at which carousals, great John Philip has sallied forth, vaulted the standings near the Finish, (where the men and women porters were accustomed to pitch their loads,) and from such exalted station, mine hero, has harangued the matinal multitude of the garden, with pithy speeches, to their great edification. We have equally heard of Tarquin strides behind the scenes, which gave rise to the dreadful:—“Whereas, I, John Philip,” &c.—all facts of such a tendency however, are expunged from the faithful biography of Mr. Boaden: who resolutely determined that the world should have enough of the family, has since eked out another pair of ponderous tomes, purporting to be the life of Mrs. Siddons; wherein we will venture to assert, there are topics introduced, having no more reference to that lady, than there exists an affinity between Mr. Boaden and the milk of human charity. One word more concerning this personage, and we close our labour. Previous to the publication of his volume, before adverted to, respecting the portraits of Shakspeare, and daring my casual intercourse with Mr. Boaden at Mr. Triphook’s, we one day walked out together, and arrived opposite the end of Buckingham-street, in the Adelphi. The subject of our conversation had been Shakspeare and my fabrications, when, on a sudden, pausing, my pompous companion, having summoned up a look of the mightiest import, thus addressed me:—“You must be aware, sir, of the enormous crime you committed against the divinity of Shakspeare. Why, the act, sir, was nothing short of sacrilege; it was precisely the same thing as taking the holy chalice from the altar, and * * * * * * * therein!!!!”
There is a point in comparison, which renders bathos mere foolery. Comment is unnecessary; but there was something so preposterously ridiculous in the idea of assimilating my attempt to imitate Shakspeare, and the violation of the sacred mysteries of the altar, that had I raised my eyes, and encountered those of Mr. Boaden, I could not have repressed the burst of laughter, which then struggled for vent.
To hear an aged, walking mass of mortality, utter such a sample of mingled pedantry and folly, has left such an indelible impression upon my mind, that I never pass the spot in question, without a sentiment of pity, on recalling the ravings of a self-created expounder of Shakspeare, dwindled into second childhood.
I shall now close this Preface, which has already exceeded its limits, with two simple comments: If my productions were such miserable trash, as Mr. Boaden and his coadjutors asserted, (and, heaven knows! I have never claimed any great merit for their production,) what becomes of the intellects of those who stamped them, in many respects, worthy the Bard of Avon? And supposing the latter assertion could be, in the very smallest degree, correct, to what can be ascribed the malignity with which I have been pursued, but to an ignoble and dastardly sentiment of envy, nurtured in the bosoms of those, who were the dupes of a stripling in years, and a total novice in the paths of literature?
I cannot wind up the present Address, without testifying the heartfelt gratitude I feel, in avowing, that the candour of the present generation, so far from hunting me down, on account of this error of my youth, is willing to allow every credit that may be attachable to me, on the score of talent, however mediocre; at the same time, I claim from the public fiat, an acquittal of the only charge that could have been urged against me,—namely, a preorganized plan of fraud, under a base and sordid hope of pecuniary profit, instead of that most enviable of all rewards, which I had fallaciously hoped to ensure—the permanent gratification of beholding a father happy.
As few alterations as possible, have been made from the Play as published in 1799, and those with a view to restore the original text.
W. H. IRELAND.
PREFACE
TO THE EDITION OF 1799, BY MR. SAMUEL IRELAND.