Remarks on a play, call'd, The conscious lovers: a comedy. By Mr. Dennis.

REMARKS ON A PLAY, CALL'D, The Conſcious Lovers, A COMEDY.

For, changing Rules, of late, as if Men writ In ſpite of Reaſon, Nature, Art, and Wit, Our Poets make us Laugh at Tragedy, And with their Comedies they make us cry. Prologue to the Rehearſal.

It appears from Conſideration of ancient, as well as modern Time, that the Cauſe and Intereſt of Criticks is the ſame with that of Wit, Learning, and good Senſe. The late Earl of Shaftsbury's Characteriſticks, Vol. 1. p. 260.

By Mr. DENNIS.

LONDON, Printed for T. WARNER at the Black-Boy in Pater-Noſter-Row. MDCCXXIII. Price One Shilling.

To the Right Honourable ROBERT WALPOLE Eſq Firſt Lord Commiſſioner of the TREASURY, Chancellor of the Exchequer, And One of His Majeſty's Moſt Honourable Privy Council. SIR,

I Take the Liberty of addreſſing the following Sheets to you, without the Formality of asking your Leave: I have for a long Time thought that ſuch a Formality propoſes an implicite Bargain, which is very liable to be turn'd into Ridicule. This was the Opinion of the late Earl of Hallifax, who had receiv'd more Addreſſes of this Nature, than any Man of his Time. The End of this Epiſtle, is, to return you my humble Thanks for Obligations paſt; for Obligations laid not only upon me, but upon my Country, when you endeavour'd to ſerve it ſo warmly, by oppoſing that deſperate Scheme which had like to have proved ſo fatal to it, and by adviſing, after the Miſchief was done, the Uſe of Lenitives, rather than of Corroſives, which might have thrown all Things into Confuſion. Another Intention of this Addreſs, is, to implore your Protection for the expiring Arts; for thoſe noble Arts in which you have been educated, and which have rais'd you to this envied Heighth, as it were, on purpoſe that you may prove their Protector and Preſerver. You are not to be told, Sir, and it would be eaſy to prove it to the reſt of the World, that the Studies of Humanity in Great Britain have flouriſh'd with the Stage; and that with the Stage they muſt in time decline. I ſpeak not only of every other Branch of Poetry, but even of that manly Eloquence which appears ſo conſpicuous in you, whenever you are pleas'd to diſplay its Charms to an Auguſt Aſſembly. But the Stage is juſt upon the Point of ſinking, unleſs an Arm ſo powerful as yours ſhall vouchſafe to ſupport it. A Wat Tyler, a Jack Straw, and a Jack Cade of Parnaſſus, have by Encroachments got the entire Direction of it from its eaſy Patentee, and ſeem reſolv'd, like their Name-ſakes of old, to advance the Rabble and Scum of Parnaſſus, and to oppreſs or demoliſh all whom God and Nature have plac'd above them. The Dramatick Piece on which I have writ the following Remarks, has, with a thouſand Faults, and a thouſand Weakneſſes, been palm'd upon the World by ſhameful Artifices for a Wonder of Art and Nature: And that no one may preſume to detect the Fraud, the Author has inſolently dar'd to fly for Protection to the King himſelf. But the Author ought to have known, that it can never be the Deſign of ſo good and ſo wiſe a King, to ſhelter Error from the Attacks of Reaſon: He ought to have known, that the King has declar'd his Intention to encourage real Merit, that Learning and Arts may flouriſh; by which Glory may accrue to His Reign, and Honour to Great Britain.

You know very well, Sir, that there has not been in Europe theſe thouſand Years a Prince more haughty than Lewis XIV. a Prince more jealous of his Authority, and more ambitious of Glory: You know, Sir, that almoſt all his Poetical Subjects, who knew the darling Paſſion of his Soul, addreſs'd ſome of their Works to him. You know very well, Sir, that moſt of them had been rewarded by him: And yet when BOILEAU, in a Diſcourſe addreſs'd to that King himſelf, and afterwards prefixed to his Works, expos'd and ridiculed the greateſt Part of thoſe Pieces; you know very well, Sir, that that diſcerning Prince, who ſaw that his true Intereſt and his ſolid Glory depended upon the Advancement of Arts, and upon the encouraging real Merit, was ſo far from being offended with BOILEAU for the Liberty he took in that Diſcourſe, that it recommended him to his Favour.

I do believe, from my very Soul, that 'tis the Intention of ſo wiſe a Prince as the King, to encourage Arts and Learning; and I ſhould have believ'd it, tho' the King had never told us ſo, becauſe I know it to be his true Intereſt. And therefore I can never believe that 'tis the King's Intention any more to patronize Ignorance and Error in the Writings of his Subjects, than to protect their Vices and Follies of any other Kind. For Ignorance and Error, and Vice and Folly, muſt eſtrange the Hearts of his Subjects from him; only Ignorance and Error, and Vice and Folly, can favour and indulge that Superſtition, and that falſe Religion, which are his mortal Enemies. And yet it has happen'd, by I know not what ſort of Caprice of Fortune, or of Fate, that Arts and Learning have, of late, ſenſibly, if not precipitately, declin'd. Never did ſuch a Crowd of ill Plays and miſerable Poems appear in ſo ſhort a Time: We have hardly ſeen one good one. And what is yet more ſurpriſing, the moſt ſtupid of all thoſe Plays and Poems, have been addreſs'd to the King himſelf. One would ſwear, that the Authors were wild enough to expect, that Penſions, Gratuities, and Salaries, ſhould be appointed to encourage Stupidity, and to mortify Senſe and Merit. The very Boaſt and Glory of the Britiſh Muſe is Comedy, in which Great Britain excels every other Country: Nay, we can ſhew more good, and more entertaining Comedies, than all the reſt of Europe together. During the whole Reigns of King Charles, King James, and King William, there hardly paſs'd a Year without one or two, and ſometimes three. During the Reign of King William alone, we had ſeven or eight very agreeable ones, only from two Gentlemen, Sir John Vanbrugh and Mr. Congreve. But ſince that pernicious Licence was granted to four ſordid Players, during the late Queen's Time, we have hardly had one that has been worth one Farthing.

Sir, As the King, upon his Acceſſion to the Crown, came a Stranger among us, and as the Miniſtry had then, and have had almoſt ever ſince, Affairs of greater and more immediate Importance, than thoſe of the Theatre, the aforeſaid Grant of the late Queen was unhappily renew'd; ſince which the Stage has yearly declin'd, and does decline daily; and every Branch of Human Learning daily declines with it. Etenim omnes artes, quae ad Humanitatem pertinent, habeant quoddam commune vinculum, & quaſi cognatione quadam inter ſe continentur. Thus all the Branches of Human Learning are like to be loſt, or very much impair'd, unleſs you generouſly undertake to ſupport them. If the Condition in which they are, were but known to the King, I am confident, he would not ſuffer them to be driven from among us during his Reign, as he regards either his own Intereſt and Glory, or the Intereſt and Glory of the Nation which he governs. Nor is it beneath the greateſt and the wiſeſt Miniſter to take care of Arts and Letters. Two of the greateſt that ever were in the World, Maecenas and Cardinal Richlieu, are chiefly famous for the Protection they gave to them. Whenever, in any Nation, Human Learning has been diligently and impartially cultivated, at that Time that Nation has flouriſh'd, its King has been glorious and belov'd, and his Miniſters renowned and happy. I am,

SIR, Your moſt Humble, Moſt Obliged, and Moſt Obedient Servant, JOHN DENNIS.

THE PREFACE.

WHEN ſometime before the acting of Sir Richard's Play, I obſerved the ſcandalous Artifices that were practis'd to procure Succeſs to it, and was acquainted with the double Cheat which was to be impos'd on the Town, upon their Pockets, and upon their Underſtandings, I thought I ſhould deſerve the Favour of the Publick, if I diſcover'd and prevented ſo groſs an Impoſition, and ſo palpable an Affront. But inſtead of meeting with the Thanks which I expected, and which I thought I had merited by the Service I intended them. I found myſelf in the ſame Situation that Surly was, upon diſcovering the Cheat in the Alchymiſt; for not only Face and Subtle, who were Joynt-partners in carrying on this Poetical Cheat made vehement Outcries, and ſpread various Slanders, and engag'd ſeveral of their Bubbles to believe them, and diſperſe them, but they obliged the moſt Senſeleſs of all their Bubbles to repeat the Scurrility which they dictated to them. This immediately not only recall'd Butler's Verſes to my Remembrance,

Doubtleſs the Pleaſure is as great, Of being cheated, as to cheat: As Lookers-on feel moſt Delight, That leaſt perceive a Juggler's Slight, And ſtill the leſs they underſtand, The more th' admire his Slight of Hand;

but made me ſuſpect that Butler in this hardly came up to the full Truth, becauſe the fooliſh Part of the World loves more to be cheated, than the knaviſh Part does to cheat. The Generality of Mankind are ſure to love him, who impoſes on them, and to hate him who opens their Eyes; For he who cheats them, does it by entertaining ſome pleaſing Paſſion: But he who undeceives them, holds the Glaſs to them, and ſhews them Truth and themſelves, a mortifying Sight. Now, whenever you put a Man out of Conceit with himſelf, you put him out of Humour with you likewiſe. All the Time the grand Cheat of the South Sea was carrying on by the firſt Directors, I conſtantly obſerv'd, that if any one at any Time was ſo hardy as to tell any one of the Subcribers that he was cheated, it made him terribly out of humour with him who told him ſo, and augmented his implicit Faith in the Directors who cheated him, and redoubled his Reſpect and Eſteem for them.

