was CAROLAN THE BLIND. He was at once a poet, a musician, a composer,
and sung his own verses to his harp. The original natives never mention
his name without rapture; both his poetry and music they have by heart;
and even some of the English themselves, who have been transplanted
there, find his music extremely pleasing. A song beginning, “O Rourke’s
noble fare will ne’er be forgot,” translated by Dean Swift, is of his
composition; which, though perhaps by this means the best known of his
pieces, is yet by no means the most deserving. His songs in general may
be compared to those of Pindar, as they have frequently the same flights
of imagination, and are composed (I don’t say written, for he could not
write) merely to flatter some man of fortune upon some excellence of the
same kind. In these one man is praised for the excellence of his stable,
as in Pindar, another for his hospitality, a third for the beauty of his
wife and children, and a fourth for the antiquity of his family. Whenever
any of the original natives of distinction were assembled at feasting
or revelling, Carolan was generally there, where he was always ready
with his harp to celebrate their praises. He seemed by nature formed for
his profession; for as he was born blind, so also he was possessed of a
most astonishing memory, and a facetious turn of thinking, which gave
his entertainers infinite satisfaction. Being once at the house of an
Irish nobleman, where there was a musician present, who was eminent in
the profession, Carolan immediately challenged him to a trial of skill.
To carry the jest forward, his lordship persuaded the musician to accept
the challenge, and he accordingly played over on his fiddle the fifth
concerto of Vivaldi. Carolan, immediately taking his harp, played over
the whole piece after him, without missing a note, though he had never
heard it before, which produced some surprise; but their astonishment
increased, when he assured them he could make a concerto in the same
taste himself, which he instantly composed, and that with such a spirit
and elegance, that it may compare (for we have it still) with the finest
compositions of Italy.
His death was not more remarkable than his life. Homer was never more
fond of a glass than he; he would drink whole pints of Usquebaugh, and,
as he used to think, without any ill consequence. His intemperance
however in this respect at length brought on an incurable disorder, and
when just at the point of death, he called for a cup of his beloved
liquor. Those who were standing round him, surprised at the demand,
endeavoured to persuade him to the contrary; but he persisted, and, when
the bowl was brought him, attempted to drink, but could not; wherefore,
giving away the bowl, he observed with a smile, that it would be hard if
two such friends as he and the cup should part at least without kissing;
and then expired.
XXI.
ON THE TENANTS OF THE LEASOWES.
Of all men, who form gay illusions of distant happiness, perhaps a poet
is the most sanguine. Such is the ardour of his hopes, that they often
are equal to actual enjoyment; and he feels more in expectance than
actual fruition. I have often regarded a character of this kind with
some degree of envy. A man possessed of such warm imagination commands
all nature, and arrogates possessions, of which the owner has a blunter
relish. While life continues, the alluring prospect lies before him; he
travels in the pursuit with confidence, and resigns it only with his last
breath.
It is this happy confidence which gives life its true relish, and keeps
up our spirits amidst every distress and disappointment. How much less
would be done, if a man knew how little he can do! How wretched a
creature would he be, if he saw the end as well as the beginning of his
projects! He would have nothing left but to sit down in torpid despair,
and exchange employment for actual calamity.
I was led into this train of thinking upon lately visiting,[19] the
beautiful gardens of the late Mr. Shenstone, who was himself a poet, and
possessed of that warm imagination, which made him ever foremost in the
pursuit of flying happiness. Could he but have foreseen the end of all
his schemes, for whom he was improving, and what changes his designs were
to undergo, he would have scarcely amused his innocent life with what for
several years employed him in a most harmless manner, and abridged his
scanty fortune. As the progress of this improvement is a true picture of
sublunary vicissitude, I could not help calling up my imagination, which,
while I walked pensively along, suggested the following reverie.
