"_Phan._ Sir, we met with a traveller that could speak six languages at the same instant.

_Poeta_. How? at the same instant, that's impossible!

_Phan._ Nay, sir, the actuality of the performance puts it beyond all contradiction. With his tongue he'd so vowel you out as smooth _Italian_ as any man breathing; with his eye he would sparkle forth the proud _Spanish_; with his nose blow out most robustious _Dutch_; the creaking of his high-heeled shoe would articulate exact _Polonian_; the knocking of his shinbone feminine _French_; and his belly would grumble most pure and scholar-like _Hungary_."

This, though extravagant without fancy, is not the worst part of the absurd humour which runs through this pedantic comedy.

The cla.s.sical reader may perhaps be amused by the following strange conceits. Poeta, who was in love with Historia, capriciously falls in love with Astronomia, and thus compares his mistress:--

Her _brow_ is like a brave _heroic_ line That does a sacred majestie inshrine; Her _nose, Phaleuciake_-like, in comely sort, Ends in a _Trochie_, or a long and short.

Her _mouth_ is like a pretty _Dimeter_; Her _eie-brows_ like a little-longer _Trimeter_.

Her _chinne_ is an _adonicke_, and her _tongue_ Is an _Hypermeter_, somewhat too long.

Her _eies_ I may compare them unto two Quick-turning _dactyles_, for their nimble view.

Her _ribs_ like staues of _Sapphicks_ doe descend Thither, which but to name were to offend.

Her _arms_ like two _Iambics_ raised on hie, Doe with her brow bear equal majestie; Her _legs_ like two straight _spondees_ keep apace Slow as two _scazons_, but with stately grace.

The piece concludes with a speech by Polites, who settles all the disputes and loves of the Arts. Poeta promises for the future to attach himself to Historia. Rhetorica, though she loves Logicus, yet as they do not mutually agree, she is united to Grammaticus. Polites counsels Phlegmatico, who is Logicus's man, to leave off smoking, and to learn better manners; and Choler, Grammaticus's man, to bridle himself;--that Ethicus and Oeconoma would vouchsafe to give good advice to Poeta and Historia;--and Physica to her children Geographus and Astronomia! for Grammaticus and Rhetorica, he says, their tongues will always agree, and will not fall out; and for Geometres and Arithmetica, they will be very regular. Melancholico, who is Poeta's man, is left quite alone, and agrees to be married to Musica: and at length Phantastes, by the entreaty of Poeta, becomes the servant of Melancholico, and Musica.

Physiognomus and Cheiromantes, who are in the character of gipsies and fortune-tellers, are finally exiled from the island of Fortunata, where lies the whole scene of the action in the residence of the _Married Arts_.

The pedant-comic-writer has even attended to the dresses of his characters, which are minutely given. Thus Melancholico wears a black suit, a black hat, a black cloak, and black worked band, black gloves, and black shoes. Sanguis, the servant of Medicus, is in a red suit; on the breast is a man with his nose bleeding; on the back, one letting blood in his arm; with a red hat and band, red stockings and red pumps.

It is recorded of this play, that the Oxford scholars resolving to give James I. a relish of their genius, requested leave to act this notable piece. Honest Anthony Wood tells us, that it being too grave for the king, and too scholastic for the auditory, or, as some have said, the actors had taken too much wine, his majesty offered several times, after two acts, to withdraw. He was prevailed to sit it out, in mere charity to the Oxford scholars. The following humorous epigram was produced on the occasion:--

At _Christ-church marriage_, done before the king, Lest that those mates should want _an offering_, The king himself _did offer_;--What, I pray?

He _offered twice_ or _thrice_--to go away!"

A CONTRIVANCE IN DRAMATIC DIALOGUE.

Crown, in his "City Politiques," 1688, a comedy written to satirise the Whigs of those days, was accused of having copied his character too closely after life, and his enemies turned his comedy into a libel. He has defended himself in his preface from this imputation. It was particularly laid to his charge, that in the characters of Bartoline, an old corrupt lawyer, and his wife Lucinda, a wanton country girl, he intended to ridicule a certain Serjeant M---- and his young wife. It was even said that the comedian mimicked the odd speech of the aforesaid Serjeant, who, having lost all his teeth, uttered his words in a very peculiar manner. On this, Crown tells us in his defence, that the comedian must not be blamed for this peculiarity, as it was an _invention_ of the author himself, who had taught it to the player. He seems to have considered it as no ordinary invention, and was so pleased with it that he has most painfully printed the speeches of the lawyer in this singular gibberish; and his reasons, as well as his discovery, appear remarkable.

