, if he had not found it in so correct a writer, as the author of
Eugenia,
for fear of incurring the charge of an
Iricism.
How
breathless horror
can
heave panting at the heart,
is not very obvious to human understandings; but Mr.
Francis
must have undoubtedly been satisfied of the possibility of such an effect, of he would hardly have made use of the expression.
Dr. HUMBUG.
Heaves panting at my heart! — Indeed, my Love,
You must not hence to night: the time is big
With danger.
What! be coop'd within these walls;
Thro' fear of one base cross-legg'd animal,
But the ninth part of manhood? — by
Alcides!
Were there a hundred of the prick-louse tribe,
With each a hundred bodkins in his hands,
I could, with steadfast, and advancing scorn,
I could with steadfast, and advancing scorn,
Look in death's face full-sighted.
Merope.
What could a DRAWCANSIR have said more?
Stare in each phyz, full-sighted — I'll be gone,
And sacrifice a hecatomb of taylors
And sacrifice a hecatomb of priests.
Victim.
Wak'd wrath,
every body knows, is a phrase of
Shakespear.
To my wak'd wrath, while mercy's faintest glympse
Shall shun to reach them.
And mercy's faintest glympse shall shun to reach me.
Merope.
Happy was it for literature, that this great line did not
shun to reach
the sublime skill of
Aaron Hill,
Esquire.
Dr. HUMBUG.
MADRIGAL! forbear,
And do not rush on such eventful broil.
If all their lice were lives,
If all his hairs were lives, my great revenge
Has stomach for them all.
Othello.
my great revenge
Has stomach for them all.
And canst thou leave me,
Disconsolate to mourn thy rashness? — hast thou
So soon forgot me?
Do not rive my heart
Why will you rive my heart with such expressions?
Cato.
With such unkind expressions — Didst thou say
Forget thee? — much indeed must be forgot,
— Much must be forgot,
E'er
Tancred
can forget his
Sigismunda?
Tan. and Sigis.
E'er MADRIGAL forget his fair TRULLETTA —
The gods, that pry into the close recesses
Of every heart, can evidence the love,
The wond'rous love I bear thee — Now, even now,
A flow of fondness gushes from my eyes:
And did not honour's call command me hence,
I would not leave thee for the laurell'd wreath,
That binds a MILTON'S, or a SHAKESPEAR'S brow;
The sirnames of two bards, that will be an honour to
Great Britain
as long as her present language is known. The first the greatest
epic
poet that ever existed; the last so great a dramatic genius. that to him (to imitate his own phrase)
— All the
NINE
did seem to set their seals,
To give the world assurance of a bard.
To this note Dr. HUMBUG hath added,
I am sorry to inform the world, these two immortal men were such latitudinarians in morals, that the former was a
rebel,
and the latter a
deer-stealer.
But, throwing thus my arms about thy neck,
If, throwing thus my arms about thy neck,
I play the boy, and blubber in thy bosom:
Oh, I shall drown thee with my sorrows.
Venice Preserv'd.
Would play the boy, and blubber in thy bosom
Till I had drown'd thee with my streaming tears.
And is it possible that thou should'st love,
Yet leave me thus inhumanly?
Forbear
Cast to the ground this unprevailing woe.
Hamlet.
This unprevailing woe — Alas! 'tis more
Than death to see thee weep!
An expression dragg'd into almost every tragedy.
— but we must part —
O! I could curse this idle bubble, honour;
This fashionable frenzy, that enslaves
The mob polite, that tears me from thy arms? —
Farewel, my Love! — why dost thou hang upon me? —
Release me! give me way! — let go my arm!
Thou shalt not leave me.
Shalt not! have a care;
Thou'lt wake the slumb'ring lyon in my breast:
Our author hath borrow'd this image, but I cannot satisfy she reader's curiosity from whence.
Dr. HUMBUG.
Do not provoke my rage too far — thou know'st
My hasty temper — quit thy stubborn hold,
Or, by the gods, I'll force thee to forego it!
Behold my streaming eyes —
Ha! shall the tears
This hemistic, and the four following lines, which, for their sublimity, may be rank'd with any in the
English
language, are taken verbatim from
Boadicia.
Of abject importunity detain me,
While vengeance, striding from his grizly den
With fell impatience, grinds his iron teeth,
And waits my nod, to satisfy his hunger? —
Not all the tears, that ever yet were shed,
Could stop my rapid course — May JOVE exhaust
— May heaven exhaust
Its thunders on my head; may hell disgorge
Infernal plagues to blast me, if I cease
To persecute the caitif till his blood
Assuage my parch'd revenge.
Regicide.
His thunder on my head! may hell disgorge
Infernal plagues to blast me, if I cease
To persecute the Prick-louse, till his blood
Assuage my parch'd revenge — Oh! my TRULLETTA!
— Oh Rossano!
Or give me way, or thou'rt no more my friend.
Fair Penitent.
Or give me way; or thou'rt no more my friend.
Help, SCULLIONA! SCULLIONA, help
To save my raging bard!
To save me so,
— To save him so,
Were but to lose him surer.
Merope.
Very sublime and laconic!
Dr. HUMBUG.
Were but to lose me surer — quit me, fair ones!
For pity's sake —
With thee a kneeling world
As I cannot recollect from what author I have borrow'd this sentiment, I should take it as a favour, if the said author, or his ghost would give me a letter (post paid) to inform me in which of his performances it may be found; in which case I assure him, that honourable mention shall be made of it in the next publication of this tragedy, if my bookseller have the good fortune to get off the present edition, and courage to venture on a second.
Should sue in vain — Unhand me, gentlewomen!
— Unhand me, gentlemen;
By heaven, I'll make a ghost of him that lets me.
Hamlet.
