17. Caligula, Emperor of Rome, a Tragedy; acted at the theatre-royal, 1698.

Our author's other works are, Pandion and Amphigenia, or the coy Lady of Thessalia; adorned with sculptures, printed in octavo, 1665.

Daeneids, or the noble Labours of the great Dean of Notre-Dame in Paris, for the erecting in his choir, a Throne for his Glory; and the eclipsing the pride of an imperious usurping Chanter, an heroic poem, in four Canto's; printed in quarto 1692. It is a burlesque Poem, and is chiefly taken from Boileau's Lutrin.

We shall shew Mr. Crown's versification, by quoting a speech which he puts into the mouth of an Angel, in the Destruction of Jerusalem. The Angel is represented as descending over the altar prophesying the fall of that august city.

Stay, stay, your flight, fond men, Heaven does despise All your vain incense, prayers, and sacrifice. Now is arriv'd Jerusalem's fatal hour, When she and sacrifice must be no more: Long against Heav'n had'st thou, rebellious town, Thy public trumpets of defiance blown; Didst open wars against thy Lord maintain, And all his messengers of peace have slain: And now the hour of his revenge is come, Thy weeks are finish'd, and thy slumb'ring doom, Which long has laid in the divine decree, Is now arous'd from his dull lethargy; His army's rais'd, and his commission seal'd, His order's given, and cannot be repeal'd: And now thy people, temple, altars all Must in one total dissolution fall. Heav'n will in sad procession walk the round, And level all thy buildings with the ground. And from the soil enrich'd with human blood, Shall grass spring up, where palaces have stood, Where beasts shall seed; and a revenge obtain For all the thousands at thy altars slain. And this once blessed house, where Angels came To bathe their airy wings in holy flame, Like a swift vision or a flash of light, All wrapt in fire shall vanish in thy sight; And thrown aside amongst the common store, Sink down in time's abyss, and rise no more.

* * * * *

CHARLES SACKVILLE, Earl of DORSET,

Eldest son of Richard earl of Dorset, born the 24th of January 1637, was one of the most accomplished gentlemen of the age in which he lived, which was esteemed one of the most courtly ever known in our nation; when, as Pope expresses it,

The soldiers ap'd the gallantries of France, And ev'ry flow'ry courtier writ romance.

Immediately after the restoration, he was chosen member of parliament for East-Grimstead, and distinguished himself while he was in the House of Commons. The sprightliness of his wit, and a most exceeding good-nature, recommended him very early to the favour of Charles the IId, and those of the greatest distinction in the court; but his mind being more turned to books, and polite conversation, than public business, he totally declined the latter, tho' as bishop Burnet[1] says, the king courted him as a favorite. Prior in his dedication of his poems, observes, that when the honour and safety of his country demanded his assistance, he readily entered into the most active parts of life; and underwent the dangers with a constancy of mind, which shewed he had not only read the rules of philosophy, but understood the practice of them. He went a volunteer under his royal highness the duke of York in the first Dutch war, 1665, when the Dutch admiral Opdam was blown up, and about thirty capital ships taken and destroyed; and his composing a song before the engagement, carried with it in the opinion of many people to sedate a presence of mind, and such unusual gallantry, that it has been much celebrated.

This Song, upon so memorable an occasion, is comprised in the following stanzas.

I.

To all you ladies, now at land, We men at sea indite, But first would have you understand, How hard it is to write; The Muses now, and Neptune too, We must implore to write to you, With a fa, la, la, la, la.

II.

For tho' the Muses should prove kind, And fill our empty brain; Yet if rough Neptune rouze the wind, To wave the azure main, Our paper, pen and ink, and we, Roll up and down our ships at sea, With a la fa, &c. III.

Then if we write not, by each post, Think not, we are unkind; Nor yet conclude our ships are lost, By Dutchmen or by wind: Our tears, we'll send a speedier way, The tide shall waft them twice a day. With a fa, &c.

IV.

The king with wonder, and surprize, Will swear the seas grow bold; Because the tides will higher rise, Then e'er they did of old: But let him knew it is our tears, Bring floods of grief to Whitehall-Stairs. With a fa, &c.

V.

Should foggy Opdam chance to know; Our sad and dismal story; The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe, And quit their fort at Goree: For what resistance can they find, From men who've left their hearts behind. With a fa, &c.

VI.

Let wind, and weather do its worst, Be you to us but kind; Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse, No sorrow we shall find; 'Tis then no matter, how things go, Or who's our friend, or who's our foe. With a fa, &c.

VII.

To pass our tedious hours away, We throw a merry main; Or else at serious Ombre play; But why should we in vain Each other's ruin thus pursue? We were undone, when we left you. With a fa, &c.

VIII.

But now our fears tempestuous grow, And cast our hopes away; Whilst you, regardless of our woe, Sit carelessly at play; Perhaps permit some happier man, To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan. With a fa, &c.

IX.

When any mournful tune, you hear, That dies in every note; And if it sigh'd with each man's care, For being so remote; Think then, how often love we've made To you, when all those tunes were play'd. With a fa, &c.

X.

In justice, you cannot refuse, To think of our distress; When we for hopes of honour lose, Our certain happiness; All those designs are but to prove, Ourselves more worthy of your love. With a fa, &c.

XI.

And, now we've told you all our loves, And likewise all our fears; In hopes this declaration moves, Some pity for our tears: Let's hear of no inconstancy, We have too much of that at sea. With a fa, &c.

To maintain an evenness of temper in the time of danger, is certainly the highest mark of heroism; but some of the graver cast have been apt to say, this sedate composure somewhat differs from that levity of disposition, or frolic humour, that inclines a man to write a song. But, let us consider my lord's fervour of youth, his gaiety of mind, supported by strong spirits, flowing from an honest heart, and, I believe, we shall rather be disposed to admire, than censure him on this occasion. Remember too, he was only a volunteer. The conduct of the battle depended not on him. He had only to shew his intrepidity and diligence, in executing the orders of his commander, when called on; as he had no plans of operation to take up his thoughts why not write a song? there was neither indecency, nor immorality in it: I doubt not, but with that chearfulness of mind he composed himself to rest, with as right feelings, and as proper an address to his maker, as any one of a more melancholly disposition, or gloomy aspect.

Most commanders, in the day of battle, assume at least a brilliancy of countenance, that may encourage their soldiers; and they are admired for it: to smile at terror has, before this, been allowed the mark of a hero. The dying Socrates discoursed his friends with great composure; he was a philosopher of a grave cast: Sir Thomas Moore (old enough to be my lord's father) jok'd, even on the scaffold; a strong instance of his heroism, and no contradiction to the rectitude of his mind. The verses the Emperor Adrian wrought on his death-bed (call them a song if you will) have been admired, and approved, by several great men; Mr. Pope has not only given his opinion in their favour, but elegantly translated them, nay, thought them worthy an imitation, perhaps exceeding the original. If this behaviour of my lord's is liable to different constructions, let good nature, and good manners, incline us to bestow the most favourable thereon.

After his fatigues at sea, during the remainder of the reign of Charles the IId, he continued to live in honourable leisure. He was of the bed-chamber to the king, and possessed not only his master's favour, but in a great degree his familiarity, never leaving the court but when he was sent to that of France, upon some short commission, and embassies of compliment; as if the king designed to rival the French in the article of politeness, who had long claimed a superiority in that accomplishment, by shewing them that one of the most finished gentlemen in Europe was his subject; and that he understood his worth so well, as not to suffer him to be long out of his presence. Among other commissions he was sent in the year 1669, to compliment the French king on his arrival at Dunkirk, in return of the compliment of that monarch, by the duchess of Orleans, then in England.

Being possessed of the estate of his uncle the earl of Middlesex, who died in the year 1674, he was created earl of that county, and baron of Cranfield, by letters patent, dated the fourth of April, 1675. 27 C. II; and in August 1677 succeeded his father as earl of Dorset; as also, in the post of lord lieutenant of the county of Sussex, having been joined in the commission with him in 1670[2]. Also the 20th of February 1684 he was made custos rotulorum for that county.

Having buried his first lady, Elizabeth, daughter of Harvey Bagot, of Whitehall in the county of Warwick, Esq; widow of Charles Berkley, earl of Falmouth, without any issue by her, he married, in the year 1684, the lady Mary, daughter of James Compton, earl of Northampton, famed for her beauty, and admirable endowments of mind, who was one of the ladies of the bed-chamber to Queen Mary, and left his lordship again a widower, August 6, 1691, leaving issue by him one son, his grace Lionel now duke of Dorset, and a daughter, the lady Mary, married in the year 1702 to Henry Somerset duke of Beaufort, and dying in child-bed, left no issue.

