But none emphatic can the actor call,
Who lays an equal emphasis on all.

Some o'er the tongue the labour'd measures roll
Slow and delib'rate as the parting toll,
Point ev'ry ftop, mark ev'ry pause so strong,
Their words, like ftage-proceffions stalk along.
All affectation but creates difguft,

And e'en in speaking we may seem too just.

Nor proper, Thornton, can those sounds appear
Which bring not numbers to thy nicer ear;
In vain from them the pleafing measure flows,
Whofe recitation runs it all to profe;
Repeating what the poet fets not down,
The verb disjointing from its friendly noun,
While paufe, and break, and repetition join
To make a difcord in each tuneful line.

Some placid naturès fill th' allotted scene
With lifeless drone, infipid and ferene ;
While others thunder ev'ry couplet o'er,
And almost crack your ears with rant and roar.
More nature oft and finer ftrokes are shown,
In the low whisper than tempeftuous tone.
And Hamlet's hollow voice and fixt amaze,
More powerful terror to the mind conveys,
Than he, who, fwol'n with big impetuous rage,
Bullies the bulky phantom off the stage.

He, who in earneft ftudies o'er his part,
Will find true nature cling about his heart.
The modes of grief are not included all

In the white handkerchief and mournful drawl;
A fingle look more marks th' internal woe,
Than all the windings of the lengthen'd Oh.
Up to the face the quick fenfation flies,
And darts its meaning from the fpeaking Eyes ;
Love, trans rt, madness, anger, fcorn, defpair,
And all the paffions, all the foul is there.

In vain Ophelia gives her flowrets round,
And with her ftraws fantastic ftrews the ground,
In vain now fings, now heaves the defp'rate figh,
If phrenzy fit not in the troubled eye.
In Cibber's look commanding forrows speak,
And call the tear faft trick'ling down my cheek,
There is a fault which ftirs the critic's rage;
A want of due attention on the stage.
I have seen actors, and admir'd ones too,
Whofe tongues wound up fet forward from their

cue;

In their own speech who whine, or roar away,
Yet feem unmoy'd at what the reft may fay;
Whofe eyes and thoughts on diff'rent objects roam,
Until the prompter's voice recal them home.

Diveft yourself of hearers, if you can,
And ftrive to fpeak, and be the very man.
Why should the well-bred actor wish to know
Who fits above to-night, or who below?

So, 'mid th' harmonious tones of grief or rage,
Italian fquallers oft difgrace the stage;
When, with a fimp'ring leer, and bow profound,
The fqueaking Cyrus greets the boxes round;
Or proud Mandane, of imperial race,
Familiar drops a curt'fie to her grace.

To fuit the drefs demands the actor's art,
Yet there are those who over-dress the part.
To fome prefcriptive right give fettled things,
Black wigs to murd'rers, feather'd hats to kings,
But Michael Caffio might be drunk enough,
Though all his features were not grim'd with fnuff.

Why should Pol Peachum shine in fatin cloathes?
Why ev'ry devil dance in fcarlet hofe?

But in ftage-cuftoms what offends me most
Is the flip-door, and flowly-rifing ghost.
Tell me, nor count the question too fevere,
Why need the difmal powder'd forms appear?

When chilling horrors shake th' affrighted king,
And guilt torments him with her fcorpion sting;
When kecneft feelings at his bofom pull,
And fancy tells him that the feat is full;
Why need the ghoft ufurp the monarch's place,
To frighten children with his mealy face?
The king alone should form the phantom there,
And talk and tremble at the vacant chair.