The double Cheat above-mention'd, which was contriv'd by Face and Subtle in Concert, but executed cheifly by Subtle, was perhaps the moſt audacious that ever was impos'd on the Capital of a great People, by Perſons who pretended at the ſame Time to act by publick Authority: And I know not which is the more impudent Part of it; the uſing ſuch ſcandalous Methods, to make the moſt abſurd and moſt inſipid Entertainment that ever came upon the Engliſh Stage, paſs for the very beſt, or the raiſing the Prices for a Hum-drum Repreſentation, which they had nicknamed a Comedy, and the raiſing them on the Account of the Scenes, forſooth. Sir William Davenant was the firſt who brought Scenes upon the Stage, towards the Middle of the laſt Century; and to defray the Expence of them, from time to time, rais'd the Theatrical Receipt above a third Part higher than it was before. The Pit, which was before but eighteen Pence, was rais'd to Half a Crown; The Boxes, which were Half a Crown before, were advanc'd to four Shillings; the firſt Gallery from a Shilling to eighteen Pence; and the upper Gallery, from Sixpence to a Shilling. So that, as I ſaid before, there is above a third Part of each Night's Receipt, even at the common Prices, allow'd for the Scenes. Now what ſhall we ſay of theſe moſt ſordid Wretches, whoſe Avarice is no more to be ſatisfied than the barren Womb, or the Grave? They are not contented, it ſeems, with getting, even at common Prices, each of them a thouſand or fifteen Hundred Pounds a Year, which enables them to live in ſhameful Luxury, diſgraceful to Great Britain: They are not contented to loll each of them in his gilded Chariot, as often as they vouchſafe, at their own Expence, to give the Publick a Farce without Doors, and to look down upon the tranſitory Bubles, who ſupport them: They are not contented to enjoy their unmerited Gains, without paying any Thing out of them either to Poor or Publi •• , and that at a Time when Offices, Salaries, Penſions, when every Mortal, every Thing is tax'd: They are not content to be thus unaccountably indulg'd; but at the ſame Time they muſt impoſe upon the Publick, and wrong their Audiences of twelve hundred Pounds, as they certainly did, during, what, in their Theatrical Cant, they call the Run of their laſt Rhapſody.

Some People take Succeſs to be a Proof of Merit in Writers, whereas in the Degeneracy of Taſte, if 'tis attended with a Cabal, 'tis a certain Proof of the want of it. All the Roman Satiriſts were out of Humour with the ſucceſsful Scriblers of their Times, becauſe as it appears by what they ſay of them, they ow'd their Succeſs to Cabals, and to the repeating their Works to Aſſemblies: Witneſs what Horace ſays of Fannius in the 4th Satire of the firſt Book.

—Beatus Fannius, ultro Delatis capſis & imagine: cum mea nemo Scripta legat, vulgo recitare timentis—

And what Juvenal ſays in the beginning of his firſt Satire,

Semper ego Auditor tantum? nunquamne reponam, Vexatus toties Rauci Theſeide Codri? Ergo impune mihi recitaverit ille togatas Hic elegos?

But beſides undeſerved Succeſs, the Roman Satiriſts had another Provocation to Satire, and that was Hypocriſy, when Perſons who were void of all Morality pretended to a more rigid Virtue than all the reſt of the World; and it was this chiefly that mov'd the Spleen of Lucilius, as Horace tells us in the firſt Satire of his ſecond Book.

—eſt Lucilius auſus Primus in hunc operis componere carmina morem, Detrahere & pellem, nitidus quâ quiſque per ora, Cederet, introrſum turpis.

But if ſuch vile Wretches ever arrived to ſuch a Height of Impudence as to pretend to teach Virtue to the reſt of the World, the Provocation then became inſupportable, and the Satiriſt began with Fury.

Ultra Sauromatas fugere hinc libet, & glacialem Oceanum, quoties aliquid de moribus audent, Qui Curios ſimulant, & Bacchanalia vivunt. Juv. Sat. 2.

As I make no doubt but that upon the publiſhing this little Treatiſe there will be the ſame Outcries againſt Criticks and Criticiſm, which have been formerly ſo often raiſed, I ſhall lay before the Reader what the late Earl of Shaftsbury writ in Defence of them, with a great deal of good Senſe, and Addreſs, and Penetration. The Paſſage is in the 230th Page of the firſt Volume of the Characteriſticks.

Nor ſhould I ſuſpect the Genius of our Writers, or charge them with Meanneſs and Inſufficiency on the account of this Low-ſpiritedneſs which they diſcover, were it not for another ſort of Fear, by which they more plainly betray themſelves, and ſeem conſcious of their own Defects. The Criticks, it ſeems, are formidable to 'em: TheCriticks are the dreadful Spectres, the Giants, the Enchanters, who traverſe and diſturb them in their Works: Theſe are the Perſecutors, for whoſe Sakes they are ready to hide their Heads, begging Reſcue and Protection from all good People, and flying in particular to the Great, by whoſe Favour they hope to be defended from this mercileſs, examining Race; for what can be more cruel than to be forc'd to ſubmit to the rigorous Laws of Wit, and write under ſuch ſevere Judges as are deaf to all Courtſhip, and can be wrought upon by no Inſinuation or Flattery to paſs by Faults, and pardon any Tranſgreſſion of Art?

To judge, indeed, of the Circumſtances of a modern Author by the Pattern of his Prefaces, Dedications, and Introductions, one would think, that at the Moment, when a Piece of his was in hand, ſome Conjuration was forming againſt him, ſome diabolical Powers drawing together to blaſt his Work, and croſs his generous Deſign; he therefore rouzes his Indignation, hardens his Forehead, and with many furious Defiances and Avaunt-Satans! enters on his Buſineſs, not with the leaſt regard to what may juſtly be objected to him in a way of Criticiſm, but with an abſolute Contempt of the Manner and Art itſelf.

Odi profanum vulgus & arceo, was in its time, no doubt, a generous Defiance; the Avaunt was natural and proper in its place, eſpecially where Religion and Virtue were the Poets Theme; but with our Moderns the Caſe is generally the very reverſe, and accordingly the Defiance or Avaunt ſhould run much after this manner. As for you vulgar Souls, mere Naturals, who know no Art, were never admitted into the Temple of Wiſdom, nor ever viſited the Sanctuaries of Wit or Learning, gather yourſelves together from all Parts, and hearken to the Song or Tale I am about to utter; but for you Men of Science and Underſtanding, who have Ears and Judgment, and can weigh Senſe, ſcan Syllables, and meaſure Sounds; you who by a certain Art diſtinguiſh falſe Thought from true, Correctneſs from Rudeneſs, and Bombaſt and Chaos from Order and the Sublime, away hence! or ſtand aloof! whilſt I practiſe upon the Eaſineſs of thoſe mean Capacities and Apprehenſions who make the moſt numerous Audience, and are the only competent Judges of my Labours.

Accuracy of Workmanſhip requires a Critick's Eye; 'tis loſt upon a vulgar Judgment. Nothing grieves a real Artiſt, more than that Indifference of the Publick, which ſuffers Work to paſs uncriticiz'd. Nothing on the other Side, rejoices him, more than the nice View and Inſpection of the accurate Examiner, and Judge of Work: 'Tis the mean Genius, the ſlovenly Performer, who knowing nothing of true Workmanſhip, endeavours by the beſt outward Gloſs, and dazzling Shew, to turn the Eye from a direct and ſteddy Survey of his Piece.

What is there which an expert Muſician more deſires than to perform his Part in in the Preſence of thoſe who are knowing in his Art? 'Tis to the Ear alone he applies himſelf; the critical, the nice Ear. Let his Hearers be of what Character they pleaſe: Be they naturally auſtere, moroſe, or rigid; no matter ſo they are Criticks, able to cenſure, remark, and ſound every Accord and Symphony. What is there mortifies the good Painter, more than when amidſt his admiring Spectators, there is not one preſent who has been us'd to compare the Hands of different Maſters, or has an Eye to diſtinguiſh the Advantages or Defects of every Stile? Thro' all the inferior Orders of Mechanicks, the Rule is found to hold the ſame: In every Science, every Art, the real Maſters, or Proficients, rejoice in nothing more, than in the thorough Search and Examination of their Performances by all the Rules of Art, and niceſt Criticiſm. Why therefore (in the Muſes Name) is it not the ſame with our Pretenders to the Writing Art; our Poets and Proſe Authors of every kind? Why, in this Profeſſion are we found ſuch Critick-Haters, and indulg'd in this unlearn'd Averſion, unleſs it be taken for granted that as Wit and Learning ſtand at preſent, in our Nation, we are ſtill upon the Foot of Empiricks and Mountebanks.

