Volume 1 — MISCELLANY.

THEOBALDUS SECUNDUS, OR SHAKSPEARE AS HE SHOULD BE.

NO. IV.

Hamlet Prince of Denmark, continued.

Latin and Greek are the only tongues in which departed spirits can be addressed, for this reason they are denominated the dead languages. The nonappearance of these supernatural beings in the present day, may be fairly ascribed to the decay of the learned languages. Cobbet, with all his volubility, has not a word to throw at a ghost. Johnson says:

This is converting learning into a bricklayer, and would have come with a better grace from Ben Jonson than from Sam. But however that may be, under such an architect, ghosts would naturally be enrolled in the company. Dr. Farmer may say what he pleases, but I firmly believe Shakspeare had Latin enough to talk to his own ghosts; though I doubt whether I can express the same belief as to certain modern writers, who, by reviving ghosts to squeal and gibber on the London stages, have taken the same liberties as Shakspeare, without taking the same talents—"we have no cold beef sir," said the landlady at Glastonbury to a hungry traveller; "but we have excellent mustard!" All this however is foreign to the Prince of Denmark,

Doctor Fungus will have it, that cock should be clock, and ground his opinions upon the situation of St. Paul's clock. But this would spoil the poetry of the whole passage. What an accurate picture does the creative pencil of our great poet present to the mind's eye! The epithet lofty has fallen through the sieves of all the commentators excepting Theobaldus Secundus. It obviously alludes to the high roosting perch of that valiant bird; nor is the mythological imagery in this sentence to be passed by without its merited eulogium. Lingo, by way of agreeable surprise, informs us that the cock is the bird of Pallas—Pallas is the goddess of wisdom, and of course an early riser——

Her favourite bird undoubtedly awoke her with his shrill note, and at the same time roused the slumbering fop Phoebus, who answered in the words of Dr. Watts——

and being the god of wit, when he rubbed his own eyes, doubtless vented an imprecation on those of Minerva.

The moral is obvious;—they who, like Mr. Sheridan, aim only to be men of wit, lie a bed; while they who, like Sir Isaac Newton, Mr. Burke, and a very few others, aspire to be men of wisdom, rise with the lark. Horatio in continuation—

"The extravagant i. e. got out of his bounds"—Warburton—Bravo! old Hurlo-thumbo! got out of his depth, Warburton, you mean. Extra-vagant certainly may be construed out of bounds; we need no ghost with a mouthful of Syntax to tell us that; but Shakspeare had too much taste to adopt such an absurd Latinism. I have no doubt that the late king was a man of expensive habits, and is here compared to a prisoner within the rules of the king's bench, who must return to quod at a given moment or compliment the marshal with the debt and costs. At the crowing of the cock, the extravagant and erring spirit (that is, the spendthrift of a defendant) whether he be drinking arrack punch at Vauxhall, champaigne at the Mount, or brandy and water at the Eccentries, must kick off his glass-slipper, and hobble back to St. George's Fields, like the lame bottle-conjuror of Le Sage.

Russet mantle! what sorry attire for a goddess! I wish the critics would settle, once for all, the costume of Aurora; at present she has clothes, fingers, feet, bosom, and hair, of as many colours as the roquelaure of Joseph. Homer styles her——

This is more like an old washerwoman than a young goddess. Ovid calls her rutilis Aurora capillis. And again—

I translate "purpureus fieri," a fiery purple. What says Virgil of that particoloured damsel——

A golden bed, by the way, is but a poor atonement for a leaden old spouse snoring in it.

The moderns have been equally fanciful in describing Aurora. An old song says——

And Rosina now says, "see the rosy morn appearing;" and now "the morn returns in saffron dress'd."—Selim in Blue Beard, sings, "Gray-eyed morn begins to peep," his is no compliment to the beauty of the goddess. If she had changed colours with the magician, it would have been well; a gray beard is fit for an old man, and blue eyes for a young woman.