If Belvidera her lov'd lofs deplore, Why for twin spectres bursts the yawning floor! When with diforder'd starts, and horrid cries, She paints the murder'd forms before her eyes, And still purfues them with a frantic ftare, "Tis pregnant madness brings the vifions there. More inftant horror would enfore the scene, If all her shudd'rings were at fhapes unseen. Poet and Actor thus, with blended skill, Mould all our paffions to their inftant will ; 'Tis thus, when feeling Garrick treads the stage, (The fpeaking comment of his Shakespear's page) Oft as I drink the words with greedy ears, I shake with horror, or diffolve with tears. O, ne'er may folly feize the throne of taste, Nor dulnefs lay the realms of genius waste! No bouncing crackers ape the thund'rer's fire, No tumbler float upon the bending wire! More natural ufes to the ftage belong, Than tumblers, monfters, pantomime, or song, For other purpose was that fpot defign'd: To purge the paffions, and reform the mind, To give to nature all the force of art, And while it charms the ear to mend the heart.

Thornton, to thee, I dare with truth commend, The decent ftage as virtue's natural friend. Though oft debas'd with scenes profane and loose, No reafon weighs against its proper ufe. Though the lewd prieft his facred function shame, Religion's perfect law is still the fame.

Shall they, who trace the paffions from their rife, Shew scorn her features, her own image vice? Who teach the mind its proper force to scan, And hold the faithful mirror up to man, Shall their profeffion e'er provoke difdain Who ftand the foremoft in the moral train, Who lend reflection all the grace of art, And ftrike the precept home upon the heart?

Yet, hapless Artift! though thy fkill can raise
The bursting peal of univerfal praise,
Though at thy beck Applaufe delighted stands,
And lifts, Briareus' like, her hundred hands,
Know, Fame awards thee but a partial breath!
Not all thy talents brave the ftroke of death.
Poets to ages yet unborn appeal,

And latest times th' Eternal Nature feel.
Though blended here the praife of bard and play's.
While more than half becomes the Actor's thare,
Relentless death untwifts the mingled fame,
And finks the player in the poet's name.
The pliant muscles of the various face,
The mien that gave each fentence ftrength and

grace,

t

ཀ།

The tuneful voice, the eye that spoke the mind, Are gone, nor leave a fingle trace behind.

THE LAW STUDENT*.

TO GEORGE COLMAN, ESQ.

Quid tibi cum Cirrhâ? quid cum Permesfidos undâ? Romanum propius divitiufque Forum eft.

Mart.

Now

Th' important ftudies of the Law begin.

Now groan the fhelves beneath th' unufual charge
Of Records, Statutes, and Reports at large.
Each Claffic author feeks his peaceful nook,
And modest Virgil yields his place to Coke.
No more, ye Bards, for vain precedence hope,
But even Jacob take the lead of Pope!

While the pil'd fhelves fink down on one another,
And each huge folio has its cumb'rous brother,
While arm'd with thefe, the Student views with awe
His rooms become the magazine of law,
Say whence fo few fucceed? where thousands aim,
So few e'er reach the promis'd goal of fame?
Say, why Cæcilius quits a gainful trade
For regimentals, fword, and fmart cockade ?
Or Sextus why his first profeffion leaves

For narrower band plain fhirt, and pudding fleeves?
The depth of law afks ftudy, thought, and care?
Shall we feek thefe in rich Alonzo's heir?
Such diligence, alas! is feldom found
In the brisk heir to forty thoufand pound.
Wealth, that excufes folly, floth creates,
Few, who can spend, e'er learn to get eftates,
What is to him dry cafe, or dull report,
Who ftudies fashions at the Inns of Court;
And proves that thing of emptiness and fhow,
That mongrel, half form'd thing, a Temple-Beau?
Obferve him daily faunt'ring up and down,
In purple flippers, and in filken gown ;
Laft night's debauch, his morning converfation;
The coming, all his evening preparation.

By law let others toil to gain renown!
Florio's a gentleman, a man o'th' town.
He nor courts clients, or the law regarding.
Hurries from Nando's down to Coyent-Garden:
Yet he's a Scholar;-mark him in the Pit
With critic catcall found the ftops of wit!
Supreme at George's he harangues the throng,
Cenfor of ftile from tragedy to fong:
Him ev'ry witling views with fecret awe,
Deep in the Drama, fhallow in the Law.

