Emmeline. (Who has not noticed her father.) I think, Sir Charles, this infinitely pretty. Scrapeall. Bless me, what's this! my Emmy? Emmeline. Oh! papa! what-what shall I do! Scrapeall. Pretty! ay, it is pretty, hussey, to meet you here without my consent, without my knowledge, without my-- Od, I have lost all patience. And who is this fellow? I'll make an example of him for running away with an heiress. Jackonet. Why, don't you think she's able and willing enough to run away with herself, sir? Scrapeall. Is she so, Mrs. Prate-a-pace? Ay, you're a hopeful maid of her aunt's providing. I know you well, sauce-box, and I'll turn over a new leaf. But who are you, scapegrace? Sir Charles. I am a gentleman, sir, and not used to abusive language. To speak of myself may not be so proper, but my father, Sir Robert Planwell, was generally known and esteemed in the north of England. Sir John. What! are you Bob Planwell's son of Lincolnshire? As honest a fellow, cousin Scrapeall, as ever tossed off a tankard! Scrapeall. But did he know anything of the Alley? Sir Charles. If he did not, I do, sir; I have employed all my spare cash these five years in the stocks. Why, sir, I have written two letters, dated India, to come overland by Holland, one of which will raise that stock twenty per cent., and the other fall it thirty. Now, sir, if you will countenance my pretensions to your daughter, I'll kill Hyder Ali, and make him conquer Madras, as often as you please to sell out or buy in. Scrapeall. Nay, if that's the case, you may be a hopeful young fellow: but I hate a title. However, if you can make what you say appear Sir Charles. If not, sir, I request no favour. Sir John. Why, that's honest; and since you have all met together, I'll take care to bring you to a right understanding. I wear a title myself, and I am no rogue for all that. We'll see what's to be seen here, and then all for Yorkshire, where we'll be as merry as grigs. But, d'ye hear, no more objections to titles, for Titled or plain, still judge upon this plan, the language in which roused the political passions of his audience to a high pitch. They became full of rage at him, and on his refusing to make an apology the stage was stormed, the scenery cut to pieces, and the theatre actually sacked. One young gentleman who took a leading part in the riot assaulted Sheridan personally. For this the manager brought an action. The counsel for the defendant, after stating that he was anxious to see a curiosity, said, "I have often seen a gentleman soldier, and a gentleman tailor, but I have never seen a gentleman player." Mr. Sheridan bowed and answered, "Sir, I hope you see one now." Notwithstanding the prejudice against a player the young gentleman was sentenced to imprisonment and a fine. After he had been a week in prison he applied to Sheridan, who interfered on his behalf and procured his liberation. [Thomas Sheridan, son of Dr. Thomas She- | In 1754 he produced Miller's tragedy Mahomet, ridan the famous schoolmaster, and husband of Frances Sheridan already noticed in this volume, was born at Quilca, in the county of Cavan, in 1721. His earlier education was conducted by his father, but while yet young he was sent to Westminster School, where for merit alone he was elected a king's scholar. Leaving Westminster after a time, he returned to Dublin, and entered Trinity College as a sizar. In 1738 he obtained a scholarship, and in 1739 graduated B.A. In 1743, having formed and abandoned several schemes of life, and the death of his father leaving him without resources, he finally chose the stage, and made his first appearance on the boards of Smock Alley Theatre, Dublin, in January of that year. In 1744 he appeared in London at Covent Garden, and in 1745 at Drury Lane in company with Garrick. In 1746 he became manager of the Theatre Royal, Dublin, which post he occupied successfully for eight years. This whole affair created him many ene mies, and as his personal safety was threat- | other works the principal are his Lectures on ened, Sheridan retired to England. In 1756, however, he returned, made an apology, and again became the public favourite. But fortune now seemed to turn against him, for a rival theatre, under the rule of Barry and Woodward, was erected in Crow Street, and drained him, not only of a portion of his audience, but of his principal performers. To add to his troubles, a number of hands he had engaged in London, among them Theophilus Cibber and Maddox, on the passage across were driven by a storm to the coast of Scotland and there lost their lives by ship wreck. In 1757 he published a plan for establishing an academy for the youth of Ireland, in which oratory, the hobby of his life, was of course to hold chief place. To further his idea he delivered lectures on the subject, which so persuaded the public that the plan was put into execution, but, with a strange want of wisdom and generosity on the part of those in power, the author was not allowed a share in its conduct. This, no doubt, drove him again to England, where he composed and delivered before the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge a splendid series of lectures on elocution and oratory. These not only brought him a monetary reward, but added greatly to his reputation, and for some years his time in London was divided between the stage and the delivery of public readings and lectures. In 1760, on the accession of George III., he was granted a pension, much to the disgust of