The earl of Dorset appeared in court at the trial of the seven bishops, accompanied with other noblemen, which had a good effect on the jury, and brought the judges to a better temper than they had usually shewn. He also engaged with those who were in the prince of Orange's interest; and carried on his part of that enterprize in London, under the eye of the court, with the same courage and resolution as his friend the duke of Devonshire did in open arms, at Nottingham. When prince George of Denmark deserted King James, and joined the prince of Orange, the princess Anne was in violent apprehensions of the King's displeasure, and being desirous of withdrawing herself, lord Dorset was thought the properest guide for her necessary flight[3]. She was secretly brought to him by his lady's uncle, the bishop of London: who furnished the princess with every thing necessary for her flight to the Prince of Orange, and attended her northward, as far as Northampton, where he quickly brought a body of horse to serve for her guard, and went from thence to Nottingham, to confer with the duke of Devonshire. After the misguided monarch had withdrawn himself, lord Dorset continued at London, and was one of those peers who sat every day in the Council-chamber, and took upon them the government of the realm, in this extremity, till some other power should be introduced. In the debates in Parliament immediately after this confusion, his lordship voted for the vacancy of the throne, and that the prince and princess of Orange should be declared King and Queen of England, &c. When their Majesties had accepted the crown of these realms, his lordship was the next day sworn of the privy-council, and declared lord chamberlain of the household, 'A place, says Prior, which he eminently adorned by the grace of his person, the fineness of his breeding, and the knowledge and practice of what was decent and magnificent.' It appears by the history of England, that he had the honour to stand godfather, with King William to a son of the prince and princess of Denmark, born at Hampton-court, the 24th of July 1689, and christened the 27th by the name of William, whom his Majesty declared duke of Gloucester. When the King had been earnestly entreated by the States of Holland, and the confederate princes in Germany, to meet at a general congress to be held at the Hague, in order to concert matters for the better support of the confederacy, and thereupon took shipping the 16th of January 1692, his lordship was among the peers, who to honour their King and Country, waited on their sovereign in that cold season. When they were two or three leagues off Goree, his Majesty having by bad weather been four days at sea, was so impatient to go on shore, that taking boat, and a thick fog rising soon after, they were surrounded so closely with ice, as not to be able either to make the shore, or get back to the ship; so that lying twenty-two hours, enduring the most bitter cold, and almost despairing of life, they could hardly stand or speak at their landing; and his lordship was so lame, that for some time he did not recover; yet on his return to England, he neither complained of the accident nor the expence.

On the 2d of February 1691, at a chapter of the most noble order of the garter, held at Kensington, his lordship was elected one of the knights companions of this order, with his highness John-George, the fourth elector of Saxony, and was installed at Windsor on the February following. He was constituted four times one of the regents of the kingdom in his Majesty's absence. About the year 1698, his health sensibly declining, he left public business to those who more delighted in it, and appeared only sometimes at council, to shew his respect to the commission which he bore, for he had already tasted all the comfort which court favour could bestow; he had been high in office, respected by his sovereign and the idol of the people; but now when the evening of life approached, he began to look upon such enjoyments with less veneration, and thought proper to dedicate some of his last hours to quiet and meditation. Being advised to go to Bath for the recovery of his health, he there ended his life on the 29th of January 1705-6, and was buried at Witham on the 17th of February following.

Lord Dorset was a great patron of men of letters and merit. Dr. Sprat, bishop of Rochester, celebrated for his polite writings, appealed to him when under a cloud, for the part he acted in the reign of King James II. and by his lordship's interest preserved himself. To him Mr. Dryden dedicated his translation of Juvenal, in which he is very lavish in his lordship's praise, and expresses his gratitude for the bounty he had experienced from him.

Mr. Prior (among others who owed their life and fortune to my lord Dorset) makes this public acknowledgment, 'That he scarce knew what life was, sooner than he found himself obliged to his favour; or had reason to feel any sorrow so sensibly as that of his death.' Mr. Prior then proceeds to enumerate the valuable qualities of his patron; in which the warmth of his gratitude appears in the most elegant panegyric. I cannot imagine that Mr. Prior, with respect to his lordship's morals, has in the least violated truth; for he has shewn the picture in various lights, and has hinted at his patron's errors, as well as his graces and virtues. Among his errors was that of indulging passion, which carried him into transports, of which he was often ashamed; and during these little excesses (says he) 'I have known his servants get into his way, that they might make a merit of it immediately after; for he who had the good fortune to be chid, was sure of being rewarded for it.'

His lordship's poetical works have been published among the minor poets 1749, and consist chiefly of a poem to Mr. Edward Howard, on his incomprehensible poem called the British Princes, in which his lordship is very satyrical upon that author.

Verses to Sir Thomas St. Serfe, on his printing his play called Tarugo's Wiles, acted 1668.

An Epilogue to Moliere's Tartuff.

An epilogue on the revival of Ben Johnson's play called Every Man in his Humour.

A Song writ at Sea, in the time of the Dutch war 1665, the night before an engagement.

Verses addressed to the Countess of Dorchester.

A Satirical piece, entitled, A Faithful Catalogue of our most eminent Ninnies; written in the year 1683.

Several Songs.

From the specimens lord Dorset has given us of his poetical talents, we are inclined to wish, that affairs of higher consequence had permitted him to have dedicated more of his time to the Muses. Though some critics may alledge, that what he has given the public is rather pretty than great; and that a few pieces of a light nature do not sufficiently entitle him to the character of a first rate poet; yet, when we consider, that notwithstanding they were merely the amusement of his leisure hours, and mostly the productions of his youth, they contain marks of a genius, and as such, he is celebrated by Dryden, Prior, Congreve, Pope, &c.

We shall conclude his life with the encomium Pope bestows on him, in the following beautiful lines.

Dorset, the grace of courts, the muses pride, Patron of arts, and judge of nature, dy'd: The scourge of pride, the sanctify'd or great, Of fops in learning, and of knaves in state. Yet soft his nature, tho severe his lay, His anger moral, and his wisdom gay. Blest satyrist, who touch'd the mean so true, As shew'd vice had his hate and pity too. Blest courtier! who could King and Country please, Yet sacred keep his friendship, and his ease. Blest peer! his great forefathers ev'ry grace Reflecting, and reflected in his race; Where other Buckhursts, other Dorsets thine. And patriots still, or poets deck the line

[Footnote 1: History of his own times; p. 264.]

[Footnote 2: Collin's Peerage, p. 575. vol. I.]

[Footnote 3: Burnet's Hist. of his own times.]

* * * * *

Mr. GEORGE FARQUHAR

Was descended of a Family of no mean rank in the North of Ireland; we have been informed that his father was dean of Armagh, but we have not met with a proper confirmation of this circumstance; but it is on all hands agreed, that he was the son of a clergyman, and born at London-Derry in that kingdom, in the year 1678, as appears from Sir James Ware's account of him. There he received the rudiments of education, and discovered a genius early devoted to the Muses; Before he was ten years of age he gave specimens of his poetry, in which, force of thinking, and elegance of turn and expression are manifest; and if the author, who has wrote Memoirs of his life, may be credited, the following stanza's were written by him at that age,

The pliant soul of erring youth, Is like soft wax, or moisten'd clay; Apt to receive all heavenly truth Or yield to tyrant ill the sway.

Slight folly in your early years, At manhood may to virtue rise; But he who in his youth appears A fool, in age will ne'er be wise.

His parents, it is said, had a numerous family, so could bestow no fortune upon him, further than a genteel education. When he was qualified for the university, he was, in 1694, sent to Trinity College in Dublin: here, by the progress he made in his studies, he acquired a considerable reputation[1], but it does not appear, that he there took his degree of bachelor of arts; for his disposition being volatile and giddy, he soon grew weary of a dull collegiate life; and his own opinion of it, in that sense, he afterwards freely enough displayed in several parts of his comedies, and other writings. Besides, the expence of it, without any immediate prospect of returns, might be inconsistent with his circumstances. The polite entertainments of the town more forcibly attracted his attention, especially the diversions of the Theatre, for which, he discovered a violent propension. When Mr. Ashbury, who then was manager of Dublin Theatre, had recruited his company with the celebrated Mr. Wilks (who had for some seasons engaged with Mr. Christopher Rich at Drury-Lane, from whom his encouragement was not equal to his merit) Farquhar having acquaintance with him, Mr. Wilks, was soon introduced upon the stage by his means, where he did not long continue, nor make any considerable figure. His person was sufficiently advantageous, he had a ready memory, proper gesture, and just elocution, but then he was unhappy in his voice, which had not power enough to rouse the galleries, or to rant with any success; besides, he was defective in point of assurance, nor could ever enough overcome his natural timidity. His more excellent talents however might, perhaps, have continued the player at Dublin, and lost the poet at London; but for an accident, which was likely to turn a feigned tragedy into a real one: The story is this.