* In the preface to Colman's profe that gentleman claims the prefent performance, and fays that it was given to the Author to fill up a volume of poems published by subscription.

Int'reft in vain puts in her prudent claim,
Nonfuited by the pow'rful plea of fame.
As well you might weigh lead against a feather,
As ever jumble wit and law together.
On Littleton Coke gravely thus remarks,
(Remember this, ye rhyming Temple sparks!

In all our author's tenures, be it noted, "This is the fourth time any verfe was quoted." Which, 'gainst the Muse and verfe, may well imply

What lawers call a noli profequi.

Quit then, dear George, O quit the barren field,
Which neither profit nor reward can yield!
What tho' the fprightly fcene, well acted, draws
From unpack'd Englishmen unbrib'd applause,
Some monthly Grub, fome Dennis of the age,
In print cries fhame on the degen'rate stage*,
If haply Churchill strive with generous aim,
To fan the fparks of genius to a flame }

If all UNASK'D, UNKNOWING, AND UNKNOWN,
By noting thy defert, he proves his own;
Envy fhall ftraight to Hamilton's repair,
And vent her fpleen, and gall, and venom there,
Thee, and thy works, and all our friends decry,
And boldly print and publish a rank lie,
Swear your own hand the flatt'ring likeness drew,
Swear your own breath fame's partial trumpet blew.

Well I remember oft your friends have said,
(Friends, whom the fureft maxims ever led)
Turn parfon, Colman, that's the way to thrive :
Your parfons are the happiest men alive.
Judges, there are but twelve, and never more,
But Stalls untold, and Bishops, twenty-four,
Of pride and claret, floth and ven'fon full,
Yon prelate mark, right reverend and dull !
He ne'er, good man, need penfive vigils keep
To preach his audience once a week to fleep;

See the very curious and VERY SIMILAR criticifms on the comedy of the Jealous Wife, in the two Reviews, together with the most malicious and infolent attack on the writer, and the author of this Collection in the Critical Review for March; an injury poorly repaired by a lame apology in the Review for the fucceeding month, containing fresh infults on one of the injured parties.

To bill, to coo, to whine, to squeak,
Through all the dialects of Greek.
How many fains of claffic breed,
Shall deftly tune their oaten reed,
And bring their Doric nymphs to town,
To fing their measures up and down,
In notes alternate clear and fweet,
Like Ballad-fingers in a street.
While thofe who grafp at reputation,
From imitating imitation,

Shall hunt each cranny, nook, and creek,
For precious fragments in the Greek,
And rob the pittle, and the wafte,
For fenfe, and fentiment, and taste.

What Latin hodge-podge, Grecian hash,
With Hebrew roots, and English trash,
Shall academic cooks produce
For present show and future use!

FELLOWS! who've foak'd away their knowledge,
In fleepy refidence at college;
Whofe lives are like a ftagnant pool,
Muddy and placid, dull and cool;

Mere drinking, eating; eating, drinking;
With no impertinence of thinking;
Who lack no farther erudition,
Than juft to set an impofition
To cramp, demolish and difpirit,
Each true begotten child of merit;
Cenfors, who, in the day's broad light,
Punish the vice they act at night;
Whofe charity with felf begins,
Nor covers others venial fins ;
But that their feet may fafely tread,
Take up hypocrify instead,
As knowing that must always hide
A multitude of fins befide;
Whofe rufty wit is at a stand,
Without a freshman at their hand;
(Whose service muft of courfe create
The juft return of fev'n-fold hate)
Lord! that fuch good and useful men
Should ever turn to books again.