He says, that "Not any one old man more than another is mimiqued, by Mr.

Lee's way of speaking, which all comedians can witness, was my own _invention_, and Mr. Lee was taught it by me. To prove this farther, I have _printed_ Bartoline's part in that manner of spelling by which I taught it Mr. Lee. They who have no teeth cannot p.r.o.nounce many letters plain, but perpetually lisp and break their words, and some words they cannot bring out at all. As for instance _th_ is p.r.o.nounced by thrusting the tongue hard to the teeth, therefore that sound they cannot make, but something like it. For that reason you will often find in Bartoline's part, instead of _th_, _ya_, as _yat_ for that; _yish_ for this; _yosh_ for those; sometimes a _t_ is left out, as _housand_ for thousand; _hirty_ for thirty. _S_ they p.r.o.nounce like _sh_, as _sher_ for sir; _musht_ for must; _t_ they speak like _ch_,--therefore you will find _chrue_ for true; _chreason_ for treason; _cho_ for to; _choo_ for two; _chen_ for ten; _chake_ for take. And this _ch_ is not to be p.r.o.nounced like _k_, as 'tis in Christian, but as in child, church, chest. I desire the reader to observe these things, because otherwise he will hardly understand much of the lawyer's part, which in the opinion of all is the most divertising in the comedy; but when this ridiculous way of speaking is familiar with him, it will render the part more pleasant."

One hardly expects so curious a piece of orthoepy in the preface to a comedy. It may have required great observation and ingenuity to have discovered the cause of old toothless men mumbling their words. But as a piece of comic humour, on which the author appears to have prided himself, the effect is far from fortunate. Humour arising from a personal defect is but a miserable subst.i.tute for that of a more genuine kind. I shall give a specimen of this strange gibberish as it is so laboriously printed. It may amuse the reader to see his mother language transformed into so odd a shape that it is with difficulty he can recognise it.

Old Bartoline thus speaks:--"I wrong'd _my shelf, cho entcher incho bondsh_ of marriage and could not perform _covenantsh_ I might well _hinke_ you would _chake_ the forfeiture of the bond; and I never found _equichy_ in a _bedg_ in my life; but I'll trounce you _boh_; I have paved _jaylsh_ wi' the _bonesh_ of honester people _yen_ you are, _yat_ never did me nor any man any wrong, but had law of _yeir shydsh_ and right o' _yeir shydsh_, but because _yey_ had not me o' _yeir shydsh_. I ha' _hrown_ 'em in _jaylsh_, and got _yeir eshchatsch_ for my _clyentsh yat_ had no more _chytle_ to 'em _yen dogsh_."

THE COMEDY OF A MADMAN.

Desmarets, the friend of Richelieu, was a very extraordinary character, and produced many effusions of genius in early life, till he became a mystical fanatic. It was said of him that "he was the greatest madman among poets, and the best poet among madmen." His comedy of "The Visionaries" is one of the most extraordinary dramatic projects, and, in respect to its genius and its lunacy, may be considered as a literary curiosity.

In this singular comedy all Bedlam seems to be let loose on the stage, and every character has a high claim to an apartment in it. It is indeed suspected that the cardinal had a hand in this anomalous drama, and in spite of its extravagance it was favourably received by the public, who certainly had never seen anything like it.

Every character in this piece acts under some hallucination of the mind, or a fit of madness. Artabaze is a cowardly hero, who believes he has conquered the world. Amidor is a wild poet, who imagines he ranks above Homer. Filidan is a lover, who becomes inflammable as gunpowder for every mistress he reads of in romances. Phalante is a beggarly bankrupt, who thinks himself as rich as Croesus. Melisse, in reading the "History of Alexander," has become madly in love with this hero, and will have no other husband than "him of Macedon." Hesperie imagines her fatal charms occasion a hundred disappointments in the world, but prides herself on her perfect insensibility. Sestiane, who knows no other happiness than comedies, and whatever she sees or hears, immediately plans a scene for dramatic effect, renounces any other occupation; and finally, Alcidon, the father of these three mad girls, as imbecile as his daughters are wild. So much for the amiable characters!

The plot is in perfect harmony with the genius of the author, and the characters he has invented--perfectly unconnected, and fancifully wild.

