Poetical Works by Charles Churchill Part 2

E'en I, whom Nature cast in hideous mould, Whom, having made, she trembled to behold, Beneath the load of mimicry may groan, And find that Nature's errors are my own.

Shadows behind of Foote and Woodward came; Wilkinson this, Obrien[31] was that name. 410 Strange to relate, but wonderfully true, That even shadows have their shadows too!

With not a single comic power endued, The first a mere, mere mimic's mimic stood; The last, by Nature form'd to please, who shows, In Johnson's Stephen, which way genius grows, Self quite put off, affects with too much art To put on Woodward in each mangled part; Adopts his shrug, his wink, his stare; nay, more, His voice, and croaks; for Woodward croak'd before. 420 When a dull copier simple grace neglects, And rests his imitation in defects, We readily forgive; but such vile arts Are double guilt in men of real parts.

By Nature form'd in her perversest mood, With no one requisite of art endued, Next Jackson came[32]--Observe that settled glare, Which better speaks a puppet than a player; List to that voice--did ever Discord hear Sounds so well fitted to her untuned ear? 430 When to enforce some very tender part, The right hand slips by instinct on the heart, His soul, of every other thought bereft, Is anxious only where to place the left; He sobs and pants to soothe his weeping spouse; To soothe his weeping mother, turns and bows: Awkward, embarra.s.s'd, stiff, without the skill Of moving gracefully, or standing still, One leg, as if suspicious of his brother, Desirous seems to run away from t'other. 440 Some errors, handed down from age to age, Plead custom's force, and still possess the stage.

That's vile: should we a parent's faults adore, And err, because our fathers err'd before?

If, inattentive to the author's mind, Some actors made the jest they could not find; If by low tricks they marr'd fair Nature's mien, And blurr'd the graces of the simple scene, Shall we, if reason rightly is employ'd, Not see their faults, or seeing, not avoid? 450 When Falstaff stands detected in a lie, Why, without meaning, rolls Love's[33] gla.s.sy eye?

Why? There's no cause--at least no cause we know-- It was the fas.h.i.+on twenty years ago.

Fas.h.i.+on!--a word which knaves and fools may use, Their knavery and folly to excuse.

To copy beauties, forfeits all pretence To fame--to copy faults, is want of sense.

Yet (though in some particulars he fails, Some few particulars, where mode prevails) 460 If in these hallow'd times, when, sober, sad, All gentlemen are melancholy mad; When 'tis not deem'd so great a crime by half To violate a vestal as to laugh, Rude mirth may hope, presumptuous, to engage An act of toleration for the stage; And courtiers will, like reasonable creatures, Suspend vain fas.h.i.+on, and unscrew their features; Old Falstaff, play'd by Love, shall please once more, And humour set the audience in a roar. 470 Actors I've seen, and of no vulgar name, Who, being from one part possess'd of fame, Whether they are to laugh, cry, whine, or bawl, Still introduce that favourite part in all.

Here, Love, be cautious--ne'er be thou betray'd To call in that wag Falstaff's dangerous aid; Like Goths of old, howe'er he seems a friend, He'll seize that throne you wish him to defend.

In a peculiar mould by Humour cast, For Falstaff framed--himself the first and last-- 480 He stands aloof from all--maintains his state, And scorns, like Scotsmen, to a.s.similate.

Vain all disguise--too plain we see the trick, Though the knight wears the weeds of Dominic[34]; And Boniface[35] disgraced, betrays the smack, In _anno Domini_, of Falstaff sack.

Arms cross'd, brows bent, eyes fix'd, feet marching slow, A band of malcontents with spleen o'erflow; Wrapt in Conceit's impenetrable fog, Which Pride, like Phoebus, draws from every bog, 490 They curse the managers, and curse the town Whose partial favour keeps such merit down.

But if some man, more hardy than the rest, Should dare attack these gnatlings in their nest, At once they rise with impotence of rage, Whet their small stings, and buzz about the stage: 'Tis breach of privilege! Shall any dare To arm satiric truth against a player?

Prescriptive rights we plead, time out of mind; Actors, unlash'd themselves, may lash mankind. 500 What! shall Opinion then, of nature free, And liberal as the vagrant air, agree To rust in chains like these, imposed by things, Which, less than nothing, ape the pride of kings?

No--though half-poets with half-players join To curse the freedom of each honest line; Though rage and malice dim their faded cheek, What the Muse freely thinks, she'll freely speak; With just disdain of every paltry sneer, Stranger alike to flattery and fear, 510 In purpose fix'd, and to herself a rule, Public contempt shall wait the public fool.

