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We pass reluctantly over the account of Mrs. Barry, Mrs. Betterton, and others of less note, to insert the following exquisite picture of one who seems to have been the most exquisite of actresses:

wherein, after his age had some years obliged | whole various excellence at once, was the part him to leave the stage, he came on again, for of Melantha, in Marriage-Alamode. Melanthat day, to perform his old part; but, alas!|tha is as finished an impertinent as ever so worn and disabled, as if himself was to fluttered in a drawing-room, and seems to con have lain in the grave he was digging: when tain the most complete system of female fophe could no more excite laughter, his infirmities pery that could possibly be crowded into the were dismissed with pity: he died soon after tortured form of a fine lady. Her language, a superannuated pensioner, in the list of those dress, motion, manners, soul, and body, are in who were supported by the joint sharers, a continual hurry, to be something more than under the first patent granted to Sir Richard is necessary or commendable. And though I Steele." doubt it will be a vain labour, to offer you a just likeness of Mrs. Monfort's action, yet the fantastic impression is still so strong in my memory, that I cannot help saying something, though fantastically, about it. The first ridiculous airs that break from her, are upon a "Mrs. Monfort, whose second marriage gave gallant, never seen before, who delivers her a her the name of Verbruggen, was mistress of letter from her father, recommending him to more variety of humour than I ever knew in any her good graces, as an honourable lover. Here, one actress. This variety, too, was attended with now, one would think she might naturally show an equal vivacity, which made her excellent in a little of the sex's decent reserve, though characters extremely different. As she was na-never so slightly covered! No, sir: not a turally a pleasant mimic, she had the skill to make that talent useful on the stage, a talent which may be surprising in a conversation, and yet be lost when brought to the theatre, which was the case of Estcourt already mentioned: but where the elocution is round, distinct, voluble, and various, as Mrs. Monfort's was, the mimic, there, is a great assistant to the actor. Nothing, though ever so barren, if within the bounds of nature, could be flat in her hands. She gave many heightening touches to characters but coldly written, and often made an author vain of his work, that in itself had but little merit. She was so fond of humour, in what low part soever to be found, that she would make no scruple of defacing her fair form, to come heartily into it; for when she was eminent in several desirable characters of wit and humour, in higher life, she would be in as much fancy, when descending into the antiquated Abigail, or Fletcher, as when triumphing in all the airs and vain graces of a fine lady; a merit, that few actresses care for. In a play of D'Urfey's, now forgotten, called The Western Lass, which part she acted, she transformed her whole being, body, shape, voice, language, look, and features, into almost another animal; with a strong Devonshire dialect, a broad laughing voice, a poking head, round shoulders, an unconceiving eye, and the most bedizening, dowdy dress, that ever covered the untrained limbs of a Joan Trot. To have seen her here, you would have thought it impossible the same creature could ever have been recovered, to what was as easy to her, the gay, the lively, and the desirable. Nor was her humour limited to her sex; for, while her shape permitted, she was a more adroit pretty fellow than is usually seen upon the stage: her easy air, action, mien, and gesture, quite changed from the quoif to the cocked hat, and cavalier in fashion. People were so fond of seeing her a man, that when the part of Bays, in the Rehearsal, had, for some time, lain dormant, she was desired to take it up, which I have seen her act with all the true, coxcombly spirit and humour that the sufficiency of the character required.

"But what found most employment for her

title of it; modesty is the virtue of a poorsouled country gentlewoman; she is too much a court lady, to be under so vulgar a confusion; she reads the letter, therefore, with a、 careless, dropping lip, and an erected brow, humming it hastily over, as if she were impatient to outgo her father's commands, by making a complete conquest of him at once; and that the letter might not embarrass her attack, crack! she crumbles it at once, into her palm, and pours upon him her whole artillery of airs, eyes, and motion; down goes her dainty, diving body, to the ground, as if she were sinking under the conscious load of her own attractions; then launches into a flood of fine language and compliment, still playing her chest forward in fifty falls and risings, like a swan upon waving water; and, to complete her impertinence, she is so rapidly fond of her own wit, that she will not give her lover leave to praise it; silent assenting bows, and vain endeavours to speak, are all the share of the conversation he is admitted to, which, at last, he is relieved from, by her engagement to half a score visits, which she swims from him to make, with a promise to return in a twinkling."

