PROLOGUE to the CHAPTER of ACCIDENTS.
Written by GEORGE COLMAN, Efq.
ONG has the paffive ftage, howe'er abfurd,
Been rul'd by names, and govern'd by a word;
Some poor cant term, like magic fpells, can awe,
And bind our realms like a dramatic law.
When Fielding, Humour's favourite child, appear'd,
Low was the word-a word each author fear'd!
'Till chac'd at length, by pleasantry's bright ray,
Nature and mirth refum'd their legal fway;
And Goldfmith's genius bafk'd in open day.
No beggar, howe'er poor, a cur can lack;
Poor bards, of critic curs, can keep a pack.
One yelper filenc'd, twenty barkers rife,
And with new bowls, their fnarlings ftill difguife.
Low banish'd, the word fentiment fucceeds;
And at that shrine the modern playwright bleeds.
Hard fate! but let each would-be critic know,
That fentiments from genuine feeling flow!
Critics! in vain declaim, and write, and rail;
Nature, eternal nature! will prevail.
Give me the bard, who makes me laugh and cry;
Diverts and moves, and all, I scarce know why!
Untaught by commentators, French or Dutch,
Paffion ftill answers to th' electric touch.
Reason, like Falstaff, claims, when all is done,
The honours of the field already won.
To night, our author's is a mixt intent-
Paffion and humour-love and fentiment:
Smiling in tears-a ferio-comic play-
Sunshine and fhow'r-a kind of April Day!
A lord, whofe pride is in his honour plac'd;
A governor, with av'rice not difgrac'd;
An humble prieit! a lady, and a lover
So full of virtue, fome of it runs over!
No temporary touches, no allufions
To camps, reviews, and all our late confufions:
No perfonal reflections, no fharp fatire,
But a mere Chapter-from the book of nature.
Wrote by a woman too! the Muses now
Few liberties to naughty men allow;
But like old maids on earth, refolv'd to vex,
With cruel coynefs treat the other sex.
PROLOGUE to the GENEROUS IMPOSTOR.
[As he enters the Stage looking upon a Paper, and addreffing himself to the Author bebind, from whom he is fuppofed to have received it.]
HIS, Sir, the Prologue? Why this piteous whine,
Forebodes a catcall in each croaking line.
"The Author's first offence !"" implore !"-" befeech!"
Zounds! 'tis as difmal as a dying speech-
Will prove, itself, the piece's fure damnation,
And give, like hawkers, by anticipation,
"Life, birth, and parentage, and education."
Do you discover in this caft of feature
The ftriking traits to fuit the doleful metre?
Give it to Parfons-his fad-ragic face
Such plaintive fentiments will aptly grace.
The rueful meaning Mcody may fupply
L'en from the fruitful river of his eye;
Or with mute pathos, walk about and figh.
[To the Audience.]
Prologues are alter'd fince that Gothic day
When only hungry playwrights wrote-for pay.
Then while the Bard-poor miferable finner!
'Trembled behind-uncertain of his dinner-
Forth came in black-with folemn step-and flow,
The actor to unfold the tale of woe.
But in these days, when e'en the titled dame
Glows with the paffion of dramatic fame,
When as the fafhion gains, it may indite
The card of compliments for a third night,
With ftile laconic, in the measured ftrain,
Lady Charade fees friends at Drury-lane."
In thofe bright days-this literary age,
When 'tis the tafte-the very thing the rage
To pen fome lively morceau for the stage.
When belles write comedies, and beaux have wit,
The Prologue too the fprightly ton muft hit;
Flippant and fmart in carelefs easy rhymes,
Reflect the gayeft colours of the times,
Cameleon like, on fashion's air must live,
And, like that too, each varying tint muft give.
[Returning to the Paper, and fuppofed again to addrefs the Author.] This will ne'er do (paufing)-Can't you contrive to fwell
To thirty lines, fome airy bagatelle ?
Or take your fubject from fome modish scenes
"Elections"-" Camps"-" Electrical machines ???
That thought's not bad-Why then fuppofe I try,
In metaphor-the Houfe t' electrify.
Wind the conducting strains that may difpenfe
The mild effluvia's genial influence,
Or fill the charge, the powerful charge that draws,
From yon dread Gods! the thunder of applaufe:
Or if fuch potent virtue can't controul
The angry critic's non-electric foul,
The ladies court-The lightning of whofe eyes,
The apt allufion readily fupplies.--
From those bright orbs th' ethereal beam that plays,
Will blaft the critic thorn, but fpare the bays.
Something like this may do
With a few fmirks-and fmics-and bows from King.
To the Audience.
Mean time the want of form for once forgive,
And for this night allow the piece to live.
EPILOGUE to Lady CRAVEN's Comedy of the MINIATURE
PICTURE.
Spoken by the Hon. Mrs. HOBART, at Newbury, and by Mrs. ABINGTON, at Drury-lane. Written by Mr. JEKYLL.
HE men, like tyrants of the Turkish kind,
Have long our fex's energy confin'd;
In full drefs black, and bow, and folemn ftalk,
Have long monopoliz'd the Prologue's walk.
