'Great are its faults, but glorious is its flame.' But it would be a poor employment in a critic to observe upon the faults, and show no taste for the beauties, in a work that has always struck the most sensible part of our audiences in a very forcible manner.

his youth: the set of wits and beauties he was should say as Waller does of the Maid's Trafirst acquainted with, the balls and drawing- gedy, rooms in which he made an agreeable figure, the music and actors he heard and saw when his life was fresh, and his spirits vigorous and quick, have usually the preference in his esteem to any succeeding pleasures that present themselves when his taste is grown more languid. It is for this reason I never see a picture of sir Peter Lely's, who drew so many of my first friends and acquaintance, without a sensible delight; and I am in raptures when I reflect on the compositions of the famous Mr. Henry Laws, long before Italian music was introduced into

our nation.

The chief subject of this piece is the passion of jealousy, which the poet has represented at large, in its birth, its various workings and agonies, and its horrid consequences. From this passion and the innocence and simplicity of the Above all, I am pleased in observ-person suspected, arises a very moving distress.

ing that the tragedies of Shakspeare, which in my youthful days have so frequently filled my eyes with tears, hold their rank still, and are the great support of our theatre.

It is a remark, as I remember, of a modern writer, who is thought to have penetrated deeply into the nature of the passions, that the most extravagant love is nearest to the strongest hatred.' The Moor is furious in both these extremes. His love is tempestuous, and mingled with a wildness peculiar to his character, which seems very artfully to prepare for the change which is to follow.

How savage, yet how ardent is that expres sion of the raptures of his heart, when, looking after Desdemona as she withdraws, he breaks out,

Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul But I do love thee; and when I love thee not, Chaos is come again.'

It was with this agreeable prepossession of mind, I went some time ago, to see the old tragedy of Othello, and took my female wards with me, having promised them a little before to carry them to the first play of Shakspeare's which should be acted. Mrs. Cornelia who is a great reader, and never fails to peruse the play-bills, which are brought to her every day, gave me notice of it early in the morning. When I came to my lady Lizard's at dinner, I found the young folks all drest, and expecting the performance of my promise. I went with them at the proper time, placed them together in the boxes, and The deep and subtle villany of Iago, in work. myself by them in a corner seat. As I have the ing this change from love to jealousy, in so tuchief scenes of the play by heart, I did not look multuous a mind as that of Othello, prepossess much on the stage, but formed to myself a new ed with a confidence in the disinterested affec satisfaction in keeping an eye on the faces of my tion of the man who is leading him on insensi little audience, and observing, as it were by re-bly to his ruin, is likewise drawn with a mas flection, the different passions of the play represented in their countenances. Mrs. Betty told us the names of several persons of distinction, as they took their places in the boxes, and entertained us with the history of a new marriage or two till the curtain drew up. I soon perceived that Mrs. Jane was touched with the love of Desdemona, and in a concern to see how she would come off with her parents. Annabella had a rambling eye, and for some time was more taken up with observing what gentleman looked at her, and with criticising the dress of the ladies, than with any thing that passed on the stage. Mrs. Cornelia, who I have often said is addicted to the study of romances, commend-atre. ed that speech in the play in which Othello mentions his hair-breadth scapes in th' imminent deadly breach,' and recites his travels and adventures with which he had captivated the heart of Desdemona. The Sparkler looked several times frighted; and as the distress of the play was heightened, their different attention was collected, and fixed wholly on the stage, till I saw them all with a secret satisfaction, betrayed into tears.