And now, reader, "make way for the speaker."—The scene draws, and discovers a room of state, containing, the King, Queen, Hamlet, Polonius, Laertes, Voltimand, Cornelius, Lords, and Attendants. This is the first appearance of Hamlet.—Here, then, we must suppose a clapping of hands, and a cry of hats off—down—down—you will therefore fancy to yourself a young gentleman, arrayed in black velvet, with a plume of sable feathers in his bonnet, big enough for the fore-horse of Ophelia's hearse. But as in a certain assembly, if a member, however elevated in rank, rise to speak late in the evening, he sets his hearers coughing, there being no pectoral lozenge equal to an early harangue; and, as touching the Lord Hamlet in that manner, would be touching the honour of a prince, I shall keep his royal highness as a bonne bouche to open my next dissertation.

(To be Continued.)

Dr. John Hill, an author, who to great learning, judgment, sagacity, and luminous fancy, joined unparalleled industry, gratified the British public for a long time with a diurnal paper wholly from his own pen, called "the Inspector." In the course of this work he gave some of the most admirable strictures upon the plays and players of his day. From that work we intend to give some select passages. The following is deserving of particular attention for the truth and accuracy of the parallels it presents to our view.

While I admire in Barry the quick conception, the strong expression, and the fine taste of Julio Romano; while I hang upon the expression of his eyes, when tenderness is the passion to be described by them, and while in the several parts of a history, or through the varied scenes of an interesting tragedy, I am at once surprised and charmed with the choice of attitudes in both, I cannot be blind to the defects that stain as well the painting as the scene: there was always what the judges call a dryness, a hardness in the painter, and the same foible now and then discloses itself in the less guarded moments of the player: neither the one nor the other seem to have been perfect masters of the doctrine of lights and shadows, and both are therefore sometimes extravagant, and not always graceful: this happy difference, however, appears between them, that while the arrogance of the painter esteemed his faults as excellencies, the player, equally capable of giving advice to himself, and of receiving it from others, will soon scandalize all criticism by annihilating the foibles that gave it origin.

The genius, the soul of Titian, is revived in Garrick; both give us not resemblances, but realities: they do not represent but create, upon the canvass or upon the scene; and what from others we would admire as representations, we read in these as actions. There is in the performance of this player, all the delicacy of taste, and all the dignity of expression that we reverence in the painter: his figures, where the subject gives him scope, are noble almost beyond imagination, his attitudes the most strictly appropriated to the sensations that inspire them, and his colouring, to borrow a metaphor from the sister art to express an excellence for which the other has yet no word of its own, is the greatest that we ever did or ever must expect to see. With all the sweetness and delicacy of his imagery, there is a glow of fire and freedom that at once surprises and charms his audience, and, like his brother artist, he excels all men who have ever been eminent, in the peculiar distinguishing touches which separate passion from passion; and thence give at once the greatest spirit and the strictest truth to the representation. I shall hardly venture to affirm that there is no foible in any of the pieces given us by either of these artists; but there is a blaze of majesty and beauty, throughout the works of both, that at once engages the whole eye, and with its superior lustre dims what may be less worthy praise till it becomes indiscernible.

While Bellamy assumes the piety, the tenderness, and the sorrows of a Cordelia, or heightens the repentance of a Shore, we own that a Tintoret has done some pictures equal to Corregio. The first of these is the painter to whom I would resemble this rising actress, the latter only breathes in Cibber. No woman ever excelled Miss Bellamy in the requisites from nature, and were but her love to the profession, her application to its necessary studies, and her patience in going through the difficulties that lie in the road to eminence in it, equal to her abilities, she would have few equals. The outlines of her figures are sometimes faulty, but the colouring always pleases.

All that Corregio executed by the pencil we see in real life from Mrs. Cibber; the strength of lights and shadows, of the glaring and the obscure, are equal in the representations of both, but were never equalled by any other in either art. The dignity of sorrow, and natural and unaffected graces which that artist gives to his Madonas, this lady diffuses over the whole figure in the tragic scene that requires it; we are equally struck by both: we see nothing like either: and we admire the execution while we have no conception of the manner in which it is performed. The strength and heightening are alike admirable in each, and the consummate sweetness only to be rivalled by the expressive strength of the colouring. In the conduct and finish of their pieces, both have done wonders; and as the pictures of Corregio are so equal in their several parts, that, though the labour of years, they seem to have been finished in one day, so that the longest characters of this actress are so uniform throughout, that it is evident there are no careless absences, no false extravagances in any part, but that the whole is the resemblance of one temper actuated, though under various circumstances, by one passion.

