John Sheffield Herzog von Buckinghamshire (geb. 1650; gest. 1721.), ist weniger als Dichter merkwürdig, als wegen seiner Lebensumstände und politischen Verbindungen. Die Lobsprüche, welche ihm die besten Schriftsteller feiner Zeit, unter andern Dryden, Addison und Pope ertheilten, waren nicht ganz unpartheyisch, und galten mehr seine Liebe zu den Wissenschaften und seinen Eifer für den guten Ges schmack, als sein, gewiß sehr mäßiges, dichterisches Talent. Richtiger urtheilt Dr. Warton von ihm, in seinem Essay on Pope, Vol. I. p. 201. Sein Effay on Poetry ist indeß zu bes kannt, um hier ganz übergangen zu werden. Er geht darin die verschiednen Dichtungsarten durch, und folgt überall dem Muster Boileau's, aber in einem sehr entfernten Abftande. Die Wendung des ganzen Gedichts ist mehr satirisch als didaktisch, aber bei dem allen nichts weniger als anzie hend und unterhaltend, sondern vielmehr sehr arm an neuen und treffenden Zügen, und noch dazu sehr mittelmäßig vers fificirt. Warton erklärt die folgende Stelle, besonders den leztern Theil derfelben, wo er über die Form des neuern Trauerspiels spottet, für das Beßke des ganzen Gedichts. Vergl. Dusch's Briefe, Th. 1. Br. XVII.
ESSAY ON POETRY.
(Plays.)
The Unities of Action, Time and Place,
Which, if obferv'd, give.Plays io great afgrace,
Are, tho' but little practis'd, too well known
To be taught here, where we pretend alone
From nicer faults to purge the prefent Age,
Lefs obvious errors of the English Stage.
First then, Soliloquies had need be few,
Extreamly fhort, and spoke in paffion too.
Budingham, Our Lovers talking to themselves, for want
Of others, make the Pit their Confident:
Nor is the matter mended yet, if thus
They truft a Friend, only to tell it us.
Th' occafion fhould as naturally fall,
As when *) Bellario confeffes all,
Figures of fpeech, which Poets think fo fine
(Art's needlefs varnifh, to make Nature (bine)
Are all but paint upon a beauteous face,
And in Defcriptions only claim a place:
But to make Rage declaim, and Grief difcourfe,
From Lovers in defpair fine things to force,
Muft needs fucceed, for who can chufe but pity
A dying Hero miferably witty?
But oh! the Dialogues, where jeft and mock
Is held up, like a reft at Shittle-cock!
Or elfe, like bells, eternally they chime;
They figh in Simile, and die in Rhime.
What things are thele who would be Poets
thought,
By Nature not infpir'd, nor Learning taught?
Some wit they have, and therefore may deferve
A better courfe than this by which they starve
But to write Plays! why, 'tis a bold pretence
To judgment, breeding, wit, and eloquence:
Nay more, for they must look within to find
Thofe fecret turns of Nature in the mind.
Without this part, in vain would be the whole,
And but a body all without a foul.
All this united yet but makes a part
Of Dialogue, that great and pow'rful Art,
Now almost loft, which the old Grecians knew,
From whom the Romans fainter copies drew,
Scarce comprehended fince but by a few.
Plato and Lucian are the best remains
Of all the wonders which this Art contains:
Yet to ourselves we juftice must allow,
Shakspeare and Fletcher are the wonders now.
*) In Philafter, a play of Beaumont and Fletcher.
Confider them, and read them o'er and o'er,
Go, fee them play'd, then read them as before,
For tho' in many things they grossly fail,
Over our paffions ftill they fo prevail,
That our own grief by theirs is rock'd afleep,
The dull are forc'd to feel, the wife to weep.
Their beauties imitate, avoid their faults.
First on a plot employ thy careful thoughts;
Turn it with time a thousand several ways:
This oft alone has giv'n fuccefs to Plays.
Reject that vulgar error, wich appears
So fair, of making perfect characters:
There's no fuch thing in Nature, and you'l!
draw
A faultless Monster, which the world ne'er faw.
Some faults muft be, that his misfortunes drew;
But fuch as may deserve compaffion too.
Befides the main defign compos'd with art,
Each moving Scene must be a Plot apart.
Contrive each little turn, mark ev'ry place,
As Painters first chalk out the future face:
Yet be not fondly your own flave for this;
But change hereafter what appears amifs.
Think not so much where (hining thoughts to pla
As what a Man would lay in fuch a cafe.
Neither in Comedy will this fuffice,
The Player too must be before your eyes;
And tho' 'tis drudgery to ftoop fo low,
To him
you must
your fecret meaning fhow.
Expofe no fingle Fop, but lay the load
More equally, and fpread the folly broad.
Mere Coxcombs are too obvious; oft we fee
A Fool derided by as bad as he,
Hawks fly at nobler game, in this low way;
A very Owl may prove a Bird of prey.
Small Poets thus will one poor Fop devour;
But to collect, like Bees, from ev'ry flow'r
Ingredients to compofe that precious juice,
Which ferves the world for pleasure and for ufe,
Buckingham. In spite of faction, this would favour get;
But Falstaff*) ftands inimitable yet.
Another fault which often may be fall,
Is, when the wit of fome great Poet shall
So overflow, that is, be none at all,
That even his Fools speak fenfe, as if poffeft,
And each by inspiration breaks his jeft.
If once the juftnefs of each part be loft,
Well we may laugh, but at the Poet's coft.
That filly thing men call fheer-wit, avoid,
With which our Age fo naufeously is cloy'd,
Humour is all. Wit fhould be only brought
To turn agreably fome proper thought.
But fince the Poets we of late have known,
Shine in no drefs to much as in their own,
The better by example to convince,
Caft but a view on this wrong fide of fenfe.
First a Soliloquy is calmly made,
Where ev'ry reafon is exactly weigh'd;
Which once perform'd, moft opportunely comes
Some Hero frighted at the noise of drums,
For her sweet fake, whom at firft fight he loves,
And all in Metaphor his paffion proves;
But fome fad accident, tho' yet unknown,
Parting this pair, to leave the Swain alone;
He ftreight grows jealous, tho' we know not why,
Then, to oblige his Rival, needs will die:
But first he makes a fpeech, wherein he tells
The abfent Nymph, how much his flame excells.
And yet bequeaths her generously now
To that lov'd Rival whom he does not know;
Who ftreight appears, but whe can Fate with
ftand?
Too late, alas! to hold his hafty hand,
That juft has giv'n himself the cruel ftroke,
At which his very Rival's heart is broke;
*) An admirable Character in fome Plays of Shakspeare.
He more to his new Friend than Mistress kind,
Moft fadly mourns at being left behind;
Of fuch a death prefers the pleafing charms
To love, and living in a Lady's arms.
What shameful, and what monft'rous things are
thefe?
And then they rail at thofe they cannot please;
Conclude us only partial to the dead:
And grudge the fign of old Ben-Johnfon's head:"
When the intrinfic value of the stage
Can fcarce be judg'd, but by a following Age;
For Dances, Flutes, Italian fongs, and Rhime,
May keep up finking nonfenfe for a time.
But that muft fail, which now fo much o'er-rules,
And fenfe no longer will submit to Fools.
|