I have often considered this play as a noble, but irregular, production of a genius which had the power of animating the theatre beyond any writer we have ever known. The touches of nature in it are strong and masterly; but the economy of the fable, and in some particulars the probability, are too much neglected. If I would speak of it in the most severe terms, I

terly hand. Iago's broken hints, questions, and seeming care to hide the reason of them; his obscure suggestions to raise the curiosity of the Moor; his personated confusion, and refusing to explain himself while Othello is drawn on, and held in suspense till he grows impatient and an. gry; then his throwing in the poison, and nam. ing to him in a caution the passion he would

raise,

-O beware of jealousy !————

are inimitable strokes of art, in that scene which has always been justly esteemed one of the best which was ever represented on the the

To return to the character of Othello; his strife of passions, his starts, his returns of love, and threatenings to Iago, who put his mind on the rack, his relapses afterwards to jealousy, his rage against his wife, and his asking pardon of Iago, whom he thinks he had abused for his fidelity to him, are touches which no one can overlook that has the sentiments of human nature, or has considered the heart of man in its frailties, its penances, and all the variety of its agitations. The torments which the Moor suffers are so exquisitely drawn, as to render him as much an object of compassion, even in the barbarous action of murdering Desdemona, as the innocent person herself who falls under his hand.

But there is nothing in which the poet has more shown his judgment in this play, than in

the circumstance of the handkerchief, which is employed as a confirmation to the jealousy of Othello already raised. What I would here observe is, that the very slightness of this circumstance is the beauty of it. How finely has Shakspeare expressed the nature of jealousy in those lines, which, on this occasion, he puts into the mouth of Iago,

Trifles light as air

Are to the jealous, confirmation strong
As proofs of holy writ.'

It would be easy for a tasteless critic to turn any of the beauties I have here mentioned into ridicule but such a one would only betray a mechanical judgment, formed out of borrowed rules and common-place reading, and not arising from any true discernment in human nature, and its passions.

As the moral of this tragedy is an admirable caution against hasty suspicions, and the giving way to the first transports of rage and jealousy, which may plunge a man in a few minutes into all the horrors of guilt, distraction, and ruin, I shall further enforce it, by relating a scene of misfortunes of the like kind, which really happened some years ago in Spain; and is an instance of the most tragical hurricane of passion I have ever met with in history. It may be easily conceived that a heart ever big with resentments of its own dignity, and never allayed by reflections which make us honour ourselves for acting with reason and equality, will take fire precipitantly. It will, on a sudden, flame too high to be extinguished. The short story I am going to tell is a lively instance of the truth of this observation, and a just warning to those of jealous honour to look about them, and begin to possess their souls as they ought, for no man of spirit knows how terrible a creature he is, till he comes to be provoked.

:

Here he paused, looking on the dead bodies with all the agitations of a demon of revenge; when the wench who had occasioned these terrors, distracted with remorse, threw herself at his feet, and in a voice of lamentation, without sense of the consequence, repeated all her guilt. Alonzo was overwhelmed with all the violent passions at one instant, and uttered the broken voices and motions of each of them for a mo. ment, till at last he recollected himself enough to end his agony of love, anger, disdain, revenge, and himself. and remorse, by murdering the maid, the Moor,

I HAVE lately given a precaution concerning the difficulty in arriving at what ought to be esteemed a fine gentleman.' That character has been long wholly engrossed by well-drest beaux, and men of sense have given up all pretence to it. The highest any of them contend for, is the character of a pretty gentleman;' for here the dress may be more careless, and some wit is thought necessary; whereas, a fine gentleman is not obliged to converse further than the offering his snuff-box round the room. However, the pretty gentleman must have his airs: and though they are not so pompous as those of the other, yet they are so affected, that few who have understanding can bring themselves to be proficients this way, though ever so useful towards being well received; but if they fail here, they succeed with some difficulty in being allowed to have much of the gentleman' in them. To obtain this epithet, a man of sense must ar