In Mrs. Pritchard one sees revived the extensive powers of Hannibal Carrache: while we pursue her through the varied forms she assumes we cannot but acknowledge the character of Corregio, the fire of Titian, and the dignity of Raphael; this lady, of all the players, as that master of all the painters, comes nearest the character of a universal genius.

Woodward strikes the judicious eye with a strong resemblance of Paul Veronese: he has all the vivacity and ease of that great painter, and fully equals him in his fancy for the singular and the shining in his draperies; but, as he shares his beauties, he is not without his faults. His composition is sometimes improper, and his design always incorrect; but with these blemishes, however, his colouring is so well calculated to catch the eye, that he never fails to strike at first sight, and makes so happy an impression on the generality of an audience, that they never perceive what is deficient.

Though the last, not the least in my esteem, Macklin shall be produced; nor must those who judge superficially, be surprized when they see me call forth for his parallel Michael Angelo. It must be confessed of this great painter, that the choice of his attitudes was, though never unjust, not always pleasing: that his taste in design was not the most minutely fine, nor his outlines the most elegant; that he was sometimes extravagant in his conceptions, and bold even to rashness in his execution: perhaps the player of the parallel inherits some tincture of these faults; but to compensate, he has all his excellencies. He knows the foundation of the art better than them all: he designs, if less beautifully than some, more accurately than any: he better understands nature of the human frame, and the situation and power of its muscles than any man who ever played, nor has any man ever understood it like him as a science: there is an air of truth in all his figures, a greatness and severity in many of them that demand the utmost praise: and in the whole, if nature has qualified him less for shining in some of the most conspicuous parts than many, none has fewer faults.

King Lear.

A correspondent has in a former number made some remarks on the corruptions, or, as they are called, alterations and adaptations of the plays of Shakspeare. As he has not prosecuted the subject, I will, with your permission, say a word or two on that vilest and most infamous of literary treasons, Tate's burlesque of king Lear.

This tragedy, as written by Shakspeare, is in my opinion the very noblest of our author's works; and by the generality of critics, I believe, none of his plays are absolutely preferred to it, except Macbeth. It is inconceivable how any one could think such a play required an alteration beyond the omission of the fool's character; and still more so, how Tate's transformation of it could have been at first endured by the nation: but that it should have been constantly represented at our national theatres for nearly one hundred and thirty years to the total exclusion of Shakspeare's divine drama, would be a circumstance totally incredible, were it not verified by experience, that the majority of an audience are very little troubled with a spirit of inquiry, and are no doubt ignorant of the vast difference between the two dramas. The play, as now performed "has the upper gallery on its side;" whose members, being unacquainted with Shakspeare's tragedy, are enchanted by the mad scenes, mangled as they are, and by all that it is retained of the original, and therefore they applaud the whole, and witness its repetition. But it never could be inferred from their applauses, that even these spectators prefer Tate's play to Shakspeare's; there is no comparison in the case: they applaud the one, because they are pleased with it, not because they are displeased with the other, which they never saw, and of which they know nothing. Let the classical manager of —— —— theatre make a trial; it will be worthy his ambition to introduce a reformation, which even Garrick overlooked; and he may be assured, that the event will not only add to his reputation, but what is a more important consideration with our managers, will add to his profits also. Let Shakspeare and Tate have a fair struggle; and who can doubt the final triumph of Shakspeare.[I]

Dr. Johnson is the advocate of Tate's alteration; but Addison, whose opinion is countenanced by Steevens, declares, that "the tragedy has lost half its beauty." Dr. Johnson is in part excusable for maintaining so erroneous an opinion; but at the same time his sentiments ought to have no weight with others; for we know, that in the present case he has formed his judgment, not with that solidity of taste which generally distinguishes his criticism, but with all the nervous agitation of a hypochondriac. But why should he defend his opinion by arguments at once unfair and untrue? it is not true, that "in the present case the public has decided" in favour of the altered play: "Cordelia," says the critic, "from the time of Tate has always retired with victory and felicity:" but does he mean to assert, that the original drama, before Tate's corruption, was not well received by the public? he cannot assert this, because he could not make good such an assertion. The fact is, as stated by Steevens, that "the managers of the theatres-royal have decided, and the public has been obliged to acquiesce in their decision."