Alcidon resolves to marry his three daughters, who, however, have no such project of their own. He offers them to the first who comes. He accepts for his son-in-law the first who offers, and is clearly convinced that he is within a very short period of accomplishing his wishes. As the four ridiculous personages whom we have noticed frequently haunt his house, he becomes embarra.s.sed in finding one lover too many, having only three daughters.

The catastrophe relieves the old gentleman from his embarra.s.sments.

Melisse, faithful to her Macedonian hero, declares her resolution of dying before she marries any meaner personage. Hesperie refuses to marry, out of pity for mankind; for to make one man happy she thinks she must plunge a hundred into despair. Sestiane, only pa.s.sionate for comedy, cannot consent to any marriage, and tells her father, in very lively verses,

Je ne veux point, mon pere, espouser un censeur; Puisque vous me souffrez recevoir la douceur Des plaisirs innocens que le theatre apporte, Prendrais-je le hasard de vivre d'autre sorte?

Puis on a des enfans, qui vous sont sur les bras, Les mener an theatre, O Dieux! quel embarras!

Tantot couche ou grossesse, on quelque maladie; Pour jamais vous font dire, adieu la comedie!

IMITATED.

No, no, my father, I will have no critic, (Miscalled a husband) since you still permit The innocent sweet pleasures of the stage; And shall I venture to exchange my lot?

Then we have children folded in our arms To bring them to the play-house; heavens! what troubles!

Then we lie in, are big, or sick, or vexed: These make us bid farewell to comedy!

At length these imagined sons-in-law appear; Filidan declares that in these three girls he cannot find the mistress he adores. Amidor confesses he only asked for one of his daughters out of pure gallantry, and that he is only a lover--in verse! When Phalante is questioned after the great fortunes he hinted at, the father discovers that he has not a stiver, and out of credit to borrow: while Artabaze declares that he only allowed Alcidon, out of mere benevolence, to flatter himself for a moment with the hope of an honour that even Jupiter would not dare to pretend to. The four lovers disperse and leave the old gentleman more embarra.s.sed than ever, and his daughters perfectly enchanted to enjoy their whimsical reveries, and die old maids--all alike "Visionaries!"

SOLITUDE.

We possess, among our own native treasures, two treatises on this subject, composed with no ordinary talent, and not their least value consists in one being an apology for solitude, while the other combats that prevailing pa.s.sion of the studious. Zimmerman's popular work is overloaded with commonplace; the garrulity of eloquence. The two treatises now noticed may be compared to the highly-finished gems, whose figure may be more finely designed, and whose strokes may be more delicate in the smaller s.p.a.ce they occupy than the ponderous block of marble hewed out by the German chiseller.

Sir George Mackenzie, a polite writer, and a most eloquent pleader, published, in 1665, a moral essay, preferring Solitude to public employment. The eloquence of his style was well suited to the dignity of his subject; the advocates for solitude have always prevailed over those for active life, because there is something sublime in those feelings which would retire from the circle of indolent triflers, or depraved geniuses. The tract of Mackenzie was ingeniously answered by the elegant taste of John Evelyn in 1667. Mackenzie, though he wrote in favour of solitude, pa.s.sed a very active life, first as a pleader, and afterwards as a judge; that he was an eloquent writer, and an eloquent critic, we have the authority of Dryden, who says, that till he was acquainted with that n.o.ble wit of Scotland, Sir George Mackenzie, he had not known the beautiful turn of words and thoughts in poetry, which Sir George had explained and exemplified to him in conversation. As a judge, and king's advocate, will not the barbarous customs of the age defend his name? He is most hideously painted forth by the dark pencil of a poetical Spagnoletti (Grahame), in his poem on "The Birds of Scotland." Sir George lived in the age of rebellion, and used torture: we must entirely put aside his political, to attend to his literary character. Blair has quoted his pleadings as a model of eloquence, and Grahame is unjust to the fame of Mackenzie, when he alludes to his "half-forgotten name." In 1689, he retired to Oxford, to indulge the luxuries of study in the Bodleian Library, and to practise that solitude which so delighted him in theory; but three years afterwards he fixed himself in London.

Evelyn, who wrote in favour of public employment being preferable to solitude, pa.s.sed his days in the tranquillity of his studies, and wrote against the habits which he himself most loved. By this it may appear, that that of which we have the least experience ourselves, will ever be what appears most delightful! Alas! everything in life seems to have in it the nature of a bubble of air, and, when touched, we find nothing but emptiness in our hand. It is certain that the most eloquent writers in favour of solitude have left behind them too many memorials of their unhappy feelings, when they indulged this pa.s.sion to excess; and some ancient has justly said, that none but a G.o.d, or a savage, can suffer this exile from human nature.

