sooner induced to arraign their taste or their industry, than their talents; and where the vitals are untouched, the diseases of the extremities may be remedied. Nothing is incorrigible but dulness. The misfortune is, that writing popularly leads to writing much, and writing much ends in writing carelessly. The demand for a fresh supply is so incessant, that the manufacturer can bestow little pains on the article he brings to market; and he is very naturally tempted to weave it of a thinner quality, when he finds the purchaser more solicitous to strike the bargain, than to handle and pry into the texture. Yet I consider myself as justified in remarking, on the acknowledged irregularities and incongruities of some very popular productions, that there are in every one of them detached scenes, and individual traits of character, which prove that their authors might, by applying more thought and more labour, have compounded a whole after the purest and most sterling models. Farmer Ashfield, Job Thornberry, and Vapid, are delineations of nature, sentiment, and eccentricity, which any comic writer might be proud to claim. I suspect, however, that an idea has gone 'abroad in the profession, which must effectually tend to discourage the ambition of excellence. If there should exist so monstrous a maxim, as that it is possible for a piece to be too well written, and die of a plethora, then indeed must the art of dramatic writing de-. cline. But I have no conception that our audiences, though willing to be pleased at an easy rate, would frown on those labours that aimed at imparting the higher pleasures of legitimate comedy, and handing back burlesque to its proper station in the farce. There are many instances of their receiving what they might have rejected, but very few of their rejecting what they ought to have received. They are excessively good-natured, but not at all stupid. I have heard it confidently asserted, that such a comedy as The School for Scandal, if produced now, would not succeed: all I ask for is, that the experiment may be made. But the art of acting is changed, as well as the art of writing. To this I answer, that the acting will always accommodate itself to the writing. The performer must play the buffoon, if the author draws a caricature: but he will converse like a gentleman, if he has pointed dialogue. to deliver; he will appeal to the feelings of the spectator, if he has natural character to embody. Unsuccessful authors are disappointed, and therefore querulous; but no instance has ever come within my observation, in which a new piece has failed, for want of being ade-> quately supported by the zeal and abilility of the profession,

But there is a light, more favourable to the present race of authors, in which this subject may be viewed. Dramatic composition divides itself into three parts; fable, character, and dialogue: and it requires such a combination of talents, which are not often found in company, to produce excellence in all, that it has rarely been attained in the best periods of our stage. In Jonson, perhaps, the ability to form a plot, to conduct it by suitable personages, and to develope it through the medium of probable conversations, was more nearly balanced than in any other man. Shakspeare was indeed inimitable in character and dialogue, but he saved himself the trouble of inventing story, and was not always scrupulous in what he selected. He seems rather to have felt, what he well might, that any story would tell in his hands. Congreve invented his own plots; but perhaps he would have done better, had he borrowed them. He contented himself in general with taking characters, that were the heirlooms of the stage, and making them talk more gaily than they had done before, though they acted less naturally. On the overpowering wit and unintermitted point of his dialogue, he rested the triumphs of his muse. It seems therefore more to be wished than expected, that perfection of fable, character, and dialogue, should ever be met with in the same production. The censures that are implied on the modern stage, are fixed more on the dialogue than the character, and more on the character than the fable. There are many recent instances in which a high degree of interest is excited, though perhaps not by the most probable means: but many of the old fables violate every probability, and yet excite no emotion of surprise.I question whether any dramatist of the present day would be allowed the use of such far-fetched expedients, as those by which Congreve usually brought about his catastrophes. I very much doubt whether a modern writer could procure a hearing for his fifth act, after he had finished the play in the fourth. Yet we hear the fifth act of the Merchant of Venice, though we hear it with listlessness. By this instance it is evident, that perfection of fable, either as to invention or conduct, is not absolutely necessary to the rational pleasures of the drama, though doubtless a high addition. The great supports of the cause have lavished their fascinations upon subjects which would have been hopeless in other hands, or which prior occupation had familiarised to the memories of their hearers: yet Shakspeare could immortalise the most obscure novel, or clothe the rolls of parliament in all the beauty and grandeur of poetry. Our female writers, on the contrary, have usually excelled in fable,

and been defective in character and point. Without determining the scale of importance to be assigned to these great requisites, I think we may fairly assert, that a piece which possesses any two of them in a high degree, though not a faultless drama, will satisfy the reasonable expectations of a candid critic: and though the third must neither be despised nor neglected, it may perhaps be desirable that a writer should bestow the best of his labour on the most productive soil, rather than distract his powers by too high and various attempts. If therefore we have rather improved in fable, though we have, in a great measure, lost the wit and satire of our predecessors, we may still hope, by endeavouring to bring our dialogue up to the level of our plots, to form no useless link in the chain of dramatic literature. We have already, if you can pardon the abrupt transition of metaphor, weathered the storm of German taste, and I hope the escape may be hailed as an omen, that our vessel is seaworthy, and will live.

