merit our author appears to be almost convinced that this mode of writing is culpable. It would give us great pleasure to see him not only almost, but altogether satished of it. One of his conclusions in this preface is assuredly a strange one. I firmly believe it possible to write extremely ill, yet be a very worthy member of society; and shall not feel much mortified at being known to scribble bad plays, till convinced that a dull author can never be a benevolent man.' We will take the liberty to put this position into other words, and ask Mr. Lewis what he thinks of it. I firmly believe it possible to know nothing of drugs, yet be a very good attorney; and shall not feel much mortified at being known to poison half the neighbour hood, till convinced that a man unskilful as an apothecary can never be an eminent lawyer.' Risum teneatis, amici?-We beg leave, how ever, to assure Mr. Lewis, that we by no means look on him as a dull writer. As a mistaken one we certainly regard him. But if he would attend half so much to classical study and chaste drama as he has unfortunately done to German absurdity, instead of a stupid fellow (as he words it) there is no doubt of his proving a very clever We shall be happy when he gives us occasion to speak of him as a genuine English dramatist. one. ART. 40.-Chains of the Heart; or, The Slavě by Choice. In three Acts. Performed at the Theatre-Royal, Covent-Garden. By Prince Hoare. 8vo. 25. Barker. 18oz. Mr. Hoare appears to consider it wonderful himself, and supposes that the friend to whom he writes a dedication will consider it still more wonderful, that a piece written with apparently so harmless a design should have roused a host in arms to crush an unsuspecting victim.' For the intent of this opera was to introduce anew to the stage, and give a proper scope to the talents of two favourite singers, whose accomplished eminence leaves, in their own line, all competi tion at a distance.' We should have supposed that Mr. Hoare had lived long enough in the world to see nothing at all wonderful in this. Whether these singers be really, as he believes, out of the rank of competition, or not, is nothing to the purpose; but there certainly would be other singers, and other singers' friends, who not only should question, but disbelieve it and from among those, it seems, arose the diurnal critics and diurnal carpers' who found fault with Mr. Hoare's partiality and his performance. : 6 All this, however, is nothing to us. Let managers receive as much new nonsense, or mutilate as many good old plays into nonsense, as they please, the concern is not ours whilst they keep them to the stage. But when an author prints his work, and thereby becomes a candidate for literary fame, it is then our duty to take notice of it. The subject of this piece was not, at best, calculated for any thing excellent in the line of drama; and it is hardly possible to conceive any thing worse than what Mr. Hoare has made out of it. His accusers certainly treated him unjustly, when they said he meant it for tragedy, comedy, or farce. To the two former it has no kind of resemblance, any farther than as it has actors in common with them to the worst species of the last it might have been allowed some likeness, but for the bombast language in which the serious characters are made to speak. When are the witty slavedrivers, the Cotillons, and the O'Phelims, to be discontinued? We should have thought the upper gallery had been by this time gorged. with them, even to vemiting. Let the author but seriously compare the following rubbish with about a dozen messes of the same sort that have been served up in half so many years, and he will be no longer surprised how the enlightened and candid observers' were found among the diurnal carpers and the diurnal critics.' Taruda and Seid, two slave-merchants, are already on the stage• Enter AzAM; two black mutes support his palanquin on each side; others bring cushions, dishes with refreshments of various sorts, his pipe, &c. • Azam. Hold, you dogs! don't move so fast. Don't I come out for my pleasure? and you give me nothing but pain. — Is my pipe there? (a mute presents it) And my cushion? (mute presents one) And my cordial cakes? (mute presents cakes.) Go on-gently, slaves! remember I come out for my pleasure. I can find no pleasure at home! There is my old wife, Grimlacca; she torments me with her ill-nature, and her jealousies; she cannot bear me because I am too young. Then, there's my young favourite slave, Zulema; she torments me with her good-nature and her follies; she cannot bear me because I'm too old! Tar. Health to you, sublime Azam ! Azam. Well, have you any pretty wares? Tar. Such as will ravish your heart to behold. Azam. My heart! Poh, poh, that's all out of date with me now.-Time was, eh! Taruda! But now I've made up my mind to most matters. As to being in love-I'll tell you my maxim. AIR.