To Britons far more noble pleasures fpring,
In native notes whilft Beard and Vincent fing.
Might figure give a title unto fame,
What rival should with Yates difpute her claim;
But justice may not partial trophies raise,
Nor fink the actress in the woman's praise.
Still hand in hand her words and actions go,
And the heart feels more than the features fhew:
For, through the regions of that beauteous face,
We no variety of paffions trace;

Dead to the foft emotions of the heart,
No kindred foftnefs can thofe eyes impart ;
The brow, ftill fix'd in forrow's fullen frame,
Void of diftinction, marks all parts the fame.
What's a fine perfon, or a beauteous face,
Unless deportment gives them decent grace?
Blefs'd with all other requifites to please,
Some want the ftriking elegance of ease;
The curious eye their aukward movement tires;
They feem like puppets led about by wires.
Others, like ftatues, in one poiture still,
Give great ideas of the workman's skill;
Wond'ring, his art we praise the more we view,
And only grieve he gave not motion too.
Weak of themselves are what we beauties call,
It is the manner which gives ftrength to all.
This teaches ev'ry beauty to unite,

And brings them forward in the nobleft light.
Happy in this, behold, amidst the throng,

With tranfient gleam of grace, Hart fweeps along.
If all the wonders of external grace,
A perfon finely turn'd, a mould of face,
Where, union rare, expreffion's lively force
With beauty's fofteft magic holds difcourfe,
Attract the eye; if feelings, void of art,
Rouze the quick paffions, and inflame the heart;
If mufic, fweetly breathing from the tongue,
Captives the ear, Bride must not pass unfung.

When fear, which rank ill-nature terms conceit.
By time and custom conquer'd, shall retreat;
When judgment tutor'd by experience fage,
Shall fhoot abroad, and gather ftrength from age;
When heav'n in mercy fhall the stage release
From the dull flumbers of a still life-piece;
When some stale flow'r, difgraceful to the walk,
Which long hath hung, tho' wither'd on the stalk,
Shall kindly drop, then Bride fhall make her way,
And merit find a paffage to the day;
Brought into action, fhe at once shall raise
Her own renown, and juftify our praise.

Form'd for the tragic scene, to grace the stage,
With rival excellence of love and rage,
Mistress of each foft art, with matchless skill
To turn and wind the paffions as the will;
'To melt the heart with fympathetic woe,
Awake the figh, and teach the tear to flow;
To put on frenzy's wild diftracted glare,
And freeze the foul with horror and despair;
With just defert enroll'd in endless frame,
Confcious of worth fuperior, Cibber came.

When poor Alicia's madd'ning brains are rack'd,
And strongly imag'd griefs her mind diftract;
Struck with her grief, I catch the madness too!
My brain turns round, the headless trunk I view !
The roof cracks, fhakes and falls!-New horrors
rile,

And reafon buried in the ruin lies.

Nobly difdainful of each flavish art,
She makes her first attack upon the heart:
Pleas'd with the fummons, it receives her laws,
And all is filence fympathy, applaufe.

But when, by fond ambition drawn afide,
Giddy with praife, and puff'd with female pride,
She quits the tragic fcene, and, in pretence
To comic merit, breaks down Nature's fence;
I fcarcely can believe my ears or eyes,
Or find out Cibber through the dark disguise.
Pritchard, by nature for the stage design'd,
In perfon graceful, and in sense refin'd;
Her art as much as Nature's friend became,
Her voice as free from blemish as her fame.
Who knows fo well in majefty to please,
Attemper'd with the graceful charms of ease?
When Congreve's favour'd pantomime to grace,
She comes a captive queen of Moorish race;
When love, hate, jealoufy, defpair and rage,
With wildest tumults in her breaft engage;
Still equal to herself is Zara feen;

Her paffions are the paffions of a queen.

When the to murther whets the timorous Thane, I feel ambition rush through every vein; Perfuafion hangs upon her daring tongue, My heart grows flint, and ev'ry nerve's new ftrung. In Comedy-" Nay, there," cries Critic," hold. "Pritchard's for comedy too fat and old. "Who can, with patience, bear the gray coquette, "Or force a laugh with over-grown Julett? "Her fpeech, look, action, humour, all are juft; "But then, her age and figure give disgust."