YET matter must be gravely plann'd,
And fyllables on fingers fcann'd,
And racking pangs rend lab'ring head,
Till lady Mufe is brought to-bed:
What hunting, changing, toiling, fweating,
To bring the ufual epithet in!
Where the crampt measure kindly fhows
It will be yerfe, but should be profe.
So, when its neither light nor dark,
To 'prentice fpruce, or lawyer's clerk,
The nymph, who takes her nightly ftand
At fome fly corner in the Strand,
Plump in the chest, tight in the boddice,
Seems to the eye a perfect goddess;
But canvafs'd more minutely o'er,
Turns out an old, ftale, batter'd whore.

Yet must these fons of GoWNED EAGE,
Proud of the Plumage of Degrees,
Forfake their APATHY a while,
To figure in the Roman ftile,
And offer incenfe at the shrine
Of LATIN POETRY Divine.
Upon a throne the goddess fits,
Surrounded by her bulky wits;
FABRICIUS, COOPER, CALEPINE,
AINSWORTHIUS, FARER, CONSTANTINE;
VOL. VIII

And he, who like DODONA fpoke,
DE SACRA QUERCU, HOLYOAKE;
Thefe are her counfellors of state,

Men of much words, and wits of weight;
Here GRADUS, full of phrafes clever,
Lord of her treasury for ever,
With liberal hand his bounty deals
SIR CENTO KEEPER of the Seals.
Next to the perfon of the queen,
Old madam PROSODY is feen;
Talking inceffant, although dumb,
Upon her fingers to her thumb.

And all around her portraits hung
Of heroes in the Latin Tongue;
Italian, English, German, French,
Who most laboriously entrench
In deep parade of language dead,
What would not in their own be read,
Without impeachment of that TASTE,
Which LATIN IDIOM turns to chafte
SANTOLIUS here, whofe flippant joke,
Sought refuge in a Roman cloak :
With dull CoMMIRIUS at his fide,
In all the pomp of jefuit pride.
MENAGE, the pedant figur'd there,
A trifler with a folemn air:
And there in leofe, unfeemly view,
The graceless, eafy LOVELING too.

'Tis here grave poets urge their claim,
For fome thin blast of tiny fame;
Here bind their temples drunk with praise,
With half a sprig of wither'd bays.

O poet, if that honour'd name
Befits fuch idle childish aim;
If VIRGIL ask thy facred care,
If HORACE charm thee, oh forbear
To fpoil with facrilegous hand,
The glories of the CLASSIC land:
Nor few thy dowlas on the SATTIN,
Of their pure uncorrupted Latin.
Better be native in thy verfe,
What is FINGAL but genuine Erfe?
Which all fublime fonorous flows,
Like HERVEY's thoughts in drunken profe.

Hail, SCOTLAND, hail, to thee belong
All pow're, but moft the pow'rs of fong;
Whether the rude unpolish'd Erfe
Stalk in the buckram Profe or Verfe
Or bonny RAMSAY please thee mo’,
Who fang fae fweetly aw his woe.
If ought (and fay who knows so well)
The fecond-fighted Mufe can tell,
The happy LAIRDS fhall laugh and fing,
When ENGLAND'S GENIUS droops his wing.
So fhall thy foil new wealth difclofe,
So thy own THISTLE choak the Rose.
But what comes here? Methinks I fee
A walking univerfity.

See how they prefs to cross the TWEED,
And ftrain their limbs with eager speed!
While SCOTLAND, from her fertile fhore,
Cries, On my fons, return no more.

Hither they hafte with willing mind,

Nor caft one longing look behind;

On ten-toe carriage to falute,

The k-, and qn, and EARL OF BUTI No more the gallant Northern fons

Spout forth their strings of Latin puns

X

Nor courfe all languages to frame,
The quibble fuited to their name;
As when their ancestors be-vers'd,