In this work, also, the reader may become acquainted, on familiar terms, with Wilkes and Dogget, and Booth-fall in love with Mrs. Bracegirdle, as half the town did in days of yore-and sit amidst applauding whigs and tories on the first representation of Cato. He may follow the actors from the gorgeous scene of their exploits to their private enjoyments, share in their jealousies, laugh with them at their own ludicrous distresses, and join in their happy social hours. Yet with all our admiration for the theatrical artists, who yet live in Cibber's Apology, we rejoice to believe that their high and joyous art is not declining. Kemble, indeed, and Mrs. Siddons, have forsaken that stateliest region of tragedy which they first opened to our gaze. But the latter could not be regarded as belonging to any age; her path was lonely as it was exalted, and she appeared, not as highest of a class which exist ed before her, but as a being of another order, destined "to leave the world no copy," but to

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enrich its imaginations for ever.

Yet have we, in the youngest of the Kemble line, at once an artist of antique grace in comedy, and a tragedian of look the most chivalrous and heroic-of "form and moving most express and admirable"-of enthusiasm to give vivid expression to the highest and the most honourable of human emotions. Still, in Macready, can we boast of one, whose rich and noble voice is adapted to all the most exquisite varieties of tenderness and passion-one, whose genius leads him to "imbody characters the most imaginative and romantic-and who throws over his grandest pictures tints so mellow and so nicely blended, that, with all their inimitable variety, they sink in perfect harmony into the soul. Still, in Kean, have we a performer of intensity never equalled-of pathos

the sweetest and most profound — whose bursts of passion almost transport us into another order of being, and whose flashes of genius cast a new light on the darkest caverns of the soul. If we have few names to boast in elegant comedy, we enjoy a crowd of the richest and most original humourists, with Munden-that actor of a myriad unforgotten faces-at their head. But our theme has enticed us beyond our proper domain of the past; and we must retire. Let us hope for some Cibber, to catch the graces of our living actors before they perish, that our successors may fix on them their retrospective eyes unblamed, and enrich with a review of their merits some number of our work, which will appear, in due course, in the twenty-second century!

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REVIEW OF JOHN DENNIS'S WORKS.
[RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW, No. 2.]

age, as a wild, irregular genius, who would have been inconceivably greater, had he known and copied the ancients. The following is a part of his general criticism on this subject, and a fair specimen of his best style:

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JOHN DENNIS, the terror or the scorn of ciples of the revolution, detesting the French, that age, which is sometimes honoured with the abominating the Italian opera, and deprecattitle of Augustan, has attained a lasting noto-ing as heartily the triumph of the Pretender, riety, to which the reviewers of our times can as the success of a rival's tragedy. His poscarcely aspire. His name is immortalized litical treatises, though not very elegantly in the Dunciad; his best essay is preserved in finished, are made of sturdy materials. He Johnson's Lives of the Poets; and his works appears, from some passages in his letters, to yet keep their state in two substantial vo- have cherished a genuine love of nature, and lumes, which are now before us. But the in- to have turned, with eager delight, to deep and terest of the most poignant abuse and the quiet solitudes, for refreshment from the feseverest criticism quickly perishes. We con- verish excitements, the vexatious defeats, and template the sarcasms and the invectives the barren triumphs of his critical career. He which once stung into rage the irritable ge-admired Shakspeare, after the fashion of his neration of poets, with as cold a curiosity as we look on the rusty javelins or stuffed reptiles in the glass cases of the curious. The works of Dennis will, however, assist us in forming a judgment of the criticism of his age, as compared with that of our own, and will afford Shakspeare was one of the greatest geus an opportunity of investigating the in-niuses that the world ever saw, for the tragic fluences of that popular art on literature and stage. Though he lay under greater disad vantages than any of his successors, yet had he greater and more genuine beauties than the best and greatest of them. And what makes the brightest glory of his character, those beauties were entirely his own, and owing to the force of his own nature; whereas, his faults were owing to his education, and to the age he lived in. One may say of him, as they did of Homer, that he had none to imitate, and is himself inimitable. His imaginations were often as just as they were bold and strong. He had a natural discretion which never could have been taught him, and his judgment was strong and penetrating. He seems to have wanted nothing but time and leisure for thought, to have found out those rules of which he appears so ignorant. His characters are always drawn justly, exactly, graphically, except where he failed by not knowing history or the poetical art. He had, for the most part,

on manners.

