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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 passion, tears the passion 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 shore, 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 glass 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 coarse, 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 Fashion so directs, and Moderns raise On Fashion'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 noble pleasures spring, In native notes whilst Beard and Vincent[58] sing. Might figure give a title unto fame, What rival should with Yates[59]