As I was turning my back upon a beautiful piece of water enlivened with
cascades and rock-work, and entering a dark walk by which ran a prattling
brook, the genius of the place appeared before me, but more resembling
the God of Time, than him more particularly appointed to the care of
gardens. Instead of shears he bore a scythe; and he appeared rather with
the implements of husbandry, than those of a modern gardener. Having
remembered this place in its pristine beauty, I could not help condoling
with him on its present ruinous situation. I spoke to him of the many
alterations which had been made, and all for the worse; of the many
shades which had been taken away, of the bowers that were destroyed by
neglect, and the hedgerows that were spoiled by clipping. The genius
with a sigh received my condolement, and assured me that he was equally
a martyr to ignorance and taste, to refinement and rusticity. Seeing me
desirous of knowing further, he went on:
“You see, in the place before you, the paternal inheritance of a poet;
and to a man content with little, fully sufficient for his subsistence;
but a strong imagination and a long acquaintance with the rich, are
dangerous foes to contentment. Our poet, instead of sitting down to
enjoy life, resolved to prepare for its future enjoyment; and set about
converting a place of profit into a scene of pleasure. This he at first
supposed could be accomplished at a small expense; and he was willing for
a while to stint his income, to have an opportunity of displaying his
taste. The improvement in this manner went forward; one beauty attained
led him to wish for some other; but he still hoped that every emendation
would be the last. It was now therefore found that the improvement
exceeded the subsidy, that the place was grown too large and too fine
for the inhabitant. But that pride which was once exhibited could not
retire; the garden was made for the owner, and though it was become unfit
for him, he could not willingly resign it to another. Thus the first
idea of its beauties contributing to the happiness of his life was found
unfaithful; so that, instead of looking within for satisfaction, he began
to think of having recourse to the praises of those who came to visit his
improvement.
“In consequence of this hope, which now took possession of his mind, the
gardens were opened to the visits of every stranger; and the country
flocked round to walk, to criticise, to admire, and to do mischief. He
soon found, that the admirers of his taste left by no means such strong
marks of their applause, as the envious did of their malignity. All the
windows of his temples, and the walls of his retreats, were impressed
with the characters of profaneness, ignorance, and obscenity; his hedges
were broken, his statues and urns defaced, and his lawns worn bare. It
was now therefore necessary to shut up the gardens once more, and to
deprive the public of that happiness, which had before ceased to be his
own.
“In this situation the poet continued for a time in the character of a
jealous lover, fond of the beauty he keeps, but unable to supply the
extravagance of every demand. The garden by this time was completely
grown and finished; the marks of art were covered up by the luxuriance of
nature; the winding walks were grown dark; the brook assumed a natural
sylvage; and the rocks were covered with moss. Nothing now remained
but to enjoy the beauties of the place, when the poor poet died, and
his garden was obliged to be sold for the benefit of those, who had
contributed to its embellishment.
“The beauties of the place had now for some time been celebrated as
well in prose as in verse; and all men of taste wished for so envied
a spot, where every urn was marked with the poet’s pencil, and every
walk awakened genius and meditation. The first purchaser was one Mr.
Truepenny, a button-maker, who was possessed of three thousand pounds,
and was willing also to be possessed of taste and genius.
“As the poet’s ideas were for the natural wildness of the landscape, the
button-maker’s were for the more regular production of art. He conceived
perhaps that as it is a beauty in a button to be of a regular pattern, so
the same regularity ought to obtain in a landscape. Be this as it will,
he employed the shears to some purpose; he clipped up the hedges, cut
down the gloomy walks, made vistos upon the stables and hog-sties, and
showed his friends that a man of taste should always be doing.
“The next candidate for taste and genius was a captain of a ship, who
bought the garden because the former possessor could find nothing more
to mend; but unfortunately he had taste too. His great passion lay in
building, in making Chinese temples and cage-work summer-houses. As the
place before had an appearance of retirement, and inspired meditation,
he gave it a more peopled air; every turning presented a cottage, or
ice-house, or a temple; the improvement was converted into a little city,
and it only wanted inhabitants to give it the air of a village in the
East Indies.
“In this manner, in less than ten years, the improvement has gone through
the hands of as many proprietors, who were all willing to have taste, and
to show their taste too. As the place had received its best finishing
from the hand of the first possessor, so every innovator only lent a hand
to do mischief. Those parts which were obscure have been enlightened;
those walks which led naturally, have been twisted into serpentine
windings. The colour of the flowers of the field is not more various than
the variety of tastes that have been employed here, and all in direct
contradiction to the original aim of the first improver. Could the
original possessor but revive, with what a sorrowful heart would he look
upon his favourite spot again! He would scarcely recollect a dryad or a
wood-nymph of his former acquaintance, and might perhaps find himself as
much a stranger in his own plantation, as in the deserts of Siberia.”