The following extracts from Sir George Mackenzie's tract on Solitude are eloquent and impressive, and merit to be rescued from that oblivion which surrounds many writers, whose genius has not been effaced, but concealed, by the transient crowd of their posterity:--

I have admired to see persons of virtue and humour long much to be in the city, where, when they come they found nor sought for no other divertiss.e.m.e.nt than to visit one another; and there to do nothing else than to make legs, view others habit, talk of the weather, or some such pitiful subject, and it may be, if they made a farther inroad upon any other affair, they did so pick one another, that it afforded them matter of eternal quarrel; for what was at first but an indifferent subject, is by interest adopted into the number of our quarrels.--What pleasure can be received by talking of new fashions, buying and selling of lands, advancement or ruin of favourites, victories or defeats of strange princes, which is the ordinary subject of ordinary conversation?--Most desire to frequent their superiors, and these men must either suffer their raillery, or must not be suffered to continue in their society; if we converse with them who speak with more address than ourselves, then we repine equally at our own dulness, and envy the acuteness that accomplishes the speaker; or, if we converse with duller animals than ourselves, then we are weary to draw the yoke alone, and fret at our being in ill company; but if chance blows us in amongst our equals, then we are so at guard to catch all advantages, and so interested in point d'honneur, that it rather cruciates than recreates us. How many make themselves cheap by these occasions, whom we had valued highly if they had frequented us less! And how many frequent persons who laugh at that simplicity which the addresser admires in himself as wit, and yet both recreate themselves with double laughters!

In solitude, he addresses his friend:--"My dear Celador, enter into your own breast, and there survey the several operations of your own soul, the progress of your pa.s.sions, the strugglings of your appet.i.te, the wanderings of your fancy, and ye will find, I a.s.sure you, more variety in that one piece than there is to be learned in all the courts of Christendom.

Represent to yourself the last age, all the actions and interests in it, how much this person was infatuated with zeal, that person with l.u.s.t; how much one pursued honour, and another riches; and in the next thought draw that scene, and represent them all turned to dust and ashes!"

I cannot close this subject without the addition of some anecdotes, which may be useful. A man of letters finds solitude necessary, and for him solitude has its pleasures and its conveniences; but we shall find that it also has a hundred things to be dreaded.

Solitude is indispensable for literary pursuits. No considerable work has yet been composed, but its author, like an ancient magician, retired first to the grove or the closet, to invocate his spirits. Every production of genius must be the production of enthusiasm. When the youth sighs and languishes, and feels himself among crowds in an irksome solitude,--that is the moment to fly into seclusion and meditation.

Where can he indulge but in solitude the fine romances of his soul?

where but in solitude can he occupy himself in useful dreams by night, and, when the morning rises, fly without interruption to his unfinished labours? Retirement to the frivolous is a vast desert, to the man of genius it is the enchanted garden of Armida.

Cicero was uneasy amidst applauding Rome, and he has designated his numerous works by the t.i.tles of his various villas, where they were composed. Voltaire had talents, and a taste for society, yet he not only withdrew by intervals, but at one period of his life pa.s.sed five years in the most secret seclusion and fervent studies. Montesquieu quitted the brilliant circles of Paris for his books, his meditations, and for his immortal work, and was ridiculed by the gay triflers he relinquished. Harrington, to compose his Oceana, severed himself from the society of his friends, and was so wrapped in abstraction, that he was pitied as a lunatic. Descartes, inflamed by genius, abruptly breaks off all his friendly connexions, hires an obscure house in an unfrequented corner at Paris, and applies himself to study during two years unknown to his acquaintance. Adam Smith, after the publication of his first work, throws himself into a retirement that lasted ten years; even Hume rallied him for separating himself from the world; but the great political inquirer satisfied the world, and his friends, by his great work on the Wealth of Nations.

But this solitude, at first a necessity, and then a pleasure, at length is not borne without repining. I will call for a witness a great genius, and he shall speak himself. Gibbon says, "I feel, and shall continue to feel, that domestic solitude, however it may be alleviated by the world, by study, and even by friendship, is a comfortless state, which will grow more painful as I descend in the vale of years." And afterwards he writes to a friend, "Your visit has only served to remind me that man, however amused and occupied in his closet, was not made to live alone."