Dr. Johnson, who remarked on the occasion, "What, give him a pension! then I must give up mine." He also compared the influence Sheridan might have on the language of the country to "burning a farthing candle at Dover to show light at Calais." In 1776 he left the stage, but in the same year, on the retirement of Garrick, he was appointed manager of Drury Lane Theatre. This post he held for three years, when he resigned it, to return again to his writing, reading, and lecturing. The rest of his life was spent in the busy but comparative quiet of a man of letters. He died at Margate on the 14th of August, 1788. Though so closely connected with the stage, and though wielding a clever pen, Sheridan did not produce many dramatic works. They comprise: Captain O'Blunder, a farce, 1754; Coriolanus, a tragedy, 1755; Royal Subject, an alteration from Beaumont and Fletcher; and an alteration of Romeo and Juliet. Of his VOL. I. the Art of Reading; British Education; Address on the Stage; Difficulties of English; A General Dictionary of the English Language, to which a" Rhetorical Grammar "was prefixed; Life of Swift, prefixed to an edition of Swift's works; and many miscellaneous articles of a high order of merit on the subjects of oratory and education. All his works show a scholarly hand, and most of them have been successful, especially his dictionary, which still has a phonetic if not a philological value. Lectures on the Art of Reading is a book which may still be studied with advantage, as may also one of his smaller treatises on the manner of reading the liturgy of the Church of England.] His THE PERFECTION OF MODERN WORKS ONLY SETTLED BY COMPARISON.1 It is evident enough that the works of the greatest modern artists in poetry and statuary have but a comparative value, and that there is but a comparative judgment passed upon them. When compared with those of the ancients, they fall far short of the perfection to be found in them, and appear relatively mean in the eyes of all persons of true taste; but when compared with the performances of their contemporaries, or such as have succeeded them, the works of the most eminent acquire a superiority above the rest, as much as they themselves are found inferior to those of antiquity. Nor is there any reason to believe but that the case would be exactly similar with respect to painting and music if the several compositions of the great masters in those arts had been preserved and handed down to us in the same manner as in the others. From the many wonderful accounts transmitted to us, by persons of undoubted authority, of the amazing effects produced by the musical compositions of the ancients, we cannot believe but that they were of a kind far superior to ours; and though their paintings are lost to us, yet some of them retain still a kind of being in the elegant descriptions given of them by several authors, so as to enable us to form a tolerable notion of their merit. Whoever reads Pliny's account of a picture drawn by Aristides, representing a 1 This and the following extract are from British Education. 21 woman stabbed with a poniard, having a child | inquirers into poetry and statuary have much at her breast; the praises which Ausonius bestows upon the Medea of Timomachus; what Pliny and Quintilian both have said upon the sacrifice of Iphigenia by Timanthes; the excellent description which Lucian gives of a grand piece representing the marriage of Alexander and Roxana, as also the family of a Centaur drawn by Zeuxis, with many others to the same effect, cannot but conclude that the painters of antiquity were masters of the noblest and most accurate expression, as well as of the finest poetic and picturesque composition. And indeed, when we find that all the ancients who have written upon those subjects are agreed in allowing that painting and music were in as high a degree of perfection as poetry and sculpture, we cannot refuse our belief to the testimony of such exquisite judges. stronger and more certain lights to guide their judgments in ascertaining the real value of any production in either of those arts by means of the twofold comparison; whereas, they who have a taste for music and painting can only judge by comparison of the works of one modern with those of another. WANT OF EFFICIENCY IN OUR Want of knowledge, and a quantity of false knowledge, far worse than none, are the necessary consequences in a country of not studying and understanding the language which is most generally read. The low state of the arts is owing to a false taste, and false taste proceeds from a want of using the proper means early in life of procuring a true one. If our legislators have at any time acted wrong, how could it be otherwise expected, when there is no care taken in their education to qualify them for the discharge of so important an office. Here it must be observed, therefore, that though the compositions in modern painting and music be generally thought to have a more absolute degree of perfection than those of poetry and sculpture, yet in fact they have only a comparative value. The whole difference lies in this, that, as some of the noblest works of antiquity in the latter arts are still remaining, the compositions of the moderns suffer much when compared with them; but as all traces of the former are lost, the most eminent masters of latter times can be only compared with such as are inferior to themselves; and consequently, by such a comparison their works must always