Are foibles then, and graces of the mind,
In real life, to fize or age confin'd?
Do fpirits flow, and is good breeding plac'd
In any fet circumference of waift?
As we grow old, doth affectation cease,
Or gives not age new vigour to caprice?
If in originals these things appear,
Why fhould we bar them in the copy here?
The nice punctilio mongers of this age,
The grand minute reformers of the stage,
Slaves to propriety of ev'ry kind,

Some ftandard-measure for each part should find,
Which then the best of actors fhall exceed,

Let it devolve to one of fmaller breed.
All actors too upon the back should bear
Certificate of birth ;-time, when ;- -place

where.

For how can critics rightly fix their worth,
Unless they know the minute of their birth?
An audience too, may find too late
That they have clapp'd an actor out of date.
Figure, I own, at firft may give offence,
And harshly strike the eye's too curious fenfe :
But when perfections of the mind break forth,
Humour's chafte fallies, judgment's folid worth;
When the pure genuine flame, by Nature taught,
Springs into fenfe, and ev'ry action's thought;
Before fuch merit all objections fly;
Pritchard's genteel, and Garrick's fix feet high.
Oft have I, Pritchard, feen thy wond'rous skill,
Confefs'd thee great, but find thee greater ftill.
That worth, which shone in scatter'd rays before,
Collected now, breaks forth with double pow'r.
The Jealous Wife! on that thy trophies raise,
Inferior only to the author's praife.

From Dublin, fam'd in legends of romance
For mighty magic of enchanted lance,
With which her heroes arm'd victorious prove,
And like a flood rush o'er the land of love,
Moffop and Barry came-names ne'er defign'd
By fate in the fame sentence to be join'd.
Rais'd by the breath of popular acclaim,
They mounted to the pinnacle of fame;
There the weak brain, made giddy with the height,
Spurr'd on the rival chiefs to mortal fight.
Thus fportive boys, around fome bason's brim,
Behold the pipe-drawn bladders circling swim:
But if from lungs more potent, there arise
Two bubbles of a more than common fize,
Eager for honour they for fight prepare,
Bubble meets bubble, and both fink to air.
Moffop, attach'd to military plan,

Still kept his eye fix'd on his right hand man.
Whilft the mouth measures words with feeming skill,
The right hand labours, and the left lies ftill;
For he refolv'd on fcripture-grounds to go,
What the right, doth, the left hand-shall not know.
With studied impropriety of speech,
He foars beyond the hackney critic's reach;
To epithets allots emphatic state,

Whilft principals, ungrac'd, like lacquies wait;
In ways first trodden by himself excels,
And ftands alone in undeclinables;
Conjunction, Prepofition, Adverb join
To ftamp new vigour on the nervous line:

In monofyllables his thunders roll,

Grey-bearded vet'rans, who, with partial tongue,
Extol the times when they themselves were young;
Who having loft all relish for the stage,
See not their own defects, but lash the age,
Receiv'd with joyful murmurs of applaufe,
Their darling chief, and lin'd his fav'rite caufe.
Far be it from the candid Muse to tread
Infulting o'er the ashes of the dead,
But, just to living merit, the maintains,
And dares the teft, whilft Garrick's genius reigns
Ancients in vain endeavour to excel,
Happily prais'd, if they could act as well.
But though prescription's force we difallow,
Nor to antiquity fubmiffive bow;
Though we deny imaginary grace,
Founded on accidents of time and place;
Yet real worth of ev'ry growth fhall bear

Due praife, nor muft we, Quin, forget thee there.
His words bore fterling weight, nervous and ftrong
In manly tides of fenfe they roll'd along.
Happy in art, he chiefly had pretence
To keep up numbers, yet not forfeit sense.
No actor ever greater heights could reach
In all the labour'd artifice of fpeech.

Speech! Is that all ?-And fhall an actor found
An univerfal fame on partial ground?
Parrots themselves fpeak properly by rote,
And, in fix months, my dog fhall howl by note.
I laugh at thofe, who, when the stage they tread,
Neglect the heart, to compliment the head;

With ftrict propriety their care's confin'd

In perfon taller then the common fize,

Behold where Barry draws admiring eyes!
When lab'ring paffions, in his bofom pent,
Convulfive rage, and struggling heave for vent;
Spectators, with imagin'd terrors warm,
Anxious expect the bursting of the storm:
But, all unfit in fuch a pile to dwell,
His voice comes forth, like Echo from her cell,
To fwell the tempest needful aid denies,
And all a-down the stage in feeble murmurs dies.
What man, like Barry, with fuch pains, can err
In elocution, action, character?

