e found in the second telling; and a
judicious reader will discover, in his closet, that trashy stuff,
whose glittering deceived him in the action. I have often heard the
stationer sighing in his shop, and wishing for those hands to take off
his melancholy bargain, which clapped its performance on the stage. In
a playhouse, every thing contributes to impose upon the judgment; the
lights, the scenes, the habits, and, above all, the grace of action,
which is commonly the best where there is the most need of it,
surprise the audience, and cast a mist upon their understandings; not
unlike the cunning of a juggler, who is always staring us in the face,
and over-whelming us with gibberish, only that he may gain the
opportunity of making the cleaner conveyance of his trick. But these
false beauties of the stage are no more lasting than a rainbow; when
the actor ceases to shine upon them, when he gilds them no longer with
his reflection, they vanish in a twinkling. I have sometimes wondered,
in the reading, what was become of those glaring colours which amazed
me in "Bussy D'Amboys" upon the theatre; but when I had taken up what
I supposed a fallen star, I found I had been cozened with a jelly[2];
nothing but a cold, dull mass, which glittered no longer than it was
shooting; a dwarfish thought, dressed up in gigantic words, repetition
in abundance, looseness of expression, and gross hyperboles; the sense
of one line expanded prodigiously into ten; and, to sum up all,
uncorrect English, and a hideous mingle of false poetry, and true
nonsense; or, at best, a scantling of wit, which lay gasping for life,
and groaning beneath a heap of rubbish. A famous modern poet used to
sacrifice every year a Statius to Virgil's manes[3]; and I have
indignation enough to burn a D'AMBOIS annually, to the memory of
Jonson[4]. But now, my lord, I am sensible, perhaps too late, that I
have gone too far: for, I remember some verses of my own Maximin and
Almanzor, which cry vengeance upon me for their extravagance, and
which I wish heartily in the same fire with Statius and Chapman. All I
can say for those passages, which are, I hope, not many, is, that I
knew they were bad enough to please, even when I wrote them; but I
repent of them amongst my sins; and, if any of their fellows intrude
by chance into my present writings, I draw a stroke over all those
Dalilah's of the theatre; and am resolved I will settle myself no
reputation by the applause of foo