But we must not forget, that Mr. Dennis laid claims to public esteem, not only as a critic, but as a wit, a politician, and a poet. In the first and the last of these characters, he can receive but little praise. His attempts at gayety and humour are weighty and awkward, almost without example. His poetry can only be described by negatives; it is not inharmonious, nor irregular, nor often turgid-for the author, too nice to sink into the mean, and 5 too timid to rise into the bombastic, dwells in elaborate decencies for ever." The climax of his admiration for Queen Mary-"Mankind extols the king-the king admires the queen" -will give a fair specimen of his architectural enlogies. He is entitled to more respect as an honest patriot. He was, indeed, a true-hearted Englishman-with the legitimate prejudices of his country-warmly attached to the prin

is himself afterwards slain, to satisfy the requisitions of poetical justice; which, to Mr. Dennis's great distress, Shakspeare so often violates. It is quite amusing to observe, with how perverted an ingenuity all the gaps in Shakspeare's verses are filled up, the irregularities smoothed away, and the colloquial expressions changed for stately phrases. Thus, for example, the noble wish of Coriolanus on entering the forum

"The honoured gods

Keep Rome in safety, and the chairs of justice
Supplied with worthy men! plant love among us!
Throng our large temples with the shows of peace,
And not our streets with war"-

more fairly distinguished them than any of his | his Country, or the Fatal Resentment." In successors have done, who have falsified the catastrophe, Coriolanus kills Aufidius, and them, or confounded them, by making love the predominant quality in all. He had so fine a talent for touching the passions, and they are so lively in him, and so truly in nature, that they often touch us more, without their due preparations, than those of other tragic poets, who have all the beauty of design and all the advantage of incidents. His master passion was terror, which he has often moved so powerfully and so wonderfully, that we may justly conclude, that if he had had the advantage of art and learning, he would have surpassed the very best and strongest of the ancients. His paintings are often so beautiful and so lively, so graceful and so powerful, especially where he uses them in order to move terror, that there is nothing, perhaps, more accomplished in our English poetry. His sentiments for the most part, in his best tragedies, are noble, generous, easy, and natural, and adapted to the persons who use them. His expression is, in many places, good and pure, after a hundred years; simple though elevated, graceful though bold, easy though strong. He seems to have been the very original of our English tragical harmony; that is, the harmony of blank verse, diversified often by dissyllable and trissyllable terminations. For that diversity distinguishes it from heroic harmony, and, bringing it nearer to common use, makes it more proper to gain attention, and more fit for action and dialogue. Such verse we make when we are writing prose; we make such verse in common conversation.

is thus elegantly translated into classical language:

"The great and tutelary gods of Rome Keep Rome in safety, and the chairs of justice Supplied with worthy men: plant love among you: Adorn our temples with the pomp of peace, And, from our streets drive horrid war away." The conclusion of the hero's last speech on leaving Rome

"Thus I turn my back: there is a world elsewhere." is elevated into the following heroic lines: "For me, thus, thus, I turn my back upon you, And make a better world where'er I go." His fond expression of constaney to his wife

"That kiss

I carried from thee, dear; and my true lip
Hath virgined it e'er since,"—

"If Shakspeare had these great qualities by is thus refined:

nature, what would he not have been, if he had joined to so happy a genius learning and the poetical art. For want of the latter, our author has sometimes made gross mistakes in the characters which he has drawn from history, against the equality and conveniency of manners of his dramatical persons. Witness Menenius in the following tragedy, whom he has made an arrant buffoon, which is a great absurdity. For he might as well have imagined a grave majestic Jack Pudding as a buffoon in a Roman senator. Aufidius, the general of the Volscians, is shown a base and a profligate villain. He has offended against the equality of the manners even in the hero himself. For Coriolanus, who in the first part of the tragedy is shown so open, so frank, so violent, and so magnanimous, is represented in the latter part by Aufidius, which is contradicted by no one, a flattering, fawning, cringing, insinuating traitor."

