The drama, a poem

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- [titlepage]

- DEDICATION. To ARTHUR MURPHY, Esq

THE DRAMA.

SEVERE his task in these degen'rate days,

Who rashly dares to grasp one sprig of Bayes;

The frown of censure, and pale envy's blight,

Long damp his ardour, and retard his flight.

In form of critic, lo! where link'd they stand,

With pride and dulness fix'd on either hand,

Pointing with rugged thorns the painful steep,

They ne'er ascend, tho' round it doom'd to creep.

Not so, when Greece and Rome aspir'd to fame,

Then critic, and sound judgment were the same;

The poet sought the gen'rous critic's aid,

And the same laurel gave them both a shade;

With all the terrors beating at my heart,

A novice feels in first essays of art,

With greatest homage for superior powr's,

Trembling I seek the muse's sacred bow'rs;

Sentenc'd in fancy, ere my fate be known,

As Churchill's theme I've rashly made my own.

Mistaken zeal, with folly at her side,

Oft has the Drama and its sons decri'd;

Gave the profession faults which nature knew,

And judg'd the many from an erring few.

Strictures like these for laughter only call,

From their own weakness they must quickly fall.

Let railing bigots, and let pedant fools,

Of morals prate, and precepts taught in schools,

Such clouds dissolve at merit's dazzling ray,

As mists are melted by the eye of day:

Shall he, whose quick'ning, animated frame,

Electric like, collects the poet's flame?

Whose glowing breast feels ev'ry passion roll,

And yields a body to great Shakespear's soul;

Gives him each ornament of art and grace,

And holds his mirror up to nature's face,

Not gain the meed of well-earn'd honest fame?

GARRICK, step forward, and assert your claim.

Here charm'd attention could for ever wait,

Fixt on thy beauties, unconfin'd as great,

And wrapt in visions of thy magic skill,

Indulge the transports which my bosom fill.

But what, tho' language were to feeling true,

Expressing strongly all in thought I view,

What could it add, O GARRICK, to thy name,

Already foremost on the lists of fame?

Warm'd, I may tell, as diff'rent masks he wears,

We shake with laughter, or dissolve in tears,

Dwell on his spirit, judgment, taste, and grace,

And the keen light'nings flashing from his face;

But once behold the wonders of his art,

You'll find those drawn by nature on your heart;

To point his excellence, or speak his praise,

But stamps fresh value on the poet's lays.

Next on the line, yet distant, BARRY stands,

And takes precedence of the tragic bands.

Nor does presumption only prop his claim,

Once genius warm'd him with her finest flame.

In love's soft transports, or its wasting care,

I feel each rapture, ev'ry pang I share;

If in the Moor, by wildest passions prest,

Who does not find the storm assail his breast?

Now worn with years, and almost quench'd his beam,

He faintly glimmers like the embers gleam;

Yet in the sparks of his expiring light,

Proves that the blaze which fir'd him once was bright:

Thus the grand column, or majestic dome,

Rear'd in the splendor of old Greece or Rome,

Tho' broke with tempests, and by time decay'd,

Retain a greatness, e'en in ruins laid.

Tho' weak the million, and to judge unfit,

Still custom dubs them arbiters of wit;

Their breath alone 'tis swells the trump of fame,

And sounds the poet's or the sage's name.

Severe decree, and most the actor's bane,

Whose art is tried by folly's giddy train.

This MACKLIN felt, tho' merit's sterling seal,

Long pass'd him current in theatric scale.

Grant him unequal to his daring aim,

Did former service no indulgence claim?

Too high ambition might have soar'd for praise,

But yet 'twas mingled with a wish to please:

Thus far humanity and justice plead;

Now let us speak as taste and candour lead.

Dark was his col'ring, but conception strong;

If hard his manner, still it ne'er was wrong.

Warm'd with the poet, to the part he rose,

His anger fir'd us, and his terror froze;

And more; where quaintness shut out meaning's day,

MACKLIN threw light with fine discernment's ray:

If these are truths, which envy's self must breathe,

Applause should crown him with her greenest wreath.

Where, on her native quarry next to light,

Shall the muse bend her melancholy flight?

Now half her sons are swept by death's fell pow'r,

And scarce a gleam of hope remains of more.

O, sacred fire! which once with active heat,

In POWELL's and in MOSSOP's bosoms beat,

Where art thou fled? or dost thou only rest

In GARRICK's and in BARRY's feeling breast?