Don Alonzo, a Spanish nobleman, had a beautiful and virtuous wife, with whom he had livedrive at a certain desire to appear more than is for some years in great tranquillity. The gentleman, however, was not free from the faults usually imputed to his nation; he was proud, suspicious, and impetuous. He kept a Moor in his house, whom, on a complaint from his lady, he had punished for a small offence with the utmost severity. The slave vowed revenge, and communicated his resolution to one of the lady's women with whom he lived in a criminal way. This creature also hated her mistress, for she feared she was observed by her she therefore undertook to make Don Alonzo jealous, by insinuating that the gardener was often admitted to his lady in private, and promising to make him an eye-witness of it. At a proper time agreed on between her and the Morisco, she sent a message to the gardener, that his lady, having some hasty orders to give him, would have him come that moment to her in her chamber. In the mean time, she had placed Alonzo privately in an outer room, that he might observe who passed that way. It was not long before he saw the gardener appear. Alonzo had not patience, but following him into the apartment, struck him at one blow with a dagger to the heart; then dragging his lady by the hair without inquiring farther, he instantly killed her.

natural to him; but as the world goes, it is fit he should be encouraged in this attempt, since nothing can mend the general taste, but setting the true character in as public a view as the false. This, indeed, can never be done to the purpose, while the majority is so great on the wrong side; one of a hundred will have the shout against him; but if people of wit would be as zealous to assist old Ironside, as he is to promote them and their interest, a little time would give these things a new turn. However, I will not despair but I shall be able to summon all the good sense in the nation to my assistance, in my ambition to produce a new race of mankind, to take the places of such as have hitherto pretended to engross the fashion. The university scholar shall be called upon to learn his exercise, and frequent mixt company; the military, and the travelled man, to read the best authors; the country gentleman, to divide his time, so as, together with the care of his estate, to make an equal progress in learning and breeding; and when the several candidates think themselves prepared, I shall appoint under of ficers to examine their qualifications, and, as I am satisfied with their report, give out my pass. ports recommending them to all companies as

WILL BAREFACE.'

'the Guardian's fine gentlemen.' If my recom- | for it is the last time my black coat will bear mendations appear just, I will not doubt but scouring, or my long wig buckling. I am, sir, some of the present fine gentlemen will see the the fair ladies', and your humble servant, necessity of retirement, till they can come abroad with approbation. I have indeed already given out orders in this behalf, and have directed searchers to attend at the inns where the Oxford and Cambridge coaches stand, and commanded them to bring any young fellow, of any hopes in the world, directly to my lodgings as soon as he lands, for I will take him though I know I can only make him much of a gentleman:' for, when I have gone thus far, one would think it should be easy to make him a gentleman-like man.' As the world now goes, we have no ade. quate idea of what is meant by gentlemanly,' 'gentleman-like,' or, much of a gentleman;' you cannot be cheated at play, but it is certainly done by a very gentleman-like man; you can. not be deceived in your affairs, but it was done in some gentlemanly manner; you cannot be wronged in your bed, but all the world will say of him that did the injury, it must be allowed he is very much of a gentleman.' Here is a very pleasant fellow a correspondent of mine, that puts in for that appellation even to highway. men. I must confess the gentleman he personates is very apparently such, though I did not look upon that sort of fellow in that light, till he favoured me with his letter, which is as follows:

'MR. IRONSIDE, I have been upon the highway these six years, in the Park, at the Play, at Bath, Tunbridge, Epsom, and at every other place where I could have any prospect of stealing a fortune; but have met with no success, being disappointed either by some of your damned Ironside race, or by old cursed curs, who put more bolts on their doors and bars in their windows than are in Newgate. All that see me own I am a gentleman-like man;' and, whatever rascally things the grave folks say I am guilty of, they themselves acknowledge I am a gentlemanly kind of man,' and in every re. spect accomplished for running away with a lady. I have been bred up to no business, am illiterate, have spent the small fortune I had in purchasing favours from the fair sex. The bounty of their purses I have received, as well as the endearments of their persons, but I have gratefully disposed of it among themselves, for I always was a keeper when I was kept. I am fearless in my behaviour, and never fail of put. ting your bookish sort of fellows, your men of merit, forsooth, out of countenance. I triumph when I see a modest young woman blush at an assembly, or a virgin betrayed into tears at a well-wrought scene in a tragedy. I have long forgot shame, for it proceeds from a consciousness of some defect; and am, as told you, a gentlemanly man.' I never knew any but you musty philosophers applaud blushes, and you yourselves will allow that they are caused either by some real imperfection, or the apprehension of defect where there is not any; but for my part I hate mistakes, and shall not suspect myself wrongfully. Such as I am, if you approve of my person, estate, and character, I desire you would admit me as a suitor to one of the Lizards, and beg your speedy answer to this;