Of the alterations introduced by this reformer of Shakspeare, the first and most obvious is the change of the catastrophe. King Lear and Cordelia, instead of dying as in the original, are finally triumphant, and live very happy after. Here is improvement, here is poetical justice, here is every thing that can be desired to the perfection of a drama. "Since all reasonable beings," says doctor Johnson, "naturally love justice, I cannot easily be persuaded, that the observation of justice makes a play worse; or that, if other excellencies are equal, the audience will not always rise better pleased from the final triumph of persecuted virtue." This reasoning is just; but the critic has unfortunately advanced a sentence, which must be a perpetual stumbling-block to every advocate of Tate, viz. "if other excellencies are equal," &c. Had Shakspeare chosen, according to the "faith of chronicles," to represent Cordelia triumphant; had he adorned the scenes of poetical justice with his peculiar spirit, and nature, and poetry; then indeed the excellencies of the drama, though different in kind, would probably have been equal in magnitude: though I think it very doubtful, whether even then the change of the catastrophe would not have been a deformity, rather than an improvement. Unquestionably our affection for persecuted virtue is strengthened by the very distresses in which it is involved. The triumph of Cordelia would certainly draw from us an instantaneous acknowledgment of satisfaction: but the impression could not be lasting; while her fall is fixed more deeply on the attention, and raises a more permanent feeling of pity for her sufferings, and indignation against her persecutors. Shakspeare must have thought so, when he chose, in violation of the truth of history, to deprive her of poetical justice. To conclude the question relative to the catastrophe, it is utterly impossible that the mind of Lear should be capable of surviving so violent a change of circumstances. In the original, he is very naturally represented by Shakspeare as bending under the weight of his calamities, and expiring of a broken heart.

What a "luxury of wo" does this exquisite scene afford? What can Tate produce to counterbalance its value?

The next material alteration is the intrusion of love.[J] Cordelia is in love with Edgar. Why, of what an abominable taste must that man have been possessed, who in his sober senses could think of thus corrupting the noble simplicity of Cordelia's character. As for the language of love here introduced, it is about equal to what might be looked for from such a man. Take for a specimen an exquisitely pithy scene of about ten lines in the commencement of the play, in which Edgar follows Cordelia across the stage with the following pathetic stuff:

It is too sickening: I cannot go on. Cordelia the amiable and sensible Cordelia, in love with such a whining milk-and-water fool as this! It need not be mentioned, that of course they have several unaccountable interviews, and at the conclusion of the play, Cordelia, all overjoyed at the restoration of her father, marries Edgar!

The last remarkable corruption is in the introduction of a curious piece of stage-machinery, ycleped a confidant, who, loving her mistress more than herself, like a good servant, accompanies her through wind and rain, and every other stage-horror, in a dark night, on a wild-goose chase, without any adequate or apparent object. This confidant is like every other stage-confidant.

How such a wretched jumble of inconsistencies, absurdity, and insipidity, can have been suffered ever to be performed, is a subject at once of wonder and regret. It is surprising, that Garrick never remedied the evil; a man, who had an ardent veneration for Shakspeare, and by his acting and management went some way towards doing him justice. It is rather inconsistent, that he could suffer this play to be performed instead of Shakspeare's, and yet in one of his prologues make the following assertion:

These lines too are quoted by Mr. Kemble, and prefixed as a motto to his alteration of one of Shakspeare's plays. Is Mr. Kemble not aware, how many drops of Shakspeare are lost, and how much false wine obtruded in their place, in this metamorphosis? It would be an endless task to point out all the beautiful and sublime passages omitted by Tate: but to point out all the absurdities he has introduced, would be more endless. As Mr. Kemble professes, however, such a wish, I will just remind him, before I conclude, of what perhaps he has forgotten, that the present stage-representation of Shakspeare is a disgrace to his memory; that many of his best plays are never performed; that those which are performed are exhibited in so mangled a state, as to be totally unlike Shakspeare; and that not one of his dramas is now exhibited pure and unadulterated.

