ORIGINAL LETTERS, FAMILIAR, MORAL and CRITICAL
By Mr. DENNIS.
VOLUME the SECOND.
LONDON: Printed for W. MEARS, at the Lamb without Temple-Bar. M DCCXXI.
THE following Letter was writ by me about ſixteen Years ago. But that the Reader may enter into it with the great⯑er Eaſe, and be the better entertain'd with it, it will be convenient to lay before him the Occaſion upon which it was writ. It was towards the end of the laſt Century that Mr. Collier publiſh'd a Book call'd, A ſhort View of the Prophaneſs and Immorality of the Engliſh Stage; in which Book, tho' there were ſeveral Things true in particular, yet the Author was manifeſtly ſo unfair an Ad⯑verſary in general, that the latter End of the Book very groſsly contradicted the begin⯑ning of it, and endeavour'd to decry even a Regulated Stage, which the Author at the beginning of the Book had acknowled'd uſe⯑ful. About four or five Years after that, as near as I can remember, Mr. Collier took occaſion from the great Storm, which hap⯑pen'd about that Time, to renew his Attack [226] upon the Stage, in a little Pamphlet call'd, A Diſſuaſive from the Play-Houſe, writ⯑ten by way of Letter to a Perſon of Qua⯑lity. Which Pamphlet, upon the Faſt Day that was order'd to be kept by publick Au⯑thority immediately after that Tempeſt, was given to People gratis as they came out of the Churches. The Deſign of it was to make the great Storm a Judgment upon the Na⯑tion for the Enormities of our Theatres. The Hypocriſie was here ſo flagrant and ſo abſurd and extravagant, that it rais'd ei⯑ther the Indignation or Mirth of all diſ⯑cerning Men of Integrity. At the ſame time it had a wonderful Influence upon the Weak and the Hypocrites; and there was a great Outcry againſt the Stage; ſo great a one, that there was a warm Report about the Town, that it had been twice debated in Council, whether the Theatres ſhould be ſhut up or continued. Then it was that I could bear no longer, but as I had before de⯑fended a regulated Stage againſt the Author's Attack in his Short View, I was reſolved to expoſe the Hypocriſie, the Extravagance and the Sophiſtry of his Diſſuaſive. This Reſolution produced the following Letter, which I call'd the Perſon of Quality's An⯑ſwer to Mr. Collier's Letter; and which was intended to conſiſt of a Mixture of Rea⯑ſon and Raillery, and which was moſt agreeably receiv'd by ſome of the beſt Judges who were [227] then in England, and particularly by the late Duke of Buckingham, the late Earl of Halifax, and the preſent Lord Lanſdown. As this Letter has been ſo long out of Print, that it is as ſcarce as any Manuſcript of which there is but one Copy, I thought it might be as new and as entertaining to moſt of its Readers as if it had been never pub⯑liſh'd. There remains one thing more with which I muſt acquaint the Reader, and that is, that I, who have all my Life-time ab⯑horr'd Hypocriſie, and ſcorn'd to paſs for a⯑ny thing which I am not, tho' in the Title Page I call the Letter the Perſon of Qua⯑lity's Anſwer, have yet taken care in the Body of the Letter to acquaint the Reader, that I am only a private Gentleman. But I make no doubt but that I am a much more conſiderable Perſon than he to whom Mr. Collier's Letter was writ, who perhaps was no Body.
THIS Afternoon, I receiv'd your Edi⯑fying, Evangelical Diſſuaſive; for which, What Thanks can I return you? What Recompence can be ſufficient? May he, for whoſe ſake you did it, amply re⯑ward you.
I had conceived indeed a Zealous concern at the Diſorders of the Play-Houſe, I la⯑mented its having ſo much the aſcendant of the Town, and the Countenance of Figure and Fortune. And I too juſtly preſaged that theſe Nurſeries of Licerſe and Atheiſm, eſ⯑pecially [229] that in our Neighbourhood, wou'd, if unreſtrain'd, prove fatal to the Nation; make us ripe for Deſtruction, and pull down ſome terrible Vengeance on our Heads; no leſs than Popery, or Arbitrary Power at the leaſt; and, dear Doctor, what a Day, and what a Sight wou'd that be to you and me?
For this Reaſon, I reſolved that, in my Family, Reformation and the Year ſhould begin together; and for that Reaſon I cal⯑led them together as ſoon as they had dined to-day, determining to read a long and a ſolemn Lecture out of your Short View to them; but a ſtrange Fatality had happen'd; for ſome audacious Rats had ſo prophane⯑ly gnawn it, that it was no longer legible; a Detachment, in my Conſcience, of Play-Houſe Vermin, whom the Devil had en⯑ter'd into for that purpoſe, at his Congregati⯑on in the Neighbourhood.
Thus bilk'd of my Homily, I thought I muſt, to my great Grief, have been forced to diſmiſs my Flock. For I perceived they were grown frightfully Nice and Impatient, and were reſolved to be cur'd extempore or not at all.
But then it was that in an auſpicious Mo⯑ment arriv'd your ſhort, but Divine Diſ⯑ſuaſive. I read it over as it were in a Breath, while they all the while ſtood ga⯑ [...]ing to entertain it. But the laſt incom⯑parable [230] Paragraph but one, I pronounced with a more emphatical Voice; laid before them with all the Energy of my Lungs, the ſad Inſtance of God's Judgment in the ter⯑rible Tempeſt when we were almoſt ſwept into Chaos, when Nature ſeem'd to be in her laſt Agony, and the World ſeem'd ready to expire. And what occaſion, ſaid I to my gaping Audience, to have Recourſe to Tra⯑gedies, when thoſe Rants, that Fuſtian, and that Bombaſt, with which deluded Mortals are now-a-days ſo tickled, are en⯑gagingly inſerted into our very Diſſuaſives?
And here, Doctor, I made two Remarks to them, upon the Judgment of the late dreadful Tempeſt. For firſt, ſaid I, the Outcries of the Play-Houſe Practices are ſo aggravating, ſo horrible, that the Divine Vengeance which they brought down up⯑on us, has invol'd the very Innocent. Not only the poor Inhabitants of Cologn, but the very Hamburgers and Dantzickers, and all the People of the Baltick, have ſuffer'd for the Enormities of our Engliſh Theatres; tho' I believe in my Conſcience they never ſo much as heard of a Play, and know no more the Difference between a Tragedy and Comedy, than they do the Diſtance between the Earth and Saturn; ſo that, ſaid I, you may obſerve from hence, 'tis not e⯑nough to keep away from theſe lewd En⯑tertainments; but you muſt endeavour with [231] all your Might to ſuppreſs the Conventicles of Satan.
The ſecond Obſervation that I made was this, that we have reaſon to be thankful to Heaven, for forbearing us ſo long. For if the late dreadful Judgment had happen'd in the Reign of King Charles the Second, when the Play-Houſes were licentious in all their Impunity; when Reformation was ſo far from being thought of, that the very Name was deſpiſed and laught at, what muſt the diſmal Conſequence not have been? Then we ſhould certainly have been ſwal⯑low'd up, ſince the Judgment was ſo terri⯑ble even the other Day, after a five Years Reformation?
What reaſon have we to be thankful, that we live in an Age in which Light is come into the World. For in what Aegyptian Darkneſs have we liv'd hitherto? And what a poor Reformation was that which was carried on in Queen Elizabeth's time, in Compariſon of that which you are glo⯑riouſly projecting? For with that former Reformation the Play-Houſe began, grew up, and ſpread, and flouriſh'd. What a ſhadow of a Reformation was that? 'Tis true, Popery was driven out, and whol⯑ſome Laws were enacted to ſecure the Rights of the People. But what ſignified all that, when the Play-Houſe was encou⯑rag'd? For tho', as you learnedly obſerve, [232] Play-Houſes, in the Reign of that great Queen, were not permitted to be erected in the Liberties of the City, yet in the Suburbs they were not only permitted but encourag'd with a Vengeance; and by whom encourag'd? Why, not only by the People, but by the Court, nay, by the Council, yes, by thoſe poor deluded Wretches Cecil and Walſingham, who believ'd it to be the Bu⯑ſineſs, forſooth, of wiſe States-Men, to provide honeſt and reaſonable Diverſions for the People; and at the ſame time were ſo infatuated, ſo intoxicated, as to believe the Entertainments of the Theatre not on⯑ly to be honeſt and reaſonable, but the on⯑ly honeſt and reaſonable Diverſions.
Nay, the poor miſtaken Queen her ſelf encouraged Play-Houſes to that degree, that ſhe not only commanded Shakeſpear to write the Comedy of the Merry Wives, and to write it in ten Days time; ſo eager was ſhe for the wicked Diverſion; but ev'n with that Hand that wielded the Scepter deſcended poorly to tranſlate a Play that was writ by a Grecian Poet. She had read, it ſeems, of ſome great Men among the Romans, who had ſhewn the way; as Ju⯑lius Caeſar had writ Adraſtus; Auguſtus, A⯑jax; Gracchus, Thieſtes; and Mecaenas, Octa⯑via; and ſhe wanted Judgment, alas, poor Woman, to diſtinguiſh between the Obli⯑gations of a Heathen and a Chriſtian. 'Tis [233] true ſhe was wiſe enough in ſome things, ſhe kept out Popery and Arbitrary Power, ſhe defended us from Rome and Spain, by the meer Force of her Prudence. But what ſignified that, you know, Doctor, when ſhe encourag'd the Play-Houſes, and wanted Fore-ſight in that particular, to preſage that theſe Nurſeries of Vice and Atheiſm wou'd prove fatal to the Nation?
It ſeems ſome Fools about her had told her, that at a time when Taxes were fre⯑quent and grievous, ſome honeſt Diverſi⯑ons would comfort the People, but that it would be unreaſonable to deprive them at once of their Money, and of their Pleaſure too; this ſhe had been told, and ſhe like an eaſie Woman believ'd it. But what a⯑mazes me moſt is this, Doctor, that not only that Queen and her Council encou⯑raged Plays, but not ſo much as one of the famous Prelates in her time ſaid ſo much as a word againſt them. 'Tis true, the States-Men defended us againſt Spain very vigo⯑rouſly, and very effectually, and ſo did the Church-Men againſt the Roman See; but alas their poor and narrow Spirits content⯑ed themſelves with that. But not ſo much as one word was ſaid againſt the Abomina⯑tions of the Play-Houſes. There were Reformers indeed! Were they ſo ſenſeleſs that they wanted Diſcernment to ſee the flaming and Outragious Wickedneſs of them? [234] Or ſo very wicked that they wanted Zeal to diſcharge their Duty in ſuppreſſing them? Ah my dear Doctor, had you but liv'd in thoſe Times, you wou'd have taught that Queen her Leſſon, in loyal Libels have told her her Duty, affronted her Authority, de⯑fam'd her Servants, and boldly have told her that ſhe countenanc'd them only to de⯑bauch her People. You would have open'd the Eyes of thoſe Fools, who believ'd Shake⯑ſpear to be Inſtructive as well as Innocent. You would have extracted more Smutt from his Comedies, than a Chimney does from Seacoal. And what Prophaneſs and Blaſ⯑phemy had you not found in his Tra⯑gedies? You would have ſatisfy'd both Queen, and Council, and Clergy too, that their Buſineſs was to ſuppreſs the Play-Houſes, and to let Spain and Rome alone. That the Danger that they were in was not from Philip the Second, and Sixtus the Fifth; but from Tyrants who had been many a Year defunct, from Julius Caeſar and Macbeth; you would have preſaged the Storm that the latter would have pull'd down upon the Nation, a hundred Years after 'twas writ. You had then been Hi⯑ſtrio Maſtix the firſt, whereas you are now but the ſecond of that glorious Name; and then had old bungling Pryn been cropt for preſuming to copy you. Thus, my dear Doctor, we have reaſon to believe what [235] you would have done, from what we be⯑hold you do. For tho' Popery and Slave⯑ry are at our Doors, and each Moment are ruſhing in upon us; and nothing but the Wiſdom of one Woman ſtands between us and them, yet you ſtill retain your com⯑mendable Paſſive Principle, appear as un⯑concern'd as if you had ſworn to be a Foe to neither, are found to be as little alarm'd for theChurch, as if you had thrown off itsCauſe, as you have caſt off its Habit; and inſtead of crying out Slavery, Popery, do nothing but cry out the Play-Houſe, the Play-Houſe, with as much Fury as if you were afraid it ſhould contribute to the keeping them out.
But my dear Doctor, by the leave of your Modeſty, I muſt exalt your Glory to a higher Pitch. When Queen Elizabeth died, King James ſucceeded her; and a⯑mong the eminent Reformers of his Reign there was no talk of the Stage. Nay, on the contrary, to their Shame be it ſpoken, that King and his Court appear'd to be in⯑finitely delighted with Plays. And in his Viſits to the two Univerſities, Plays were the chief of his Entertainment. But what would we have, Doctor? as the Education is, ſo is the Youth. And he had been tu⯑tor'd by old George, a notorious Refor⯑mer, but a notorious Playwright. For the Sot believ'd, it ſeems, that the Drama could contribute to the Reformation of Mankind.
[236] To King James ſucceeded King Charles the Firſt; and then aroſe another famous Reformer, John Milton by Name, who not only left a Tragedy behind him, the Story of which he impiouſly borrow'd from the Bible, written, to leave him without Excuſe, in his mature, nay declining Years, but has left a fine Encomium on Shakeſpear; has ſhewn an extraordinary Eſteem for Johnſon; and among all the Things that he thought fit to reform, ſo far had Pre⯑judice laid hold of his Underſtanding, it ne⯑ver ſo much as came into his Head that the Stage was one of them.
But then about that time, Doctor, there aroſe a Reformer indeed, Brother Pryn of Illuſtrious Memory; a Perſon indeed of an amazing Boldneſs. For to the Fervency of his furious Spirit, Ruine and Reforma⯑tion were all one. With theſe Zealot's Thoughts he ſet about reforming the Church as well as the Stage; and by preparing the Downfal of one made way for the Ruine of the other. 'Tis true, he loſt ſome part of himſelf in the Cauſe. But happy the Ears that were ſo loſt! How much hap⯑pier than thoſe that ſtand pricking up dai⯑ly at the Ribaldry of our Modern Comedies? I know, dear Doctor, under the Roſe, that you have the ſame Deſign, and that you will never leave off writing as long as there is left either a Prelate or Poet in England; [237] or if you do condeſcend to admit of Bi⯑ſhops, you will at leaſt ſuffer no ſuch Biſhops as have a Tang of the Stage; I mean no ſwear⯑ing, prophane Biſhops, but ſuch whoſe meek and Chriſtian Communication is on⯑ly Yea and Nay.
As you have the ſame noble Deſign, may you find better Fortune, as you well de⯑ſerve. For he, my dear Doctor, was but a Type of your more excellent ſelf, tho'in⯑deed an illuſtrious Type. And he but an⯑ticipated in a cold and a gloomy way, the very things that Fate had deſigned to be ſaid with Fire and Flame by you. He in⯑deed overthrew but for a time the Church and Stage together. But may you with a more propitious Fate—. But hold!—No Man, you know, is able to tell into whoſe Hands a Letter may fall.
Thus, Doctor, the bleſſed Work of Re⯑formation went on; and down went the Biſhops and the Stage together; but after they had lain for ſome time in the Duſt, were reſtor'd together, and with them the baniſh'd King.
And there are not People wanting, who believe, that the reſtoring the Stage, was one of the Motives to the reſtoring the ba⯑niſh'd King; for, ſay they, the People of England were at laſt grown weary of a na⯑ſty, gloomy, ſullen, Fanatical Government, and began to long for their Pleaſures. How, [238] my dear Doctor? The reſtoring the Stage was one of the Motives to reſtoring the baniſh'd King? Ah, my dear Doctor, if you had but flouriſh'd in that auſpicious Juncture! How happy would you have eſteem'd your ſelf to have been the Inſtru⯑ment of ſuppreſſing the Stage, only on purpoſe to ſee it reſtor'd with ſuch a glo⯑rious Attendant?
Well! the King, the Biſhops, and the Stage were reſtored together, and a long time flouriſh'd together, without any talk of reforming the Play-Houſes, much leſs of ſuppreſſing them. For the merry Mi⯑niſters of that happy Prince laugh'd at a Reformation. And even the foremoſt Miniſters of the Church at that time, among whom were certainly ſome of the greateſt Men that the Chriſtian World has produc'd, appear'd by no means to be ſo terribly a⯑larm'd at the Entertainments of the Stage.
You your ſelf, I remember, Doctor, were then at Years of Diſcretion; and yet with paſſive Ears and Tongue, endur'd the Filth of Epſom Wells, the Bawdy of the Soldier's Fortune, and the Beaſtlineſs of Limber-Ham. But the time of your Prophetick Miſſion it ſeems was not yet come, or perhaps you thought it improper to fall out with the Play-Houſes, before you had fallen out with the Government. But you have at laſt, to the wonder of the World, declar'd your [239] ſelf, and we may ſay of you what Lucreti⯑us ſaid of his ador'd Epicurus, Pardon the Compariſon, I beſeech you, Doctor,
For what in the beginning of the Refor⯑mation was never ſeen, neither by Jewell, nor Ridley, nor Cranmer, nor Latimer; nor was afterwards hardly ſo much as thought of by the judicious, the penetrating, the ſagacious Hooker; nor what in this lat⯑ter end of it, (as under the Roſe we ſweetly hope Doctor) has not been found out nei⯑ther by Wilkins nor Tillotſon, who have ſhown ſo much Underſtanding and ſo much Judgment; as well by the Force of their invincible Arguments, as of their clear, chaſte, noble, and maſculine Styles; What none of theſe have been able to find, you have plainly convinc'd the World of; that the Play-Houſe would bring all to Ruin; O Miracle of boundleſs Sagacity! O Pro⯑digy of Penetration! The late Archbiſhop was certainly a Man of as undoubted Pro⯑bity, of as much Integrity, as ever liv'd in the World; nor was his Zeal and his Bold⯑neſs in the Cauſe of Virtue leſs; witneſs that noble, that intrepid Spirit, with which he appear'd againſt Popery, even in the moſt dangerous times, when the Jeſuits us'd [240] ſharp deciſive Arguments, and made no⯑thing of cutting a Man's Throat out of Zeal to confute his Doctrine; the late Archbiſhop, I ſay, Doctor, who had ſo much Boldneſs, as well as Zeal and Inte⯑grity, and who in the late Reign had ſo much Power; never ſaw this dreadful Dan⯑ger from Plays, which you have ſo plain⯑ly diſcover'd. * For if he had ſeen it, he would have prevail'd upon the late Queen to ſuppreſs them. He either foreſaw none of this Danger, or if he did, the good mi⯑ſtaken Man thought there would be more in going about to prevent it. An infallible Sign that he wanted your Fore-ſight and your Sagacity. He look'd upon himſelf to be indiſpenſably bound in a double Reſpect to reform the Corruptions of the times. For he was both Head of the Church, and firſt Counſellor of State. And no Man knew better than that judicious Prelate, that Corruptions of Manners are moſt per⯑nicious both to Church and State. And no Man ever diſcover'd more Zeal for the preſent Eſtabliſhment both in Church and State. And yet poor Man, with all his Un⯑derſtanding, and all his Zeal, he was [...]o far deluded in this Particular, that he never [241] medled with theſe Nurſeries of Licenſe and Atheiſm. As many admirable Sermons as he left behind him, againſt the Vices and the Errors of the Times; I believe you will hardly find that he has mentioned the Play-Houſes with Bitterneſs in them all. He left that part of Reformation for your ſublimer Prudence, and more Heroick Charity. Indeed the Concern that he had himſelf both in Church and State was ſo apparent, that perhaps he might fear that a violent Endeavour to reform our Theatres in him might look like Intereſt; and might perhaps imagine that the Work would be kindlier received, if it were carried on by one who cared not a Farthing either for Church or State.
And here, Doctor, give me leave to ad⯑mire the Glory, or to ſpeak in your own Diviner Language, the Meridian Blaze of your myſterious Charity. 'Tis of an ama⯑zing Size and Brightneſs, and our weak Eyes are dazled at it. For that you, dear Doctor, who appear ſo extremely nice and ſcrupulous, that you dare not ſo much as take an Oath to defend our Sovereign La⯑dy and us, againſt our Mortal Enemies; you who are ſo over cautious that you dare not ſo much as hold any Communion with us, that you ſhould take up this extream Concern for our Souls, that you ſhould be [...] violent for our Salvation, is beyond Ex⯑preſſion [242] wonderful. When I conſider that all who are engaged by Duty, are either dumb or very cold in the matter, while you are declaiming with ſo much Fervour, with ſo much Zeal, againſt the Diſorders of our Theatres, you who have nothing to do with the Matter; I can never ſufficient⯑ly admire the Exceſs of your Zeal, which is too high and too heavenly to be compre⯑hended by a Mortal.
I can only ſay, that 'tis a thouſand pities 'tis confin'd to ſo narrow a Sphere. But, alas! good Man, it is none of your Fault that it is not more univerſal. For we have reaſon to be ſenſible, that if you were not reſtrain'd by the Apprehenſion of brutal and beaſtly Force, you would not fail to declaim with the ſame Heat and the ſame Bitterneſs againſt both Church and State.
This amazing Brightneſs of your Chari⯑ty, has drawn upon you the Envy of ſome good Men; has made you become the Ha⯑tred of Libertines, and the Jeſt and Scorn of Buffoons. I, Doctor, am your Cham⯑pion againſt them all; and I have many a bickering in your Behalf, even with my moderate Friends; who are indeed for re⯑forming the Licentiouſneſs of the Stage, but are by no means for a Suppreſſion of the Play-Houſes. Mr. Collier, ſays one of them, is too ſevere. He does not conſider the Times that we live in. Theſe are not [243] the Primitive Apoſtolical Times, but the laſt and corrupt Ages of the World. The Capital of a great Kingdom muſt have Meet⯑ings for publick Pleaſure. If Mr. Collier is for pulling down Plays; let him name a more harmleſs and reaſonable Diverſion to be eſtabliſh'd in the room of them. What, would he have us always at our Devotion? Or does he expect that we ſhould be all devout? Would he have Devotion a Mode and Faſhion, as it is in France? where the Rake is as devout as the Archbi⯑ſhop, the Whore-maſter as the Monk, and the moſt inconſiderable Punk at Verſailles, as the moſt glorious Madam de Maintenon. 'Tis true, ſaid he, there are things in ſome of our Plays that I could heartily wiſh were out, but Mr. Collier is too rigid, too harſh, and out of all meaſure ſevere. He does not bear with the leaſt Faults, and ſeems to have no Indulgence for Human Frailty. Thus, Doctor, you were attack'd the other Day by a Friend of mine, and you ſhall ſee how I defended you.
Lord, Sir, ſays I, you are the moſt mi⯑ſtaken Man in the World. Mr. Collier is no ſuch Perſon as you imagine. He is a good-natur'd, ſweet temper'd Man as lives, and will bear as far as any Man whatever. And as for your ſaying that he has no In⯑dulgence for Human Frailty, why 'tis a ſign that you don't know him. 'Tis true, ſhe has taken a fatal Averſion to the Play-[244] Houſe; and he will down with it. We have all of us an Averſion for ſomething or other. And why ſhould you be ſo much concern'd for that Rendezvous of Rakes and Strumpets? But yet Mr. Collier has Indulgence enough for them too, any where but in the Play-Houſe. And where's the mighty Hardſhip then upon them? Are there no places for them to aſſemble at, but there? Are there not Taverns, Brandy-Shops, Coffee-Houſes, Chocolate-Houſes, Ga⯑ming-Houſes for the Rakes; and Indian-Houſes, Muſick-Houſes, Bawdy-Houſes, either for Strumpets ſolitary, or Strumpets and Rakes in Conjunction according as they pleaſe? Has Mr. Collier writ one Word for five Years together againſt any of theſe Places? For Godſake what do you call want of Indulgence then? Is not every Coffee-Houſe in Town grown a Gaming-Houſe? May not we go every Hour of the Day into ſeveral of them, and ſee and hear twenty fellows ſwearing and blaſpheming, and one ſurrounded by that horrid Crew,
Why, there they may ſwear and be damn'd for all Mr. Collier. He troubles himſelf with ſwearing no where but in the Play-[245] Houſe? But what do you mean by Human Frailty? When People are wicked in ear⯑neſt that's ſomething. He has nothing to ſay againſt ſuch. But to be vicious in Jeſt, to play the fool with the Devil, to counter⯑feit Sin forſooth on pretence of decrying it, why theſe are dreadful Provocations, this is flaming and outragious Wickedneſs; and Wickedneſs which he is poſitively and abſolutely reſolv'd that he will not endure.
Come, come, ſays he, I begin to be ſen⯑ſible of the Matter. Mr. Collier is now de⯑clining in Years; and the Affairs of the World go not according to his Wiſhes: And Age and Diſappointments have ſower'd his Blood, and made him loſe the reliſh of Sports and gay Diverſions. Once more, ſaid I, you are the moſt miſtaken Man in the World; Mr. Collier is far from being a Foe to the gayeſt Sports and Paſtimes; but then he is for having thoſe who fre⯑quent them take the Conſent and Appro⯑bation of the Nonjuring Clergy along with them, who you know are Perſons of Sobri⯑ety and Conduct. He'll tell you, that the Sports that good Biſhop Laud appointed for the Sabbath, were not only ſafe but commendable. That for Example, Cricket when it came to be ſo recommended, im⯑mediately became Canonical, Foot-ball Or⯑ [...]hodox, and Juggle-Cat Jure Divino. But [...]or the Layety to be ſo impertinent as to [246] chuſe Diverſions for themſelves; and par⯑ticularly for the Ladies to believe that they have Capacities enough to judge between right and wrong, and to diſtinguiſh Decen⯑cy from what is not Decorum, he takes to be an Enormity that is never to be allow'd of in any Chriſtian Country.
The Play-Houſe, ſaid I, is one of thoſe Di⯑verſions which Mr. Collier believes to be too luſcious a Paſtime for the Layety. To ſee and to read Plays, he thinks is enough for one of his eſtabliſh'd Virtue. And it muſt be own'd, that he has read or ſeen more than any Perſon in Chriſtendom. As for the Layety, leſs vigorous Diverſions may ſerve them. The Men may take a Game at Bowls in the Summer, and a Game at Whisk in the Winter. The Women in Winter may viſit their grave Relations, and in Summer Evenings may take a Boat to cool themſelves. *For as for the Park, he ſays, that is a place that is too much fre⯑quented by Rakes and Strumpets. He does not mean, he ſays, that all the Company there are ſo; but this he may affirm, he ſays, that ſcarce any Quarter is ſometimes ſo plentifully ſtock'd. Now who, ſays Mr. Collier, would truſt his Health in a Place of Mortality, or go to the Peſthouſe for Re⯑creation? Thus Mr. Collier, like a Perſon [247] of Conduct and Sobriety, treats the Layety with the ſame Circumſpection, that a Ro⯑miſh Prieſt does his Congregation at high Maſs, who only delivers the Wafer to the People, and reſerves the Wine for himſelf.
But, Doctor, I had almoſt forgot one Thing, that I urg'd among the reſtin your Defence, and that was the Reaſon why you ſtick ſo cloſe to the Play-Houſe, and let ſome other flaming Vices alone, which he was plea⯑ſed to enumerate; and that was, that you took this way of proceeding, to be laying the Ax to the Deviliſh Root of the accurſed Bran⯑ches, that the Play-Houſe was the undoubted Cauſe of all the Iniquity in the Nation; and that if we could but down with that, a ſudden Reformation would follow among all ſorts of People. That Porters would no longer be drunk with Belch. That vigor⯑ous Captains would be tilting no more at handſome Drawers in Taverns. That lo⯑ſing Gameſters would no more Blaſpheme: And my Lady Dabcheek's Baſſet Bank would be immediately broke.
Theſe are the things that I have ſaid in your behalf to ſeveral of the Enemies of your Short View and Defence. I now come to tell you what has happen'd upon the re⯑ceiving your Diſſuaſive; tho' 'tis ſcarce three Hours ſince its Arrival. Immediate⯑ly upon the reading it, my eldeſt Son Jack told me that he was perfectly ſatisfied that [248] Plays were abominable; and taking his Hat, his Sword and his Cloak, went away for St. James's. My eldeſt Daughter Suſan is gone to take a Walk in the Garden, to meditate there in the dark; that ſhe may have the Arguments in Readineſs, by which ſhe ſays ſhe deſigns to convert her Siſter. But my younger Son Charles made ſome Objections, and ſo did my Daughter Har⯑riet, which I here ſend you as well as I can recollect them; becauſe I know, Doctor, that you are able to anſwer them better than I can.
Sir, ſays Charles, I have promis'd my Lady Freelove to Day, to wait upon her to the Play, and ſo has my Siſter Harriet; but for the future I promiſe you to keep away, and ſo I dare ſay will my Siſter, if you will but anſwer ſome Objections that we have to make againſt Mr. Collier's Diſcourſes.
I know no Reaſon, why Mr. Collier ſhould pretend to meddle with our Diver⯑ſions. If he is really offended at Plays him⯑ſelf, in the name of God let him keep a⯑way, I know no body who is fond of his Company there. But ſince we don't pre⯑tend to oblige him to come, why ſhould he preſume to oblige us to keep away?
If Mr. Collier is really offended at Play-Houſes, I would fain know how long he he has been ſo, or what is the Reaſon that he did not write againſt them when he was [249] young: For the Stage was really then more licentious than it is now. Since he forbore writing againſt them till he was old, we humbly deſire that we may not leave them till we are old. And then perhaps we may have ſome natural or ſome politick Conſi⯑derations that may oblige us to rail as much as he does.
How comes this Man to take up ſo much Concern for us? Is it Chriſtian Charity, and a tender Care for our Souls? I would fain ask him one Queſtion, Is not true Religi⯑on that which is chiefly neceſſary for the Salvation of Souls? If he ſays it is, why then let me ask him another Queſtion: Is the Religion which we of the preſent eſtabliſh'd Church of England profeſs the true one, or is it not? If it is, why does not he hold Com⯑munion with us? If it is not, why does not he ſet us right? Has he a Concern for our Souls, or not? If he has, why does he not mind the main thing? If he has not, why does he pretend to make us uneaſie, and ſet us together by the Ears about Trifles?
Is it a Concern for the State that makes him take up his Pen? becauſe perhaps he believes that the Corruptions of the Stage may prove of dangerous Conſequence to the Government. But if he has that extream Concern for it, Why does he not take an Oath to be true to it? Why does he not Abjure the Gentleman who dwells at St. [250] Germains? He believes us Schiſmaticks, and he believes us Rebels, and takes no Notice of the Matter. But if we talk of going to a Play, the Man's Zeal grows fla⯑ming and outragious upon it. Certainly his is a very nice, and very extraordinary Charity!