-AZAM. A woman, I've heard, has a soul— She may-though the doctrine seem new t'ye : I pay for no more than her beauty. What passion can vex me, or tempt me? Poh! poh! I just take the world-as it pleases to go La ra la, &c. (He makes a sign to the mutes, who dance to amuse him, till he bids them stop; they then place themselves in an attitude of respect round him, while he sings the second stanza.) I never to constancy run, To put my heart into a pother; I take care to buy me another. What raptures can vex me, or tempt me? Poh! poh! I just take the world-as it pleases to go- (Mutes dance as before, Sc.) CRIT. REV. Vol. 34. Feb. 1802. La ra la, &c. R Love and wine are the same, are they not? I use them alike to a tittle; In neither I grow to a sot, But I love and I tipple a little. What fortune can vex me, or tempt me? Poh! poh! I just take the world-as it pleases to go (Mutes, &c. as before.) La ra la, &c. Tar. These are the maxims of wisdom, sublime Azam. • Azam. To be sure they are!-Well, let me see, first, what slaves you can recommend for my grounds. Tar. We have them of all descriptions. What do you particu larly look for? Azam. I want for my garden two stout-bodied fellows, who can dig and plant. Tar. My two new slaves are the very persons. Bring in the Christians who came last: I cannot warrant them from experience; but appearances are in their favour. From TARUDA's tent enter COTILLON as a soldier, and O'PHELIM in a cook's dress, with a soldier's coat over it. Tar. Hold up your head, sirrah (to Cotillon). This is the handsomest slave in the whole fair: look at his legs; he'll march you twenty leagues in a day. • Azam. Yes, and run away forty. (AZAM examines COTILLON nicely. COTILLON shows signs of disdain. AZAM approves of him.) Azam. (turns to O'Phelim But that fellow! how he puffs and blows! Tar. Thick breathed a little-mere accident. Azam. I am afraid he is given to the girls, and then he'll play the devil in my haram. What's his capacity? Tar. What it is in the brain, I don't know; what it is in the waist, you see. Azam. By the ruddiness of the skin, the roundness of the paunch, and a pimple or two on the nose, he looks as if he were a judge of eating and drinking. Phaugh! by Mahomet, he smells of the kitchen. How say you, can you be useful there? O`Phel. Oh, the most useful creature there in the world. I clear off every thing as I go: you may make me your cook, or your sculhion, or your kitchen maid, just as you please. I have the prettiest nose, palate, and stomach, in Christendom. • Azam. And what's that fellow good for? (COTILLON makes signs to OPHELIM, as directing his reply). O'Phel. He is a great scholar-only he never speaks: very quent-but 'tis with his heels. Azam. What the devil is his calling? elo O'Phel. He is a dancing-master, begot, born and bred in a hopstep-and-jump; from some aukward steps that he made, he thought it best to hop into a soldier's coat, and to leave the profession of legs for that of arms. Seid. These are the best recommendations in his favour, sublime Azam, for labour: he has but one defect-we believe he is dumb. Azam. Well, that's in his favour too; it's the more certain he'll A never say a word to offend me. Hark ye, Christian! our custom in this country is to hang dumb people; but, as I come out to-day for my pleasure, instead of hanging him by the neck, I'll only hang you both together by the leg. As you probably understand one another, he may serve me as well as a speaking man. Here, bring my royal girts-fasten them, slaves, while I go to see the other tents.' F. 13. Mr. Hoare, after acknowledging his obligations for one character, says, the learned reader will easily perceive that this is not the only debt of the opera which I lay before him.' We really know no learned work from which he has borrowed. NOVELS. ART. 41.-Belinda. By Maria Edgeworth. 3 Vols. 12mo. 135. 6d. Boards. Johnson. 18o1. Every author has a right to give what appellation he may think proper to his works. The public have also a right to accept or refuse the classification that is presented. The following work is offered to the public as a moral tale― the author not wishing to acknowledge a novel. Were all novels like those of madame de Crousaz, Mrs. Inchbald, miss Burney, or Dr. Moore, she would adopt the name of novel with delight: But so much folly, error, and vice are disseminated in books classed under this denomination, that it is hoped the wish to assume another title will be attributed to feelings that are laudable, and not fastidious.' P. v. Such is miss Edgeworth's apology for appropriating a new title to this species of writing: yet we cannot consider the apology a good one. Is it at all necessary to discard the title of novel from its own rank and place, because many bad novels are in existence? or