appear in the most advantageous light. Nay, to modern judges they must of course become the standards of perfection. But were the masterly drawings of the ancient painters still in being, it is more than probable that the historical pieces of our most celebrated artists would be thrown at as great a distance by comparison with them, and sink as much in their value, as the works of our poets and statuaries have done. And could we hear the ancient music performed in its utmost perfection, our admiration of the modern would perhaps be changed into considered that nothing brings on the weariness tempt, and the most excellent of our composers be considered only as agreeable triflers. From this view it is evident that, however the reputation, of the modern artists in painting and music may have been raised by the loss of the works of the ancients, yet the arts themselves must have suffered amazingly, and all true critical knowledge with respect to these must have been proportionably less. For there can be no doubt but that the curious The infinite variety of opinions is not at all surprising, nor that there should be as many sects of philosophers in England as ever have appeared in the world; since great pains are taken, in the education of youth, to make them acquainted with all these, and at the most dangerous time of life, when the judg ment has least power, they are left to themselves to adopt what opinions they please and to stick by such as are most agreeable to them. Is it any wonder that their raw and weak understandings, bewildered in such a maze of systems, should make their escape from them into the less perplexing regions of scepticism? That this island should abound more in suicide than any other country upon earth will no longer appear strange, when it is con of life so much as the want of employment; and no education in the world qualifies men less for the active life than ours, though, from the very genius of the people, and the nature of our constitution, that ought to be its chief end. When persons born with a restless active disposition do not find proper employment, or are engaged in such as is not suitable to their genius, life becomes a burden to them. This is a more rational way to account for the frequency of that crime than to attribute it to the peculiar qualities of our air, &c. Why is so fair a plea offered, why are any arguments used to palliate so atrocious a crime? Why is the climate arraigned, and Providence blasphemed, to excuse self-murder, upon a principle contrary to reason and fact? It is to be supposed that our climate has been always the same, and yet there was a time when that crime was as little known here as in any other country. In the reign of Elizabeth, when all found employment, it was hardly heard of; and the great frequency of it has been of very short date, and since many people have had little to do. A gentleman in a well-known instance gave the true reason why it is grown so common, in a letter which just before he shot himself he wrote to his friends, who were then waiting for him at a tavern; wherein he said that he was "grown weary of buckling and unbuckling his shoes every day." Why is the climate called in upon all occasions as a general solution for all such difficulties as are above the capacities of our minute philosophers? Why is it to the changeableness of that and to liberty that the variety of manners, dispositions, tempers, and humours in individuals, the infinite number of sects in philosophy, religion, and politics, are imputed? The climate has not always produced the same effects in this country, nor has liberty done it in others. Why may they not all be referred to their true source, education? By that our opinions and notions are formed, and by those our actions are governed. How is it possible that the British constitution can flourish when the education of their youth is neither suited to its end, its nature, or its principles? In Athens and Rome there were two systems of education, which prevailed at two different eras, one in their flourishing, the other in their corrupt state. In the first oratory and philosophy were united, and the youth were trained up to be not only wise but active members of society. In the last philosophy became the only study; the active was changed for the contemplative life; their time was chiefly employed in empty disquisitions and disputes about trifles; they, for the most, part, became wise only in their own conceit, and were utterly incapacitated from being of any use to the public. By this latter education chiefly was Athens destroyed; and this was the system which was adopted at Rome when in her state of slavery and corruption. Britain had her choice of these two methods. She has chosen the latter. What consequences are to be expected from it? But besides her preference of the worst mode of ancient education, she has adopted into her system all the worst of the modern. Everything that is bad in the French is studiously imitated by us; everything that is good in their institutions wholly neglected. Montesquieu, in speaking of the difference between ancient and modern education, says, "Another advantage their education had over ours, it was never effaced by contrary impressions." In our days we receive three different or contrary educations, namely, of our parents, of our masters, and of the world. What we learn in the latter effaces all the ideas of the former. If this be really the case, how hopefully has the prime