But if he is offended at Plays, ſo much as he pretends, why does he ſee them, why does he read them ſo much? Why ſhould he be ſo ridiculouſly conceited, and ſo ſpi⯑ritually proud, as to think that he can ſtand under Temptations, under which we muſt fall?
If he has ſo much Averſion for Plays as he pretends, if they are ſo very horrible, why has he read ſo many, why has he done Evil that Good may come of it? If he really loves them, and they are not ſo abominable, Why has he writ againſt them? If he has writ againſt Plays that he loves, How comes it that he ſays nothing againſt the Church and State which he hates?
What Reaſon can be given for that, un⯑leſs that he waits for his Opportunity, which by ſetting us at Variance about Trifles, he hopes in ſome Meaſure to haſten; or un⯑leſs, while in the Face of the World he is bombarding the Stage, he is diligently in pri⯑vate undermining the Church and the State?
In this Age of univerſal Toleration, when Nonſenſe of every Sort and Size is tolerat⯑ed, [251] not only that gloomy, ſullen, lifeleſs Nonſenſe, which is to be heard at Quakers and Anabaptiſt Meetings; but that ſpark⯑ling, ſpirited, fiery Fuſtian which is to be found in our Diſſuaſives; in an Age in which Schiſm it ſelf is tolerated, Hereſie is tolerated; nay, when Mr. Collier's Ja⯑cobite Congregation is tolerated; in this Age of univerſal Toleration for Hypocri⯑ſie and Nonſenſe, ſhall we ſuffer an Inqui⯑ſition to be ſet up for Wit, and Senſe and Pleaſure?
We are willing to have all the Indulgence in the World, for the Errors and Frailties of our Fellow Creatures; and tho' we may believe ſome of them Schiſmaticks, believe ſome of them Hereticks, yet we are not for reforming them againſt their Wills, nor ſaving them out of Malice. And we thought we might have hop'd, at leaſt that the Go⯑vernment might have hop'd, that at the ſame time that it indulges ſome of them, not only in different ways of Worſhip, but ways which are diſagreeable, and ſome of them prejudicial to it, and ways which nei⯑ther are, nor were, nor ever will be to⯑lerated in any other Kingdom of Europe; we thought, I ſay, that the Government might have hop'd that theſe very Perſons would have born with a Diverſion, which is eſtabliſh'd by that, and which is not only protected by each of the Governments of [252] the moſt conſiderable Kingdoms in Europe, but which has had always the Allowance of publick Authority in the moſt flouriſhing Nations; and has been believed by them all to be the fitteſt Entertainment that can be allow'd by publick Authority. At a time when the Government has ſhewn ſo much Indulgence for them; might it not be ex⯑pected that they ſhould ſhew ſome Regard for that, and not demand with furious Cla⯑mours, the Suppreſſion of an Entertain⯑ment, eſtabliſh'd by its Authority? For are not theſe Clamours againſt the Queen whoſe Servants the Players are? Is it not her that they attack thro' them? And may not we reaſonably fear, that as they begin this Re⯑formation as they did that in Forty, ſo if they are ſuffer'd to go on, they will end it like that, and bring all things into Con⯑fuſion.
Pray, Sir, conſider, have we ſpent ſo much Blood and Treaſure in the Defence of our Liberties, and ſhall we ſuffer an In⯑quiſition to be ſet up for that which is the very Life and Soul of Liberty, and that is harmleſs Pleaſure? for 'tis for harmleſs Pleaſure we only contend. Let the Cor⯑ruptions of the Stage be baniſh'd, but let the reſt remain. Yet at the ſame time it muſt be allowed that it is not Mr. Collier who is a proper Judge of their Innocence or their Guilt. One would judge my Lord Cham⯑berlain [253] and the Maſter of the Revels have common Senſe to diſtinguiſh right from wrong. Is Mr. Collier a Perſon fit to be appeal'd to from them? And ſhall we not dare to go to a Play till his Licenſe-Office is open? Shall we ſuffer our ſelves to be led by the Noſe by a Declamator, till we are brought into ſuch a Condition that we ſhall long for Slavery? How long ſhall we ſuf⯑fer Hypocriſie to paſs upon us for exact and ſcrupulous Virtue, Tropes for Reaſon, and Foppiſh Affectation for fine Language?
Shall we not only ſuffer an Inquiſition to be ſet up for Pleaſure, but as it were by univerſal implicit conſent permit his Diſ⯑ciples to ſet up themſelves for Inquiſitors? When the Government of England pre⯑tends to give no Laws to the People, but by vertue of their own Election, and their own Conſent; Shall the Rabble erect them⯑ſelves into Legiſlators, and preſume to give Laws to the Queen her ſelf, and all the Nobility and Gentry of England, whe⯑ther they will or no?
What has Mr. Collier to do with our Di⯑verſions? Let him prove the Authority of his Miſſion to Preach up the aboliſhing of that heathen Invention a Play-Houſe. Can⯑not we meet together in a Play-Houſe, where we have no manner of Deſign upon Mr. Collier, without alarming him; and raiſing his Paſſions as he calls it to Combu⯑ſtion; [254] when at the ſame time we have ſuf⯑fer'd him ſo long to meet in his ſeparate Congregations, where we reaſonably be⯑lieve that he has a Deſign upon us. Cer⯑tainly his is a pleaſant Charity, who in the very Hour of Death can abſolve an Impe⯑nitent Traytor, and damn a poor Fellow with Abſolute Power only for going to the Play-Houſe. What can he mean at this time of Day, when our Religion and Laws and Liberties are in the utmoſt Danger, from the Deſigns of France and Rome a⯑broad, and a baſe perfidious Party at home, thus to divert Men from looking after their All, by ſcaring them with ridiculous Pre⯑ſages from the Corruptions of the Stage? If Corruptions contrary to the Queen's Knowledge have crept into our Theatres, and Corruptions too enormous to be born by his ſcrupulous Virtue, why did he not, as his Loyalty oblig'd him to do, humbly Petition her Majeſty to redreſs them, in⯑ſtead of making uſe of the Licentiouſneſs of the Preſs, to raiſe ſeditious Clamours a⯑gainſt her Conduct to the People?
It muſt be acknowledg'd there are Cor⯑ruptions which are crept into our Theatres, for into what Human Inventions will not Corruptions creep, ſince it is plain that they inſenſiby creep into Religion which is of Divine Eſtabliſhment; but 'twould be a monſtrous Concluſion, that becauſe of [255] the Corruptions of the Church of Rome, reveal'd Religion ought to be ſuppreſſed, and Men to turn Deiſts or Atheiſts.
'Tis true, there are Paſſages in ſeveral of our Plays, which I could heartily wiſh were out. But neither do I ſee a quarter ſo many as Mr. Collier does, nor do I look upon thoſe which I do ſee thro' his mag⯑nifying Opticks, The long View that he has taken of Smutt, as he very quaintly calls it, in his ſhort View of the Stage, puts me in mind of a Dutch Groteſque that is at my Lady Freelove's; where there is an Antick Frier who has caſt off his Frock, ſquinting thro' a Microſcope at a wanton Nun who has thrown off her Petticoat. But Mr. Collier is miſtaken, if he thinks that to diſcern ſome certain matters, he has need of a magnifying Glaſs. He has a Hawks, nay an Eagles Eye of his own at them; and I dare ſay, can ſee as clearly and as diſtinctly through two Petticoats and a Smock, as Euſtace Cummins, of Immortal Memory, could ſwear through a two Inch Board.
'Tis very true, Sir, as I obſerved before, that there are ſeveral things in our Come⯑dies which I could wiſh had been left out; and there are particularly ſome Bawdy Paſ⯑ſages in them, which I wiſh the Authors had had more reſpect for the Audi⯑ence in general, and for the Fair Sex in [256] particular, than to have inſerted in them. But does he think our Virtue ſo very weak, either the Ladies or the Gentlemens, that we cannot give them a tranſitory Hearing without being debauch'd by them, while his it ſeems is ſo very ſtrong, that he can dwell for Months upon them, and make a full Collecti⯑on of them, a Collection which has taught ſeveral of our Ladies more Bawdy in two Hours, than they could have learn'd in ſo ma⯑ny Years at the Play-Houſe? Does he believe that no body ought to entertain them ob⯑ſcenely but himſelf? Or does he pretend to erect a Monopoly for Bawdy, to retail it to his Stationers as oft as his Occaſions re⯑quire? 'Tis true, there are Corruptions which have crept into our Theatres, and theſe Corruptions ought to be reformed; but therefore ought the Stage to be ruin'd? Is not the Corruption of the Stage an evi⯑dent Proof of its original Goodneſs? ſince what is originally wicked never can be cor⯑rupted: But in what Human Converſation is there not Corruption?
Does Mr. Collier really believe that there is no ſwearing in Gaming-Houſes? No In⯑triegues at India or Chocolate-Houſes? No Lying, and no Sharping in Coffee-Houſes? no beaſtly Lewdneſs at Muſick-Houſes, and Bawdy-Houſes? If he believes that theſe Places are guilty of the Crimes imputed to them, Why does he not Preach to them, [257] which have a great deal more Occaſion for Reformation than the Play-Houſe? For in moſt of them you have Venom without Preſervative; but the Play-Houſe carries, or ſhould carry, the Antidote with the Poi⯑ſon. If Mr. Collier has ſeen any of theſe Places, as 'tis hard to believe that one of his Experience ſhould not have been at ſome of them, methinks he ſhould be con⯑vinc'd, that by correcting of them, he would begin with the Head, whereas now he but pleaſes and tickles Corruption, by catching Reformation by the Tail. A little com⯑mon Senſe may ſerve to convince a Man, that the reforming the Stage would never reform the Town; but the reforming the Town would certainly reform the Stage.
What is the Reaſon then that Mr. Col⯑lier, neglecting the Vices of the Town, keeps ſuch a Buſtle at thoſe of the Stage? Why? becauſe it is not his Deſign or Buſi⯑neſs to correct or reform any thing. His only Buſineſs is to ſet up himſelf. To e⯑rect an obſcure Schiſmatical Parſon into a Saint of the firſt Magnitude. To paſs for a Man of more Sanctity than all the Biſhops, and of more Diſcernment than all the Mini⯑ſters of State. His Buſineſs is not to cor⯑rect and reform, but to amuſe, to puzzle, to make a Noiſe and a Party; to make the Stage the Apple of Diſſention, to ſet us [...] untimely Variance at this dangerous [258] Juncture. He has Experience enough of the World, to know that a Noiſe and a Party is not to be made by barely attacking of Vice. For by doing that he would ob⯑lige only the Virtuous. And, alas! they are but few; and a ſilent, a modeſt, and an humble Party. But by attacking the Stage, he obliges the Vitious too; and they are numerous, and pert, and ar⯑rogant, and noiſie, and tumultuous. 'Tis true, the Virtuous are Enemies to the Vices and Corruptions of the Stage. But only the Guilty and the Hypocrites are E⯑nemies to a Stage reform'd; becauſe a Stage reform'd would be Enemies only to them. When Mr. Collier began to write his ſhort View, he deſigned to oblige only the firſt; for in the beginning of that Book, his In⯑tent is plainly to reform the Stage. But then afterwards he wiſely conſider'd, that the obliging the Virtuous would not do his Buſineſs. They are not enough to cry up their Champion, and bring him into Reputation. But if he appear'd an Enemy to the Stage it ſelf, and attempted to de⯑ſtroy it inſtead of reforming it, why then he would oblige all the doubty Hectors in Vir⯑tue, a numerous Multitude of falſe Braves, who would infallibly ſtand Buff for him, and be his Bully Backs on occaſion. He knew of old the Catalogue of thoſe who were Enemies to Satyr, and he knew that all the [259] Enemies to Satyr, were ſo to the Engliſh Stage.
I know, Sir, that you underſtand the O⯑riginal very well, and therefore I will not pre⯑tend to interpret Horace to you litterally, but I deſire your leave to make ſome Obſerva⯑tions upon him by way of Paraphraſe, which will ſet his Senſe in a clearer Light, and convince you of this important Truth, that all who would appear what they are not, are mortal Enemies to Comedy, becauſe the Comick Poet is perpetually upon the hunt for Originals; and every one would [260] be glad to play the Fool or the Knave in quiet, without being ſingled from the Herd.
Sir, I ſhall at preſent trouble you but with two of theſe Characters of Horace, not only becauſe I am ſenſible that I begin to tire you, but for Reaſons which I ſhall hint to you anon; but thoſe two Characters I deſire that I may ſet before you with the ſame Additions, with which Time has tranſ⯑mitted them to us, and by altering them made them modern.
The Firſt is he, Qui ob avaritiam labo⯑rat. A gogling, ſnarling, groaning, pray⯑ing Rogue; though at the ſame time an U⯑ſurer and an Extortioner; a Fellow ſo no⯑toriouſly given to cheating, that he defrauds even himſelf of Neceſſaries; who can dine on a Prayer, as Sir John Denham ſays, and ſup on an Exhortation; one who makes a Stalking-Horſe of Religion, and lies ſculk⯑ing behind it with no other Purpoſe than to draw Wild-Geeſe within his Reach.
The other, Sir, is he; Qui mutat merces, &c. A biggotted Stock-Jobber, or a Fana⯑tick Monopolizer, a Fellow that devout⯑ly calls up his Family to Repetition on Sun⯑days, and as devoutly makes them his Tools to ſmuggle and cheat the Queen on the Week-Days. A Perſon who will ſtick at no manner of Villany, but is kindly con⯑tented to be damn'd, only that his great boobily Boy may get half a dozen Claps, [261] half a ſcore Surfeits, loſe half his Eſtate at the Groom-Porters, be cheated of the o⯑ther half by Sharpers who are Under Spur-Leathers, and jog on to the Devil a little more gayly than his Father. In the mean time this good-natur'd Father leads a moſt exemplary Life. In the Morning while his Servants are buſie at the Water-ſide, he walks about the City to pull down Play-Bills, cheat thoſe who deal with him, to cauſe all the Beggars that he finds in his way to be whip'd, tho' at that very time he is going to augment the Number of them; to viſit Watch-Men, Headboroughs and Petty-Conſtables, and charge them that if they find any handſome Whore upon their Watch, they ſhould bring her to him the next Morning; and leaſt the Conſtable or the Watch ſhould have a wambling to her themſelves, for ſuch things he remembers have been formerly done, he reads a long Lecture to them againſt Concupiſcence, and then goes home and gravely dines with his Family. The Afternoon he paſſes in walk⯑ing from Tavern to Tavern, in which he drinks above twenty Nipperkins, in as ma⯑ny ſeveral Kitchens, to ſee that there is no Swearing nor no Prophaneſs there, but that People, as he thinks it behoves good Chri⯑ſtians, get devoutly and religiouſly drunk; till growing more and more inflam'd with Canary and Zeal, and being full of them [262] both, he is oblig'd at laſt to diſembogue himſelf, which he does of each, by ſpew⯑ing and preaching in turns. And after he has thus performed his Duty to the Pub⯑lick; and fortified himſelf for the better Performance of private Duties, he goes home like a good Man, to faſt and pray with his Family: I ſay to faſt, Sir, not out of Covetouſneſs or Superſtition, but that he may ſecure the Chaſtity of his Daugh⯑ters by mortifying the Old Man in them, and the Youths of his Family.
But, Sir, by your ſhaking your Head, and your biting your Lip, I am to believe you miſtake me. I am not here for ma⯑king a Satyr upon the City. I know very well that this City is the only true and ſo⯑lid Foundation of the Engliſh Strength. Nor am I ſuch a Fool as to believe that Senſe or Honour are confined to Place. I am my ſelf acquainted with a great many Citizens, who are very eſtimable Members of the Commonwealth; I know ſeveral a⯑mong them who are not only Men of Senſe and Honour, but of Wit and Pleaſantry. I know ſeveral of them, whoſe true Zeal for Religion is ſhewn by all that engaging Charity, that attractive Humility, and lovely Meekneſs, which are the only Signs of a good Chriſtian. And for ſuch true Chri⯑ſtians, whether they may belong to the Church or Meeting-Houſe, no Man has a [263] greater Reſpect than I have; who judge of Mens Devotion, not by the Errors of their Underſtandings, but by the Sincerity of their Hearts. But every Hypocrite, to talk in Mr. Collier's extraordinary Dialect, is the Diſpleaſure and Diſeaſe of my Eyes. I hunt him, as Boileau ſays, as a Dog does his Game, and as ſoon as ever I ſmell him, I bark immediately. And, with Submiſſi⯑on to you, Sir, I believe I am in the right of it; and that the Hypocrites in Chriſtian Warfare ought to be more ſeverely handled, than a Strumpet or a Libertine, as we treat an open declar'd Enemy leſs rigorouſly than a Spy. That the number of Hypocrites in the City is very great, the Men of true De⯑votion there will be the firſt to acknow⯑ledge. 'Tis to the Level of them that Mr. Collier has particularly writ: Every thing in his ſhort View, his Defence, and his Diſ⯑ſuaſive appears to be adapted to them; the Sophiſtry of his Deductions, the equivoca⯑ting and prevaricating of his Citations, the Finicalneſs of his Language, and the Pha⯑riſaical Arrogance of his Zeal. By gain⯑ing of theſe he knew he ſhould compaſs both the Ends, for the which he writ. The firſt of which was, that he ſhould engage a numerous Party to make a Noiſe and to bully for him; of which he did not fail.
For it is notoriouſly known, that in the late Reign, ſeveral Perſons of the foremen⯑tion'd [264] Stamp, who pretended to meet to⯑gether for the ſupport of the Laws and the Government, diſcharg'd their Malice in a publick manner againſt ſeveral Gentlemen of known Loyalty and Engliſh Principles; only that they might do an acceptable thing to a Man whom they knew to be a mortal Enemy to the preſent Eſtabliſhment.
The other End that Mr. Collier pro⯑bably propos'd to himſelf, by exaſperating the noiſie and clamorous Part of the City againſt the Theatres, might be to animate them againſt the People of Quality whoſe Preſence ſupports them, and the Court whoſe Authority protects them. That this is no chimerical Conjecture, may be thought by any one who takes a ſhort View of Mr. Collier's Principles. For from this Pro⯑ceeding he might eaſily foreſee one of theſe two Conſequences. For upon theſe Cla⯑mours and Outcries, either the Play-Houſes would be ſuppreſs'd, or they would be pro⯑tected. If they were ſuppreſs'd, he eaſily ſaw the Gentry would be diſoblig'd, and that would be a pretty handſome Step to⯑wards ſome farther Reformations and Al⯑terations. But if upon theſe Clamours they were not ſuppreſs'd, why then he had a great deal of Reaſon to hope that the City would grow ſullen and ſower. And if their being out of Humour was of ſuch danger⯑ous Conſequence in the Days of Brother [265] Pryn of bleſſed Memory, when the Court appear'd to have ſo little Occaſion for them; he believ'd that it might be of greater Mo⯑ment now, when he knew that by the Ne⯑ceſſity of the Times, the Court was oblig'd to demand their Aſſiſtance frequently.
Sir, you have often told me with extream Goodneſs, that you requir'd no Obedience to any Commands that you laid upon us, if they did not appear to be reaſonable; be⯑cauſe God himſelf, you have been pleaſed to tell us, required only our reaſonable Ser⯑vice. But, Sir, can you believe it reaſon⯑able, that I ſhould be of another Man's O⯑pinion againſt my own Sentiments, when it appears ſo plainly that he is not of his own? For, Sir, can any thing be more e⯑vident than that Mr. Collier is moved to write againſt the Stage by another Motive than that which he pretends? His Motive perhaps may be human Policy, but it can never be Charity; or perhaps 'tis Spleen, or Covetouſneſs, or Pride, or Arrogance, or Fear. I ſay Fear, Sir. For has not Mr. Collier Reaſon to apprehend the Stage as well as Hypocrites of the foremention'd Characters? For is it not evident, that at the ſame time that he is ſetting up for a Firſt-Rate Reformer, he has ſhewn to the World, that he is but a Fifth-Rate Come⯑dian? And while he pretends to condemn Acting upon the Stage, is Acting a Part [266] upon the Stage of the World ſo aukwardly and ſo ridiculouſly, that all who are fur⯑niſh'd with common Senſe have found it to be Comedy? For, whom does he pretend to reform? Is it not the People, as I obſer⯑ved before, whoſe Religion he abhors, and whoſe Government he hates? And does he not know very well, that by reforming our Manners, he would run Counter to his own Deſigns and Wiſhes? becauſe Refor⯑mation of Manners would confirm the pre⯑ſent Eſtabliſhment both in Church and State; and can he then really deſign to reform us? But how does he propoſe to himſelf, to bring this about? Why, not by ſuppreſſing Vice, but the Stage, that ſcourges and ex⯑poſes it. For he meddles not with that Vice that is in the World, let it be never ſo flaming and outragious. For Example, the crying Sin of England, next to Hypo⯑criſie, at this time, is Gaming; a Sin that is attended with ſeveral others, both among Men and Women, as Lying, Swearing, Per⯑jury, Fraud, Quarrels, Murders, Fornica⯑tion, Adultery. Has not Gaming done more Miſchief in England, within theſe laſt five Years, than the Stage has done in Fifty? For when Women have loſt vaſt Sums at Play, which they have been afraid to own to their Fathers or Husbands, have they not often been known to pay them after a ſhame⯑ful way? How can the moſt inveterate Big⯑got [267] pretend that Gaming is fomented or encouraged by the Stage? Muſt he not on the contrary be obliged to own, that it is cenſur'd and corrected by it? What is the Reaſon then, that Mr. Collier, neglecting ſo important and ſo dangerous a Vice, a⯑gainſt which no Body has ſaid one Word, reſerves all his Rage for the Play-Houſe? And takes an Occaſion from the late Tem⯑peſt to threaten us with ſome terrible Ven⯑geance from Heaven, if it is not immedi⯑ately ſuppreſt. Can any thing be more ri⯑diculous than this from him? For does not he wiſh for the greateſt Vengeance that Heaven can ſend down upon us? Can any Vengeance be inflicted on a Proteſtant and Free People more terrible than Slavery and Idolatry? Is not the late Tempeſt, though dreadful in it ſelf, yet a very Trifle com⯑pared to thoſe? Tho' the late Storm ſhould return, and Nature ſhould once more appear to be in her laſt Agony, and the World be ready to expire; would not every one, who has Noble Engliſh Principles, chuſe ra⯑ther to ſee it periſh, than to loſe his Religion and his Liberty? Beſides, Has the late Tempeſt any thing to do with the Buſineſs of the Play-Houſe? What can Mr. Collier mean then by threatening us with terrible Vengeance, at the ſame time that he wiſhes it; and by engaging us in frivolous and groundleſs Diſſentions, endeavours all [268] that he can to bring it on us at the very time he pretends to avert it?
If Mr. Collier's Zeal were ſincere; he would neither go about to frighten us with things, which it is plain that he is not afraid of; nor, neglecting more dangerous Crimes, would he attack the leſs. Beſides, it is plain that he himſelf has not that Opinion of the Stage, into which he would fool and delude us. For if the Cauſe of the Stage were ſo bad as he would make us believe, or if it were out of Charity that he attack'd it, what need he make uſe of notorious Falſhood to decry it? 'Tis a pleaſant Charity that en⯑gages a Man to be damn'd himſelf to re⯑form others. Beſides, what Occaſion has Truth to have Recourſe to Falſhood, which may ſometimes indeed ſupport Falſhood, but muſt always to diſcerning Eyes render Truth ſuſpected.
You know, Sir, that it is eaſie for me to prove, that in this ſhort Letter addreſt to you, Mr. Collier has Recourſe to Falſ⯑hood. For can any thing be more plain, even from the Artifice of his Addreſs to you? Does not he here, to make the World believe that he has the Countenance of Figure and Fortune, Palm you upon the Town for a Perſon of Quality, who are only a private Gentleman?
If Mr. Collier is mov'd by Charity to ex⯑claim thus loudly againſt the Stage, let me [269] ask him one Queſtion, Who are the Per⯑ſons whom he deſigns to reform? They who never come to a Play-Houſe, methinks ſhould have no Occaſion for his Correcti⯑ons. If his Deſign is on thoſe who come thither, why does he not inſinuate himſelf into their Affections, by the Meekneſs and Humility of his Expreſſions, and the at⯑tractive Language of Charity? Why has he Recourſe to ſuch preſumptuous Arrogance, is juſtly renders him the Averſion of ſome, and the Scorn of others? With him, an Au⯑dience which you very well knew, Sir, is often one of the moſt venerable and awful Aſſemblies that can any where be found, is [...] Aſſembly of Rakes and Strumpets: Buf⯑fons are the Poets, and the Players Liber⯑ [...]ines. Does he believe that ſuch Language [...] proper to work upon theſe People, or to provoke them and exaſperate them, and [...]ender them deaf to Argument and Per⯑ſaſion?
Beſides, there is ſomething in Mr. Col⯑lier's Style with which Truth is almoſt in⯑compatible, and that is Affectation, which [...] always falſe. Truth is plain, and ſimple, [...]nd natural, and, as ſhe can have no De⯑ [...]ect in her, is but hid by Ornament. 'Tis [...]rue, when we convey her to the Under⯑ [...]tanding by the Paſſions, we ſometimes give her Ornament. But then that Orna⯑ment muſt be in Nature, and conſequently [270] true. But Affectation is always falſe, and can no more conſiſt with Truth than Dark⯑neſs can with Light. What I have obſer⯑ved of Man in general, may be ſaid of Wri⯑ters, That Affectation is a certain Sign in them of want of Sincerity, or of Under⯑ſtanding, and very often of both.
But Mr. Collier's is the moſt affected, moſt foppiſh Style that ever I met with in Ancient or Modern Authors; of which I will undertake to convince any impartial Man, if he is but a tolerable Judge of Wri⯑ting.
But to return from Words to Things: I have not time enough to diſplay the perpe⯑tual Sophiſtry of his Inferences, or rather his no Inferences; for a Metaphor or an Al⯑legory is with him an Argument, and ſo is often an Hyperbole. But I ſhall ſay a Word of his more than Jeſuitical prevaricating in his Authorities. I ſhall only inſiſt upon two, the one of which he brings from Old, and the other from Modern Rome.
Pray, Sir, let me ſee Mr. Collier's Letter: Ay, here the Authorities are.‘The Republick of Rome, before Julius Caeſar, ſtopt the building of a Theatre; being fully convinc'd, that this Diverſion would bring in Foreign Vice, that the old Roman Virtue would be loſt, and the Spirits of th [...] People emaſculated.’
[271] To prove this, he refers his Reader to his Defence of the ſhort View. That is, he endeavours to ſupport the Sham which he puts upon the World now, by that which he put upon it five Years ago. 'Tis true, after all, Mr. Collier ſpeaks the Truth here, but 'tis daſh'd and brew'd with a Ven⯑geance. 'Tis true, the Romans did ſtop the building of a Theatre, before the Time of Caeſar. But would he paſs this upon us for one Act of the Roman People, or for their conſtant Senſe? If for their conſtant Senſe, their conſtant Practice proves that it was quite contrary. If for one Act, of what Validity can that poſſibly be againſt their conſtant Senſe?
Is not Mr. Collier now a moſt ſhameful Hypocrite? For does not he know that the Romans had the higheſt Veneration for Plays imaginable? Is not every School-Boy who has read Terence convinc'd of it? Do not his Comedies tell us by their Titles that they were part of the Religion of that People? That they were all acted at their Funeral Ceremonies, or at the Feſtivals of their Gods?
That which he has ſaid of Q. Elizabeth [...] another pious Fraud, a meer religious Banter. But I know that you, who are ſo well acquainted with the Hiſtory of our Nation, muſt be already ſatisfied of it.
[272] But the Pope has lately ſhut up the The⯑atres in Italy: Can any thing be more ab⯑ſurd than this? Has the Pope lately ſhut up the Bawdy-Houſes? Or does he continue to lay a Tax upon Sin, and to give them Spiritual Licenſes? 'Tis very certain he does. What then would Mr. Collier con⯑clude from this, that the Government here ought to licenſe Bawdy-Houſes, and to ſuppreſs Play-Houſes, becauſe the Pope takes the ſame Method?
I think, Sir, I have made it plainly ap⯑pear, that Mr. Collier is one who has Rea⯑ſon to be afraid of Theatres, and therefore to hate them. For he is one of thoſe with a Vengeance who endeavour to appear what they are not. And tho' now-a-days a Prieſt is not ſuffer'd to be brought upon the Stage, yet I queſtion whether he is to be regarded as a Prieſt, who wears a Sword of five Foot long, and a Peruke of three, and goes about reforming in the ſame Ha⯑bit, in which the French Dragoons are at this very Juncture piouſly reforming the Ce⯑vennois.
Thus, Sir, I deſire that I may have leave to continue to be a Friend to our Theatres, ſince I have clearly ſhewn that Mr. Collier is not from his Heart their Enemy; eſpe⯑cially ſince I am convinc'd that the Play-Houſes, with all their Immorality and with [273] all their Faults, may be inſtrumental to the reforming ſo profligate an Age as this.
Thus, Doctor, I have ſent the ſum of the Objections which were made by Charles, to which I deſire your Anſwer, that the Boy, who is hot and opinionated, may not run on in his Error.
As ſoon as he had done, I took Harriet to task. Daughter, ſaid I, you ſee the Caſe is very hard upon you and the reſt of your Sex, for thus the Doctor puts it, Either the Ladies are pleas'd with the In⯑decencies of the Stage, or they are not. If they are pleas'd, 'tis a hard Imputation on their Virtue. If they are not pleas'd, 'twill be enquir'd why they come there: For his Part, He confeſſes that he has not Logick enough to diſengage you.
While I ſpoke this, I perceived ſome great Alteration in her; you would have worn, her Imagination had been ſhock'd, her Averſion put into a Fit, and that ſhe underwent much Fatigue of Fancy and Mor⯑ [...]ification. To ſpeak more vulgarly, the Blood began to ſpring up into her Face, [...]er little Breaſts began to heave, and ſhe [...]arted a Frown that made her awful ev'n [...] me her Father. He wants Logick to [...]iſengage us, (ſaid ſhe, with a diſdainful [...]ir, after I had juſt repeated thoſe very Words) why then he ſhall find that I have [...]ore than he has, and that I who have not [274] yet reach'd my ſeventeenth Year, am able to make a very juſt Apology in behalf of my ſelf and all the Women of Condition in England, whom he has ſo baſely affront⯑ed. Tho' we are not pleas'd with the Inde⯑cencies or Immoralities of Plays, yet not⯑withſtanding that we frequent them, be⯑cauſe ſome Diverſion is abſolutely neceſ⯑ſary for us, and becauſe perhaps ev'n mo⯑dern Plays, with all the Faults imputed to them, are the moſt innocent of the Diver⯑ſions which the Town affords.
