228
The Epilogue to Irene.
[A.D. 1749.
went off tolerably, till it came to the conclusion, when Mrs. Pritchard[1], the heroine of the piece, was to be strangled upon the stage, and was to speak two lines with the bow-string round her neck. The audience cried out "Murder! Murder[2] !" She several times attempted to speak; but in vain. At last she was obliged to go off the stage alive.' This passage was afterwards struck out, and she was carried off to be put to death behind the scenes, as the play now has it[3]. The Epilogue, as Johnson informed me, was written by Sir William Yonge[4]. I know not how his play came to be thus
- ↑ Johnson said of Mrs. Pritchard's playing in general that 'it was quite mechanical;' Post, April 7, 1775. See also Post under Sept. 30, 1783.
- ↑ 'The strangling of Irene in the view of the audience was suggested by Mr. Garrick.' Davies's Garrick, i. 128. Dryden in his Essay of Dramatick Poesie (edit. 1701, i. 13), says:—'I have observed that in all our tragedies the audience cannot forbear laughing when the actors are to die; 'tis the most comick part of the whole play.' 'Suppose your piece admitted, acted; one single ill-natured jest from the pit is sufficient to cancel all your labours.' Goldsmith's Present State of Polite Learn'ng, chap. x.
- ↑ In her last speech two of the seven lines are very bad:—
'Guilt and despair, pale spectres ! grin around me,
And stun me with the yellings of damnation !' Act. v. sc. 9. - ↑ Murphy referring to Boswell's statement says:—'The Epilogue, we are told in a late publication, was written by Sir William Young, This is a new discovery, but by no means probable. When the appendages to a Dramatic Performance are not assigned to a friend, or an unknown hand, or a person of fashion, they are always supposed to
Should partial catcalls all his hopes confound.
He bids no trumpet quell the fatal sound;
Should welcome sleep relieve the weary wit,
He rolls no thunders o'er the drowsy pit;
No snares to captivate the judgement spreads,
Nor bribes your eyes to prejudice your heads.
Unmov'd, though witlings sneer and rivals rail,
Studious to please, yet not asham'd to fail,
He scorns the meek address, the suppliant strain,
With merit needless, and without it vain;
In Reason, Nature, Truth, he dares to trust;
Boswell.Ye fops be silent, and ye wits be just!'
He bids no trumpet quell the fatal sound;
Should welcome sleep relieve the weary wit,
He rolls no thunders o'er the drowsy pit;
No snares to captivate the judgement spreads,
Nor bribes your eyes to prejudice your heads.
Unmov'd, though witlings sneer and rivals rail,
Studious to please, yet not asham'd to fail,
He scorns the meek address, the suppliant strain,
With merit needless, and without it vain;
In Reason, Nature, Truth, he dares to trust;
Boswell.Ye fops be silent, and ye wits be just!'
graced