A week's journal of a strolling player.

Monday. We opened the house with the tragedy of the distressed mother; I played Orestes. Our dresses and scenery rather out of repair, which gave some gentleman occasion to remark; that it would have been more apropos, had we advertised the play by the title of the distressed family.

Tuesday. Played George Barnwell. Part of the audience wanted me hanged: Afterwards did the watchman, and the bailiff in the Apprentice.—Shared thirteen pence three farthings.

Wednesday. Played Jachimo in Cymbeline. My arms almost broken by being put into too small a chest. The farce the Register-office—played Gulwell.—Shared one shilling.

Thursday. Doubled the Ghost and Rosencrantz in Hamlet, and afterwards played Mogs in the Devil of a Duke. A gentleman affronted me by saying I was the devil of a conjuror. Shared one shilling and six pence, and for the first time took my two bits of candles.

Friday. I played Macduff, and two or three other parts in Macbeth, one of the witches being drunk, we were obliged to make shift with two. The farce Miss in her teens: I was Fribble; and the house barber having gone off in a pet, because I could not pay him his week's bill, I was obliged to go on without my hair being dressed.—Shared ten pence and a candle.

Saturday. The Orphan. The manager had taken Castalio himself, and insisted on my playing Acasto. An ignorant country fellow introduced it only to support Acasto in the third act, stands on the stage, when I asked "where are all my friends?" answered, "sir, they are at the George over a mug of ale." We afterwards had the Padlock without music. I played Mungo and never felt any thing half so much as the favourite air, "I wish to my heart me was dead."

Macklin and Foote.

Macklin once left the stage and set up a tavern and Coffee-house on a new plan in the piazza, Covent garden. At his dinners every thing was done by the waiters, on signs made to them by Macklin himself who acted as chief waiter. One night, being at supper with Foote and some others at the Bedford, one of the company praised Macklin for the great regularity of his ordinary, and in particular his manner of directing his waiters by signals. Ay, sir, says Macklin, I knew it would do, and where do you think I picked up this hint?—well sir, I'll tell you, I picked it up from no less a man than James Duke of York, who you know sir, first invented signals for the fleet. Very apropos indeed, said Foote, and good poetical justice, as from the fleet they were taken, so to the fleet both master and signals are likely to return.

Macklin afterwards failed.

Another time Macklin delivered public lectures. One night as he was preparing to begin, he heard a buz in the room, and spied Foote in a corner talking and laughing immoderately. This he thought a safe time to rebuke that wicked wit, as he had begun his lecture and consequently could not be subject to any criticism: he therefore cried out with some authority "well sir, you seem to be very merry there, but do you know what I am going to say now?" "No sir says Foote, pray do you?" This ready reply and the laughter it occasioned silenced Macklin, and so embarrassed him that he could not get on, till called upon by the general voice of the company.

Another time Macklin undertook to show the causes of duelling in Ireland, and why it was much more the practice of that nation than any other. In order to do this, he began with the earliest part of the Irish history, and, getting as far as queen Elizabeth, he was proceeding when Foote spoke to order. "Well sir, what have you to say on the subject?" said Macklin, "only to crave a little attention sir," said Foote, with much seeming modesty, "when I think I can settle this point in a few words."—"Well sir, go on."—"Why then, sir," says Foote, "to begin, what o'clock is it?"—"O'clock" said Macklin, "what has the clock to do with a dissertation on duelling?" "Pray sir," said Foote, "be pleased to answer my question." Macklin on this, pulled out his watch and reported the hour to be past ten.—"Very well," said Foote, "about this time of the night, every gentleman in Ireland that can afford it, is in his third bottle of claret, consequently is in a fair way of getting drunk; from drunkenness proceeds quarrelling, and from quarrelling, duelling, and so there's an end of the chapter." The company seemed perfectly satisfied with this abridgment, and Macklin shut up his lecture for that evening in great dudgeon.