Austin[36] would always glisten in French silks; Ackman would Norris be, and Packer, Wilkes: For who, like Ackman, can with humour please; Who can, like Packer, charm with sprightly ease?

Higher than all the rest, see Bransby strut: A mighty Gulliver in Lilliput!

Ludicrous Nature! which at once could show A man so very high, so very low! 520 If I forget thee, Blakes, or if I say Aught hurtful, may I never see thee play.

Let critics, with a supercilious air, Decry thy various merit, and declare Frenchman is still at top; but scorn that rage Which, in attacking thee, attacks the age.

French follies, universally embraced, At once provoke our mirth, and form our taste.

Long, from a nation ever hardly used, At random censured, wantonly abused, 530 Have Britons drawn their sport; with partial view Form'd general notions from the rascal few; Condemn'd a people, as for vices known, Which from their country banish'd, seek our own.

At length, howe'er, the slavish chain is broke, And Sense, awaken'd, scorns her ancient yoke: Taught by thee, Moody[37], we now learn to raise Mirth from their foibles; from their virtues, praise.

Next came the legion which our summer Bayes[38], From alleys, here and there, contrived to raise, 540 Flush'd with vast hopes, and certain to succeed, With wits who cannot write, and scarce can read.

Veterans no more support the rotten cause, No more from Elliot's[39] worth they reap applause; Each on himself determines to rely; Be Yates disbanded, and let Elliot fly.

Never did players so well an author fit, To Nature dead, and foes declared to wit.

So loud each tongue, so empty was each head, So much they talk'd, so very little said, 550 So wondrous dull, and yet so wondrous vain, At once so willing, and unfit to reign, That Reason swore, nor would the oath recall, Their mighty master's soul inform'd them all.

As one with various disappointments sad, Whom dulness only kept from being mad, Apart from all the rest great Murphy came-- Common to fools and wits, the rage of fame.

What though the sons of Nonsense hail him Sire, Auditor, Author, Manager, and Squire, 560 His restless soul's ambition stops not there; To make his triumphs perfect, dub him Player.

In person tall, a figure form'd to please, If symmetry could charm deprived of ease; When motionless he stands, we all approve; What pity 'tis the thing was made to move.

His voice, in one dull, deep, unvaried sound, Seems to break forth from caverns under ground; From hollow chest the low sepulchral note Unwilling heaves, and struggles in his throat. 570 Could authors butcher'd give an actor grace, All must to him resign the foremost place.

When he attempts, in some one favourite part, To ape the feelings of a manly heart, His honest features the disguise defy, And his face loudly gives his tongue the lie.

Still in extremes, he knows no happy mean, Or raving mad, or stupidly serene.

In cold-wrought scenes, the lifeless actor flags; In pa.s.sion, tears the pa.s.sion into rags. 580 Can none remember? Yes--I know all must-- When in the Moor he ground his teeth to dust, When o'er the stage he Folly's standard bore, Whilst Common-Sense stood trembling at the door.

How few are found with real talents blest!

Fewer with Nature's gifts contented rest.

Man from his sphere eccentric starts astray: All hunt for fame, but most mistake the way.

Bred at St Omer's to the shuffling trade, The hopeful youth a Jesuit might have made; 590 With various readings stored his empty skull, Learn'd without sense, and venerably dull; Or, at some banker's desk, like many more, Content to tell that two and two make four; His name had stood in City annals fair, And prudent Dulness mark'd him for a mayor.

What, then, could tempt thee, in a critic age, Such blooming hopes to forfeit on a stage?

Could it be worth thy wondrous waste of pains To publish to the world thy lack of brains? 600 Or might not Reason e'en to thee have shown, Thy greatest praise had been to live unknown?

Yet let not vanity like thine despair: Fortune makes Folly her peculiar care.

A vacant throne, high-placed in Smithfield, view.

To sacred Dulness and her first-born due, Thither with haste in happy hour repair, Thy birthright claim, nor fear a rival there.

Shuter himself shall own thy juster claim, And venal Ledgers[40] puff their Murphy's name; 610 Whilst Vaughan[41], or Dapper, call him which you will, Shall blow the trumpet, and give out the bill.

There rule, secure from critics and from sense, Nor once shall Genius rise to give offence; Eternal peace shall bless the happy sh.o.r.e, And little factions[42] break thy rest no more.