No, replies genius; I have found a part,

A favourite mansion in a female heart,

Where steady judgment and fine taste prepare

Their richest off'rings, to detain me there;

Behold, where beauty, in the shape of grace,

With sweetness beams from BARRY, form and face;

There I reside, enamour'd of the seat,

Heedless of envy or ambition's cheat,

And ne'er will quit her, 'till my rival time,

Shall ravish life, as well as youth and prime.

A handsome figure, with an easy mien,

Are all SMITH's requisites to fill the scene;

Flat, without compass, drawling on the ear,

In one dull tone th'unvaried voice we hear;

No flame of passion ever yet he knew,

Or, changing character, appear'd once new;

Person alone first gave him to the stage,

And habit guards him in this easy age.

REDDISH wants pow'r, th'emotion strong to raise,

But his attention gains, and merits praise;

Tho' voice and feeling small assistance lend,

He oft has pleas'd, and seldom does offend;

Unless, when folly fain would have him great,

And rant and stare usurp expression's seat.

O, how it moves me to the taunting jibe,

To hear some groundling of th'itin'rant tribe;

York, Bath, or Norwich, rank with DRURY's scene,

Now Frodsham's gone, and Inchbald has been seen.

What, tho' their Lee boasts some faint strokes of art,

Does he e'er touch with sympathy the heart?

Where is that grace, that station which commands,

Applause's tribute with her hundred hands?

His person's vulgar, his deportment's bad,

And tame correctness all he ever had.

Hibernia, whence the stage recruits her force,

Has just sent LEWIS to the Thespian course;

Bless'd with those happy requisites to please,

A person, spirit, elegance, and ease.

How cold shone Belcour before LEWIS came;

'Twas he restor'd him to the poet's flame:

Passions like his, such genuine active fire,

May claim, indeed, the god of day for sire.

BENSLEY has little, save what art supplies,

For step-dame nature almost all denies;

Gloom shades his aspect, discord's in his tone,

His joy's as grating as his tragic moan.

Yet such a charm can industry impart,

Aided by worth, and merit of the heart,

That he stands higher on dramatic line,

Than he, whose talents, more than virtues, shine.

Of all her suitors in the Thespian art,

Thalia holds KING nearest to her heart;

Fix'd in his eye, the smiling goddess sits,

And thence deals laughter with its loudest fits.

Ease and indulgence oft at merit's throne,

Prefer'd their plea, and claim'd him as their own;

Their wish obtained, Thalia then appear'd,

Struck with a danger which she long had fear'd;

Her sister's sables, and her tears she wore,

To woo the truant to her arms once more:

Subdu'd, the lover's fondness stood confest,

And clasp'd his weeping mistress to his breast;

Vow'd to be constant to the suppliant maid,

Till death dissolv'd the union nature made.

That part, an actor in the bloom of life

Plays with success, he takes to him for wife,

Simpers and ogles with a wither'd face,

And trips the beau with antiquated grace.

Tho' WOODWARD once might boast of sprightly ease,

And ev'ry frolic wantonness to please,

Why must he gambol after youth is fled,

And winter scatters hoar upon his head?

Still there's a cast his talents to employ,

Razor or Bobadil can never cloy.

When partial nature gifts a fav'rite son,

With more than toiling art had ever won,

Should not the muse, if sloth the bounty mar,

Censure the culprit who neglects her care?

SHUTER, tho' bless'd with humour's richest vein,

And skill to reach the highest comic strain,

Forgets his patroness, and slights her boon,

And, when he wants his part, becomes buffoon.

As folly's offspring sport in fashion's glare,

Flutt'ring in silks, with well-bred shrug and stare,

The insect tribe DODD paints with nicest art,

And gives a double edge to satire's dart.

Nature has dealt to CLINCH with lib'ral hand,

Talents, which cultur'd, might applause command;

But vain the grant, and slow must rise his fame,

Unless the manager will fan the flame.

BRERETON has person, is not void of grace,

But wants the energy of voice and face;

In gay description, or in polish'd ease,

His taste and judgment never fail to please.

And when by time he's ripen'd on the bow,

He'll merit that success he wishes now.

Let those whom pride attract, not sense and choice,

Expire in raptures at an eunuch's voice,

And feigning transports which they never felt,

At unintelligible nonsense melt.

For me, a plain, rough, honest Briton bred,

Who oft have err'd, but by my heart was led,

Who, tho' a monarch shou'd his favours heap,

Dare spurn at folly, and at op'ra sleep:

I call on VERNON, if a sound must feast,

To stamp it with the currency of taste.

Few can, like BANNISTER, with humour strong,

Do equal justice both to wit and song;

And could the muse award the mimic praise,

FOOT would not stand much higher in her lays.

Faint as a shadow CAUTHERLEY glides by,

And melts without impression on the eye.