The Diverſions that the Town affords, are chiefly reduc'd to four, 1. Gaming, 2. Muſick-Meetings. 3. Balls and Meetings for Dancing. 4. Going to Plays. Now of all theſe, I am apt to believe that Plays are the moſt innocent, for the following Reaſons. They raiſe the Paſſions only to correct them, whereas the others raiſe 'em merely for the ſake of inflaming them. The Plays, and more eſpecially Tragedies, in⯑ſtruct us in Virtue, which the other Diver⯑ſions do not. They improve us in lawful innocent Knowledge, which in ſome mea⯑ſure ſupplies the want of Education in our Sex. They form our Language, and poliſh our Minds, and ſo capacitate us, when we come to marry, to engage and endear our Husbands to us. For we every Day ſee that only Fools are conſtant long to Fools. Sir, in ſhort, the Caſe is thus. Diverſions the [275] Ladies of a great Metropolis muſt have. I have particulariz'd the ſeveral Diverſions which this Town affords. All the Danger, and all the Temptation which this judici⯑ous Perſon ſuppoſes to be at the Play-Houſe, are really in all the other Diverſions, which have none of the Advantages that may be reap'd from Tragedies, for the Improve⯑ment either of our Virtue or Knowledge. Why then would this mighty Reformer have us leave Plays for them? Would he have us have no Diverſion, or would he have us make choice of thoſe which have the moſt Temptation?
True, Sir, there are Paſſages in ſome of our Plays, which I could heartily wiſh were out. But does he think the Virtue of the Ladies, who frequent Play-Houſes, is ſo very weak, as to be o'erthrown by the Lu⯑ſciouſneſs, as he calls it, of a Scribler's Double Entendre? What, have ſo many great Examples as we find on the Stage, ſo many noble and generous Sentiments, ſo many accompliſh'd Patterns of Virtue; have all theſe no manner of Power to rouze, to ſtrengthen and inflame our Virtue; and ſhall two or three wretched Equivocals, three or four miſerable Double Entendres have the force to corrupt us?
If any of my Sex happen to find them⯑ſelyes ſo infirm, as this worthy Reformer ap⯑pears to own that he is; if two or three ri⯑diculous [276] double meanings have Strength e⯑nough to undo them, in ſpight of thoſe ex⯑alted Heroick Characters, which in my O⯑pinion ſhould be enough to fix our Affecti⯑ons to that degree, that nothing that we meet with abroad in the World ſhould have the Power to move us; if any of my Sex are ſo infirm, let them, in God's Name, keep away from our Theatres. But I find no ſuch ſcandalous Weakneſs about me. I can deſpiſe a Fool who thinks to entertain me with his ſordid playing on Words; but at the ſame time can be entertain'd with Wit and good Senſe, and more with the Innocence of true writ Humour; and I can be both pleas'd and mov'd with the excellent Scenes of an Inſtructive Tragedy: Does this judicious Perſon really believe, that the Con⯑verſations which we find in the World are Virtue and Purity all? The Food of the Mind, like that of the Body, is not all of it fit for Nouriſhment. But ſtrong Virtue, like ſtrong Nature, knows how to diſcern and ſeparate, to reject the Bad, to aſſimu⯑late the Good, by which it is fed and ſup⯑ported. If any of my Sex have the ſcan⯑dalous Weakneſs to have their Virtue and their Honour endanger'd by the Folly of Double Entendres, I would adviſe them to take their leaves of the Play-Houſe. But at the ſame time I would adviſe Mr. Col⯑lier to perſuade his noble Patrons of the [277] Reforming Club to erect a Proteſtant Nun⯑nery for them, for nothing leſs can ſecure them. For they who are found ſo ſtrange⯑ly weak as to be warm'd by a meer painted Fire, how can they ever ſtand againſt the real Flames of Love?
How many extraordinary Women may England boaſt of, ſince Plays were intro⯑duc'd among us? Among whom are three of the greateſt Queens that ever the World produc'd; and all of them took delight in Plays: How many Ladies of inferior Rank have frequented, and ſtill frequent 'em, who yet in Proportion are fam'd for every Vir⯑tue? What does this charitable Perſon be⯑lieve of our Mothers, our Aunts and Grand⯑mothers? Does he believe them Adultereſ⯑ſes all, becauſe they frequented the Play-Houſe? But you, Sir, have Juſtice to be⯑lieve better. You knew my Mother true to your Bed, as ſhe was dear to your Arms. And I beſeech you to have the Goodneſs to believe, that tho' like her I frequent our Theatres, I will be always Heir to her Vir⯑tue, as I am to her Likeneſs.
This, Doctor, was the Sum of what Harriet ſaid before ſhe went to the Play. News is juſt now brought me that ſhe is come back from that horrid Place, and is gone with Charles to my Lady Freeloves, and that her Ladyſhip has ſent for me—
[278] Ah, dear Doctor, let me ſee you To⯑morrow, to receive ſome Conſolation from you. For here have happen'd two of the moſt unfortunate things in the World. For News is brought me from Piccadilly that Jack has loſt a thouſand Pound at Picket; and Suſan who went into the Garden for⯑ſooth to meditate, tho' ſhe went out as black as a Raven, being in Mourning for her Great Aunt, yet, as I hope for Mercy, the Jade is return'd as white and as powder'd as if ſhe had been hard at work in a Bolting-Houſe. So that I could wiſh that for this one Night they had both been with Harriet and with Charles at the Ta⯑bernacle of the Wicked.
SINCE I writ this, I have ſeen a Letter written by you, tho' without Name, to Mrs. [...] She deſigns to return you an An⯑ſwer as ſoon as ſome little Affairs will give her leave. In the mean while ſhe ſays, that in the hurry in which your Letter ſeems [279] to be writ, you overlook'd the firſt part of the Paſſage which you quoted from Doctor Tillotſon, and therefore ſhe deſir'd me to tranſcribe it, and to ſend it you with this; which, in Obedience to her Commands, I have done, and it is as follows. Tillot. Serm. Vol. 11. To ſpeak againſt them (viz. Plays) in general, may be thought too Severe, and that which the preſent Age cannot ſo well brook, and would not perhaps be ſo juſt and reaſonable, becauſe it is very poſſible they might be ſo fram'd, and governed by ſuch Rules, as not only to be innocently diverting, but inſtructing and uſeful; to put ſome Vices and Follies out of Countenance, which can⯑not perhaps be ſo decently reprov'd, nor ſo effectually expos'd and corrected any other way.
I Deſire you not to give your ſelf the Trouble to ſend any Boat from the Coun⯑try to-morrow for your Humble Servant. If I find my ſelf in a Condition to make you a Viſit, I will riſe betimes in the Morning and walk. But I am afraid to venture the cold of the Water ſo early in the Morning. Next to the cold of the Water I dread the Heat after I come on Shore. I dread the Company which you too often keep there who are apt to be exceſſively warm in a falſe and fooliſh Cauſe.
If any one has a mind to be ſatisfy'd of this, he need only repair to a certain Man⯑ſion, where they meet about three times a Week to endeavour to talk wiſely together▪ and where they never fail to diſcover great⯑er Weakneſs than they were capable of when they were Boys. For which of them▪ when they were but ten Years of Age [281] would not have choſen at any time to have plaid, rather than to have been under the Laſh at School? It was Nature's Voice that made them prefer gay Liberty to mourn⯑ful Slavery. When they were Boys it was with great Reluctance that they were obedient to Age and Gravity, that govern'd them for their Good; and now the Sots are growing old, they long to have a Younker who will certainly ruine them, for their ab⯑ſolute Maſter. They are every Day en⯑deavouring to prove that they are Beaſts, and belong to that Younker as his unalien⯑able and indefeaſible Chattels, that he has even a Right Divine, that is a Commiſſion ſign'd by God, to uſe them like errant Dogs; not like Engliſh Bull-Dogs, for they are generous Creatures, and will fly in the Face of any one who dares to uſe them ill; but like errant Spaniels, who the more they are beaten the more they crouch and the more they fawn upon their Tyrannick Ma⯑ſters. I will ſay nothing of the Buſineſs concerning which you wrote to me till I wait on you, and am
I Deſire that you would give your ſelf no trouble about the drinking Quaker. For I find upon Reflection, that ſince I volun⯑tarily gave up the Note, 'tis below me to demand the Debt.
'Tis true indeed, the Note was given up when there was little Hope of his paying the Money; and he has now, beyond all Ex⯑pectation, an Eſtate left him. 'Tis true likewiſe, that the Money was lent in his preſſing Neceſſity, and lent in order to do him a ſignal Kindneſs, which it actually did; and 'tis as true that I, who lent him the Money, had often before and have often ſince, both fed him hungry and cloath'd him naked. The Note was given up with a Promiſe that he ſhould pay the Money if ever he came to be able; for which I then told him, that I depended on his Ho⯑nour and his Integrity. But notwithſtand⯑ing all this, if he has not one Spark of Con⯑ſcience [283] or common Honeſty, which may oblige him to pay this Money of his own Accord, I ought to have Generoſity enough not to demand the Debt. 'Tis true, this would vex ſome People in my Caſe. But I conſider that perhaps the poor Wretch cannot help it, for as 'tis in my Nature to oblige, 'tis in his to be ungrateful. But then on the other ſide, as 'tis in his Nature to know no Friend, to own no Benefactor, and to ſerve no God but Intereſt, 'tis in mine heartily to ſcorn ſuch a Raſcal, and the vile God whom he ſerves.
NOT being able to come, I write to you, reſolving to be with you one way or other. As ſoon as you left me Ye⯑ſterday I ſent for all the Guardians which are publiſh'd; and while the Meſſenger was gone for them, I was trying to divine what ſort of ſcribbling Fit had ſeiz'd upon Teague this Bout, whether it might be a Quotidi⯑an as in the Spectator, or a Tertian as in the Tatler, for I pray'd to Heav'n to defend us from a Quartan, becauſe that might make Dulneſs laſting. Upon the Arrival of the Pa⯑pers I found that it was a Quotidian, not with⯑out Joy; for old Hippocrates tells us ſome⯑where, that tho' a Quotidian proceeds for the moſt part from Phlegm, yet is it of no long Continuance. I perceive by the Beginning of the ſecond Paper, that Teague has chang'd both his Name and his Coun⯑try, being, as I ſuppoſe, aſham'd of the lat⯑ter. But the Miſchief of it is, that he ſhews the true one by the adopted one, [285] he latter being almoſt as ridiculous a one as the former. He was born, he tells us, [...] a lone Houſe within half a Mile of the Metropolis of the two Kings of Brentford. [...] make no doubt but that the more he di⯑ſcovers himſelf, the more he will verify the old Saying, Regis ad exemplum, or, Like So⯑vereigns like Subjects. And now a Word [...]o his adopted Name too; Neſtor Iron⯑ſide, Eſq For what Reaſon he took that Chriſtian Heathen Name Neſtor, I can⯑not imagine, unleſs he thought that that wiſe Name would ſet off his Folly and make it look more ridiculous. But Teague apparently took the Sir-name from his real Hyberni⯑in Appellation, or the inflexible Obſtinacy of his own Temper. As I have the extra⯑ordinary Honour to be acquainted with him, I am about to write a learned Letter to him; in which I deſign to reproach him little for his too conſtant Gravity in his [...]ew Production, and to let him know that Squire Ironſide is too grave and too ſerious [...] Offspring of his ludicrous Anceſtors, [...]hat the Reader complains that he meets with nothing at all to divert him in it, no Conſort of Muſical Inſtruments playing up⯑ [...]n one another, not ſo much as a Couple [...] Pipes broke by the violent Agitation of [...] Jig at his Neighbour's Houſe, nor any waggiſh Enumeration of the ſeveral Bran⯑ [...]es of the Noble Family of the Sides, as [286] that fine facetious Perſon his Grandfather number'd, but with a wonderful deal of Wit I muſt needs ſay, the ſeveral Branches of the Staffian Race, which Neglect, or which Delay I ſhall boldly tell him that his nu⯑merous Relations take very ill; that Sir Hector Backſide makes a Noiſe about it; that that old Tarpawlin Bully Broadſide roars at it; Mr. Humphrey Wrongſide grumbles at it; Mr. Abraham Weakſide is much diſſatisfied; even waggiſh Jack Fire⯑ſide takes it amiſs, and his own Name⯑ſake Neſtor Blindſide will never be Friends with him more. I ſhall let him know that even the Females of his adopted Race reſent it; that the courteous Lady Mrs. Cheapſide receives no ſmall Diſ⯑quiet from it; that that well-diſpos'd Laſs Mrs. Bedſide very much complains of it; that that obſtreperous Carrion Moll Waterſide ſtuns the Ears of all that ap⯑proach her with it; and that that impu⯑dent Jade Doll Commonſide has her Back as high as her Belly about it.
But you muſt know, Sir, that this ardu⯑ous Undertaking is not carryed on by Teague alone, but by a Triple League. I ſhall give you an Account of the two other Confederates by the firſt Oppor⯑tunity.
I Return you my hearty Thanks for your friendly Endeavours to ſerve me on Sa⯑turday, but am amaz'd at the Brutality of that Captain of Farce [...]; who not only refus'd to witneſs the Receipt, but to open my Letter; ſaying, that it was out of his Sphere. I muſt confeſs a Brute acts in a narrow Sphere, and Civility and Hu⯑manity are out of that Sphere. If it were any other Perſon but Captain [...], one would find him out, after this Af⯑front, ſerve him as Hudibras did Whachum, and attack the Apartment of Honour in him.
But the Captain is a privileg'd Perſon, and what he does, like what he ſays, is only fit to be laugh'd at. But as his Folly and infinite Baſeneſs are only fit for Contempt: Your Generoſity and Humanity merit all my Eſteem, and have oblig'd me to be al⯑ways,
WHEN I had the good Fortune to meet you in the City, it was with Concern that I heard from you of the At⯑tempt to leſſen the Reputation of Mr. Dry⯑den; and 'tis with Indignation that I have ſince learnt that that Attempt has chiefly been carried on by ſmall Poets, who un⯑gratefully ſtrive to eclipſe the Glory of a great Man, from whom alone they derive their own faint Luſtre. But that Eclipſe will be as Momentary as that of the Sun was lately. The Reputation of Mr. Dry⯑den will ſoon break out again in its full Splendor, and theirs will diſappear. It was upon hearing of this A'ttempt that I reflected with ſome Amazement, that I [290] ſhould have got the Reputation of an ill-na⯑tur'd Man, by expoſing the Abſurdities of living Authors; and Authors for the moſt part of great Mediocrity, tho' I have always done it openly and fairly, and upon juſt and perſonal Provocations; and that theſe ſhould baſely arraign the Reputation of a great Man deceas'd, who now can make no An⯑ſwer for himſelf, and upon whom they fawn'd while living, and ſhould yet eſcape uncenſur'd. But when I heard that that Attempt was in favour of [...], 'tis impoſſi⯑ble to expreſs to what a height my Indignati⯑on and Diſdain were rais'd. Good God! was there ever any Nation in which (I will not ſay a falſe Taſte, for we never had a true one, but in which) a wrong Senſe and a fatal Deluſion ſo generally prevail'd! For have not too many of us lately appear'd to contemn every thing that is great and glo⯑rious, and to praiſe and exalt every thing that is baſe and infamous? Have not too many of us ſhewn to all the World, by a manifeſt execrable Choice, that they prefer Weakneſs to Power, Folly to Wiſdom, Poverty to Wealth, Fury and Madneſs to Moderation, Infamy to Glory, Submiſſion to Victory, Slavery to Liberty, Idolatry to Religion, the Duke of O. to the D. of M the Pretender to the Royal George our only rightful King, and Mr. [...] to Mr Dryden? If I appear too warm, I hope you [291] will excuſe my Affection for the Memory, and my Zeal for the Reputation of my de⯑parted Friend, whom I infinitely eſteem'd when living for the Solidity of his Thought, for the Spring, the Warmth, and the beau⯑tiful Turn of it; for the Power, and Vari⯑ety, and Fulneſs of his Harmony; for the Purity, the Perſpicuity, the Energy of his Ex⯑preſſion; and (whenever the following great Qualities are requir'd) for the Pomp and Solemnity and Majeſty of his Style.
You may now ſee, Sir, by this Letter, how little moſt Men know one another, who converſe daily together. How many were there in Mr. Dryden's Life-time, who endeavour'd to make him believe, that I ſhould be the foremoſt, if I ſurviv'd him, of all his Acquaintance to arraign his Me⯑mory; whereas I am he of all his Acquain⯑tance, who, tho' I flatter'd him leaſt while living, having been contented to do him Juſtice both behind his Back and before his Enemies Face, am now the foremoſt to aſ⯑ſert his Merit, and to vindicate his Glory.
If Mr. Dryden has Faults, (as where is the Mortal who has none?) I by ſearching for them perhaps could find them. But what⯑ever the miſtaken World may think, I am always willing to be pleas'd, nay, am always greedy of Pleaſure as any Epicurean living; and whenever I am naturally touch'd, I give my ſelf up to the firſt Impreſſion, and [292] never look for Faults. But whenever a cried-up Author, upon the firſt reading him, does not make a pleaſing Impreſſion on me; I am apt to ſeek for the Reaſon of it, that I may know if the Fault is in him or in me. Wherever Genius runs thro' a Work, I for⯑give its Faults, and wherever that is want⯑ing no Beauties can touch me. Being ſtruck by Mr. Dryden's Genius, I have no Eyes for his Errors; and I have no Eyes for his Enemies Beauties, becauſe I am not ſtruck by their Genius.
AS I came Home in the Coach on Friday Night, I ruminated upon the Paſſage in Mr. Waller's Verſes to my Lord Roſcommon, and found indeed that the Words are not ſtrictly reconcileable to Purity of Engliſh and Grammar; but then there are ſeveral Paſſages in Virgil and Horace, which are as little in the com⯑paſs of a regular Conſtruction; for Exam⯑ple, that in the Eclogues,
And that Paſſage in the fifth of the Aeneis, where Niſus ſays to Aeneas
Where merui is certainly for meruiſſem, and ſo Virgil makes bold not only with the Mood but the Tenſe. For my Part, I am for preſerving the Purity of Language ev'n in the boldeſt Flights of Poetry, but then I am apt to be indulgent to the Faults of great Maſters, not only becauſe they are few, but in Conſideration of the Pleaſure which they have otherwiſe given me. He would be but an ill-natur'd Man, who af⯑ter having had the Pleaſure of enjoying a fine Woman, ſhould fall to finding Fault with her Moles, or ſome other Blemiſhes, which perhaps after all, are only ſo many Shadows to ſet off her raviſhing Beauties.
I was not a little ſurpriz'd at the Queſti⯑on, whether Mr. Waller's Verſes to Amo⯑ret mov'd me. What if they dont? Is there not the pulchrum as well as the dul⯑ce in Poetry? But Horace, perhaps, you'll ſay, is for having them both in the ſame Poem.
[295] But then he is certainly ſpeaking of Trage⯑dy, otherwiſe he muſt damn moſt of his own Odes. For ev'n of thoſe which are writ to Women, there is but one which has a great deal of Tenderneſs; and yet moſt o; the reſt are undoubtedly very fine. After all, the pulchrum in Poetry moves as certainly as the dulce, but then the firſt moves the Enthuſiaſtick Paſſions, as the latter does the vulgar ones. Yet to come at laſt cloſe to the Queſtion, the Verſes to Amoret move even the vulgar Paſſions in me, as they ought to do: It being impoſſible to take a Survey in them of Mr. Waller's Good-nature, and his Gratitude, without pitying and loving him.
IT was upon the fourth of this inſtant February that I was perſuaded by ſome of my Acquaintance to peruſe thy Paper of the tenth of January, in which, as they told me, it was ſurmis'd by ſeveral, that you pretended to father upon me the Let⯑ter called the Engliſhman's Thanks to the Duke of Marlborough. It was the ſecond of thy Papers that I ever read, tho' I have handled ſeveral of them. Thou ſeem'ſt to have a great Genius for Water Language, and to be aiming at the Poſt and Reputati⯑on of Water Orator, which thou wilt fill as worthily, as Taylour did that of Water Poet. But tell me truly, what does thy Execrability mean? From whence this Pride, this Inſolence, this Arrogance? What haſt thou ſaid, what haſt thou writ, what haſt thou done, to give thee the leaſt Shadow of a Pretence to it? Art thou ſuch an Ide⯑ot to be of Opinion, that thou art the only soul-mouth'd Fellow in England? Is it ſo [297] hard a matter, think'ſt thou, to cry Block⯑head, ſtupid Head, the moſt inſipid and con⯑temptible of Mankind? Is there any Thought, any Invention, any Underſtanding of thine requiſite for the making uſe of theſe Flow⯑ers of Rhetorick? Is not a Joker in a long party-colour'd Coat as capable of all this as a Joker in a long black Coat? Thou ſay'ſt that I ſhall die without knowing that I am the moſt inſipid and contemptible of all Hu⯑man Creatures. Thou art in the right of it; I ſhall die without knowing any thing of this, tho' I live to the Age of Methuſalem, if I hear it from none but thee and ſuch ſcribling Slaves as thou art. But thou, be⯑fore thou dieſt, wilt know a great deal worſe than this of thy ſelf. Before thou dieſt, thou wilt know that thou art the moſt in⯑ſipid, the vileſt and moſt contemptible, I will not ſay of all Human Creatures, for Reaſon thou never hadſt, and Humanity thou haſt long diſclaim'd, but the vileſt and moſt contemptible of all Dogs; for tho' the reſt of thy Species bark like thee at the worthieſt of Men who are Strangers to them, and crouch and fawn like thee up⯑on the vileſt of Men whom they know, yet no Dog but thy ſelf did ever firſt fawn and crouch, and afterwards bark, and bite, and betray; no, never any Dog was ſo vile be⯑fore as to fawn upon a Maſter thro' two Kingdoms, and afterwards to fly at his Throat.
[298] Thus have I ſhewn thee what thou art, and while thou art reading each Period of this, thy Conſcience will be thy Check, and will heartily cry Amen to it. As for me, thou art not to be told, that I have the Ap⯑probation, and Applauſe, and Eſteem of thy Maſters; thy Maſters, who uſe thee like a common Whore, abhor and deteſt thee while they uſe thee, and will command their Servants to kick thee out of Doors as ſoon as the Luſt of their Ambition is ſa⯑tisfied.
I thank my God I am altogether a Stran⯑ger to thy Perſon, but give me leave to ſhew thee, how inſipid and contemptible thou art as an Author. Inſipid Panegyriſts are they who praiſe with general Compli⯑ments and thread-bare Commendations, Compliments which are equally applicable to all Subjects, and to uſe which demanded neither Imagination nor Judgment. And 'tis theſe Panegyriſts that have been chiefly the Marks of Boileau's judicious and ge⯑nerous Satyrs. Inſipid Libellers are they who uſe general Injuries and Billinſgate De⯑famations, and which the erranteſt Fool may ſpeak of the moſt illuſtrious Perſon, as ea⯑ſily as a Dog can bark at the Moon. Thou art one of thoſe inſipid Libellers, and art by ſo much more odious and more deſpi⯑cable than an inſipid Panegyriſt, by how much a Blockhead with Ill-nature is more [299] hateful and more contemptible than a Fool with good Humour.
The inſipid Reproaches which thou uſeſt, have been utter'd a thouſand times by thy ſelf of a thouſand different Perſons. But I ſhall ſay that of thee, which every one cannot ſay, and ſhall ſay what can be ſaid of none but thy execrable ſelf alone; and when I have dragg'd thee from the lurking Hole, to which thy baſe Fears have condemn'd thee, (for thou never hadſt Senſe enough to have Shame) and expos'd thee to the open Light, that is to eternal Infamy, then let the World judge who is the inſipid and who the contemptible.
By thy Impudence, thy Ignorance, thy ſophiſtical arguing, thy pedantick declama⯑tory Style, and thy brutal Billinſgate Lan⯑guage thou canſt be none but ſome illite⯑rate Pedant, who has liv'd twenty Years in an Univerſity; by thy being a turbu⯑lent hot-brain'd Incendiary, a hot-brain'd Incendiary with a cool Heart, one may eaſily gueſs at the Univerſity which gave thee thy Education. By thy wonderful Charity, thou canſt be nothing but a ſcandalous Prieſt, hateful to God and de⯑teſtable to Men, and agreeable to none but Devils, who makeſt it thy Buſineſs to foment Diviſions between Communities and private Perſons, in ſpight of that Cha⯑rity which is the fundamental Doctrine of [300] that Religion which thou pretendſt to teach. How amazing a Reflection is it, that, in ſpight of that Divine Doctrine, the Chriſtian World ſhould be the only part of the Globe embroil'd in endleſs Diviſions. From whence can this proceed, but from Prieſts like thee, who are the Peſts of Society and the Bane of Religion. But 'tis not enough to ſay thou art a Prieſt, 'tis time to point out what Prieſt thou art. Thou art a Prieſt then who mad'ſt thy firſt Appearance in the World like a dry Joker in Controverſy, a ſpiritual Buffoon, an Eccleſiaſtical Jack Pudding, by publiſhing a Piece of waggiſh Divinity, which was writ with a Deſign to banter all Chriſtianity; yes, thou nobly be⯑gan'ſt, as Judas Iſcariot ended; began'ſt by crucifying thy God afreſh, and ſelling him to John Nutt for ten Pound and a Crown, and ſo under-ſelling half in half thy execra⯑ble Predeceſſor. Hadſt thou but had half his common Senſe, thou hadſt had his Re⯑morſe and conſequently his Deſtiny; inſtead of which thou fell'ſt from ſelling and be⯑traying thy God to ſelling and betraying thy old Friends. So that hadſt thou liv'd in the time of Judas, thou wouldſt infi⯑nitely have ſurpſs'd him in Villany, thou woulſt have betray'd both Chriſt and all his Apoſtles, nay, wouldſt have undermin'd, and underſold, and betray'd even Judas the Be⯑trayer himſelf.
[301] When thou wert come piping hot from betraying both Friends and God, thou wert often heard to cry moſt impudently, but moſt truly, out, that the Church was in Dan⯑ger. Any one may ſwear, when it has ſuch Prieſts, that 'tis not in Danger, but upon the very brink of Ruine; and that if it were not ſupported by God himſelf, it would immediately tumble.
Yet 'tis hard to be angry with ſuch a Miſcreant, when I reflect, that he who has us'd me ſo, has us'd his God worſe. For thou haſt denyed his very Being; which is to degrade him below the meaneſt of his own Creatures, not only below Fools and Ideots, but even below Vermin, Inſects, Mites, and all the Creatures of the materi⯑al inviſible World, even below the Exami⯑ner. For Nothing muſt always be leſs than Something, let Something be never ſo little.
Thou haſt fall'n upon me with the Rage of a mad Dog or a Mohock; not becauſe thou hadſt any Provocation, but becauſe thy Madneſs made thee believe that the firſt thing that came in thy way, was the Cauſe of thy Uneaſineſs. Nothing is more certain than that I knew nothing of the Let⯑ter to the Duke of Marlborough till the fourteenth of this inſtant February, which, according to thy own Account, was five Weeks after it was publiſh'd. I ſhall live to ſee thee cry Penny Papers, before thou [302] wilt ſee me write them. Yet if I had writ that Paper I would boldly have own'd it, in ſpight of thee and of all thy Abettors. What, ſhall I be afraid or aſham'd to com⯑mend the greateſt Man upon Earth, when thou art neither afraid nor aſham'd moſt baſe⯑ly to calumniate him? But go on in the Courſe thou art in, I cannot wiſh thee a greater Curſe. Go on to calumniate and to vilify all that is truly great and illuſtrious, and to flatter and to extoll all that is vile and de⯑ſpicable. Whatever Thoughts thou either haſt, or wouldſt ſeem to have, of me, I would have thee to know, that God and Nature have placed me infinitely above do⯑ing thy baſe Drudgery, and being the con⯑temptible execrable Tool of any Party what⯑ever. If it be true that a Kingdom divided againſt it ſelf ſhall not ſtand, if inteſtine Di⯑viſion be the Flaw that lets in Death to a mighty Nation, what Damnation muſt that wholeſale Cut-throat deſerve, who makes it the ſole Buſineſs of his Life to incenſe one miſerable Half againſt the unfortunate other? Yet this I'll ſay for thee, that tho' thou art the worſt of Murderers in thy Heart, yet Thanks to thy Impotence thy Hands are entirely free; and what Dry⯑den maliciouſly ſaid of Shadwell, is truly ap⯑plicable to none but thee. And ſo I bid thee heartily farewell.
AFter I had endeavour'd to ſhew the abſurd Conduct of the Tragedy of Cato, by the Remarks which were printed by Bernard Lintott, the numerous Idoli⯑zers of that Tragedy, whoſe unparallell'd Zeal was the Child of their unparallell'd Ig⯑norance, ſhelter'd themſelves under the Beauty of the Sentiments of that Poem. Up⯑on which I, who knew the Sentiments to be at leaſt as abſurd as the Conduct, wrote two long Letters to a learned and judicious Friend, by which I endeavour'd to ſhew the Sentiments as incongruous as the Con⯑duct. When I acquainted you with this at Mr. W [...]'s Houſe, you were pleas'd to declare, that you deſir'd to ſee a Copy of thoſe Letters. And when, upon that, [304] I acquainted you by what poor Artifice I had been depriv'd of the Copy of thoſe Letters, as my Friend had been of the O⯑riginal, you ſeem'd deſirous to ſee as many of the loſt Remarks as I could recollect, which, in compliance with your Deſires, I ſhall ſend you, from time to time, as I can recollect them; hoping that they may appear ſolid to one who has ſhewn ſo much Juſtneſs in all the Judgments you have made of things of this nature; but deſiring, at the ſame time, that you would not expect any thing ev'n of that little Force and that lit⯑tle Grace of Expreſſion which they might have in the two foremention'd Letters, for which I have not time, and for want of which I promiſe to make what Amends I can, by the Solidity of my Remarks, and by the Shortneſs of my Letters.