By hell! I'll make a ghost of her that lets me! —
Nay 'tis in vain to strive — no force can hold me —
Let BROUGHTON, or let SLACK do what he may,
This, and the following line, a parody from the tragedy last mention'd. As these two heroes are so universally known, it would be loss of time to say any thing about them.
Dr. HUM.
The cat will mew, and dog will have his day.
breaks from them.
SCENE III.
TRULLETTA, SCULLIONA.
Then go, inhuman bard! begone for ever —
I vainly hop'd TRULLETTA'S eyes had power
To check th' impetuous sallies of his rage —
So have I heard, with equal suddenness,
This simile, which, for its beauty, propriety, elegance, (and I may justly add, conciseness) for it only consists of
twelve lines,
may be called the master-piece of simile. Allowing the alterations of
scate
for
dolphin,
and
lobster
for
whale;
it is almost verbatim as in the sublime original, which may be found in the close of the third act of
Abra-Mule,
a tragedy written by a
Levitical play-wright.
— My punning friend, on reading this simile, replied, "
So, I see you understand
TRAP."
Ebbing prodigiously the sea withdraw,
And quite defenceless left the scaly race.
The huge scate, which e'er while with wanton pride
Spread his broad fins, and lash'd the foaming tide,
Vainly essay'd to suck the faithless flood
With heaving gills, and tumbled in the mud.
The lobsters, whose great trunks the stars could reach
Flounc'd their huge claws, and panted on the beach.
So have my hopes, whose waves e'er while ran o'er,
And to the skies my towering wishes bore,
Retir'd, and left me gasping on the shore.
SCENE IV.
The Street.
Where is this heroe, famous and renown'd
For wronging innocence, and breaking vows.
Orphan.
Where is this hero, famous and renown'd
For killing vermin, and for botching cloaths? —
What ho! BUCKRAMO!
SCENE V.
MADRIGAL, BUCKRAMO.
Ha! who calls BUCKRAMO,
With lungs so loud, and vehemence so great?
Is it the voice of thunder, or of man?
Buckramo
seems to be in the same perplexity with
Calista,
where she says,
Is it the voice of thunder, or my father?
Fair Penitent.
That such mistake in sounds may not appear unnatural, to the tragic already quoted, I shall add a comic authority, which comes from the mouth of no less ingenious a personage, than Mr.
Scrub
in the
Stratagem.
Archer. "Did you hear nothing of Mrs.
Sullen?"
Scrub. "I did hear something that sounded that way, but whether it was
Sullen
or
Dorinda
I could not distinguish."
Of one, that comes to scourge thy insolence,
Presuming arrogant! unletter'd slave!
The altercation in this scene between our two heroes, seems to be a distant imitation of that
spirited
conference between
Horatio
and
Lothario
in the
Fair Penitent.
Thou little more than a bare tythe of manhood!
The lewdest sland'rer, that e'er broach'd abuse,
One would naturally imagine from this verse, that Mr.
Theobald,
whom envy itself (notwithstanding
Pope
's sarcasm, viz. SHAKESPEAR
of
TIBBALD
sore)
must allow to be a judicious editor, had been a tapster, as well as a critick and play-wright — The curious reader may find the above image in the
Fatal Secret.
Dr. HUMBUG.
Came short of this — Take note, take note, gods,
Take note, take note, O world.
Othello.
Of this reproachful calumny — This railer,
With breath envenom'd, impiously affirms,
Your human figures are but decimals,
But tythes of manhood — Vile, licentious cur!
The very dogs would spurn thy wretched carcase;
Because — it scarce would furnish out a meal.
Go hence! buy food! and get thee into flesh!
— buy food and get thee into flesh.
Romeo and Juliet
'T would grieve my very soul to grace a gibbet
For killing but a shadow.
This from thee!
Thou seeming semblance of the human form,
Made from the shreds, and clippings of mankind!
A king of shreds and patch
.
Hamlet.
Are not thy cross-legg'd tribe th'unsifted mold,
The dross, the leavings of humanity?
Nay, by the powers! your composition is
Of baser matter still, the lumpish dregs,
The refuse vile of animal creation!
The criticks, a set of snarling people, that right or wrong, must always be finding fault; have establish'd it for a standing rule, that dramatic heroes must never be allow'd to degenerate into
Billingsgate
scolds. If authorities were necessary to refute this absurd restriction, I could bring a whole string of examples from our best play-wrights, ancient and modern, to prove the legality of sarcastic raillery and altercation in tragedy. The immortal SHAKESPEAR makes his
Danish
heroe call his
father-uncle-sovereign
A cut-purse of the empire.
A king of shreds and patches.
A vice of kings.
and a great many other names. ROWE makes
Lothario
call his opponent a
tavern-bully, slave, villain, beggar, parasite,
&c. These authorities (to mention no others) will certainly justify the use of a few sarcastic appellations.
Dr. HUMBUG.
Dost thou compare the fashioners of man
With these base botchers of the verseful train?
What are ye but a shrivel'd, half-starv'd race
Of living skeletons? shadows of shadows?
With brains of whirligigs, and limbs of reeds?
A cringing, lying, snarling, monkey tribe,
Probably an imitation of
A skipping, dancing, worthless tribe you are.
Fair Penitent.
That, pack-horse like, jogg thro' the stage of life,
Proud of your senseless jingle?
Awful shades
Of HOMER, SOPHOCLES, EURIPIDES,
A string of versysiers ancient and modern.
VIRGIL, and HORACE, MILTON, SHAKESPEAR, POPE,
Hear this blasphemer of the gods and you!
Was it for this ye toil'd, incessant toil'd,
To polish, and refine that lump of oar,
The mind? — immortal shades! ye gods on earth!
kneels.
Look down from your blest thrones, or laurel groves,
And make this sland'rer feel, to poet's ears,
How sharper, than a serpent's tooth, it is
How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is,
To have a thankless child.