Mr. Farquhar was extremely beloved in Ireland; having the advantage of a good person, though his voice was weak; he never met with the least repulse from the audience in any of his performances: He therefore resolved to continue on the stage till something better should offer, but his resolution was soon broke by an accident. Being to play the part of Guyomar in Dryden's Indian Emperor, who kills Vasquez, one of the Spanish generals; and forgetting to exchange his sword for a foil, in the engagement he wounded his brother tragedian, who acted Vasquez, very dangerously; and though it proved not mortal, yet it so shocked the natural tenderness of Mr. Farquhar's temper, that it put a period to his acting ever after.

Soon after this, Mr. Wilks received from Mr. Rich a proposal of four pounds a week, if he would return to London (such was the extent of the salaries of the best players in that time, which, in our days, is not equal to that of a second rate performer) which he thought proper to accept of; and Mr. Farquhar, who now had no inducement to remain at Dublin, accompanied Mr. Wilks to London, in the year 1696. Mr. Wilks, who was well acquainted with the humour and abilities of our author, ceased not his solicitation 'till he prevailed upon him to write a play, assuring him, that he was considered by all who knew him in a much brighter light than he had as yet shewn himself, and that he was fitter to exhibit entertaining compositions for the stage, than to echo those of other poets upon it.

But he received still higher encouragement by the patronage of the earl of Orrery, who was a discerner of merit, and saw, that as yet, Mr. Farquhar's went unrewarded. His lordship conferred a lieutenant's commission upon him in his own regiment then in Ireland, which he held several years[2] and, as an officer, he behaved himself without reproach, and gave several instances both of courage and conduct: Whether he received his commission before or after he obliged the town with his first comedy, we cannot be certain.

In the year 1698, his first Comedy called Love and a Bottle appeared on the stage, and for its sprightly dialogue, and busy scenes was well received by the audience, though Wilks had no part in it. In 1699 the celebrated Mrs. Anne Oldfield was, partly upon his judgment, and recommendation, admitted on the Theatre.

Now we have mentioned Mrs. Oldfield, we shall present the reader with the following anecdote concerning that celebrated actress, which discovers the true manner of her coming on the stage; the account we have from a person who belonged to Mr. Rich, in a letter he wrote to the editor of Mrs. Oldfield's Life, in which it is printed in these words;

SIR,

In your Memoirs of Mrs. Oldfield, it may not be amiss to insert the following facts, on the truth of which you may depend. Her father, captain Oldfield, not only run out all the military, but the paternal bounds of his fortune, having a pretty estate in houses in Pall-mall. It was wholly owing to captain Farquhar, that Mrs. Oldfield became an actress, from the following incident; dining one day at her aunt's, who kept the Mitre Tavern in St. James's Market, he heard miss Nanny reading a play behind the bar, with so proper an emphasis, and so agreeable turns suitable to each character, that he swore the girl was cut out for the stage, for which she had before always expressed an inclination, being very desirous to try her fortune that way. Her mother, the next time she saw captain Vanburgh, who had a great respect for the family, told him what was captain Farquhar's opinion; upon which he desired to know whether in the plays she read, her fancy was most pleased with tragedy or comedy; miss being called in, said comedy, she having at that time gone through all Beaumont and Fletcher's comedies, and the play she was reading when captain Farquhar dined there, was the Scornful Lady. Captain Vanburgh, shortly after, recommended her to Mr. Christopher Rich, who took her into the house at the allowance of fifteen shillings a week. However, her agreeable figure, and sweetness of voice, soon gave her the preference, in the opinion of the whole town, to all our young actresses, and his grace the late duke of Bedford, being pleased to speak, to Mr. Rich in her favour, he instantly raised her allowance to twenty shillings a week; her fame and salary at last rose to her just merit,

Your humble servant,

Nov. 25, 1730[3].

CHARLES TAYLOUR.'

In the beginning of the year 1700, Farquhar brought his Constant Couple, or Trip to the Jubilee, upon the stage, it being then the jubilee year at Rome; but our author drew so gay, and airy a figure in Sir Harry Wildair, so suited to Mr. Wilks's talents, and so animated by his gesture, and vivacity of spirit, that it is not determined whether the poet or the player received most reputation by it. Towards the latter end of this year we meet with Mr. Farquhar in Holland, probably upon his military duty, from whence he has given a description in two of his letters dated that year from Brill, and from Leyden, no less true than humorous, as well of those places as the people; and in a third, dated from the Hague he very facetiously relates how merry he was there, at a treat made by the earl of Westmoreland, while, not only himself, but king William, and other of his subjects were detained there by a violent storm, which he has no less humorously described, and has, among his poems, written also an ingenious copy of verses to his mistress on the same subject. Whether this mistress was the same person he calls his charming Penelope, in several of his love letters addressed to her, we know not, but we have been informed by an old officer in the army, who well knew Mr. Farquhar, that by that name we are to understand Mrs. Oldfield, and that the person meant by Mrs. V—— in one of them, said to be her bedfellow, was Mrs. Verbruggen the actress, the same who was some years before Mrs. Mountfort, whom Mrs. Oldfield succeeded, (when Mrs. V—— died some years after in child-bed) with singular commendation, in her principal parts; and from so bright a flame it was no wonder that Farquhar was more than ordinarily heated. The author of Mrs. Oldfield's life says, that she has often heard her mention some agreeable hours she spent with captain Farquhar: As she was a lady of true delicacy, nor meanly prostituted herself to every adorer, it would be highly ungenerous to suppose, that their hours ever passed in criminal freedoms. And 'tis well known, whatever were her failings, she wronged no man's wife; nor had an husband to injure.

Mr. Farquhar, encouraged by the success of his last piece, made a continuation of it in 1701, and brought on his Sir Harry Wildair; in which Mrs. Oldfield received as much reputation, and was as greatly admired in her part, as Wilks was in his.

In the next year he published his Miscellanies, or Collection of Poems, Letters, and Essays, already mentioned, and which contain a variety of humorous, and pleasant sallies of fancy: There is amongst them a copy of verses addressed to his dear Penelope, upon her wearing her Masque the evening before, which was a female fashion in those days, as well at public walks, as among the spectators at the Playhouse. These verses naturally display his temper and talents, and will afford a very clear idea of them; and therefore we shall here insert them.

'The arguments you made use of last night for keeping on your masque, I endeavoured to defeat with reason, but that proving ineffectual, I'll try the force of rhyme, and send you the heads of our chat, in a poetical dialogue between You and I.'

You.

Thus images are veil'd which you adore; Your ignorance does raise your zeal the more.

I.

All image worship for false zeal is held; False idols ought indeed to be conceal'd.

You.

Thus oracles of old were still receiv'd; The more ambiguous, still the more believ'd.

I.

But oracles of old were seldom true, The devil was in them, sure he's not in you.

You.

Thus mask'd in mysteries does the godhead stand: The more obscure, the greater his command.

I.

The Godhead's hidden power would soon be past, Did we not hope to see his face at last.

You.

You are my slave already sir, you know, To Shew more charms, would but increase your woe, I scorn an insult to a conquer'd foe.

I.

I am your slave, 'tis true, but still you see, All slaves by nature struggle to be free; But if you would secure the stubborn prize, Add to your wit, the setters of your eyes; Then pleas'd with thraldom, would I kiss my chain And ne'er think more of liberty again.[4]

It is said, some of the letters of which we have been speaking, were published from the copies returned him at his request, by Mrs. Oldfield, and that she delighted to read them many years after they were printed, as she also did the judicious essay at the end of them, which is called a Discourse upon Comedy, in Reference to the English Stage; but what gives a yet more natural and lively representation of our author still, is one among those letters, which he calls the Picture, containing a description and character of himself, which we should not now omit transcribing, if his works were not in every body's hands.