Mr. Dennis proceeds very generously to apologize for Shakspeare's faults, by observing that he had neither friends to consult, nor time to make corrections. He, also, attributes his lines "utterly void of celestial fire," and passages "harsh and unmusical," to the want of leisure to wait for felicitous hours and moments of choicest inspiration. To remedy these defects-to mend the harmony and to put life into the dulness of Shakspeare-Mr. Dennis has assayed, and brought his own genius to the alteration of Coriolanus for the stage, under the lofty title of the "Invader of

"That kiss

I carried from my love, and my true lip
Hath ever since preserved it like a virgin."
The icicle which was wont to "hang on
Dian's temple," here more gracefully "hangs
The burst of min-
upon the temple of Diana."
gled pride, and triumph of Coriolanus, when
taunted with the word "boy," is here exalted
to tragic dignity. Our readers have, doubtless,
ignorantly admired the original.

Boy! False hound!
If you have writ your annals true, 'tis there,
That like an eagle in a dove cote, I
"Fluttered your Volsces in Corioli.
Alone I did it-Boy.

The following is the improved version:
"This boy, that like an eagle in a dove court,
Flutter'd a thousand Volsces in Corioli,
And did it without second or acquittance,
Thus sends their mighty chief to mourn in hell!”

Who does not now appreciate the sad lot of Shakspeare-so feelingly bewailed by Mr. Dennis-that he had not a critic, of the age of King William, by his side, to refine his style and elevate his conceptions!

It is edifying to observe, how the canons of Mr. Dennis's criticism, which he regarded as the imperishable laws of genius, are now either exploded, or considered as matters of subordinate importance, wholly unaffecting the inward soul of poetry. No one now regards the merits of an Epic poem, as decided by the subservience of the fable and the action to the moral-by the presence or the ab

sence of an allegory-by the fortunate or un- | hend the nature of it, to lay before him that fortunate fate of the hero or by any other universal moral, which is the foundation of rules of artificial decorum, which the critics all morals, both epic and dramatic, and is inof former times thought fit to inculcate. We clusive of them all, and that is, That he who learn from their essays, whether the works does good, and perseveres in it, shall always which they examine are constructed, in exter- be rewarded; and he who does ill, and persenals, according to certain fantastic rules; but, veres in it, shall always be punished! Should whether they are frigid or impassioned, har- we not desire him to observe, that the foresaid monious or prosaic, filled with glorious imagi- reward must always attend and crown good nations, or replete with low common-places: actions, not sometimes only, for then it would whether, in short, they are works of genius or follow, that sometimes a perseverance in good of mere toil-are questions entirely beneath actions has no reward, which would take away their concern. The critic on the tragedy of all poetical instruction, and, indeed, every sort Cato, ingenious and just as it is, omits one ma- of moral instruction, resolving Providence into terial objection to that celebrated piece-that chance or fate. Should we not, sir, farther it is good for nothing, and would be so if all put him in mind, that since whoever persethe faults selected for censure could be, in an veres in good actions, is sure to be rewarded instant, corrected. There is a French essay at the last, it follows, that a poet does not ason Telemachus, framed on the same superfi- sert by his moral, that he is always sure to be cial principles of criticism, which, after a rewarded in this world, because that would minute examination of the moral, fable, cha- be false, as you have very justly observed, p. racters, allegory, and other like requisites of 60; and, therefore, never can be the moral of excellence, triumphantly proves its claim to an epic poem, because what is false may be ranked with, if not above, the great poems delude, but only truth can instruct. Should 1 of Homer and of Virgil. Mr. Dennis seems, we not let him know, sir, that this universal in general, to have applied the rules of eriti- moral only teaches us, that whoever perseveres cism, extant in his day, to the compositions on in good actions, shall be always sure to be rewhich he passed judgment; but there was warded either here or hereafter; and that the one position respecting which his contempo- truth of this moral is proved by the poet, by raries were not agreed, and on which he com- making the principal character of his poem, bated with the spirit of a martyr. This dis-like all the rest of his characters, and like the puted point, the necessity of observing poetical justice in works of fiction, we shall briefly examine, because we think that it involves one of those mistakes in humanity, which it is always desirable to expose. But first we must, in fairness, lay one of our author's many arguments, on this subject, before our readers. "The principal character of an epic poem must be either morally good or morally vicious; if he is morally good, the making him end unfortunately will destroy all poetical justice, and, consequently, all instruction: such a poem can have no moral, and, consequently, no fable, no just and regular poetical action, but must be a vain fiction and an empty amusement. Oh, but there is a retribution in faturity! But I thought that the reader of an epic poem was to owe his instruction to the poet, and not to himself: well then, the poet may tell him so at the latter end of his poem: ay, would to God I could see such a latter end of an epic poem, where the poet should tell the reader, that he has cut an honest man's throat, only that he may have an opportunity to send him to heaven: and that, though this would be but an indifferent plea upon an indictment for murder at the Old Bailey, yet that he hopes the good-natured reader will have compassion on him, as the gods have on his hero. But raillery apart, sir, what occasion is there for having recourse to an epic poet to tell ourselves by the bye, and by the occasional reflection, that there will be a retribution in futurity, when the Christian has this in his heart constantly and directly, and the Atheist and Freethinker will make no such reflection? Tell me truly, sir, would not such a poet appear to you or me, not to have sufficiently considered what a poetical moral is? And should not you or I, sir, be obliged, in order to make him compre