King Lear.
To hear a thankless railer —
rises.
Mark me, caitif!
No single life can expiation make
For this abuse — chuse thou a hundred Knights
Of Cabbage, skill'd in chivalry and arms;
My self, in opposition, will select
As many Garretters — To morrow night,
At twelve, our different prowess shall be tried
On
Smithfield
's flinty plains — Dare ye the combat?
What is beyond the daring of my tribe?
Why, I will meet thee at
West-Smithfield
then.
Why, I will meet thee at
Philippi
then!
Julius Caesar.
SCENE VI.
To-morrow — oh! my better stars, to morrow!—
I cannot help taking notice that our hero's address to the stars is much more rational, than that of
Lothario,
who says,
To-morrow — oh, my better stars, to-morrow
Exert your influence, shine strongly for me!
Fair Penitent.
The combat propos'd by the
Genoese
duelists was to be at ten in the morning; wherefore a petition for the stars to
shine strongly for him
in the
forenoon,
must certainly border a little on the absurd. Our author was within an ace of falling into Mr. ROWE'S mistake; but perceiving the blunder, he sensibly checks himself, and adds,
My gracious stars, I mean to-morrow night.
Dr. HUMBUG.
(My gracious stars! I mean to-morrow night)
Exert your influence! shine strongly for me! —
But, wherefore should I doubt? — now will I steal
To my dear Love, and with assuasive sounds
Allay her sorrow's ferment —
knocks at the door.
Gone to sleep! —
She cannot yet! — again — once more —
knocks.
(at the window)
Who's there,
Whose there,
That comes so rudely to disturb our rest?
Tis I.
Orphan.
That comes so rudely to disturb the house?
'Tis I — the bard.
You have no business here;
My mistress ne'er will see you more — good night.
Blast to my soul's best hope!
Blast to my soul's best hope.
Merope.
A very poetical not of interjection.
Dr. HUMBUG.
— ne'er see me more! —
Chaos is come again
Chaos is come again.
Othello.
— and I am — nothing —
I now am — nothing.
Orphan.
Henceforth I'll live a sad recluse from man,
And in some shady grove, or lonely cell,
Or garret of stupendous height, inclos'd,
(Retirements blest!) where CLIO, heavenly muse,
To whom the rapt'rous charms of song pertain,
Holds frequent visitation, will I write
Ten thousand ditties in TRULLETTA'S praise —
TRULLETTA! most irradiate nymph, in whom
Perfection centers: in whose form the gods
Infus'd an angel's soul: whose fulgent eyes,
With brilliant sparkle, strike adorers thro'
The heart, the lights, the liver, and the — guts:
With her my ditties shall begin; with her
My endless ditties end. Her I'll pursue
Thro' all the vast infinity of thought.
Till death to worms, insatiate cannibals,
Consigns this frame, and sends my widow'd soul
To regions unexplor'd; to realms opake,
Where boiling
Tartarus
roars — Oh! how unlike
The bubbling musick of a purling stream,
Or gently-murmuring rill! to quaff, instead
Of
Helicon,
whole gulps of brimstone down —
Unfragrant bev'rige! unpoetic juice!
SCENE VII.
MADRIGAL, SCOURELLA.
O miserable hour! ill-fated maid!
What of my Love? — O my portending soul!
Ah fatal day to me! poor SCULLIONA
A fatal day to
Sicily!
— The king
Then touches last moments?
Tancred and Sigismunda.
Now touches her last moments — as she climb'd
Into the garret, her too-faithless foot
Slipp'd from the ladder's topmast round; she fell,
And with the fall expires.
O ill-starr'd wench!
— O ill-star'd wench!
Othello.
I saw her in her pangs — her out-stretch'd eye
— His out-stretch'd eye
Strain'd with a death-mix'd tenderness on mine.
Merope.
As
out-stretch'd
an image as ever was
strain'd
from a
muse-mix'd
brain.
Dr. HUMBUG.
Strain'd with a death-mix'd tenderness on mine —
But thy relenting mistress craves an ode,
From thy great muse, for her endanger'd friend.
The pious maid a holy visit means
To
Guildhall
's dome, with solemn invocation,
To sue the GOGAN and MAGOGAN gods,
Gog
and
Magog,
the tutelary deities of
Guildhall,
vulgarly called
the giants.
For danger'd SCULLIONA'S lengthen'd life —
Haste to the cheerless maid, while I in quest
Of barber-surgeon trudge — O cursed spite!
The time is out of joint — O cursed spite!
That ever I was born to set it right.
Hamlet.
That ever I was born to fetch the wight!
An
Invocation
to GOG and MAGOG.
End of the FOURTH ACT.
ACT V.
SCENE I.
An Apartment.
TRULLETTA, SCOURELLA.
Thunder and Lightning.
HEaven's! 'tis a fearful night!
Many of our tragic authors have judiciously usher'd in a dreadful night, by way of prologue or preparative to the catastrophe of their plays. Such preparative seldom fails of success, as it throws a gloomy melancholy o'er the mind, and renders the reader, or audience, more susceptible of the ensuing distress of the performance. It further serves to heighten the character of the hero, or heroine; for certainly nothing can be a stronger proof of the dignity and importance of any personage, than when we are convinced, that even nature itself is mourning the impending fall of her favourites.
Scour.
Tho' age hath snow'd
— Till age
Hath snow'd a hundred winters on thy head.
Constantine.
The word
snow'd,
in the sense now implied, is a favourite metaphor with a variety of authors; yet I am of opinion the thought would be mended, if it were chang'd to
hail'd.
Almost thrice twenty winters on my head,
I never saw a night so terrible —
Most terrible indeed — The moon's eclips'd;
— This dull flame
Sleeps in the socket.
Fair Penitent.