When DIBDIN's boast was a composer's name,

He stood the rival of the author's fame,

Till seiz'd with madness, not poetic fire,

He rashly dar'd himself to touch the lyre,

When Phoebus, shock'd at discord not his own,

Gave him to censure with her hiss and groan.

A greater bard, on MOODY's brow has plac'd

A wreath with which it ever must be grac'd;

Conscious I cannot give increase of bays,

I'll add, at least, my humble meed of praise.

QUICK wants not parts, but SHUTER is the sun

Round which he moves, and borrows all his fun.

In the harsh parent, or the rustic boor,

DUNSTALL and PARSONS shew strong comic pow'r.

PALMER gives spirit to the sprightly scene,

By gay deportment and a pleasing mien:

But when he woos the tuneful queen of tears,

His accents wound the muse's finer ears;

Shock'd at the sound, we scarcely can believe

That the same man cou'd ever pleasure give.

Without an effort, WESTON gains applause,

Nature has made him what the poet draws:

Others, with trick, and stage manoeuvre aim,

To strike the groundlings, and their clap obtain;

Shew Johnson's Drugger, skill'd in Broughton art,

And Scrub, instead of fool, a downright smart:

But he, superior to such paltry aid,

Ne'er makes a jest but what his author made;

True humour, free from taint of low grimace,

Or wild distortion, sits upon his face:

Tho' laughter shake, unconscious he receives

The echoing plaudit public favour gives.

LEWES, in Marlow, makes his audience feel,

That he has head and heart as well as heel.

The needy emigrant from Gallia's shore,

The butt of ridicule since time of yore,

Who struts in frippery and tinsell'd stuff,

And jabbers nonsense, as he scoops up snuff;

BADD'LY, with humour's pencil, strongly draws,

And meets, as he deserves, with warm applause.

Cold, and unmeaning, AICKIN fills a part,

And never gains the head, or moves the heart.

With jointed sound, proceed his jarring tones,

Like currents harsh, and broke with beds of stones.

His acting's vappid, it wants feeling's soul,

To warm and quicken, into life the whole.

HULL's always perfect, and displays an aim,

To catch the poet's spirit, and his flame;

At times, he soars beyond chill medium's line,

And shews some sparks of excellence that shine.

What numbers censure, but how few judge right,

On subjects, which demand the soul's keen sight;

Each puny witling, from stark folly vain,

Dares JOHNSON's talents, or a SWIFT's arraign,

Merit by malice, not with taste they scan,

And damn the art, because they hate the man.

'Tis certain MELMOTH has not gain'd that height,

On which perfection seated, drops her flight.

His person too wants weight, but then his heart,

Springs in his words, and animates each part.

Apollo pleads his cause; and dare the muse,

To hear her prince, and patron's voice refuse?

WROUGHTON has person, and conception just,

But wants strong feeling to be rank'd as first.

A happy aspect, and a wish to please,

Deserve at least, if not extort our praise.

When surly winter with his felon train,

Flies to some cavern on the howling main,

And blooming summer leads the sprightly hours,

Then FOOTE collects his vagrant sactter'd pow'rs,

Poet and manager, at once he stands,

And starts upon the town his motley bands.

'Tis rash to censure, where the public praise

Gives to the actor, and the author bays.

But sure applause, should never be his meed,

Who sports with faults which weyward fate decreed,

Who breaks that tye, which binds each noble breast,

And stabs his friend before he'll lose his jest.

Success is giddy, as the veering blast,

And when it is not just, can never last.

Tho' now the senseless rabble may esteem,

The home-felt col'ring of his time-wrought scene,

Ages to come, where poets should appeal,

Will never laugh at what they cannot feel.

Person and elegance are YATES's claim,

They're her chief passports, to the court of fame.

Her action's moulded into grace, and ease,

And plaudits from the nicest judgement raise.

Kindling she glows with all the po••s' fires,

And strongly feeling ev'ry heart inspires.

Still with a sigh, too clearly we behold,

The greatest spirit must with years wax cold.

YOUNG's speaking's just, her action too is right,

Yet seem like nymphs in boddice lac'd too tight,

What need so oft, the close join'd hands to raise;

Or bow like Bramin in his idol's praise.

And then that stalk, which Zanga well befits,

But ne'er with grace on female softness sits.

Yet spite of all her faults, her merits shine,

And prove her YATES's rival on the line.

How shall I treat thee, HARTLEY, to preserve,

That homage, candour and the fair deserve?

For sure if Venus chose a mortal mould,

The radiance of her charms divine t'enfold,

HARTLY had been, the sacred, envi'd seat,

To which a goddess may indeed retreat.