of life been employed! To give a sanction to the sentiments which I have delivered upon this head, I shall subjoin a few queries of the Bishop of Cloyne, extracted from a pamphlet called the Querist. Whether a wise state hath any interest nearer heart than the education of youth? What right the eldest son hath to the worst education? Whether it is possible that a state should not thrive, whereof the lower part were industrious and the upper wise? Whether Homer's compendium of education, "Alike to practise eloquence and valour," would not be a good rule for modern educators of youth? and whether half the learning and study of these kingdoms is not useless, for want of a proper delivery and pronunciation being taught in our schools and colleges? Upon a review of the whole it must be allowed that our system of education is extremely defective, and that too in some of the most essential points. First, in not providing properly for the support of religion by neglecting to instruct those who are to be its guardians in the most necessary qualification of all to the discharge of their sacred functions; as also for the support of our constitution and civil liberties, in not taking care to train up the youth destined to compose the august body of our legislature in such arts and studies as can alone render them capable of filling that important post. Secondly, in making the paths of knowledge difficult and uncertain, by a total neglect of our own language. Thirdly, in omitting all care of the imitative arts, so essential to the well-being of this country. How far the revival of the art of oratory may contribute to remedy these defects is submitted to the judgment of the reader. CAPTAIN O'BLUNDER: A FARCE. [Lucy, and Betty her maid. Cheatwell, a lover of Lucy. His meeting with the Irish captain, whom Lucy's father has desired her to receive. Sconce, Cheatwell's man.] Lucy. Well, this barbarous will of parents is a great drawback on the inclinations of young people. Betty. Indeed, and so it is, mem. For my part I'm no heiress, and therefore at my own disposal. . . . But la! mem, I had forgot to acquaint you, I verily believe that I saw your Irish lover the Captain; and I conceits it was he and no other, so I do ;-and I saw him go into the Blue Postices, so I did. Lucy. My Irish lover, Miss Pert! I never so much as saw his face in all my born days, but I hear he's a strange animal of a brute.— Pray had he his wings on? I suppose they saved him his passage. Betty. Oh! mem, you mistakes the Irishmen. I am told they are as gentle as doves to our sex, with as much politeness and sincerity as if born in our own country. CHEATWELL enters. Cheatwell. Miss! your most humble and obedient-I come to acquaint you of our danger: our common enemy is just imported hither, and is inquiring for your father's house through every street.-The Irish captain, in short, is come to London. Such a figure! and so attended by the rabble! Lucy. I long to see him; and Irishmen, I hear, are not so despicable; besides, the Captain may be misrepresented. (Aside.) Well, you know, my father's design is to have as many suitors as he can, in order to have a choice of them all. Cheatwell. I have nothing but your professions and your sincerity to depend upon. here's my trusty Mercury. SCONCE enters. O Well, Sconce, have you dogged the Captain? Sconce. Yes, yes, I left him snug at the Blue Pots, devouring a large dish of potatoes and half a sirloin of beef for his breakfast. He's just pat to our purpose, easily humm'd, as simple and as undesigning as we would have him. Well, and what do you propose? Cheatwell. Propose, why to drive him back to his native bogs as fast as possible. Lucy. Oh! Mr. Cheatwell. Pray let's have a sight of the creature. Cheatwell. Oh! female curiosity. - Why, child, he'd frighten thee;-he's above six feet high. Sconce. A great huge back and shoulders, wears a great long sword, which he calls his sweetlips. Lucy. I hear the Irish are naturally brave. Sconce. And carries a large oaken cudgel, which he calls his shillela. Lucy. Which he can make use of on occasions, I suppose. Sconce. Add to this a great pair of jackred coat, and a d――d potato face. boots, a Cumberland pinch to his hat, an old Lucy. He must be worth seeing truly. Cheatwell. Well, my dear girl, be constant; wish me success, for I shall so humbug, so that he'll scarce wish himself in London again roast, and so banter this same Irish captain these seven years to come. Lucy. About it then. Adieu! I hear my father. [Sconce manages to lodge the Irish captain in a mad-house, which he introduced him to as his cousin's: Drs. Clyster and Gallypot examine him.] Captain. Faith, my cousin's house is a brave large place, tho' it is not so very well furnished; but I suppose the maid was cleaning out the rooms. So, who are these now? some acquaintance of my cousin's, to be sure. Gentlemen, your most humble servant; but where's my cousin? Dr. Clyster. His cousin! What does he mean? Dr. Gallypot. What should a madman mean? Sir, we come to treat you in a regular manner. Captain. O, dear gentlemen, 'tis too much trouble; you need not be over regular; a single joint of meat and a good glass of ale will be a very good treat, without any needless expenses. Dr. Clyster. Do you mind that symptomthe canine appetite? Captain. Nine appetites! No, my jewel, I have an appetite like other people; a couple of pounds will serve me if I was ever so hungry. What the devil do they talk of nine appetites? |