What man could give-if Barry was not here,
Such well-applauded tenderness to Lear?
Who else can speak so very, very fine,
That fenfe may kindly end with ev'ry line?

Some dozen lines before the ghoft is there,
Behold him for the folemn fcene prepare.
See how he frames his eyes, poifes each limb,
Puts the whole body into proper trim.—
From whence we learn, with no great stretch of art,
Five lines hence comes a ghost, and, ha! a start.

When he appears moft perfect, ftill we find Something which jars upon, and hurts the mind. Whatever lights upon a part are thrown, We fee too plainly they are not his own. No flame from Nature ever yet he caught; Nor knew a feeling which he was not taught ; He rais'd his trophies on the base of art, And conn'd his paffions, as he conn'd his part. Quin, from afar, lur'd by the scent of fame, A stage Leviathan, put in his claim, Pupil of Betterton and Booth. Alone, Sullen he walk'd, and deem'd the chair his own. For how should moderns, mushrooms of the day, Who ne'er thofe mafters knew, know how to play?

To fyllable-diffectors they appeal,

Allow them accent, cadence,-fools may feel;

But, fpite of all the criticifing elves,

Thofe who would make us feel, muft feel themfelvesz
His eyes, in gloomy focket taught to roll,
Proclaim'd the fullen habit of his foul.
Heavy and phlegmatic he trod the stage,
Too proud for tenderness, too dull for rage.
When Hector's lovely widow fhines in tears,
Or Rowe's gay rake dependant virtue jeers,
With the fame caft of features he is seen
To chide the libertine, and court the queen.
From the tame scene, which without paffion flows,
With juft defert his reputation rofe;
Nor lefs he pleas'd, when, on fome furly plan,
He was, at once, the actor and the man.

In Brute he fhone unequall'd: all agree
Garrick's not half fo great a brute as he.
When Cato's labour'd fcenes are brought to view,
With equal praise the actor labour'd too;
For ftill you'll find, trace paffions to their root,
Small diff 'rence 'twixt the Stoic and the brute.
In fancied fcenes, as in life's real plan,
He could not, for a moment, fink the man.
In whate'er caft his character was laid,
Self ftill, like oil, upon the surface play'd.
Nature, in fpite of all his skill, crept in :
Horatio, Dorax, Falstaff,-ftill 'was Quin.

Next follows Sheridan-a doubtful name,
As yet unfettled in the rank of fame.
This, fondly lavish in his praifes grown,
Gives him all merit: That allows him none.
Between them both, we'll fteer the middle course,
Nor, loving praife, rob Judgment of her force.
Juft his conceptions, natural and great:
His feelings ftrong, his words enforc'd with weight.

Was fpeech-fam'd Quin himself to hear him speak,
Envy would drive the colour from his cheek:
But step-dame Nature, niggard of her grace,
Deny'd the focial pow'rs of voice and face.
Fix'd in one frame of features, glare of eye,
Paffions, like chaos, in confufion lie:
In vain the wonders of his skill are try'd
To form diftinctions Nature hath deny'd.
His voice no touch of harmony admits,
Irregularly deep and fhrill by fits:
The two extremes appear like man and wife,
Coupled together for the fake of ftrife.

Let wits, like fpiders, from the tortur'd brain Fine-draw the critic-web with curious pain; The gods, a kindness I with thanks must pay,Have form'd me of a coarfer kind of clay; Nor ftung with envy, nor with spleen difeas'd, A poor dull creature, ftill with Nature pleas'd; Hence to thy praises, Garrick, I agree, And, pleas'd with Nature, must be pleas'd with thee. Now might I tell, how filence reign'd throughout, And deep attention hufh'd the rabble rout: How ev'ry claimant, tortur'd with defire,

Was pale as afhes, or as red as fire:

But, loose to fame, the Mufe more fimply acts,
Rejects all flourish, and relates mere facts.