Firſt then, I deſire to know, whether the exclaiming againſt Pharſalia ſo often in this Tragedy, two Years after that Bat⯑tle had been fought in a different and di⯑ſtant part of the World, and but two Days after the Battel of Thapſus, which was fought at the very Gates of Utica, and by the loſs of which the preſent Danger of the People in Utica was occaſion'd, is not as abſurd as it would have been in the Mar⯑ſhal de Villeroy to have cryed out after the Defeat at Ramelies, Blenheim, Blenheim, oh Blenheim! And we have the more reaſon to [305] ask this Queſtion, if we conſider that it was Pompey who commanded at Pharſalia, but it was Cato who commanded at Thap⯑ſus. If any one happens to anſwer here, that the Defeat at Pharſalia deſtroy'd the Flower of the Republican Army, and con⯑ſequently was the occaſion of the Defeat at Thapſus; to that I anſwer, that the De⯑feat at Thapſus was not occaſion'd by the Overthrow at Pharſalia. For at that rate much more might the Overthrow which happen'd afterwards in Spain, be attributed to the two Defeats at Thapſus and Phar⯑ſalia; whereas 'tis very plain, that in Spain, notwithſtanding the two former Defeats, Caeſar's Army had been defeated by young Pompey's, if young Pompey had not been vanquiſh'd by Caeſar. For it was the in⯑vincible Spirit of Caeſar which got the Day, which his Army had certainly loſt if they had fought under any other General. Be⯑ſides, ſuppoſe that we were oblig'd to own, that the Defeat at Thapſus was occaſion'd by that at Pharſalia, yet the Author could draw nothing from that but a falſe Politick Reflection; for as great Paſſion is occaſi⯑on'd by great Surprize, it always dwells up⯑on the laſt Diſaſter. But I begin to run in⯑to length, which I would induſtriouſly a⯑void. You ſhall have more by the firſt Op⯑portunity.
IN ſending theſe Remarks upon the Sen⯑timents of Cato to you, I ſhall rathe [...] endeavour to entertain you with frequen [...] Letters than to fatigue you with long ones▪ that you may ſtill leave off, if not with [...] Appetite, yet without that Diſguſt whic [...] attends great Satiety.
To come then to the Matter, witho [...] any more ceremony, I deſire to kno [...] whether that Sentiment of Marcus in t [...] firſt Scene of the Play,
is not falſe in it ſelf, according to th [...] Reflection of Rochefoucault, On paſſe ſo [...] vent de l'Amour a l'Ambition, mais on [...] revient gueres, de l'Ambition a l'Amour ▪ and whether 'tis not moſt abominable [...] one, who juſt before had profeſs'd himſe [...] [307] a Stoick? which Sect of Philoſophers pre⯑tended by the Force of Reaſon to extir⯑pate all the Paſſions.
The firſt Speech of Sempronius to Por⯑tius begins thus,
Now are not theſe formal Embraces, be⯑tween two People who ſaw one another every Hour, ſomething upon the Comique?
But what Portius ſays to this is ſtill more whimſical:
Still ſtarping upon Pharſalia.
Now, to whom does he tell this extra⯑ordinary piece of News? why, to the only Senator who makes any figure in that Aſſembly, ridiculous or not ridiculous? ſo that if the Senate was called together that Morning, he had been certainly ſummon'd. But this Senate methinks was very early ſummon'd. 'Tis now not above half an Hour after Day-break.
But why the Leavings of Pharſalia? why ſtill harping upon Pharſalia? when 'tis evi⯑dent [308] from Hiſtory, that this mock Senate, this Senate in Burleſque, was compos'd of a Parcel of Scoundrels who had never ſeen Pharſalia. For can you or any one be⯑lieve, that if they had been of real Senato⯑rian Rank, Caeſar would have us'd them as he did, who hang'd up as many of them as fell into his Hands? But let us now ſee what Sempronius is pleas'd to reply to Portius.
Now was ever ſuch a Conſequence drawn from ſuch an Antecedent? For let us con⯑ſider the genuine Meaning of what was ſaid before by Portius, and what was anſwer'd by Sempronius.
Now, what were theſe Wonders of Ca⯑ [...]s Race? why, their Stoiciſm, their Apa⯑ [...]y, their curbing their Paſſions by the Force [400] of their Reaſon. For what occaſion'd this Speech of Sempronius, and this Caution which he gives to Portius? Why, what but Portius's declaring the Reſolution of his Siſter Martia not to admit of any effemi⯑nate unworthy Paſſion while her Father's Life is in danger. So that methinks Por⯑tius might reaſonably have interpreted this Caution of Sempronius, as a Reprimand for his own extravagant and unreaſonable Paſſion, and not have conſtrued it as a De⯑ſign to ſend him on an April Errand to harangue a poor Parcel of drunken Sots before they were out of their firſt Sleep. But, as we obſerv'd in the printed Remarks, the Author wanted to be rid of Por⯑tius to make Room for Syphax, and ſo thruſt him out with as little Ceremony as Manly did my Lord Plauſible.
TO enter into Matter without Cere⯑mony, I ſhould be glad to know your Opinion of what Syphax tells Sempronius in the Beginning of the Scene between them in this firſt Act.
Now where's the Policy or the Prudence of ſounding them Man by Man? The [...]ommon Soldiers obey their Commanders, [...]d 'tis dangerous to truſt a Conſpiracy with too many. But when did Syphax do [...]his? 'Tis but half an Hour after Day⯑ [...]reak, when he ſays this: If he had done [...] the Day before, methinks Sempronius his [312] Fellow-Conſpirator ſhould have known it over-night, ſince Caeſar was ſo ſoon ex⯑pected, and Sempronius himſelf ſeems to be of that Opinion.
ſo that according to this 'tis plain, that Sy⯑phax ought to have acquainted Sempronius over-night, with the Inclination which his Numidians had to revolt, provided he had ſounded them the Day before; and how he could ſound them Man by Man, by Night, in a Town of War, as Utica was, is ſome⯑thing hard to conceive. But to dwell no longer on this: If all the Numidians were thus at the Command of Syphax, how comes Sempronius ſo earneſt about the gaining Juba as he is in the Remainder of this Speech?
But, Sir, how comes Sempronius in the foregoing Speech to uſe this Language to Syphax,
when 'tis plain from the Scene in the firſt Act between Syphax and Juba, that the for⯑mer is ſo very well acquainted with the Character and Manners of the preſent Ro⯑mans in general; and when 'tis plain from the Scene between Juba and Syphax in the ſe⯑cond Act, that Syphax was ſo very well acquainted with the Manners and Actions of their remoteſt Anceſtors.
Now is it poſſible that a Man who talks at this Rate, ſhould be unacquainted with the Character of Caeſar, who was the greateſt Captain that ever had been in the World, and whoſe Actions had made ſo much noiſe in the World for ſo many Years together? Is it poſſible that any one now alive ſhould be acquainted with the Manners and Actions of the very firſt Princes of the Savoy Fa⯑mily, and ſhould be a Stranger to the Cha⯑racter and the Actions of Prince Eugene?
But, Sir, I cannot imagine, for what Reaſon Sempronius ſhould appear thus ſoli⯑citous for the drawing over Juba into this Conſpiracy,
when 'tis plain from the Soliloquy of Sem⯑pronius in the ſixth Page of this firſt Act (Edit. 1.) that the principal Motive that [405] engag'd Sempronius in this Conſpiracy was the poſſeſſing Marcia?
Now Juba was not only Sempronius his Ri⯑val, but Sempronius knew that he was ſo, as 'tis plain from p. 31. of the firſt Edition, Act 2.
Now 'tis evident that ſince Sempronius expe⯑cted to poſſeſs the Daughter, by betraying the Father to Caeſar, how comes he to appear ſo earneſt to reconcile his Rival to Caeſar?
[316] Now, Sir, did you ever hear of a duller Lover, or a more ſtupid Plotter than this Sempronius, who being engag'd in a Con⯑ſpiracy againſt Cato by the Motives of Love and Ambition, appears zealous to reconcile a pow'rful Rival to Caeſar, who, being re⯑concil'd, would infallibly traverſe him in his Paſſion, and conſequently in his Ambi⯑tion? Can any thing be more plain, than that Caeſar, who ſacrific'd ev'ry thing to his Intereſt and his Ambition, would ſacrifice both the Paſſion and Ambition of Sempro⯑nius to him who was able
And can any thing be more manifeſt than that Juba, if once reconcil'd to Caeſar, would, unleſs he were more ſtupid than Sempro⯑nius, uſe all his Intereſt with Caeſar, to hin⯑der his Rival from mounting, as he propos'd to himſelf, to the firſt Honours of Rome, leaſt thoſe Honours ſhould be as it were ſo many ſteps towards his ſucceeding in his Paſſion for Marcia? But I have exceeded the Bounds to which I propos'd to confine my ſelf in ev'ry Letter, and am, till the next Opportunity,
I Come now to the Scene between Juba and Syphax, being the fourth Scene of the firſt Act, which you have heard ſo ex⯑travagantly commended. When I come to ſhew you that the Author has manag'd Matters with ſo much Dexterity, that the whole Scene is one groſs Fault, that Syphax is very much in the wrong in his Invectives againſt the Romans, that Juba is more in the wrong in his Defence of them, what ſhall we ſay of the Taſte and Judgment of its Admirers? ſhall we forbear to cry out with Indignation, Quantum eſt in rebus i⯑nane?
Firſt then I come to ſhew that Syphax is very much in the wrong in his general Invective againſt the Romans. For do but conſider what the Deſign of Syphax was in this Converſation with Juba? his Deſign was to draw over Juba to the Party of Caeſar, according to the Requeſt which [408] Sempronius made him, no leſs than twice, in the foregoing Scene.
and in the next Speech but one,
And as ſoon as Syphax remains alone, he ſays,
Now the firſt Speech of Syphax, in this Scene between him and Juba, contains a general Invective againſt the Romans.
Now, Sir, the Queſtion is, whether an In⯑vective againſt the Romans in general, is a probable Method to induce Juba to eſ⯑pouſe that part of them, which either was, or at leaſt paſs'd for, the moſt profligate part of them with all the impartial World, and more particularly with Juba? The Queſtion is, whether an Invective againſt the Roman Fraud and Hypocriſie was like⯑ly to make Juba deſert Cato, whom all the World allowed to be ſincere, and to bring him over to Caeſar who was renown'd for the Artifice of his Diſſimulation?
But as Syphax is very much in the wrong in this general Invective againſt the Romans in general, Juba's infinitely more ſo in his Defence of them. For Syphax is not in the wrong abſolutely, but only with relation to the Deſign with which he ſpeaks, for abſo⯑lutely ſpeaking, he is ſo far from ſaying too much againſt them, that he does not ſpeak a hundredth Part of the Truth. And what Juba ſays in Defence of them, does by no means belong to the Romans who liv'd in Juba's Time; but to thoſe who liv'd in the [320] Vigour of the Common-wealth. The Ro⯑mans, who liv'd in Juba's Time, were the moſt profligate Race of People that ever liv'd in the World; which will eaſily ap⯑pear by the Account that is given of their Manners by their own diſcerning and im⯑partial Hiſtorian Salluſt, in his Hiſtory of the Catilinarian War. As you have the Works of that Prince of Hiſtorians by Heart, there is no Occaſion for repeating the Paſſage. I appeal to you therefore, if 'tis not mani⯑feſt, from the Account which Salluſt gives of them, that the Reflection of Syphax in the foregoing Speech is not the hundredth Part of what his Contemporary Romans deſerv'd, and whether it does not appear likewiſe from the ſame Account that the following Sentiments of Juba are not only falſe but baſe.
But let us ſee what Syphax replies to this Speech of Juba.
The Preheminence over other Nations to which the Romans ow'd the Extent of their Empire, did not proceed ſo much from the ſuperior Strength or Addreſs of their Individuals, conſider'd as Individuals, as from their publick and military Diſcipline. How⯑ever, what Syphax ſays here would not be ſo very impertinent, if the Deſign of Sy⯑phax were to draw Juba off from the Ro⯑mans in general; but as I ſaid before, I cannot imagine how he can pretend by theſe means to draw Juba off from that Party of the Romans which he believ'd the juſter, and to make him eſpouſe that part of them, of the Juſtice of whoſe Cauſe he had no manner of Opinion.
But now, Sir, let us come to what Ju⯑ba replies to Syphax in the Defence of his Romans.
Now, Sir, are you able without a juſt In⯑dignation to behold in Juba this baſe Ad⯑miration of a Nation, which in its Progreſ to univerſal Monarchy endeavour'd to en⯑ſlave the very Kings of Africa, as it ha [...] done thoſe of Europe and Aſia before? Th [...] truth of it is, that wherever the Romans [...] this time of day carried their Arms, the [...] taught the Nations their Luxury, their Ra⯑pines, their Frauds, their civil Diſſention [...] and in ſhort, all the deplorable Corruptio [...] of their Manners; and Syphax might hav [...] anſwer'd him a thouſand Times more full [...] than he does in the following Speech.
Here are not above two or three of the Sentiments which are found in the fore⯑mention'd Account of Salluſt, whereas that admirable Hiſtorian employs whole Pages in deſcribing the prodigious Corruption of the Roman Manners.
In the following Speech, Juba pretends to convince Syphax of the Virtue of the Romans in general, I mean of the Romans who were his Contemporaries, by the Vir⯑tue of Cato; as if there were any Conclu⯑ſion from the Virtue of one Man to the Virtue of a whole Nation; one might as reaſonably conclude from the Under⯑ſtanding of one Man to the Underſtanding of a whole Nation: one might as reaſona⯑bly conclude that the Thebans were the brighteſt People of Greece, becauſe Pindar [324] was the greateſt of the Lyrick Poets, as that they were naturally the braveſt Peo⯑ple of Greece, becauſe Pelopidas and E⯑paminondas were perhaps the greateſt Cap⯑tains of their Time. We have ſhewn al⯑ready, that the Romans of thoſe Times were ſo far from being more virtuous than other People, that they were more profli⯑gate in their Manners than any other Nati⯑on whatever.
The Virtue of Cato therefore, ſuch as it was, muſt have been owing to ſomething elſe than the national Virtue of his Cotem⯑porary Romans. It was owing perhaps to an Affectation of the auſtere Virtue of his Anceſtors, to Grecian Philoſophy, to an o⯑ver-grown monſtrous Pride, which appears ev'ry where throughout his Character, to the Obſtinacy of an inflexible Temper, and perhaps I might add to likewiſe invincible Ig⯑norance; I mean an utter Ignorance of the Condition and Conſtitution of his Country, and of the Changes that had been made in it, by the Alteration of their Manners, by the loſs of their Agrarian, and by prolon⯑gation of Magiſtracy; ſo that the Roman Liberty in Cato's Time was in a deſperate Condition, and was irretrievable unleſs by abſolute Power.
It was never to be recover'd by Cato Caeſar alone could reſt ore it. Cato had on⯑ly the impotent Will, but Caeſar alone had [325] the Power. The merry way of reaſoning in this Scene, puts me in Mind of an Ob⯑ſervation which Rapin makes upon the French Poets his Contemporaries, that Logick was ſo much neglected in their Po⯑ems, that they were for the moſt part ei⯑ther Fuſtian or Nonſenſe, but I forget my Promiſe, and tranſgreſs my Bounds. The Remainder of this Scene muſt make the Sub⯑ject of another Letter, which I promiſe to ſend you as ſoon as I have leiſure to think of it.
THE laſt time I had the Satisfaction to write to you, I was oblig'd to break off my Remarks in the middle of the Scene between Syphax and Juba, which is the fourth of the firſt Act. Being encourag'd by your Approbation of what I have alrea⯑dy ſent you, I ſhall now examine the Re⯑mainder of that Scene.
In the 11th Page Syphax urges Juba to abandon Cato, as you may ſee in the fol⯑lowing Dialogue.
Now, Sir, can you ſee here, without ſmi⯑ling, that Syphax makes a Propoſal to his Prince, which the latter believes to be downright villainous, and yet does not pro⯑voke him; but as ſoon as the other touches upon his Love for Marcia, the Milkſop takes Fire, and ſhews that he cannot bear it.
But now, Sir, let us ſee what Syphax ſays upon this Reſentment of Juba.
That is as much as to ſay, that his Father never reprimanded him for his Inſolence and his Preſumption; but ſee how he pro⯑ceeds.
Now, Sir, 'tis plain from this Speech, that Syphax was preſent at the laſt parting be⯑tween the Son and the Father. Let us ſee now, whether Syphax can make mention of this laſt parting between the Son and the Father, for any other reaſon than to work upon the Weakneſs of his young Ma⯑ſter, and to put him out of his princely Senſes. Not conſidering that the mention of that parting, if he ſuppoſes his Younker had common Senſe, would render the In⯑ſolence and the Preſumption which Syphax ſhews, by urging Juba to abandon Cato, inexcuſable and inſupportable; becauſe at that parting, at which we have juſt now ſhewn that Syphax was preſent, the Father ſtrictly charges the Son never to abandon Cato.
This is evident from what Juba ſays in the Scene between him and Cato in the ſe⯑cond Act, where Juba gives the other a Relation of what happen'd at the laſt part⯑ing between his Father and himſelf in the following Words.
But now the Son in this Scene between him and Syphax in the firſt Act, upon the Mention which Syphax makes of this Par⯑ting, ſeems entirely to have forgot that Ad⯑monition of his Father, of which he makes ſo circumſtantial a Relation to Cato in the 2d Act. To be convinc'd of this, let us ſee what he anſwers to what Syphax ſaid laſt to him.
[330] What? when thoſe Directions were point blank contrary to his own, as they appa⯑rently are here? But what follows?
Thus Juba, as I ſaid above, has either entirely forgot that Admonition of his Fa⯑ther, of which he makes ſo circumſtanti⯑al a Relation to Cato in the 2d Act; or has not Capacity enough to know, that what Syphax brings as an Excuſe for his Inſo⯑lence ought to render it inſupportable. But now, Sir, let us ſee what Syphax ſays up⯑on this melting Tenderneſs of Juba.
Now, Sir, I deſire to know how Syphax and Sempronius ſhould come to know of this Flame, if Juba had long ſtifled it, and would fain conceal it. For as Sempronius tells us in the third Act, no one had Ac⯑ceſs to Marcia but Juba and her Brothers. And if Juba had never confeſs'd any Paſſi⯑on, the Brothers ſure would not talk of any ſuch thing, before they were certain of it, tho' perhaps they might have gueſs'd at it; and certain they could not be, before the Declaration of Juba.
For what remains, tho' this Character of Juba is not ſo faulty with relation to the Rules, as ſome which I mentioned in the Remarks which were formerly publiſh'd by Lintott, yet is it more faulty, abſolutely and conſider'd in it ſelf. For Juba is a Character that is not only ſhocking and contemptible to Men of Senſe, at the ſame time that the Author endeavours to render him eſtimable and agreeable, but he is ſhock⯑ing and contemptible by the very ſame Qua⯑lities by which the Author endeavours to render him eſtimable and agreeable, and theſe are his Eſteem and Admiration of Cato and of the Romans. For in admiring [332] the Romans who were his Contemporaries, he not only admir'd the moſt profligately wicked of all Nations, as we have ſhewn above by the Teſtimony of their nobleſt Hiſtorian, but a Nation who, in their Pro⯑greſs to univerſal Monarchy, were about to ruin and enſlave Numidia, and the reſt of Africa, as they had done Europe and part of Aſia before. And as to that Eſteem and Veneration and almoſt Adoration which he ſhews for Cato, we have this one Remark to make; that he thinks and acts directly coun⯑ter to him, even in thoſe very Qualities for which he pretends to admire him. For the moſt ſhining Qualities in Cato's Character were the Love of his Country, and the Com⯑mand which he had of his Paſſions.
Now, Sir, for the firſt of theſe Qualities give me leave to obſerve, that Cato was a Lover of his own Country, and not of Nu⯑midia; and he and his Romans deſign'd to ſubdue Numidia to Rome, and not Rome to Numidia. If Syphax had been a loyal Subject and a true Friend to his Prince, and not a falſe Traitor and a Friend to Rome, he would have advis'd his Prince to have defied both Caeſar and Cato, and the Ro⯑mans in general, and taking this Advan⯑tage of their civil Diſſenſions to have re⯑treated into his own Numidia, and to have rows'd up all the Nations between the Tro⯑picks againſt thoſe accurſed Plagues of Hu⯑man [333] Race, who deſign'd to ſacrifice the Happineſs and the Virtue of Mankind to their inſatiable Avarice, and their deteſta⯑ble Ambition. And Juba had follow'd that Advice, if he had been wiſe or magnani⯑mous enough to have had any Regard for his own Royalty and his Independency, or had been a true Patriot enough to have had half ſo much concern for the Liberty and Happineſs of Numidia as Cato had for that of Rome.
Now as for the other Quality of Cato, the Command of his Paſſions; Juba is ſo far from commanding his own, that thro' an unparallell'd Impotence of Mind, he chuſes that very Day to make a Declarati⯑on of his Paſſion for Marcia, and to gain her Father's Conſent, which is apprehended to be the very laſt both of Roman Liberty, and of her Father's Life. And this Weakneſs of his is expoſed the more, and render'd the more contemptible ev'n by what Por⯑tius ſays to Marcus in his Praiſe in the firſt Scene of the Play.
So that Juba, it ſeems, after having for ſome time ſtifled his Paſſion, chuſes that very Day to declare and divulge it, on which Reaſon and Decency oblig'd him moſt of all to conceal it.
By the way, Sir, I deſire leave to obſerve, that for Portius to declare that Juba loves his Siſter Marcia, and not only loves her, but greatly loves her; that his Eyes, that his Looks, that his Actions all betray that Love, that tho' he is ſilent the ſmother'd Fondeſs burns within him, even when it labours moſt for a Vent, and that he is re⯑ſtrain'd from divulging it, by the ſenſe of Honour and the deſire of Fame, I ſay, for Portius to declare all this, when it appears that Juba has not only made no mention of it before that Day, but declares it upon the on⯑ly Day in which the ſenſe of Honour and deſire of Fame forbid ſuch a Declaration, are Sentiments that appear to me to be vi⯑ſionary and fantaſtick. It ſeeming to me to be equally ſelf-evident, that nothing could make ſuch a Declaration in Juba diſhonour⯑able before that Day, and that nothing could [335] have hinder'd it from paſſing for Infamous then.
Thus, Sir, have I given you an Account of the Abſurdities and the Inconſiſtencies which are to be found in the Sentiments of the firſt Act of the Tragedy of Cato. I ſhall proceed to the ſecond Act with the firſt Opportunity,
YOU could not have us'd a more pre⯑vailing Argument to oblige me to con⯑tinue my Remarks upon the Sentiments of Cato, than the aſſuring me that thoſe which I have already ſent you upon the Sentiments of the firſt Act have not been diſpleaſing to you. I ſhall proceed then to the ſecond Act, and entring upon the Subject without any more Ceremony, I ſhall deſire to know from you, whether the firſt Scene of the ſecond Act, that is the Scene which ſhews the Senate aſſembled, deſerves the Applauſe which it met with at firſt from the Reader and the Spe⯑ctator. In order to the anſwering this Queſtion, let us conſider the Deſign, with which Cato, who preſides o'er it, ſummon'd this Aſſembly. Let us conſider next the Manner of ſpeaking in it, and laſtly the Speeches themſelves.
[337] The Deſign of Cato is to conſult this Aſ⯑ſembly about Peace or War; which he does, without ſo much as once conſulting them, about the Means of carrying it on, or ſo much as once asking their Advice a⯑bout it. And yet Caeſar was expected in a few Hours at the Gates of Utica, a Town not maintainable againſt Caeſar's Army, as we may learn by the very firſt Lines of the Play.
For how could that Day be big with the Fate of Cato and of Rome, if Utica were [...] a Capacity to hold out a Siege againſt the Arms of Caeſar?
But, Sir, let us conſider the Manner of ſpeaking in this Aſſembly. As ſoon as Ca⯑to propoſes the Buſineſs of Peace or War, Sempronius riſes, and declares for the latter; when Cato immediately contradicts him without ſtaying to ſee if the reſt of the Se⯑nators were of his Opinion; which is con⯑trary to the Method of all Councils, either thoſe of Parnaſſus or thoſe of the World, becauſe ſuch a Proceeding is not conſonant to Reaſon nor to the Deſign of convening ſuch Aſſemblies.
[338] For the very Deſign of convening ſuch Aſſemblies, and of asking their Advice, is, that every Man who is ask'd it, ſhould give it ſincerely and without Prepoſſeſſion. Now is it not plain, Sir, that if he who has the ſupream Authority in a Council de⯑clares his Opinion before the reſt, they who ſpeak after him are in ſome meaſure byaſs'd?
But now let us come to the Speeches themſelves, and let us begin with Cato's.
We will begin to examine this Speech by the Tayl; for 'tis not till the four laſt Lines that Cato puts the Queſtion to this mock Senate, whether they were for Peace or War, which is putting a wrong Queſtion. For as long as they had a Reſſource, and the Affairs of the Commonwealth were not de⯑ſperate, as appears by what Cato and Juba ſay in the ſequel, all true Patriots ought to be for War; and the only Queſtion which could be put properly to them, was, ſince Caeſar approached, and Utica was not main⯑tainable by their Forces, againſt his nume⯑rous and victorious Army, to what Places they ſhould immediately retreat, and where they might beſt and ſooneſt recruit their Forces. All the firſt part of the Speech is Declamation, and telling his Hearers, tho' neither he nor they had a Minute to loſe, Caeſar being expected every Hour, what either was not true, or what they muſt e⯑very one of them know every Jot as well as himſelf. Beſides, could any thing be ſo little to his Purpoſe, as that at this extraor⯑dinary Juncture, which required that he ſhould uſe all his Art and all his Force to animate them, he ſhould remind them thus of the Felicity and the conſtant Succeſs of Caeſar, [340] and enumerate the Battels he had gain'd, and the Countries he had conquered, which was enough to make them loſe all Courage and incline them to a baſe Submiſſion? If it has not that Effect on Sempronius, 'tis be⯑cauſe he is a Traitor, and does not ſpeak his Mind; that by perſuading Cato to hold out, he may have the Merit of delivering him up to Caeſar. Being ordered then by Cato to declare his Opinion, he delivers it in the following Speech, which is intended by the Author as a Gaſconnade.
This, as I ſaid before, is deſign'd by the Author as a Gaſconnade. But 'tis only its being in the wrong Place that makes it ſo. For if this Speech had been ſpoke after Ca⯑to had declar'd againſt both making Peace and retreating, it had been great and rea⯑ſonable, and Roman. For this Advice of [341] Sempronius is wrong, becauſe the Forces in Utica could before the Arrival of Caeſar make a Retreat and recruit. But after Re⯑fuſal to make Peace and to make a Retreat, there remain'd but two things, either to go out and fight, or to ſtay there till they were coop'd up by Caeſar. To ſtay there was fooliſh and deſperate; for Caeſar might be certain to reduce them by Famine, without ſuffering them ſo much as to ſtrike a Stroke. If they went out and fought, they had a Chance for it, tho' the odds was very great againſt them.
So that Cato having reſolved neither to make Peace nor to retreat, was oblig'd by Rea⯑ſon to follow this Advice of Sempronius. Let us now ſee what Reaſons he gives for his not doing it.
Why no: The World could not with rea⯑ſon ſay, that he laviſh'd at his Death the Blood of thouſands, for doing a reaſon⯑able thing, that is by leading them out to fight againſt the Enemies of their Country, by which they had a Chance for the Victo⯑ry, after he had reſolv'd within himſelf neither to make Peace nor retreat. The World might reaſonably ſay, that
by baſely deſerting them; that is, by dying alone, by dying by his own Hand, with⯑out making a fair Retreat with them, or making any Terms for them, or fighting bravely at the Head of them. If he had fall'n in the Field at the Head of them, and the Deaths of thouſands had attended on [343] his, it would have been ſo far from making his Ruine glorious, that it would have ob⯑ſcur'd it, and would have render'd the Fall of Cato a vulgar Fall, and common to thoſe numerous Chiefs, who in the ſeveral Ages of the World have been known to fall in Battel. Cato knew very well, that to grace his Fall, and render his Ruine glorious with the unthinking part of the World, both with his Contemporaries and with Poſterity, that the Singularity of his Fall was requiſite; that in order to this there was a Neceſſity for his falling alone, for his falling by his own Hand, after having twice read over Plato's Treatiſe of the Immortality of the Soul.
But now, Sir, as Sempronius is in the wrong in declaring for War, before he knew that Cato had reſolv'd neither to make Peace nor make a Retreat; as Cato is more in the wrong in anſwering him; let us now ſhew that Lucius is ſtill more in the wrong in the Harangue which he makes for Peace; and Cato ſtill more in the wrong than he, in the Anſwer which he makes to that Ha⯑rangue.
The firſt ſix Lines of this Speech contain nothing but a meer poetical Flouriſh. And for theſe two that follow;
May we not reaſonably ſay, that they are the Language of Baſeneſs, that it would be more Philoſophical as well as more Roman to ſay, that the Gods have only tryed them all this while, to try with what Conſtancy they would bear their Sufferings and en⯑dure their Loſſes, and whether they were [345] worthy to be made the Deliverers of their Country. But let us proceed,
Thus is this Fool in the other Extream, as if there were no medium, between urging the Foe to immediate Battel, and a baſe Submiſſion. Cato will tell him in his An⯑ſwer that there is that medium, but will tell it him after ſuch a manner, that he had better have ſaid nothing.
Thus Cato is ſenſible, that there is a me⯑dium between urging the Foe to immedi⯑ate Battel, and a baſe Submiſſion. There is a retreat into Numidia, where they may repair and recruit their Forces, and then [346] it will be time to offer Battel, and there⯑fore this Stoick juſtly cries out,
But what Inference does he draw from hence? why, the ſtrangeſt one in the World.
That is as much as to ſay, Since we have ſo fair a Retreat into Numidia, whoſe ſpa⯑cious Kingdom does as it were extend its Arms to receive us; why in the Name of all the Gods e'en let us ſtay here. But let us ſuffer him to go on,
But now, Sir, is that the way to ſpin the Freedom of Rome to the laſt, to ſtay till they are coop'd up in Utica, inſtead of retreating into Numidia, where they may raiſe another Army, with which they may [347] once more contend for the Liberties of their Country. But let him make an end of this bleſſed Harangue.
Why let it be ſo; but then if a Day, if an Hour of virtuous Liberty be of ſuch im⯑menſe Value, ſure an Age, or many Ages of it are infinitely more to be eſteem'd. And why they ſhould talk of adding a Day to the Liberties of Rome, when they may reaſonably hope to add whole Ages, by retreating into a vaſt Kingdom, which lyes open to receive them, is I muſt confeſs above my Apprehenſion.
But, Sir, tho' I have not quite done with this Scene of the Senate, yet give me leave here to inſert a Paſſage of the follow⯑ing Scene between Cato and Juba, in or⯑der to ſhew that whereas thoſe old Stag⯑ers, Sempronius and Lucius, made, the one of them an extravagant Propoſal, and the other a baſe one; young Juba, who in all likelihood was never in the right before, yet gives very reaſonable Ad⯑vice to Cato in the following Lines.
To which reaſonable Advice we ſhall ſee immediately, that Cato gives a moſt unrea⯑ſonable Anſwer.