From theſe Conſiderations, I take upon me abſolutely to condemn the faſhionable Cuſtom of inveighing againſt Criticks, as the common Enemies, the Peſts, and Incendiaries of the Commonwealth of Wit and Letters. I aſſert, on the contrary, that they are the Props and Pillars of this Building; and that without the Encouragement and Propagation of this Race, we ſhould remain as Gothick Architects as ever.

Thus far the late moſt ingenious and moſt judicious Earl of Shaftsbury has gone in the Defence of Criticks and Criticiſm. I ſhall deſire to ſay a little in my own particular Defence: I have been long ſince repreſented, by Perſons who have never read what I have writ, as one who likes nothing, and one who makes it his Buſineſs to find out Faults, and never diſcovers Beauties: Upon my publiſhing lately the Defence of Sir Fopling Flutter, this Accuſation was renew'd, tho' it was a Contradiction in Terms. It being impoſſible that any one can write a Defence of a Dramatick Poem, which he does not like; or commend a Comedy, in which he finds no Beauties. The Truth of this Affair is, that no Engliſh Author of any Note has commended ſo many Engliſh Poets, as I have: I ſhall give a Liſt of ſome of them; Shakeſpear, Ben Johnſon, Milton, Butler, Roſcomon, Denham, Waller, Dryden, Wycherly, Otway, Etherege, Shadwell, Crown, Congreve, Phillips. Theſe are ſome of thoſe whom I have occaſionally commended, and in ſome of them too have found out Beauties, which every one could not diſcover.

If any one believes, that in ſome Places of the following Sheets I have been too harſh, and too ſevere, I deſire ſuch a one to conſider, that I have been baſely wrong'd, and barbarouſly us'd, by the Perſons upon whom I may be thought to be too ſevere: And as the Wrongs which have been done me, do not come within the Cognizance of the National Law, nor under the uſual Forms of the National Equity, I am as to this Matter, in a State of Nature with thoſe Perſons, and am authoriz'd by the Law of Nature to do myſelf Juſtice, as far as it may be done, without offending the Laws of my Country, or impartial Equity.

REMARKS ON THE PREFACE TO THE Conſcious Lovers.

THE Author tells us in the Beginning of his Preface, That this Comedy has been receiv'd with univerſal Acceptance. Whether he is in the Right, or not, I appeal to the World. The Reaſon which he gives for this univerſal Acceptance is very extraordinary: It has been receiv'd, ſays he, with univerſal Acceptance, for it was in every Part excellently perform'd. Is it not a pleaſant Humility in a Dramatick Writer, to affirm, that he is indebted for his whole Succeſs to the Actors? I was apt to believe, at the firſt Sight, that this was an affected Modeſty, and a counterfeit Humility. But when I went a little further, I began to think I was miſtaken, and that the Author was in earneſt; for he ſeems to be apprehenſive, that the Applauſe of the Reader would hardly be ſo general as was that of the Spectator; and he does his Endeavour to induce the Reader not to paſs a Judgment of the Play, till he has ſeen it acted: It muſt be remembred, ſays he, that a Play is to be ſeen, and is made to be repreſented with the Advantage of Actors, nor can appear but with half the Spirit without it. Now there have been ſeveral Plays writ in ſeveral Languages, which were never deſign'd to be ſeen. There are two of our own: The Tragedy of Sampſon, by Milton; and the State of Innocence, by Dryden. 'Tis true, indeed, moſt Plays are deſign'd by their Authors to be ſeen, but that is not the chief Deſign of a Dramatick Writer, who has a good Genius. For ſuch an Author writes to all Countries, and to all Ages, and writes with the lively Hope, that his great Maſter-pieces ſhall outlive the very Language in which they are compos'd. When Sir Richard ſays, That a Play can appear but with half the Spirit, unleſs we ſee it acted, I would fain ask, on whom he deſigns to impoſe this? If he who reads a Play is qualified to read and to judge, he reads it with a truer and juſter Spirit than can be ſupplied by any Company of Actors. If ſuch a Reader happens at any Time to be better pleaſed with the Repreſentation of a Play than the reading it, 'tis an infallible Sign, that ſuch a Play is a very wretched Performance.

But let us ſee how Sir Richard goes on. The greateſt Effect, ſays he, of a Play in reading it, is to excite the Reader to go ſee it; and when he does ſo, it is then a Play has the Effect of Precept and Example. Good God! is it poſſible that this could come from any one but a Man who is reſolv'd to ſhew that he takes all his Readers to be Ideots? When we read the Tragedies of Sophocles or Euripides, or the Comedies of Ariſtophanes, Plautus, or Terence, is the greateſt Effect they have upon us, the exciting us to go to ſee them acted? When Sir Richard read the Andria of Terence, was the exciting him to go to ſee it acted the greateſt Effect that it had upon him? No, the greateſt Effect that it had upon him, was the Deſire to ſee another Play acted, and that was his own deplorable Imitation of the Andria.

But a Play, ſays he, has only, in the Repreſentation, the Effect of Example and Precept. So that 'tis not the Dramatick Perſons, it ſeems, 'tis not Timoleon, Scipio, Bontus, who are to be the Examples of Virtue to us; no, 'tis the Players, I warrant, who repreſent them; 'tis Mr. Booth, Mr. Robert Wilks, and Mr. Colley Cibber, whoſe Heroick Virtue we are to imitate, and by whoſe Actions we are to be inſtructed.

But Sir Richard goes on, and tells us, That the chief Deſign of the Conſcious Lovers was to be an innocent Performance. Now there are a hundred innocent Performances upon the Britiſh Stage: But perhaps he meant a Performance that ſhould have nothing but its Innocence to recommend it, and ſhould, by conſequence, be thought the only Play of its Kind. But in that he is miſtaken, for there is one more, and that is, the Performance of Bays in the Rehearſal, which is, indeed, incoherent, incongruous, impertinent, inſipid, and ridiculous; but certainly a very innocent Performance. I am afraid it will appear by the following Sheets, that the Conſcious Lovers has no ſmall Share of ſome of theſe Qualities, and has nothing valuable but barely the Cataſtrophe. And here I cannot but obſerve, that Sir Richard, who has upon ſo many Occaſions inveigh'd againſt the Rules, and particularly, in that notable Paper call'd the Theatre, owes the only entertaining Scene of his Play to the Obſervation of a Rule of Ariſtotle, which is, That the Diſcovery ſhould be immediately follow'd by the Change of Fortune, that is, by the Cataſtrophe. Sir Richard, indeed, without ever dreaming of Ariſtotle, had it from Terence, who took it from Menander, who had it from the Precept of that great Philoſopher, and from the Practice of Sophocles and Euripides. For the tragick and comick Poets frequently borrow'd their Hints from one another; but, at the ſame time, took Care to do it with Judgment, and not to intrench upon each other's Province. And therefore we ſee, that the Diſcovery in Terence, and the Reconciliation of Simo to Pamphilus, is comprehended in a narrow Compaſs, and has nothing in it of thoſe violent Tranſports of Grief which are inconſiſtent with Comedy.

Verſibus exponi Tragicis res comica non vult,

ſays Horace in his Art of Poetry, which Boileau has imitated in the two following Lines of his

Le Comique ennemi des ſoupirs & des pleurs N'admet point en ſoi des Tragiques Douleurs.

But I beg the Reader's Pardon for this Digreſſion, and now return to the Preface.

As to the Quarrel in the fourth Act, I ſhall ſpeak to it in its Place. In the mean time I am of the Number of thoſe, who believe that this Incident, and the Caſe of the Father and Daughter, are not the proper Subjects of Comedy. When Sir Richard ſays, that any thing that has its Foundation in Happineſs and Succeſs muſt be the Subject of Comedy, he confounds Comedy with that Species of Tragedy which has a happy Cataſtrophe. When he ſays, that 'tis an Improvement of Comedy to introduce a Joy too exquiſite for Laughter, he takes all the Care that he can to ſhew, that he knows nothing of the Nature of Comedy. Does he really believe that Moliere underſtood the Nature of it: I ſay Moliere, who, in the Opinion of all Europe, excepting that ſmall Portion of it which is acquainted with Ben Johnſon, had born away the Prize of Comedy from all Nations, and from all Ages, if for the ſake of his Profit, he had not deſcended ſometimes too much to Buffoonry. Let Sir Richard, or any one, look into that little Piece of Moliere, call'd, La Critique de l'Ecole des Femmes, and he ſhall find there, that in Moliere's Opinion, 'tis the Buſineſs of a Comick Poet to enter into the Ridicule of Men, and to expoſe the blind Sides of all Sorts of People agreeably; that he does nothing at all, if he does not draw the Pictures of his Contemporaries, and does not raiſe the Mirth of the ſenſible Part of an Audience, which, ſays he, 'tis no eaſy Matter to do. This is the Senſe of Moliere, tho' the Words are not his exactly.