The judges, as the feveral parties came,

With temper heard, with judgment weigh'd each

claim,

And, in their fentence happily agreed,

In name of both, Great Shakespeare thus decreed. "If manly fenfe; if Nature link'd with Art; "If thorough knowledge of the human heart; If pow'rs of acting vaft and unconfin'd; "If feweft faults with greatest beauties join'd; "If ftrong expreffion, and trange pow'rs which lie "Within the magic circle of the eye;

His action's always ftrong, but fometimes fuch, That candour muft declare he acts too much. Why muft impatience fall three paces back? Why paces three return to the attack? Why is the right-leg too forbid to ftir, Unlefs in motion femicircular? Why muft the hero with the Nailor vie, And hurl the close-clench'd fift at nofe or eye? In royal John, with Philip angry grown, I thought he would have knock'd poor Davies Inhuman tyrant! was it not a fhame, To fright a king fo harmless and so tame ? But, fpite of all defects, his glories rife ; And Aft, by Judgment form'd, with Nature vies: Behold him found the depth of Hubert's foul, Whilft in his own contending paffions roll; View the whole fcene, with critic judgment fcan, And then deny him merit if you can. Where he falls fhort, 'tis Nature's fault alone; Where he fucceeds, the merit's all his own.

Laft Garrick came.-Behind him throng a train Of fnarling critics, ignorant as vain.

One finds out-He's of ftature fomewhat low,"Your Hero always fhould be tall, you know."True nat'ral greatness all confifts in height." Produce your voucher, Critic." Serjeant Kite." Another can't forgive the paltry arts By which he makes his way to fhallow hearts; Mere pieces of fineffe, traps for applaufe"Avaunt, unnatʼral start, affected paufe."

For me, by Nature form'd to judge with phlegm,

I can't acquit by wholesale, nor condemn.
The best things carried to excefs are wrong :
The start may be too frequent, pause too long;
But, only us'd in proper time and place,
Severeft judgment must allow them grace.

If bunglers, form'd on imitation's plan,
Juft in the way that monkies mimic man,
Their copied fcene with mangled arts difgrace,
And pause and start with the fame vacant face;
We join the critic laugh; thofe tricks we scorn,
Which spoil the scenes they mean them to adorn.
But when, from Nature's pure and genuine fource,
These strokes of acting flow with gen'rous force,
When in the features all the foul's pourtray'd,
And paffions, fuch as Garrick's, are difplay'd,
To me they feem from quickest feelings caught:
Each start is Nature; and each paufe is Thought.
When reafon yields to paffion's wild alarms,
And the whole ftate of man is up in arms;
What but a Critic could condemn the Play'r,
For paufing here, when Cool Senfe pauses there?
Whilft, working from the heart, the fire I trace,
And mark it ftrongly flaming to the face;
Whilft, in each found, I hear the very man;
I can't catch words, and pity thofe who cam
VOL. VIII.

"If feelings which few hearts, like his, can know "And which no face fo well as his, can fhew; "Deferve the pref'rence ;-Garrick, take the chair; "Nor quit it-till thou place an equal there."

Eftablish'd, as it were, by right divine;

CRITICS, whom ev'ry captive art adores,
To whom glad Science pours forth all her stores ;
Who high in letter'd reputation fit,

And hold, Aftræa-like, the fcales of wit;
With partial rage rush forth,-Oh! thame to tell!
To crush a bard juft bursting from the shell?

Great are his perils in this ftormy time
Who rafhly ventures on a fea of rime.
Around vait furges roll, winds envious blow,
And jealous rocks and quickfands lurk below:
Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends;
He hurts me moft who lavishly commends.

Look thro' the world-in ev'ry other trade The fame employment's caufe of kindness made, At least appearance of good-will creates, And ev'ry fool puffs off the fool he hates. Coblers with coblers fmoke away the night, And in the common caufe e'en play'rs unite.

C

Was fpeech-fam'd Quin himself to hear him fpeak,
Envy would drive the colour from his cheek:
But ftep-dame Nature, niggard of her grace,
Deny'd the focial pow'rs of voice and face.
Fix'd in one frame of features, glare of eye,
Paffions, like chaos, in confufion lie:
In vain the wonders of his fkill are try'd
To form diftinctions Nature hath deny'd.
His voice no touch of harmony admits,
Irregularly deep and fhrill by fits :
The two extremes appear like man and wife,
Coupled together for the fake of ftrife.

His action's always ftrong, but fometimes fuch,
That candour must declare he acts too much.
Why muft impatience fall three paces back?
Why paces three return to the attack?
Why is the right-leg too forbid to stir,
Unlefs in motion femicircular?