But ftill the flippant Epilogue was our's;
It afk'd for gay fupport-the female pow'rs;
It afk'd a flirting air, coquet and free;
And fo, to murder it, they fix'd on me.
Much they mistake my talents-I was born
To tell, in fobs and fighs, fome tale forlorn;
To wet my handkerchief with Juliet's woes,
Or tune to Shore's defpair my tragic nofe.
Yes, gentlemen, in education's fpite,
You ftill fhall find that we can read and write;
Like you, can fwell a debt or a debate,
Can quit the card-table to steer the state;
Or bid our Belle Affemblée's rhet'ric flow,
To drown your dull declaimers at Soho.
Methinks e'en now I hear my fex's tongues,
The thrill, fmart melody of female lungs !
The ftorm of question, the divifion calm,
With "Hear her! Hear her! Mrs. fpeaker! Ma'am,
"Oh, order! Order!"- Kates and Sufans rife,
And Margaret moves, and Tabitha replies.
Look to the camp-Coxheath and Warley Common,
Supply'd at leaft for ev'ry tent a woman.
The cartridge paper wrapt the billet-doux,
The rear and picquet form'd the rendezvous.
The drum's ftern rattle fhook the nuptial bed;
The knapfack pillow'd lady Sturgeon's head.
Love was the watch-word, 'till the morning fife
Rous'd the tame major and his warlike wife.
Look to the ftage. To night's example draws
A female dramatift to grace the caufe.
So fade the triumphs of prefumptuous man!
And would you, ladies, but complete my plan,
Here fhould you fign fome Patriot Petition
To mend our conftitutional condition.
The men invade our rights-the mimic elves
Lifp and nickname God's creatures, like ourselves;
Rouge more than we do, fimper, flounce, and fret;
And they coquet, good gods! how they coquet!
They too are coy; and, monftrous to relate!
Their's is the coynefs in a tête-à-tête.
Yes, ladies, yes, I could a tale unfold,
Would harrow up your cushions! were it told;
Part your combined curls, and freeze-pomatum,
At griefs and grievances, as I could ftate 'em.
But fuch eternal blazon muft not speak
Befides, the House adjourns fome day next week
This fair committee fhall detail the rest,
Then let the monsters (if they dare) proteft!
Extract from the Ode to JOHN HOWARD, Efq. Author of the State of English and Foreign Prifons; by W. HALEY.
AIL! generous HOWARD! tho' thou bear
A name which Glory's hand fublime
Has blazon'd oft, with guardian care,
In characters that fear not Time;
For thee the fondly fpreads her wings;
For thee from Paradife fhe brings,
More verdant than her laurel bough,
Such wreaths of facred Palm, as ne'er till now
The fmiling Seraph twin'd around a mortal brow.
I fee the hallow'd fhade of HALES *,
Who felt, like thee, for human woe,
And taught the health-diffufing gales
Thro' Horror's murky cells to blow,
As thy protecting angel wait;
To fave thee from the fnares of Fate,
Commiffion'd from the Eternal Throne:
I hear him praife, in wonder's warmest tone,
The virtues of thy heart, more active than his own.
Thy foul fupplies new funds of health
That fail not in the trying hour.
Above Arabia's spicy wealth
And Pharmacy's reviving power.
The tranfports of the generous mind,
Feeling its bounty to mankind,
Infpirit every mortal part;
And, far more potent than precarious art,
Give radiance to the eye, and vigor to the heart.
Nature! on thy maternal breat
For ever be his worth engrav'd!
Thy bofom only can atteft
How many a life his toil has fav'd:
Nor in thy refcu'd Sons alone,
Great Parent! this thy guardian own!
His arm defends a dearer flave;
Woman, thy darling! 'tis his pride to fave +
From evils, that furpafs the horrors of the grave.
STEPHEN HALES, minifter of Teddington: he died at the age of 84, 1761; and has been justly called "An ornament to his profeflion, as a clergyman, and to his country, as a philofopher." I had the happiness of knowing this excellent man, when I was very young; and well remember the warm glow of benevolence which used to animate his countenance, in relating the fuccefs of his various projects for the benefit of mankind. I have frequently heard him dwell with great pleasure on the fortunate incident which led him to the difcovery of his Ventilator, to which I have alluded.-He had ordered a new floor for one of his rooms; his carpenter not having prepared the work fo foon as he expected, he thought the feafon improper for laying down new boards, when they were brought to his houfe, and gave orders for their being depofited in his barn;-from their accidental pofition in that place, he caught his first idea of this ufeful invention.
Mr. HOWARD has been the happy inftrument of preferving female prifoners from an infamous and indecent outrage.-It was formerly a cuttom in our gaols to load their legs and thighs with irons, for the deteftable purpose of extorting money from thefe injured fufferers.-This circumstance, unknown to me when the Ode was written, has tempted me to introduce the few additional ftanzas, as it is my ardent wish to render this tribute to an exalted character as little unworthy as I can of the very extenfive and fublime merit which it afpires to celebrate.
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