Four Early Pamphlets Part 11

INKLE AND YARICO, A POEM, BY JAMES BEATTIE, L.L.D. 4TO.

This author cannot certainly be compared with Mr. Hayley.

We know not by what fatality Dr. Beattie has acquired the highest reputation as a philosopher, while his poetry, though acknowledged to be pleasing, is comparatively little thought on. It must always be with regret and diffidence, that we dissent from the general verdict. We should however be somewhat apprehensive of sacrificing the character we have a.s.sumed, did we fail to confess that his philosophy has always appeared to us at once superficial and confused, feeble and presumptuous. We do not know any thing it has to recommend it, but the good intention, and we wish we could add the candid spirit, with which it is written.

Of his poetry however we think very differently. Though deficient in nerve, it is at once sweet and flowing, simple and amiable. We are happy to find the author returning to a line in which he appears so truly respectable. The present performance is by no means capable to detract from his character as a poet. This well known tale is related in a manner highly pathetic and interesting. As we are not at all desirous of palling the curiosity of the reader for the poem itself, we shall make our extract at random. The following stanzas, as they are taken from a part perfectly cool and introductory, are by no means the best in this agreeable piece. They are prefaced by some general reflexions on the mischiefs occasioned by the _sacra fames auri_. The reader will perceive that Dr. Beattie, according to the precept of Horace, has rushed into the midst of things, and not taken up the narrative in chronological order.

"Where genial Phoebus darts his fiercest rays, Parching with heat intense the torrid zone: No fanning western breeze his rage allays; No pa.s.sing cloud, with kindly shade o'erthrown, His place usurps; but Phoebus reigns alone, In this unfriendly clime a woodland shade, Gloomy and dark with woven boughs o'ergrown, Shed chearful verdure on the neighbouring glade, And to th' o'er-labour'd hind a cool retreat display'd.

Along the margin of th' Atlantic main, Rocks pil'd on rocks yterminate the scene; Save here and there th' incroaching surges gain An op'ning grateful to the daisied green; Save where, ywinding cross the vale is seen A bubbling creek, that spreads on all sides round Its breezy freshness, gladding, well I ween, The op'ning flow'rets that adorn the ground, From her green margin to the ocean's utmost bound.

The distant waters hoa.r.s.e resounding roar, And fill the list'ning ear. The neighb'ring grove Protects, i'th'midst that rose, a fragrant bow'r, With nicest art compos'd. All nature strove, With all her powers, this favour'd spot to prove A dwelling fit for innocence and joy, Or temple worthy of the G.o.d of love.

All objects round to mirth and joy invite, Nor aught appears among that could the pleasure blight.

Within there sat, all beauteous to behold!

Adorn'd with ev'ry grace, a gentle maid.

Her limbs were form'd in nature's choicest mould, Her lovely eyes the coldest bosoms sway'd, And on her breast ten thousand Cupids play'd.

What though her skin were not as lilies fair?

What though her face confest a darker shade?

Let not a paler European dare With glowing Yarico's her beauty to compare.

And if thus perfect were her outward form, What tongue can tell the graces of her mind, Constant in love and in its friendships warm?

There blushing modesty with virtue join'd There tenderness and innocence combin'd.

Nor fraudful wiles, nor dark deceit she knew, Nor arts to catch the inexperienc'd hind; No swain's attention from a rival drew, For she was simple all, and she was ever true.

There was not one so lovely or so good, Among the num'rous daughters of the plain; 'Twas Yarico each Indian shepherd woo'd; But Yarico each shepherd woo'd in vain; Their arts she view'd not but with cold disdain.

For British Inkle's charms her soul confest, His paler charms had caus'd her am'rous pain; Nor could her heart admit another guest, Or time efface his image in her constant breast,

Her generous love remain'd not unreturn'd, Nor was the youthful swain as marble cold, But soon with equal flame his bosom burn'd; His pa.s.sion soon in love's soft language told, Her spirits cheer'd and bad her heart be bold.

Each other dearer than the world beside, Each other dearer than themselves they hold.

Together knit in firmest bonds they bide, While days and months with joy replete unnotic'd glide.

Ev'n now beside her sat the British boy, Who ev'ry mark of youth and beauty bore, All that allure the soul to love and joy.

Ev'n now her eyes ten thousand charms explore, Ten thousand charms she never knew before.

His blooming cheeks confest a lovely glow, His jetty eyes unusual brightness wore, His auburn locks adown his Shoulders flow, And manly dignity is seated on his brow."

ARTICLE VIII

THE ALCHYMIST, A COMEDY, ALTERED FROM BEN JONSON, BY RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN, ESQ.

There are few characters, that have risen into higher favour with the English nation, than Mr. Sheridan. He was known and admired, as a man of successful gallantry, both with the fair s.e.x and his own, before he appeared, emphatically speaking, upon the public stage. Since that time, his performances, of the Duenna, and the School for Scandal, have been distinguished with the public favour beyond any dramatical productions in the language. His compositions, in gaiety of humour and spriteliness of wit, are without an equal.

Satiated, it should seem, with the applauses of the theatre, he turned his attention to public and parliamentary speaking. The vulgar prejudice, that genius cannot expect to succeed in two different walks, for some time operated against him. But he possessed merit, and he compelled applause. He now ranks, by universal consent, as an orator and a statesman, with the very first names of an age, that will not perhaps be accounted unproductive in genius and abilities.

It was now generally supposed that he had done with the theatre. For our own part, we must confess; we entertain all possible veneration for parliamentary and ministerial abilities; we should be mortified to rank second to any man in our enthusiasm for the official talents of Mr.

Sheridan: But as the guardians of literature, we regretted the loss of his comic powers. We wished to preserve the poet, without losing the statesman. Greatly as we admired the opera and the comedy, we conceived his unbounded talents capable of something higher still. To say all in a word, we looked at his hands for the MISANTHROPE of the British muse.

It is unnecessary to say then, that we congratulate the public upon the present essay. It is meaned only as a _jeu d'esprit_. But we consider it as the earnest of that perseverance, which we wished to prove, and feared to lose. The scene we have extracted, and which, with another, that may be considered as a kind of praxis upon the rules, const.i.tutes the chief part of the alteration, is apparently personal. How far personal satire is commendable in general, and how far it is just in the present instance, are problems that we shall leave with our readers.--As much as belongs to Jonson we have put in italics.

ACT IV

SCENE 4

_Enter_ Captain Face, _disguised as Lungs, and_ Kastril.

FACE. _Who would you speak with_?

KASTRIL. _Where is the captain?_

FACE.

_Gone, sir, about some business._

KASTRIL.

_Gone?_

FACE.

_He will return immediately. But master doctor, his lieutenant is here._

KASTRIL.