Countess of Carlisle's opinion of the Drama, taken from her maxims to young ladies.

When you fix your mind on the scenes before you, when the eye shall not wander to, nor the heart flutter at the surrounding objects of the spectacle, you will return home instructed and improved.

The great utilities you may reap from well acted tragedy are the exciting your compassion to real sufferings, the suppressing of your vanity in prosperity, and the inspiring you with heroic patience in adversity.

In comedy you will receive continual correction, delicately applied to your errors and foibles; be impartial in the application, divide it humbly with your acquaintance and friends, and even with your enemies.

The general lover—An Ovidian rhapsody.

Though I may be inconstant to Elizabeth, Betty, and Bess, I am never inconstant to love. But I will not defend myself. No, if it would do any good to confess, I own my fault, and will say that I hate myself for it; but I must add, that though I wish it, I cannot be otherwise than what I hate. I am borne along like a vessel in a rapid current, impelled by wind and tide—I know not what form delights me most, therefore the causes are endless, why I can never cease to love.

If she is high spirited I am won, because she is not rustic.—Is she austere,—I think her willing, but an admirable dissembler.

Is there one who prefers my writings to those of the salacious warbler, the wanton lacivious little Moore? She to whom I am pleasing is ever pleasing to me. If she hates both me and my works, I long to give her reason to think differently of both. This fair one walks with grace, her graces captivate me; that sings, and her voice flows like honey from her lips; I pant to kiss the hive from which such honey flows. Her brilliant fingers sweep the chords: Who can but love such well-instructed fingers?—To love in every shape I bend my knees.

If she is little and short I am equally glad, for then I can never have too much of her. Light hair how lovely!—Brown, I think it auburn—Black, how beautiful when hanging in ringlets on her snowy neck! Is it red—what so red as gold?—Youth warms my heart and later age I love; this pleases by its form, that by its conduct.—Is she a slut—how saving!—Is she delicate—how delightful!—Is she my wife—I must love her—Is she my friend's—how can I help it!—The fatter, the warmer; the thinner, she is less subject, perhaps, to the frailty of the flesh.—Is she lame—how domestic!—Is she deaf—'tis well.—Is she blind—'tis better.—Is she dumb—O, 'tis too much!

Humorous Epilogues after Tragedies.

The custom of introducing humorous epilogue, farce, and buffoonery, after the mind has been agitated, softened, or sublimed by tragic scenes, has been often objected to.

It hath been said in its favour, that five long acts is a portion of time sufficiently long to keep the attention fixed on melancholy objects; that human life has enough of real, without calling in the aid of artificial distress; that it is cruel to send home an audience with all the affecting impressions of a deep tragedy in their minds.

In reply, it has been observed, that it is degrading and untrue to describe the human species as incapable of receiving gratification only from comic scenes; that "there is a luxury in wo," independent of its purifying the bosom and suppressing the more ignoble passions.

The supporters of this opinion have also added, that there is a species of depravity in endeavouring by ludicrous mummery to efface the salutary effects of pathetic, virtuous, and vigorous sentiments; that it is sporting with the sympathies of our nature, repugnant to correct taste, and counteracting moral utility.

This violation of the law of gentle and gradual contrasts, has been felt and complained of by most frequenters of a modern theatre, and well-authenticated instances have been produced of guilty men retiring from a well-written and well-acted play to repentance and melioration.

An epilogue has been composed by Mr. Sheridan in support of these opinions, superior in pathos, poetry and practical deduction, to any I ever read. It was originally spoken by Mrs. Yates, after the performance of Semiramis, a tragedy translated from the French.

A few words of advice, extracted from a London magazine.

TO THE CONDUCTOR.

I am a sort of literary Lounger, though no Connoisseur, yet an Idler, like myself, will always assume a right to turn Observer upon every Adventurer; and, whether you may subscribe to my opinions or not, yet, as I mean to subscribe to your work, I shall offer them very freely.

