Poetical Works by Charles Churchill Part 5

[81] 'Garrick:' see Boswell and Murphy's life of that great actor.

[82] 'Serjeant Kite:' the recruiting serjeant in Farquhar's 'Recruiting Officer.'

THE APOLOGY.

ADDRESSED TO THE CRITICAL REVIEWERS.[83]

Trist.i.tiam et Metus.--HORACE.

Laughs not the heart when giants, big with pride, a.s.sume the pompous port, the martial stride; O'er arm Herculean heave the enormous s.h.i.+eld, Vast as a weaver's beam the javelin wield; With the loud voice of thundering Jove defy, And dare to single combat--what?--A fly!

And laugh we less when giant names, which s.h.i.+ne Establish'd, as it were, by right divine; Critics, whom every captive art adores, To whom glad Science pours forth all her stores; 10 Who high in letter'd reputation sit, And hold, Astraea-like, the scales of wit, With partial rage rush forth--oh! shame to tell!-- To crush a bard just bursting from the sh.e.l.l?

Great are his perils in this stormy time Who rashly ventures on a sea of rhyme: Around vast surges roll, winds envious blow, And jealous rocks and quicksands lurk below: Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends; He hurts me most who lavishly commends. 20 Look through the world--in every other trade The same employment's cause of kindness made, At least appearance of good will creates, And every fool puffs off the fool he hates: Cobblers with cobblers smoke away the night, And in the common cause e'en players unite; Authors alone, with more than savage rage, Unnatural war with brother authors wage.

The pride of Nature would as soon admit Compet.i.tors in empire as in wit; 30 Onward they rush, at Fame's imperious call, And, less than greatest, would not be at all.

Smit with the love of honour,--or the pence,-- O'errun with wit, and dest.i.tute of sense, Should any novice in the rhyming trade With lawless pen the realms of verse invade, Forth from the court, where sceptred sages sit, Abused with praise, and flatter'd into wit, Where in lethargic majesty they reign, And what they won by dulness, still maintain, 40 Legions of factious authors throng at once, Fool beckons fool, and dunce awakens dunce.

To 'Hamilton's[84] the ready lies repair-- Ne'er was lie made which was not welcome there-- Thence, on maturer judgment's anvil wrought, The polish'd falsehood's into public brought.

Quick-circulating slanders mirth afford; And reputation bleeds in every word.

A critic was of old a glorious name, Whose sanction handed merit up to fame; 50 Beauties as well as faults he brought to view; His judgment great, and great his candour too; No servile rules drew sickly taste aside; Secure he walk'd, for Nature was his guide.

But now--oh! strange reverse!--our critics bawl In praise of candour with a heart of gall; Conscious of guilt, and fearful of the light, They lurk enshrouded in the vale of night; Safe from detection, seize the unwary prey, And stab, like bravoes, all who come that way. 60 When first my Muse, perhaps more bold than wise, Bade the rude trifle into light arise, Little she thought such tempests would ensue; Less, that those tempests would be raised by you.

The thunder's fury rends the towering oak, Rosciads, like shrubs, might 'scape the fatal stroke.

Vain thought! a critic's fury knows no bound; Drawcansir-like, he deals destruction round; Nor can we hope he will a stranger spare, Who gives no quarter to his friend Voltaire.[85] 70 Unhappy Genius! placed by partial Fate With a free spirit in a slavish state; Where the reluctant Muse, oppress'd by kings, Or droops in silence, or in fetters sings!

In vain thy dauntless fort.i.tude hath borne The bigot's furious zeal, and tyrant's scorn.

Why didst thou safe from home-bred dangers steer, Reserved to perish more ign.o.bly here?

Thus, when, the Julian tyrant's pride to swell, Rome with her Pompey at Pharsalia fell, 80 The vanquish'd chief escaped from Caesar's hand, To die by ruffians in a foreign land.

How could these self-elected monarchs raise So large an empire on so small a base?

In what retreat, inglorious and unknown, Did Genius sleep when Dulness seized the throne?

Whence, absolute now grown, and free from awe, She to the subject world dispenses law.

Without her licence not a letter stirs, And all the captive criss-cross-row is hers. 90 The Stagyrite, who rules from Nature drew, Opinions gave, but gave his reasons too.

Our great Dictators take a shorter way-- Who shall dispute what the Reviewers say?

Their word's sufficient; and to ask a reason, In such a state as theirs, is downright treason.

True judgment now with them alone can dwell; Like Church of Rome, they're grown infallible.

Dull superst.i.tious readers they deceive, Who pin their easy faith on critic's sleeve, 100 And knowing nothing, everything believe!

