With no greater right to our obedience have the criticks confined the dramatick action to a certain number of hours. Probability requires that the time of action fhould approach fomewhat nearly to that of exhibition, and thofe plays will always be thought moft happily conducted which crowd the greatest variety into the leaft fpace. But fince it will frequently happen that fome delufion must be admitted, I know not where the limits of imagination can be fixed. It is rarely observed that minds, not prepoffeffed by mechanical criticism, feel any offence from the extenfion of the intervals between the acts; nor can I conceive it abfurd or impoffible, that he who .can multiply three hours into twelve or twenty-four, might image with equal ease a greater number.

I know not whether he that profeffes to regard no other laws than those of nature, will not be inclined to receive tragi-comedy to his protection, whom, however generally condemned, her own laurels have hitherto fhaded from the fulminations of criticifm. For what is there in the mingled drama which impartial reason can condemn? The connexion of important with trivial incidents, fince it is not only common but perpetual in the world, may surely be allowed upon the stage, which pretends only to be the mirrour of life. The impropriety of fuppreffing paffions before we have raised them to the intended agitation, and of diverting the expectation from an event which we keep fufpended only to raise it, may be fpeciously urged. But will not experience fhew this objection to be rather subtle than juft? Is it not certain that the tragick and comick affections have

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been moved alternately with equal force, and that no plays have oftener filled the eye with tears, and the breast with palpitation, than those which are variegated with interludes of mirth?

I do not however think it safe to judge of works of genius merely by the event. The refiftless viciffitudes of the heart, this alternate prevalence of mertiment and folemnity, may fometimes be more properly afcribed to the vigour of the writer than the juftness of the defign: and instead of vindicating tragi-comedy by the success of Shakespeare, we ought perhaps to pay new honours to that tranfcendent and unbounded genius that could prefide over the paffions in fport; who, to actuate the affections, needed not the flow gradation of common means, but could fill the heart with inftantaneous jollity or forrow, and vary our difpofition as he changed his fcenes. Perhaps the effects even of Shakespeare's poetry might have been yet greater, had he not counteracted himfelf; and we might have been more interested in the diftreffes of his heroes, had we not been fo frequently diverted by the jokes of his buffoons.

There are other rules more fixed and obligatory. It is neceffary that of every play the chief action should be fingle; for fince a play represents fome tranfaction, through its regular maturation to its final event, two actions equally important muft evidently conftitute two plays.

As the defign of tragedy is to inftruct by moving the paffions, it must always have a hero, a perfonage apparently and inconteftably fuperior to the rest, upon whom the attention may be fixed, and the anxiety fufpended. For though of two perfons oppofing

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pofing each other with equal abilities and equal virtue, the auditor will inevitably in time choose his favourite, yet as that choice must be without any cogency of conviction, the hopes or fears which it raises will be faint and languid. Of two heroes acting in confederacy against a common enemy, the virtues or dangers will give little emotion, because each claims our concern with the same right, and the heart lies at rest between equal motives.

It ought to be the first endeavour of a writer to distinguish nature from cuftom; or that which is established because it is right, from that which is right only because it is established; that he may neither violate effential principles by a defire of novelty, nor debar himself from the attainment of beauties within his view, by a needlefs fear of breaking rules which no literary dictator had authority to enact.

NUMB. 157. TUESDAY, September 17, 1751.

Οἱ αιδώς

Γίγνεται, ή άνδρας μέγα σίνεται ἠδ ̓ ὀνίνησιν.

Shame greatly hurts or greatly helps mankind.

SIR,

TH

To the RAMBLER.

HOM.

ELPHINSTON.

HOUGH one of your correfpondents has prefumed to mention with fome contempt. that prefence of attention and eafinefs of address, which the polite have long agreed to celebrate and esteem, yet I cannot be perfuaded to think them unworthy of regard or cultivation; but am inclined to believe that, as we seldom value rightly what we have never known the mifery of wanting, his judgment has been vitiated by his happiness; and that a natural exuberance of affurance has hindered him from difcovering its excellence and use.

This felicity, whether beftowed by constitution, or obtained by early habitudes, I can fcarcely contemplate without envy. I was bred under a man of learning in the country, who inculcated nothing but the dignity of knowledge, and the happiness of virtue. By frequency of admonition, and confidence of affertion, he prevailed upon me to believe, that the splendour of literature would always attract reverence, if not darkened by corruption. I therefore pursued my studies with inceffant induftry, and avoided every thing which I had been taught to confider

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fider either as vicious or tending to vice, because I regarded guilt and reproach as infeparably united, and thought a tainted reputation the greatest calamity.

At the university, I found no reason for changing my opinion; for though many among my fellowstudents took the opportunity of a more remifs difcipline to gratify their paffions; yet virtue preferved her natural fuperiority, and those who ventured to neglect, were not suffered to infult her. The ambition of petty accomplishments found its way into the receptacles of learning, but was obferved to feize commonly on those who either neglected the fciences or could not attain them; and I was therefore confirmed in the doctrines of my old mafter, and thought nothing worthy of my care but the means of gaining or imparting knowledge.

This purity of manners, and intenseness of application, foon extended my renown, and I was ap plauded by thofe, whofe opinion I then thought unlikely to deceive me, as a young man that gave uncommon hopes of future eminence. My performances in time reached my native province, and my relations congratulated themselves upon the new honours that were added to their family.

I returned home covered with academical laurels, and fraught with criticism and philofophy. The wit and the fcholar excited curiofity, and my acquaintance was folicited by innumerable invitations. To please will always be the wish of benevolence, to be admired must be the conftant aim of ambition; and I therefore confidered myself as about to receive the reward of my honeft labours, and to find the efficacy of learning and of virtue.,

The