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Comedy, which seems to have been last exhibited by Vanbrugh and Cibber?

If we apply to authorities, all the great masters in the dramatic art have but one opinion. Their rule is, that as Tragedy displays the calamities of the great, so Comedy should excite our laughter, by ridiculously exhibiting the follies of the lower part of mankind. Boileau, one of the best modern Critics, asserts, that Comedy will not admit of Tragic distress:

Le Comique, ennemi des soupirs et des pleurs,

N' admet point dans ses vers de tragiques douleurs,

Nor is this rule without the strongest foundation in Nature, as the distresses of the mean by no means affect us so strongly as the calamities of the great. When Tragedy exhibits to us some great man fallen from his height, and struggling with want and adversity, we feel his situation in the same manner as we suppose he himself must feel, and our pity is increased in proportion to the height from which he fell. On the contrary, we do not so strongly sympathize with one born in humbler circumstances, and encountering accidental distress: so that while we melt for Belisarius, we scarcely give halfpence to the beggar, who accosts us in the street. has our pity; the other our contempt. therefore is the proper object of Tragedy, since the great excite our pity by their fall; but not equally so of Comedy, since the actors employed in it are originally so mean, that they sink but little by

their fall.

The one

Distress

Since the first origin of the stage, Tragedy and Comedy have run into distinct channels, and never till of late encroached upon the provinces of each other. Terence, who seems to have made the nearest approaches, always judiciously stops short before he

comes to the downright pathetic; and yet he is even reproached by Cæsar for wanting the Vis Comica. All the other comic writers of antiquity aim only at rendering Folly or Vice ridiculous, but never exalt their characters into a buskined pomp, or make what Voltaire humorously calls a Tradesman's Tragedy.

Yet notwithstanding this weight of authority, and the universal practice of former ages, a new species of dramatic composition has been introduced under the name of Sentimental Comedy, in which the virtues of private life are exhibited, rather than the vices exposed; and the distresses rather than the faults of mankind make our interest in the piece. These comedies have had of late great success, perhaps from their novelty, and also from their flattering every man in his favourite foible. In these plays almost all the characters are good, and exceedingly generous; they are lavish enough of their Tin money on the Stage; and though they want humour, have abundance of sentiment and feeling. If they happen to have faults or foibles, the spectator is taught not only to pardon, but to applaud them, in consideration of the goodness of their hearts; so that Folly, instead of being ridiculed, is commended, and the Comedy aims at touching our passions without the power of being truly pathetic. In this manner we are likely to lose one great source of entertainment on the Stage; for while the Comic Poet is invading the province of the Tragic Muse, he leaves her lovely Sister quite neglected. Of this however he is no way solicitous, as he measures his fame by his profits.

But it will be said, that the Theatre is formed to amuse mankind, and that it matters little, if this end be answered, by what means it is btained. If mankind find delight in weeping at Comedy it

would be cruel to abridge them in that or any other innocent pleasure. If those pieces are denied the name of Comedies, yet call them by any other name, and if they are delightful they are good. Their success, it will be said, is a mark of their merit, and it is only abridging our happiness to deny us an inlet to amusement.

These objections however are rather specious than solid. It is true, that amusement is a great object of the Theatre; and it will be allowed, that these sentimental pieces do often amuse us but the question is, whether the true Comedy would not amuse us more? The question is, whether a character supported throughout a piece with its ridicule still attending, would not give us more delight than this species of bastard Tragedy, which only is applauded because it is new ?

A friend of mine, who was sitting unmoved at one of these Sentimental Pieces, was asked how he could be so indifferent. "Why truly," says he, "as the "Hero is but a Tradesman, it is indifferent to me "whether he be turned out of his counting-house

on Fish-street Hill, since he will still have enough " left to open shop in St. Giles's."

The other objection is as ill-grounded; for though we should give these pieces another name, it will not mend their efficacy. It will continue a kind of mulish production, with all the defects of its opposite parents and marked with sterility. If we are permitted to make Comedy weep, we have an equal right to make Tragedy laugh, and set down in blank verse the jests and repartees of all the attendants in a funeral pro

cession.

But there is one argument in favour of Sentimental Comedy which will keep it on the stage, in spite of all that can be said against it. It is of all others the most easily written. Those abilities that can

hammer out a novel, are fully sufficient for the production of a Sentimental Comedy. It is only sufficient to raise the characters a little; to deck out the hero with a ribband, or give the heroine a Title; then to put an insipid dialogue, without character or humour, into their mouths, give them mighty good hearts, very fine clothes, furnish a new set of scenes, make a pathetic scene or two, with a sprinkling of tender melancholy conversation through the whole, and there is no doubt but all the ladies will cry, and all the gentlemen applaud.

Humour at present seems to be departing from the stage; and it will soon happen that our comic players will have nothing left for it but a fine coat and a song. It depends upon the audience, whether they will actually drive those poor merry creatures from the stage, or sit at the play as gloomy as at the tabernacle. It is not easy to recover an art when once lost: and it will be but a just punishment, that when, by our being too fastidious, we have banished humour from the stage, we should ourselves be deprived of the art of laughing.

ESSAY XXIII.

As I see you are fond of gallantry, and seem willing to set young people together as soon as you can, I cannot help lending my assistance to your endeavours, as I am greatly concerned in the attempt. You must know, Sir, that I am landlady of one of the most noted inns on the road to Scotland, and have seldom less than eight or ten couples a week, who go down rapturous lovers, and return man and wife.

If there be in this world an agreeable situation it must be that in which a young couple find themselves, when just let loose from confinement, and whirling off to the land of promise. When the post-chaise is driving off, and the blinds are drawn up, sure nothing can equal it. And yet, I do not know how, what with the fears of being pursued, or the wishes for greater happiness, not one of my customers but seems gloomy and out of temper. The gentlemen are all sullen, and the ladies discontented.

But if it be so going down, how is it with them coming back? Having been for a fortnight together, they are then mighty good company to be sure. It is then the young lady's indiscretion stares her in the face, and the gentleman himself finds that much is to be done before the money comes in.

For my own part, Sir, I was married in the usual way; all my friends were at the wedding; I was conducted with great ceremony from the table to the bed; and I do not find that it any ways diminished my happiness with my husband, while, poor man, he continued with me. For my part, I am entirely for doing things in the old family way; I hate your new-fashioned manners, and never loved an outlandish marriage in my life,

As I have had numbers call at my house, you may be sure I was not idle in inquiring who they were, and how they did in the world after they left me. I cannot say that I ever heard much good come of them; and of an history of twenty-five, that I noted down in my ledger, I do not know a single couple that would not have been full as happy if they had gone the plain way to work, and asked the consent of their parents. To convince you of it, I will mention the names of a few, and refer the rest to some fitter opportunity.

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Imprimis, Miss Jenny Hastings went down to Scotland with a tailor, who to be sure for a tailor

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