From Covent Garden crowds promiscuous go, Whom the Muse knows not, nor desires to know; Veterans they seem'd, but knew of arms no more Than if, till that time, arms they never bore: 620 Like Westminster militia[43] train'd to fight, They scarcely knew the left hand from the right.

Ashamed among such troops to show the head, Their chiefs were scatter'd, and their heroes fled.

Sparks[44] at his gla.s.s sat comfortably down To separate frown from smile, and smile from frown.

Smith,[45] the genteel, the airy, and the smart, Smith was just gone to school to say his part.

Ross[46] (a misfortune which we often meet) Was fast asleep at dear Statira's[47] feet; 630 Statira, with her hero to agree, Stood on her feet as fast asleep as he.

Macklin[48], who largely deals in half-form'd sounds, Who wantonly transgresses Nature's bounds, Whose acting's hard, affected, and constrain'd, Whose features, as each other they disdain'd, At variance set, inflexible and coa.r.s.e, Ne'er know the workings of united force, Ne'er kindly soften to each other's aid, Nor show the mingled powers of light and shade; 640 No longer for a thankless stage concern'd, To worthier thoughts his mighty genius turn'd, Harangued, gave lectures, made each simple elf Almost as good a speaker as himself; Whilst the whole town, mad with mistaken zeal, An awkward rage for elocution feel; Dull cits and grave divines his praise proclaim, And join with Sheridan's[49] their Macklin's name.

Shuter, who never cared a single pin Whether he left out nonsense, or put in, 650 Who aim'd at wit, though, levell'd in the dark, The random arrow seldom hit the mark, At Islington[50], all by the placid stream Where city swains in lap of Dulness dream, Where quiet as her strains their strains do flow, That all the patron by the bards may know, Secret as night, with Rolt's[51] experienced aid, The plan of future operations laid, Projected schemes the summer months to cheer, And spin out happy folly through the year. 660 But think not, though these dastard chiefs are fled, That Covent Garden troops shall want a head: Harlequin comes their chief! See from afar The hero seated in fantastic car!

Wedded to Novelty, his only arms Are wooden swords, wands, talismans, and charms; On one side Folly sits, by some call'd Fun, And on the other his arch-patron, Lun;[52]

Behind, for liberty athirst in vain, Sense, helpless captive, drags the galling chain: 670 Six rude misshapen beasts the chariot draw, Whom Reason loathes, and Nature never saw, Monsters with tails of ice, and heads of fire; 'Gorgons, and Hydras, and Chimeras dire.'

Each was bestrode by full as monstrous wight, Giant, dwarf, genius, elf, hermaphrodite.

The Town, as usual, met him in full cry; The Town, as usual, knew no reason why: But Fas.h.i.+on so directs, and Moderns raise On Fas.h.i.+on's mouldering base their transient praise. 680 Next, to the field a band of females draw Their force, for Britain owns no Salique law: Just to their worth, we female rights admit, Nor bar their claim to empire or to wit.

First giggling, plotting chambermaids arrive, Hoydens and romps, led on by General Clive.[53]

In spite of outward blemishes, she shone, For humour famed, and humour all her own: Easy, as if at home, the stage she trod, Nor sought the critic's praise, nor fear'd his rod: 690 Original in spirit and in ease, She pleased by hiding all attempts to please: No comic actress ever yet could raise, On Humour's base, more merit or more praise.

With all the native vigour of sixteen, Among the merry troop conspicuous seen, See lively Pope[54] advance, in jig, and trip Corinna, Cherry, Honeycomb, and Snip: Not without art, but yet to nature true, She charms the town with humour just, yet new: 700 Cheer'd by her promise, we the less deplore The fatal time when Olive shall be no more.

Lo! Vincent[55] comes! With simple grace array'd, She laughs at paltry arts, and scorns parade: Nature through her is by reflection shown, Whilst Gay once more knows Polly for his own.

Talk not to me of diffidence and fear-- I see it all, but must forgive it here; Defects like these, which modest terrors cause, From Impudence itself extort applause. 710 Candour and Reason still take Virtue's part; We love e'en foibles in so good a heart.

Let Tommy Arne[56],--with usual pomp of style, Whose chief, whose only merit's to compile; Who, meanly pilfering here and there a bit, Deals music out as Murphy deals out wit,-- Publish proposals, laws for taste prescribe, And chaunt the praise of an Italian tribe; Let him reverse kind Nature's first decrees, And teach e'en Brent[57] a method not to please; 720 But never shall a truly British age Bear a vile race of eunuchs on the stage; The boasted work's call'd national in vain, If one Italian voice pollutes the strain.