But the demand for spectacle must be allowed materially to interfere with the higher interests of the drama. And this leads me to the province of opera, as most intimately connected with spectacle. I do not object to English opera, though I prefer the Italian. Ours is decidedly unnatural; but it professes to delight at the expence of probability, and can be criticised only on its own principles. The Duenna and Incle and Yarico have many charms, though the shade of Aristotle would probably determine that they ought to have none. It is only to be desired, that this species of composition should keep within its allotted range, and not thrust tragedy and comedy from their seats. At the same time, I would not exclude music as an attendant on either Muse, provided it does not share the throne. Opera, if allowed at all, should be confined to simple subjects, partaking somewhat of the pastoral. But in regular plays, it is an absurdity too gross to be endured, that the action should be partly in music, and partly in dialogue. Let it be entirely in music, if you please, for then you return to nature, though you come to the Italian opera. Much misplaced ridicule has been levelled at the heroes and heroines, who warble forth their own calamities: but the learned and witty authors of this banter only prove, that their definition of music is confined to ballad; and they will meet with considerable difficulty in exempting their revered Sophocles and Euripides from the force of their satire; for the sublime Edipus Tyrannus in representation bore a closer affinity to the Italian Artaxerxes than to the English Cato. Blank verse

comes very little nearer to common conversation than musical recitative and without examining whether those commentators are well founded, who reduce an oration of Demosthenes or Cicero to feet, with as much exactness as a book of the Iliad or Æneid, it is undoubtedly true that all eloquent prose is music; nor will any man, who has not some taste and correctness of ear, write such periods as will bear to be read aloud. Prose is to verse, what recitative is to air. Nothing more is required to be consistent, than that the characters should eithe always speak in time and tune, or always in less laboured but still measured dialogue. They may converse in what language they please, but not in a patois. The only absurdity that hangs over the Italian opera in this country, is that of a large audience attending a representation, which scarcely one tenth of them understand. With respect to the literary meanness of the composition, that arises from the circumstance of inferior workmen being employed, who poetize by the day or by the piece: but any man who should assert, that an opera of Metastasio, well composed and well performed, was senseless or unnatural, would impress a liberal critic with no very high opinion of his own sensibility or understanding. But though I would exclude thè mixture of dialogue and air from the action of a regular tragedy or comedy, I would take every opportunity of introducing music on occasions, when it is to be met with in real life. A hymn may well become a temple, and a song of victory can, scarcely be dispensed with on the field of battle: "Go, gentle gales" may beguile the moments previous to an assignation, or, "Here's to the maiden" inspire the jollities of the festive board.

There remains only tragedy, whether imperial or domestic, to be discussed. On this subject, as a candidate, I shall not presume to enter largely. Its topics are more confined, than those of comedy. It is difficult to strike out any thing new; and if we tread in the steps of our predecessors, we run the double risk of disgusting by a twice told tale, and instituting a comparison to our own disadvantage. It is a common opinion, that much reading in an author leads to imitation, and of course destroys originality. But in fact, at this late period of our literature, an author must read, to avoid those coincidences, which look like imitation. He must read, that he may discover what ground is occupied, and what is left open.There is no danger indeed, that any modern writer should rob a great genius of his best thoughts, without being conscious of the

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theft; but every book, however marked for its author's by interspersed felicities of native thinking, is compacted and as it were held together by many common-place remarks, clothed in common place expression. There are lines in Pope, which any pen might have written; thoughts in Milton, which any brain might have engendered. Yet, if we chance to stumble upon any thing that has been said before, whether better or worse, we are supposed to have taken more trouble in hunting it out, than an ordinary capacity need have bestowed upon the invention: and when once we stand accused of plagiarism, what cannot be traced is only suspected of having been drawn from more recondite and secret sources. desire of avoiding a rock, so destructive to fame, and of opening new channels of moral instruction to the drama, has inspired one of the boldest attempts at innovation, which these days have produced. But, though I hesitate a difference of opinion with a distinguished genius very tremblingly, the system of writing on insulated passions seems to me to have very serious objections to cope with. The mode of treating moral subjects in a sermon and a play must be very different. The lessons of the stage are incidental, not direct; we can only convey instruction, by seeming to be thinking of something else: and by this means we sometimes lay hold on hearts, that take a pride in rendering themselves callous to all authoritative reproof. We must assassinate the enemy with an airgun, not march against him with a train of artillery. Another objection to this principle is, that it necessarily involves a series: the hatred of the hero in this piece is contrasted with the love of the hero in that. But it enters almost into the very definition of a play, that it should be complete within itself, not looking to any thing that has gone before, or that is to come after. It should require no previous reading to illustrate it, and no deep thought to comprehend it: it should rather inform the illiterate, and arrest the inattentive, than pursue abstract speculations with the philosopher, or learned deductions with the lecturer. But whatever may

thought of the system, every tongue must join in magnifying the powers of the execution: and I believe the public would rejoice to witness the exertion of such talents, unconstrained by any system but that of giving rational delight.