When Sir Richard talks of a Joy too exquiſite for Laughter, he ſeems not to know that Joy, generally taken, is common like Anger, Indignation, Love, to all Sorts of Poetry, to the Epick, the Dramatick, the Lyrick; but that that kind of Joy which is attended with Laughter, is the Characteriſtick of Comedy; as Terror or Compaſſion, according as one or the other is predominant, makes the Characteriſtick of Tragedy, as Admiration does of Epick Poetry.

When Sir Richard ſays, That weeping upon the Sight of a deplorable Object is not a Subject for Laughter, but that 'tis agreeable to good Senſe and to Humanity, he ſays nothing but what all the ſenſible Part of the World has already granted; but then all that ſenſible Part of the World have always deny'd, that a deplorable Object is fit to be ſhewn in Comedy. When Sir George Etherege, in his Comedy of Sir Fopling Flutter, ſhews Loveit in all the Height and Violence of Grief and Rage, the Judicious Poet takes care to give thoſe Paſſions a ridiculous Turn by the Mouth of Dorimant. Beſides that, the Subject is at the Bottom ridiculous: For Loveit is a Miſtreſs, who has abandon'd her ſelf to Dorimant; and by falling into theſe violent Paſſions, only becauſe ſhe fancies that ſomething of which ſhe is very deſirous has gone beſide her, makes herſelf truly ridiculous. Thus is this famous Scene in the ſecond Act of Sir Foppling, by the Character of Loveit, and the dextrous handling the Subject, kept within the Bounds of Comedy: But the Scene of the Diſcovery in the Conſcious Lovers is truly Tragical. Indiana was ſtrictly virtuous: She had indeed conceiv'd a violent Paſſion for Bevil; but all young People in full Health are liable to ſuch a Paſſion, and perhaps the moſt ſenſible and the moſt virtuous are more than others liable: But beſides, that ſhe had kept this Paſſion within the Bounds of Honour, it was the natural Effect of her Eſteem for her Benefactor, and of her Gratitude, that is, of her Virtue. Theſe Conſiderations render'd her Caſe deplorable, and the Cataſtrophe downright tragical, which of a Comedy ought to be the moſt comical Part, for the ſame Reaſon that it ought to be the moſt tragical Part of a Tragedy.

Before I take my Leave of Sir Richard's Preface, I cannot help ſaying a Word to his Song, which he has brought in here by Violence, to the great Surprize of the Reader, for no other End, than to ſhew that he is as notable at Metre as he is at Proſe. He ſeems as much concern'd for the Omiſſion of it in the Repreſentation of his, as Bays in the third Act of the Rehearſal is for the Neglect of his; nay, and to have as high an Opinion of it, as that merry Bard diſcovers that he has of his, when he ſays to Johnſon, What! are they gone without ſinging my laſt new Song? 's Bud, would it were in their Bellies. I'll tell you, Mr. Johnſon, if I have any Skill in theſe Matters, I vow to Gad this Song is peremptorily the very beſt that ever yet was written: You muſt know it was made by Tom Thimble's firſt Wife, after ſhe was dead.

So that this Song of Mr. Bays too, as well as his Brother Sir Richard's, is a Love-Song, deſign'd juſt as judiciouſly, expreſs'd juſt as paſſionately, but more harmoniouſly, more freely, and better contriv'd for Melody. And yet from the Omiſſion of this Song of his, does Sir Richard take an occaſion to affront the fineſt Artiſt of his kind in the World, and to treat Signor Carbonelli like a Country Fidler, who ſings John Dory at Wakes and Fairs to Hobnail'd Peaſants and Milk-Maids.

I thought here to take my Leave; but the Sight of Terence and Cibber together provokes me to go a little farther.

Jungentur jam gryphes equis: aevoque ſequenti Cum canibus timidi venient ad pocula damae. Virg.

Sir Richard ſays, that he is extremely ſurpriz'd to find what Cibber told him prove a Truth, that what he valued himſelf ſo much upon, the Tranſlation of Terence ſhould be imputed to him as a Reproach. Sir Richard knew very well, that Cibber had ſaid ſo many falſe Things with relation to this Play, that he might be very well ſurpriz'd to find Truth come from him, eſpecially upon that Subject. But Sir Richard is miſtaken; Cibber is conſtant to himſelf, and does not deviate from Falſhood upon this Occaſion. No Mortal reproaches Sir Richard with his Tranſlation of Terence. He has ſhewn clearly, that he is not capable of tranſlating any one Scene of him. But tho' he had been never ſo capable, he ought to have known that a Tranſlation of Terence, by the beſt Hand in the World, would not ſucceed upon the Engliſh Stage. He ought to have known the Defect, that the Romans themſelves, who liv'd ſome time after him, and eſpecially Caeſar, found in that Comick Poet. The great Objection to him was, that he wanted the comick Force, that is to ſay, that he had not in his Comedies that Humour and Pleaſantry which are ſo agreeable to the Nature of Comedy. For the Force of any kind of Writing conſiſts chiefly in that which diſtinguiſhes it from all other Kinds. Now the Ridicule being that which diſtinguiſhes Comedy from every other kind of Poetry, the Comick Force muſt conſiſt in that. But how came it to paſs then, that five of the ſix Comedies of Terence ſucceeded upon the Roman Stage? The Anſwer is plain, becauſe the Generality of the Romans, at the Time they were writ, knew no better. The Roman Comedy in general had but little of that agreeable Pleaſantry that is fit to divert Men of Senſe, which occaſion'd the following Cenſure of Quintilian: In Comaedia maxime claudicamus: licet Varro dicat Muſas, Aelii Stolonis ſententia, Plautino ſermone locuturas fuiſſe, ſi latinè loqui vellent: licet Caecilium veteres laudibus ferant: licet Terentii ſcripta ad Scipionem Africanum referantur: quae tamen ſunt in hoc genere elegantiſſima, & plus adhuc habitura gratiae ſi intra Verſus trimetros ſtetiſſent. Vix levem conſequimur umbram, adeo ut mihi ſermo ipſe Romanus non recipere videatur illam ſolis conceſſam Atticis venerem, quando eam ne Graeci quidem in alio genere linguae obtinuerint. And therefore, when Shadwell undertook to write a Comedy upon the Plan of the Adelphi, he, who very well knew the Nature of his Art, and by conſequence knew what was defective in the Roman Comedy, took particular Care to ſupply from his own Invention the Ridicule that was wanting in that; and it was by uſing that Method that he made the Squire of Alſatia a very good and very entertaining Comedy. Moliere, who writ upon the ſame Plan, has done the very ſame Thing in his L'Ecole des Maris. He has done the very ſame in his Fourberies de Scapin, which is writ upon the Plan of the Phormio; but in the latter, he has gone too far, and ſhamefully, to uſe the Expreſſion of Boileau, coupled Terence with Jack-Pudding; a Conjunction as ſcandalous as Sir Richard had made of Terence and his Friend Cibber: I heartily congratulate both of them upon this their mutual Friendſhip. They are par nobile fratrum, a Pair ſo pious, ſo good, ſo human, ſo virtuous, ſo religious, that they are perfectly ſecur'd, even in the midſt of a treacherous World, of each other's mutual Fidelity; becauſe there is not in the World that Third Perſon who is fit to be a Friend to either. The Knight was too humble, when he attributed the great Succeſs of his Play to the Players in general; the Succeſs is only due to himſelf, and to his virtuous Friend; that is, to that Cabal which was ſo induſtriouſly conven'd by them, and to thoſe Artifices which were with ſo much Skill conducted by them. They have done greater Services than this for each other, and have ſecured the Stage to themſelves alone, which they regard as their proper Domain, and therefore every Stranger who for the future comes upon their Ground, is to be eſteem'd a Treſpaſſer. In the mean Time, they have reſolved between themſelves, to make the Town ſwallow any Entertainment which they ſhall think fit to provide for them; and they ſeem agreed to vouch for each other. Cibber is to make Affidavit, that the Knight's Gudgeons are Cod-Fiſh and Sea-Carp, that arriv'd by the laſt Fiſh-Pool; and the Knight is to give it upon his immaculate Honour, that Cibber's Strickle-Bats and Millers-Thumbs are either Mullets or Turbuts. And they ſeem to have made a formal Order, That the Town ſhall believe them, under the Penalty of being treated with the ſame Anathema's that Martin and John were treated by Peter in the Tale of a Tub; that is, if you will not give Credit to what we tell you, rather than believe your Senſes, G _… d eternally damn you. Cibber indeed has receiv'd ſome tranſitory Rebukes upon taking this Reſolution; but he ſtill keeps firm to his Point, and is reſolved to carry it.