Where tyrants rule, and slaves with joy obey, Let slavish minstrels pour the enervate lay; To Britons far more n.o.ble pleasures spring, In native notes whilst Beard and Vincent[58] sing.

Might figure give a t.i.tle unto fame, What rival should with Yates[59] dispute her claim? 730 But justice may not partial trophies raise, Nor sink the actress' in the woman's praise.

Still hand in hand her words and actions go, And the heart feels more than the features show; For, through the regions of that beauteous face We no variety of pa.s.sions trace; Dead to the soft emotions of the heart, No kindred softness can those eyes impart: The brow, still fix'd in sorrow's sullen frame, Void of distinction, marks all parts the same. 740 What's a fine person, or a beauteous face, Unless deportment gives them decent grace?

Bless'd with all other requisites to please, Some want the striking elegance of ease; The curious eye their awkward movement tires; They seem like puppets led about by wires.

Others, like statues, in one posture still, Give great ideas of the workman's skill; Wond'ring, his art we praise the more we view, And only grieve he gave not motion too. 750 Weak of themselves are what we beauties call, It is the manner which gives strength to all; This teaches every beauty to unite, And brings them forward in the n.o.blest light; Happy in this, behold, amidst the throng, With transient gleam of grace, Hart[60] sweeps along.

If all the wonders of external grace, A person finely turn'd, a mould of face, Where--union rare--expression's lively force With beauty's softest magic holds discourse, 760 Attract the eye; if feelings, void of art, Rouse the quick pa.s.sions, and inflame the heart; If music, sweetly breathing from the tongue, Captives the ear, Bride[61] must not pa.s.s unsung.

When fear, which rank ill-nature terms conceit, By time and custom conquer'd, shall retreat; When judgment, tutor'd by experience sage, Shall shoot abroad, and gather strength from age; When Heaven, in mercy, shall the stage release From the dull slumbers of a still-life piece; 770 When some stale flower[62], disgraceful to the walk, Which long hath hung, though wither'd, on the stalk, Shall kindly drop, then Bride shall make her way, And merit find a pa.s.sage to the day; Brought into action, she at once shall raise Her own renown, and justify our praise.

Form'd for the tragic scene, to grace the stage With rival excellence of love and rage; Mistress of each soft art, with matchless skill To turn and wind the pa.s.sions as she will; 780 To melt the heart with sympathetic woe, Awake the sigh, and teach the tear to flow; To put on frenzy's wild, distracted glare, And freeze the soul with horror and despair; With just desert enroll'd in endless fame, Conscious of worth superior, Cibber[63] came.

When poor Alicia's madd'ning brains are rack'd, And strongly imaged griefs her mind distract, Struck with her grief, I catch the madness too, My brain turns round, the headless trunk I view! 790 The roof cracks, shakes, and falls--new horrors rise, And Reason buried in the ruin lies!

n.o.bly disdainful of each slavish art, She makes her first attack upon the heart; Pleased with the summons, it receives her laws, And all is silence, sympathy, applause.

But when, by fond ambition drawn aside, Giddy with praise, and puff'd with female pride, She quits the tragic scene, and, in pretence To comic merit, breaks down nature's fence, 800 I scarcely can believe my ears or eyes, Or find out Cibber through the dark disguise.

Pritchard[64], by Nature for the stage design'd, In person graceful, and in sense refined; Her art as much as Nature's friend became, Her voice as free from blemish as her fame, Who knows so well in majesty to please, Attemper'd with the graceful charms of ease?

When, Congreve's favoured pantomime[65] to grace, She comes a captive queen, of Moorish race; 810 When love, hate, jealousy, despair, and rage With wildest tumults in her breast engage, Still equal to herself is Zara seen; Her pa.s.sions are the pa.s.sions of a queen.

When she to murder whets the timorous Thane,[66]

I feel ambition rush through every vein; Persuasion hangs upon her daring tongue, My heart grows flint, and every nerve's new strung.

In comedy--Nay, there, cries Critic, hold; Pritchard's for comedy too fat and old: 820 Who can, with patience, bear the gray coquette, Or force a laugh with over-grown Julett?[67]

Her speech, look, action, humour, all are just, But then, her age and figure give disgust.

Are foibles, then, and graces of the mind, In real life, to size or age confined?

Do spirits flow, and is good-breeding placed In any set circ.u.mference of waist?