Why must the hero with the Nailor vie,

And hurl the close-clench'd fift at nose or eye?
In royal John, with Philip angry grown,
I thought he would have knock'd poor Davies
Inhuman tyrant! was it not a shame,

Let wits, like spiders, from the tortur'd brain
Fine-draw the critic-web with curious pain;
The gods, a kindness I with thanks must pay,-
Have form'd me of a coarfer kind of clay;
Nor ftung with envy, nor with spleen difeas'd,
A poor dull creature, ftill with Nature pleas'd;
Hence to thy praises, Garrick, I agree,

And, pleas'd with Nature, must be pleas'd with thee.
Now might I tell, how filence reign'd throughout,
And deep attention hufh'd the rabble rout:
How ev'ry claimant, tortur'd with defire,
Was pale as afhes, or as red as fire :

But, loofe to fame, the Mufe more fimply acts,
Rejects all flourish, and relates mere facts.

The judges, as the feveral parties came,

With temper heard, with judgment weigh'd each claim,

And, in their fentence happily agreed,

In name of both, Great Shakespeare thus decreed. "If manly fenfe; if Nature link'd with Art; "If thorough knowledge of the human heart; If pow'rs of acting vaft and unconfin'd ; "If feweft faults with greatest beauties join'd; "If ftrong expreffion, and trange pow'rs which lie "Within the magic circle of the eye;

To fright a king fo harmless and so tame ?
But, fpite of all defects, his glories rise ;
And Att, by Judgment form'd, with Nature vies:
Behold him found the depth of Hubert's foul,
Whilft in his own contending paffions roll;
View the whole fcene, with critic judgment fcan,
And then deny him merit if you can.
Where he falls fhort, 'tis Nature's fault alone;
Where he fucceeds, the merit's all his own.

Laft Garrick came.-Behind him throng a train
Of fnarling critics, ignorant as vain.
One finds out-"He's of ftature somewhat low,--
"Your Hero always should be tall, you know.-

True nat'ral greatness all confifts in height." Produce your voucher, Critic." Serjeant Kite." Another can't forgive the paltry arts

By which he makes his way to fhallow hearts;
Mere pieces of fineffe, traps for applaufe-
"Avaunt, unnatʼral start, affected pause."

For me, by Nature form'd to judge with phlegm,

I can't acquit by wholesale, nor condemn.
The best things carried to excefs are wrong :
The start may be too frequent, pause too long;
But, only us'd in proper time and place,
Severeft judgment must allow them grace.

If bunglers, form'd on imitation's plan,
Juft in the way that monkies mimic man,
Their copied fcene with mangled arts difgrace,
And pause and start with the fame vacant face;
We join the critic laugh; those tricks we scorn,
Which spoil the fcenes they mean them to adorn.
But when, from Nature's pure and genuine fource,
Thefe ftrokes of acting flow with gen'rous force,
When in the features all the foul's pourtray'd,
And paffions, fuch as Garrick's, are display'd,
To me they feem from quickest feelings caught:
Each start is Nature; and each pause is Than Us
When reafon yields to paffion's wild
And the whole state of man is up
What but a Critic could condemn
For paufing here. Cool

Whilft, wo

And ma

Whil

I car

in

"If feelings which few hearts, like his, can know "And which no face fo well as his, can fhew; "Deferve the pref'rence ;-Garrick, take the chair; "Nor quit it-till thou place an equal there."

pride,

Affume the pompous port, the martial stride;
O'er arm Herculean heave th' enormous fhield,
Vaft as a weaver's beam the javelin wield;
With the loud voice of thund'ring Jove defy,
And dare to fingle combat-What?-A fly.

And laugh we lefs, when giant names, which fhine

Establish'd, as it were, by right divine;

CRITICS, whom ev'ry captive art adores,
To whom glad Science pours forth all her stores;
Who high in letter'd reputation fit,

And hold, Aftræa-like, the scales of wit;
With partial rage rush forth,-Oh! thame to tell!
To crush a bard juft bursting from the shell?

Great are his perils in this ftormy time
Who rafhly ventures on a fea of rime.
Around vait furges roll, winds envious blow,
And jealous rocks and quickfands lurk below:
Greatly hes he dreads, but more his friends;
He h
t who lavishly commends.
world-in ev'ry other trade

t's caufe of kindness made,
of good-will creates,
off the fool he hates.
fmoke away the night,
on caufe e'en play'rs units.