REMARKS ON THE Conſcious Lovers.

I HAVE determin'd to make ſome Remarks, with Brevity and Impartiallity, upon a late Dramatick Performance, call'd, The Conſcious Lovers, a Comedy: That I may be then certainly able to determine whether the great Succeſs of it is owing to uncommon Merit, or to thoſe extraordinary infamous Methods which I have lately taken Notice of in a former Treatiſe, and which, if there is not a ſudden Stop put to them, will occaſion the utter Downfal of the Stage, and of all the Arts dependent on it.

'Tis an Obſervation of Ariſtotle, in the ſixteenth Chapter of his Poeticks, that there ſhould be no Incident in the Action of a Tragedy, which ſhould be without its Reaſon, becauſe the Abſurdity of the Incidents would deſtroy the Probability of the Action, and turn poetical Fiction into downright Falſhood. Now, if upon this Account 'tis requir'd that all the Incidents ſhould be reaſonable in Tragedy, 'tis ſtill more requiſite in Comedy, where the Probable is more neceſſary, and the Wonderful leſs tolerable. But now this whole Dramatick Performance ſeems to me to be built upon ſeveral Things which have no Foundation, either in Probability, or in Reaſon, or Nature. The Father of Indiana, whoſe Name is Danvers, and who was formerly an eminent Merchant at Briſtol, upon his Arrival from the Indies, from whence he returns with a great Eſtate, carries on a very great Trade at London unknown to his Friends and Relations at Briſtol, under the Name of Sealand. Now this Fiction, without which there could be no Comedy, nor any thing call'd a Comedy, is not ſupported by Probability, or by Reaſon, or Nature. 'Tis true, he tells his Daughter, in the fifth Act, towards the Top of the 82d Page, That when his Misfortunes drove him to the Indies, for Reaſons too tedious to be mention'd at the Time he ſpoke, he chang'd his Name of Danvers into Sealand. When his Misfortunes drove him out of his Country, thoſe Misfortunes were Reaſons ſufficient to account for the changing his Name. But is it probable, that at his Arrival in the Indies, or at his Return to England with a vaſt Eſtate, he ſhould ſtill retain the Name of Sealand? Is it natural to believe, that under that borrow'd Name he ſhould conceal himſelf from his Family and all his Relations, as it appears by what his Daughter ſays, Act II. Page 30. that he does? Is it credible, that he could be ſuch a Monſter, as never to ſend to Briſtol after his Arrival from the Indies, to enquire after his Wife, his Siſter, and his Daughter? and that he ſhould feloniouſly marry a ſecond Wife, without ever knowing what was become of the firſt? Is it reaſonable to believe, that if he could be abſurd enough to deſign this, he could ever poſſibly effect it? Is it poſſible that a Man can return from the Indies with a vaſt Eſtate, and the World ſhould not know either what he is, or what he was when he went thither, eſpecially when he traded to every Part of the Globe? Is there ſo much as one Man in England with a vaſt Eſtate, whoſe Original is not known? Or was there ever any one great Merchant of London, whoſe Family and Original was not known to the Merchants at Briſtol, when betwixt the one and the other there is always ſo ſtrict and conſtant a Communication?

But ſecondly, the filial Obedience of young Bevil is carried a great deal too far. He is ſaid to be one of a great Eſtate, and a great Underſtanding; and yet he makes a Promiſe to his Father, not to marry without his Conſent, which is a Promiſe that can do his Father only a vain imaginary Good, and may do him real Hurt. A young Man of a great Underſtanding, cannot but know, that if he makes ſuch a Promiſe, he may be oblig'd to break it, or periſh, or, at leaſt, be unhappy all the reſt of his Life. Such a one cannot but know, that he may poſſibly be ſeiz'd with a Paſſion ſo reſiſtleſs, and ſo violent, that he muſt poſſeſs, or periſh; and conſequently, if the Woman who inſpires this Paſſion, be a Woman of ſtrict Virtue, he muſt marry, or periſh, or, at leaſt, be mortally uneaſy for the reſt of his Life. Children, indeed, before they come to Years of Diſcretion are oblig'd to pay a blind Obedience to their Parents. But after they are come to the full Uſe of their Reaſon, they are only bound to obey them in what is reaſonable. Indeed, if a Son is in Expectation of an Eſtate from his Father, he is engag'd to a good deal of Compliance, even after he comes to Years of Diſcretion. But that was not Bevil's Caſe: He enjoy'd a very good one of his Mother's, by vertue of a Marriage Article; and therefore it was unreaſonable in him to make ſuch a Promiſe to his Father, as it was unreaſonable in his Father to urge him to it, eſpecially upon ſo ſordid a Motive as the doubling a great Eſtate. This is acting in a manner ſomething arbitrary. And it ill becomes an Author, who would be thought a Patron of Liberty, to ſuppoſe that Fathers are abſolute, when Kings themſelves are limitted. If he had not an Underſtanding of his own to tell him this, he might have learn'd from Mr. Locke, in his ſixth Chapter of his admirable Eſſay on Government: That every Man has a Right to his natural Freedom, without being ſubjected to the Will or Authority of any other Man. Children, I confeſs, ſays that great Man, are not born in this full State of Equality, though they are born to it. Their Parents have a ſort of Rule and Juriſdiction over them when they come into the World, and for ſome Time after; but 'tis, ſays he, but a temporary one. The Bonds of this Subjection are like the Swadling Clothes which they are wrapp'd up in, and ſupported by in the Weakneſs of their Infancy: Age and Reaſon, as they grow up, looſen them, till at length they drop quite off, and leave a Man at his own free Diſpoſal.

The ſame Author a little after adds, That God having given Man an Underſtanding to direct his Actions, has allowed him a Freedom of Will, and Liberty of acting, as properly belonging thereunto, within the Bounds of that Law he is under. But while he is in an Eſtate wherein he has no Underſtanding of his own to direct his Will, he is not to have any Will of his own to follow; he that underſtands for him, muſt will for him too; he muſt preſcribe to his Will, and regulate his Actions: But when he comes to the Eſtate that made his Father a Freeman, the Son is a Freeman too.

This holds, ſays that great Man, in all the Laws a Man is under, whether Natural or Civil. Is a Man under the Law of Nature? What made him free of that Law? What gave him a free diſpoſing of his Property according to his own Will, within the Compaſs of that Law? I anſwer, a State of Maturity, wherein he might be ſuppos'd capable to know that Law, that ſo he might keep his Actions within the Bounds of it. When he has acquir'd that State, he is preſum'd to know how far that Law is to be his Guide, and how far he may make uſe of his Freedom; and ſo comes to have it: Till then ſome body elſe muſt guide him, who is preſum'd to know how far the Law allows a Liberty. If ſuch a State of Reaſon, ſuch an Age of Diſcretion made him free, the ſame ſhall make his Son free too. Is a Man under the Law of England? What made him free of that Law; that is, to have the Liberty to diſpoſe of his Actions and Poſſeſſions according to his own Will, within the Permiſſion of that Law? A Capacity of knowing that Law, which is ſuppos'd by that Law at the Age of Twenty one, and in ſome Caſes ſooner. If this made the Father free, it ſhall make the Son free too. Till then we ſee the Law allows the Son to have no Will, but he is to be guided by the Will of his Father, or Guardian, who is to underſtand for him. And if the Father die, and fail to ſubſtitute a Deputy in this Truſt, if he has not provided a Deputy to govern his Son during his Minority, during his want of Underſtanding, the Law takes care to do it; ſome other muſt govern him, and be a Will to him till he has attain'd to a State of Freedom, and his Underſtanding be fit to take the Government of his Will. But after that the Father and Son are equally free, as much as a Tutor and Pupil after Nonage, equally Subjects of the ſame Law together, without any Dominion left in the Father over the Life, Liberty, or Eſtate of the Son, whether they be only in the State, and under the Law of Nature, or under the poſitive Laws of an eſtabliſh'd Government.

I am ſenſible that this Quotation has been a great deal too long; and yet to ſet the Unreaſonableneſs of Bevil's Promiſe in a full Light, I am oblig'd to add what the ſame Author ſays a little lower in the very ſame Chapter, viz. The Power of the Father extends not to the Laws, or Goods, which either his Children's Induſtry, or another's Bounty has made theirs, nor to their Liberty neither, when they are once arriv'd to the Enfranchiſement of the Years of Diſcretion. The Father's Empire then ceaſes; and he can from thence-forwards no more diſpoſe of the Liberty of his Son, than of any other Man. And it muſt be far from an abſolute or perpetual Juriſdiction, from which a Man may withdraw himſelf; having Licenſe from divine Authority, to leave Father and Mother, and cleave to his Wife.

