and it is certain, that the famous Camoëns ended his days in a hospital.(1) If we turn to France, we shall there find even stronger instances of the ingratitude of the public. Vaugelas, one of the politest writers, and one of the honestest men of his time, was surnamed the Owl, from his being obliged to keep within all day, and venture out only by night, through fear of his creditors. His last will is very remarkable. After having bequeathed all his worldly substance to the discharging his debts, he goes on thus: "but as there still may remain some creditors unpaid, even after all that I have shall have been disposed of, in such a case, it is my last will, that my body should be sold to the surgeons to the best advantage, and that the purchase should go to the discharging those debts which I owe to society; so that if I could not, while living, at least when dead, I may be useful.(2) Cassandre was one of the greatest geniuses of his time, yet all his merit could not procure him a bare subsistence. Being by degrees driven into a hatred of all mankind, from the little pity he found amongst them, he even ventured at last ungratefully to impute his calamities to Providence. In his last agonies, when the priest entreated him to rely on the justice of heaven, and ask mercy from him that made him— "If God," replies he, "has shewn me no justice here, what reason have I to expect any from him hereafter ?" But being answered, that a suspension of justice was no argument that should induce us to doubt of its reality; "let me intreat (1) ["Camoëns, whose best years had been devoted to the service of his country, and who had taught her literary fame to rival the proudest efforts of Italy itself, was compelled to wander through the streets, a wretched dependent on casual contribution, and died in an alms-house in 1579.”— Strangford.] (2) [Vaugelas was born at Chambéry in 1585, and died at Paris in 1650, aged sixty-five years; thirty of which he devoted to his translation of Quintus Curtius. Biog. Univ.] you," continued his confessor, "by all that is dear, to be reconciled to God, your father, your maker, and friend.” “No,” replied the exasperated wretch, "you know the manner in which he left me to live; and," pointing to the straw on which he was stretched, "you see the manner in which he leaves me to die! (1) But the sufferings of the poet in other countries is nothing when compared to his distresses here; the names of Spencer and Otway, Butler and Dryden, are every day mentioned as a national reproach: some of them lived in a state of precarious indigence, and others literally died of hunger. At present, the few poets of England no longer depend on the great for subsistence; they have now no other patrons but the public, and the public, collectively considered, is a good and a generous master. It is, indeed, too frequently mistaken as to the merits of every candidate for favour; but, to make amends, it is never mistaken long. A performance indeed may be forced for a time into reputation, but, destitute of real merit, it soon sinks; time, the touchstone of what is truly valuable, will soon discover the fraud, and an author should never arrogate to himself any share of success, till his works have been read at least ten years with satisfaction. A man of letters at present, whose works are valuable, is perfectly sensible of their value. Every polite member of the community, by buying what he writes, contributes to reward him. The ridicule, therefore, of living in a garret, might have been wit in the last age, but continues such no longer, because no longer true. A writer of real merit now may easily be rich, if his heart be set only on fortune: and for those who have no merit, it is but fit that such should (1) [François Cassandre, who translated Aristotle's Rhetoric into French, and died in 1695, was a man of very violent temper, and of imprudent conduct. He is thus described by Boileau : "Je suis rustique et fier, et j'ai l'âme grossière."] remain in merited obscurity. He may now refuse an invitation to dinner, without fearing to incur his patron's displeasure, or to starve by remaining at home. He may now venture to appear in company with just such clothes as other men generally wear, and talk even to princes with all the conscious superiority of wisdom. Though he cannot boast of fortune here, yet he can bravely assert the dignity of independence. Adieu. LETTER LXXXV. THE TRIFLING SQUABBLES OF STAGE-PLAYERS RIDICULED. From the Same. I have interested myself so long in all the concerns of this people, that I am almost become an Englishman. I now begin to read with pleasure of their taking towns or gaining battles, and secretly wish disappointment to all the enemies of Britain. Yet still my regard to mankind fills me with concern for their contentions. I could wish to see the disturbances of Europe once more amicably adjusted: I am an enemy to nothing in this good world but war; I hate fighting between rival states; I hate it between man and man; I hate fighting even between women. I already informed you, that while Europe was at variance, we were also threatened from the stage with an irreconcileable opposition, and that our singing women were resolved to sing at each other to the end of the season. O my friend, those fears were just! They are not only determined to sing at each other to the end of the season, but what is worse, to sing the same song; and what is still more insupportable, to make us pay for hearing. If they be for war, for my part, I should advise them to have a public congress, and there fairly squall at each other. What signifies sounding the trumpet of defiance at a distance, and calling in the town to fight their battles? I would have them come boldly into one of the most open and frequented streets, face to face, and there try their skill in quavering. However this may be, resolved I am that they shall not touch one single piece of silver more of mine. Though I have ears for music, thanks be to heaven, they are not altogether ass's ears. What! Polly and the Pick-pocket to-night, Polly and the Pick-pocket to-morrow night, and Polly and the Pick-pocket again! I want patience. I'll hear no My soul is out of tune; all jarring discord and confusion. Rest, rest, ye dear three clinking shillings in my pocket's bottom: the music you make is more harmonious to my spirit than catgut, rosin, or all the nightingales that ever chirruped in petticoats. more. But what raises my indignation to the greatest degree is, that this piping does not only pester me on the stage, but is my punishment in private conversation. What is it to me, whether the "fine pipe" of one, or the "great manner" of the other, be preferable? what care I if one has a better top, or the other a nobler bottom? how am I concerned, if one sings from the stomach, or the other sings with a snap? Yet, paltry as these matters are, they make a subject of debate wherever I go; and this musical dispute, especially among the fair sex, almost always ends in a very unmusical altercation. Sure the spirit of contention is mixed into the very constitution of the people! Divisions among the inhabitants of other countries arise only from their higher concerns, but subjects the most contemptible are made an affair of party here; the spirit is carried even into their amusements. The very ladies, whose duty should scem to allay the impetuosity of the opposite sex, become themselves party champions, engage in the thickest of the fight, scold at each other, and shew their courage, even at the expense of their lovers and their beauty. Mistake me upon it, but panemost uni There are even a numerous set of poets who help to keep up the contention, and write for the stage. not; I do not mean pieces to be acted gyrical verses on the performers; for that is the versal method of writing for the stage at present. It is the business of the stage poet, therefore, to watch the appearance of every new player at his own house, and so come out next day with a flaunting copy of newspaper verses. In these, nature and the actor may be set to run races, the player always coming off victorious; or nature may mistake him for herself; or old Shakespeare may put on his windingsheet and pay him a visit; or the tuneful nine may strike up their harps in his praise; or, should it happen to be an actress, Venus, the beauteous queen of love, and the naked Graces, are ever in waiting: the lady must be herself a goddess bred and born; she must-But you shall have a specimen of one of these poems, which may convey a more precise idea. On seeing Mrs. ** perform in the character of ****. See how she moves along with every grace, While soul-brought tears steal down each shining face! And felt her charms, without disguise, within." |