The stars sleep in their sockets: scarce a ray
Of light t'illume the welkin's pitchy cope,
But what the sheeted light'ning's flash affords.
The bursting thunder roars with frightful crack,
As if heaven's magazines were blowing up.
The blust'ring
Boreas,
like a bully, storms,
And threatens to unhinge earth's mass, which rocks
Affrighted on its axis, like a sign.
Owls, magpies, ravens on the chimney tops
Screech, chatter, croak: geese cackle, crickits chirp,
Dogs howl, cats mew, pigs squeak, and asses bray,
In concert dissonant.
This speech is certainly the finest night piece that ever was drawn.
Dr. HUMBUG.
'Tis said, strange sights
Our author, in the following speech, seems to have had the prodigies in
Julius Caesar
in view.
Ibid.
Appear ith' air?
Ten thousand hags and wizzards,
On broomsticks mounted, thro' the frightful sky
Gallop apace their fiery footless steeds —
Gallop apace your fiery-footed steads
Romeo and Juliet.
Squadrons of bodkins, press-boards, yardwands, sheers,
'Gainst penknives, sheets of paper, inkhorns, quills,
Appear drawn up in battailous array
What a triumph must this, and a few of the preceding lines, afford a half-finish'd critick? how will he swell with his wonderful discovery? Methinks I hear him exulting to the following effect. —
I thought I should catch our author tripping! A few lines ago he tells us it was a very dark night; and yet and old woman of
sixty,
whose sight we may naturally imagine to be none of the best, is able to discern with the naked eye such minute objects as bodkins and inkhorns in the air.
To such critick I shall reply,
and pray what is there unnatural in all this? Might not the light'ning enable our matron to make such discovery? Tho' her eyes were none of the best, yet she might discern these objects through ber spectacles; nay, possibly, thro' a telescope. But pray, Sir, who inform'd you of the size of bodkins and inkhorns, which you arbitrarily call such minute objects? Not our author I'm confident. For any thing you know to the contrary, they might be as large as a maypole; nay, as the Monument itself. In short, Sir, if you know any thing of the figure
HYPERBOLE,
which every author hath a right to use, you would have been silent on this occasion. — Besides, with all your sagacity, you cannot even tell whether
SCOURELLA
really saw them or no; from the relation she gives, she may be as naturally suppos'd to have taken the account from those that had seen them, as that she had seen them herself, for it is no uncommon thing now-a-days to see with other people's eyes.
Dr. HUMBUG.
—
Such sights seem certain prologue to the fall
Of mightiest empires, or the crush of worlds.
What is this puny tempest in the sky,
To that my bosom feels! my mind's surcharg'd
With ominous presage — No joy, no comfort
Remains, but what the hopes of lengthen'd life
To SCULLIONA leave — would I were plac'd
With my dear father in his cold last bed! —
I shall not long survive him.
SCENE II.
TRULLETTA, SCOURELLA, BUTTONELLI, THIMBLETONIO.
BUTTONELLI,
And THIMBLETONIO, have you seen my bard?
We have.
Thanks, BUTTONELL; and, gentle THIMBLETONIO.
King. Thanks,
Rosencraus,
and gentle
Guildenstern.
Queen. Thanks,
Guildenstern,
and gentle
Rosencraus.
Hamlet.
Thanks, THIMBLETON; and, gentle BUTTONELLI.
Is he alive and well?
He and BUCKRAMO,
With each a hundred squires, are now preparing —
For dire encounter on the plains of
Smithfield.
O fly with me, TRULLETTA! and prevent
The broil fraternal.
Broil fraternal! ha! —
Let all, except
Gonsalez,
leave the room.
Mourning Bridge.
Let all, except SCOURELLA, leave the room —
Exeunt
But.
and
Thim.
What mean'st thou — by fraternal?
Ask no more;
The secret I'll unravel as we go.
SCENE III.
West-Smithfield.
MADRIGAL, LYRIC, ACROSTIC, FUSTIANO, EPIGRAM,
and their party.
a flourish.
The storm subsides: the full-orb'd moon illumes,
With silver beams, yon cloudless canopy,
And seems, my friends! to smile upon our cause
As the
sun,
by a variety of tragic writers, is describ'd capable of
laughing,
I hope it will not be denied our author to paint the
moon
capable of
smiling.
—
My fellow-warriors! brethren of the muse!
Remember this is the PHARSALIAN field,
That must immortalize the name of Bard,
Or blast it with eternal infamy —
But hark! yon trumpet speaks th'approaching foe —
Charge you their right, ACROSTIC — I and LYRIC
The center — FUSTIANO, you the left —
You, EPIGRAM, must wheel your phalanx round,
And, as your rhyming custom always is,
Gall, sting them in the
rear
— now draw your inkhorns,
And on them make this great, this solemn vow,
(Or else my penknife, with unbatter'd edge,
Or else my sword, with an unbatter'd edge,
I'll sheath again undeeded.
Macbeth.
As I intend in a few months to give the world a compleat edition of SHAKESPEAR'S works, in twenty volumes in folio, it may not, in this place, be amiss to give a specimen of my critical abilities. My 475th note on the tragedy of
Macbeth
runs thus:
Though all the stream of editions concur in reading,
Or else my sword with an unbatter'd edgr,
I'll sheath again undeeded. —
yet I am persuaded our immortal poet, who never wrote a line of fustian in his life, could not be guilty of such a turgid expression. I shall therefore propose three several readings, one of which our poet certainly wrote:
1.
Or else my sword with an
unspatter'd
edge,
I'll sheath again
unspeeded.
—
as if he had said,
or else my sword, with edge
unsprinkled,
or
unsmear'd,
with human gore, I'll sheath again
unspeeded,
i. e.
unsuccessful.
2.
Or else my sword, with an
unbattled
edge,
I'll sheath again
unbleeded — that is,
unbloody.