From what I have quoted from ſo judicious and ſo penetrating an Author, I think it is pretty plain, that young Bevil, who diſpos'd of part of his Eſtate without, nay, and as he might reaſonably ſuppoſe, againſt the Conſent of his Father, might à fortiori have diſpos'd of his Perſon too, if it had not been for his unreaſonable Promiſe; and that 'tis highly improbable, that one of the Eſtate and Underſtanding, which he is ſaid to have, ſhould abſurdly make a Promiſe which might poſſibly endanger the Happineſs of his whole Life. 'Tis ſaid, indeed, in more than one Place of the Play, that the Son has uncommon Obligations to his Father; but we are neither told, nor are we able to gueſs what thoſe Obligations are. What uncommon Obligations can a Son, who has a great Eſtate in Poſſeſſion, have to a Father of ſo ſordid a Nature as Sir John Bevil ſhews himſelf? Act 4. Page 65. Beſides, what Obligations can be binding enough to make a Man of a great Eſtate part with Liberty, with the very Liberty of his Choice, in the moſt important Action of his Life, upon which the Happineſs of all the reſt depends.

But as unreaſonable as this Promiſe is, which young Bevil made to his Father, by which he gave away his Birthright, his Liberty, yes, the very Liberty of his Choice, in an Affair upon which his Happineſs moſt depended, his Behaviour to Indiana is ſtill more unaccountable: He loves her, and is beloved by her; makes conſtant Viſits and profuſe Preſents to her; and yet conceals his Paſſion from her; which may be perhaps a clumſy Expedient for the Author's preparing the Diſcovery, but is neither agreeable to Nature nor Reaſon: For 'tis impoſſible that any young Man in Nature in Health and Vigour, and in the Height of a violent Paſſion, can ſo far command himſelf by the meer Force of Reaſon. I am willing, indeed, to allow that he may be able to do it by the Aſſiſtance of the true Religion: But the Buſineſs of a Comick Poet is only to teach Morality: Grace is not taught, but inſpir'd. The dreadful Myſteries of Chriſtianity are but ill compatible with the Lightneſs and Mirth of Comedy; or with the Obſcenity and Prophaneſs of a degenerate Stage, or with the Diſpoſitions of an Aſſembly, compos'd of Perſons who have ſome of them no Religion, and ſome of them not the true one. Beſides that, nothing but a Doctrine taken from the moral Law can be a juſt Foundation of a Fable; which every true Comedy is.

Nor is ſuch a Behaviour any more agreeable to Reaſon, than it is to Nature: Bevil loves Indiana, and is beloved by her: She adores him, ſhe dies for him, and he knows it: He obſerves it; and obſerves at the ſame Time that ſo violent a Paſſion is attended with equal Anxiety; and that Anxiety is entirely caus'd by the perplexing Doubt ſhe is in, whether ſhe is beloved, or not, as appears by what he ſays himſelf, Act 2. p. 27. Why then doth he not declare himſelf, and by that Declaration compoſe her Mind, and qualify her to expect with Patience the Benefit of Time. 'Tis indeed true, that he had promis'd his Father never to marry without his Conſent, while his Father liv'd; but he had not promis'd him never to love without his Conſent; for that would have been a ridiculous Promiſe; a Promiſe, the Performance of Non-performance of which was not in his own Power, and would depend entirely on what the People call Chance, and what Philoſophers call Providence. What could he mean then by not declaring himſelf? As the Love he had conceiv'd for Indiana was no Breach of the Promiſe he had made to his Father, ſo neither could he violate it by any Declaration of that Paſſion! What then, once more, can he mean by his Silence? His only reaſonable way of proceeding had been to acquaint not only his Miſtreſs, but his Father, and all the World, with the Paſſion which he felt for her, and with the Neceſſity he was in to marry her, or to be for ever miſerable. Such a Declaration was not at all inconſiſtent with his Duty; and if his Father had either Reaſon or Compaſſion, would have caus'd him to relent, and to releaſe his Son from a Promiſe, the perſevering in which muſt prove unhappy, or fatal to him. If it ſhould be ſaid that ſuch a Concealment of his Paſſion was neceſſary, that he might make a Retreat with Honour, in Caſe his Father ſhould ſtill be obſtinate; to this I anſwer, That there was no Retreat for him, unleſs he would at the ſame time retreat from Virtue and Honour; that his Behaviour had fix'd and determined him; that by his Generoſity and conſtant Viſits, he had raiſed the Paſſion of Indiana to ſuch a Height, that his leaving her would in all likelihood be followed by Madneſs, or by Self-murder, or by dreadful Hyſterical Symptoms, as deplorable as either; of which, what paſſes between her Father and her in the fifth Act, is a ſufficient Proof. Beſide, that ſuch a Retreat would prove as fatal to her Honour as to her Perſon: He had for ſome time made conſtant Viſits; he had made very extravagant Preſents to her; he had made no Declaration of the Affection he had for her, either to her or to her Aunt Iſabella, or acquainted any one with his Deſign to marry her, if he could obtain his Father's Conſent. Now can any thing be more plain, than that ſuch a Behaviour, if he left her, would ruin the Reputation of the poor Lady, and cauſe all the World to entertain ſuch Thoughts of her as Sealand and Myrtle had already expreſs'd. And thus I have endeavour'd to ſhew that the Behaviour of Bevil to Indiana, in his concealing his Paſſion from her, is as ridiculouſly whimſical, as that of Cimberton to her Siſter Lucinda.

The Cataſtophre, I muſt confeſs, is very moving, but it would be more ſo, if it were rightly and reaſonably handled, becauſe it would be much more ſurprizing. For the Surprize is, in a good Meaſure, prevented by the Behaviour of Iſabella upon the firſt Appearance of Sealand; which, if it had not been out of all Probability and Nature, would have prevented it more. It was highly in Nature and Probability, that Iſabella, upon the firſt diſcovering her Brother, ſhould fly into an exceſſive Tranſport of Joy, and have run to embrace him; for when ſhe is made to ſay, That her Brother muſt not know her yet, ſhe is made to give no Reaſons for it, nor can the Audience imagine any. 'Tis not Iſabella who ſays that, but the Author, who clumſily uſes it to ſerve a Turn; for if ſhe had diſcover'd herſelf to her Brother at his firſt Appearance, it had prevented the Audience's Sorrow and Compaſſion for the imaginary Diſtreſs of Indiana, and, conſequently, their return to Joy. But as Ariſtotle, and all the great Criticks after him, have taught us, that there is to be no Incident in a Dramatick Poem, but what muſt be founded on Reaſon, it happens, as we obſerv'd above, very unluckily here, that there is no Incident in the Conſcious Lovers but what is attended by ſome great Abſurdity. For the Action of Indiana, in throwing away her Bracelet, is of the ſame Stamp, and is entirely the Author's, and not the Dramatick Perſon's; for it was neither neceſſary nor profitable, that Indiana, in the Height of her Agony, ſhould ſo much as think of her Bracelet, or if ſhe did think of it, ſhould reſolve to throw away the greateſt Token that ſhe had to remember her dead Mother, for whoſe Memory her Grief and Diſtreſs ought naturally to renew and redouble her Tenderneſs. But the Author is obliged to have Recourſe to this as an awkard Expedient, tho' the beſt he could find, to bring on the Diſcovery. But had he known any thing of the Art of the Stage, he would have known, that thoſe Diſcoveries are but dully made, which are made by Tokens; that they ought neceſſarily or probably to ſpring from the whole Train of the Incidents contrary to our Expectation. And how eaſy was it to bring that about here? For ſuch a Diſcovery had been very well prepared, by what young Bevil ſays to Humphrey in the firſt Act, and by the Hint Indiana gives to Sealand in the fifth Act, which Hint the old Gentleman readily takes; for when ſhe tells him ſhe had been made an Infant Captive on the Seas, he immediately crys out, An Infant Captive! and, after ſome Interruption given by Indiana, he ſays, Dear Lady! O yet one Moment's Patience, my Heart grows full with your Affliction, but yet there is ſomething in your Story that—She anſwers as if ſhe were at croſs Purpoſes, My Portion here is Bitterneſs and Sorrow. To which he replies, Do not think ſo. Pray anſwer me, Does Bevil know your Name and Family? So that a few Queſtions more, pertinently anſwer'd, would have brought on the Diſcovery. Now if the Diſcovery had been made this Way, and Iſabella had not known her Brother at her firſt ſeeing him, but had come in to Sealand and Indiana juſt after the Diſcovery had been made, there would have been two Surprizes, both greater and more agreeable than now they are, and both of them without Abſurdity.