That glorious STUART, JAMES the FIRST.
But with that elocution's GRACE,
That oratorial flashy Lace,

the

Which the fam'd Irish TOMMY PUFF,
Would few on fentimental Atuff;
Twang with a sweet pronunciation,
The flow'rs of bold imagination.
MACPHERSON leads the flaming van,
LAIRD of the new Fingalian clan;
While JACKY HOME brings up rear,
With new-got penfion neat and clear
Three hundred English pounds a year.
While fifter PEG, our ancient Friend,
Sends MACs and DONALDS without end:
TO GEORGE awhile they tune their lays,
Then all their choral voices raife,

To heap their panegyric wit on

Th' illuftrious chief, and our NORTH BRITON,
Hail to the THANE, whose patriot skill
Can break all nations to his will;
Mafter of fciences and arts,
MACENAS to all men of parts;
Whofe foft'ring hand, and ready wit,
Shall find us all in places fit;

So fhall thy friends no longer roam,
But change to meet a fettled home.

Hail mighty THANE, for SCOTLAND born.
To fill her almoft empty
horn:

Hail to thy ancient glorious ftem,

}

Such ceafelefs toil, fuch conftant care,
Is more than human ftrength can bear.
One may obferve it in your face
Indeed, my dear, you break a pace:
And nothing can your health repair,
But exercife and country air,

Sir Traffic has a house, you know,
About a mile from Cheney-Row;
He's a good man, indeed 'tis true,
But not fo warm, my dear, as you :
And folks are always apt to fneer-
One would not be out-done my dear!

Sir Traffic's name fo well apply'd
Awak'd his brother merchant's pride;
And Thrifty, who had all his life
Paid utmost deference to his wife.
Confefs'd her arguments had reafon,
And by th' approaching summer seafon,
Draws a few hundreds from the stocks,
And purchases his Country-Box.

Some three or four mile out of town,
(An hour's ride will bring you down,)
He fixes on his choice abode,
Not half a furlong from the road:
And fo convenient does it lay,
The stages pafs it ev'ry day:
And then fo fnug, fo mighty pretty,
To have an houfe fo near the city!
Take but your places at the Boar
You're fet down at the very door.

Well then, fuppofe them fix'd at last, White-washing, painting, fcrubbing past,

With all the fufs of moving over; Lo, a new heap of whims are bred! And wanton in my lady's head.

Well to be fure, it must be own'd, It is a charming spot of ground; So fweet a distance for a ride,

Vos fapere & folos aio bene vivere, quorum, Confpicitur nitidis fundata pecunia villis. HOR.

T

HE wealthy Cit, grown old in trade,
Now wishes for the rural shade,
And buckles to his one horse-chair,
Old Dobbin, or the founder'd mare;
While wedg'd in closely by his fide,
Sits Madam, his unwieldy bride,
With Jacky on the ftool before 'em,
And out they jog in due decorum.
Scarce paft the turnpike half a mile,
How all the country feems to fmile!
And as they flowly jog together,

The Cit commends the road and weather;
While Madam doats upon the trees,
And longs for ev'ry house the fees,
Admires its views, its fituation,
And thus fhe her oration.

opens
What fignify the loads of wealth,
Without that richest jewel, health?
Excufe the fondnefs of a wife,

Who doats upon your precious life!

'Twould come but to a trifling price
To make it quite a paradife;
I cannot bear those nafty rails,
Thofe ugly broken mouldy pales:
Suppofe, my dear, inftead of thefe,
We build a railing, all Chinese.
Although one hates to be expos'd;
"Tis difmal to be thus inclos'd;
One hardly any object fees-

I wish you'd fell those odious trees.
Objects continual paffing by
Were fomething to amuse the eye,
But to be pent within the walls-
One might as well be at St. Paul's.
Our house, beholders would adore,
Was there a level lawn before,
Nothing its views to incommode,
But quite laid open to the road;
While ev'ry trav❜ler in amaze,
Should on our little manfion gaze,
And pointing to the choice retreat,
Cry, that's Sir Thrifty's Country Seat.

No doubt her arguments prevail,
For Madam's TASTE can never fail.
Bleft age! when all men may procure,
The title of a Connoiffeur;