Beauty, like charity, a charm spreads wide,

Veiling a multitude of faults beside.

Spirit, and grace, BARSANTI I allow,

And hope to see her what a POPE is now.

MACKLIN has judgment solid, taste refin'd,

With every bright embellishment of mind;

No charm, or spells, within her dimples lie,

Or fluttering cupids, ambush in her eye,

Sheer merit only, and the force of skill,

First gained her trophies, and maintain them still;

No touch of harmony can strike the heart,

With half that magic CATLEY's strains impart;

But folly, as if envious of her fame,

With gesture vulgar, and uncouth, proclaim,

That acting in a female should have grace,

Or modesty, at least, to fill it's place.

Of sterling humour, GREEN has ample store,

Perhaps e'en CLIVE was never blessed with more.

Mark where in Heidleberg, th' extreams of life,

Like Groom, and Peer, are constantly at strife;

Or else when Termagant, with luckless hit,

Stumbles on nonsense, in her search for wit.

And if a STANHOPE's precept have no weight,

You'll own by laughter; that her merit's great;

No woman without beauty, or great skill,

Can, or cou'd ever, on the stage excell.

That prop alone, supports a MELMOTH's name,

While the sad want prevents a MATTOCK's fame.

If music's voice, the throbbing breast can move,

Or melting softness, wake the soul to love;

If mild expression, beaming from a face,

Where sweetness revels with resistless grace,

Can cold attention into rapture warm,

Behold in BADD'LY ev'ry pow'r to charm.

What CLIVE was once, POPE is, as Churchill told,

'Ere rip'ning time her talents cou'd unfold:

Late may the stage lament her absent aid,

And never, till with equal genius paid.

How few can ever reach that happy line,

Where sense, and spirit, by their union shine;

And softned into ease, with nicest art,

Assail at once, the judgment and the heart.

That rarest talent, ABINGTON alone,

Possesses in perfection, all her own.

What woman else, with such a grace displays

The courtly manners, and true polish'd ease.

Her skill gives sanction to vain fashion's stare,

And makes the critic even folly bear.

Fresh crouds press forward on the muse's sight,

But pass like shadows at th'approach of night.

So when the Trojan, future time t'explore,

Sought the dusk limits of the Stygian shore,

The Ghosts in throngs beset the Hero round,

With feeble clamours, and a shrieking sound;

But when he stretch'd, the fading forms to chase,

Their bodies melt, he grasps the vacant space.

Yet still these nothings, insolent and vain,

Expect proud reason's sentence to obtain.

Then mark my tale, and weigh the moral well,

If right conceiv'd, 'twill folly's rudeness quell.

The vain Florella once, at pride's command,

Sat for her portrait to a famous hand:

The painter tried the utmost of his skill,

But found it baffled by the object still.

No trace of character, or glow of heart,

Flush'd on her face, to strike the glance of art.

In fruitless toil, he saw his work must end,

When mind, and soul no inspiration lend.

Then bade the fool, some other artist try,

Sick of the task, and laid his pencil by.

FINIS.

THE DRAMA, A POEM.

LONDON: Printed for J. WILLIAMS, (NO. 39) Fleet Street. M.DCC.LXXV.

DEDICATION. To ARTHUR MURPHY, Esq

SIR,

THOUGH I cannot boast the Honour of a personal acquaintance with you, yet it would be passing the severest Censure on myself, to declare I had not that intellectual one, which the world, in general, claim with Men of distinguished Abilities. I will not trespass on your Delicacy, by giving Vent to the Fullness of my Admiration, or by repeating what is already universally known and acknowledged. I only solicit your Patronage for the feeble Offspring of a friendless Muse, conscious I cannot lay it before a better Judge than you, Sir, whose Writings have been so long the Prop and Ornament of the DRAMA; and that if any thing can give it shelter, it must be the protecting Influence of your Name.

I have the Honour to remain, SIR,
Your most humble and obedient Servant, THE AUTHOR.

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The drama, a poem

Downman, Hugh, 1740-1809.

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http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/3969

ID [isbn10]

1106009681

ID [isbn13]

9781106009685

ID [TCP]

K036971.000

ID [BIBNO]

CW3310022950

ID [ECLL]

0152900900

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Source

— The drama, a poem, Downman, Hugh, 1740-1809.. [2],iv,25,[1]p. ; 4⁰. London :: printed for J. Williams,. 1775.. [Anonymous. By Hugh Downman.] [A reissue, with the titlepage reset, of the edition of the same year bearing the imprint: 'Printed by J. Chapman, and sold by J. Williams'.] [With a half-title.] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT34920.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).]

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