But now the Mention of the Infant Captive brings to my Remembrance the Circumſtances of that Captivity, which are, to uſe Mr. Cimberton's Expreſſion, pregnant with Abſurdity. Indiana, it ſeems, with her Mother and her Aunt, are taken, in their Paſſage to the Indies, by a Privateer from Toulon, and carried into that Place. Now where were they taken? It muſt be either in the Channel, or on the Ocean. Now, in the firſt place, I never heard that Toulon ſet out any Privateers. Secondly, Suppoſe they did, 'tis improbable that a Privateer from Toulon ſhould cruize in the Ocean, and much more improbable that they ſhould rove as far as the Channel. Thirdly, 'Tis highly improbable, that an Eaſt-India Veſſel, which had Force enough to venture without a Convoy, ſhould be taken by a Privateer. Fourthly, 'Tis not a Jot more probable, that ſuppoſing a Privateer from Toulon ſhould have taken ſuch a Veſſel, it ſhould chuſe to carry it into Toulon, rather than into Breſt, or St. Malo. For how long muſt a Privateer be carrying an Eaſt-India Veſſel from the Channel to Toulon, which is above a thouſand Miles from the Channel, and little leſs diſtant from that Part of the Ocean o'er which our Eaſt-India Ships paſs. Now in ſo long a Voyage, the Privateer might very well be taken, and the Prize be retaken; whereas the latter might be carried to Breſt, or St. Malo, with a hundred Times leſs Danger.

Well! But let us ſuppoſe the Privateer got ſafely with his Prize into Toulon. Does Sir Richard believe, that Toulon is ſituate under one of the Poles, that neither Ship nor Paſſengers were heard of in ſo many Years. If Indiana was an Infant, Iſabella was old enough to write; and if ſhe was ſo indifferent or ſtupid as to omit it, the Captain of the Ship and his Mate would not fail to write to their Owners, to let them know the Fate of their Ship. If there was no Paſſage for Letters directly thro' France, yet the Way of Holland was open, and upon the Arrival of thoſe Letters, not only the whole Eaſt-India Company, but all London would have known what was become of the Ship, at a Time when ſo many News-Writers contended which could furniſh the Town with moſt and the freſheſt News. So that if Sealand, upon his coming from the Indies, had made but never ſo little Enquiry, he would have found that his Siſter and Daughter had been at Toulon: If he had made no Enquiry, he muſt have ſhewn himſelf a fine Gentleman, indeed, who would marry a ſecond Wife before he was certain the firſt was dead: And it is impoſſible he could know that the firſt was dead, without knowing that his Siſter and his Daughter were at Toulon.

I ſhall now compare the Relation that old Bevil makes to his Man Humphrey, in the firſt Scene of the Conſcious Lovers, to that which Simo makes to Soſia in the beginning of the Andria: But I ſhall only compare them at preſent with relation to the Incidents; I ſhall take an Oportunity afterwards to conſider the Sentiments and Expreſſions by themſelves.

The beginning of the Andria is perfectly in Nature: Simo begins the Relation which he makes to Soſia with a grave and a ſolemn Air, ſuitable to the Diſpoſition of Mind he is in, and the great Concern he is under: Old Bevil, who is ſuppos'd to be in the ſame Diſpoſition of Mind, and to lie under the ſame Concern, begins the Relation which he makes to Humphrey with an Impertinence dully gay; and therefore the beginning of the Conſcious Lovers is entirely out of Nature.

In the Andria, Chremes, a rich old Athenian Citizen, offers to beſtow his only Daughter Philumena with a great Dowry on Pamphilus, the Son of Simo, who accepts that Offer for his Son. The Match breaks off upon the Diſcovery which Pamphilus makes at the Funeral of Chryſis of his Paſſion for Glycerium. Simo the Father pretends that it ſtill goes on, that he may take an Opportunity, from his Son's Refuſal, of giving him a ſevere Reprimand:

Si propter amorem uxorem nolit ducere, Ea primum ab illo animadvertenda Injuria eſt, Et nunc id operam do, ut per falſas Nuptias Vera objurgandi Cauſa ſit, ſi deneget.

In the beginning of the Conſcious Lovers there is a very abſurd Imitation of this Paſſage in Terence: Where old Bevil ſpeaks thus to his Man Humphrey, concerning his Son.

If there is ſo much in this Amour of his, that he denies upon my Summons to marry, I ſhall have Cauſe enough to be offended: And then by inſiſting upon his marrying to Day, I ſhall know how far he is engag'd to the Lady in Maſquerade, and from thence only ſhall be able to take my Meaſures.

Now it ſeems plain to me, that Simo would have reaſon to be angry at his Son's Refuſal, and that old Bevil would have none. Pamphilus would refuſe a Wife with a great Dowry, which he wanted, having nothing but what his Father ſupply'd him with, who, perhaps, might not be very eaſy in his own Circumſtances. Beſides, Glycerium paſs'd for a Courtezan, (which was not the Caſe of Indiana,) becauſe ſhe was believ'd to be the Siſter of Chryſis, who was publickly known to be one. And it would provoke any Father of a good Family, and who had all along liv'd with Reputation in the World, to find, to the Ruin and Diſgrace of that Family, his only Son married to a Whore, or living with her as if he were married to her, which was againſt both Law and Cuſtom at Athens, and a great deal more ſcandalous there, than it is in this Bleſſed Town, as is evident from what Simo ſays in that admirable Scence which is between him and his Son and Chremes, in the fifth Act of this Comedy, where Nature is drawn with ſuch maſterly Strokes, and in ſuch lively and glowing Colours.

Adeo n'impotentieſſe animo, ut praeter Civium Morem, atque legem, & ſui voluntatem patris, Tamen hanc habere ſtudeat cum ſummo probro.

But 'tis downright ridiculous in old Bevil to pretend to be offended, in Caſe his Son who is in Poſſeſſion of a great Eſtate, and entirely independant on his Father, and one whom the Father himſelf calls a ſober and diſcreet Gentleman, ſhould refuſe to marry at a Minute's Warning a Woman whom he does not like, and whom the Father chuſes only with the ſordid View of doubling a great Eſtate, when what they had already was more than ſufficient: Becauſe the Father is ſordid, muſt the Son be unhappy? Muſt the Son, who has beſpoke a Diſh for himſelf, take up with another that is his Averſion, only becauſe his Father chooſes it? The Paſſion which young Bevil had for another, is a juſt Cauſe of his Refuſal; and if his Father is unreaſonably offended, the Son, who has no Dependance upon him, may very reaſonably be comforted. As the Father knew very well that the Son had no Occaſion for the Wealth which would come from the marrying Lucinda, ſo he did not believe his frequenting Indiana, whether he ſuppos'd her an honorable or a kept Miſtreſs, would bring any Scandal either upon himſelf or his Family. Witneſs what he ſays to Sealand in Act 4 Page 62 concerning this very Affair, viz. Sir, I can't help ſaying, that what might injure a Citizen's Credit may be no Stain to a Gentleman's Honour. So that 'tis plain Simo had two important Reaſons to be offended at his Son's Refufal, which old Bevil apparently had not; becauſe he rejected Wealth, which he wanted; and courted Infamy, for which no one can have an Occaſion.

The Relation of what paſſed between young Bevil and Indiana at the Maſquerade, is a very abſurd Imitation of what paſſed between Pamphilus and Glycerium at the Funeral of Chryſis. Pamphilus attends Glycerium to the Funeral of Chryſis, who paſs'd for her Siſter. While the Body was burning, Glycerium in the Agony of her Grief, ran to the Fire, and was about to throw herſelf into it, when Pamphilus, half dead with Fear, runs to her, catches hold of her, throws his Arms about her, and by that Action, and his tender Expoſtulation diſcovers the Violence of that Paſſion which he had hitherto conceal'd; upon which Glycerium, by an Action which manifeſted her habitual Love, weeping reclin'd her Head upon his Breaſt with a moſt moving Tenderneſs. This is the Senſe of that celebrated Paſſage: But is but barely the Senſe; for no Pen, no Tongue can expreſs the Elegance and the Grace of Terence.

But now let us ſee the Imitation of this in the Conſcious Lovers: 'Tis in the firſt Scene of the Play, where old Bevil relates to his Man Hump •• ey what paſſed at the laſt Maſquerade.

Sir J. Bevil.

You know, I was laſt Thurſday at the Maſquerade; my Son, you may remember, ſoon found us out. He knew his Grandfather's Habit, which I then wore; and tho' it was the Mode, in the laſt Age, yet the Maskers, you know, follow'd us as if we had been the moſt monſtrous Figures in the whole Aſſembly.

Humphrey.

I remember, indeed, a young Man of Quality in the Habit of a Clown, that was particularly trouble ſome.

Sir J. Bevil.

Right: He was too much what he ſeemed to be.

Humphrey.

I knew he had a Mind to come to that Particular. [Aſide.

Sir J. Bevil.

Ay, he followed us, till the Gentleman, who led the Lady in the Indian Mantle, preſented that gay Creature to the Ruſtick, and bid him (like Cymon in the Fable) grow polite, by falling in Love, and let that worthy old Gentleman alone, meaning me. The Clown was not reform'd, but rudely perſiſted, and offer'd to force off my Mask; with that the Gentleman, throwing off his own, appear'd to be my Son; and in his Concern for me, tore off that of the Nobleman; At this they ſeiz'd each other: The Company called the Guards, and in the Surpriſe the Lady ſwooned away; upon which my Son quitted his Adverſary, and had now no Care but of the Lady; when raiſing her in his Arms, art thou gone, cried he, for ever—Forbid it Heaven!—She revives at his known Voice,—and with the moſt familiar, tho' modeſt Geſture, hangs in Safety over his Shoulder, weeping; but wept as in the Arms of one before whom ſhe could give herſelf a Looſe, were ſhe not under Obſervation: while ſhe hides her Face in his Neck, he carefully conveys her from the Company.