poetical action, at the bottom, universal and allegorical, even after distinguishing it by a particular name, by making this principal character, at the bottom, a mere political phantom of a very short duration, through the whole extent of which duration we can see at once, which continues no longer than the reading of the poem, and that being over, the phantom is to us nothing, so that unless our sense is satisfied of the reward that is given to this poetical phantom, whose whole duration we see through from the very beginning to the end; instead of a wholesome moral, there would be a pernicious instruction, viz: That a man may persevere in good actions, and not be rewarded for it through the whole extent of his duration, that is, neither in this world nor in the world to come."

It may be sufficient to answer to all thisand to much more of the same kind which our author has adduced-that little good can be attained by representations which are perpetually at variance with our ordinary perceptions. The poet may represent humanity as mightier and fairer than it appears to a common observer. In the mirror which he "holds up to nature," the forms of might and of beauty may look more august, more lovely, or more harmonious, than they appear, in the "light of common day," to eyes which are ungifted with poetic vision. But if the world of imagination is directly opposed to that of reality, it will become a cold abstraction, a baseless dream, a splendid mockery. We shall strive in vain to make men sympathize with beings of a sphere purely ideal, where might shall be always right, and virtue its own present as well as exceeding great reward. Happily, the exhibition is as needless for any moral purposes, as it would be inadequate to attain Ꭰ