3.
Or else my sword, with
man-unbatten'd
edge,
I'll sheath again
in dead hide.
—
q. d.
or else my sword, with edge
unbatten'd,
or
unfatten'd with man,
or
the blood of man,
I'll sheath again
in dead hide; that is, in the scabbard. To illustrate this image more fully, it may not be amiss to add, that scabbards are generally made of
dead hides,
or leather. I am apt to think, from the analogy of sound between
in dead hide,
and
undeeded,
that such corruption hath crept into the text.
Dr. HUMBUG.
I'll sheath again undeeded) that each bard,
Who 'scapes the battle's rage, in pompous lays
Will paint the glories of a brother slain;
That every son of verse, who falls this night,
May live immortal in a brother's song —
The concern of our hero for the immortality of his poetical brethren, is certainly a very masterly stroke.
Dr. HUMBUG.
Your inkhorns to your lips
Probably a distant imitation of
But still your singers on your lips, my friends.
Hamlet.
— this do you swear;
— This do you swear,
As grace and mercy at your most need help you.
Hamlet.
As rhyme and numbers at your most need help you.
We swear.
Then let us all embrace.
Now on.
The tecbir?
Clio,
and
Trulletta
's eyes.
The word is vict'ry, and
Eudocia
's eyes.
Siege Damascus.
SCENE IV.
BUCKRAMO, GOOSINO, BODKINDA, PRESSBOARDALIO, YARDWANDELLI,
and the rest of their party.
a flourish.
Thy train-band lore in martial science asks
The chief command, GOOSINO — be it thine —
BODKINDA, PRESSBOARDALIO, YARDWANDELLI,
Sons of the needle all, the foes at hand.
Now act like men; or by yon azure heaven —
This line from
Cato.
The word of onset?
Cabbage, and
Saint George.
Then, slaughter and black vengeance, fall on gruff;
And damn'd be they that first cry,
hold, enough.
— Fall on,
Macduff;
And damn'd be he that first cries hold, enough.
Macbeth.
fight off the stage.
SCENE V.
BUCKRAMO,
and a
TAYLOR.
Haste to GOOSINO, bid him turn his force
On EPIGRAM, or all is lost: our rear
Gives way — by hell, they fly! the dastards fly! —
Perdition! sulphur! vengeance! death and devils!
Distraction! fury! sorrow, shame and death.
Fair Penitent.
Excursions.
SCENE VI.
This, and the three following lines, an imitation of a speech in King
Richard the Third.
A shield! a shield! my Genius for a shield!
I think there be ten BUCKRAMS in the field,
Nine I have slain to-day instead of him.
A shield! a shield! my Genius for a shield!
Excursions.
SCENE VII.
EPIGRAM, BODKINDA,
and three of
BUCKRAMO'S
Party.
Submit, or die.
No: such divinity
There's such divinity doth hedge a king.
Hamlet.
A bard might as reasonably expect such
divine hedge
as a regicide, parricide, adulterer and usurper.
Dr. HUMBUG.
Doth hedge a bard, that my great spirit smiles
The soul secure in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.
Cato.
At your drawn bodkins, and defies their points —
The gods take care of EPIGRAM.
The gods take care of
Cato!
Ibid.
Then this
all wound him.
To try their care.
all wound him.
And this.
all wound him.
And this.
all wound him.
And this.
all wound him.
Et tu, BODKINDA? — then fall EPIGRAM.
Et tu,
Brute
— then fall
Caesar.
Julius Caesar.
A very pathetical last dying speech!
Dr. HUMBUG.
Dies.
This for thy coat unpaid — thy waistcoat this —
— This for my Father;
This for
Sciolto;
and this last for
Altamont.
Fair Penitent.
And this thy breeches — now to further slaughter.
Excursions.
SCENE VIII.
MADRIGAL, LYRIC,
and
Bards
in pursuit,
As Mr. BAYES makes his two kings speak
French
to shew their breeding; our author makes his heroe speak
Latin,
to shew his education. A dash of
Latin
gives great spirit to tragic writings, and is often us'd with great success by dramatic authors.
Victoria! Victoria!
they fly!
Like hares pursued the base plebeans fly! —
Io triumphe!
— such another blow
Will end the war, and crown with victory
Compleat our arms puissant — valiant LYRIC!
The greatest chief, antiquity can boast,
Might wonder at the wonders thou hast done.
How shall acknowledgment enough reward
How shall acknowledgment enough reward
Thy worth unparallell'd?
Regicide.
Thy worth unparallel'd?
You touch me there,
Where modesty most exquisitely feels.
— That wounds me there; there, where the human heart
Most exquisitely feels.
Tancred and Sigismunda.
You bleed, my prince!
A scratch from BUCKRAM'S point:
No more.
SCENE IX.
MADRIGAL, LYRIC, POET.
Away, my chief; the day is lost!
GOOSINO to the flying foe oppos'd
His ireful point, and cut off all retreat —
Like hunted boars, in wild despair they turn'd
On their pursuers, madly fought, and conquer'd —
Heaps of
Parnassian
carcases are pil'd
Olympus
-high — ACROSTIC bites the plain —
FUSTIANO fled — scarce half a score of bards
Are left alive to grace the victor's car.
Death and damnation! oh!
— Death and damnation, oh!
Othello.
I bring alas!
Yet heavier tydings — With dishevell'd hair,
Probably in imitation of
the mobled queen.
Hamlet.
Thy mobless queen rush'd through the ranks of death,
Almost alone, amidst a croud of foes,
But found him compass'd by
Lothario
's faction,
Almost alone, amidst a croud of foes.
Fair Penitent.
In search of thee — a random bodkin reach'd
Her tender bosom — but I can no more —
Tears choak my utt'rance.
O ye cruel gods!
SCENE X.
To them
TRULLETTA,
supported by her Pages.