Now there is this remarkable Difference between what paſs'd at the Funeral, and what paſs'd at the Maſquerade, that every Thing that relates to the former, ſeems to be either neceſſary or profitable; and almoſt every Thing that relates to the latter, appears to be improbable. How injudicious an Imitation is the Behaviour of Indiana at the Maſquerade, of the Behaviour of Glycerium at the Funeral. Nothing can be more natural than the Freedom which Glycerium takes with Pamphilus. She lov'd him, and was belov'd by him: She was betroth'd to him; She had no Reſerve for him: The utmoſt Familiarities had paſs'd between them: She was with Child by him, and expected every Day that the Time of her being deliver'd was come.

The Caſe of Indiana is very different, and her Behaviour is very inconſiſtent with her Character; 'tis true, ſhe was in Love with young Bevil, but doubted very much whether that Love was reciprocal; he had been ſo far from taking the ſame Liberty with her that Pamphilus had done with Glycerium, that his Behaviour had been always very reſpectful; and yet Indiana uſes the ſame Familiarity upon this Occaſion with him, that Glycerium at the Funeral does with Pamphilus; ſhe revives at his known Voice, which ſhe heard, it ſeems, after ſhe had loſt all her Senſes, and comes from Death to Life upon it, like the dead Men in the Rehearſal at the Voice of Poet Bays, and with the moſt familiar, tho' modeſt Geſture, hangs in Safety over his Shoulder weeping, but wept as in the Arms of one before whom ſhe could give herſelf a Looſe, were ſhe not under Obſervation; and while ſhe hides her Face in his Neck, he carefully conveys her from the Company.

Now this Behaviour is by no means conſiſtent with the Character of Indiana; familiar and modeſt are not in this Caſe very compatible; and then what does Sir Richard mean by wept as in the Arms of one before whom ſhe could give herſelf a Looſe? If theſe Words have any Meaning, I would fain know what it is.

In this firſt Scene there is another very ridiculous Imitation of what Simo ſays to Soſia in the firſt Scene of the Andria.

Simo: Et nunc id operam do, ut per falſas nuptias Vera objurgandi cauſa ſit, ſi degenet. Simul, ſceleratus Davus ſi quid Conſilî Habet, ut conſumat nunc, cum nihil obſint doli. Quem ego credo manibus, pedibuſque obnixè omnia Facturum; magis id adeo, mihi ut incommodet, Quàm ut obſequatur Gnato. Soſ. Quapropter? Si Rogas? Mala mens, malus animus— Nunc tuum eſt officium, has bene ut adſimules nuptias, Perterrefacias Davum; obſerves filium, Quid agat, quid cum illo conſilii captet.

Thus have I gone thro' the whole Train of Incidents, which are a Heap of Abſurdities and Inconſiſtences. I have partly likewiſe gone thro' the Character of young Bevil, who is made up of Contradictions. He is one who differs from himſelf as much as from the reſt of the World. This Man of Conſcience and of Religion is as arrant an Hypocrite as a certain Author. 'Tis indeed a pleaſant Religion that never ſeizes a Man but when he is upon the Point either of Love or Battle: This Man of Conſcience and of Religion diſſembles with his Father moſt vilely, which Religion doth by no means allow, and ſo chuſes rather to offend Heaven than an old ſordid Blockhead, who pretends to treat one who is independent of him, and at Years of Diſcretion, like an arrant Boy; yet this the Son calls an honeſt Diſſimulation, as he calls Breach of Truſt the getting over a falſe Point of Honour. In the firſt Scene of the ſecond Act this Man of Religion is putting Myrtle upon a Fraud, and palming two counterfeit Lawyers upon old Mrs. Sealand, a Practice which Religion and Morality both abhor.

The Character of young Bevil therefore is made up of Qualities, either incoherent and contradictory, as Religion and Diſſimulation, Morality and Fraud; or moſt ridiculouſly conſiſtent, as Circumſpection and Folly. For one may ſay the ſame thing of young Bevil that Scandal in Love for Love ſays of and to Foreſight, That if ever he commits an Error, 'tis not without a great deal of Conſideration, Circumſpection and Caution. The Character therefore of young Bevil is not an Image of any thing in Life, and eſpecially in common Life, as every thing in Comedy ought to be, but the Phantom of a feveriſh Author's Brain, as ſeveral of the other Characters likewiſe are.

As young Bevil is the Character of ſuch a young Man as is not to be found in the World, upon the foot of Nature, of which all true Poetry is a juſt Imitation, Cimberton is a Creature who is ſet as much below Humanity as Bevil appears to be drawn above it; he is an Animal that is nothing ſo like a Man as a Monkey is, nor is he near ſo well qualified to entertain a Lady agreeably; he is ſo very monſtrous, that one would not think he could be produced by any thing that had human Shape, and for the Credit of Human Nature ought, like a Sooterkin, to be demoliſhed as ſoon as he appears.

Moſt of the other Characters are faintly and coarſly drawn, which is very ſtrange, if we conſider the admirable Patterns that Terence has laid before him. The Characters of that Comick Poet I muſt confeſs are in no great Compaſs, but tho' they are few they are excellent; they are ſo ſtrong in Nature, that they may be taken for the Life, may be taken for Perſons rather than Pictures, and for real rather than dramatick Perſons. Sir Richard ſeems to be wholly ignorant of what Boileau has ſaid of this Matter, who is one of the greateſt of the French Poets, and one of the juſteſt of their Criticks.

Aux depens du bon Sens gardez de plaiſanter. Jamais de la Nature il ne faut s'ecarter. Contemplez de quel Air un pere dans Terence Vient d'un Fils amoreux gourmander l'imprudence: De quel Air cet Amant ecoute ſes leçons Et court chez ſa Maiſtreſſe oublier ces chanſons; Ce n'eſt pas un portrait, une image ſemblable, C'eſt un Amant, un Fils, un Pere veritable.

That is,

Beware of being pleaſant at the Expence of good Senſe, and take care that you never go out of Nature. Obſerve with what an Air a Father in Terence reprimands his amorous Son for his imprudent Conduct, with what Air the Lover hearkens to his grave Remonſtrances, then runs away to his Miſtreſs to laugh at theſe muſty Morals. You would ſwear that you had before you the Things themſelves, inſtead of a good Picture and a juſt Reſemblance; you would ſwear you had before you a real Lover, a real Son, and a real Father.

The very Character of Simo in the Andria is admirable, and the Relation he makes to Soſia a Maſterpiece; I never read it but I ſee the old Athenian before my Eyes in the very ſame Colours that Davus paints Crito the Andrian in the ſame Comedy.

Cum faciem videas, videtur eſſe quantivis pretii, Triſtis ſeveritas ineſt in voltu, at que in verbis fides.

Whatever he ſays goes to my Heart; whereas old Bevil is an old fribling Blockhead, and that which comes from him ſcarce touches my Lips.

But if in this Imitation of that Relation which Simo makes to Soſia, Sir Richard falls ſo very much ſhort of Terence in his Incidents and his Characters, he is inexpreſſible Degrees below him in his Sentiments and his Dialogue.

The Sentiments of Terence are always true, are always juſt, and adapted to the Characters; His Dialogue is the moſt charming that is to be found among the Roman Authors: Where is there that Purity, that Elegance, that Delicacy, that Grace, that Harmony? If it has any Fault, 'tis too uniform a Politeneſs; the Servant ſpeaking always with the ſame Grace and the ſame Elegance that his Maſter does. Setting that aſide, 'tis every way accompliſh'd: It has particularly for its Purity the Authorities of two of the beſt and greateſt of the Roman Judges, Caeſar and Cicero. Cicero ſays of this Comick Poet, that he is optimus Author Latinitatis; and all the World has ſeen the Verſes that Julius Caeſar made upon the ſame Author.

Tuque etiam in ſummis o Di •… idiate Menander Poneris, & merito p • ri ſermonis amator, &c.

But now the Sentiments in the Conſcious Lovers are often frivolous, falſe, and abſurd; the Dialogue is awkard, clumſy, and ſpiritleſs; the Diction affected, impure, and barbarous, and too often Hibernian. Who, that is concern'd for the Honour of his Country, can ſee without Indignation whole Crowds of his Countrymen aſſembled to hear a Parcel of Teagues talking Tipperary together, and applauding what they ſay. I know very well that what I now ſay will alarm ſome People, and for that reaſon I ſhall ſhortly bring Examples of the Sentiments and the Diction in the Conſcious Lovers ſo palpable and ſo flagrant, that they ſhall juſtify me in ſpight of the Obſtinacy and the Clamours of his moſt fooliſh Admirers.

FINIS.