But why repine we that these puny elves Shoot into giants?--we may thank ourselves: Fools that we are, like Israel's fools of yore, The calf ourselves have fas.h.i.+on'd we adore.

But let true Reason once resume her reign, This G.o.d shall dwindle to a calf again.

Founded on arts which shun the face of day, By the same arts they still maintain their sway.

Wrapp'd in mysterious secrecy they rise, 110 And, as they are unknown, are safe and wise.

At whomsoever aim'd, howe'er severe, The envenom'd slander flies, no names appear: Prudence forbids that step;--then all might know, And on more equal terms engage the foe.

But now, what Quixote of the age would care To wage a war with dirt, and fight with air?

By interest join'd, the expert confederates stand, And play the game into each other's hand: The vile abuse, in turn by all denied, 120 Is bandied up and down, from side to side: It flies--hey!--presto!--like a juggler's ball, Till it belongs to n.o.body at all.

All men and things they know, themselves unknown, And publish every name--except their own.

Nor think this strange,--secure from vulgar eyes, The nameless author pa.s.ses in disguise; But veteran critics are not so deceived, If veteran critics are to be believed.

Once seen, they know an author evermore, 130 Nay, swear to hands they never saw before.

Thus in 'The Rosciad,' beyond chance or doubt, They by the writing found the writers out: That's Lloyd's--his manner there you plainly trace, And all the Actor stares you in the face.

By Colman that was written--on my life, The strongest symptoms of the 'Jealous Wife.'

That little disingenuous piece of spite, Churchill--a wretch unknown!--perhaps might write.

How doth it make judicious readers smile, 140 When authors are detected by their style; Though every one who knows this author, knows He s.h.i.+fts his style much oftener than his clothes!

Whence could arise this mighty critic spleen, The Muse a trifler, and her theme so mean?

What had I done, that angry Heaven should send The bitterest foe where most I wish'd a friend?

Oft hath my tongue been wanton at thy name,[86]

And hail'd the honours of thy matchless fame.

For me let h.o.a.ry Fielding bite the ground, 150 So n.o.bler Pickle stands superbly bound; From Livy's temples tear the historic crown, Which with more justice blooms upon thine own.

Compared with thee, be all life-writers dumb, But he who wrote the Life of Tommy Thumb.

Who ever read 'The Regicide,' but swore The author wrote as man ne'er wrote before?

Others for plots and under-plots may call, Here's the right method--have no plot at all.

Who can so often in his cause engage 160 The tiny pathos of the Grecian stage, Whilst horrors rise, and tears spontaneous flow At tragic Ha! and no less tragic Oh!

To praise his nervous weakness all agree; And then for sweetness, who so sweet as he!

Too big for utterance when sorrows swell, The too big sorrows flowing tears must tell; But when those flowing tears shall cease to flow, Why--then the voice must speak again, you know.

Rude and unskilful in the poet's trade, 170 I kept no Naads by me ready made; Ne'er did I colours high in air advance, Torn from the bleeding fopperies of France;[87]

No flimsy linsey-woolsey scenes I wrote, With patches here and there, like Joseph's coat.

Me humbler themes befit: secure, for me, Let play-wrights smuggle nonsense duty free; Secure, for me, ye lambs, ye lambkins! bound, And frisk and frolic o'er the fairy ground.

Secure, for me, thou pretty little fawn! 180 Lick Sylvia's hand, and crop the flowery lawn; Uncensured let the gentle breezes rove Through the green umbrage of the enchanted grove: Secure, for me, let foppish Nature smile, And play the c.o.xcomb in the 'Desert Isle.'

The stage I chose--a subject fair and free-- 'Tis yours--'tis mine--'tis public property.

All common exhibitions open lie, For praise or censure, to the common eye.

Hence are a thousand hackney writers fed; 190 Hence Monthly Critics earn their daily bread.

This is a general tax which all must pay, From those who scribble, down to those who play.

Actors, a venal crew, receive support From public bounty for the public sport.

To clap or hiss all have an equal claim, The cobbler's and his lords.h.i.+p's right's the same.

All join for their subsistence; all expect Free leave to praise their worth, their faults correct.

When active Pickle Smithfield stage ascends, 200 The three days' wonder of his laughing friends, Each, or as judgment or as fancy guides, The lively witling praises or derides.

And where's the mighty difference, tell me where, Betwixt a Merry Andrew and a player?

The strolling tribe--a despicable race!-- Like wandering Arabs, s.h.i.+ft from place to place.

Vagrants by law, to justice open laid, They tremble, of the beadle's lash afraid, And, fawning, cringe for wretched means of life 210 To Madam Mayoress, or his Wors.h.i.+p's wife.