Which is as much as to ſay, I conſeſs that 'tis true, by retreating immediately from Utica, I may have an opportunity of re⯑cruiting my little Army in Numidia, and rendring it ſtill more pow'rful than it was at Thapſus, and that conſequently I may have yet another opportunity of conſulting the Safety of my Friends, and retrieving their Intereſt, and their Pow'r; and may yet once [349] more be in a Condition of contending for the Liberties of Rome, and of Mankind; yet rather than make this Retreat, which may look little in the Eyes of the unthink⯑ing Part of the World; I, who pretend ſo much concern for my Friends, and ſo much Love for my Country, will rather ſuffer my Country to ſink, and my Friends to periſh. But for God ſake, Sir, why this Averſion now from flying before the Sword of Caeſar? Who was it that flew from Pharſalia to Africa before the Sword of Caeſar? Was it not this very Cato? But pray, Sir, what does he, what can he mean by
Could he not have brought a nearer, and a Roman Example, to juſtifie and to ſuſtain his Retreat? Did not the Great Pompey af⯑ter his Flight from Pharſalia ſeek Relief in Africa, and ſeek Relief which he was not ſure to find? Shall Cato after this re⯑fuſe to ſeek certain Relief in Numidia, a Relief ſo neceſſary for the Preſervation of his Friends, and for the Support of ſinking Liberty? But what can be the meaning of
[350] Did not the Great Pompey wander more like a Vagabond from Pharſalia to Aegypt, being accompanied but by few, as Vaga⯑bonds are often accompanied? whereas Cato might be attended by Thouſands, by all the remains of the Forces in Utica, whoſe Lives he might ſecure by his Re⯑treat, and whoſe Deaths he would certain⯑ly laviſh by his Stay. Which is prov'd by Fact, and by the Event, for Caeſar hang'd as many of theſe worthy Senators as after⯑wards fell into his hands.
But now 'tis time to go back to the Se⯑nate, and to ſhew that, upon the arrival of Decius, Cato makes a more unreaſona⯑ble and extravagant Propoſal, than either Lucius or Sempronius made before him.
Now here, Sir, give me leave to ask one Queſtion; Did Cato believe that Caeſar [351] would comply with this Propoſal, or did he certainly know that he would reject it? If he believ'd that he would comply with it, muſt not this Stoick be Weakneſs it ſelf? If he certainly knew that he would reject it, why then is this a Brave and a Roman Propoſal, or a Frantick and Extravagant one? May not we here retort upon Cato, what he himſelf ſaid before to Sempronius?
Is this a Propoſal that Wiſdom guides? And does not Decius in the following Line very juſtly reproach him, with acting ſo contrary to his known Character?
Is not this ſo far from being Wiſe, that it is downright Ridiculous in one, who will do nothing to obtain his Demands, neither [...]ight bravely, nor Retreat prudently, nor propoſe any probable Conditions of Peace?
Thus, Sir, in compliance with your De⯑ire, I have recollected, and ſent you, the [352] chief Things which I had formerly re⯑mark'd upon the Sentiments of the two firſt Acts of Cato. What was chiefly to be obſerv'd upon the Sentiments of the other three Acts, fell in with the Method of the Remarks, which I formerly publiſh'd on that Tragedy.
I ſhould now go back to the Scene in the firſt Act, between Juba and Syphax, and ſay ſomething concerning that Pride which Syphax objects againſt Cato. But this Letter being already ſwell'd to too great a Bulk, I ſhall omit it 'till the next Opportunity.
I Shall now, according to my Promiſe, make an end of theſe Remarks, by go⯑ing back to the Scene in the firſt Act be⯑tween Juba and Syphax. In that Scene, Juba boaſts to Syphax of the Pow'r that Cato has to reſiſt Pleaſure; Syphax anſwers that the Abſtinence of his Numidian Hun⯑ters is as extraordinary as that of Cato; to which Juba replies.
Now here I deſire leave, Sir, to make one Obſervation by the bye. The Author makes this young African affirm implicitely here, that 'tis harder to bear Affliction than to reſiſt Pleaſure; whereas there are two Prin⯑ciples innate in us, the one of which en⯑ables us to bear Affliction, and the other inclines us to ſubmit to Pleaſure; the one of which is Pride, and the other the ardent Deſire of Happineſs; and therefore Roche⯑foucault is in the right in his 29th Reflection▪ Il faut des plus grand Virtus pour ſouteni [...] la bonne Fortune que la mauvaiſe. Bu [...] now, Sir, I come to the chief thing of which I deſign'd to treat in this Letter, and tha [...] is the Pride of Cato. Let us ſee then wha [...] Syphax ſays to Cato's Firmneſs under Af⯑fliction.
[355] Now here I would ask the Author one Queſtion. Did he deſign this Aſſertion of Syphax for Truth or Slander? If he deſign'd it for Truth, there is an end at once of all his Heroe's Virtue; if he deſign'd it for Slan⯑der, why then I deſire leave to tell him, that he has drawn his Hero ſo unhappily, that what he deſign'd for Slander is appa⯑rently true, for in the latter end of that Scene of the ſecond Act where Decius ap⯑pears, Cato does not only think himſelf the greateſt and moſt deſerving of Mankind, but is ſo fooliſhly vain and ſo intolerably inſolent as to declare it to all about him.
Which is as much as to ſay, Caeſar ſhews Inſolence and Vanity in taking Care of me, but he would ſhew the Greatneſs of his Soul [356] in taking care of theſe Scoundrels here a⯑bout me, who are as much better than him, as I am better than they are. Now is not this to ſay in plain Engliſh, As long as the Gods take care of me, let the Devil take care of my Friends here. For has not he painted Caeſar, but ſix lines before this, as black as any modern can paint the Devil?
And ſo much for the Pride of Cato; at leaſt at preſent. And now, Sir, let us return to what Juba ſaid a little above, and take Occaſion from it to make one more Re⯑mark.
[357] Now the Truth of the Matter is, that Ca⯑to ſhew'd leſs Strength and Steadineſs in his Affliction, than any of the conquer'd Ro⯑mans who fled to Spain, that they might reſerve themſelves for better Times, and have one glorious Trval for Liberty more. He was ſo far from riſing under the Load, that he impiouſly threw down the Burden, and by poorly dying before the Word of Command, acted the Part of a cowardly Soldier, who flies from the Poſt where his General has plac'd him, and leaves his Buck⯑ler behind him.
Thus, Sir, have I ſent you what remain'd to be ſaid concerning the Sentiments of Ca⯑to. Some of my Friends have importun'd me to ſay ſomething of the Expreſſion and the Harmony; which I ſhall do my utmoſt Endeavour to decline,
WHEN I heard of the new Honours with which the King had diſtin⯑guiſh'd your Merit and acknowledg'd your Services, there was not one of your Lord⯑ſhip's humble Servants who receiv'd the happy Tidings with more Joy than my ſelf If any thing temper'd that Joy, it was the Concern that I was not able to wait on your Lordſhip to congratulate you, ſo ſoon as the reſt.
If ever I can be able to do important Ser⯑vice to my Country, which has been all a⯑long the darling Paſſion of my Life, it muſt be under your Lordſhip's Adminiſtration▪ For I never yet could attend upon any Mi⯑niſter of State with Inclination and Plea⯑ſure but your ſelf. If your Lordſhip wil [...] grant me the Honour, from time to time▪ [359] to let me write my Thoughts freely to you, I ſhall endeavour to manage that Privilege with ſo much Diſcretion, that your Lord⯑ſhip ſhall not repent of it; and I ſhall not be utterly in Deſpair of doing ſome Service to the Publick.
AN Addreſs of this nature, made upon your Advancement to one of the prin⯑cipal Employments of the State, and made by one who has had the Honour to be known to you ſo many Years, might be pretended by malicious People to be a Homage rather to your Fortune and Power, than a due Re⯑ſpect to your Merit and Virtue; if it were not publickly known, that I formerly applied my ſelf to you in the ſame manner, when you were much more diſtinguiſhed by Merit and Virtue, than by Fortune and Power.
But if any one farther maliciouſly urges, that, even when I formerly applied my ſelf to you, by the diſtinguiſhing Qualities of your Mind and Perſon, I foreſaw your Fortune and Power; to him I anſwer, in order to vindicate the Reputation of my Sincerity and my Diſintereſtedneſs, that tho' I ſaw [] [...] [] very well that thoſe great Qualities fitted Mr. Granville for the moſt illuſtrious Em⯑ployments; yet who could have ever ima⯑gin'd that any Man living had Merit enough to raiſe him in ſpight of ſo many unfortunate Virtues with which that Merit was attended, in ſpight of not only a true Poetical Genius, but a Frankneſs, a Probity, a matchleſs In⯑tegrity, a Sincerity worthy of Heroick Times, and a moſt untainted Honour?
But tho' your Character were leſs conſpi⯑cuous, and what I had formerly done were intirely forgot, the numerous and powerful Obligations I have to you, would more than juſtify this Addreſs; and the omitting the firſt Opportunity of making you a publick Acknowledgment would look like black In⯑gratitude. You have taken ſuch Care of my Intereſt with others at a moſt ſeaſonable Conjuncture, and have your ſelf made me a Preſent ſo noble, and ſo extraordinary, at a time when I ſtood moſt in need of it, that how few alive have Spirit and Magnanimi⯑ty to do any thing like it? At leaſt I defy any one to name that living Man, who in a private Capacity has done any thing like it.
I know very well indeed that you are very far from deſiring ſuch a publick Acknow⯑ledgment, that you aim at nothing by doing daily good, but the God-like Pleaſure which reſults from your Actions; and that others [] perhaps may cenſure me for ſacrificing your Modeſty to my own Vanity. For to publiſh to the World that I have been oblig'd in an extraordinary manner by a Perſon ſo uni⯑verſally eſteem'd and diſtinguiſh'd, that one of the very few Things in which the moſt violent of both Parties agree, is the Cha⯑racter of Mr. Granville, will be thought to be the Reſult of uncommon Vanity, by thoſe who have not Goodneſs enough to be⯑lieve it to be the Effect of a lively Gratitude.
But tho', Sir, I had no Obligation to you, and you had no other Merit but that of per⯑fectly underſtanding an Art which you have perfectly practis'd, viz. the Art which is the Subject of the following Treatiſe, that Trea⯑tiſe would be by Right of Nature yours. For to whom can an Eſſay upon the Genius and Writings of Shakeſpear be ſo properly ad⯑dreſs'd, as to him who beſt underſtands Shakeſpear, and who has moſt improv'd him? I would not give this juſt Enco⯑mium to the Jew of Venice, if I were not convinc'd from a long Experience of the Penetration and Force of your Judgment, that no Exaltation can make you aſham'd of your former noble Art; that you know it to be a Weakneſs barely to imagine, that the moſt noble and moſt exalted of all Arts, and the moſt difficult to excel in, can render a Man leſs qualified for publick Buſineſs, or [] for the firſt Employments of the State; that all the great Stateſmen who have beſt ſuc⯑ceeded in Affairs of Government, have ei⯑ther writ Poems, or Treatiſes concerning Poetry. The moſt ancient of Hiſtorians and Legiſlators, Moſes, at leaſt of thoſe whoſe Laws and Hiſtories remain, has given us a pathetick and a lofty Poem upon the Paſſage of the Red Sea.
The Athenian Legiſlator Solon thought it not in the leaſt below his Dignity to render Moral Virtue lovely by the [...] of Verſe. And Lacedemonian Lycurgus, [...] the ri⯑gid and the auſtere Lycurgus, thought it an Employment worthy of his Wiſdom ana Virtue, to reſtore and publiſh the immortal Works of Homer: Having the ſame Opi⯑nion of that Prince of Poets that Horace afterwards had; that his Poems would bet⯑ter inſtruct Mankind in Virtue than they could be poſſibly taught by Proſe. The moſt illuſtrious Writers of Politicks among the Grecians, Plato and Ariſtotle; one of them had a figurative, a lofty and a Poetick Proſe; and the other, who may be call'd the Legiſlator ofParnaſſus, wrote the Laws of Tragedy ſo exactly and ſo truly in Reaſon and Nature, that ſucceeding Criticks have writ juſtly and reaſonably upon that Art no farther than they have adhered to their great Ma⯑ſter's Notions. Tacitus, the very Oracle of [] Modern Stateſmen, has a Stile that is warm, and daring, and figurative, that is to ſay Poetick. Machiavel the Prince of Modern Politicians, if we except but one of our own Country-men, wrote more than one Co⯑medy; and more than one Poem has been attempted by our Britiſh Politician Har⯑rington. The two Princes of Poets may eaſily be proved to've been great Stateſmen; Homer particularly made choice of a Mo⯑ral, which in his Time, when Greece with the Iſlands of the Aegaean was divided into petty Sovereignties, was the fundamental Maxim of their Politicks and their true Intereſt; which Moral was, as Salluſt af⯑terwards expreſs'd it, Concordiâ res par⯑vae creſcunt, Diſcordiâ maxima dilabun⯑tur; from whoſe nobleſt Poem you formerly gave us a Tragedy, in which, in Imitation of Homer, you are daring yet juſt, fiery yet regular, ſublime yet natural and perſpi⯑cuous, chaſt yet alluring, and eaſie yet ſtrong and powerful.
But to come to the more active Part of Government, the greateſt Monarchs and Captains and Miniſters of State that ever were known in the World, either were or would have been great Poets. When Athens flouriſh'd in all her Glory, their Poets and their famous Writers were they who di⯑rected their Counſels, and led their Armies [] to Battel. Alexander read nothing but the Works of Homer while he conquer'd the Orient. In Rome, the greateſt Captain that flouriſh'd in the Time of the Common⯑wealth vouchſafed his Aſſiſtance to a Co⯑mick Poet: And the two firſt Caeſars were proud to write Tragedies with thoſe fatal Hands that were victorious over the Univerſe. Mecaenas, at the Time that he was firſt Miniſter to the Emperor of the World, was not only the greateſt Patron of the Muſes that ever was, but endeavour'd to be himſelf a Poet. If we deſcend to Mordern Times, Richlieu, who laid the Foundation of the French Greatneſs, wrote more than one Dramatick Poem, with that very right Hand which dictated to the Ca⯑binets of ſo many Sovereign Princes, and directed the ſucceſsful Motions of ſo many conquering Commanders. And that Great⯑neſs, which upon a French Poetick Foun⯑dation was in the Space of leſs than one Century rais'd to an inſupportable Height, was in leſs than twenty Years ſapp'd and undermin'd and overturn'd by a Britiſh Poetick Miniſtry: It being undeniable, that ſeveral of the Perſons who made the chief Figures in both the old and the new Miniſtry were Poets. I make no doubt, Sir, but the time will come when you will be diſtinguiſh'd by the [] Wiſdom and Reach of your Counſels, as much as you were formerly by the Spirit and Juſtneſs of your Writings. For the very Virtues which we once were afraid would hinder your Advancement even in the moſt virtuous Court, are now like to preſerve and ſupport your Intereſt ſince you have had an Opportunity of publickly practiſing them ſo long. 'Tis impoſſible to behold that Ar⯑dor, that Sincerity and that Alacrity, with which you every Day endeavour to do good to your Fellow-Creatures, without loving you, and without wiſhing, as well as hop⯑ing, that you may be the peculiar Care of Providence, which by advancing you to one of the moſt eminent Stations would pro⯑vide for Thouſands. But when we behold that Ardor, and that Alacrity, attended with ſuch an attractive Sweetneſs, and ſuch a manly Grace, and with a Nobility which God and Nature ſeem to have im⯑printed both on your Mind and Perſon, we have no longer Power over our ſelves, but give up all our Affections to you; and not only wiſh, but firmly believe that ſince God and Nature have given you thoſe ſeveral Excellencies which were the undoubted O⯑riginal of all Political Nobility, they have determin'd you to ſucceed to the moſt exten⯑ſive Fortunes and Titles of your Noble An⯑ceſtors; [] which is warmly deſir'd and earn⯑eſtly expected by all who have the Honour to know you, but more eſpecially by,
I Here ſend you the Tragedy of Corio⯑lanus, which I have alter'd from the Original of Shakeſpear, and with it a ſhort Account of the Genius and Writings of that Author, both which you deſired me to ſend to you the laſt time I had the good For⯑tune to ſee you. But I ſend them both upon this condition, that you will with your uſual Sincerity tell me your Sentiments both of the Poem and of the Criticiſm.
Shakeſpear was one of the greateſt Ge⯑nius's that the World e'er ſaw for the Tra⯑gick Stage. Tho' he lay under greater Diſ⯑advantages than any of his Succeſſors, yet had he greater and more genuine Beauties than the beſt and greateſt of them. And what makes the brighteſt Glory of his Cha⯑racter, [372] thoſe Beauties were entirely his own, and owing to the Force of his own Nature; whereas his Faults were owing to his Edu⯑cation, and to the Age that he liv'd in. One may ſay of him as they did of Homer, that he had none to imitate, and is himſelf inimi⯑table. His Imaginations were often as juſt, as they were bold and ſtrong. He had a na⯑tural Diſcretion which never cou'd have been taught him, and his Judgment was ſtrong and penetrating. He ſeems to have wanted nothing but Time and Leiſure for Thought, to have found out thoſe Rules of which he appears ſo ignorant. His Cha⯑racters are always drawn juſtly, exactly, graphically, except where he fail'd by not knowing Hiſtory or the Poetical Art. He has for the moſt part more fairly diſtinguiſh'd them than any of his Succeſſors have done, who have falſified them, or confounded them, by making Love the predominant Quality in all. He had ſo fine a Talent for touching the Paſſions, and they are ſo lively in him, and ſo truly in Nature, that they often touch us more without their due Preparations, than thoſe of other Tragick Poets, who have all the Beauty of Deſign and all the Advantage of Incidents. Hi [...] Maſter-Paſſion was Terror, which he ha [...] often mov'd ſo powerfully and ſo wonder⯑fully, that we may juſtly conclude, that i [...] he had had the Advantage of Art and Learn⯑ing [373] he wou'd have ſurpaſs'd the very beſt and ſtrongeſt of the Ancients. His Paint⯑ings are often ſo beautiful and ſo lively, ſo graceful and ſo powerful, eſpecially where he uſes them in order to move Terror; that there is nothing perhaps more accom⯑pliſh'd in our Engliſh Poetry. His Senti⯑ments for the moſt part in his beſt Trage⯑dies, are noble, generous, eaſie and natural, and adapted to the Perſons who uſe them. His Expreſſion is in many Places good and pure after a hundred Years; ſimple tho' elevated, graceful tho' bold, and eaſie tho' ſtrong. He ſeems to have been the very Original of our Engliſh Tragical Harmo⯑ny; that is the Harmony of Blank Verſe, diverſifyed often by Diſſyllable and Triſſyl⯑lable Terminations. For that Diverſity diſtinguiſhes it from Heroick Harmony, and bringing it nearer to common Uſe, makes it more proper to gain Attention, and more fit for Action and Dialogue. Such Verſe we make when we are writing Proſe; we make ſuch Verſe in common Converſation.
If Shakeſpear had theſe great Qualities by Nature, what would he not have been, if he had join'd to ſo happy a Genius Learning and the Poetical Art. For want of the lat⯑ter, our Author has ſometimes made groſs Miſtakes in the Characters which he has drawn from Hiſtory, againſt the Equality [374] and Conveniency of Manners of his Drama⯑tical Perſons. Witneſs Menenius in the fol⯑lowing Tragedy, whom he has made an er⯑rant Buffoon, which is a great Abſurdity. For he might as well have imagin'd a grave majeſtick Jack-Pudding, as a Buffoon in a Roman Senator. Aufidius the General of the Volſcians is ſhewn a baſe and a profligate Villain. He has offended againſt the Equa⯑lity of the Manners even in his Hero him⯑ſelf. For Coriolanus who in the firſt part of the Tragedy is ſhewn ſo open, ſo frank, ſo violent, and ſo magnanimous, is repreſented in the latter part by Aufidius, which is con⯑tradicted by no one, a flattering, fawning, cringing, inſinuating Traytor.
For want of this Poetical Art, Shakeſpear has introduced things into his Tragedies, which are againſt the Dignity of that noble Poem, as the Rabble in Julius Caeſar, and that in Coriolanus; tho' that in Coriolanus offends not only againſt the Dignity of Tragedy, but againſt the Truth of Hiſtory likewiſe, and the Cuſtoms of Ancient Rome, and the Majeſty of the Roman People, as we ſhall have occaſion to ſhew anon.
For want of this Art, he has made his Incidents leſs moving, leſs ſurprizing, and leſs wonderful. He has been ſo far from ſeeking thoſe fine Occaſions to move with which an Action furniſh'd according to Art would have furniſh'd him; that he [375] ſeems rather to have induſtriouſly avoided them. He makes Coriolanus, upon his Sen⯑tence of Baniſhment, take his leave of his Wife and his Mother out of ſight of the Audience, and ſo has purpoſely as it were avoided a great occaſion to move.
If we are willing to allow, that Shake⯑ſpear by ſticking to the bare Events of Hi⯑ſtory, has mov'd more than any of his Suc⯑ceſſors, yet his juſt Admirers muſt confeſs, that if he had had the Poetical Art, he would have mov'd ten times more. For 'tis impoſſible that by a bare Hiſtorical Play he could move ſo much as he would have done by a Fable.
We find that a Romance entertains the generality of Mankind with more Satiſ⯑faction than Hiſtory, if they read only to be entertain'd; but if they read Hiſtory thro' Pride or Ambition, they bring their Paſſions along with them, and that alters the caſe. Nothing is more plain than that even in an Hiſtorical Relation ſome Parts of it, and ſome Events, pleaſe more than others. And therefore a Man of Judg⯑ment, who ſees why they do ſo, may in forming a Fable, and diſpoſing an Action, pleaſe more than an Hiſtorian can do. For the juſt Fiction of a Fable moves us more than an Hiſtorical Relation can do, for the two following Reaſons: Firſt, by reaſon of the Communication and mutual Depen⯑dence [376] of its Parts. For if Paſſion ſprings from Motion, then the Obſtruction of that Motion or a counter Motion muſt obſtruct and check the Paſſion: And therefore an Hiſtorian and a Writer of Hiſtorical Plays paſſing from Events of one nature to Events of another nature without a due Preparati⯑on, muſt of neceſſity ſtifle and confound one Paſſion by another. The ſecond Rea⯑ſon why the Fiction of a Fable pleaſes us more, than an Hiſtorical Relation can do, is, becauſe in an Hiſtorical Relation we ſeldom are acquainted with the true Cauſes of Events, whereas in a feign'd Action which is duly conſtituted, that is, which has a juſt beginning, thoſe Cauſes always appear. For 'tis obſervable, that both in a Poetical Fiction and an Hiſtorical Rela⯑tion, thoſe Events are the moſt entertain⯑ing, the moſt ſurprizing, and the moſt wonderful, in which Providence moſt plainly appears. And 'tis for this Reaſon that the Author of a juſt Fable, muſt pleaſe more than the Writer of an Hiſtorical Relation. The Good muſt never fail to proſper, and the Bad muſt be always pu⯑niſh'd: Otherwiſe the Incidents, and par⯑ticularly the Cataſtrophe which is the grand Incident, are liable to be imputed ra⯑ther to Chance, than to Almighty Conduct and to Sovereign Juſtice. The want of this impartial Diſtribution of Juſtice makes the [377] Coriolanus of Shakeſpear to be without Mo⯑ral. 'Tis true indeed Coriolanus is kill'd by thoſe Foreign Enemies with whom he had openly ſided againſt his Country, which ſeems to be an Event worthy of Providence, and would look as if it were contriv'd by in⯑finite Wiſdom, and executed by ſupreme Juſtice, to make Coriolanus a dreadful Exam⯑ple to all who lead on Foreign Enemies to the Invaſion of their native Country; if there were not ſomething in the Fate of the other Characters, which gives occaſion to doubt of it, and which ſuggeſts to the Scep⯑tical Reader that this might happen by acci⯑dent. For Auſidius the principal Murderer of Coriolanus, who in cold Blood gets him aſſaſſinated by Ruffians, inſtead of leaving him to the Law of the Country, and the Juſtice of the Volſcian Senate, and who com⯑mits ſo black a Crime, not by any erroneous Zeal, or a miſtaken publick Spirit, but thro' Jealouſy, Envy, and inveterate Malice; this Aſſaſſinator not only ſurvives, and ſurvives unpuniſh'd, but ſeems to be rewarded for ſo deteſtable an Action; by engroſſing all thoſe Honours to himſelf which Coriolanus before had ſhar'd with him. But not only Auſidius, but the Roman Tribunes, Sicinius and Brutus, appear to me to cry aloud for Poetick Vengeance. For they are guilty of two Faults, neither of which ought to go unpuniſh'd: The firſt in procuring the Ba⯑niſhment [378] of Coriolanus. If they were really jealous, that Coriolanus had a Deſign on their Liberties, when he ſtood for the Conſulſhip, it was but juſt that they ſhould give him a Repulſe; but to get the Champion and De⯑fender of their Country baniſh'd upon a pre⯑tended Jealouſy was a great deal too much, and could proceed from nothing but that Hatred and Malice which they had conceiv'd againſt him, for oppoſing their Inſtitution. Their ſecond Fault lay in procuring this Sentence by indirect Methods, by exaſpera⯑ting and inflaming the People by Artifices and Inſinuations, by taking a baſe Advan⯑tage of the Open-heartedneſs and Violence of Coriolanus, and by oppreſſing him with a So⯑phiſtical Argument, that he aim'd at Sove⯑reignty, becauſe he had not delivered into the Publick Treaſury the Spoils which he had taken from the Antiates. As if a De⯑ſign of Sovereignty could be reaſonably con⯑cluded from any one Act; or any one could think of bringing to paſs ſuch a Deſign, by eternally favouring the Patricians, and diſo⯑bliging the Populace. For we need make no doubt, but that it was among the young Pa⯑tricians that Coriolanus diſtributed the Spoils which were taken from the Antiates; where⯑as nothing but careſſing the Populace could enſlave the Roman People, as Caeſar after⯑wards very well ſaw and experienc'd. So that this Injuſtice of the Tribunes was the [379] original Cauſe of the Calamity which after⯑wards befel their Country, by the Invaſion of the Volſcians, under the Conduct of Co⯑riolanus. And yet theſe Tribunes at the end of the Play, like Aufidius, remain unpuniſh'd. But indeed Shakeſpear has been wanting in the exact Diſtribution of Poetical Juſtice not only in his Coriolanus, but in moſt of his beſt Tragedies, in which the Guilty and the Innocent periſh promiſcuouſly; as Duncan and Banquo in Mackbeth, as likewiſe Lady Macduffe and her Children; Deſdemona in Othello; Cordelia, Kent, and King Lear, in the Tragedy that bears his Name; Bru⯑tus and Porcia in Julius Caeſar, and young Hamlet in the Tragedy of Hamlet. For tho' it may ſaid in Defence of the laſt, that Hamlet had a Deſign to kill his Uncle who then reign'd; yet this is juſtify'd by no leſs than a Call from Heaven, and raiſing up one from the Dead to urge him to it. The Good and the Bad then periſhing pro⯑miſcuouſly in the beſt of Shakeſpear's Tra⯑gedies, there can be either none or very weak Inſtruction in them: For ſuch promiſcuous Events call the Government of Providence into Queſtion, and by Scepticks and Liber⯑tines are reſolv'd into Chance. I humbly conceive therefore that this want of Dra⯑matical Juſtice in the Tragedy of Coriola⯑nus, gave occaſion for a juſt Alteration, and that I was oblig'd to ſacrifice to that Juſtice [380] Aufidius and the Tribunes, as well as Co⯑riolanus.
Thus have we endeavour'd to ſhew, that for want of the Poetical Art, Shakeſpear lay under very great Diſadvantages. At the ſame time we muſt own to his Honour, that he has often perform'd Wonders without it, in ſpight of the Judgment of ſo great a Man as Horace.
But from this very udgment of Horace we may juſtly conclude, that Shakeſpear would have wonderfully ſurpaſs'd himſelf if Art had been join'd to Nature. There never was a greater Genius in the World than Virgil: He was one who ſeems to have been born for this glorious End, that the Roman Muſe might exert in him the ut⯑moſt Force of her Poetry: And his admi⯑rable and divine Beauties are manifeſtly owing to the happy Confederacy of Art and Nature. It was Art that contriv'd that incomparable Deſign of the Ae⯑neis, and it was Nature that executed it. Could the greateſt Genius that ever was infus'd into Earthly Mold by Heaven if it had been unguided and unaſſiſted by Art [381] have taught him to make that noble and wonderful Uſe of the Pythagorean Tranſmi⯑gration, which he makes in the Sixth Book of his Poem? Had Virgil been a circular Poet, and cloſely adher'd to Hiſtory, how could the Romans have been tranſported with that inimitable Epiſode of Dido, which brought a-freſh into their Minds the Car⯑thaginian War, and the dreadful Hannibal? When 'tis evident that that admirable Epi⯑ſode is ſo little owing to a faithful obſer⯑vance of Hiſtory, and the exact order of Time, that 'tis deriv'd from a very bold but judicious Violation of theſe; it being un⯑deniable that Dido liv'd almoſt 300 Years after Aeneas. Yet is it that charming Epi⯑ſode that makes the chief Beauties of a third Part of the Poem. For the Deſtruction of Troy it ſelf, which is ſo divinely related, is ſtill more admirable by the Effect it produ⯑ces, which is the Paſſion of Dido.