As we grow old, doth affectation cease, Or gives not age new vigour to caprice? 830 If in originals these things appear, Why should we bar them in the copy here?

The nice punctilio-mongers of this age, The grand minute reformers of the stage, Slaves to propriety of every kind, Some standard measure for each part should find, Which, when the best of actors shall exceed, Let it devolve to one of smaller breed.

All actors, too, upon the back should bear Certificate of birth; time, when; place, where; 840 For how can critics rightly fix their worth, Unless they know the minute of their birth?

An audience, too, deceived, may find, too late, That they have clapp'd an actor out of date.

Figure, I own, at first may give offence, And harshly strike the eye's too curious sense; But when perfections of the mind break forth, Humour's chaste sallies, judgment's solid worth; When the pure genuine flame by Nature taught, Springs into sense and every action's thought; 850 Before such merit all objections fly-- Pritchard's genteel, and Garrick's six feet high.

Oft have I, Pritchard, seen thy wondrous skill, Confess'd thee great, but find thee greater still; That worth, which shone in scatter'd rays before, Collected now, breaks forth with double power.

The 'Jealous Wife!'[68] on that thy trophies raise, Inferior only to the author's praise.

From Dublin, famed in legends of romance For mighty magic of enchanted lance, 860 With which her heroes arm'd, victorious prove, And, like a flood, rush o'er the land of Love, Mossop and Barry came--names ne'er design'd By Fate in the same sentence to be join'd.

Raised by the breath of popular acclaim, They mounted to the pinnacle of fame; There the weak brain, made giddy with the height, Spurr'd on the rival chiefs to mortal fight.

Thus sportive boys, around some basin's brim, Behold the pipe-drawn bladders circling swim; 870 But if, from lungs more potent, there arise Two bubbles of a more than common size, Eager for honour, they for fight prepare, Bubble meets bubble, and both sink to air.

Mossop[69] attach'd to military plan, Still kept his eye fix'd on his right-hand[70] man; Whilst the mouth measures words with seeming skill, The right hand labours, and the left lies still; For he, resolved on Scripture grounds to go, What the right doth, the left-hand shall not know, 880 With studied impropriety of speech, He soars beyond the hackney critic's reach; To epithets allots emphatic state, Whilst princ.i.p.als, ungraced, like lackeys wait; In ways first trodden by himself excels, And stands alone in indeclinables; Conjunction, preposition, adverb join To stamp new vigour on the nervous line; In monosyllables his thunders roll, He, she, it, and we, ye, they, fright the soul. 890 In person taller than the common size, Behold where Barry[71] draws admiring eyes!

When labouring pa.s.sions, in his bosom pent, Convulsive rage, and struggling heave for vent; Spectators, with imagined terrors warm, Anxious expect the bursting of the storm: But, all unfit in such a pile to dwell, His voice comes forth, like Echo from her cell, To swell the tempest needful aid denies, And all adown the stage in feeble murmurs dies. 900 What man, like Barry, with such pains, can err In elocution, action, character?

What man could give, if Barry was not here, Such well applauded tenderness to Lear?

Who else can speak so very, very fine, That sense may kindly end with every line?

Some dozen lines before the ghost is there, Behold him for the solemn scene prepare: See how he frames his eyes, poises each limb, Puts the whole body into proper trim:-- 910 From whence we learn, with no great stretch of art, Five lines hence comes a ghost, and, ha! a start.

When he appears most perfect, still we find Something which jars upon and hurts the mind: Whatever lights upon a part are thrown, We see too plainly they are not his own: No flame from Nature ever yet he caught, Nor knew a feeling which he was not taught: He raised his trophies on the base of art, And conn'd his pa.s.sions, as he conn'd his part. 920 Quin,[72] from afar, lured by the scent of fame, A stage leviathan, put in his claim, Pupil of Betterton[73] and Booth. Alone, Sullen he walk'd, and deem'd the chair his own: For how should moderns, mushrooms of the day, Who ne'er those masters knew, know how to play?

Gray-bearded veterans, who, with partial tongue, Extol the times when they themselves were young, Who, having lost all relish for the stage, See not their own defects, but lash the age, 930 Received, with joyful murmurs of applause, Their darling chief, and lined[74] his favourite cause.

Far be it from the candid Muse to tread Insulting o'er the ashes of the dead: But, just to living merit, she maintains, And dares the test, whilst Garrick's genius reigns, Ancients in vain endeavour to excel, Happily praised, if they could act as well.