In 1703 came out another Comedy, entitled the Inconstant, or the Way to Win Him, which had sufficient merit to have procured equal success to the rest; but for the inundation of Italian, French, and other farcical interruptions, which, through the interest of some, and the depraved taste of others, broke in upon the stage like a torrent, and swept down before thorn all taste for competitions of a more intrinsic excellence. These foreign monsters obtained partisans amongst our own countrymen, in opposition to English humour, genuine wit, and the sublime efforts of genius, and substituted in their room the airy entertainments of dancing and singing, which conveyed no instruction, awakened no generous passion, nor filled the breast with any thing great or manly. Such was the prevalence of these airy nothings, that our author's comedy was neglected for them, and the tragedy of Phaedra slid Hippolitus, which for poetry is equal to any in our tongue, (and though Mr. Addison wrote the prologue, and Prior the epilogue) was suffered to languish, while multitudes flocked to hear the warblings of foreign eunuchs, whose highest excellence, as Young expresses it, was,

'Nonsense well tun'd with sweet stupidity.'

Very early in the year 1704, a farce: called the Stage Coach, in the composition whereof he was jointly concerned with another, made its first appearance in print, and it has always given satisfaction.

Mr. Farquhar had now been about a twelve-month married, and it was at first reported, to a great fortune; which indeed he expected, but was miserably disappointed. The lady had fallen in love with him, and so violent was her passion, that she resolved to have him at any rate; and as she knew Farquhar was too much dissipated in life to fall in love, or to think of matrimony unless advantage was annexed to it, she fell upon the stratagem of giving herself out for a great fortune, and then took an opportunity of letting our poet know that she was in love with him. Vanity and interest both uniting to persuade Farquhar to marry, he did not long delay it, and, to his immortal honour let it be spoken, though he found himself deceived, his circumstances embarrassed, and his family growing upon him, he never once upbraided her for the cheat, but behaved to her with, all the delicacy, and tenderness of an indulgent husband.

His next comedy named the Twin-Rivals, was played in 1705.

Our poet was possessed of his commission in the army when the Spanish expedition was made under the conduct of the earl of Peterborough, tho' it seems he did not keep it long after, and tho' he was not embarked in that service, or present at the defeat of the French forces, and the conquest of Barcelona; yet from some military friends in that engagement, he received such distinct relations of it in their epistolary correspondency, that he wrote a poem upon the subject, in which he has made the earl his hero. Two or three years after it was written, the impression of it was dedicated by the author's widow to the same nobleman, in which are some fulsome strains of panegyric, which perhaps her necessity excited her to use, from a view of enhancing her interest by flattery, which if excusable at all, is certainly so in a woman left destitute with a family, as she was.

In 1706 a comedy called the Recruiting Officer was acted at the theatre-royal. He dedicates to all friends round the Wrekin, a noted hill near Shrewsbury, where he had been to recruit for his company; and where, from his observations on country-life, the manner that serjeants inveigle clowns to enlist, and the behaviour of the officers towards the milk-maids and country-wenches, whom they seldom fail of debauching, he collected matter sufficient to build a comedy upon, and in which he was successful: Even now that comedy fails not to bring full houses, especially when the parts of Captain Plume, Captain Brazen, Sylvia, and Serjeant Kite are properly disposed of.

His last play was the Beaux—Stratagem, of which he did not live to enjoy the full success.

Of this pleasing author's untimely end, we can give but a melancholy account.

He was oppressed with some debts which obliged him to make application to a certain noble courtier, who had given him formerly many professions of friendship. He could not bear the thought that his wife and family would want, and in this perplexity was ready to embrace any expedient for their relief. His pretended patron persuaded him to convert his commission into the money he wanted, and pledged his honour, that in a very short time he would provide him another. This circumstance appeared favourable, and the easy bard accordingly sold his commission; but when he renewed his application to the nobleman, and represented his needy situation, the latter had forgot his promise, or rather, perhaps, had never resolved to fulfil it.

This distracting disappointment so preyed upon the mind of Mr. Farquhar, who saw nothing but beggary and want before him, that by a sure, tho' not sudden declension of nature, it carried him off this worldly theatre, while his last play was acting in the height of success at that of Drury-lane; and tho' the audience bestowed the loudest applauses upon the performance, yet they could scarce forbear mingling tears with their mirth for the approaching loss of its author, which happened in the latter end of April 1707, before he was thirty years of age.

Thus having attended our entertaining dramatist o'er the contracted stage of his short life, thro' the various characters he performed in it, of the player, the lover, and the husband, the soldier, the critic, and the poet, to his final catastrophe, it is here time to close the scene. However, we shall take the liberty to subjoin a short character of his works, and some farther observations on his genius.

It would be injurious to the memory of Wilks not to take notice here, of his generous behaviour towards the two daughters of his deceased friend. He proposed to his brother managers, (who readily came into it) to give each of them a benefit, to apprentice them to mantua-makers; which is an instance amongst many others that might be produced, of the great worth of that excellent comedian.

The general character which has been given of Mr. Farquhar's comedies is, 'That the success of the most of them far exceeded the author's expectations; that he was particularly happy in the choice of his subjects, which he took care to adorn with a variety of characters and incidents; his style is pure and unaffected, his wit natural and flowing, and his plots generally well contrived. He lashed the vices of the age, tho' with a merciful hand; for his muse was good-natured, not abounding over-much with gall, tho' he has been blamed for it by the critics: It has been objected to him, that he was too hasty in his productions; but by such only who are admirers of stiff and elaborate performances, since with a person of a sprightly fancy, those things are often best, that are struck off in a heat[5]. It is thought that in all his heroes, he generally sketched out his own character, of a young, gay, rakish spark, blessed with parts and abilities. His works are loose, tho' not so grossly libertine, as some other wits of his time, and leave not so pernicious impressions on the imagination as other figures of the like kind more strongly stampt by indelicate and heavier hands.'

He seems to have been a man of a genius rather sprightly than great, rather flow'ry than solid; his comedies are diverting, because his characters are natural, and such as we frequently meet with; but he has used no art in drawing them, nor does there appear any force of thinking in his performances, or any deep penetration into nature; but rather a superficial view, pleasant enough to the eye, though capable of leaving no great impression on the mind. He drew his observations chiefly from those he conversed with, and has seldom given any additional heightening, or indelible marks to his characters; which was the peculiar excellence of Shakespear, Johnson, and Congreve.

Had he lived to have gained a more general knowledge of life, or had his circumstances not been straitened, and so prevented his mingling with persons of rank, we might have seen his plays embellished with more finished characters, and with a more polished dialogue.

He had certainly a lively imagination, but then it was capable of no great compass; he had wit, but it was of no peculiar a sort, as not to gain ground upon consideration; and it is certainly true, that his comedies in general owe their success full as much to the player, as to any thing intrinsically excellent in themselves.

If he was not a man of the highest genius, he seems to have had excellent moral qualities, of which his behaviour to his wife and tenderness to his children are proofs, and deserved a better fate than to die oppressed with want, and under the calamitous apprehensions of leaving his family destitute: While Farquhar will ever be remembered with pleasure by people of taste, the name of the courtier who thus inhumanly ruined him, will be for ever dedicated to infamy.

[Footnote 1: Memoirs of Wilks by Obrian, 8vo. 1732.]

[Footnote 2: Memoirs of Mr. Farquhar, before his Works.]

[Footnote 3: For the moral character of Mrs. Oldfield, see the Life of Savage.]

[Footnote 4: Farquhar's Letters.]

[Footnote 5: Memoirs, ubi. supra.]

* * * * *

EDWARD RAVENSCROFT.

This gentleman is author of eleven plays, which gives him a kind of right to be named in this collection. Some have been of opinion, he was a poet of a low rate, others that he was only a wit collector; be this as it may, he acquired, some distinction by the vigorous opposition he made to Dryden: And having chosen so powerful an antagonist, he has acquired more honour by it, than by all his other works put together; he accuses Dryden of plagiary, and treats him severely.

Mr. Dryden, indeed, had first attacked his Mamamouchi; which provoked Ravenscroft to retort so harshly upon him; but in the opinion of Mr. Langbain, the charge of plagiarism as properly belonged to Ravenfcroft himself as to Dryden; tho' there was this essential difference between the plagiary of one and that of the other; that Dryden turned whatever he borrowed into gold, and Ravenscroft made use of other people's materials, without placing them in a new light, or giving them any graces, they had not before.

