University of Virginia Library

PRELUDE AT THE THEATRE.

Manager.

Poet.

Mr. Merryman.
Enough of this cold cant of future ages,
And men hereafter doting on your pages;
To prattle thus of other times is pleasant,
And all the while neglect our own, the PRESENT.
If on the unborn we squander our exertion,
Who will supply the living with diversion?
And, clamour as you authors may about it,
We want amusement, will not go without it;
A fashionable group is no small matter,
Methinks, a poet's vanity to flatter:
He who, profusely lavishing invention,
Pleases himself, need feel no apprehension;
The crowd soon share the feelings of the poet,
The praise he seeks they liberally bestow it:
The more that come, the better for the writer;
Each flash of wit is farther felt—seems brighter,
And every little point appreciated,
By some one in the circle over-rated,
All is above its value estimated:
Take courage then,—come—now for a chef-d'œuvre—
To make a name—to live, and live for ever—
Call Fancy up, with her attendant troop,
Reason and Judgment, Passion, Melancholy,
Wit, Feeling, and be sure among the group
Not to forget the little darling, Folly!

Manager.
But above all, give them enough of action;
He who gives most, will give most satisfaction;
They come to see a show—no work whatever,
Unless it be a show, can win their favour;
Therefore, by this their taste, be thou admonished,
Weave brilliant scenes to captivate their eyes:
Let them but stare and gape, and be astonished,
Soon as a dramatist your fame will rise.
A show is what they want; they love and pay for it;
Spite of its serious parts, sit through a play for it;
And he who gives one is a certain favourite;
Would you please many, you must give good measure;
Then each finds something in 't to yield him pleasure;
The more you give, the greater sure your chance is
To please, by varying scenes, such various fancies.
The interest of a piece, no doubt, increases
Divided thus, and broken into pieces.
Such a ragoût is soon prepared, nor shall it
Be otherwise than pleasing to each palate;
And, for my part, methinks it little matters:
Though you may call your work a finished whole,
The public soon will tear this whole to tatters,
And but on piecemeal parts their praises dole.

Poet.
You cannot think how very mean a task,
How humbling to a genuine artist's mind,
To furnish such a drama as you ask:
The poor pretender's bungling tricks, I find,
Are now established as the rules of trade,—
Receipts—by which successful plays are made!

Manager.
Such an objection is of little weight
Against my reasoning. If a person chooses
To work effectively, no doubt he uses
The instrument that 's most appropriate.
Your play may—for your audience—be too good;—
Coarse lumpish logs are they of clumsy wood—
Blocks—with the hatchet only to be hewed!—
One comes to drive away ennui or spleen;
Another, with o'erloaded paunch from table;
A third, than all the rest less tolerable,
From reading a review or magazine.
Hither all haste, anticipate delight,
As to a Masque, desire each face illuming,
And each, some novel character assuming,
Place for awhile their own half out of sight.
The ladies, too, tricked out in brilliant gear,
Themselves ambitious actresses appear,
And, though unpaid, are still performers here.
What do you dream, in your poetic pride?
Think you a full house can be satisfied
And every auditor an ardent cheerer?
Pray, only look at them a little nearer;
One half are cold spectators, inattentive;
The other dead to every fine incentive;
One fellow's thinking of a game of cards;
One on a wild night of intoxication:
Why court for such a set the kind regards
Of the coy Muse—her highest fascination?
I tell thee only, give enough—enough;
Still more and more—no matter of what stuff,
You cannot go astray; let all your views
Be only for the moment to amuse,
To keep them in amazement or distraction;
Man is incapable of satisfaction.
Why, what affects you thus—is 't inspiration?
A reverie?—oh! can it be vexation?

Poet.
Go, and elsewhere some fitter servant find;
What! shall the poet squander then away,
And spend in worthless, worse than idle, play,
The highest gift that ever nature gave,
The inalienable birthright of mankind,
The freedom of the independent mind,
And sink into an humble trading slave?
Whence is his power all human hearts to win,
And why can nothing his proud march oppose,
As through all elements the conqueror goes?
Oh! is it not the harmony within,
The music which hath for its dwelling-place
His own rich soul—the heart that can receive
And hold in its unlimited embrace
All things inanimate, and all that live?
When Nature, like a tired and stupid sloven,
Twists with dull fingers the coarse threads of life,
When all things, that, together interwoven,
In happy concord still agreeing,
Should join to form the web of being,
Are tangled in inextricable strife;
Who then can cheer life's drear monotony,
Bestow upon the dead new animation,
Restore the dissonant to harmony,
And bid the jarring individual be
A chord, that, in the general consecration,
Bears part with all in musical relation?
Who to the tempest's rage can give a voice
Like human passion? bid the serious mind
Glow with the colouring of the sunset hours?
Who in the dear path scatter spring's first flowers,
When wanders forth the ladye of his choice?
Who of the valueless green leaves can bind
A wreath—the artist's proudest ornament—
Or, round the conquering hero's brow entwined
The best reward his country can present?
Whose voice is fame? who gives us to inherit
Olympus, and the loved Elysian field?
The soul of MAN sublimed—man's soaring spirit
Seen in the POET, gloriously revealed.