would it not be deemed silly in Dr. Moore and Mr. Coxe to have rejected the appellation of travels for their publications, because sir John Mandeville's travels were filled with lies and extravagances? Miss Edgeworth has made honourable mention of a De Crousaz, an Inchbald, a Burney, and a Moore. Many other persons might have been added to this list, in whom virtue and talents are eminently conspicuous. There are a far greater number, we are sensible, and we have often lamented it, of whose productions nothing can possibly be said in commendation. But what has this to do with other authors? Their books are to be judged by their own merits, not by the merits of either of these different classes. Let a novelist publish his work under the title that best befits it; and the public will determine where is its proper classification. That much error and folly have been disseminated in novels, is an indisputable truth; but we doubt if it will appear so clearly that vice has been equally disseminated, at least intentionally. Folly and error are frequently arbitrary terms. We call that error which dissents from principles received by ourselves as true; and folly is an appellation often bestowed on such conduct. as agrees not with the particular notions we have formed of wisdom. The precise limits of virtue and vice are, on the contrary, fixed and unalterable; and a writer must have no ordinary share of imprudence who should attempt, unmasked, to confound their distinctions. Novelists in general we must acquit of this charge; and when any of them are hardy enough to lay themselves open to it, they must expect, in a country whose religion is an exemplar of every thing praise-worthy, to meet with just and, we may venture to say, general contempt. But evil intention we should be sorry to affix to the most imperfect novel-writers. We have no doubt that they introduce defective characters, to render them as contemptible as they know how; and they do not finally make them happy, till they have made them as penitent as they are able. Has not the author of Eclinda done the same? We have not frequently met with a personage in whom a portion of vice, far from inconsiderable, is compounded with a greater quantity of folly than in miss Edgeworth's most prominent character--the fashionable lady Delacour. The heroine of these volumes, miss Belinda Portman, is a young lady of an admirable understanding, and the best regulated frame of mind Her simple history might have been comprised in almost one hundred pages; and therefore we have, and we think with reason, denominated lady Delacour the most prominent character in the work. Belinda is sent so her ladyship by her match-making aunt, Mrs. Stanhope: she goes from her on a visit to lady Anne Percival; returns to lady Delacour after captivating the heart of a Mr. Vincent; and is in the end married to Clarence Hervey, a gentleman of ten thousand a year. Lady Delacour is introduced to us in the third page, and lady Delacour concludes the history. She is not long to. gether out of the reader's sight in any part of the performance; but the first volume is wholly dedicated to her and her haut-ton conversation: in fact, she is the primary planet, and Belinda but a satellite. Amongst the variety of tribes who inhabit this metropolis, it is not wonderful to find a variety of dialects in use. There is the St. Giles's dialect, and the St. James's dialect, the dialect of the Royal Exchange, and the dialect of Shadwell-dock-each of which is but imperfectly understood by persons of a different classification, and all of which are removed, at nearly the same distance, from the standard language of the learned, and what we call the well-bred, part of the nation. When miss Edgeworth wrote her five volumes of moral tales, she wrote them in this language of approved standard, and people of taste and learning were pleased with them. In Belinda she has adopted the dialect of the ton; and to those who understand, or affect to like it, we shall leave its panegyric. In our eyes it appears flimsy and impertinent, able by no means to bear that weight of thought which the world knows miss Edgeworth to possess; flying from one subject to another without concluding any; fit only to describe a pig and turkey race, or to display Clarence Hervey's folly, when dressed out in the guise of the countess de Pomenars. In a word, we are sorry to see miss Edgeworth wasting so much of her valuable time, as she must have done, in the company of those from whom she learned it. The moral intended to be conveyed by this tale is a very useful one that there is little happiness to be expected from wedlock, without prudence before marriage in the choice of the object; and firmness of mind afterwards, to fulfil with energy and tenderness the various duties arising out of that state. Lady Delacour's want |