Those on the highway, who make a stand with a pistol at your breast (compelled perhaps by necessity, misfortune, or driven out of an honest way of life, to answer the wants of a craving family,) are much more excusable than those of their fraternity, who join the conversations of gentlemen, and get into a share of their fortunes without one good art about them. What a crowd of these gentleman-like men are about this town! For, from an unjust modesty, and incapacity for common lite, the ordinary failings of men of letters and industry in our nation, it happens that impudence suppresses all virtue, and assumes the reward and esteem which are due to it. Hence it is that worthless rogues have the smiles of the fair, and the favours of the great: to be well dressed and in health, and very impudent, in this licentious undistinguish. ing age, is enough to constitute a person 'very much of a gentleman; and to this pass are we come, by the prostitution of wit in the cause of vice, which has made the most unreasonable and unnatural things prevail against all the suggestions of common sense. Nobody denies that we live in a Christian country, and yet he who should decline, upon respective opportuni. ties, to commit adultery or inurder, would be thought 'very little of a gentleman.'

·

MR. IRONSIDE,-On the cleventh day of October, in the year 1712, having left my body locked up safe in my study, I repaired to the Grecian coffee-house, where, entering into the pineal gland of a certain eminent tree-thinker, I made directly to the highest part of it, which is the seat of the understanding, expecting to find there a comprehensive knowledge of all things, human and divine; but to my no small astonishment, I found the place narrower than ordinary, insomuch that there was not any room for a miracle, prophecy, or separate spirit.

This obliged me to descend a story lower, into the imagination, which I found larger, in. deed, but cold and comfortless. I discovered Prejudice in the figure of a woman, standing in a corner, with her eyes close shut, and her fore-fingers stuck in her ears; many words in a confused order, but spoken with great emphasis, issued from her mouth. These being condensed by the coldness of the place, formed

a sort of mist, through which methought I saw | I met with the representatives of all those noa great castle with a fortification cast round it, tions drawn up in the same confused order upon and a tower adjoining to it, that through the paper. Sage Nestor, I am your most obedient windows appeared to be filled with racks and humble servant, halters. Beneath the castle I could discern vast dungeons, and all about it lay scattered the bones of men. It seemed to be garrisoned by certain men in black, of a gigantic size, and most terrible forms. But as I drew near, the terror of the appearance vanished; and the castle I found to be only a church, whose steeple with its clock and bell-ropes was mistaken for a tower filled with racks and halters. The terrible giants in black shrunk into a few innocent clergymen. The dungeons were turned into vaults designed only for the habitation of the dead; and the fortifications proved to be a church-yard, with some scattered bones in it, and a plain stone wall round it.

All that I contend for, is, that this gentleman was out of humour when he was sick; and the advertiser, to confute me, says, that in the serene intervals of his distemper,' that is, when he was not sick, he writ verses. I shall not retract my advertisement till I see those verses, and I will choose what to believe then, except | they are underwritten by his nurse, nor then neither except she is a housekeeper. I must tie this gentleman close to the argument; for if he had not actually his fit upon him, there is nothing courageous in the thing, nor does it make for his purpose, nor are they heroic

verses.

