PREFACE.
Venice.
As all readers most unreasonably expect from all writers
the reasons why anything is written, the Author of the
following drama considers himself bound to explain,
that the work was composed during an autumnal residence
here, to beguile the tedium of convalescence;
and that a few copies of it are now printed and
circulated among his friends, to gratify his pleasure—
which he is heterodox enough to believe, every man
has a right, in a lawful extent, to do.
As, therefore, he confesses the book to be a
creation of his own humour, and in his own “vein;”
as it violates the acknowledged proprieties of the drama,
in not always displaying virtue rewarded, and iniquity
hanged; as, scorning to pamper to the delicate sensibilities
of hypocrites and slaves—it ventures to expose
the truth, and develope such scenes as are but too
faithful to the highly civilized and, consequently, highly
vitiated conditions of the human race; and, as its
Author holds in perfect contempt and absolute ridicule,
all critical axioms and regulations for the drama, which
was designed to pourtray the most
irregular, and not
the most ordinary passions and actions of men—of
course, he neither anticipates the support of the
periodical literature of England nor fears its abuse.
However, in saying this, he begs not to be mistaken, for
“Some fellow,
Who, having been praised for bluntness, doth affect
A saucy roughness; and constrains the garb,
Quite from his nature; he cannot flatter, he!
An honest mind and plain, he must speak truth,
An' they will take it, so; if not he's plain.”
To be plain, he professes to be neither more honest nor
straight-forward than his neighbours, neither less of an
egotist nor more of a fool; neither less desirous of the
admiration of the good, nor more covetous of the adulation
of the bad, than are all the rest of his race. He is
neither so young as to be deceived by the chimeras of a
heated and sufficiently luxurient imagination, into fancying
his pen the open sesame to the gates of immortality;
nor so old as to despair of being rewarded according to
his deserts. He is neither so wise as to underrate the
preciousness of worldly honor, nor so insane as to build
the castle of his happiness on the “baseless fabric” of
such a dream. He is neither so rich as to wish to print
his own effusions for the sake of seeing them adorn his
library shelves in the dignity of morocco and gold;
nor so poor as to be unable to defray the expense of
publishing what a bookseller would, very probably, indignantly
shelve. He is neither anxious for the
romantic notoriety of a “great unknown;” nor desirous
to remain in anonymous obscurity. He is neither
greatly given to hunger after fame; nor is he wholly
divested of an honorable appetite for such a
bon bouche.
He is neither so coxcombical as to believe that his
few readers will be very inquisitive after his identity;
nor so infra. dig. as not to assure himself that some
would like to know his “local habitation and his name.”
He is neither so bilious and melancholy as to be entirely
adapted to the inditing of sonnets “to his mistress'
eyebrow;” nor so light-haired and sanguine, as to love
beef-steaks and port wine before all things on earth.
He is neither so much on the west of the Alps, as to
bother himself vastly about the fussy observations of
the press; nor so located among savages as not to feast
his gratified senses on the many valuable papers that
exalt the journals of Great Britain above all others in
the world. He does not wish to be regarded as a
foreigner; and yet cares little if not called English. In
fact, he is just a proper man of the world with, perhaps,
more of the insolence of the Britain than the politeness
of the Gaul. He is femininely capricious—inasmuch
as he is not resolved whether this work shall end his
Apollonic aspirations, or herald in a series of consecutive
dramas! And he is masculinely animal, inasmuch as
he may feel himself so self-satisfied and comfortable on
the ottoman of the East, as altogether to neglect the
nobler energies becoming a native of the “Isles of the
West.”
That he will have his share of praise, and his
modicum of detraction, whether merited or not, he is
as perfectly assured as he is that there are Whig and
Tory newspapers, clever and silly gentlemen, good
natured patrons, and yellow visaged critics—and that,
according to the kneading of the gold, silver, brass,
and clay, in the Baal-god of English adoration—the
Press—so will be the proportions of excellent material,
or horrible trash, dragged out from the obscurity of
this Drama, and held forth for the gape of admiration
or the finger of scorn. Being no cynic, the Author
would like to please all; but being no idiot, he knows
he cannot do it. Being a lover of the drama, and an
admirer of its moral excellence, he naturally endeavours
to induce the world to worship at his shrine! but
knowing the world to consist of antagonist elements
curiously admixed, he is perfectly aware that he can
never achieve his end. He, himself, pretending to be
a poet, advances poetry to the very summit of the
intellectual pyramid reared up through many ages by
the mind of man; but being persuaded that the comprehension
and judgment of mankind differ as materially
as their physical senses of sight, smell, and taste vary
in remote portions of the globe—he is not surprised to
perceive that a multitude of revilers will consider him
madly worshipping an insignificant devil, instead of a
mighty god. The
Magnus Apollo of one person's
veneration being the golden beetle of another's praise,
he does not “fool himself to the bent” of presuming
that the reader will fall down at the Author's shrine;
whilst at the same time, he consoles himself with the
reflection, that, as every faith has its followers, so
converts may be made, even to his creed. He does not
flatter himself that this play will ever be performed;
yet he cannot deny that he considers it worthy of a
trial. He conscientiously believes that the present
managerial system is
very bad, yet he honestly confesses
that he does not know a better. He had no
actors in view when he drew his characters from nature,
yet he is mightily mistaken if Mr. Macready could not
impersonate the impassioned hero, and much deceived
if many of our performers could not nobly support the
play. He does not say this out of flattery to any
person, yet he does not withhold that many deserve
the compliment.
Thus then, Gentle Reader, being, like yourself, an
anomily of contradictions, and having made as honest,
if not as polite an obeisance, as other Authors, he begs
to present the following pages to your admiration, or
abjuration—not questioning your judgment any more
than he does your right to judge.