The mighty monarch, in theatric sack, Carries his whole regalia at his back; His royal consort heads the female band, And leads the heir apparent in her hand; The pannier'd a.s.s creeps on with conscious pride, Bearing a future prince on either side.

No choice musicians in this troop are found, To varnish nonsense with the charms of sound; No swords, no daggers, not one poison'd bowl; 220 No lightning flashes here, no thunders roll; No guards to swell the monarch's train are shown; The monarch here must be a host alone: No solemn pomp, no slow processions here; No Ammon's entry, and no Juliet's bier.

By need compell'd to prost.i.tute his art, The varied actor flies from part to part; And--strange disgrace to all theatric pride!-- His character is s.h.i.+fted with his side.

Question and answer he by turns must be, 230 Like that small wit in modern tragedy,[88]

Who, to patch up his fame--or fill his purse-- Still pilfers wretched plans, and makes them worse; Like gypsies, lest the stolen brat be known, Defacing first, then claiming for his own.

In shabby state they strut, and tatter'd robe, The scene a blanket, and a barn the globe: No high conceits their moderate wishes raise, Content with humble profit, humble praise.

Let dowdies simper, and let b.u.mpkins stare, 240 The strolling pageant hero treads in air: Pleased, for his hour he to mankind gives law, And snores the next out on a truss of straw.

But if kind Fortune, who sometimes, we know, Can take a hero from a puppet-show, In mood propitious should her favourite call, On royal stage in royal pomp to bawl, Forgetful of himself, he rears the head, And scorns the dunghill where he first was bred; Conversing now with well dress'd kings and queens, 250 With G.o.ds and G.o.ddesses behind the scenes, He sweats beneath the terror-nodding plume, Taught by mock honours real pride to a.s.sume.

On this great stage, the world, no monarch e'er Was half so haughty as a monarch player.

Doth it more move our anger or our mirth To see these things, the lowest sons of earth, Presume, with self-sufficient knowledge graced, To rule in letters, and preside in taste?

The town's decisions they no more admit, 260 Themselves alone the arbiters of wit; And scorn the jurisdiction of that court To which they owe their being and support.

Actors, like monks of old, now sacred grown, Must be attack'd by no fools but their own.

Let the vain tyrant[89] sit amidst his guards, His puny green-room wits and venal bards, Who meanly tremble at the puppet's frown, And for a playhouse-freedom lose their own; In spite of new-made laws, and new-made kings, 270 The free-born Muse with liberal spirit sings.

Bow down, ye slaves! before these idols fall; Let Genius stoop to them who've none at all: Ne'er will I flatter, cringe, or bend the knee To those who, slaves to all, are slaves to me.

Actors, as actors, are a lawful game, The poet's right, and who shall bar his claim?

And if, o'erweening of their little skill, When they have left the stage, they're actors still; If to the subject world they still give laws, 280 With paper crowns, and sceptres made of straws; If they in cellar or in garret roar, And, kings one night, are kings for evermore; Shall not bold Truth, e'en there, pursue her theme, And wake the c.o.xcomb from his golden dream?

Or if, well worthy of a better fate, They rise superior to their present state; If, with each social virtue graced, they blend The gay companion and the faithful friend; If they, like Pritchard, join in private life 290 The tender parent and the virtuous wife; Shall not our verse their praise with pleasure speak, Though Mimics bark, and Envy split her cheek?

No honest worth's beneath the Muse's praise; No greatness can above her censure raise; Station and wealth to her are trifling things; She stoops to actors, and she soars to kings.

Is there a man,[90] in vice and folly bred, To sense of honour as to virtue dead, Whom ties, nor human, nor divine can bind, 300 Alien from G.o.d, and foe to all mankind; Who spares no character; whose every word, Bitter as gall, and sharper than the sword, Cuts to the quick; whose thoughts with rancour swell; Whose tongue, on earth, performs the work of h.e.l.l?

If there be such a monster, the Reviews Shall find him holding forth against abuse: Attack profession!--'tis a deadly breach!

The Christian laws another lesson teach:-- Unto the end shall Charity endure, 310 And Candour hide those faults it cannot cure.

Thus Candour's maxims flow from Rancour's throat, As devils, to serve their purpose, Scripture quote.

The Muse's office was by Heaven design'd To please, improve, instruct, reform mankind; To make dejected Virtue n.o.bly rise Above the towering pitch of splendid Vice; To make pale Vice, abash'd, her head hang down, And, trembling, crouch at Virtue's awful frown.

Now arm'd with wrath, she bids eternal shame, 320 With strictest justice, brand the villain's name; Now in the milder garb of ridicule She sports, and pleases while she wounds the fool.