fore plain that any deviations from that design degrade a poem from being true pastoral. În this view it will appear that Virgil can only have two of his eclogues allowed to be such. His first and ninth must be rejected, because they describe the ravages of armies, and oppressions of the innocent; Corydon's criminal passion for Alexis throws out the second; the calumny and railing in the third are not proper to that state of concord; the eighth represents unlawful ways of procuring love by enchantments, and intro. duces a shepherd whom an inviting precipice tempts to self-murder. As to the fourth, sixth, and tenth, they are given up by Heinsius, Sal masius, Rapin, and the critics in general.* They likewise observe that but eleven of all the Idyllia of Theocritus are to be admitted as pas. torals; and even out of that number the greater part will be excluded, for one or other of the reasons above-mentioned. So that when I remarked in a former paper, that Virgil's eclogues, taken altogether, are rather select poems than pastorals, I might have said the same thing, with no less truth, of Theocritus. The reason of this I take to be yet unobserved by the critics, viz. They never meant them all for pastorals; which it is plain Philips hath done, and in that particular excelled both Theocritus and Virgil As simplicity is the distinguishing character.

The point of being merry at the hour of death is a matter that ought to be settled by divines; but the publisher of the Philological Essay produces his chief authorities from Lucretius, the earl of Rochester, and Mr. John Dryden, who were gentlemen that did not think themselvesistic of pastoral, Virgil has been thought guilty obliged to prove all they said, or else proved their assertions by saying or swearing they were all fools that believed to the contrary. If it be absolutely necessary that a man should be facetious at his death, it would be very well if these gentlemen, Monsieur Dand Mr. B would repent betimes, and not trust to a death-bed ingenuity; by what has appeared hitherto they have only raised our longing to see their posthumous works.

of too courtly a style: his language is perfectly pure, and he often forgets he is among peasants. I have frequently wondered that since he was so conversant in the writings of Ennius, he had not imitated the rusticity of the Doric, as well, by the help of the old obsolete Roman language, as Philips hath by the antiquated English. For example, might he not have said 'quoi' instead of 'cui;''quoijum' for 'cujum ;' volt' for 'cult,' &c. as well as our modern hath 'welladay' for The author of Poete Rusticantis literatumalas,' 'whilome' for 'of old,' • make mock' for Otium is but a mere phraseologist, the philo-deride,' and witless younglings' for 'simple logical publisher is but a translator; but I ex-lambs,' &c. by which means he had attained as pected better usage from Mr. Abel Roper, who much of the air of Theocritus, as Philips hath is an original. of Spenser?

No. 40.]

Monday, April 27, 1713.

Compulerantque greges Corydon et Thyrsis in unum: Ex illo Corydon, Corydon est tempore nobis. Virg. Ed. vii. 2. Their sheep and goats together graz'd the plainsSince when? 'tis Corydon among the swains, Young Corydon without a rival reigns. Dryden. I DESIGNED to have troubled the reader with no farther discourses of pastorals; but being informed that I am taxed of partiality in not mentioning an author, whose eclogues are published in the same volume with Mr. Philips's, I shall employ this paper in observations upon him, written in the free spirit of criticism, and with out apprehension of offending the gentleman, whose character it is, that he takes the greatest care of his works before they are published, and has the least concern for them afterwards.

I have laid it down as the first rule of pastoral, that its idea should be taken from the manners of the golden age, and the moral formed upon the representation of innocence; it is there

Mr. Pope hath fallen into the same error with Virgil. His clowns do not converse in all the simplicity proper to the country. His names are borrowed from Theocritus and Virgil, which are improper to the scene of his pastorals. He introduces Daphnis, Alexis, and Thyrsis on British plains, as Virgil had done before him on the Mantuan: whereas Philips, who hath the strictest regard to propriety, makes choice of names peculiar to the country, and more agree able to a reader of delicacy; such as Hobbinol, Lobbin, Cuddy, and Colin Clout.

So easy as pastoral writing may seem (in the simplicity we have described it), yet it requires great reading, both of the ancients and moderns, to be a master of it. Philips hath given us mani. fest proofs of his knowledge of books; it must be confessed his competitor hath imitated some single thoughts of the ancients well enough, if we consider he had not the happiness of a uni versity education; but he hath dispersed them here and there, without that order and method which Mr. Philips observes, whose whole third

* See Rapin de Carm. Past. pars 3.