FOOTNOTES:
[19] 1773.
XXII.
ON SENTIMENTAL COMEDY.
The theatre, like all other amusements, has its fashions and its
prejudices; and when satiated with its excellence, mankind begin to
mistake change for improvement. For some years tragedy was the reigning
entertainment; but of late it has entirely given way to comedy, and our
best efforts are now exerted in these lighter kinds of composition. The
pompous train, the swelling phrase, and the unnatural rant, are displaced
for that natural portrait of human folly and frailty, of which all are
judges, because all have sat for the picture.
But as in describing nature, it is presented with a double face, either
of mirth or sadness, our modern writers find themselves at a loss which
chiefly to copy from; and it is now debated, whether the exhibition of
human distress is likely to afford the mind more entertainment than that
of human absurdity?
Comedy is defined by Aristotle to be a picture of the frailties of
the lower part of mankind, to distinguish it from tragedy, which is
an exhibition of the misfortunes of the great. When comedy therefore
ascends to produce the characters of princes or generals upon the stage,
it is out of its walk, since low life and middle life are entirely its
object. The principal question therefore is, whether in describing low or
middle life, an exhibition of its follies be not preferable to a detail
of its calamities; or, in other words, which deserves the preference; the
weeping sentimental comedy, so much in fashion at present,[20] or the
laughing and even low comedy, which seems to have been last exhibited by
Vanbrugh and Cibber?
If we apply to authorities, all the great masters in the dramatic
art have but one opinion. Their rule is, that as tragedy displays
the calamities of the great, so comedy should excite our laughter,
by ridiculously exhibiting the follies of the lower part of mankind.
Boileau, one of the best modern critics, asserts, that comedy will not
admit of tragic distress:
Le comique, ennemi des soupirs et des pleurs,
N’admet point dans ses vers des tragiques douleurs.
Nor is this rule without the strongest foundation in nature, as the
distresses of the mean by no means affect us so strongly as the
calamities of the great. When tragedy exhibits to us some great man
fallen from his height, and struggling with want and adversity, we feel
his situation in the same manner as we suppose he himself must feel, and
our pity is increased in proportion to the height from which he fell. On
the contrary, we do not so strongly sympathize with one born in humbler
circumstances, and encountering accidental distress: so that while we
melt for Belisarius, we scarcely give halfpence to the beggar, who
accosts us in the street. The one has our pity; the other our contempt.
Distress therefore is the proper object of tragedy, since the great
excite our pity by their fall; but not equally so of comedy, since the
actors employed in it are originally so mean, that they sink but little
by their fall.
Since the first origin of the stage, tragedy and comedy have run in
distinct channels, and never till of late encroached upon the provinces
of each other. Terence, who seems to have made the nearest approaches,
always judiciously stops short before he comes to the downright pathetic;
and yet he is even reproached by Cæsar for wanting the _vis comica_. All
the other comic writers of antiquity aim only at rendering folly or vice
ridiculous, but never exalt their characters into buskined pomp, or make
what Voltaire humorously calls a _Tradesman’s Tragedy_.
Yet, notwithstanding this weight of authority, and the universal practice
of former ages, a new species of dramatic composition has been introduced
under the name of _sentimental_ comedy, in which the virtues of private
life are exhibited, rather than the vices exposed; and the distresses,
rather than the faults of mankind, make our interest in the piece. These
comedies have had of late great success, perhaps from their novelty, and
also from their flattering every man in his favourite foible. In these
plays almost all the characters are good, and exceedingly generous; they
are lavish enough of their _tin_ money on the stage; and though they want
humour, have abundance of sentiment and feeling. If they happen to have
faults or foibles, the spectator is taught not only to pardon, but to
applaud them, in consideration of the goodness of their hearts; so that
folly, instead of being ridiculed, is commended, and the comedy aims at
touching our passions without the power of being truly pathetic. In this
manner we are likely to lose one great source of entertainment on the
stage; for while the comic poet is invading the province of the tragic
muse, he leaves her lovely sister quite neglected. Of this however he is
no ways solicitous, as he measures his fame by his profits.
But it will be said, that the theatre is formed to amuse mankind, and
that it matters little, if this end be answered, by what means it is
obtained. If mankind find delight in weeping at comedy, it would be cruel
to abridge them in that or any other innocent pleasure. If those pieces
are denied the name of comedies, yet call them by any other name, and if
they are delightful, they are good. Their success, it will be said, is a
mark of their merit, and it is only abridging our happiness to deny us an
inlet to amusement.