I ſhould now proceed to ſhew under what Diſadvantages Shakeſpear lay for want of being converſant with the Ancients. But I have already writ a long Letter, and am de⯑ſirous to know how you reliſh what has been already ſaid before I go any farther: For I am unwilling to take more Pains before I am ſure of giving you ſome Pleaſure. I am,
UPON the Encouragement I have re⯑ceiv'd from you, I ſhall proceed to ſhew under what Diſadvantages Shakeſpear lay for want of being converſant with the Ancients. But becauſe I have lately been in ſome Converſation, where they would not allow, but that he was acquainted with the Ancients, I ſhall endeavour to make it appear that he was not; and the ſhewing that in the Method in which I pretend to convince the Reader of it, will ſufficiently prove, what Inconveniencies he lay under, and what Errors he committed for want of being converſant with them. But here we muſt diſtinguiſh between the ſeveral kinds of Acquaintance: A Man may be ſaid to be acquainted with another who ne⯑ver was but twice in his Company; but that is at the beſt a ſuperficial Acquaintance, [383] from which neither very great Pleaſure nor Profit can be deriv'd. Our Buſineſs is here to ſhew, that Shakeſpear had no familiar Acquaintance with the Graecian and Roman Authors. For if he was familiarly conver⯑ſant with them, how comes it to paſs that he wants Art? Is it that he ſtudied to know them in other things; and neglected that only in them, which chiefly tends to the Advancement of the Art of the Stage? Or is it that he wanted Diſcernment to ſee the Juſtneſs, and the Greatneſs, and the Har⯑mony of their Deſigns, and the Reaſonable⯑neſs of thoſe Rules upon which thoſe De⯑ſigns are founded? Or how come his Suc⯑ceſſors to have that Diſcernment which he wanted, when they fall ſo much below him in other things? How comes he to have been guilty of the groſſeſt Faults in Chronology, and how come we to find out thoſe Faults? In his Tragedy of Troylus and Creſſida, he in⯑troduces Hector ſpeaking of Ariſtotle, who was born a thouſand Years after the Death of Hector. In the ſame Play mention is made of Milo, which is another very great Fault in Chronology. Alexander is men⯑tion'd in Coriolanus, tho' that Conqueror of the Orient liv'd above two hundred Years after him. In this laſt Tragedy he has mi⯑taken the very Names of his Dramatick Perſons, if we give Credit to Livy. For the Mother of Coriolanus in the Roman Hi⯑ſtorian [384] is Vetturia, and the Wife is Volum⯑nia. Whereas in Shakeſpear the Wife is Virgilia, and the Mother Volumnia. And the Volſcian General in Shakeſpear is Tul⯑lus Aufidius, and Tullus Attius in Livy. How comes it that he takes Plutarch's Word, who was by Birth a Graecian, for the Affairs of Rome, rather than that of the Roman Hiſtorian, if ſo be that he had read the latter? Or what Reaſon can be given for his not reading him, when he wrote up⯑on a Roman Story, but that in Shakeſpear's time there was a Tranſlation of Plutarch, and there was none of Livy? If Shakeſpear was familiarly converſant with the Roman Authors, how came he to introduce a Rab⯑ble into Coriolanus, in which he offended not only againſt the Dignity of Tragedy, but the Truth of Fact, the Authority of all the Roman Writers, the Cuſtoms of An⯑cient Rome, and the Majeſty of the Roman People? By introducing a Rabble into Julius Caeſar, he only offended againſt the Dignity of Tragedy. For that part of the People who ran about the Streets upon great Feſtivals, or publick Calamities, or pub⯑lick Rejoicings, or Revolutions in Govern⯑ment, are certainly the Scum of the Popu⯑lace. But the Perſons who in the Time of Coriolanus, roſe in Vindication of their juſt Rights, and extorted from the Patrician [...] the Inſtitution of the Tribunes of the Peo⯑ple [385] and the Perſons by whom afterwards Coriolanus was tried, were the whole Body of the Roman People to the Reſerve of the Patricians, which Body included the Ro⯑man Knights, and the wealthy ſubſtantial Citizens, who were as different from the Rabble as the Patricians themſelves, as qua⯑lify'd as the latter to form a right Judgment of Things, and to contemn the vain Opi⯑nions of the Rabble. So at leaſt Horace eſteems them, who very well knew his Countrymen.
Where we ſee the Knights and the ſubſtan⯑tial Citizens are rank'd in an equal Degree of Capacity with the Roman Senators, and are equally diſtinguiſh'd from the Rabble.
If Shakeſpear was ſo converſant with the Ancients, how comes he to have introduc'd ſome Characters into his Plays, ſo unlike what they are to be found in Hiſtory? In the Character of Menenius in the following Tragedy, he has doubly offended againſt [...]hat Hiſtorical Reſemblance. For firſt where⯑ [...]s Menenius was an eloquent Perſon, Shake⯑ſpear has made him a downright Buffoon. [386] And how is it poſſible for any Man to con⯑ceive a Ciceronian Jack-pudding? Never was any Buffoon eloquent, or wiſe, or witty, or virtuous. All the good and ill Qualities of a Buffoon are ſumm'd up in one Word, and that is a Buffoon. And ſecondly, whereas Shakeſpear has made him a Hater and Contemner and Villifier of the Peo⯑ple, we are aſſur'd by the Roman Hiſtori⯑an that Menenius was extremely popular. He was ſo very far from oppoſing the In⯑ſtitution of the Tribunes, as he is repre⯑ſented in Shakeſpear, that he was chiefly inſtrumental in it. After the People had deſerted the City, and ſat down upon the ſacred Mountain, he was the chief of the Delegates whom the Senate deputed to them, as being look'd upon to be the Per⯑ſon who would be moſt agreeable to them. In ſhort, this very Menenius both liv'd and dy'd ſo very much their Favourite, that dy⯑ing poor he had pompous Funerals at the Expence of the Roman People.
Had Shakeſpear read either Salluſt or Ci⯑cero, how could he have made ſo very lit⯑tle of the firſt and greateſt of Men, as that Caeſar ſhould be but a Fourth-rate Actor in his own Tragedy? How could it have been that ſeeing Caeſar, we ſhould ask for Caeſar? That we ſhould ask, where is his unequall'd Greatneſs of Mind, his unbounded Thirſt of Glory, and that victorious Eloquence, [387] with which he triumph'd over the Souls of both Friends and Enemies, and with which he rivall'd Cicero in Genius as he did Pompey in Power? How fair an Occa⯑ſion was there to open the Character of Cae⯑ſar in the firſt Scene between Brutus and Caſſius? For when Caſſius tells Brutus that Caeſar was but a Man like them, and had the ſame natural Imperfections which they had, how natural had it been for Brutus to reply, that Caeſar indeed had their Imper⯑fections of Nature, but neither he nor Caſ⯑ſius had by any means the great Qualities of Caeſar: neither his Military Virtue, nor Science, nor his matchleſs Renown, nor his unparallell'd Victories, his unwearied Boun⯑ty to his Friends, nor his Godlike Clemen⯑cy to his Foes, his Beneficence, his Muni⯑ficence, his Eaſineſs of Acceſs to the mea⯑neſt Roman, his indefatigable Labours, his incredible Celerity, the Plauſibleneſs if not Juſtneſs of his Ambition, that knowing him⯑ſelf to be the greateſt of Men, he only ſought occaſion to make the World confeſs him ſuch. In ſhort, if Brutus, after enu⯑merating all the wonderful Qualities of Cae⯑ſar, had reſolv'd in ſpight of them all to ſacrifice him to publick Liberty, how had ſuch a Proceeding heighten'd the Virtue and the Character of Brutus? But then in⯑deed it would have been requiſite that Cae⯑ſar [388] upon his Appearance ſhould have made all this good. And as we know no Princi⯑ple of human Action but human Sentiment only, Caeſar who did greater Things, and had greater Deſigns than the reſt of the Ro⯑mans, ought certainly to have outſhin'd by many Degrees all the other Characters of his Tragedy. Caeſar ought particularly to have juſtified his Actions, and to have heigh⯑ten'd his Character, by ſhewing that what he had done, he had done by Neceſſity; that the Romans had loſt their Agrarian, loſt their Rotation of Magiſtracy, and that conſequently nothing but an empty Shadow of publick Liberty remain'd. That the Gracchi had made the laſt noble but unſuc⯑ceſsful Efforts, for the reſtoring the Com⯑monwealth, that they had fail'd for want of arbitrary irreſiſtible Power, the Reſtorati⯑on of the Agrarian requiring too vaſt a Re⯑troſpect to be done without it; that the Go⯑vernment, when Caeſar came to publick Af⯑fairs, was got into the Hands of a few, and that thoſe few were factious, and were con⯑tending among themſelves, and if you will pardon ſo mean an Expreſſion, ſcrambling as it were for Power: That Caeſar was re⯑duc'd to the Neceſſity of ruling, or himſelf obeying a Maſter; and that apprehending that another would exerciſe the ſupreme Command, without that Clemency and Mo⯑deration which he did, he had rather cho⯑ſen [389] to rule than to obey. So that Caeſar was faulty not ſo much in ſeizing upon the Sovereignty, which was become in a man⯑ner neceſſary, as in not re-eſtabliſhing the Commonwealth, by reſtoring the Agrarian and the Rotation of Magiſtracies, after he had got abſolute and uncontroulable Power. And if Caeſar had ſeiz'd upon the Sove⯑reignty only with a View of re-eſtabliſhing Liberty, he had ſurpaſs'd all Mortals in Godlike Goodneſs as much as he did in the reſt of his aſtoniſhing Qualities. I muſt confeſs, I do not remember that we have any Authority from the Roman Hiſtorians which may induce us to believe, that Cae⯑ſar had any ſuch Deſign. Nor if he had had any ſuch View, could he, who was the moſt ſecret, the moſt prudent, and the moſt diſcerning of Men, have diſcover'd it, before his Parthian Expedition was over, for fear of utterly diſobliging his Veterans. And Caeſar believ'd that Expedition neceſſa⯑ry for the Honour and Intereſt of the State, and for his own Glory.
But of this we may be ſure, that two of the moſt diſcerning of all the Romans, and who had the deepeſt Inſight into the Soul of Caeſar, Salluſt and Cicero, were not with⯑out Hopes that Caeſar would really re-eſta⯑bliſh Liberty, or elſe they would not have attack'd him upon it; the one in his Ora⯑tion [390] for Marcus Marcellus, the other in the Second Part of that little Treatiſe De Re⯑publicâ ordinandâ, which is addreſs'd to Cae⯑ſar. Haec igitur tibi reliqua pars, ſays Ci⯑cero, Hic reſtat Actus, in hoc elaborandum eſt, ut Rempublicam conſtituas, eâque tu in primis compoſitâ, ſumma Tranquillitate & otio perfruare. Cicero therefore was not without Hope that Caeſar would re-eſtabliſh the Commonwealth; and any one who at⯑tentively peruſes that Oration of Cicero, will find that that Hope was reaſonably grounded, upon his knowledge of the great Qualities of Caeſar, his Clemency, his Be⯑neficence, his admirable Diſcernment; and that avoidleſs Ruine in which the whole Empire would be ſoon involv'd, if Caeſar did not effect this. Salluſt urges it ſtill more home to him and with greater vehe⯑mence; he has recourſe to every Motive that may be thought to be powerful over ſo great a Soul. He exhorts him by the Memory of his matchleſs Conqueſts, not to ſuffer the invincible Empire of the Roman People to be devour'd by Time, or to be torn in pieces by Diſcord; one of which would ſoon and infallibly happen, if Liber⯑ty was not reſtor'd.
He introduces his Country and his Pro⯑genitors urging him in a noble Proſopopeia, by all the mighty Benefits which they had conferr'd upon him, with ſo little Pains of [391] his own, not to deny them that juſt and ea⯑ſy Requeſt of the Reſtoration of Liberty. He adjures him by thoſe Furies which will eternally haunt his Soul upon his impious Refuſal: He implores him by the foreſight of thoſe diſmal Calamities, that horrible Slaughter, thoſe endleſs Wars, and that un⯑bounded Devaſtation, which will certainly fall upon Mankind, if the Reſtoration of Liberty is prevented by his Death, or his incurable Sickneſs: And laſtly, he entreats him by his Thirſt of immortal Glory, that Glory in which he now has Rivals, if he has not Equals; but which, if he re-eſta⯑bliſhes Liberty, will be acknowledg'd by conſenting Nations to have neither Equal nor Second.
I am apt to believe that if Shakeſpear had been acquainted with all this, we had had from him quite another Character of Caeſar than that which we now find in him. He might then have given us a Scene ſomething like that which Corneille has ſo happily us'd in his Cinna; ſomething like that which really happen'd between Auguſtus, Mecaenas and Agrippa. He might then have intro⯑duc'd Caeſar, conſulting Cicero on the one ſide, and on the other Anthony, whether he ſhould retain that abſolute Sovereignty, which he had acquir'd by his Victory, or whether he ſhould re-eſtabliſh and immorta⯑ize Liberty. That would have been a [392] Scene, which might have employ'd the fi⯑neſt Art and the utmoſt force of a Writer. That had been a Scene in which all the great Qualities of Caeſar might have been diſplay'd. I will not pretend to determine here how that Scene might have been turn'd; and what I have already ſaid on this Sub⯑ject, has been ſpoke with the utmoſt Cau⯑tion and Diffidence. But this I will ven⯑ture to ſay, that if that Scene had been ma⯑nag'd ſo, as, by the powerful Motives em⯑ploy'd in it, to have ſhaken the Soul of Caeſar, and to have left room for the leaſt Hope, for the leaſt Doubt, that Caeſar would have re-eſtabliſh'd Liberty, after his Par⯑thian Expedition; and if this Converſation had been kept ſecret till the Death of Cae⯑ſar, and then had been diſcover'd by An⯑thony, then had Caeſar fall'n, ſo belov'd and lamented by the Roman People, ſo pitied and ſo bewail'd even by the Conſpirator [...] themſelves, as never Man fell. Then ther [...] would have been a Cataſtrophe the mo [...] dreadful and the moſt deplorable that eve [...] was beheld upon the Tragick Stage. The [...] had we ſeen the nobleſt of the Conſpirator [...] curſing their temerarious Act, and the mo [...] apprehenſive of them, in dreadful expectatio [...] of thoſe horrible Calamities, which fell up⯑on the Romans after the Death of Caeſar But, Sir, when I write this to you, I write [...] with the utmoſt Deference to the extraordi⯑nary [393] Judgment of that great Man, who ſome Years ago, I hear, alter'd the Julius Caeſar. And I make no doubt but that his fine Diſcernment, and the reſt of his great Qualities have amply ſupply'd the Defects which are found in the Character of Shake⯑ſpear's Caeſar.
I ſhould here anſwer an Argument, by which ſome People pretend to prove, and eſpecially thoſe with whom I lately con⯑vers'd, that Shakeſpear was converſant with the Ancients. But beſides that the Poſt is about to be gone, I am heartily tir'd with what I have already writ, and ſo doubtleſs are you; I ſhall therefore defer the reſt to the next opportunity, and remain
I Come now to the main Argument, which ſome People urge to prove that Shake⯑ſpear was converſant with the Ancients. For there is, ſay they, among Shakeſpear's Plays, one call'd The Comedy of Errors, which is undeniably an Imitation of the Me⯑nechmi of Plautus. Now Shakeſpear, ſay they, being converſant with Plautus, it undeniably follows that he was acquainted with the Ancients; becauſe no Roman Au⯑thor could be hard to him who had con⯑quer'd Plautus. To which I anſwer, that the Errors which we have mention'd above are to be accounted for no other way, but by the want of knowing the Ancients, or by downright want of Capacity. But no⯑thing can be more abſurd or more unjuſt than to impute it to want of Capacity. For the very Sentiments of Shakeſpear a⯑lone [395] are ſufficient to ſhew, that he had a great Underſtanding: And therefore we muſt account ſome other way for his Imi⯑tation of the Menechmi. I remember to have ſeen among the Tranſlations of Ovid's Epiſtles printed by Mr. Tonſon, an Imitati⯑on of that from OEnone to Paris, which Mr. Dryden tells us in his Preface to thoſe Epiſtles was imitated by one of the Fair Sex who underſtood no Latin, but that ſhe had done enough to make thoſe bluſh who underſtood it the beſt. There are at this day ſeveral Tranſlators, who, as Hudi⯑braſs has it,
I will not affirm that of Shakeſpear; I be⯑lieve he was able to do what Pedants call conſtrue, but that he was able to read Plau⯑tus without Pain and Difficulty I can never believe. Now I appeal to you, Sir, what time he had between his Writing and his Acting, to read any thing that could not be read with Eaſe and Pleaſure. We ſee that our Adverſaries themſelves acknow⯑ledge, that if Shakeſpear was able to read Plautus with Eaſe, nothing in Latinity could be hard to him. How comes it to paſs then, that he has given us no Proofs of his familiar Acquaintance with the Anci⯑ents, [396] but this Imitation of the Menechmi, and a Verſion of two Epiſtles of Ovid? How comes it that he had never read Ho⯑race of a ſuperiour Merit to either, and particularly his Epiſtle to the Piſo's, which ſo much concern'd his Art? Or if he had read that Epiſtle, how comes it that in his Troylus and Creſſida [we muſt obſerve by the way, that when Shakeſpear wrote that Play, Ben Johnſon had not as yet tranſla⯑ted that Epiſtle] he runs counter to the Inſtructions which Horace has given for the forming the Character of Achilles?
Where is the Impiger, the Iracundus, or the Acer, in the Character of Shakeſpear's Achilles? who is nothing but a drolling, lazy, conceited, overlooking Coxcomb; ſo far from being the honour'd Achilles, the Epithet that Homer, and Horace after him give him, that he is deſervedly the Scorn and the Jeſt of the reſt of the Characters, even to that Buffoon Therſites.
Tho' Shakeſpear ſucceeded very well in Comedy, yet his principal Talent and his chief Delight was Tragedy. If then Shake⯑ſpear was qualify'd to read Plautus with [397] Eaſe, he could read with a great deal more Eaſe the Tranſlations of Sophocles and Eu⯑ripides. And tho' by theſe Tranſlations he would not have been able to have ſeen the charming colouring of thoſe great Ma⯑ſters, yet would he have ſeen all the Har⯑mony and the Beauty of their great and their juſt Deſigns. He would have ſeen enough to have ſtirr'd up a noble Emulati⯑on in ſo exalted a Soul as his. How comes it then that we hear nothing from him, of the O Edipus, the Electra, the Antigone of Sophocles, of the Iphigenia's, the Oreſtes, the Medea, the Hecuba of Euripides? How comes it that we ſee nothing in the Conduct of his Pieces, that ſhews us that he had the leaſt Acquaintance with any of theſe great Maſter-pieces? Did Shakeſpear appear to be ſo nearly touch'd with the Affliction of Hecuba for the Death of Pri⯑am, which was but daub'd and bungled by one of his Countrymen, that he could not forbear introducing it as it were by Vio⯑lence into his own Hamlet, and would he make no Imitation, no Commendation, not the leaſt Mention of the unparallell'd and inimitable Grief of the Hecuba of Euri⯑pides? How comes it, that we find no Imi⯑tation of any ancient Play in Him but the Menechmi of Plautus? How came he to chuſe a Comick preferably to the Tragick Poets? Or how comes he to chuſe Plutus [398] preferably to Terence, who is ſo much more juſt, more graceful, more regular, and more natural? Or how comes he to chuſe the Menechmi of Plautus, which is by no means his Maſter-piece, before all his other Comedies? I vehemently ſuſpect that this Imitation of the Menechmi, was either from a printed Tranſlation of that Come⯑dy which is loſt, or ſome Verſion in Ma⯑nuſcript brought him by a Friend, or ſent him perhaps by a Stranger, or from the original Play it ſelf recommended to him, and read to him by ſome learned Friend. In ſhort, I had rather account for this, by what is not abſurd than by what is, or by a leſs Abſurdity than by a greater. For nothing can be more wrong than to con⯑clude from this that Shakeſpear was con⯑verſant with the Ancients; which contra⯑dicts the Teſtimony of his Contemporary, and his familiar Acquaintance Ben Johnſon, and of his Succeſſor Milton;
and of Mr. Dryden after them both; and which deſtroys the moſt glorious Part of Shakeſpear's Merit immediately. For how can he be eſteem'd equal by Nature, or ſu⯑perior to the Ancients, when he falls ſo far ſhort of them in Art, tho' he had the Ad⯑vantage [399] of knowing all that they did before him? Nay it debaſes him below thoſe of common Capacity, by reaſon of the Errors which we mention'd above. Therefore he who allows that Shakeſpear had Learning and a familiar Acquaintance with the An⯑cients, ought to be look'd upon as a De⯑tractor from his extraordinary Merit, and from the Glory of Great Britain. For whe⯑ther is it more honourable for this Iſland to have produc'd a Man, who without ha⯑ving any Acquaintance with the Ancients, or any but a ſlender and a ſuperficial one, appears to be their Equal or their Superiour by the Force of Genius and Nature, or to have bred one who know⯑ing the Ancients, falls infinitely ſhort of them in Art, and conſequently in Nature it ſelf? Great Britain has but little Reaſon to boaſt of its Natives Education, ſince the ſame that they had here, they might have had in another place. But it may juſtly claim a very great ſhare in their Nature and Genius; ſince theſe depend in a great meaſure on the Climate; and therefore Horace in the Inſtruction which he gives for the forming the Characters, adviſes the noble Romans for whoſe Inſtruction he chiefly writes to conſider whether the Dra⯑matick Perſon whom they introduce is
Thus, Sir, I have endeavour'd to ſhew un⯑der what great Diſadvantages Shakeſpear lay, for want of the Poetical Art, and for want of being converſant with the Anci⯑ents.
But beſides this, he lay under other very great Inconveniencies. For he was neither Maſter of Time enough to conſider, cor⯑rect, and poliſh what he wrote, to alter it, to add to it, and to retrench from it, nor had he Friends to conſult upon whoſe Ca⯑pacity and Integrity he could depend. And tho' a Perſon of very good Judgment, may ſucceed very well without conſulting his Friends, if he takes time enough to correct what he writes; yet even the greateſt Man that Nature and Art can conſpire to accom⯑pliſh, can never attain to Perfection, with⯑out either employing a great deal of time, or taking the Advice of judicious Friends. Nay, 'tis the Opinion of Horace, that he ought to do both.
Now we know very well that Shakeſpear [401] was an Actor, at a time when there were ſeven or eight Companies of Players in the Town together, who each of them did their utmoſt Endeavours to get the Audi⯑ences from the reſt, and conſequently that our Author was perpetually call'd upon, by thoſe who had the Direction and Manage⯑ment of the Company to which he belong'd, for new Pieces which might be able to ſup⯑port them, and give them ſome Advantage over the reſt. And 'tis eaſie to judge what Time he was Maſter of, between his labo⯑rious Employment of Acting, and his con⯑tinual Hurry of Writing. As for Friends, they whom in all likelihood Shakeſpear con⯑ſulted moſt, were two or three of his Fel⯑low-Actors, becauſe they had the Care of publiſhing his Works committed to them. Now they, as we are told by Ben Johnſon in his Diſcoveries, were extremely pleas'd with their Friend for ſcarce ever making a Blot; and were very angry with Ben, for ſaying he wiſh'd that he had made a thou⯑ſand. The Misfortune of it is, that Horace was perfectly of Ben's mind.
And ſo was my Lord Roſcommon.
Theſe Friends then of Shakeſpear were not qualify'd to adviſe him. As for Ben John⯑ſon, beſides that Shakeſpear began to know him late, and that Ben was not the moſt communicative Perſon in the World of the Secrets of his Art; he ſeems to me to have had no right Notion of Tragedy. Nay, ſo far from it, that he who was indeed a very great Man, and who has writ Comedies, by which he has born away the Prize of Co⯑medy both from Ancients and Moderns, and been an Honour to Great Britain; and who has done this without any Rules to guide him, except what his own incomparable Talent dictated to him; This extraordina⯑ry Man has err'd ſo groſsly in Tragedy, of which there were not only ſtated Rules, but Rules which he himſelf had often read, and had even tranſlated, that he has cho⯑ſen two Subjects, which, according to thoſe very Rules, were utterly incapable of ex⯑citing either Compaſſion or Terror for the principal Characters, which yet are the chief Paſſions that a Tragick Poet ought to endeavour to excite. So that Shakeſpear having neither had Time to correct, nor [403] Friends to conſult, muſt neceſſarily have frequently left ſuch faults in his Writings, for the Correction of which either a great deal of Time or a judicious and a well-na⯑tur'd Friend is indiſpenſably neceſſary.
There is more than one Example of every kind of theſe Faults in the Tragedies of Shakeſpear, and even in the Coriolanus. There are Lines that are utterly void of that celeſtial Fire, of which Shakeſpear is ſometimes Maſter in ſo great a Degree. And conſequently there are Lines that are ſtiff and forc'd, and harſh and unmuſical, tho' Shakeſpear had naturally an admirable Ear for the Numbers. But no Man ever was very muſical who did not write with Fire, and no Man can always write with Fire, unleſs he is ſo far Maſter of his Time, as to expect thoſe Hours when his Spirits are warm and volatile. Shakeſpear muſt therefore ſometimes have Lines which are neither ſtrong nor graceful: For who ever had Force or Grace that had not Spi⯑rit? There are in his Coriolanus, among a [404] great many natural and admirable Beauties, three or four of thoſe Ornaments which Horace would term ambitious; and which we in Engliſh are apt to call Fuſtian or Bombaſt. There are Lines in ſome Places which are very obſcure, and whole Scenes which ought to be alter'd.
I have, Sir, employ'd ſome Time and Pains, and that little Judgment which I have acquir'd in theſe Matters by a long and a faithful reading both of Ancients and Mo⯑derns, in adding, retrenching and altering ſeveral Things in the Coriolanus of Shake⯑ſpear, but with what Succeſs I muſt leave to be determin'd by you. I know very well that you will be ſurpriz'd to find, that after all that I have ſaid in the former Part of this Letter, againſt Shakeſpear's intro⯑ducing the Rabble into Coriolanus, I have not only retain'd in the ſecond Act of the following Tragedy the Rabble which is in the Original, but deviated more from the Roman Cuſtoms than Shakeſpear had done before me. I deſire you to look upon it as a voluntary Fault and a Treſpaſs a⯑gainſt Conviction: 'Tis one of thoſe Things which are ad Populum Phalerae, and by no means inſerted to pleaſe ſuch Men as you.
Thus, Sir, have I laid before you a ſhort but impartial Account of the Beauties and Defects of Shakeſpear, with an Intention to make theſe Letters publick if they are ap⯑prov'd [405] by you; to teach ſome People to diſtinguiſh between his Beauties and his Defects, that while they imitate the one, they may with Caution avoid the other [there being nothing of more dangerous Contagion to Writers, and eſpecially to young ones, than the Faults of great Ma⯑ſters] and while with Milton they applaud the great Qualities which Shakeſpear had by Nature, they may follow his wife Ex⯑ample, and form themſelves as he aſſures us that he himſelf did, upon the Rules and Writings of the Ancients.
Sir, if ſo candid and able a Judge as your ſelf ſhall happen to approve of this Eſſay in the main, and to excuſe and correct my Er⯑rors, that Indulgence and that Correction will not only encourage me to make theſe Letters publick, but will enable me to bear the Reproach of thoſe, who would fix a Brand, even upon the juſteſt Criticiſm, as the Effect of Envy and Ill-nature; as if there could poſſibly be any Ill-nature in the doing Juſtice, or in the endeavouring to ad⯑vance a very noble and a very uſeful Art, and conſequently to prove beneficent to Mankind. As for thoſe who may accuſe me of the want of a due Veneration for the Merit of an Author of ſo eſtabliſh'd a Re⯑putation as Shakeſpear, I ſhall beg leave to tell them, that they chuſe the wrongeſt time that they could poſſibly take for ſuch [406] an Accuſation as that. For I appeal to you, Sir, who ſhews moſt Veneration for the Memory of Shakeſpear, he who loves and admires his Charms and makes them one of his chiefDelights, who ſees him and reads him over and over and ſtill remains unſatiated, and who mentions his Faults for no other Reaſon but to make his Ex⯑cellency the more conſpicuous, or he who pretending to be his blind Admirer, ſhews in Effect the utmoſt Contempt for him, preferring empty effeminate Sound to his ſolid Beauties and manly Graces, and de⯑ſerting him every Night for an execra⯑ble Italian Ballad, ſo vile that a Boy who ſhould write ſuch lamentable Dogrel, would be turn'd out of Weſtminſter-School for a deſperate Blockhead, too ſtupid to be cor⯑rected and amended by the harſheſt Diſci⯑pline of the Place.
YOU know, Mr. Spectator, that Eſquire Bickerſt aff attack'd the Sharpers with Succeſs; but Shadwell is of Opinion that your Bully with his Box and his falſe Dice is an honeſter Fellow than the Rhetorical Author, who makes uſe of his Tropes and Figures, which are his High and his Low⯑runners, to cheat us at once of our Money and of our Intellectuals.
I would not have you think, Mr. Specta⯑tor, that this Reflection is directed to you: 'Tis only intended againſt one or two of your Correſpondents, and particularly the Inns-of Court-man, who, as you told us in your Se⯑cond Paper, ſupplies you with moſt of your Criticiſm: who ſeems to me ſo little to un⯑derſtand the Province that he has underta⯑ken, that you would do well to adviſe him to do by you as he has done by his Father, and make a Bargain in the groſs with ſome honeſt Fellow to anſwer all your Occaſions. Which wholeſome Advice if he proves too obſtinate or too proud to take; I am confi⯑dent [408] at leaſt that he is too gallant a Perſon to take it ill if once a Week or once a Fort⯑night I ſhould ſhew ſo much Preſumption as to cauſe a Writ of Error to be iſſued out to reverſe his Temple-Judgment.
I cannot wonder that Criticiſm ſhould de⯑generate ſo vilely at a time when Poetry and Acting are ſunk ſo low. For as Hobbes has obſerv'd, that as often as Reaſon is againſt a Man, a Man will be againſt Reaſon; ſo as often as the Rules are againſt an Author, an Author will be againſt the Rules. Men firſt write fooliſh ridiculous Tragedies, which ſhock all the Rules of Reaſon and Philoſo⯑phy, and then they make fooliſh extravagant Rules to fit thoſe fooliſh Plays. 'Tis impoſ⯑ſible that your Gentleman of the Inns-of-Court could have ſent you ſo much wrong Senſe as there is in your Paper of the 16th, if he had not formerly writ an abſurd Tra⯑gedy. There are as many Bulls and Blun⯑derrs, and Contradictions in it almoſt as there are Lines, and all deliver'd with that inſo⯑lent and that bluſt'ring Air, which uſually attends upon Error, and Deluſion, while Truth, like the Deity that inſpires it, comes calmly and without noiſe.
To ſet a few of his Errors in their pro⯑per Light, he tells us in the beginning of that Paper, That the Engliſh Writers of Tragedy are poſſeſs'd with a Notion, that when they repreſent a virtuous or innocent [409] Perſon in Diſtreſs, they ought not to leave him till they have deliver'd him out of his Trouble, and made him triumph over his Enemies.
But, Mr. Spectator, is this peculiar to the Engliſh Writers of Tragedy? Have not the French Writers of Tragedy the ſame Notion? Does not Racine tell us, in the Preface to his Iphigenia, that it would have been hor⯑rible to have defil'd the Stage with the Mur⯑ther of a Princeſs ſo virtuous and ſo lovely as was Iphigenia.
But your Correſpondent goes on, This Error, ſays he, with an inſolent and dog⯑matick Air, they have been led into by a ri⯑diculous Doctrine in modern Criticiſm, that they are oblig'd to an equal Diſtribution of Rewards and Puniſhments, and an impar⯑tial Execution of poetical Juſtice.
