PLAYERS.

They arrive in the Borough.

-

Welcomed by their former Friends. Are better fitted for Comic than Tragic Scenes: yet better approved in the latter by one part of their Audience. -Their general Character and Pleasantry.-Particular Distresses and Labours.-Their Fortitude and Patience.-A private Rehearsal.-The Vanity of the aged Actress.-An Heroine from the Milliner's Shop. A deluded Tradesman. Of what Persons the Company is composed.-Character and Adventures of Frederick Thompson.

LETTER XII.

PLAYER S.

DRAWN by the annual Call, we now behold
Our Troop Dramatic, Heroes known of old,
And those, since last they march'd, inlisted and enroll'd:
Mounted on Hacks or borne in Waggons some,
The rest on Foot (the humbler Brethren) come.
Three favour'd Places, an unequal Time,
Join to support this Company sublime;
Ours for the longer Period-see how light

Yon Parties move, their former Friends in sight,
Whose Claims are all allow'd, and Friendship glads

the Night.

Now public Rooms shall sound with Words divine,
And private Lodgings hear how Heroes shine;
No talk of Pay shall yet on Pleasure steal,
But kindest Welcome bless the friendly Meal;
While o'er the social Jug and decent Cheer,
Shall be describ'd the Fortunes of the Year.

Peruse these Bills and see what each can do,Behold! the Prince, the Slave, the Monk, the Jew ;

Change but the Garment, and they'll all engage
To take each Part, and act in every Age:
Cull'd from all Houses, what an House are they!
Swept from all Barns, our Borough-Critics say;
But with some Portion of a Critic's Ire,

We all endure them: there are some admire ;
They might have Praise, confin'd to Farce alone,
Full well they grin, they should not try to groan;
But then our Servants' and our Seamen's Wives
Love all that Rant and Rapture as their Lives;
He who Squire Richard's Part could well sustain,
Finds as King Richard he must roar amain-
"My Horse! my Horse!"-Lo! now to their Abodes,
Come Lords and Lovers, Empresses and Gods.
The Master-mover of these Scenes has made
No trifling Gain in this adventurous Trade ;-
Trade we may term it, for he duly buys
Arms out of use and undirected Eyes;
These he instructs, and guides them as he can,
And vends each Night the manufactur'd Man:
Long as our Custom lasts, they gladly stay,
Then strike their Tents, like Tartars! and away!
The Place grows bare where they too long remain,
But Grass will rise ere they return again.

Children of Thespis, welcome! Knights and Queens! Counts! Barons! Beauties! when before your Scenes, And mighty Monarchs thund'ring from your Throne; Then step behind, and all your Glory's gone: Of Crown and Palace, Throne and Guards bereft, The Pomp is vanish'd, and the Care is left. Yet strong and lively is the Joy they feel, When the full House secures the plenteous Mcal;

Flatt'ring and flatter'd; each attempts to raise
A Brother's Merits for a Brother's Praise :
For never Hero shows a prouder Heart,

Than he who proudly acts an Hero's Part;

Nor without Cause; the Boards, we know, can yield Place for fierce Contest, like the tented Field.

Graceful to tread the Stage, to be in turn
The Prince we honour and the Knave we spurn;
Bravely to bear the Tumult of the Crowd,
The Hiss tremendous, and the Censure loud
These are their Parts,-and he who these sustains,
Deserves some Praise and Profit for his Pains.
Heroes at least of gentler kind are they,

Against whose Swords no weeping Widows pray,
No Blood their Fury sheds, no Havock marks their
Way.

Sad-happy Race! soon rais'd and soon deprest, Your Days all past in Jeopardy and Jest; Poor without Prudence, with Afflictions vain, Not warn'd by Misery, not enrich'd by Gain ; Whom Justice pitying, chides from Place to Place, A wandering, careless, wretched, merry Race, Who cheerful Looks assume, and play the Parts Of happy Rovers with repining Hearts; Then cast off Care, and in the mimic Pain Of tragic Woe, feel Spirits light and vain, Distress and Hope-the Mind's, the Body's Wear, The Man's Affliction, and the Actor's Tear: Alternate times of Fasting and Excess

Are yours, ye smiling Children of Distress. :

Slaves though you be, your Wandering Freedom seems, And with your varying Views and restless Schemes, Your Griefs are transient, as your Joys are Dreams.

Yet keen those Griefs-ah! what avail thy Charms, Fair Juliet! what that Infant in thine Arms; What those heroic Lines thy Patience learns, What all the Aid thy present Romeo earns, Whilst thou art crowded in that lumbering Wane, With all thy plaintive Sisters to complain?

Nor is there lack of Labour-To rehearse,
Day after Day, poor Scraps of Prose and Verse;
To bear each other's Spirit, Pride and Spite;
To hide in Rant the Heart-ache of the Night;
To dress in gaudy Patch-work, and to force
The Mind to think in the appointed Course;-
This is laborious, and may be defin'd
The bootless Labour of the thriftless Mind.

There is a veteran Dame; I see her stand
Intent and pensive with her Book in hand;
Awhile her Thoughts she forces on her Part,
Then dwells on Objects nearer to the Heart;
Across the Room she paces, gets her Tone,
And fits her Features for the Danish Throne;
To-night a Queen-I mark her Motion slow,
I hear her Speech, and Hamlet's Mother know.

Methinks 'tis pityful to see her try,
For strength of Arms and energy of Eye;
With Vigour lost, and Spirits worn away,
Her Pomp and Pride she labours to display;