Now have I reach'd my wishes utmost goal
I should be glad to inform the reader from whom this image is borrow'd. I have read upwards of two hundred plays to find it, but in vain. — Our author acknowledges it is not his own, but cannot recollect from whom it is taken.
Dr. HUMBUG.
To die in MADRIGAL'S blest arms.
Alas!
A very pertinent epithet as
Trulletta
was slain by a bodkin; and, in my opinion, as beautiful as the
iron teeth
in
Boadicia.
See note 18 in the fourth act.
The iron hand of death is on thee — e'er
Life's lamp be quite extinguish'd, speak, oh! speak
Some peace, some comfort to thy mournful bard!
May the shrill catcall's knell, the boxes sneer,
This dying speech and prayer of our heroine is an original, and perhaps one of the finest pieces of dramatic painting in the whole world of literature.
Dr. HUMBUG.
The hiss of faction, or the templar's groan,
Ne'er blast thy muse's offspring on the stage!
But heels, sticks, hands, in thund'ring peals, attend
Thy race dramatic to their thrice-third night —
May ever-blooming laurels crown thy brow,
And fame — immortal fame — the rest is silence.
Dies.
Dead! dead! oh dead! — is there no death for me?
Dead! dead! oh, dead! Is there no death for me?
Sophonisba.
Hold thy rash hand — this widow'd isle would mourn,
Tears of
blood
frequently occur in tragic productions.
— These tears, which from my wounded heart,
Bleed at my eyes.
Spanish Friar.
In tears of blood, the loss of such a bard.
Think of immortal fame, and deathless honours —
Live, and pursue the labours of thy muse;
And all eternity is thine.
How die
How die the thoughts of death!
Brothers.
An uncommon expression, but of vast force, and significancy.
Dr. HUMBUG.
The thoughts of death in friendship's soft persuasion! —
Yes thou hast rous'd me into life again,
And last posterity's posterity
A very beautiful thought, yet it savours pretty strong of
Tipperary.
Ibid.
Shall bless thee for thy counsel — Gods! cruel gods!
Take notice, I forgive you
Gods! cruel gods, take notice, I forgive you.
Theodosius.
An instance of great benevolence and charity!
Dr. HUMBUG.
— yet, my LYRIC!
Something like poison courses thro' my veins,
Some deadly draught, some enemy to life,
Boils in my bowels, and works out my soul.
Don Sebastian.
Boils in my bowels, and works out my soul.
'Tis fancy all — and yet thy looks are chang'd.
Let me sink gently down on the cold ground —
O I am all on fire! a thousand hells
Blaze in my bosom! streams of molten lead
A bolt of ice runs hissing through my bowels.
Alexander.
Hiss thro' my veins, and burn my body up —
LYRIC! I die — my posthumous productions
This paternal regard in our hero for the orphan children of his brain, is a very masterly touch.
Dr. HUMBUG.
I leave to thy correcting hand — with care,
O! with the greatest care, my dearest friend,
Revise, and to the flames commit whate'er
Shall seem unworthy my great muse — my fame
Is in thy hands — Remember the vast trust —
I cannot recollect from whence this image is taken.
My grateful ghost shall rise to thank thee for't.
SCENE XI.
MADRIGAL, LYRIC, BUCKRAMO, STRAPADA, SCOURELLA, GOOSINO, BODKINDA, PRESSBOARDALIO, YARDWANDELLI,
Pages, and the conquering Party, with Prisoners.
Got by a templar, while my father liv'd
Our author, more sensibly to heighten the distress of the piece, hath judiciously brought about a discovery that cannot fail of having its proper effect. Discoveries of this kind, and introduced for the same purpose, are frequently met with in dramatic writings.
Dr. HUMBUG.
In cruel exile on
Columbian
shores!
This cruel exile probably means transportation. This conjecture seems to be strengthen'd by what we are told of BUCKRAMO'S father in the first act, viz. that he
pendent died
On gallow tree.
Ibid.
Then I am sentenc'd to eternal woe! —
Eternal? yes, eternal, and eternal —
Eternal? yes, eternal; and eternal.
Brothers.
Our author might have mended this line, both as to sense and sound, if he had not stuck so close to the DOCTOR — as thus:
Eternal? Yes, eternal; and
infernal.
Honour'd SCOURELLA, had I known but this
A little hour ago
This hand —
A little hour ago was given to me.
Tan. and Sigis.
By the phrase of
little hour,
I presume we are to understand about three quarters of an hour.
Dr. HUMBUG.
we might have liv'd
In amity fraternal — but alas!
When stern BELLONA seem'd, with step-dame look
To lour upon our arms, I daub'd this point
And for this purpose I'll anoint my sword:
I bought an unction of a mountebank,
So mortal —
that no cataplasm so rare —
— can save the thing from death,
That is but scratch'd withal.
Hamlet.
This long quotation I have thought proper to give, that the reader might not too hastily imagine the manner of our heroe's death in the least unnatural.
Dr. HUMBUG.
With unguent, bought of mountebank so pois'nous,
That if the
Aesculapian
deity,
Instead of my poor brother, had been scratch'd,
— A poison of such deadly force,
Should
Aesculapius
drink it, in five hours,
(For then it works) the god himself were mortal.
Alexander the Great.
In half an hour the god himself were mortal.
Then thou hast done a deed the very devils
Would startle at — secure the murd'ring chief.
(raving)
Ha! who art thou with catcall in thy hand,
In this, and the following speeches of our hero, the author hath shewn uncommon abilities for painting a mad scene. I must ingenuously own, I think it the most natural madness I ever met with.
Dr. HUMBUG.
Whose looks malign, and yellow eyes bespeak
A jaundic'd mind? — by hell! thou art the monster
Yclep'd a critick — seize him, devils! seize him!