Friend.
A poet then should regulate his fancies,
Like that of life should get up his romances;
First a chance meeting—then the young folk tarry
Together—toy and trifle, sigh and marry,
Are link'd for ever, scarcely half intending it,
Once met—'tis fixed—no changing and no mending it.
Thus a romance runs: fortune, then reverses;
Rapture, then coldness; bridal dresses—hearses;
The lady dying—letters from the lover,
And, ere you think of it, the thing is over.
Adopt this principle; write fast and gaily,
Give, in your play, the life we witness daily;
The life which all men live, yet few men notice,
Yet which will please ('tis very strange, but so 'tis),
Will please, when forced again on their attention
More than the wonders of remote invention;
Shift your scenes rapidly—and in the mirror
You hold up to the age show its own error—
Glimmerings of truth—calm sentiment—smart strictures—
Actors in bustle—clouds of moving pictures—
Such pantomime is sure to be regarded;
The public pleased, the dramatist rewarded:
This will attract the tender and the feeling;
The young, whose minds are yet unformed and plastic
Will crowd to you with love enthusiastic,
Hang rapturously o'er a work, revealing
Their own hearts to themselves, in solitude
Will feast on the remembered visions—stealing
From them their sweet and melancholy food:
Still the true charm, by which they are affected
Is this,—each sees his secret heart reflected:
Ready alike to weep or smile are they,
Admire the bard, adore his fancy's play;
Float with him on imagination's wing,
Think all his thoughts, are his in every thing,
Are, while they dream not of it, all they see:
Youth—youth is the true time for sympathy.
Hope little from the formal and the old;
Frozen with vanity, they must be cold;
Their sympathies are day by day diminished,
Till nothing can be made of men so finished;
Why they know every thing, all perfect they,
What could they learn from poet or from play?
With them all progress long ago is ended;
Try any novelty, they are offended:
Self is the secret; to enlarge their range
Of thought, were seeking in themselves a change:
Your true admirer is the generous spirit,
Unformed, unspoiled, he feels all kindred merit
As if of his own being it were part,
And growing with the growth of his own heart;
Feels gratitude, because he feels that truth
Is taught him by the poet—this is Youth;
Nothing can please your grown ones, they're so knowing,
And no one thanks the poet but the growing.

Poet.
Give me, oh! give me back the days
When I—I too—was young—
And felt, as they now feel, each coming hour
New consciousness of power.
Oh happy, happy time, above all praise!
Then thoughts on thoughts and crowding fancies sprung,
And found a language in unbidden lays;
Unintermitted streams from fountains ever flowing.
Then, as I wander'd free,
In every field, for me
Its thousand flowers were blowing!
A veil through which I did not see,
A thin veil o'er the world was thrown
In every bud a mystery;
Magic in every thing unknown:—
The fields, the grove, the air was haunted,
And all that age has disenchanted.
Yes! give me—give me back the days of youth,
Poor, yet how rich!—my glad inheritance
The inextinguishable love of truth,
While life's realities were all romance—
Give me, oh! give youth's passions unconfined,
The rush of joy that felt almost like pain,
Its hate, its love, its own tumultuous mind;—
Give me my youth again!

Friend.
Why, my good friend, for youth thus sigh and prattle,
I own 'twould be a fine thing in a battle;
If a young beauty on your arm were leaning,
Then, I admit, the wish would have some meaning;
In running, for a wager, a long distance,
A young man's sinews would be some assistance;
Or if, after a dance, a man was thinking
Of reeling out the night in glorious drinking;
But you have only among chords, well known
Of the familiar harp, with graceful finger
Freely to stray at large, or fondly linger,
Courting some wandering fancies of your own;
While, with capricious windings and delays,
Loitering, or lost in an enchanted maze
Of sweet sounds, the rich melody, at will
Gliding, here rests, here indolently strays,
Is ever free, yet evermore obeys
The hidden guide, that journeys with it still.
This is, old gentleman, your occupation,
Nor think that it makes less our veneration.
“Age,” says the song, “the faculties bewildering,
Renders men childish”—no! it finds them children.

Manager.
Come, come, no more of this absurd inventory
Of flattering phrases—courteous—complimentary.
You both lose time in words unnecessary,
Playing with language thus at fetch and carry;
Think not of tuning now or preparation,
Strike up, my boy—no fear—no hesitation,
Till you commence no chance of inspiration.
But once assume the poet—then the fire
From heaven will come to kindle and inspire.
Strong drink is what we want to gull the people,
A hearty, brisk, and animating tipple;
Come, come, no more delay, no more excuses,
The stuff we ask you for, at once produce us.
Lose this day loitering—'twill be the same story
To-morrow—and the next more dilatory;
Then indecision brings its own delays,
And days are lost lamenting o'er lost days.
Are you in earnest? seize this very minute—
What you can do, or dream you can, begin it,
Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it.
Only engage, and then the mind grows heated—
Begin it, and the work will be completed!
You know our German bards, like bold adventurers,
Bring out whate'er they please, and laugh at censurers,
Then do not think to-day of sparing scenery—
Command enough of dresses and machinery;
Use as you please—fire, water, thunder, levin—
The greater and the lesser lights of heaven.
Squander away the stars at your free pleasure,
And build up rocks and mountains without measure.
Of birds and beasts we've plenty here to lavish,
Come, cast away all apprehensions slavish—
Strut, on our narrow stage, with lofty stature,
As moving through the circle of wide nature,
Hurry with speed more swift than words can tell,
Rapid as thought—from HEAVEN—through EARTH—to HELL.