These objections however are rather specious than solid. It is true, that
amusement is a great object of the theatre; and it will be allowed, that
these sentimental pieces do often amuse us: but the question is, whether
the true comedy would not amuse us more? The question is, whether a
character supported throughout a piece with its ridicule still attending,
would not give us more delight than this species of bastard tragedy,
which only is applauded because it is new?
A friend of mine, who was sitting unmoved at one of these sentimental
pieces, was asked how he could be so indifferent. “Why truly,” says he,
“as the hero is but a tradesman, it is indifferent to me whether he be
turned out of his counting-house on Fish-street Hill, since he will still
have enough left to open shop in St. Giles’s.”
The other objection is as ill-grounded; for though we should give these
pieces another name, it will not mend their efficacy. It will continue
a kind of _mulish_ production, with all the defects of its opposite
parents, and marked with sterility. If we are permitted to make comedy
weep, we have an equal right to make tragedy laugh, and to set down in
blank verse the jests and repartees of all the attendants in a funeral
procession.
But there is one argument in favour of sentimental comedy which will
keep it on the stage, in spite of all that can be said against it. It is
of all others the most easily written. Those abilities, that can hammer
out a novel, are fully sufficient for the production of a sentimental
comedy. It is only sufficient to raise the characters a little; to deck
out the hero with a riband, or give the heroine a title; then to put an
insipid dialogue without character or humour into their mouths, give
them mighty good hearts, very fine clothes, furnish a new set of scenes,
make a pathetic scene or two, with a sprinkling of tender melancholy
conversation through the whole, and there is no doubt but all the ladies
will cry, and all the gentlemen applaud.
Humour at present seems to be departing from the stage; and it will soon
happen that our comic players will have nothing left for it but a fine
coat and a song. It depends upon the audience, whether they will actually
drive those poor merry creatures from the stage, or sit at a play as
gloomy as at the tabernacle. It is not easy to recover an art when once
lost; and it will be but a just punishment, that when, by our being too
fastidious, we have banished humour from the stage, we should ourselves
be deprived of the art of laughing.
FOOTNOTES:
[20] 1773.
XXIII.
SCOTCH MARRIAGES.
As I see you are fond of gallantry, and seem willing to set young people
together as soon as you can, I cannot help lending my assistance to your
endeavours, as I am greatly concerned in the attempt. You must know, sir,
that I am landlady of one of the most noted inns on the road to Scotland,
and have seldom less than eight or ten couples a week, who go down
rapturous lovers, and return man and wife.
If there be in this world an agreeable situation, it must be that
in which a young couple find themselves when just let loose from
confinement, and whirling off to the land of promise. When the
post-chaise is driving off, and the blinds are drawn up, sure nothing
can equal it. And yet, I do not know how, what with the fears of being
pursued, or the wishes for greater happiness, not one of my customers but
seems gloomy and out of temper. The gentlemen are all sullen, and the
ladies discontented.
But if it be so going down, how is it with them coming back? Having been
for a fortnight together, they are then mighty good company to be sure.
It is then the young lady’s indiscretion stares her in the face, and the
gentleman himself finds that much is to be done before the money comes in.
For my own part, sir, I was married in the usual way; all my friends
were at the wedding; I was conducted with great ceremony from the table
to the bed; and I do not find that it any ways diminished my happiness
with my husband, while, poor man, he continued with me. For my part,
I am entirely for doing things in the old family way; I hate your
new-fashioned manners, and never loved an outlandish marriage in my life.
As I have had numbers call at my house, you may be sure I was not idle
in inquiring who they were, and how they did in the world after they
left me. I cannot say that I ever heard much good come of them; and of a
history of twenty-five, that I noted down in my ledger, I do not know a
single couple that would not have been full as happy if they had gone the
plain way to work, and asked the consent of their parents. To convince
you of it, I will mention the names of a few, and refer the rest to some
fitter opportunity.
Imprimis, miss Jenny Hastings went down to Scotland with a tailor, who,
to be sure, for a tailor was a very agreeable sort of a man. But I do not
know how, he did not take proper measure of the young lady’s disposition:
they quarrelled at my house on their return; so she left him for a cornet
of dragoons, and he went back to his shopboard.