Too many publications promise much at their outset, and perform little in the sequel; great expectations will be formed of what may be produced by the members of a British Cabinet; and in case of failure every Guardian of his own rights will become a Tatler; you will be accused as a Rambler from your engagements, and, at your downfal, the World will be an unconcerned Spectator; while, on the contrary, by proper polish and reflection, you may be styled the Mirror of all Monthly Magazines in the metropolis. So much for your title, I shall next make some remarks as to the general conduct of the work itself.

With regard to the engraved heads prefixed to each number, and called portraits, I would certainly advise that they should bear some resemblance to the originals; this, notwithstanding it may be but a trifling recommendation to some readers, will often prove an advantage; for, however singular it may appear, I have frequently purchased a picture myself, for no reason than that it put me in mind of the person it professed to represent.

I am conscious, however, that there may be exceptions to this general rule; indeed I know a very worthy vender of prints, who keeps in his cellar some hundreds of admirals and generals, ready engraved, and by cutting off the arm of one, or clapping a convenient patch on the eye of another, he is always ready before any of his competitors to present the town with striking likenesses of any or all of those persons who so frequently claim our attention and gratitude. However, as there is no subject on which people are apt to disagree so pointedly as on the precision or dissimilarity of a copy from nature, you may safely steer clear of all criticism, and perhaps please all parties by embellishing your incipient number with a face combining Cooke's nose, Kemble's chin, and Munden's mouth, with the arched eye of Lewis, and writing under it

Thus every one will recognise the feature of a favourite, and one feature in a whole face is as much as they ought to expect.

Admit no puns into your miscellany. Dennis, the critic, has said, and I know not how many others after him, that a punster is no better than a pickpocket, and with truth, for how dare any quibbling varlet attempt to rob his neighbour of any portion of that delightful inflexibility, the very taciturnity of which bespeaks what wisdom may lie buried in a grave demeanour?

Be not too sentimental neither; nor copy the infantine simplicity of those dear little children of the Della Cruscan school, who, "lisp in numbers." Do not let them lisp in any number of your publication. No sir, like sir Peter Teazle, I say, "curse your sentiments;" for the man whose effeminate ideas, expressed in effeminate accents, would contribute to lessen the manly character of the English nation, deserves to be lost in a labyrinth, as I am now, and left in the lurch for a finish to each sentence he commences.

On the other hand, you must carefully shun the affectation of bombastic diction—it is lamentable to see a preelucidated theme rendered semidiaphonous, by the elimination of simple expression, to make room for the conglomeration of pondrous periods, and to exhibit the phonocamptic coxcombry of some pedant, who mistakes sentences for wagons, and words for the wheels of them.

Avoid alliteration, allowed by all to be the very vehicle of vitious verbosity, particularly in a periodical publication; therefore, the thought that dully depends, during lengthened lines of lumbering lucubration, on innumerable initials introduced instead of rhyme or reason, is really reprehensible. Shakspeare, scorning the sufferance of such a sneaking style, said "Wit whither wilt?"

Lest you should put the same question to me, I will give you my concluding piece of advice, which is, that you should beware of introducing second hand Rural Tales and essays, from the successful labours of your predecessors. Such things have happened more than once, and I remember reading a letter to the editor, in the first number of a new magazine, which was unfortunately signed by, An Old Subscriber.

P. S. I meant to have called myself a Constant Reader, but, if you follow my advice, you will have so many of those, you will not know how to distinguish me from others. I shall, therefore, address my future correspondence, under the signature of my proper initials,

A CHAPTER ON LOGIC;

Or, the Horse Chesnut, and the Chesnut Horse.

Occasioned by an observation of Mr. Montague Mathew, in the house of commons, during the last session of parliament, that Mr. Mathew Montague was no more like him, than a horse chesnut was like a chesnut horse.

What is the literary world?

It is a kind of fair, full of stalls, wares, and shopkeepers: in which the theologist sells his stuff, which at the same time supplies food and warmth. The critic disposes of his cobweb linen and transparent lawn, of no shelter from the cold. The philologist, his embroidered vests, Corinthian vases, and Phrygian marble. The physician letters and syllables. The lawyer, men. The antiquary, old shoes. The alchymist, himself. The poet, smoke. The orator, paint. The historian, fame—and the philosopher, heaven and earth.