Ravenscroft thus proceeds against Mr. Dryden: 'That I may maintain the character of impartial, to which I pretend, I must pull off his disguise, and discover the politic plagiary that lurks under it. I know he has endeavoured to shew himself matter of the art of swift writing, and would persuade the world that what he writes is extempore wit, currente calamo. But I doubt not to shew that tho' he would be thought to imitate the silk worm that spins its webb from its own bowels, yet I shall make him appear like the leech that lives upon the blood of men, drawn from the gums, and when he is rubbed with salt, spues it up again. To prove this, I shall only give an account of his plays, and by that little of my own knowledge, that I shall discover, it will be manifest, that this rickety poet, (tho' of so many years) cannot go without others assistance; for take this prophecy from your humble servant, or Mr. Ravenscroft's Mamamouchi, which you please,

'When once our poet's translating vein is past, From him, you can't expect new plays in haste.

Thus far Mr. Ravenscroft has censured Dryden; and Langbain, in order to prove him guilty of the same poetical depredation, has been industrious to trace the plots of his plays, and the similarity of his characters with those of other dramatic poets; but as we should reckon it tedious to follow him in this manner, we shall only in general take notice of those novels from which he has drawn his plots.

We cannot ascertain the year in which this man died; he had been bred a templer, which he forsook as a dry unentertaining study, and much beneath the genius of a poet.

His dramatic works are,

1. The Careless Lovers, a Comedy, acted at the duke's theatre, 4to. 1673. The scene Covent-Garden, part of this play is borrowed from Moliere's Monsieur de Pourceaugnac.

2. Mamamouchi; or the Citizen turned Gentleman, a Comedy, acted at the duke's theatre, 4to. 1675, dedicated to his Highness prince Rupert. Part of this play is taken from Moliere's le Bourgeois Gentilliome. Scene London.

3. Scaramouch a Philosopher, Harlequin a schoolboy, Bravo Merchant and Magician; a Comedy, after the Italian manner, acted at the theatre-royal 1677. The poet in his preface to this play boasts his having brought a new sort of Comedy on our stage; but his critics will not allow any one scene of it to be the genuine offspring of his own brain, and denominate him rather the midwife than the parent of this piece; part of it is taken from le Burgeois Gentilhome, & la Marriage Force.

4. The Wrangling Lovers; or the Invisible Mistress, a Comedy, acted at the duke's theatre, 4to. 1677. This play is founded upon Corneille's Les Engagements du Hazard, and a Spanish Romance, called, Deceptio visus; or seeing and believing are two things.

5. King Edgar, and Alfreda, a Tragedy, acted at the theatre-royal 1677. The story is taken from the Annals of Love, a novel, and Malmesbury, Grafton, Stow, Speed, and other English chronicles.

6. The English Lawyer, a Comedy; acted at the theatre-royal 1678; this is only a translation of the celebrated latin comedy of Ignoramus, written by Mr. Ruggle of Clare-hall, Cambridge. Scene Bourdeaux.

7. The London Cuckolds, a Comedy; acted at the duke of York's theatre. This play is collected from the novels of various authors, and is esteemed one of the most diverting, though perhaps the most offensive play of the author's; it was first acted 1682. This play has hitherto kept possession of the flags, a circumstance owing to the annual celebration of the lord mayor's inauguration: Though it seems to be growing into a just disesteem. It was deprived of its annual appearance at Drury-Lane Theatre, in the year 1752, by Mr. Garrick; whose good sense would not suffer him to continue so unwarrantable and ridiculous an insult, upon so respectable a body of men as the magistrates of the city of London.

The citizens are exposed to the highest ridicule in it; and the scenes are loose and indecent. The reason why the comic poets have so often declared themselves open enemies to the citizens, was plainly this: The city magistrates had always opposed the court, on which the poets had their dependance, and therefore took this method of revenge.

8. Dame Dobson, or the Cunning Woman, a Comedy; acted and damn'd at the duke's theatre, printed in quarto, 1684. This is a translation of a French comedy.

9. The Canterbury Guests, or a Bargain Broken, a Comedy; acted at the theatre-royal, in 1695.

10. The Anatomist, or the Sham Doctor, a Comedy; acted at the theatre-royal in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, 1697.

11. The Italian Husband, a Tragedy; acted at the theatre in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields 1698. To this play, besides the prologue, is prefixed a dialogue, which the author calls the prelude, managed by the poet, a critic, and one Mr. Peregrine the poet's friend. The author here seems to be under the same mistake with other modern writers, who are fond of barbarous and bloody stories. The Epilogue is written by Jo. Haynes.

* * * * *

JOHN PHILIPS,

A poet of very considerable eminence, was son of Dr. Stephen Philips, arch-deacon of Salop, and born at Brampton in Oxfordshire, December 30, 1676. After he had received a grammatical education at home, he was sent to Winchester school, where he made himself master of the Latin and Greek languages, and was soon distinguished for an happy imitation of the excellences which he discovered in the best classical authors. With this foundation he was removed to Christ's Church in Oxford, where he performed all his university exercises with applause, and besides other valuable authors in the poetical way, he became particularly acquainted with, and studied the works of Milton. The ingenious Mr. George Sewel, in his life and character of our author, observes, 'that there was not an allusion in Paradise Lost, drawn from the thoughts and expressions of Homer or Virgil, which Mr. Philips could not immediately refer to, and by that he perceived what a peculiar life and grace their sentiments added to English poetry; how much their images raised its spirit, and what weight and beauty their words, when translated, gave to its language: nor was he less curious in observing the force and elegance of his mother tongue; but by the example of his darling Milton, searched backwards into the works of our old English poets, to furnish him with proper sounding, and significant expressions, and prove the due extent, and compass of the language. For this purpose he carefully read over Chaucer and Spencer, and afterwards, in his writings, did not scruple to revive any words or phrases which he thought deserved it, with that modesty, and liberty which Horace allows of, either in the coining of new, or the restoring of ancient expressions.' Our author, however, was not so much enamoured of poetry, as to neglect other parts of literature, but was very well acquainted with the whole compass of natural philosophy. He seems in his studies, as well as his writings, to have made Virgil his pattern, and often to have broken out with him in the following rapturous wish, in the Second Book of the Georgies which, for the sake of the English reader, we shall give in Mr. Dryden's translation.

'Give me the ways of wand'ring stars to know, The depths of heav'n above, or earth below; Teach me the various labours of the moon, And whence proceed the eclipses of the sun. Why slowing tides prevail upon the main, And in what dark recess they shrink again. What shakes the solid earth, what cause delays The summer-nights, and the short winter days.'

Mr. Philips was a passionate admirer of nature, and it is not improbable but he drew his own character in that description which he gives of a philosophical and retired life, at the latter end of the first Book of his Cyder.

—He to his labour hies, Gladsome intent on somewhat that may ease Unearthly mortals and with curious search Examine all the properties of herbs, Fossils, and minerals, that th' embowell'd earth Displays, if by his industry he can Benefit human race.

Though the reader will easily discover the unpoetical flatness of the above lines, yet they shew a great thirst after natural knowledge, and we have reason to believe, that much might have been attained, and many new discoveries made, by so diligent an enquirer, and so faithful a recorder of physical operations. However, though death prevented the hopes of the world in that respect, yet the passages of that kind, which we find in his Poem on Cyder, may convince us of the niceness of his observations in natural causes. Besides this, he was particularly skilled in antiquities, especially those of his own country; and part of this study too, he has with much art and beauty intermixed with his poetry.

While Mr. Philips continued at the university, he was honoured with the acquaintance of the best and politest men in it, and had a particular intimacy with Mr. Edmund Smith, author of Phaedra and Hippolitus. The first poem which got him reputation, was his Splendid Shilling, which the author of the Tatler has stiled the best burlesque poem in the English Language; nor was it only, says Mr. Sewel, 'the finest of that kind in our tongue, but handled in a manner quite different from what had been made use of by any author of our own, or other nation, the sentiments, and stile being in this both new; whereas in those, the jest lies more in allusions to the thoughts and fables of the ancients, than in the pomp of expression. The same humour is continued thro' the whole, and not unnaturally diversified, as most poems of that nature had been before.

Out of that variety of circumstances, which his fruitful invention must suggest to him, on such a subject, he has not chosen any but what are diverting to every reader, and some, that none but his inimitable dress could have made diverting to any: when we read it, we are betrayed into a pleasure which we could not expect, tho' at the same time the sublimity of the stile, and the gravity of the phrase, seem to chastise that laughter which they provoke.' Mr. Edmund Smith in his beautiful verses on our Author's Death, speaks thus concerning this poem;

'In her best light the comic muse appears, When she with borrowed pride the buskin wears.'

This account given by Mr. Sewel of the Splendid Shilling, is perhaps heightened by personal friendship, and that admiration which we naturally pay to the productions of one we love. The stile seems to be unnatural for a poem which is intended to raise laughter; for that laboured gravity has rather a contrary influence; disposing the mind to be serious: and the disappointment is not small, when a man finds he has been betrayed into solemn thinking, in reading the description of a trifle; if the gravity of the phrase chastises the laughter, the purpose of the poem is defeated, and it is a rule in writing to suit the language to the subject. Philips's Splendid Shilling may have pleased, because, its manner was new, and we often find people of the best sense throw away their admiration on monsters, which are seldom to be seen, and neglect more regular beauty, and juster proportion.

It is with reserve we offer this criticism against the authority of Dr. Sewel, and the Tatler; but we have resolved to be impartial, and the reader who is convinced of the propriety and beauty of the Splendid Shilling, has, no doubt, as good a right to reject our criticism, as we had to make it.

Our author's coming to London, we are informed, was owing to the persuasion of some great persons, who engaged him to write on the Battle of Blenheim; his poem upon which introduced him to the earl of Oxford, and Henry St. John, esq; afterwards lord viscount Bolingbroke, and other noble patrons. His swelling stile, it must be owned, was better suited to a subject of this gravity and importance, than to that of a light and ludicrous nature: the exordium of this piece is poetical, and has an allusion to that of Spencer's Fairy Queen:

From low and abject themes the grov'ling muse Now mounts aerial to sing of arms Triumphant, and emblaze the martial acts Of Britain's hero.

The next poem of our author was his Cyder, the plan of which he laid at Oxford, and afterwards compleated it in London. He was determined to make choice of this subject, from the violent passion he had for the productions of nature, and to do honour to his native country. The poem was founded upon the model of Virgil's Georgics, and approaches pretty near it, which, in the opinion of critics in general, and Mr. Dryden in particular, even excels the Divine AEneid: He imitates Virgil rather like a pursuer, than a follower, not servilely tracing, but emulating his beauties; his conduct and management are superior to all other copiers of that original; and even the admired Rapin (says Dr. Sewel) is much below him, both in design and success, 'for the Frenchman either fills his garden with the idle fables of antiquity, or new transformations of his own; and, in contradiction of the rules of criticism, has injudiciously blended the serious, and sublime stile of Virgil, with the elegant turns of Ovid in his Metamorphosis; nor has the great genius of Cowley succeeded better in his Books of Plants, who, besides the same faults with the former, is continually varying his numbers from one sort of verse to another, and alluding to remote hints of medicinal writers, which, though allowed to be useful, are yet so numerous, that they flatten the dignity of verse, and sink it from a poem, to a treatise of physic,' Dr. Sewel has informed us, that Mr. Philips intended to have written a poem on the Resurrection, and the Day of Judgment, and we may reasonably presume, that in such a work, he would have exceeded his other performances. This awful subject is proper to be treated in a solemn stile, and dignified with the noblest images; and we need not doubt from his just notions of religion, and the genuine spirit of poetry, which were conspicuous in him, he would have carried his readers through these tremendous scenes, with an exalted reverence, which, however, might not participate of enthusiasm. The meanest soul, and the lowest imagination cannot contemplate these alarming events described in Holy Writ, without the deepest impressions: what then might we not expect from the heart of a good man, and the regulated flights and raptures of a christian poet? Our author's friend Mr. Smith, who had probably seen the first rudiments of his design, speaks thus of it, in a poem upon his death.

O! had relenting Heaven prolong'd his days, The tow'ring bard had sung in nobler lays: How the last trumpet wakes the lazy dead; How saints aloft the cross triumphant spread; How opening Heav'ns their happier regions, shew, And yawning gulphs with flaming vengeance glow, And saints rejoice above, and sinners howl below. Well might he sing the day he could not fear, And paint the glories he was sure to wear.

All that we have left more of this poet, is a Latin Ode to Henry St. John, esq; which is esteemed a master-piece; the stile being pure and elegant, the subject of a mixt nature, resembling the Jublime spirit, and gay facetious humour of Horace. He was beloved, says Dr. Sewel, 'by all who knew him; somewhat reserved and silent amongst strangers, but free, familiar, and easy with his friends; he was averse to disputes, and thought no time so ill spent, and no wit so ill used, as that which was employed in such debates; his whole life was distinguished by a natural goodness, and well-grounded and unaffected piety, an universal charity, and a steady adherence to his principles; no one observed the natural and civil duties of life with a stricter regard, whether a son, a friend, or a member of society, and he had the happiness to fill every one of these parts, without even the suspicion either of undutifulness, insincerity, or disrespect. Thus he continued to the last, not owing his virtues to the happiness of his constitution, but the frame of his mind, insomuch, that during a long sickness, which is apt to ruffle the smoothest temper; he never betrayed any discontent or uneasiness, the integrity of his life still preserving the chearfulness of his spirits; and if his friends had measured their hopes of his life, only by his unconcern in his sickness, they could not but conclude, that either his date would be much longer, or that he was at all times prepared for death.' He had long been troubled with a lingering consumption, attended with an asthma; and the summer before he died, by the advice of his physicians, he removed to Batly, where he got only some present ease, but went from thence with but small hopes of recovery; and upon the return of the distemper, he died at Hereford the 15th of February, 1708. He was interred in the Cathedral church of that city, with an inscription upon his grave-stone, and had a monument erected to his memory in Westminster-abbey by Sir Simon Harcourt, afterwards lord chancellor; the epitaph of which was written by Dr. Friend.

* * * * *

WILLIAM WALSH, Esq;

This poet was the son of Joseph Walsh, of Aberley in Worcestershire. He became a gentleman-commoner of Wadham-College Oxford, in Easter-Term, 1678, when he was only fifteen years of age; he left it without a degree, retired to his native county, and some time after went to London. He wrote a Dialogue concerning Women, being a Defence of the Fair-Sex, addressed to Eugenia, and printed in the year 1691. This is the most considerable of our author's productions, and it will be somewhat necessary to take further notice of it, which we cannot more effectually do, than by transcribing the words of Dryden in its commendation.—That great critic thus characterises it. 'The perusal of this dialogue, in defence of the Fair-Sex, written by a gentleman of my acquaintance, much surprised me: For it was not easy for me to imagine, that one so young could have treated so nice a subject with so much judgment. It is true, I was not ignorant that he was naturally ingenious, and that he had improved himself by travelling; and from thence I might reasonably have expected, that air of gallantry which is so visibly diffused through the body of the work, and is, indeed, the soul that animates all things of this nature; but so much variety of reading, both in ancient and modern authors, such digestion of that reading, so much justness of thought, that it leaves no room for affectation or pedantry; I may venture to say, are not over common amongst practised writers, and very rarely to be found amongst beginners. It puts me in mind of what was said of Mr. Waller, the father of our English numbers, upon the sight of his first verses, by the wits of the last age; that he came out into the world forty-thousand strong, before they had heard of him. Here in imitation of my friend's apostrophes, I hope the reader need not be told, that Mr. Waller is only mentioned for honour's sake, that I am desirous of laying hold on his memory on all occasions, and thereby acknowledging to the world, that unless he had written, none of us all could write. My friend, had not it seems confidence enough to send this piece out into the world, without my opinion of it, that it might pass securely, at least among the fair readers, for whose service it was principally designed. I am not so presuming, as to think my opinion can either be his touch-stone, or his passport; but, I thought I might send him back to Ariosto, who has made it the business of almost thirty stanza's, in the beginning of the thirty-seventh book of his Orlando Furioso; not only to praise that beautiful part of the creation, but also to make a sharp satire on their enemies; to give mankind their own, and to tell them plainly, that from their envy it proceeds, that the virtue and great actions of women are purposely concealed, and the failings of some few amongst them exposed, with all the aggravating circumstances of malice. For my own part, who have always been their servant, and have never drawn my pen against them, I had rather see some of them praised extraordinarily, than any of them suffer by detraction, and that at this age, and at this time particularly, wherein I find more heroines, than heroes; let me therefore give them joy of their new champion: If any will think me more partial to him, than I really am, they can only say, I have returned his bribe; and he word I wish him is, that he may receive justice from the men, and favour only from the ladies.'

This is the opinion of Mr. Dryden in favour of this piece, which is sufficient to establish its reputation. Mr. Wood, the antiquarian, observes, that this Eugenia was the mistress of Walsh; but for this he produces no proof, neither is it in the lead material whether the circumstance is true or no. Mr. Walslh is likewise author of several occasional poems, printed 1749, amongst the works of the Minor Poets, and which he first published in the year 1692, with some letters amorous, and gallant, to which is prefixed the following address to the public.

Go, little book, and to the world impart The faithful image of an amorous heart; Those who love's dear deluding pains have known, May in my fatal sorrows read their own: Those who have lived from all its torments free, May find the things they never, felt by me. Perhaps advis'd avoid the gilded bait, And warn'd by my example shun my fate. Whilst with calm joy, safe landed on the coast I view the waves, on which I once was tost. Love is a medley of endearments, jars, Suspicions, quarrels, reconcilements, wars; Then peace again. O would it not be best, To chase the fatal poison from our breast? But since, so few can live from passion free, Happy the man, and only happy he, Who with such lucky stars begins his love, That his cool judgment does his choice approve. Ill grounded passions quickly wear away; What's built upon esteem can ne'er decay.

Mr. Walsh was of an amorous complexion, and in one of his letters mentions three of his amours, in pretty singular terms. 'I valued (says he) one mistress, after I left loving her; I loved another after I left valuing her; I love and value the third, after having lost all hopes of her; and according to the course of my passions, I should love the next after having obtained her. However, from this time forward, upon what follies soever you fall, be pleased, for my sake, to spare those of love; being very well satisfied there is not one folly of that kind (excepting marriage) which I have not already committed. I have been, without raillery, in love with the beauty of a woman whom I have never seen; with the wit of one whom I never heard speak, nor seen any thing she has written, and with the heroic virtues of a woman, without knowing any one action of her, that could make me think; she had any; Cupid will have it so, and what can weak mortals do against so potent a god?' Such were the sentiments of our author when he was about 30 years of age.

Queen Anne constituted Mr. Walsh her master of the horse. On what account this place, in particular, was allotted him, we know not; but, with regard to his literary abilities, Mr. Dryden in his postscript to his translation of Virgil, has asserted, that Mr. Walsh was the best critic then living; and Mr. Pope, speaking of our author, thus concludes his Essay on Criticism, viz.

To him, the wit of Greece, and Rome was known, And ev'ry author's merit, but his own. Such late was Walsh: the muses judge and friend, Who justly knew to blame, or to commend; To failings mild, but zealous for desert, The clearest head, and the sincerest heart.

In the year 1714 the public were obliged with a small posthumous piece of Mr. Walsh's, entitled AEsculapius, or the Hospital of Fools, in imitation of Lucian. There is printed amongst. Mr. Walsh's other performances, in a volume of the Minor Poets, an Essay on Pastoral Poetry, with a Short Defence of Virgil, against some of the reflexions of M. Fontenelle. That critic had censured Virgil for writing his pastorals in a too courtly stile, which, he says, is not proper for the Doric Muse; but Mr. Walsh has very judiciously shewn, that the Shepherds in Virgil's time, were held in greater estimation, and were persons of a much superior figure to what they are now. We are too apt to figure the ancient countrymen like our own, leading a painful life in poverty, and contempt, without wit, or courage, or education; but men had quite different notions of these things for the first four thousand years of the world. Health and strength were then more in esteem, than the refinements of pleasure, and it was accounted, more honourable to till the ground, and keep a flock of sheep, than to dissolve in wantonness, and effeminating sloth.

Mr. Walsh's other pieces consist chiefly of Elegies, Epitaphs, Odes, and Songs; they are elegant, tho' not great, and he seems to have had a well cultivated, tho' not a very extensive, understanding. Dryden and Pope have given their sanction in his favour, to whom he was personally known, a circumstance greatly to his advantage, for had there been no personal friendship, we have reason to believe, their encomiums would have been less lavish; at least his works do not carry so high an idea of him, as they have done. Mr. Walsh died about the year 1710.

* * * * *

THOMAS BETTERTON.

(Written by R.S.[1])

Almost every circumstance relating to the life of this celebrated actor, is exposed to dispute, and his manner of first coming on the stage, as well as the action of his younger years have been controverted. He was son of Mr. Betterton, undercook to king Charles the Ist, and was born in Tothill-street Westminster, some time in the year 1635. Having received the rudiments of a genteel education, and discovering a great propensity to books, it was once proposed he should have been educated to some learned profession; but the violence and confusion of the times putting this out of the power of his family, he was at his own request bound apprentice to a bookseller, one Mr. Holden, a man of some eminence, and then happy in the friendship of Sir William Davenant. In the year 1656 it is probable Mr. Betterton made his first appearance on the stage, under the direction of Sir William, at the Opera-house in Charter-house-yard. It is said, that going frequently to the stage about his mailer's business, gave Betterton the first notion of it, who shewed such indications of a theatrical genius, that Sir William readily accepted him as a performer. Immediately after the restoration two distinct companies were formed by royal authority; the first in virtue of a patent granted to Henry Killegrew, Esq; called the king's company, the other in virtue of a patent granted to Sir William Davenant, which was stiled the duke's company.[2] The former acted at the theatre royal in Drury-lane, the other at that in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields. In order that the theatres might be decorated to the utmost advantage, and want none of the embellishments used abroad, Mr. Betterton, by command of Charles II. went to Paris, to take a view of the French stage, that he might the better judge what would contribute to the improvement of our own. Upon his return, Mr. Betterton introduced moving scenes into our theatre, which before had the stage only hung with tapestry. The scenes no doubt help the representation, by giving the spectator a view of the place, and increase the distress, by making the deception more powerful, and afflicting the mind with greater sensibility. The theatre in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields being very inconvenient, another was built for them in Dorset-Garden, called the duke's theatre, to which they removed and followed their profession with great success, during all that reign of pleasure.

The stage at this time was so much the care of the state, that when any disputes arose, they were generally decided by his majesty himself or the duke of York, and frequently canvassed in the circle. Mr. Cibber assigns very good reasons, why at this time, theatrical amusements were so much in vogue; the first is, that after a long eclipse of gallantry during the rage of the civil war, people returned to it with double ardour; the next is, that women were then introduced on the stage, their parts formerly being supplied by boys, or effeminate young men, of which the famous Kynaston possessed the capital parts. When any art is carried to perfection, it seldom happens, that at that particular period, the profits arising from it are high; and at this time the advantages of playing were very inconsiderable: Mr. Hart the greatest performer at the king's theatre, had but three pounds a week, and Mr. Betterton, then but young, very probably had not so much, and besides, benefits then were things unheard of.

In 1670 Mr. Betterton married a gentlewoman on the same stage, one Mrs. Saunderson, who excelled as an actress, every thing but her own conduct in life. In her, he was compleatly happy, and by their joint endeavours even in those days, they were able not only to acquire a genteel subsistence, but also to save what might support them in an advanced age[3].

After Sir William Davenant's death, the patent came into the hands of his son, Dr. Charles Davenant, so well known to the world by his political, writings; but, whether his genius was less fit than his father's for such an administration, or the king's Company were really superior to his in acting, we cannot determine; but they gained upon the town, and Dr. Davenant was obliged to have recourse to the dramatic opera, rich scenes, and fine music, to support the stage on which Betterton played. The Dr. himself wrote the Opera of Circe, which came first on the stage in 1675, and was received with, such applause, as gave hopes of succeeding in this new way. The same year a Pastoral, called Calista, or the Chaste Nymph, written by Mr. Crowne, at the desire of queen Katherine, was represented at court; and the ladies, Mary and Anne, daughters to the duke of York, played parts in it. On this occasion Mr. Betterton instructed the actors, and Mrs. Betterton gave lessons to the princesses; in grateful remembrance of which queen Anne settled a pension of 100 l. per annum upon her. During this time an emulation subsisted between the two companies, and a theatrical war was proclaimed aloud, in which the town reaped the advantage, by seeing the parts performed with the greater life. The duke's company however maintained it's superiority, by means of the new-invented artillery, of music, machines, and scenery, and other underhand dealings, and bribing of actors in the opposite faction from performing their duty. By these measures, a coalition was effected, and the two companies joined together, and being united formed one of the perfectest that ever filled a stage, in 1682. It was in this united company that the merit of Betterton shone with unrivalled lustre, and having survived the great actors on whose model he had formed himself he was at liberty to discover his genius in its full extent, by replacing many of them with advantage in these very characters, in which, during their life-times, they had been thought inimitable; and all who have a taste for scenical entertainments cannot but thank the present laureat, for preserving for them so lively a portrait of Betterton, and painting him in so true a light, that without the imputation of blind adulation, he may be justly stiled the British Roscius.