Miss Rachel Runfort went off with a grenadier. They spent all their money
going down; so that he carried her down in a post-chaise, and coming
back, she helped to carry his knapsack.
Miss Racket went down with her lover in their own phæton; but upon their
return, being very fond of driving, she would be every now and then for
holding the whip. This bred a dispute; and before they were a fortnight
together, she felt that he could exercise the whip on somebody else
besides the horses.
Miss Meekly, though all compliance to the will of her lover, could
never reconcile him to the change of his situation. It seems he married
her supposing she had a large fortune; but being deceived in their
expectations, they parted, and they now keep separate garrets in
Rosemary-lane.
The next couple of whom I have any account, actually lived together in
great harmony and uncloying kindness for no less than a month; but the
lady, who was a little in years, having parted with her fortune to her
dearest life, he left her to make love to that better part of her which
he valued more.
The next pair consisted of an Irish fortune-hunter, and one of the
prettiest modestest ladies that ever my eyes beheld. As he was a
well-looking gentleman all dressed in lace, and as she seemed very fond
of him, I thought they were blessed for life. Yet I was quickly mistaken.
The lady was no better than a common woman of the town, and he was no
better than a sharper; so they agreed upon a mutual divorce; he now
dresses at the York ball, and she is in keeping by the member for our
borough in parliament.
In this manner we see, that all those marriages in which there is
interest on one side and disobedience on the other, are not likely to
promise a long harvest of delights. If our fortune-hunting gentlemen
would but speak out, the young lady, instead of a lover, would often
find a sneaking rogue, that only wanted the lady’s purse, and not her
heart. For my own part, I never saw any thing but design and falsehood
in every one of them; and my blood has boiled in my veins when I saw a
young fellow of twenty kneeling at the feet of a twenty thousand pounder,
professing his passion, while he was taking aim at her money. I do not
deny but there may be love in a Scotch marriage, but it is generally all
on one side.
Of all the sincere admirers I ever knew, a man of my acquaintance, who
however did not run away with his mistress to Scotland, was the most
so. An old exciseman of our town, who, as you may guess, was not very
rich, had a daughter, who, as you shall see, was not very handsome. It
was the opinion of every body, that this young woman would not soon be
married, as she wanted two main articles, beauty and fortune. But for
all this a very well-looking man, that happened to be travelling those
parts, came and asked the exciseman for his daughter in marriage. The
exciseman, willing to deal openly by him, asked if he had seen the girl;
“for,” said he, “she is hump-backed.”—“Very well,” cried the stranger,
“that will do for me.”—“Ay,” says the exciseman, “but my daughter is as
brown as a berry.”—“So much the better,” cried the stranger; “such skins
wear well.”—“But she is bandy-legged,” says the exciseman. “No matter,”
cries the other; “her petticoats will hide that defect.”—“But then she
is very poor, and wants an eye.”—“Your description delights me,” cried
the stranger: “I have been looking out for one of her make; for I keep an
exhibition of wild beasts, and intend to show her off for a Chimpanzee.”
XXIV.
ON THE DIGNITY OF HUMAN NATURE.
Mankind have ever been prone to expatiate in the praise of human nature.
The dignity of man is a subject that has always been the favourite theme
of humanity; they have declaimed with that ostentation which usually
accompanies such as are sure of having a partial audience; they have
obtained victories, because there were none to oppose. Yet from all
I have ever read or seen, men appear more apt to err by having too
high, than by having too despicable an opinion of their nature; and by
attempting to exalt their original place in the creation, depress their
real value in society.
The most ignorant nations have always been found to think most highly
of themselves. The Deity has ever been thought peculiarly concerned in
their glory and preservation; to have fought their battles, and inspired
their teachers: their wizards are said to be familiar with heaven: and
every hero has a guard of angels as well as men to attend him. When the
Portuguese first came among the wretched inhabitants of the coast of
Africa, these savage nations readily allowed the strangers more skill
in navigation and war; yet still considered them at best but as useful
servants, brought to their coast by their guardian serpent, to supply
them with luxuries they could have lived without. Though they could grant
the Portuguese more riches, they could never allow them to have such a
king as their Tottimondelem, who wore a bracelet of shells round his
neck, and whose legs were covered with ivory.