But who were the firſt who eſtabliſh'd this Rule he is not able to tell. I take it for granted, that a Man who is ingenuous e⯑nough to own his Ignorance, is willing to be inſtructed. Let me tell him then, that the firſt who eſtabliſh'd this ridiculous Do⯑ctrine of modern Criticiſm, was a certain modern Critick, who liv'd above two thouſand Years ago; and who tells us ex⯑preſly in the thirteenth Chapter of his criti⯑cal Spectator, which Pedants call his Poetick, That ſince a Tragedy, to have all the Beauty of which it is capable, ought to be Implex and not Simple, (by the way, Mr. Spectator, you [410] muſt bear with this critical Cant, as we do with your Speculations and Lucubrations) and ought to move Compaſſion and Terror, for we have already ſhewn that the exciting theſe Paſſions is the proper Effect of a tra⯑gical Imitation, it follows neceſſarily, that we muſt not chooſe a very good Man, to plunge him from a proſperous Condition into Adver⯑ſity, for inſtead of moving Compaſſion and Terrour, that on the contrary would create Horrour, and be deteſted by all the World.
And does not the ſame deluded Philoſo⯑pher tell us in the very ſame Chapter, that the Fable to which he gives the ſecond Pre⯑ference, is that which has a double Conſtitu⯑tion, and which ends by a double Cataſtro⯑phe; a Cataſtrophe favourable to the Good and fatal to the Wicked. Is not here, Mr. Spectator, a very formal Recommendation of the impartial and exact Execution of poe⯑tical Juſtice? Thus Ariſtotle was the firſt who eſtabliſh'd this ridiculous Doctrine of modern Criticiſm, but Mr. Rymer was the firſt who introduc'd it into our native Lan⯑guage; who notwithſtanding the Rage of all the Poetaſters of the Times, whom he has exaſperated by opening the Eyes of the Blind that they may ſee their Errors, will always paſs with impartial Poſterity for a moſt lear⯑ned, a moſt judicious, and a moſt uſeful Cri⯑tick. Now is not your Correſpondent a profound and a learned Perſon? and ought [411] he not to own himſelf oblig'd to me for this notable piece of Erudition?
But he goes on in his dictatorian way: This Rule, ſays he, whoever eſtabliſh'd it, has, I am ſure, no Foundation in Nature, in Rea⯑ſon, and in the practice of the Ancients. But what will this dogmatick Perſon ſay now, when we ſhew him that this contemptible Doctrine of poetical Juſtice is not only foun⯑ded in Reaſon and Nature, but is it ſelf the Foundation of all the Rules, and ev'n of Tra⯑gedy itſelf? For what Tragedy can there be without a Fable? or what Fable without a Moral? or what Moral without poetical Ju⯑ſtice? What Moral, where the Good and the Bad are confounded by Deſtiny, and periſh alike promiſcuouſly. Thus we ſee this Do⯑ctrine of poetical Juſtice is more founded in Reaſon and Nature than all the reſt of the poetical Rules together. For what can be more natural, and more highly reaſonable, than to employ that Rule in Tragedy, with⯑out which that Poem cannot exiſt? Well! but the Practice of the Ancients is againſt this poetical Juſtice! What always, Mr. Specta⯑tor! will your Correſpondent have the Aſ⯑ſurance to affirm that? No, but ſometimes: Why then ſometimes the Ancients offended againſt Reaſon and Nature. And who ever believ'd that the Ancients were without Fault, or brought Tragedy to its Perfection? But I ſhall take another Opportunity to ſhew [412] that the Pactice of the Ancients, in [...] their Maſter-pieces, is exactly according to this fundamental Rule. I have no [...] time to do that in this ſhort Letter becauſe that would neceſſarily oblige me to ſhew that poetical Juſtice is [...] a much larger Extent than this pro⯑found Critick imagines; but yet I ſhall give the diſcerning Reader a hin [...] of it in that which follows.
Poetical Juſtice, ſays your Correſpon⯑dent, has no Foundation in Nature and Reaſon, becauſe we find that good and evil happen alike to all Men on this ſid [...] the Grave. In anſwer to which he mu [...] give me leave to tell him, that this is no [...] only a very falſe but a dangerous Aſſertion, that we neither know what Men really are nor what they really ſuffer.
'Tis not always that we know Men' [...] Crimes, but how ſeldom do we know their Paſſions, and eſpecially their dar⯑ling Paſſions? And as Paſſion is the Occaſion of infinitely more Diſorder in the World than Malice, [for where one Man falls a Sacrifice to inveterate Malice thouſand become Victims to Revenge and Ambition; and whereas Malice has ſome⯑thing that ſhocks human Nature, Paſſion [...] pleaſingly catching and contagious.] Can any⯑thing be more juſt, than that that Providenc [...] which governs the World ſhould puniſh Men [413] for indulging their Paſſions, as much as for obeying the Dictates of their moſt enven⯑om'd Hatred and Malice?
Thus you ſee, for ought we know, Good and Evil does not happen alike to all Men on this ſide the Grave. Becauſe 'tis for the moſt part, by their Paſſions, that Men of⯑fend; and 'tis by their Paſſions, for the moſt part, that they are puniſh'd. But this [...] certain, that the more Virtue a Man has the more he commands his Paſſions; but the Virtuous alone command them. The Wick⯑ed take the utmoſt Care to diſſemble and conceal them; for which reaſon we neither know what our Neighbours are, nor what they really ſuffer. Man is too finite, too ſhallow, and too empty a Creature to know another Man throughly, to know the Crea⯑ture of an infinite Creator; but dramatical Perſons are Creatures of which a Poet is himſelf the Creator. And tho' a Mortal is not able to know the Almighty's Creatures, he may be allow'd to know his own; to know the utmoſt Extent of their Guilt, and what they ought to ſuffer; nay, he muſt be allow'd not only to know this himſelf, but to make it manifeſt and unqueſtionable to all his Readers and Hearers. The Crea⯑tures of a poetical Creator have no Diſſimu⯑lation and no Reſerve. We ſee their Paſ⯑ſions in all their Height, and in all their De⯑formity; [414] and when they are unfortunate, we are never to ſeek for the Cauſe.
But ſuppoſe I ſhould grant that there is not always an equal Diſtribution of Affli⯑on and Happineſs here below. Man is a Creature who was created immortal, and a Creature conſequently that will find a Compenſation in Futurity for any ſeeming Inequality in his Deſtiny here. But the Creatures of a poetical Creator are imagi⯑nary and tranſitory; they have no longer Duration than the Repreſentation of their reſpective Fables; and conſequently, if they offend, they muſt be puniſh'd during that Repreſentation. And therefore we are very far from pretending that poetical Ju⯑ſtice is an equal Repreſentation of the Ju⯑ſtice of the Almighty.
We freely confeſs that 'tis but a very narrow and a very imperfect Type of it; ſo very narrow, and ſo very imperfect, that 'tis forc'd by temporal to repreſent eternal Puniſhments; and therefore when we ſhew a Man unfortunate in Tragedy, for not re⯑ſtraining his Paſſions, we mean that every one will for ſuch Neglect, unleſs he timely repents, be infallibly puniſh'd by infinite Juſtice either here or hereafter.
If upon this Foot we examine the Trage⯑dies of Sophocles and Euripides, we ſhall find that in their moſt beautiful Pieces, they are impartial Executors of Poetick Juſtice. And [415] 'tis upon this Foot that Ariſtotle requires that we ſhould examine them. Your Correſpon⯑dent I muſt confeſs is in the right when he ſays that that Philoſopher declares for Tra⯑gedies, whoſe Cataſtrophes are unhappy with relation to the principal Characters. But then what Inſtructions does he give us for the forming thoſe principal Characters? We are neither to make them very virtuous Perſons on the one ſide, that is Perſons who abſolutely command their Paſſions, nor on the other ſide Villains who are actuated by inveterate Malice, but ſomething between theſe two, that is to ſay Perſons who neg⯑lecting their Paſſions ſuffer them to grow outragious, and to hurry them to Actions which they otherwiſe would abhor. And that Philoſopher expreſsly declares, as we have ſhewn above, that to make a virtuous Man unhappy, that is a Man who abſolute⯑ly commands his Paſſions, would create Horror inſtead of Compaſſion, and would be deteſted by all the World. And thus we have ſhewn that Ariſtotle is for Poetical Juſtice, notwithſtanding that he is for un⯑happy Cataſtrophes. And ſo one would think was your Correſpondent. For when he enumerates and commends ſome Eng⯑liſh Tragedies, which have unfortunate Cataſtrophes; there are not two of thoſe which he commends, whoſe principal Cha⯑racters can be ſaid to be innocent, and con⯑ſequently [416] there are not two of them where there is not a due Obſervance of poetical Juſtice.
Thus, Mr. Spectator, I have diſcuſſed the Buſineſs of poetical Juſtice, and ſhewn it to be the Foundation of all Tragedy; and therefore whatever Perſons, whether anci⯑ent or modern, have writ Dialogues which they call Tragedies, where this Juſtice is not obſerv'd, thoſe Perſons have entertain'd and amus'd the World with romantick lamen⯑table Tales, inſtead of juſt Tragedies, and of lawful Fables.
'Tis not my Buſineſs at preſent to take a⯑ny farther Notice of the Errors of your Cor⯑reſpondent; perhaps I no more approve of Tragi-Comedies, or Tragedies with double Plots, than he does; But I hope he will not take it ill if I put him in mind that ſeveral of the Plays which he recommended before are Tragi-Comedies, and that moſt of them have double Plots. But he is vilely miſta⯑ken if he thinks that Tragi-Comedy is of the Growth of our Engliſh Theatres.
I ſhall take another Opportunity to ſhew him that he is as much miſtaken in what he has ſaid of Humours, as in what he dictates concerning poetical Juſtice.
I Have read over your Paper of the 24th with a great deal of Satisfaction, and here return you my Acknowledgments for the Honour you have done me in quoting two of my Verſes with Applauſe. I think my ſelf oblig'd in Gratitude, my worthy Friend, to do as much Honour to your Judgment as you have done to my Imagination; and as you have the Goodneſs to allow me to be an humorous Poet, I am bound in Ju⯑ſtice to celebrate you for a wonderful Cri⯑tick; and to make it appear that, contrary to the Obſervation of the Author of a late Rhapſody, one who has ſhewn himſelf no great Poet may be a prodigious Judge. In⯑deed the Obſervation of that Author is ſo far from being true, that moſt of the Criticks Ancient and Modern have been no Poets, and moſt of the Poets Ancient and Modern have been no Criticks. I cannot find out that any but Homer, and Virgil, and Horace, and Sophocles, and Euripides among the [418] Ancients were great Criticks. For who can believe, that has read them, that Apollonius Rhodius, Nonnus, Lucan, Statius, and Si⯑lius Italicus ever ſo much as heard that Nature, and the Philoſophers her Interpre⯑ters and Commentators, had laid down Rules for an Epick Poem? And who that has read the Moderns could imagine, that moſt of their Dramatick Poets had ever ſo much as heard that there were ſuch things as the Rules? As Boileau has obſerv'd of the French, that ſome Perſons among them had diſtinguiſh'd themſelves by their Rhymes, who never knew how to diſtin⯑guiſh Lucan from Virgil; ſo ſome among our own Rhimers have been renown'd for verſifying, who never ſo much as knew that Horace and Milton were good Poets. And I can on the other ſide name ſeveral who never diſtinguiſhed themſelves by Poetry, who yet have oblig'd the World with Cri⯑ticiſms which have been Non-pareillo's, and the very Top-Critick of all thoſe Criticks is my worthy Friend the Spectator.
Tho' who the Devil could have ever ex⯑pected to have found my worthy Friend a Critick, after he had treated Criticks with ſo much Contempt in two or three of his Immortal Tatlers, and particularly in the 29th and the 246th, where they are pronounc'd to be the ſillieſt of Mor⯑tals, Creatures, forſooth, who profeſs [419] Judgment; tho' by the way, Mr. Spectator, he who profeſſes or practiſes Poetry, and does not profeſs Judgment in it, profeſſes himſelf an Aſs. It was from thoſe Tatlers, and one or two more, Mr. Spectator, that I gueſs'd that you had a mortal A verſion to Criticiſm; but now I find plainly that they were none of your own, but were ſent you by two or three damn'd Poets, who are a ſort of Offenders that have not half the Cha⯑rity which other Malefactors are wont to ſhew, but bear eternal Malice to their Ex⯑ecutioners.
Thus the Invectives againſt Criticks and Criticiſm were other Peoples; you were too wiſe to write any ſuch thing, as knowing that Taſt which declines ſo faſt is only to be reſtor'd and maintain'd by Criticiſm. And therefore inſtead of writing Invectives againſt it, you have oblig'd the World with the thing it ſelf, with Criticiſm upon Criticiſm, and ſuch Criticiſm.—As thoſe Tatlers were the Off-ſpring of ſome certain Poets, which is manifeſt by their inſipid Satyr, like the faint Eagerneſs of Vinegar decay'd: no⯑thing is more clear than that the Criticiſms could be none but yours. For as you may diſcover ex ungue Leonem, & ex pede Her⯑cules, ſo in this Caſe the prodigious Off⯑ſpring ſpeaks and confeſſes the Gigantick Fa⯑ther.
In your very Folio of the 24th of April, how have you ſhewn the Fineneſs of your [420] Diſcernment, and the Profundity of your Penetration, by your Encomium of two Ver⯑ſes of my Tranſlation of the Fourth Satyr of Boileau? 'Tis now thirty Years ſince I tran⯑ſlated that Satyr, and conſequently was a very Boy at the Time of that Tranſlation; yet from that Time to this the ſtupid Age has been ignorant of the Beauty of that Couplet. How very flegmatick a Wretch have I been, and how illegitimate an Off⯑ſpring of Mr. Bays, not to know any thing of my own Excellence till I heard of it from you?
How little did I imagine when I tranſla⯑ted that Couplet, that the great Critick was then in Embrio who thirty Years af⯑terwards ſhould declare it to be a charming Couplet, by giving it a place in his never⯑dying Speculations.
I am perfectly convinc'd, my moſt wor⯑thy and moſt ingenious Friend, that we Au⯑thors are as blind and as partial Judges of our own Works, as we are unrighteous one [...] of other Peoples. I was apt to imagine, be⯑fore I ſubmitted my own Opinion to the de⯑ciſive Authority of your Judgment; that you would have done more for the Credi [...] of my Genius and of your own Diſcernmen [...] by commending the following Verſes of the Fourth Book of the Poem upon the Batte [...] of Ramelies, when you had ſo fair an occa⯑ſion of taking notice of them, as you had [...] [421] the writing the 56th Tatler. If I begin the Verſes a little higher than the couch⯑ing of the Cataracts which is the Subject of the 56th Tatler, I am confident you will have the Goodneſs to pardon me, and the rather becauſe you diſcover'd more than a common Satisfaction when you were pre⯑ſent with your Friend Mr. A. at the read⯑ing thoſe Verſes in Manuſcript. A celeſti⯑al Spirit viſits the Duke of Marlborough in a Viſion the Night before the Battel of Ramelies, and after he has ſaid ſeveral other things to him, goes on thus.
Theſe are the Verſes, my moſt diſcerning Friend, that I thought might have been preferr'd to the foremention'd Couplet, eſ⯑pecially ſince they would as it were have introduced themſelves, whereas the Coup⯑let is dragg'd in by extreme Violence. But I ſubmit to your infallible Judgment, not in the leaſt ſuſpecting that my worthy Friend can have any Malice in this Affair, and in⯑ſert that Couplet in his immortal Specula⯑tions only on purpoſe to expoſe me; no, far be it from me to entertain any ſuch Jea⯑louſie of my deareſt Friend, who is ſo good, ſo kind, ſo beneficent, and who has ſo often given himſelf the glorious Title of the Lover and Benefactor of Mankind. Who could imagine that one who hath [424] given himſelf that glorious Appellation, could e'er be prompted by Malice, or Paſ⯑ſion, or Intereſt thus ſlily and hypocritical⯑ly to abuſe one whom he had call'd his Friend?
I have been apt to believe likewiſe, my worthy Friend, that you would have been kinder to your ſelf and to me, if inſtead of commending the foremention'd Couplet you had taken ſome notice of the follow⯑ing Verſes which are in my Paraphraſe up⯑on the Te Deum; eſpecially when you had ſo fair an occaſion to mention them as you had at the writing the 119th Tatler. The Couplet of the tranſlated Satyr was intro⯑duced by Violence: But how very natu⯑rally would the following Verſes of the Pa⯑raphraſe have been mention'd either be⯑fore or after the laſt Paragraph of the fore⯑mention'd Paper, where a Spirit is intro⯑duc'd, who after he has ſpoke of that part of the Creation which is too little for hu⯑man Sight, comes afterwards to ſpeak of the immenſe Objects of Nature after this manner.
Upon the writing this Paragraph, how could you avoid the making mention of Verſes which had the very ſame Ideas, and Verſes which you had formerly mention'd with Applauſe in private Converſation? I know you will anſwer that you had intire⯑ly forgot them, and therefore I take the Liberty here to refreſh your Memory. The Angels are introduc'd in that Paraphraſe ſpeaking to God, and ſaying, after other things, that which follows.
How glad am I that the foremention'd Ver⯑ſes were writ before the above-nam'd Tat⯑lers? Otherwiſe I ſhould have been thought to have borrow'd from my worthy Friend, without making any manner of acknow⯑ledgment, only adding or endeavouring to add to what I borrow'd a little of that Spi⯑rit, and Elevation and Magnificence of Ex⯑preſſion which the Greatneſs of the Hints requir'd.
'Tis for this Reaſon that I am glad the Verſes were printed ſome Years before the Proſe. For you know, my dear Friend, that a Plagiary in general is but a ſcanda⯑lous Creature, a ſort of a ſpiritual Out⯑law, and ought to be treated as ſuch by all [427] the Members of the Commonwealth of Learning. But a Plagiary from living Au⯑thors is moſt profligately impudent, and in ſo ſlow and ſplenatick a Nation as ours moſt unjuſt and barbarous. For among us any thing that is admirably good is twenty or thirty Years before it comes to be under⯑ſtood. And how infinitely baſe is it in the mean while to deprive an Author of any thing that is valuable in him, and to inter⯑cept his coming Praiſe? As Laws are made for the Security of Property, what pity 'tis that there are not ſome enacted for the Se⯑curity of a Man's Thoughts and Inventions, which alone are properly his? For Land is alienable, and Treaſure is tranſitory, and both muſt at one time or other paſs from him, either by his own voluntary Act, or by the Violence and Injuſtice of others, or at leaſt by Fate. And therefore nothing is truly and really a Man's own.
'Tis only a Man's Thoughts and Inventions that are properly his: being alone Things that can never be alienated from him, nei⯑ther by Force nor Perſuaſion, nor by Fate it ſelf; and tho' another may baſely uſurp [428] the Honour of them, yet they muſt for ever rightfully belong to their firſt Inventor. Thus even the richeſt and the happieſt of Men have nothing that is truly and really their own, but their Thoughts and Inven⯑tions. But Authors for the moſt part, and eſpecially Poets, have nothing that can ſo much as be call'd their own but their Thoughts. 'Tis for thoſe alone, and the Glory which they expect from thoſe, that they entirely quit their Pretenſions to Riches, and renounce the Pomps and Vani⯑ties of this wicked World; and therefore to endeavour to deprive them of thoſe is exceedingly inhuman. What a Joy 'tis to think that the Precedence of Times ſets me free from the Imputation of this Injuſtice? Had I been capable of doing this, and do⯑ing it to my worthy Friend, of wronging my deareſt Friend in this manner, who knows how far that Barbarity might have extended it ſelf? I might have proceeded to have upbraided him with ſome weak place in his never-dying Folio's; and ha⯑ving forcibly depriv'd him of his Silver and his Gold, have pelted him with his Braſs and his Copper, out of counterfeit Anger or pretended Scorn, becauſe they were of no richer Metal.
But the Caſe of my dear Friend is vaſtly different. You have that Reputation, and the World has that Opinion of your Merit, [429] that they will be ſo far from believing that you have Obligations to a living Author which you have not, that tho' you had really made thus bold with me, it would have been impoſſible to have convinc'd a⯑bove forty or fifty People of it. And here, my dear Friend, at the ſame time that I acknowledge your uncommon Merit, I cannot but congratulate your incomparable Felicity, it being plain that you have got more Reputation in three Years time than Milton has done in fifty Years, or than Shakeſpear has in an hundred. I ſhall there⯑fore judiciouſly conclude with the genera⯑lity of your Readers, that you have a Me⯑rit paramount to that of all Britiſh Authors both living and dead, and that you have not only more Merit than any one Mora⯑liſt either Ancient or Modern, but that if you continue your Paper three Years long⯑er, you will have as much Merit as they have all together.
WHen you ſeem'd to approve of the Tranſlation of the ſeventh Satire of the ſecond Book of Horace, which was tranſlated by one of my Friends, that Ap⯑probation was the more pleaſing to me, be⯑cauſe it confirm'd me in my own Opinion of it, and oblig'd me to acquieſce in the Judgments which ſome of my Friends have given of it, whom I have always chiefly conſulted in my Doubts about poetical Matters. And now, Sir, I come according to my Promiſe to conſult you about the Preference which ſeveral Partizans of the Roman Satiriſts have given to their reſpect⯑ive Favourite Authors, and to know from you which of them are in the right, or ra⯑ther whether they are not all in the wrong. You know very well, Sir, that Rigaltius, Scaliger the Elder, Lipſius and Holiday prefer Juvenal to Horace and Perſius; That Dacier, Heinſius, Monſieur de la Bruyere, and ſeveral others, prefer Horace [431] to Perſius and Juvenal; that Mr. Dryden endeavours to divide the Palm between Horace and Juvenal, and to prefer Horace for Inſtruction, and Juvenal for Delight; that he gives Horace the Preference for In⯑ſtruction, becauſe, ſays he, he is the more general Inſtructor; but that he gives the Priority to Juvenal for Delight, becauſe he is moſt delighted with him, and ſo makes his own Taſte the Argument for preferring him. But tho' we ſhou'd grant, Sir, that the Generality of Readers are more delighted with Juvenal than they are with Horace, becauſe Dryden is more de⯑lighted with him; yet is it not very much to be queſtion'd, whether the Author who gives the moſt general Delight is the moſt delightful Author? Now Sir, your old Friend Monſieur Deſpreaux, tho' 'tis evi⯑dent that he was more pleas'd with Horace than he was with Juvenal, becauſe he has imitated him more, yet he had more Judg⯑ment than expreſly to prefer the one to the other, becauſe he knew very well, that there can be no true Preference where there can be no juſt Compariſon, and that there can be no juſt Compariſon between Authors whoſe Works are not ejuſdem gene⯑ris, and that the Works of thoſe two Sati⯑riſts are not ejuſdem generis. For do not you believe, Sir, that Mr. Dryden is in the wrong where he affirms that the Ro⯑man [432] Satire had its Accompliſhment in Ju⯑venal? For is there not Reaſon to believe that the true Roman Satire is of the Comick kind, and was an Imitatiou of the old Athenian Comedys, in which Lucilius firſt ſignaliz'd himſelf, and which was afterwards perfect⯑ed by Horace, and that Juvenal afterwards ſtarted a new Satire which was of the Tra⯑gick kind? Horace, who wrote as Lucilius had done before him, in Imitation of the old Comedy, endeavours to correct the Follies and Errors, and epidemick Vices of his Readers, which is the Buſineſs of Co⯑medy. Juvenal attacks the pernicious out⯑ragious Paſſions and the abominable mon⯑ſtrous Crimes of ſeveral of his Contempo⯑raries, or of thoſe who liv'd in the Age be⯑fore him, which is the Buſineſs of Trage⯑dy, at leaſt of imperfect Tragedy. Horace argues, inſinuates, engages, rallies, ſmiles; Juvenal exclaims, apoſtrophizes, exagge⯑rates, laſhes, ſtabbs. There is in Horace al⯑moſt every where an agreeable Mixture of good Senſe, and of true Pleaſantry, ſo that he has every where the principal Qualities of an excellent Comick Poet. And there is almoſt every where in Juvenal, Anger, Indignation, Rage, Diſdain, and the vio⯑lent Emotions and vehement Style of Tra⯑gedy. Can there then be a juſt Compari⯑ſon made between theſe two Satiriſts, any more than there can be between a Tragick [433] and a Comick Poet? If Mr. Dryden were now living, would he compare Nat Lee with Etherege, the former of which never touch'd upon Comedy, and the other never attempted Tragedy? would he prefer Nat Lee to Etherege, as he does Juvenal to Horace, becauſe the Thoughts of Lee are more elevated than thoſe of Etherege, his Expreſſions more noble and more ſono⯑rous, his Verſe more numerous, and his Words more ſublime and lofty? would he not have believ'd, that if Etherege had writ Sir Fopling in the ſame Style, that Nat Lee wrote Alexander, he would have been as merry a Perſon as Penketh⯑man was when he acted Alexander? Would he not in all probability have judg'd that Lee is more delightful to thoſe who are more pleas'd with Tra⯑gedy than they are with Comedy, and that Etherege is more delightful to thoſe who are better entertain'd with Comedy than they are with Tragedy? Now, Sir, ought not we to make the ſame Judgment of Horace and Juvenal, and to affirm Ho⯑race to be more delightful to thoſe who are more pleas'd with Comedy than they are with Tragedy, and that Juvenal is more delightful to thoſe who are better entertain'd with Tragedy than they are with Comedy? And that perhaps for that very reaſon he was more pleaſing than [434] Horace to Mr. Dryden? Will not the Tra⯑gick Satire, which like Tragedy fetches its Notions from Philoſophy and from com⯑mon Senſe, be in all probability more ac⯑ceptable to Univerſities and Cloiſters, and all thoſe Recluſe and Contemplative Men, who paſs moſt of their time in their Clo⯑ſets, all which Perſons are ſuppos'd to have Philoſophy from Study, and common Senſe from Nature? And will not the Co⯑mick Satiriſt, who owes no ſmall Part of his Excellence to his Experience, that is to the Knowledge of the Converſation and Manners of the Men of the World, be in all likelihood more agreeable to the diſ⯑cerning Part of a Court, and a great Capi⯑tal, where they are qualify'd to taſte and diſcern his Beauties, by the ſame Experi⯑ence which enabled their Authors to pro⯑duce them? And above all things, muſt it not be moſt agreeable to a Polite Court, where that dexterous Inſinuation, that fine good Senſe, and that true Pleaſantry which are united in the Horatian Satire are the only ſhining Qualities which make the Courtier valuable and agreeable? And will he not take more delight in the Hora⯑tian Satire than in the Tragick Eloquence of Juvenal, not only becauſe he is quali⯑fied by Nature and Experience to reliſh the Beauties of it, but becauſe the Plea⯑ſure which he receives from it, is ſubſer⯑vient [435] to his Intereſt, which is always his main Deſign, and Improves and Cultivates thoſe Talents which are chiefly to recom⯑mend him to thoſe who are to advance him?
It will be needleſs, Sir, to detain you any longer, by enquiring into the Prefe⯑rence which Caſaubon has ſo injudiciouſly given to Perſius above Horace and Juve⯑nal, or into the Preference which he par⯑ticularly gives to the fifth Satire of Perſius before this of Horace, the Tranſlation of which has occaſion'd the Trouble which I now give you, and which, you know, Sir, is writ upon the ſame Subject. Your Friend, Monſieur Dacier, tells us that Caſaubon by this Opinion prefers the Uni⯑verſity to the Court. I appeal to you, Sir, if the Satire of Horace, the Tranſlation of which comes after this Letter, does not ſpeak for it ſelf, and juſtifie the Aſſertion of Monſieur Dacier.
THIS Morning, in order to perform my Promiſe, I caus'd two Parcels to be put into the General Penny-Poſt-Office for you, in one of which was The Invader of his Countrey, and in the other, the four Letters to Sir John Edgar; I hope both Parcels will come ſafe to your Hands, and wiſh they may entertain you.
Since I have been in Town, I have con⯑ſider'd the Paſſage in Phaedrus, Sed hoc feretis pro Judicio praemium. I find that Virgil and Horace have us'd the Word Judicium in three or four ſeveral Senſes. They have both us'd it for the intellectual Faculty, which we call Judgment. Horace has us'd it in this Senſe in his Art of Poe⯑try; as in this Paſſage
And in the Epiſtle to Auguſtus, ſpeaking of Alexander the Great,
Virgil has us'd it in his fifth Eclogue for Opinion:
In the firſt Epiſtle of the firſt Book, Ho⯑race uſes Judiciis for Opinions.
Horace in the firſt Satire of the ſecond Book uſes it for a Proſecution or a Tryal at Law:
And in the fourth Satire of the firſt Book,
But laſtly, Judicium is ſometimes taken for a definitive Sentence, as
Now as Penalty or Puniſhment is the con⯑ſequence of an antecedent Sentence, and no Figure is more commonly us'd either by Poets or Orators, than the Effect for the Cauſe, or the Conſequence for the Ante⯑cedent; Phaedrus in the Paſſage in Queſtion uſes the word Judicium for Puniſhment; as he uſes Praemium to ſignifie Poenam, and ſo the Senſe of the above-cited Verſe is, But this ſhall be your Puniſhment according to the Sentence pronounc'd againſt you. And thus much to the Paſſage of Phaedrus.
I deſign to come as ſoon as the Weather is ſettled, and to paſs two or three Days at the Houſe where I breakfaſted yeſterday Morning; but I ſhall hardly care to make a longer Stay among ſo many Jacobites, a Sort of People whom I ſo much abhor, and who ſo much hate me. I can compare them, for Malice, Credulity and Obſtinacy, to no Sort of People ſo nearly as to the Jews, who have been ſo many Years in a fooliſh Expectation of that Meſſiah who is already come. But of all the Jacobites I deteſt none ſo much as the Jacobite Parſons, and of all the Parſons none ſo much as thoſe who are for dethroning a Prince to whom they have taken an Oath to be Loyal, and for ſetting up a Pretender whom they have [460] ſworn to renounce. I have a great deal more Regard, or more Charity at leaſt, for the Nonjurors among them, I mean that Part of them who live modeſtly and hum⯑bly in Retirement, and never meddle with the Government. Theſe People ſeem to re⯑fuſe the Oaths thro' Conſcience, but a Con⯑ſcience erroneous and ill-guided. But as for that Part of the Nonjurors who make it the conſtant Buſineſs of their Lives, to plot, to cabal, to ſet the People againſt their King, and one Part of the People againſt the o⯑ther, they are apparently Nonjurors thro' Intereſt and not Conſcience; they refuſe the Oaths thro' the Hope of another Reſtoration, and the Gain that may attend it: It being impoſſible that any thing ſo uncharitable and immoral as their Practice, can be the Effect of a Chriſtian Conſcience. Yet ev'n theſe are nothing near ſo wicked as the ſwearing Jacobite Parſons. What I ſaid of Dr. Fauſtus, if you took it rightly, was de⯑ſign'd againſt them; for the Perſon who lives in conſtant, repeated, daily Perjury upon the account of Intereſt, ſeems to me to be capable of any Villany whatſoever, and to have done in effect what ſome cre⯑dulous Perſons believe that Dr. Fauſtus did foremrly, that is, to have given Bond and Judgment to the Devil to ſurrender their Perſons to him after a Term of Time.