This account is too important and picturesque to be here omitted; and it would be an injury to Betterton not to shew him in that commanding light, in which the best judge of that species of excellence has placed him.

"Betterton was an actor, as Shakespear was an author, both without competitors! form'd for the mutual assistance, and illustration of each others genius! how Shakespear wrote, all men who have a taste for nature may read, and know—but with what higher rapture would he still be read, could they conceive how Betterton play'd him! then might they know, the one was born alone to speak what the other only knew to write! Pity it is, that the momentary beauties flowing from an harmonious elocution cannot, like those of poetry, be their own record! that the animated graces of the player can live no longer than the instant breath and motion that presents them; or at belt can but faintly glimmer through the memory, or imperfect attestation of a few surviving spectators. Could how Betterton spoke, be as easily known as what he spoke; then might you see the muse of Shakespear in her triumph, with all their beauties in their belt array, rising into real life, and charming her beholders. But alas! since all this is so far out of the reach of description, how shall I shew you Betterton? Should I therefore tell you, that all the Othellos, Hamlets, Hotspurs, Mackbeths, and Brutus's, whom you may have seen since his time have fallen far short of him: This still would give you no idea of his particular excellence. Let us see then what a particular comparison may do! whether that may yet draw him nearer to you?

You have seen a Hamlet perhaps, who, on the first appearance of his father's spirit, has thrown himself into all the straining vociferation requisite to express rage and fury, and the house has thundered with applause; tho' the misguided actor was all the while (as Shakespear terms it) tearing a passion into rags—am the more bold to offer you this particular instance, because the late Mr. Addison, while I sate by him, to see this scene acted, made the same observation, asking me with some surprize, if I thought Hamlet should be in so violent a passion with the Ghost, which though it might have astonished, it had not provok'd him? for you may observe that in this beautiful speech, the passion never rises beyond an almost breathless astonishment, or an impatience, limited by filial reverence, to enquire into the suspected wrongs that may have rais'd him from his peaceful tomb! and a desire to know what a spirit so seemingly distress, might wish or enjoin a sorrowful son to execute towards his future quiet in the grave? this was the light into which Betterton threw this scene; which he open'd with a pause of mute amazement! then rising slowly, to a solemn, trembling voice, he made the Ghost equally terrible to the spectator, as to himself! and in the descriptive part of the natural emotions which the ghastly vision gave him, the boldness of his expostulation was still governed by decency, manly, but not braving; his voice never rising into that seeming outrage, or wild defiance of what he naturally rever'd. But alas! to preserve this medium, between mouthing, and meaning too little, to keep the attention more pleasingly awake, by a tempered spirit, than by meer vehemence of voice, is of all the master-strokes of an actor the most difficult to reach. In this none yet have equall'd Betterton. But I am unwilling to shew his superiority only by recounting the errors of those, who now cannot answer to them; let their farther failings therefore be forgotten! or rather shall I in some measure excuse them? for I am not yet sure, that they might not be as much owing to the false judgment of the spectator, as the actor. While the million are so apt to be transported, when the drum of their ear is so roundly rattled; while they take the life of elocution to lie in the strength of the lungs, it is no wonder the actor, whose end is applause, should be so often tempted, at this easy rate, to excite it. Shall I go a little farther? and allow that this extreme is more pardonable than its opposite error. I mean that dangerous affectation of the monotone, or solemn sameness of pronunciation, which to my ear is insupportable; for of all faults that so frequently pass upon the vulgar, that of flatness will have the fewest admirers. That this is an error of ancient standing seems evident by what Hamlet says, in his instructions to the players, viz.

Be not too tame, neither, &c.

The Actor, doubtless, is as strongly ty'd down to the rule of Horace, as the writer.

Si vis me flere, dolendum est Primum ipsi tibi——

He that feels not himself the passion he would raise, will talk to a sleeping audience: But this never was the fault of Betterton; and it has often amaz'd me, to see those who soon came after him, throw out in some parts of a character, a just and graceful spirit, which Betterton himself could not but have applauded. And yet in the equally shining passages of the same character, have heavily dragg'd the sentiment along, like a dead weight; with a long ton'd voice, and absent eye, as if they had fairly forgot what they were about: If you have never made this observation, I am contented you should not know where to apply it.

A farther excellence in Betterton, was that he could vary his spirit to the different characters he acted. Those wild impatient starts, that fierce and flaming fire, which he threw into Hotspur, never came from the unruffled temper of his Brutus (for I have more than once seen a Brutus as warm as Hotspur) when the Betterton Brutus was provoked, in his dispute with Cassius, his spirit flew only to his eye; his steady look alone supply'd that terror, which he disdain'd, an intemperance in his voice should rise to. Thus, with a settled dignity of contempt, like an unheeding rock, he repell'd upon himself the foam of Cassius. Perhaps the very words of Shakespear will better let you into my meaning:

Must I give way, and room, to your rash choler? Shall I be frighted when a madman flares?

And a little after,

There is no terror, Cassius, in your looks! &c.

Not but, in some part of this scene, where he reproaches Cassius, his temper is not under this suppression, but opens into that warmth which becomes a man of virtue; yet this is that hasty spark of anger, which Brutus himself endeavours to excuse.

But with whatever strength of nature we see the poet shew, at once, the philosopher and the heroe, yet the image of the actor's excellence will be still imperfect to you, unless language cou'd put colours in our words to paint the voice with.

Et si vis similem pingere, pinge sonum, is enjoining an impossibility. The most that a Vandyke can arrive at, is to make his portraits of great persons seem to think; a Shakespear goes farther yet, and tells you what his pictures thought; a Betterton steps beyond 'em both, and calls them from the grave, to breathe, and be themselves again, in feature, speech, and motion. When the skilful actor shews you all these powers united, he gratifies at once your eye, your ear, and your understanding. To conceive the pleasure rising from such harmony, you must have been present at it! 'tis not to be told you!

Thus was Betterton happy in his fortune, in the notice of his sovereign, in his fame and character, and in a general respect of all ranks of life; thus happy might he have continued, had he not been persuaded to attempt becoming rich, and unluckily engaged in a scheme that swept away all his capital, and left him in real distress. This accident fell out in 1692; and is of too particular a kind to pass unnoticed. Mr. Betterton had a great many friends amongst the wealthy traders in the city, and so amiable was his private life, that all who knew him were concerned, and interested in his success: Amongst these, there was a gentleman, whose name the author of his life thinks proper to conceal, who entered into the strictest amity with this actor. This gentleman in the year 1692 was concerned in an adventure to the East-Indies, upon the footing then allowed by the company's charter, which vessels so employed were stiled interlopers. The project of success was great, the gain unusually high; and this induced Mr. Betterton, to whom his friend offered any share in the business he pleased, to think of so large a sum as eight-thousand pounds; but it was not for himself, as he had no such sum in his power: and whoever considers the situation of the stage at that time will need no other argument to convince him of it. Yet he had another friend whom, he was willing to oblige, which was the famous Dr. Radcliffe; so Mr. Betterton advanced somewhat more than two-thousand pounds, which was his all, and the Dr. made it up eight-thousand. The vessel sailed to the East-Indies, and made as prosperous a voyage as those concerned in her could wish, and the war with France being then, very warm, the captain very prudently came home north about, and arrived safe in Ireland; but in his passage from thence he was taken by the French. His cargo was upwards of 120,000 l. which ruined Mr. Betterton, and broke the fortune and heart of his friend in the city: As for doctor Radcliffe, he expressed great concern for Mr. Betterton, but none for himself; the Dr. merrily consoled himself with observing, 'that it was only trotting up 200 pair of stairs more, and things are as they were.'

This accident, however fatal to Mr. Betterton's fortune, yet proved not so to his peace, for he bore it without murmur, and even without mention; so far from entertaining resentment against his friend in the city, who doubtless meant him well, he continued his intimacy till his death, and after his decease took his only daughter under his protection, and watched over her education till she thought proper to dispose of herself in marriage to Mr. Bowman the player, whose behaviour was such, as to gain the esteem of all that knew him; he has not been many years dead, and reflected credit on the reports of the excellency of the old stage.