them. Though the poet cannot make us wit- | time, and their living successors. The men nesses of the future recompense of that virtue, who first exercised the art of criticism, imbued which here struggles and suffers, he can cause with personal veneration for the loftiest works us to feel, in the midst of its very struggles of genius, sought to deduce rules from them, and sufferings, that it is eternal. He makes which future poets should observe. They did the principle of immortality manifest in the not assume the right of passing individual meek submission, in the deadly wrestle with judgments on their contemporaries—nor did fate, and even in the mortal agonies of his they aim at deciding even abstract questions noblest characters. What, in true dignity, of taste on their own personal authority-but does virtue lose by the pangs which its clay attempted, by fixing the laws of composition, tenement endures, if we are made conscious to mark out the legitimate channels in which of its high prerogatives, though we do not the streams of thought, passion, and sentiment, actually behold the immunities which shall should be bounded through all ages. Their ultimately be its portion? Hereafter it may dogmas, therefore, whether they contained be rewarded; but now it is triumphant. We more or less of truth, carried with them no exrequire no dull epilogue to tell us, that it shall trinsic weight, were influenced by no personal be crowned in another and happier state of feelings, excited no personal animosities, but being; for our souls gush with admiration and simply appealed, like poetry itself, to those sympathy with it, amidst its sorrows. We minds which alone could give them sanction. love it, and burn to imitate it, for its own love-In the first critical days of England-those of liness, not for its gains. Surely it is a higher the Rymers and the Dennises-the professors aim of the poet to awaken this emotion-to of the art began to regard themselves as inspire us with the awe of goodness, amidst its deepest external debasements, and to make us almost desire to share in them, than to invite us to partake in her rewards, and to win us by a calculating sympathy. The hovel or the dungeon does not, in the pictures of a genuine poet, give the colouring to the soul which inhabits it, but receives from its majesty a consecration beyond that of temples, and a dignity statelier than that of palaces. For it is his high prerogative to exhibit the spiritual part of man triumphant over that about him, which is mortal-to show, in his far-reaching hope, his moveless constancy, his deep and disinterested affections, that there is a spirit within him, which death cannot destroy. Low, indeed, is the morality which aspires to affect men by nothing beyond the poor and childish lesson, that to be virtuous is to be happy. Virtue is no dependant on earthly expediencies for its excellence. It has a beauty to be loved, as vice has a deformity to be abhorred, which are unaffected by the consequences experienced by their votaries. Do we admire the triumph of vice, and scoff at goodness, when we think on the divine Clarissa, violated, imprisoned, heart-broken, dying? Must Parson Adams receive a mitre, to assure us that we should love him? Our best feelings and highest aspirations are not yet of so mercantile a cast as those who contend for "poetical justice" would imagine. The mere result, in respect of our sympathies, is as nothing. The only real violation of poetical justice is in the violation of nature in the clothing. When, for example, a wretch, whose trade is murder, is represented as cherishing the purest and the deepest love for an innocent being-when chivalrous delicacy or sentiment is conferred on a pirate, tainted with a thousand crimes-the effect is immoral, whatever doom may, at last, await him. If the barriers of virtue and of evil are melted down by the current of spurious sympathy, there is no catastrophe which can remove the mischief; and while these are preserved in our feelings, there is none which can truly harm us. The critics of the age of Dennis held a middle course between their predecessors of old

judges, not merely of the principles of poetry, but of their application by living authors. Then commenced the arrogance on the side of the supervisors, and the impatience and resentment on that of their subjects, which contemporary criticism necessarily inspires. The worst passions of man are brought into exercise in reference to those pure and ennobling themes, which should be sacred from all low contentions of "the ignorant present time." But the battle was, at least, fair and open. The critic still appealed to principles, however fallacious or imperfect, which all the world might examine. His decrees had no weight, independent of his reasons, nor was his name, or his want of one, esteemed of magical virtue. He attacked the poets on equal terms-sometimes, indeed, with derision and personal slander-but always as a foe to subdue, not as a judge to pass sentence on them. Criti cism, in our own times, has first assumed the air of "sovereign sway and masterdom" over the regions of fantasy. Its professors enforce, not established laws, contend no longer for principles, attack poets no more with chival rous zeal, as violating the cause of poetic morals, or sinning against the regularities of their art. They pronounce the works, of which they take cognisance, to be good or bad-often without professing to give any reason for their decision-or referring to any standard, more fixed or definite than their own taste, partiality, or prejudice. And the public, without any knowledge of their fitness for their officewithout even knowing their names-receive them as the censors of literature, the privileged inspectors of genius! This strange supremacy of criticism, in our own age, gives interest to the investigation of the claims which the art itself possesses to the respect and gratitude of the people. If it is, on the whole, beneficial to the world, it must either be essential to the awakening of genius-or necessary to direct its exertions-or useful in repressing abortive and mistaken efforts-or conducive to the keeping alive and fitly guiding admiration to the good and great. On each of these grounds, we shall now very briefly examine its value.

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