often deceives us into instruction. The finest sentiment and the most weighty truth may put on a pleasant face, and it is even virtuous to jest when serious advice must be disgusting. But instead of this, the most trifling performance among us now assumes all the didactic stiffness of wisdom. The most diminutive son of fame or of famine has his we and his us, his firstlys and his secondlys as methodical as if bound in cow-hide and closed with clasps of brass. Were these Monthly Reviews and Magazines frothy, pert, or absurd, they might find some pardon; but to be dull and dronish is an encroachment on the prerogative of a folio. These things should be considered as pills to purge melancholy; they should be made up in our splenetic climate to be taken as physic, and not so as to be used when we take it.

However, by the power of one single monosyllable our critics have almost got the victory over humour amongst us. Does the poet paint the absurdities of the vulgar; then he is low: does he exaggerate the features of folly to render it more thoroughly ridiculous, he is then very low. In short, they have proscribed the comic or satyrical muse from every walk but high life, which, though abounding in fools as well as the humblest station, is by no means so fruitful in absurdity. Among well-bred fools we may despise much but have little to laugh at; nature seems to present us with an universal blank of silk, ribbands, smiles and whispers: absurdity is the poet's game, and good breeding is the nice concealment of absurdities. The truth is, the critic generally mistakes humour for wit, which is a very different excellence. Wit raises human nature above its level; humour acts a contrary part and equally depresses it. To expect exalted humour is a contradiction in terms; and the critic, by demanding an impossibility from the comic poet,

has in affect banished new comedy from the stage. But to put the same thought in a different light, when an unexpected similitude in two objects strikes the imagination; in other words, when a thing is wittily expressed, all our pleasure turns into admiration of the artist, who had fancy enough to draw the picture. When a thing is humourously described, our burst of laughter proceeds from a very different cause; we compare the absurdity of the character represented with our own, and triumph in our conscious superiority. No natural defect can be a cause of laughter, because it is a misfortune to which ourselves are liable; a defect of this kind changes the passion into pity or horror; we only laugh at those instances of moral absurdity, to which we are conscious we ourselves are not liable. instance, should I describe a man as wanting his nose, there is no humour in this, as it is an accident to which human nature is subject and may be any man's case: but should I represent this man without his nose as extremely curious in the choice of his snuff-box, we here see him guilty of an absurdity, of which we imagine it impossible for ourselves to be guilty, and therefore applaud our own good sense on the comparison. Thus then the pleasure we receive from wit turns on the admiration of another; that which we feel from humour centres in the admiration of ourselves. The poet, therefore, must place the object he would have the subject of humour in a state of inferiority; in other words, the subject of humour must be low.

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The solemnity worn by many of our modern writers is, I fear, often the mask of dullness; for certain it is, it seems to fit every author who pleases to put it on. By the complexion of many of our late publications, one might be apt to cry out with Cicero, Civem mehercule non puto esse qui his temporibus ridere possit. On my conscience, I believe we have

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all forgot to laugh in these days. Such writers bably make no distinction between what is praised and what is pleasing; between those commendations which the reader pays his own discernment, and those which are the genuine result of his sensations. It were to be wished therefore that we no longer found pleasure with the inflated style that has for some years been looked upon as fine writing, and which every young writer is now obliged to adopt, if he chooses to be read. We should now dispense with loaded epithet and dressing up trifles with dignity. For to use an obvious instance, it is not those who make the greatest noise with their wares in the streets that have most to sell. Let us, instead of writing finely, try to write naturally; not hunt after lofty expressions to deliver mean ideas, nor be for ever gaping, when we only mean to deliver a whisper.

CHAP XII.

Of the STAGE.

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OUR Theatre has been generally confessed to share in this general decline, though partaking of the shew and decoration of the Italian opera with the priety and declamation of French performance. The stage also is more magnificent with us than any other in Europe, and the people in general fonder of theatrical entertainment. Yet still as our pleasures as well as more important concerns are generally managed by party; the state has felt its influence. The managers and all who espouse their side are for decoration and ornament; the critic, and all who have studied French decorum, are for regularity

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declamation. Thus it is almost impossible to please both parties; and the poet by attempting it finds himself often incapable of pleasing either. If he introduces stage pomp, the critic consigns his performance to the vulgar; if he indulges in recital and simplicity, it is accused of insipidity, or dry affectation.

From the nature therefore of our theatre and the genius of our country, it is extremely difficult for a dramatic poet to please his audience. But happy would he be were these the only difficulties he had to encounter; there are many other more dangerous combinations against the little wit of the age. Our poet's performance must undergo a process truly chymical before it is presented to the public. It must be tried in the manager's fire, strained through a licenser, suffer from repeated corrections till it may be a mere caput mortuum when it arrives before the public.

The success however of pieces upon the stage would be of little moment, did it not influence the success of the same piece in the closet. Nay I think it would be more for the interests of virtue if stage performances were read, not acted; made rather our companions in the cabinet than on the theatre. While we are readers every moral sentiment strikes us in all its beauty, but the love scenes are frigid, tawdry, and disgusting. When we are spectators all the persuasives to vice receive an additional lustre. The love scene is aggravated, the obscenity heighened, the best actors figure in the most debauched characters, while the parts of morality, as they are called, are thrown to some mouthing machine, who puts even virtue out of countenance by his wretched imitation.

But whatever be the incentives to vice which are found at the theatre, public pleasures are generally less guilty than solitary ones. To make our solitary satisfaction

satisfaction truly innocent the actor is useful, as by his means the poet's work makes its way from the stage to the closet, for all must allow that the reader receives more benefit by perusing a well-written play than by seeing it acted.

But how is this rule inverted on our theatres at present? Old pieces are revived and scarcely any new ones admitted; the actor is ever in our eye, and the poet seldom permitted to appear; the public are againobliged to ruminate over those hashes of absurdity, which were disgusting to our ancestors even in an age of ignorance; and the stage instead of serving the people, is made subservient to the interests of avarice.

We seem to be pretty much in the situation of travellers at a Scotch inn; vile entertainment is served up, complained of and sent down; up comes worse and that also is changed, and every change makes our wretched cheer more unsavoury. What must be done? only sit down contented, cry up all that comes before us, and admire even the absurdities of Shakspeare.

Let the reader suspend his censure; I admire the beauties of this great father of our stage as much as they deserve, but could wish for the honour of our country, and for his honour too, that many of his scenes were forgotten. A man blind of one eye should always be painted in profile. Let the spectator, who assists at any of these new revived pieces, only ask himself whether he would approve such a performance if written by a modern poet; I fear he will find that much of his applause proceeds merely from the sound of a name and an empty veneration for antiquity. In fact the revival of those pieces of forced humour, far-fetched conceit, and unnatural hyperbole, which have been ascribed to Shakspeare, is rather gibbetting than raising a statue to his memory; it is rather a trick of the actor, who thinks it

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