Whip him with scorpion's stings, and rods of iron!
Roast him in elemental fire, and baste
His hissing frame with boiling sulphur, mix'd
With his own gall.
O my poor raging child!
O monster! monster!
beats his breast.
Zembla
's isles of ice
Are in me — how I shiver! — cold! cold! cold!
(
The ghosts of our heroine, and her father, seem to rise on the same important business with those of
Jassiere
and
Pierre
in
Venice Preserved.
Dr. HUMBUG.
Ghosts of
Cabbagino
and
Trulletta
rise.
)
Angels, and ministers of grace, defend me! —
Angels, and ministers of grace defend us.
Hamlet.
They wave me — stay, ye dear illusions; stay!
— Stay, illusion!
Ibid.
I come to join you.
Ghosts descend.
Help! O help to hold him!
Hark! how it thunders!—what a flash was there!
The temple's all on fire — see how the naked clerks
And gownless vestals from the windows leap,
To 'scape the flaming ruin — off your ruffian hands,
Ye damn'd inhuman dogs — ye shall not part us —
Nor gods nor men shall part us.
Victim.
Nor life, nor death, nor heaven, nor hell shall part us —
TRULLETTA — oh! they tear—they tear thee from me —
My feeble arms can hold — no longer hold thee —
This seems to be an imitation of a celebrated actor, who hath the happy art of clipping language in his mock agonies, as
Oh,
Juliet — July —
oh!
Oh my TRULLETTA — TRULLY — TRULL — oh! oh!
Dies.
He's gone! the great, th' immortal bard is gone!
There crack'd the cordage of a noble heart.
Now cracks the cordage of a noble heart!
Hamlet.
Our author shews more of the tradesman, than the bard, in the mention of an hempen manufacture; though I think, as a tradesman, it is not much to his credit to speak of a cracking commodity.
Dr. HUMBUG.
Then drag your chief to justice.
Soft, my friends:
— Soft you —
I've done the state some service, and they know it —
— in
Aleppo
once,
Where a malignant, and a turband
Turk
Beat a
Venetian,
and traduc'd the state:
I took by th' throat the circumcised dog,
And smote him thus.
O bloody period!
Othello.
I've done the craft some service, and they know it.
Once in the noon of night, at
Southwark
fair,
When a malignant barber sadly maul'd
A taylor's 'prentice, and traduc'd the trade,
I took by th' throat the circum-dusty dog,
And smote him thus.
stabs himself with his bodkin and falls.
O bloody period!
Draw near, STRAPADA — nearer yet — attend
My last request — comfort my mourning mother —
Thou long hast lov'd her — take her to thy arms,
Dispel her griefs, and — cheer her orphan age.
Thy will shall be religiously observ'd.
Thy will shall be religiously observ'd.
Cato.
In the representation, instead of this line was added the following speech, which was supply'd by a brother author. Mr.
Davis
perform'd it so inimitably well, that he was oblig'd to
rise from the dead
to speak it a second time.
I thank thee for't — and now, thou flower of friends,
There's but one favour left for me to ask,
Or thee to grant — I pray thee mark it well —
Report my death, just as thou'lt see me play it —
Observe this struggle — See this wriggling twist —
I grind — I writhe — and now I kick — kick out —
A general shudder runs through all my limbs;
And, with a hollow voice, I groan my last — Oh! oh! oh!
Dies.
Thus let me thank thee — and — the rest is — oh!
Dies.
Alas! that in one circling sun alone,
A poor lone mother should her two sons lose!
The gods enable thee to bear the loss —
Let us, my friends, about the sad interment
Of this unhappy pair — BUCKRAMO'S suicide
Forbids the holy rites of funeral —
From hence let fierce contending lovers know
What dire effects from rival discord flow.
'Tis this that shakes each country with alarms,
Gives up hot
youth
a prey to
youthful
arms:
Produces fraud, and cruelty, and strife,
This tragedy originally ended with the line,
Forbids the holy rites of funeral —
on which the punning critick before-mention'd observ'd, it was an
immoral
play. Our author took the hint, but could not be prevailed on to annex a moral. I expostulated with him, in the most friendly manner, on the necessity of such termination of the play; but he very
obstinately
and
whimsically
insisted, that a moral, unless drawn up in the epilogue, was unnatural, because it is an immediate address to the audience; which audidience, the
speaker,
in his dramatic character, cannot with propriety suppose to be present — that it could not properly be spoken by any of the persons in the drama, unless such person had been present during the whole representation, and was consequently acquainted with every incident in the play — that it was an affront to an audience, to suppose them incapable of drawing a moral from the representation — that it was a modern custom, and, in his opinion,
More honour'd in the breach, than the observance.
Hamlet.
that many judicious authors had shewn their dislike of such practise, particularly GAY, who severely satiriz'd it in his ingenious and pithy epilogue to the
What d'ye call it,
viz.
Our stage-play has a moral, and no doubt
You all have wit enough to find it out.
and finally, that our immortal SHAKESPEAR seldom or never concluded any of his plays with a moral.
He was so obstinate on the occasion, that it was with no small difficuity I could prevail on him to suffer me to annex the foregoing moral; which the reader may perceive is taken, with slight alteration, from the most finish'd tragedy, that any language hath yet produced, I mean Mr. ADDISON'S
Cato.
As I have now ended my annotations, and occasionally scatter'd a few
encomia
on the play, it will be naturally expected I should give my summary opinion of its merits, which I shall deliver, not so much with the candour of the friend, as the impartiality of the critick. I shall divide the subject of my remarks into three heads, viz. the fable, the manners, and the diction.
As to the fable — but it had quite slipt my memory, that the printer's boy hath been waiting this half hour at my elbow for the finishing note, wherefore I must defer my criticism, till the next edition of this tragedy.
Dr. HUMBUG.
