University of Virginia Library

Many of our tragic authors have judiciously usher'd in a dreadful night, by way of prologue or preparative to the catastrophe of their plays. Such preparative seldom fails of success, as it throws a gloomy melancholy o'er the mind, and renders the reader, or audience, more susceptible of the ensuing distress of the performance. It further serves to heighten the character of the hero, or heroine; for certainly nothing can be a stronger proof of the dignity and importance of any personage, than when we are convinced, that even nature itself is mourning the impending fall of her favourites.

This speech is certainly the finest night piece that ever was drawn Dr. Humbug.

Our author, in the following speech, seems to have had the prodigies in Julius Cæsar in view. Ibid.

What a triumph must this, and a few of the preceding lines, afford a half-finish'd critick? how will he swell with his wonderful discovery? Methinks I hear him exulting to the following effect.—“I thought I should catch our author tripping! A few lines ago he tells us it was a very dark night; and yet an old woman of sixty, whose sight we may naturally imagine to be none of the best, is able to discern with the naked eye such minute objects as bodkins and inkhorns in the air.” To such critick I shall reply, and pray what is there unnatural in all this? Might not the light'ning enable our matron to make such discovery? Tho' her eyes were none of the best, yet she might discern these objects through her spectacles; nay, possibly, thro' a telescope. But pray, Sir, who inform'd you of the size of bodkins and inkhorns, which you arbitrarily call such minute objects? Not our author I'm confident. For any thing you know to the contrary, they might be as large as a maypole; nay, as the Monument itself. In short, Sir, if you knew any thing of the figure Hyperbole, which every author hath a right to use, you would have been silent on this occasion.—Besides, with all your sagacity, you cannot even tell whether Scourella really saw them or no; from the relation she gives, she may be as naturally suppos'd to have taken the account from those that had seen them, as that she had seen them herself, for it is no uncommon thing now-a-days to see with other people's eyes. Dr. Humbug.

As the sun, by a variety of tragic writers, is describ'd capable of laughing, I hope it will not be denied our author to paint the moon capable of smiling.

As I intend in a few months to give the world a compleat edition of Shakespear's works, in twenty volumes in folio, it may not, in this place, be amiss to give a specimen of my critical abilities. My 475th note on the tragedy of Macbeth runs thus:

“Though all the stream of editions concur in reading,

yet I am persuaded our immortal poet, who never wrote a line of fustian in his life, could not be guilty of such a turgid expression. I shall therefore propose three several readings, one of which our poet certainly wrote:

as if he had said, or else my sword, with edge unsprinkled, or unsmear'd, with human gore, I'll sheath again unspeeded, i. e. unsuccessful .

q. d. or else my sword, with edge unbatten'd, or unfatten'd with man, or the blood of man, I'll sheath again in dead hide ; that is, in the scabbard. To illustrate this image more fully, it may not be amiss to add, that scabbards are generally made of dead hides, or leather. I am apt to think, from the analogy of sound between in dead hide, and undeeded, that such corruption hath crept into the text.

The concern of our hero for the immortality of his poetical brethren, is certainly a very masterly stroke. Dr. Humbug.

Probably a distant imitation of

This line from Cato.

This, and the three following lines, an imitation of a speech in King Richard the Third.

As Mr. Bayes makes his two kings speak French to shew their breeding; our author makes his heroe speak Latin, to shew his education. A dash of Latin gives great spirit to tragic writings, and is often us'd with great success by dramatic authors.

Probably in imitation of

I should be glad to inform the reader from whom this image is borrow'd. I have read upwards of two hundred plays to find it, but in vain.—Our author acknowledges it is not his own, but cannot recollect from whom it is taken. Dr. Humbug.

A very pertinent epithet as Trulletta was slain by a bodkin; and, in my opinion, as beautiful as the iron teeth in Boadicia. See note 18 in the fourth act.

This dying speech and prayer of our heroine is an original, and perhaps one of the finest pieces of dramatic painting in the whole world of literature. Dr. Humbug.

Tears of blood frequently occur in tragic productions.

A very beautiful thought, yet it favours pretty strong of Tipperary. Ibid.

This paternal regard in our hero for the orphan children of his brain, is a very masterly touch. Dr. Humbug.

I cannot recollect from whence this image is taken.

Our author, more sensibly to heighten the distress of the piece, hath judiciously brought about a discovery that cannot fail of having its proper effect. Discoveries of this kind, and introduced for the same purpose, are frequently met with in dramatic writings. Dr. Humbug.

This cruel exile probably means transportation. This conjecture seems to be strengthen'd by what we are told of Buckramo's father in the first act, viz. that he

In this, and the following speeches of our hero, the author hath shewn uncommon abilities for painting a mad scene. I must ingenuously own, I think it the most natural madness I ever met with. Dr. Humbug.

The ghosts of our heroine, and her father, seem to rise on the same important business with those of Jaffiere and Pierre in Venice Preserved. Dr. Humbug.

This seems to be an imitation of a celebrated actor, who hath the happy art of clipping language in his mock agonies, as

Our author shews more of the tradesman, than the bard, in the mention of an hempen manufacture; though I think, as a tradesman, it is not much to his credit to speak of a cracking commodity.

In the representation, instead of this line was added the following speech, which was supply'd by a brother author. Mr. Davis perform'd it so inimitably well, that he was oblig'd to rise from the dead to speak it a second time.

This tragedy originally ended with the line,

on which the punning critick before-mention'd observ'd, it was an immoral play. Our author took the hint, but could not be prevailed on to annex a moral. I expostulated with him, in the most friendly manner, on the necessity of such termination of the play; but he very obstinately and whimsically insisted, that a moral, unless drawn up in the epilogue, was unnatural, because it is an immediate address to the audience; which audience, the speaker, in his dramatic character, cannot with propriety suppose to be present—that it could not properly be spoken by any of the persons in the drama, unless such person had been present during the whole representation, and was consequently acquainted with every incident in the play— that it was an affront to an audience, to suppose them incapable of drawing a moral from the representation—that it was a modern custom, and, in his opinion,

that many judicious authors had shewn their dislike of such practise, particularly Gay, who severely satiriz'd it in his ingenious and pithy epilogue to the What d'ye call it, viz.

and finally, that our immortal Shakespear seldom or never concluded any of his plays with a moral.

He was so obstinate on the occasion, that it was with no small difficulty I could prevail on him to suffer me to annex the foregoing moral; which the reader may perceive is taken, with slight alteration, from the most finish'd tragedy, that any language hath yet produced, I mean Mr. Addison's Cato.

As I have now ended my annotations, and occasionally scatter'd a few encomia on the play, it will be naturally expected I should give my summary opinion of its merits, which I shall deliver, not so much with the candour of the friend, as the impartiality of the critick. I shall divide the subject of my remarks into three heads, viz. the fable, the manners, and the diction.

As to the fable—but it had quite slipt my memory, that the printer's boy hath been waiting this half hour at my elbow for the finishing note, wherefore I must defer my criticism, till the next edition of this tragedy.