my score, as the vulgar fellow termed it. I could not exclaim with Shenstone Whoe'er has travelled life's dull round, for, alas! "the little dogs and all, Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart, seemed to bark at me," (Shakspeare). As I could not pay the innkeeper's bill, I wrote a satire on him, which was so caustic and severe, that he horsewhipped me the next day-a plain proof that I had hit him pretty hard. Dryden was cudgelled in Rose Alley, and I feel not a little proud that a similar exertion of talent enabled me to share the fate of that great man. About this time I wrote the following little pastoral: DAMON AND AMANDA. One morning Cupid, God of love, The zephyr's fann'd the blowing breeze, Sat Damon with pipe and crook. His fond Amanda's much beloved name And stamp'd it on his faithful mind. I need not tell you that myself and Miss Potts are shadowed forth under the names of Damon and Amanda-Miss Emmett, an old maid of Marlow, who reads two or three Reviews every month, and is, in fact, a perfect Blue, pretends that the thought in the first stanza is in Dr. Donne; and that the phrase "babbling brook," in the second, is in Thomson's Seasons. Now I never read Dr. Donne in my life, and I remember that particular expression occurring to me one morning as I was lying in bed. So much for Miss Emmet's criticism! She can see no merit in any body's writings but her own, though I never heard of her publishing any thing but one Sonnet to the Moon, which she had interest enough to get inserted either in the Gentleman's or Lady's Magazine, I am not sure which. I do not myself attach much importance to my little effort, or I should rather say impromptu, for I wrote it one idle afternoon; but it is certainly curious to observe, how, by avoiding hackneyed rhymes and trite modes of treating a subject, one may impart grace and dignity even to the most trifling production. Having seen specimens of my epigrammatic and pastoral powers, you may perhaps desire a sample of my talent for descriptive poetry, a vein in which my Muse has been so multifarious and prolific, that the only difficulty consists in selection. As the shortest, though by no means the best, take the following SONNET TO AMANDA. Cynthia has hung her crescent lamp on high, The bulky barges in the stream are moor'd, Round Henley's church, on plumy pinions born, And, hark! I hear the far resounding horn, And see the dust of Mumford's Cheltenham coach: With heaving heart and half-bewilder'd wit. This is a mere transcript from nature, without the least embellishment; and yet how striking it becomes, when the images are happily selected, and the curiosa felicitas (Horace) of expression bestows an additional grace upon the conception! Further extracts would be needles, as the parcel accompanying this letter will afford abundant materials, were such necessary, for judging of my poetical merits. The literary world will see with delight that I have supplied a grand desideratum, by executing that which Milton contemplated, but left unaccomplished -an epic poem on the subject of King Arthur; while I flatter myself that my domestic tragedy on the pathetic subject of Mrs. Brownrigg, the apprenticide, will be found free from all fault, unless it may by some be thought too intensely interesting. Should you comply with the very moderate terms noted at the foot of each work, you may enclose me the money, directed to the post-office here: I am not mercenary; it is " my poverty, and not my will, consents." (Shakspeare.) And now, Mr. Editor, as both yourself and your readers must be extremely anxious to know some personal particulars of the new literary phenomenon, I shall proceed to furnish them, although I know the difficulty of the task-" Incidis in Scyllam cupiens vitare Charybdin." (Gualterus.) However, I shall observe Shakspeare's injunction, "nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice." My countenance, as I intimated when speaking of Mary's resemblance to me, is handsome, and I suffer my light hair to fall in curls over my shoulders, so as to resemble the engravings of Cowley, who was particularly good-looking. My general health, thank God! is very good. I am of a cheerful disposition, constant in my friendships, naturally benevolent, and, I may say, constitutionally well disposed towards the whole human race--an assertion which I should scorn to make, if I did not believe it to be true, for I am scrupulous in my adherence to veracity. "Praise undeserved is censure in disguise," (Pope); you may therefore be sure that mine is merited."Ogni medaglio ha il suo reverso," say the Italians; and Rochefoucault observes, with his usual sagacity, "Il n'appartient qu'aux grands hommes d'avoir des grands défauts." Why should I, therefore, blush in admitting mine? Let me confess that, considering my circumstances, I am sometimes heedlessly charitable; that I am a bad getter-up of a morning; that I have more than once eaten to excess of roast shoulder of mutton and onion sauce; and that, according to Dr. Johnson, I am capable of picking a pocket, since I occasionally like to indulge in a pun, provided it be original and unpremeditated-As for instance: Tom Sullivan, whose name I have already immortalized, told me one day, that my godfather, who had a club foot, had just died and left me ten pounds. Egad, said I, I hope not, for I should be sorry to have such a leg-as-he: and again, he was giving me an account of a man in the pillory, whose whole face was covered with eggs, except his nose. Then, said I, if he were a poet he would compose the longest verses in the world-Versos Alexandrinos-i. e. all-eggs-and-dry-nose. I desired him to repeat them to Miss Emmett, offering to bet ten to one that she would say they were in Swift, or some other author; and sure enough she fell into the trap, exclaiming with her usual sneer--" Both in Swift!" so Tom and I had a famous laugh together at her expense. You will have seen, by my quotations, that I am a good linguist, and that in my reading I have ranged principally, if not entirely, among the less accessible departments of literature. Plagiarism I detest. "O imitatores, servum pecus!" (Horace.) Such as I am I offer myself to your notice, and to the perusal of the public, satisfied that in the present state of taste and literary discernment, neither of you can be long blind to the claims of Henley-upon-Thames, JOHN HUGGINS. 12th March, 1821. 330 AN ATTEMPT TO EXPLAIN THE CAUSES OF THE DECLINE OF BRITISH COMEDY. No. IV. In our previous papers we have stated a combination of untoward circumstances, sufficient of themselves to weaken and undermine the stage. It could hardly have been expected that the legislature would level another blow at an institution so admirably calculated, when left in unfettered operation, to amend the morals, and remove the peccant humours of the community. Such, however, is the fact, and it will easily be conceived that we allude to the Licensing Act, which, in 1737, was passed for the avowed purpose of silencing the caustic satire of Fielding, whose pieces were then performing at the Haymarket, by a company fantastically styling themselves the Great Mogul's Company of Comedians. This enactment was no less derogatory to the cause of liberty, than to the interest of the stage. It forbade the representation of any piece not previously licensed by a minion of the court; it took from the crown the power of licensing new theatres, and secured the observance of these tyrannical regulations by the imposition of heavy penalties. Thus at once was the hand of the dramatist unnerved, by fettering it with degrading manacles; the entertainments of the public curtailed and emasculated; and the exertions of the chartered theatres paralyzed by the removal of all competition. Away with the injurious aspersion, that in the present day there can be the slightest pretext for the continuance of this badge of slavery! Are we so disloyal that we cannot be trusted with liberty of speech? so profligate that our actors must be muzzled by statute, lest they should pour upon our ears |