And robs the guilty world of a BARD'S life.
A Procession.
THE END.
EPILOGUE.
Design'd to be spoken by SCOURELLA.
FROM the dear swain, who promises to wed me,
My curiosity hath hither led me,
To know what fate attends our author's lays;
Videlicet,
the halter, or the bays —
You've heard the cause his buskin'd fourtunes rest on;
To damn, or not 40 damn, is now the question:
Yet e'er his awful judges come to sentence,
List, list,
O!
list
to me, your late acquaintance.
Behind the curtain our dramatic Wight,
(I never saw more miserable sight)
Stalks o'er the stage in deep-dejected air,
A living monument of sad despair,
Soliloquizing thus — "
The die is thrown;
And I must stand or fall by — what? — the town —
The town — perhaps the criticks — there's the rub —
The town encourages, the criticks snub
An author's hope — but how to mercy bend'em —
I'm weary of conjectures — this must end'em.
Pulling out a halter.
Such his complaint, so pitiful his moan,
It would have mollified a heart of stone.
I've told his case to make you cry — or laugh.
Now for a word or two in his behalf.
Ladies and Gents, our bard's but a beginner,
'Twere pity to cut off so young a sinner:
Even
justice
sometimes strains a statute's sense.
To spare a Culprit, in his first offence.
Receive this novel brat with kind applause,
And, if I'm read in divination's laws,
I prophecy — ay, now begin your laughter —
Our
hempen bard
will please you all
hereafter.
ODE to the procession, at the end of the third act.
AIR.
HARK! the bell, with doleful hum,
To the lagging corse cries
come.
To the lagging corse the bell,
Sounds, with doleful hum, this knell.
CABBAGINO,
come away!
Hasten to thy kindred day!
To thy kindred day, O haste!
Faster yet, and yet more fast;
To thy kindred day, O come!
Sounds the bell with doleful bum."
RECITATIVE.
When law had
hemm'd
on death, his foll'wer,
To take our master by the
collar,
We
press'd
him, with our low beseeches,
To
pocket
up all former
breaches,
Nor sit in's
skirts
with such fell strife,
To
prick
him off the
list
of life.
As
buckram
stiff, the
cross-grain'd
glutton,
Regarding not our
suit
a
button;
Replies, give o'er your
sleeveless
whining.
I'll have the
body, hell
the
lining;
Then
singeing hot
pluck'd out his
shears,
Cut off the
remnant
of his years.
AIR.
Mourn, ye beaus, with drooping head;
Mourn, your
second maker
dead.
When nature botch'd the human shape,
And 'stead of man produc'd an
ape,
Our sage's art repair'd the slaw,
And from an
ape
a
beau
could draw.
CHORUS.
Mourn, ye beaus, with drooping head;
Mourn, your
second maker
dead.
GRAND CHORUS.
Hark! the bell, with doleful hum,
Cries, O CABBAGINO!
come.
CABBAGINO,
come away!
Hasten to thy kindred clay!
Hasten to thy kindred tomb!
CABBAGINO!
come, come, come.
ODE to
GOG
and
MAGOG,
at the end of the fourth act.
GUardian LARES of
Guildhall,
Hear a mournful suppliant's call!
Hear a mournful suppliant's call,
Guardian LARES of
Guildhall!
With guardful eye, great GOG attend,
The health of our endanger'd friend!
MAGOG, attend with guardful eye,
Poor SCULLIONA'S agony!
MAGOG and GOG, each, both attend,
The health of our endanger'd friend!
MAGOG and GOG, each, both attend,
The health of our endanger'd friend!
Permit not death, with cruel strife,
To blast her in the
spring
of life;
But, in compassion to our prayers,
To
summer
's verge extend her years;
And when so far you've kindly brought 'em.
Protract her mortal date to
autumn;
And do not then, like niggards, stint her,
But let her live to age's
winter.
And do not then, &c.
The longest life of mortal man,
Is but a short, a little span;
Then send not death, your ghastly porter,
To cut that little span yet shorter.
Then send not death, &c.
GOG and MAGOG, hear, O hear!
GOG and MAGOG, lend an ear!
GOG and MAGOG hear, and save,
SCULLY from a present grave!
SCULLY'S danger'd health restore,
GOG and MAGOG, we implore!
GOG and MAGOG, we implore,
SCULLY'S danger'd health restore!
GOG and MAGOG hear, O hear! &c.
ODE for the procession, at the end of the fifth act.
HE's fled, he's gone! th' immortal bard,
Whose song would charm a savage pard,
Fled to return no more!
Parnassus
drops its towering head,
Apollo
wails the fav'rite dead;
His loss the NINE deplore.
She's fled! the lovely nymph is gone!
Whose charms would fire a breast of stone;
Fled never to return!
Diana
and the
Cyprian
queen,
With ceaseless sighs, and tristful mien,
Their breathless fav'rite mourn.
RECITATIVE.
Of temper sweet, of manners mild —
She was a dear, an only child —
Such harmony his numbers bless'd —
Such dignity her person grac'd —
Such majesty his lays attended —
Such sov'reignty her mein befriended —
He was the tuneful sisters' boast —
And of
St. Giles
's she the toast: —
'Mongst wits he claim'd the highest post, —
'Mongst fairest nymphs she rul'd the roast. —
He was the tuneful sisters' boast,
And of
St. Giles
's she the toast;
'Mongst wits he claim'd the highest post,
'Mongst fairest nymphs she rul'd the roast.
DUETTO.
In one grave were never laid,
Such a BARD, and such a MAID.
CHORUS.
Britons,
mourn! the loss deplore;
Wit and beauty are no more!
Where is now your country's boast?
Fled, alas! forever lost!
Never, never, to return!
Mourn, lamenting
Britons,
mourn!
Mourn your fate, your loss deplore;
Wit and beauty are no more!