I Have lately, with a great deal of Satis⯑faction, read twice over the political Letters to the Author of the London Jour⯑nal. Several of them ſeem to come from no ordinary Hands, being writ with great Strength and Spirit. The great Occaſion certainly call'd for all the Strength and Spi⯑rit that could be ſupplied by Man. 'Tis indeed ſo extraordinary, that it has no Pa⯑rallel in any Nation or any Age: For that a great Number of the chief Inhabitants of the Metropolis of a powerful Kingdom, who were ſo far from having any Cauſe of Diſcontent, that they had in their Power all the Felicity that Mortals can enjoy; that they actually poſſeſs'd more than ever they dar'd to hope for, nay more than e⯑ver they dar'd to wiſh for, ev'n in their moſt ſanguine Hours, but a few Months be⯑fore; That Perſons who were eſteemed by all their Fellow-Citizens, reſpected by all their Fellow-Subjects, regarded and highly favour'd by the Government, and honour'd [462] and diſtinguiſh'd by the whole Legiſlature; that a Number of theſe ſhould enter into an execrable Conſpiracy, irretrievably to ruin their Fellow-Subjects, to diſtreſs the Government that had ſo highly favour'd them, and to afflict and perplex the whole Legiſlature that had ſo highly honour'd them; and all this only thro' the infinitely baſe and fooliſh Deſire of accumulating Riches, of which they had before more than they could ever uſe, is what has never been tranſmitted to us by Tradition, or read of in ancient or modern Hiſtory.
This Conſpiracy, ſo new and unheard-of that it cannot be equal'd by any Nation in any Age, muſt neceſſarily have a Cauſe as monſtrous and as unparallel'd; and that is an antecedent Conſpiracy among a great num⯑ber of People, ſome by converſing and by writing, and ſome by encouraging theſe Converſations and Writings, to overthrow the Religion of their native Countrey, and by that means to let in Corruption upon us like a Deluge. And this they have en⯑deavour'd with all their Might to do, upon a Pretence the moſt extravagant that was ever heard of, upon a Pretence to advance the Publick Good. For their Deſign was to overthrow the Chriſtian Religion, in or⯑der to deſtroy Prieſtcraft; at the ſame Time they make no Offer to eſtabliſh any other Religion in the Room of that which [463] they would deſtroy. Now Prieſtcraft may trouble and perplex a State, but a general Want of Religion muſt be attended with its utter Ruin. For the Religion of every Countrey in which the Natives and their Forefathers have been educated, and which is antecedent or coaeval to moſt of its Laws and Cuſtoms, that Religion, whether true or falſe, is certainly the Baſis of that Coun⯑try's Conſtitution; and may indeed, when Corruptions flow in upon it, be reform'd, and reduc'd to its firſt Principles; but can never be totally aboliſh'd, without unavoida⯑ble Ruin. For that national Religion is, to that Countrey, the only Fountain both of general publick and private Virtue, and of general publick Siprit; and that being aboliſh'd, or very much weaken'd, even natural Religion muſt loſe its Force, and conſequently there can be no general Mo⯑rality. For tho' our Antichriſtian Authors may make ſeveral of their Readers Atheiſts, they can never hope to make the Genera⯑lity of a Nation Theiſts, without preten⯑ding to infuſe more Underſtanding into them than God and Nature ordain'd for them. For the Bulk of Mankind in any Nation, that is the Peaſants, the Mechanicks, and the Rabble of Gentry, are not capable of Theiſm, that is of worſhipping, without a ſenſible viſible Mediator, a Spirit who fills infinite Space; or of being convinc'd of their Duty by Arguments form'd by [464] right Reaſon, and drawn from the Laws of Nature. The Bulk of Mankind are en⯑tirely ſway'd by their Paſſions, and eſpeci⯑ally by thoſe two pow'rful ones, Hope, and Fear, for which Reaſon all thoſe fam'd Politicians, who have had the greateſt Knowledge of Mankind, have advis'd the Rulers of Nations to govern them by thoſe two Paſſions, viz. by the Hope of Re⯑ward, and by the Fear of Puniſhment; and here I cannot forbear reciting the memora⯑ble Words of the great Cardinal Richlieu. He begins the firſt Chapter of the ſecond Part of his political Teſtament thus:
'Tis a common but true Saying, and there⯑fore the more true, becauſe it has been al⯑ways in the Mouths and Minds of all Man⯑kind, that Puniſhment and Reward are the two moſt important things to be obſerv'd in the Government of any State.
Nay 'tis moſt certain, that tho' no other Maxim ſhould be made uſe of in the Govern⯑ment of States, than that of being inflexible in chaſtiſing thoſe who diſſerve them, and religious in recompenſing thoſe who procure for them any conſiderable Advantage, they could not be ill govern'd; there being no Man whatever who is not capable of being kept within the Bounds of his Duty by Fear and by Hope
'Tis after the ſame manner that Religion works upon the Minds of Men. The Re⯑ligion [465] of the Old Teſtament ſpeaks ſtrong⯑ly to theſe two Paſſions, propoſing mighty temporal Rewards to thoſe who obſerve the Rules of it, and to thoſe who tranſgreſs them grievous temporal Puniſhments. The Religion of the New Teſtament ſpeaks much more pow'rfully to them, by cauſing Men to hope for everlaſting Happineſs, and dread eternal Miſery.
Now when the Generality of Mankind break looſe from that Hope and that Fear, they remain abſolutely without Religion, and are prepar'd to diſſemble themſelves of any that may gratify their Ambition, their Intereſt, or their Revenge; which was the Cauſe that in the two or three laſt Years of Queen Anne, ſo many cry'd out that they had rather turn Papiſts than be Preſ⯑byterians. Now by declaring that they had rather be of a Religion which differs from us in Fundamentals, than of one which agrees with us in Doctrine, they ſeem'd to renounce all Chriſtianity.
'Tis for this Reaſon that ſome Perſons, who are call'd Whigs, by writing and en⯑couraging Antichriſtian Books have ſhewn themſelves to be only nominal Whigs, but really and effectually Tories; for by endea⯑vouring to root out the Chriſtian Religion in general from the Minds of Men, and by leaving them conſequently at Liberty to profeſs themſelves of any Branch of it for [466] their Intereſt; they have for thirty Years together been making their utmoſt Efforts for the bringing back Popery, Slavery and the Pretender; becauſe during all that long Space of Time, they have been endeavou⯑ring, with all their Strength, and with all their Might, to remove the moſt invincible Obſtacle to their Return.
Conſonant to all that has been ſaid above, is what Machiavel has declar'd in Chap. 12. Lib. 1. of his Diſcourſes on Livy. He tells us in the Beginning of that Chapter, That all States, whether Kingdoms or Republicks, which would keep themſelves from Ruin, ought above all things whatever to preſerve the Ceremonies of their Religion uncorrup⯑ted, and maintain it always venerable; for there is no greater Sign, ſays he, of a Coun⯑try's going to Ruin, than to ſee in it the Contempt of divine Worſhip. And a litttle lower he adds, for this Reaſon the chief Magiſtrates of a Kingdom or Commonwealth ought to maintain the Grounds of the Reli⯑gion they hold, and this being done, they ſhall eaſily keep their Commonwealth reli⯑gious and conſequently virtuous and united. Which is a juſt and wiſe Obſervation of that fam'd Politician; for Faction, which natural⯑ly tends to the Diſſolution of Governments, and even of the Conſtitutions of States, pro⯑ceeds for the moſt part from a violent De⯑ſire of poſſeſſing the publick Offices, that [467] Deſire from Neceſſity, and that Neceſſity from Luxury, and Luxury and all manner of Vice and Corruption from a Decay of the publick Religion.
I have many things more to ſay to you upon this Occaſion. But having already tranſgreſs'd the uſual Bounds of a Letter, I ſhall reſerve the reſt to another Oppor⯑tunity, which I hope ſhortly to have. In what I have to ſay, as well as in what I have ſaid, I ſhall declare my Sentiments, not as a Bigot, but as a faithful Lover of my Coun⯑trey. There is no Man alive who is leſs a Friend to Prieſtcraft than my ſelf, or to the temporal ambitious Deſigns of Prieſts: But I ſhall never endeavour to deſtroy Re⯑ligion in order to hurt Prieſtcraft: I know the Balance of right Reaſon better, and am amaz'd at the Conduct of ſome Stateſmen, who to ſhew themſelves forſooth notable Metaphyſicians, prove to all Men of com⯑mon Senſe, that they are very damn'd Po⯑liticians; for as has been ſaid above, tho' Prieſtcraft may diſturb a State, a general Decay of the publick Religion muſt utter⯑ly deſtroy it. And 'tis for this Reaſon that, in the tenth Chapter of the firſt Book of his Diſcourſes, Machiavel has theſe remar⯑kable Words: Infamous are they, and exe⯑crable, who are the Perverters of Religion, the Overthrowers of Kingdoms and Common⯑wealths, &c.
THE Approbation which you gave to my former, incourages me to proceed. I affirmed in that, that the Religion of every Country, the eſtabliſh'd ancient Religion, is the Baſis of the Conſtitution of that Coun⯑try. I make no doubt but that if any Re⯑ligion except the Mahometan were eſta⯑bliſhed in Turkey, that abſolute Monarchy would be ſpeedily ruin'd. That mighty Empire will certainly decay, as the Influence of the Mahometan Religion grows weaker. But what is here affirm'd of Kingdoms and States in general, may be ſaid more parti⯑cularly of Free States. Their Liberty and their Greatneſs equally depend upon the Influence of the Religion eſtabliſhed in them. When once the various Sects of Philo⯑ſophers at Athens had generally weaken'd the Influence which the Graecian Religion before had had on the Minds of the Athe⯑nians, they were no longer that brave and [469] that noble People who fought for the com⯑mon Liberty of Greece at Salamis and at Marathon: They were no longer that great People who were all on fire with the Thirſt of Glory, and were fonder of Liberty than of Life; the ſordid Love of Gold took the Place in their Souls of thoſe two noble Paſ⯑ſions. And they who in the Days of Mil⯑tiades and Themiſtocles ſcorn'd to ſubmit to the moſt formidable Power on Earth, as ſoon as their Philoſophy had got the better of their Religion were ready to ſubmit and betray their Countrey to a petty upſtart In⯑vader. If we look among the Romans, we ſhall find ſtill more illuſtrious Proofs of the Influence that Religion has upon the Pub⯑lick Welfare. Machiavel attributes all the Felicity of that State to the Religion eſtabli⯑ſhed among them by Numa, who finding, ſays Machiavel, a very fierce People, and be⯑ing deſirous to reduce them to civil Obedi⯑ence by peaceable ways, applied himſelf to Religion, as a thing wholly neceſſary to pre⯑ſerve civil Society, and ordered it in ſuch a manner, that for many Ages there was not ſuch a Fear of God as in that Common⯑wealth, which facilitated much any Enter⯑prize whatſoever, which either the Senate or thoſe brave Roman Courages did under⯑take. Diſc. on Livy. Lib. 1. ch. 11. And a little lower in the ſame Chapter he adds, If a Man conſiders well the Roman Hiſtory, [470] he ſhall find of how much Efficacy their Re⯑ligion was for the commanding of Armies, for the reconciling the Senate and People, for the preſerving good Men, and for morti⯑fying the lewd. So that if we were to diſ⯑pute to which of the two Princes Rome was more oblig'd, to Romulus or Numa, I believe Numa would be preferred; for where Religion is, military Diſcipline is eaſily introduced; and where they have no Re⯑ligion and are already warlike, this hardly follows.
The Authority of Machiavel is ſo very great in political Matters, that I cannot for⯑bear the quoting him once more in this ve⯑ry Chapter, who a little lower has theſe Words; Wherefore having well conſider'd all, I conclude, that the Religion introdu⯑ced by Numa, was one of the principal Oc⯑caſions of that City's Happineſs, for that caus'd good Orders, good Orders brought good Fortune, and all the happy Succeſſes of their Enterprizes; and as the Obſer⯑vance of Divine Worſhip occaſions the Great⯑neſs of a Commonwealth, ſo the Contempt of it deſtroys it. For where the Fear of God is wanting, it muſt needs be that either that Kingdom goes to Ruine, or that it be ſup⯑ported by the Awe it ſtands in of the Prince, who may ſupply the Defects of Religion; and becauſe Princes are but ſhort-liv'd, that [471] Kingdom muſt needs have an End quickly, according as the Virtue thereof fails.
But now, Sir, if the Religion which Nu⯑ma eſtabliſh'd among the Romans, was the principal Cauſe of the Felicity of that Com⯑monwealth, I deſire to know whether any thing which had a direct and natural Ten⯑dency to the weakening and overturning that Religion, had not as direct and natu⯑ral a Tendency to the weakening and de⯑ſtroying the Commonwealth. There are particularly three things in the Roman Re⯑ligion, which ſeem to me to have had a pe⯑culiar Influence upon the Happineſs of that Commonwealth. The firſt is, the pretended Apparition of Romulus to Proculus, when he informed him of his Apotheoſis, and aſ⯑ſur'd him, if his Romans applied themſelves to Arms, they ſhould become the Maſters of the Univerſe. Now as you know very well, Sir, that the Romans firmly believ'd this, what cou'd infuſe more Confidence and Spirit into them in their Battels than that Belief?
But, Sir, you know very well, that the ſecond thing which had a peculiar Influ⯑ence upon the Felicity of the Roman Re⯑publick, was their Divinations by the Flight of Birds, the Entrails of Beaſts, and the pecking of Chickens, &c. The Soothſay⯑ings, ſays Machiavel, Ch. the 1ſt. Lib. the 1ſt. of his Diſcourſes, were not only for [472] the moſt part (as we have before obſerv'd) the Ground of the ancient Pagan Religion, but they were alſo the Occaſion of the Roman Republick's Welfare. For which Reaſon the Romans had more Regard to them than to any Order beſides, and made uſe of them in their Conſular Aſſemblies, in the Begin⯑nings of their Enterpriſes, in drawing forth their Armies into the Field, in fighting of pitch'd Battels, and in any other important Action either Civilor Military. Nor ever would they undertake any Expedition till they had firſt aſſur'd the Soldiers that the Gods had promis'd them the Victory. For, ſays he, at the end of this ſame Chapter, ſpeaking of the Divination by the pecking of Chickens, there was no other end of this manner of Soothſaying than to encourage the Soldiers to fight, for Boldneſs always wins the Victory.
But, Sir, a third thing which more than any thing had an Influence upon the Feli⯑city of that Commonwealth was what we find in the Somnium Scipionis of Cicero. Sed, quo ſis, Africane, alacrior ad tutan⯑dam Rempublicam, ſic habeto: Omnibus qui patriam conſervaverint, adjuverint, auxe⯑rint, certum eſſe in coelo ac de finitum Locum, ubi beati, aevo ſempiterno fruantur. Is it not probable, Sir, that moſt of their great Actions proceeded from a Belief of this, or elſe that ſome of them were downright [473] Fanaticiſm? We find by Dionyſius Hallicar⯑naſſaeus, that the Belief of this was the chief Motive that determined Vetturia, the Mo⯑ther of Coriolanus, to endeavour, among ſo many diſcouraging Circumſtances, to prevail upon her Son to draw off his Army from the Walls of Rome, and not to deſtroy his Country.
If I carry back to Rome, ſays ſhe to her Son, the hope of a ſpeedy Peace, if I re⯑turn to it with the Aſſurance that you are reconciled to it, with what Tranſports of Joy ſhall I not be receiv'd by our Fellow Citizens? The ſmall Remainder of time which I am predeſtin'd by the Gods to paſs upon Earth, will be attended with unpa⯑rallell'd Glory. And when the Gods put an end to my Life, my Happineſs will have no end. And if it be true, that there are dif⯑ferent Manſions doom'd for us after we are dead, I ſhall have no Reaſon to fear thoſe dark and diſmal Places prepared for the Souls of the wicked; even the Eliſian Fields, thoſe charming Retreats predeſtin'd for the Souls of the Juſt, will be too poor a Re⯑compence to reward Deſert like mine. Af⯑ter I ſhall have preſerved Rome, this City ſo dear to Jupiter, I ſhall be encourag'd to expect a Place in that pure and ſublime Re⯑gion of the Air, which, we are told, is in⯑habited by the Children of Gods.
[474] Theſe, Sir, were the three Points of the Roman Religion, which had the greateſt Influence on the Publick Succeſs and the Proſperity of their Commonwealth. But when at length the Graecian Philoſophy was brought into Italy, and the Romans began to think, what the Moderns call freely, the Syſtem of Epicurus, which moſt prevailed with the Men of Letters and the Men of Vanity, appear'd to be directly levell'd at the three foremention'd Points of their Re⯑ligion, and to have a direct Tendency to the rooting the Belief of them from the Minds of Men. For whereas the funda⯑mental Maxim of Epicurus's Syſtem is, that the Gods never in the leaſt concern them⯑ſelves about the Affairs of the World, they who receive it, muſt refuſe all Credit to the Apparition of Romulus to Proculus, after the former's pretended Apotheoſis. And whereas 'tis a Maxim of Epicurus, that the World is abſolutely govern'd by Chance, and that the very Pretence to Divination is nothing but a ſolemn Foppery; this alone was ſufficient to deſtroy the Influence of their Aruſpicy and their Augury. And then, how is the Expectation of a bliſsful and a glorious diſtinguiſh'd Immortality, conſiſtent with that third Epicurean Max⯑im, that the Soul dies with the Body?
Thus, Sir, did the Frec-thinking of the Romans weaken their Belief of thoſe Points [475] of their Religion, which were the three principal Sources of their Virtue and their Magnanimity, and fatally prepar'd the way for unheard-of Luxury and all manner of Vice and Corruption. I know very well indeed that this Luxury and this Corrupti⯑on is attributed by their Hiſtorians to their Aſiatick Triumphs, and that fatal Security into which they were lull'd by the Deſtru⯑ction of Carthage. But let us conſider the Words which one of them uſes upon that Occaſion. 'Tis Velleius Paterculus in the beginning of his ſecond Book. Potentiae Romanorum prior Scipio viam aperuerat, Luxuriae poſterior aperuit. Quippe re⯑moto Carthaginis metu, ſublatâque imperii aemulâ, non gradu, ſed praecipiti curſu, a virtute Deſcitum, ad vitia Tranſcurſum; vetus Diſciplina deſerta, nova inducta; in ſomnum a vigiliis, ab armis ad voluptates, a negotiis in otium converſa civitas.
You ſee, Sir, that the Hiſtorian here ob⯑ſerves, that upon the Deſtruction of Car⯑thage, the Romans did not paſs gradually from Virtue to Vice, but took a Headlong Leap from the former to the latter. Now if 'tis truly ſaid of particular Perſons, that Nemo repente fit turpiſſimus, as I make no doubt but that it is very true, 'tis certainly more unqueſtionably true of a whole and a great People. If therefore the Romans upon the Deſtruction of Carthage, preci⯑pitately [476] broke out into all manner of Vice and Corruption; there is no way in Nature to account for this but by truly af⯑firming, that their Inclinations were de⯑bauch'd long before the Deſtruction of Car⯑thage, and that the Ruin of that Rival Ci⯑ty did nothing but take off that Reſtraint which had been upon them before; that their Principles of Religion and Vir⯑tue had been attack'd and weaken'd for a whole Century before, by the looſe Philo⯑ſophy of Greece, which had been introdu⯑ced among them about the beginning of the Carthaginian War.
I could bring Inſtances from ſeveral o⯑ther Kingdoms and States to ſhew the In⯑fluence which Religion has upon their good or their evil Fortune. But enough has been ſaid upon a Subject of which the rea⯑ſonable part of Mankind is ſatisfied, and eſpecially all the great Men who have lived in every Age. For all the great Legiſla⯑tors who have been famous among the Na⯑tions for the wiſe Laws they eſtabliſhed, have either been really religious, or havepre⯑tended to be ſo. For never, ſays Machi⯑avel, was there any Maker of extraordi⯑nary Laws in a Nation, who had not his Recourſe to God, for otherwiſe his Laws had not been received. For ſeveral things that are good and expedient are known to a wiſe Man, which have not ſuch Evidence in [477] themſelves, that he by Diſcourſe can eaſily make others conceive them. Therefore, ſays he, the wiſe Men who would get over this Dif⯑ficulty, have Recourſe to a God, ſo had Lycurgus, ſo Solon, ſo many others whoſe Deſign was the ſame with theirs. All the great Founders of Kingdoms and States have been either really or appearingly re⯑ligious. And therefore as Empire is main⯑tain'd by the ſame Methods by which it was at firſt eſtabliſh'd, there is no Precept that Machiavel inſtills with ſo much Care into the Prince of his Formation, as that he ſhould at leaſt appear religious; as any one may be ſatisfied, who has Recourſe to the 13th Chapter of his Prince. All the Con⯑querors of the World have brought about their Deſigns by Religion. Ev'n Caeſar him⯑ſelf, tho' a manifeſt Epicurean, pretended to be of divine Extraction, and in order to animate his Souldiers by that Belief, the very Word which he gave at the deciſive Battel of Pharſalia was Venus Victrix.
But as the Legiſlators, and Founders, and Conquerors of Empires have had Recourſe to Religion for the eſtabliſhing or encreaſing their Empire; all the wiſe eſtabliſh'd Prin⯑ces that have ever reign'd, and all the great Miniſters who have ſerv'd them, have thought Religion neceſſary for the preſer⯑ving that Empire which had been at firſt eſtabliſh'd by it.
[478] Cardinal Richlieu in the beginning of the ſixth Chapter of the firſt Part of his Politi⯑cal Teſtament, addreſſes himſelf thus to Lewis the 13th. ‘Dieu etant le Principe des toutes choſes, le Souverain Maître des Rois, et celuy ſeul qui les fait regner heureuſement, ſi la De⯑votion D. V. M. n' etoit connue de tout la Monde; je commencerois ce chapitre qui concerne ſa Perſonne, en lui repreſentant, que ſi elle ne ſuit les voluntes de ſon Crea⯑teur, et ne ſe ſoumet a ſes voix; elle ne doit point eſperer de faire obſerver les ſi⯑ennes, ni de voir ſes Sujets obeiſſans a ſes Ordres.’
And thus, Sir, have I endeavoour'd to ſhew that the reſpective Religion of ev'ry Coun⯑try is the Baſis of the Conſtitution of that Countrey, which as I have endeavour'd to prove by Reaſon in the former Letter, I have pretended to confirm it in this by infallible Experience and Matter of Fact, by the Authority of Machiavel, who is generally regarded as the Prince of Political Writers; by the Sentiments of wiſe Legiſlators, of the great Foun⯑ders of Empires and great Conquerors; by the Practice of all wiſe eſtabliſh'd Prin⯑ces, and the Sentiments and Practice of [479] all the great Miniſters, who have ſerv'd them. There is no manner of Occaſion to tell a Gentleman of your good Senſe, that by Religion, all along in theſe Let⯑ters, is meant not only reveal'd Religion, but the Religion eſtabliſhed in every Country: But I thought fit to give at leaſt a Hint of this for the Sake of o⯑thers, into whoſe Hands this Letter may come.
And now, Sir, what ſhall we ſay of a certain Sett of Perſons, who for theſe laſt thirty Years have made it the ſole Buſineſs of their Lives, not only to ſhew all the World that they are irreligious themſelves, and vainly value themſelves upon it, but to endeavour to root out the eſtabliſh'd Religion from the Minds of others; and at the ſame Time to pretend that they do this for the pub⯑lick Good, and to ſtrengthen the Re⯑volution; which ſuch a Proceeding has a natural Tendency to deſtroy, as we ſhew'd in our former Letter. Some of theſe are the very Perſons who cry out with the greateſt Vehemence againſt thoſe who have been guilty of that deplorable Cor⯑ruption, and that fatal Villany, which have almoſt undone a great and powerful Na⯑tion. And yet I pretend to ſhew in a third Letter that that prodigious Villany [480] and Corruption is the neceſſary Conſe⯑quence of their own Converſations and Writings, and the natural Effect of their undermining the Chriſtian Religion.
I Aſſerted in my two former Letters, that the eſtabliſh'd Religion in ev'ry Coun⯑try, is the Baſis of the Conſtitution of that Country, and the Fountain of pub⯑lick Morality. And I endeavour'd to prove that Aſſertion by Reaſon, by the Authority of the moſt allow'd Political Writers, and by conſtant Experience, and matter of Fact. I promis'd to ſhew in this third Letter, that the frequent Attacks that have been made for theſe loſt forty Years upon the Chriſtian Reli⯑gion by Atheiſts, and Deiſts, have been the Cauſe of the preſent national Cala⯑mity, which is like to prove ſo fatal to us; in order to which give me leave to [482] obſerve that as the eſtabliſh'd Religion in every Country is the Baſis of the Conſtitution of that Country, ſo no Religion that ever was in the World ever made it ſo much its Deſign as the Chriſtian Religion does, to extirpate Avarice and all worldly Intereſt out of the Minds of Men. The Founder of this Religion has more than once decla⯑red that his Kingdom is not of this World, and that they who will be his Subjects, whoſe Hearts and Affections he abſolutely requires, muſt renounce the Prince of this World, and ev'ry thing that is his; and he has taken the utmoſt Care both by his Example, and by his Doctrine, to baniſh Avarice and all worldly Intereſt from the Minds of his Followers; for which Reaſon, his whole Life was one continu'd Example of a contented and willing Poverty. The Foxes have Holes, ſays he, and the Birds of the Air have Neſts, but the Son of Man hath not where to lay his Head. Matthew Chap. 8. V. 20. He made this his principal Care in his Doctrine, and eſtabliſh'd his Re⯑ligion upon this Foundation. Mat. 14. Chap. 14. V. 21. Jeſus ſaid unto him, if thou wilt be perfect, go and ſell what thou haſt, and give to the Poor; and thou ſhalt have Treaſure in Heaven, and [483] come and follow me. And when the young Man, to whom this was ſaid went away ſorrowful, becauſe he had great Poſſeſſions; Jeſus ſaid, Ibid. V. 26. It is eaſier for a Camel to go through the Eye of a Needle, than for a Rich Man to enter into the Kingdom of God. That is, It is eaſier for a Camel to go thro' the Eye of a Needle, than for a Man who loves the Riches of this World to become a Subject of ſuch a Soveraign of another World, as requires all his Af⯑fections.
The Apoſtles by their Lives gave the ſame Example that their Maſter did. Matthew 19. V. 23. Behold, we have forſaken all and followed thee. As they gave the ſame Example, they preach'd the ſame Doctrine. St. Paul has declar'd Avarice to be Idolatry, that is, 'tis ſetting thoſe Affections upon ſordid Dirt, whoſe rightful Object is God alone. As the End of the Chriſtian Religion is to re⯑ſtore Man to that bliſsful Immortality, from which the Fall degraded him; this can be done no other way than by re⯑ſtoring thoſe Affections to God, which Man at his Fall withdrew from his Crea⯑tor, and fix'd upon the Creature. And therefore the whole Tenour of the Chri⯑ſtian Religion, the whole Spirit and [484] Soul of it, declare this End aloud. The three Cardinal Virtues of this Religion are utterly incompatible with Avarice and Worldly mindedneſs. 'Tis impoſſible but that any one who has a lively Faith, and a lively Hope in the Promiſe of a bliſsful Immortality, muſt ſet his Affections on things above, and not on things below; and as for the greateſt of the three Vir⯑tues Charity, that and Avarice muſt be the very Contradictions of each other, in their Natures, their Deſigns, their Effects, and their very Terms.
I believe, Sir, that it is pretty plain, that where a Religion thus conſtituted flouriſhes, it muſt be attended with great Diſintereſt⯑edneſs and with publick Virtue. When upon the Reſurrection of Jeſus Chriſt it was in its full Power, we read of the grea⯑teſt Diſintereſtedneſs that ever was heard of, Acts the 4th. And ev'n here among us when it was reduc'd to its firſt Principles up⯑on the Reformation, there was a good deal of publick Virtue and publick Spirit, and there never has been ſo little publick Spirit among us, as ſince the Return of King Charles the Second, and never ſo fierce and frequent Attacks againſt the Chriſtian Religion; and as thoſe Attacks have been more frequent and more audacious within theſe laſt thirty Years, the national Virtue and publick [485] Spirit have declin'd proportionably, and A⯑varice and Corruption increas'd. And now they are arriv'd at their fatal Height, we find that they who are believ'd to be moſt guilty of them, are they who have been the great and the conſtant Favourers of thoſe who made the Attacks.
But now, Sir, as I have ſhewn that the undermining the Chriſtian Religion has had a natural Tendency to the weakning the na⯑tional Virtue and the diſtreſſing the Govern⯑ment; what Acknowledgments ſhall we make to you who have been for ſo many Years a Champion for the eſtabliſh'd Reli⯑gion, and who by endeavouring all that lay in your ſingle Power to ſtemm this Torrent of impolitick Impiety, have like a true Pa⯑triot been employ'd in the Service of your Country, and making a generous Effort for the reſtoring publick Virtue and publick Spi⯑rit. And as one of the nobleſt Branches of the publick Worſhip, by the Diſadvantage of a barbarous Tranſlation, lay but too much ex⯑pos'd to the Scorn and Contempt of Liber⯑tines; you have bravely reſcu'd it from that Oppreſſion; and by giving us a new Tranſla⯑tion confin'd to the old Tunes and Meaſures, (a Tranſlation valuable to the Knowing, and intelligible to the Ignorant) have put it in our Power to eſtabliſh an Uniformity of Praiſe in our Worſhip, as we have done of [486] Prayer. Whereas at preſent, one Pariſh differing from another in Pſalmody, the Sojourner and the Traveller, when they oc⯑caſionally come into our Churches, are but too often excluded from joyning in the moſt ſublime Branch of our Worſhip. For Pray⯑er is too often a poor ſelf-intereſted thing in Compariſon of Praiſe. For Prayer is too often the Effect of Fear and of a mean Opinion of the Deity, ſometimes ſuppoſing him to be mutable, and ſometimes unjuſt. But Praiſe proceeds from nobler Motives, and from nobler Paſſions; from a raviſhing View of his Excellence, from Gratitude, from Admiration, from Joy divine and from Seraphick Love. Thus, Sir, have I ſent you a ſimple Sketch of what I intended to ſay upon this Subject. For the Spirits will tire as well as the Limbs, and mine are al⯑ready weary.