What are the most rare animals in the world?

A rich man contented with his fortune. A man distinguished by genius and not by defects. A courtier grown old. A learned man who knows himself. A virgin who is beautiful to every body but herself. A prime minister who possesses honesty; who has the interest of his country, not that of himself or his associates, at heart.

Addison's pedigree of Wit.

Good Sense is his father, Truth his grandfather, and Mirth and Good Humour are his chosen companions.

An impertinent petit-maitre told a country gentleman in a coffeehouse at the west end of the town that he looked like a groom. "I am one," replied he, "and am ready to rub down an ass."

Curious slip-slop!—The three wives of a knight, a physician, and a justice, were one evening engaged in a social game of questions and commands; and, according to the custom of the game, the first began, "I love my love with an N because he is a k-night!" The second in the same terms confessed her partiality for an F, because he was a physician! and the third avowed a similar regard for a G, because he was a justice!

Specific for blindness.—A quack doctor in the neighbourhood of York, who advertises a universal specific for the ills of mankind, adds, that he attends to communications by letter, "but it is necessary that persons afflicted with the loss of sight should see the doctor."

A stage-struck youth lately called upon Mr. K, at his residence not far from Bloomsbury-square, and applied for an engagement. The manager, after scrutinizing the various qualifications of the youthful candidate, inquired, "and pray sir, to what particular parts have your studies been directed? What is your forte?" "Why, sir, (replied the youth in a modest tone) I rather think that I excel in your line." "My line! (exclaimed the manager with peculiar complacency) what is that? What do you mean?" "To confess the truth, (rejoined the tyro) I flatter myself that I am most at home in playing the tyrant!"

"The theatre at Sydney appears to be in a very flourishing state," said a gentleman to John Kemble, speaking of the Botany Bay theatricals, an account of which appeared in the papers a few months since. "Yes," replied the tragedian, "the performers ought to be all good, for they have been selected and sent to that situation by very excellent judges!"

An Irish forgery.—At a provincial assize not long since, in Ireland, an attorney was tried upon a capital charge of forgery. The trial was extremely long, when after much sophistry from the counsel, and the most minute investigation of the judge, it appeared to the complete satisfaction of a crowded court, that the culprit had forged the signature of a man who could neither read nor write!

A woman lately brought before a country magistrate, behaving with much confidence, was told by his worship that she had brass enough in her face to make a five gallon kettle. "Yes," answered she, "and there is sap enough in your head to fill it."

Anecdotes of Macklin.

Macklin was very intimate with Frank Hayman (at that time one of our first historical painters) and happening to call upon him one morning, soon after the death of the painter's wife with whom he lived but on indifferent terms, he found him wrangling with the undertaker about the extravagance of the funeral expenses. Macklin listened to the altercation for some time: at last, going up to Hayman, with great gravity he observed, Come, come, Frank, though the bill is a little extravagant, pay it in respect to the memory of your wife: for by G— I am sure she would do twice as much for you had she the same opportunity.

A notorious egotist one day in a large company indirectly praising himself for a number of good qualities which it was well known he had not, asked Macklin the reason why he should have this propensity of interfering in the good of others when he frequently met with unsuitable returns? "I could tell you, sir," says Macklin. "Well do sir; you are a man of sense and observation, and I should be glad of your definition." "Why then sir, the cause is impudence—nothing but stark-staring impudence."

A gentleman at a public dinner asking him inconsiderately Whether he remembered Mrs. Barry, the celebrated actress who died about the latter end of queen Ann's reign, he planted his countenance directly against him with great severity, and bawled out, "No, sir, nor Harry the eighth neither. They were both dead before my time."

An Irish dignitary of the church, not remarkably for veracity, complaining that a tradesman of his parish had called him a liar, Macklin asked him what reply he made him. "I told him," said he, "that a lie was among the things I dared not commit." "And why, doctor," replied Macklin, "did you give the rascal so mean an opinion of your courage?"

ANECDOTE OF QUIN.

FOOTNOTES: