A Letter to you from an Engliſh author will carry with it the appearance of correſponding with the enemy, not only as the two nations are at preſent involved in a difficult and important war, but alſo becauſe in many of your late writings you ſeem determined to live in a ſtate of hoſtility with the Britiſh nation. Whenever we come in your way, we are ferocious, we are iſlanders, we are the people whom your country has taught, we fall behind other nations in point of taſte and elegance of compoſition; the ſame cauſe that has witheld from us a genius for painting and muſic, has alſo deprived us of the true ſpirit of Tragedy; and, in ſhort, barbariſm ſtill prevails among us.

But, notwithſtanding this vein of prejudice, which has diſcoloured almoſt all your fugitivepieces, there ſtill breathes throughout your writings ſuch a general ſpirit of Humanity and zeal for the Honour of the Republic of Letters, that I am inclined to imagine the author of the Engliſh Orphan of China (an obſcure iſlander) may ſtill addreſs you upon terms of amity and literary benevolence.

As I have attempted a Tragedy upon a ſubject that has exerciſed your excellent talents, and thus have dared to try my ſtrength in the Bow of ULYSSES, I hold myſelf in ſome fort accountable to M. DeVOLTAIRE for the departure I have made from his plan, and the ſubſtitution of a new fable of my own.

My firſt propenſity to this ſtory was occaſioned by the remarks of an admirable criticMr. Hurd, in his Commentary upon Horace. of our own. upon the 〈1 page duplicate〉 〈1 page duplicate〉 ORPHAN OF THE HOUSE OF CHAU, preſerved to us by the induſtrious and ſenſible P. DU HALDE, which, as our learned commentator obſerves, amidſt great wildneſs and irregularity, has ſtill ſome traces of reſemblance to the beautiful models of antiquity. In my reflections upon this piece, I imagined I ſaw a blemiſh in the manner of ſaving the Orphan, by the tame reſignation of another infant in his place; eſpecially when the ſubject afforded ſo fair an opportunity of touching the ſtrugglings of a parent, on ſo trying an occaſion. It therefore occurred to me, if a fable could be framed, in which the Father and the two Young Men might be interwoven with probability and perſpicuity, and not embarraſſed with all the perplexities of a riddle, as, you know, is the caſe of the HERACLIUS of CORNEILLE, that then many ſituations might ariſe, in which ſome of the neareſt affections of the heart might be awakened: but even then I was too conſcious that it muſt be executed by a genius very different from myſelf.

In this ſtate of mind, ſir, I heard with pleaſure that M. De VOLTAIRE had produced at Paris his L'ORPHELIN DE LA CHINE: I ardently longed for a peruſal of the piece, expecting that ſuch a writer would certainly ſeize all the ſtriking incidents which might naturally grow out of ſo pregnant a ſtory, and that he would leave no ſource of paſſion unopened. I was in ſome ſort, but not wholly diſappointed: I ſaw M. De VOLTAIRE ruſhing into the midſt of things at once; opening his ſubject in an alarming manner; and, after the narrative relating to GENGISKAN is over, working up his firſt act like a poet indeed.

Meum qui pectus inaniter angit Ut Magus.

In the beginning of the ſecond act, he again touches the paſſions with a maſter-hand; but, like a rower who has put forth all his ſtrength, and ſuddenly ſlackens his exertion, I ſaw, or imagined I ſaw, him give way all at once; the great tumult of the paſſions is over; the intereſt wears away; GENGISKAN talks politics; the tenderneſs of a mother, flying with all the ſtrong impulſes of nature to the relief of her child, is thrown into cold unimpaſſioned narrative; the role pour Pamoureux muſt have its place, and the rough conqueror of a whole people muſt inſtantly become Le Chevalier GENGISKAN, as errant a lover as ever ſighed in the Thuilleries at Paris. Your own words, ſir, ſtrongly expreſſive of that manly and ſenſible taſte, which diſtinguiſhes you throughout Europe, occurred to me upon this occaſion: Quelle place pour la galanterie que le parricide & l'inceſte, qui deſolent une famille, & la contagion qui ravage un pais? Et quel exemple plus frapant du ridicule de notre theatre, & du pouvoir de l'habitude, que Corneille d'un côté, qui fait dire à Théſée.—

Quelque ravage affreux qu'étale ici la Peſte;

L'abſence aux vrais amans eſt encore plus funeſte. Et moi, qui, ſoixante ans apres lui, viens faire parler une vielle Jocaſte d'un viel amour: & tout cela pour complaire au goût le plus fade & le plus faux qui ait jamais corrompu la literature. Indeed, ſir, GENGISKAN, in the very moment of overwhelming a whole nation, uſurping a crown, and maſſacring the royal family, except one infant, whom he is in queſt of, appeared to me exactly like the amorous OEDIPUS in the midſt of a deſtructive plague. Nunc non erat his locus.—How would that noble performance, that Chef d'oeuvre of your country, the ATHALIE of RACINE, have been defaced by the gallantry of an intrigue, if a tyrant had been introduced to make love to the wiſe of the high-prieſt? or if JOAD, entertaining a ſecret affection for ATHALIE, and being aſked what orders he would give relating to the delivery of his country, ſhould anſwer, "aucune," none at all.—And yet this is the language of a northern conqueror, whining for a mandarin's wife, who has no power of reſiſting, and having no relation to the royal family, could not, by an intermarriage, ſtrengthen his intereſt in the crown But to you, ſir, who have told us that Love ſhould reign a very tyrant in Tragedy, or not appear there at all, being unfit for the ſecond place; to you, who have ſaid that NERO ſhould not hide himſelf behind a tapeſtry to overhear the converſation of his miſtreſs and his rival, what need I urge theſe remarks?—To fill up the long career of a tragedy with this epiſodic love muſt certainly have been the motive that led you into this error; an error I take the liberty to call it, becauſe I have obſerved it to be the hackneyed and ſtale ſtratagem, of many modern writers. Within the compaſs of my reading, there is hardly a bad man in any play, but he is in love with ſome very good woman: the ſcenes that paſs between them, I have always remarked, are found dull and unawakening by the audience, even though adorned with all the graces of ſuch compoſition as yours, of which it is but juſtice to ſay, that it beſtows embelliſhments upon every ſubject.

For me, ſir, who only draw in crayons, who have no reſource to thoſe laſting colours of imagination with which you ſet off every thing; a writer ſuch as I am, ſir, could not preſume to ſupport that duplicity of paſſion which runs through your piece. I could not pretend, by the powers of ſtyle, to ſuborn an audience in favour of thoſe ſecondary paſſages, from which their attention naturally revolts. A plainer and more ſimple method lay before me. I was neceſſitated to keep the main object as much as poſſible before the eye; and therefore it was that I took a ſurvey of my ſubject, in order to catch at every thing that ſeemed to me to reſult with order and propriety from it. A ſcantineſs of intereſting buſineſs ſeemed to me a primary defect in the conſtruction of the French ORPHAN OF CHINA, and that I imagined had its ſource in the early date of your play. By beginning almoſt "gemino ab ovo," by making the Orphan and the mandarine's ſon children in their cradles, it appeared to me that you had ſtripped yourſelf of two characters, which might be produced in an amiable light, ſo as to engage the affections of their auditors, not only for themſelves, but conſequently for thoſe alſo to whom they ſhould ſtand in any degree of relation. From this conduct I propoſed a further advantage, that of taking off the very obvious reſemblance to the ANDROMACHE, which now ſtrikes every body in your plan. This laſt remark I do not urge againſt accidental and diſtant coincidencies of ſentiment, diction, or fable. Many of the Greek plays, we know, had a family-likeneſs, ſuch as an OEDIPUS, an ELECTRA, an IPHIGENIA in TAURIS, in AULIS, a MEROPE, &c. But what is a beauty in RACINE, ſeems in his great ſucceſſor to be a blemiſh. In the former, nothing depends on the life of ASTYANAX but what was very natural, the happineſs of the mother: in the latter, the fate of a kingdom is grafted upon the fortunes of an infant; and I aſk your own feelings, (for no body knows the human heart better) Whether an audience is likely to take any conſiderable intereſt in the deſtiny of a babe, who, when your Zamti has ſaved him, cannot produce any change, any revolution in the affairs of China? No, ſir; the conquered remain in the ſame abject ſtate of vaſſalage, and the preſervation of the infant king becomes therefore unintereſting and unimportant. He might die, ſir, in cutting his teeth, of the hooping cough, or any of the diſorders attendant on that tender age: whereas when the Orphan is grown up to maturity, when he is a moral agent in the piece, when a plan is laid for revenging himſelf on the deſtroyers of his family, it then becomes a more preſſing motive in the mandarine's mind; nay, it is almoſt his duty, in ſuch a caſe, to ſacrifice even his own offspring for the good of his country. In your ſtory, ſir, give me leave to ſay, I do not ſee what end can be anſwered by ZAMTI'S loyalty: his proſpect is at leaſt ſo diſtant, that it becomes almoſt chimerical. And therefore as hiſtory warrants an expulſion of the Tartars, as it was not upon the firſt inroad, but in proceſs of time and experience, that they learned to incorporate themſelves with the conquered, I had recourſe to my own preconceived notions. Whether I was partially attached to them, or whether my reaſonings upon your fable were juſt, you, ſir, and the public, will determine.

You will perceive, ſir, in the Engliſh Orphan ſome occaſional inſertions of ſentiment from your elegant performance. To uſe the expreſſion of the late Mr. DRYDEN, when he talks of BEN JOHNSON'S imitation of the ancients, you will often track me in your ſnow. For this I ſhall make no apology, either to the public or you: none to the public, becauſe they have applauded ſome ſtrokes for which I am indebted to you; and none certainly to you, becauſe you are well aware I have but followed the example of many admired writers; BOILEAU, CORNEILLE, and RACINE, with you; and in England, MILTON, Mr. ADDISON, and Mr. POPE. It was finely ſaid by you, (I have read the ſtory, and take it upon truſt) when it was objected to the celebrated abbè METASTASIO; as a reproach, that he had frequent transfuſions of thought from your writings, Ah! le cher volcur! il m'a bien embelli. This talent of embelliſhing I do not pretend to; to avail myſelf of my reading, and to improve my own productions, is all I can pretend to; and that I flatter myſelf I have done, not only from you, but many of the writers of antiquity. If the authorities I have abovementioned were not ſufficient, I could add another very bright example, the example of M. De VOLTAIRE, whom I have often tracked, to uſe the ſame expreſſion again, in the ſnow of Shakeſpear. The ſnow of SHAKESPEAR is but a cold expreſſion; but perhaps it will be more agreeable to you, than a word of greater energy, that ſhould convey a full idea of the aſtoniſhing powers of that great man; for we iſlanders have remarked of late, that M. DeVoltaire has a particular ſatisfaction in deſcanting on the faults of the moſt wonderful genius that ever exiſted ſince HOMER; inſomuch that a very ingenious gentleman of my acquaintance tells me, that whenever you treat the Engliſh bard as a drunken ſavage in your avant propos, he always deems it a ſure prognoſtic that your play is the better for him.

If the great ſcenes of SHAKESPEAR, ſir; if his boundleſs view of all nature, the lawn, the wilderneſs, the blaſted heath, mountains, and craggy rocks, with thunder and lightening on their brows; if theſe cannot ſtrike the imagination of M. De VOLTAIRE, how can I expect that the ſtudied regularity of my little ſhrubbery ſhould afford him any kind of pleaſure? To drop the metaphor, if the following tragedy does not appear to you a MONSTROUS FARCE, it is all I can reaſonably expect. But whatever may be your opinion of it, I muſt beg that you will not make it the criterion by which you would decide concerning the taſte of the Engliſh nation, or the preſent ſtate of literature among us. What you have humbly ſaid of yourſelf, in order to do honour to your nation, I can aſſert with truth of the author of the Engliſh ORPHAN, that he is one of the worſt poets now in this country. It is true, indeed, that the play has been received with uncommon applauſe; that ſo elegant a writer as the author of CREUSA and THE ROMAN FATHER was my critic and my friend; and that a great deal of very particular honour has been done me by many perſons of the firſt diſtinction. But, give me leave to ſay, they all know the faults of the piece, as well as if it had been diſcuſſed by the academy of Belles Lettres.—We are a generous nation, ſir; and the fainteſt approaches to merit, always meet here the warmeſt encouragement. One thing further I will aſſure you, in caſe you ſhould diſcover any traces of barbariſm in the ſtyle or fable, That if you had been preſent at the repreſentation, you would have ſeen a theatrical ſplendor conducted with a bienſcance unknown to the ſcene Francoiſe; the performance of the two Young Men would have made you regret that they were not in your piece; and, though a weak ſtate of health deprived the play of ſo fine an actreſs as Mrs. CIBBER, you would have beheld in MANDANE a figure that would be an ornament to any ſtage in Europe, and you would have acknowleged that her Acting promiſes alſo to be the ſame: moreover, you would have ſeen a ZAMTI, whoſe exquiſite powers are capable of adding Pathos and Harmony even to our great SHAKESPEAR, and have already been the chief ſupport of ſome of your ſcenes upon the Engliſh ſtage.

Upon the whole, ſir, I beg you will not imagine that I have wrote this Tragedy in the fond hope of eclipſing ſo celebrated a writer as you are: I had an humbler motive, propter amorem quod to imitari aveo. Could I do that in any diſtant degree, it would very amply gratify the ambition of,