done?  Only sit down contented, cry up all that comes before us and advance even the absurdities of Shakspere.  Let the reader suspend his censure; I admire the beauties of this great father of our stage as much as they deserve, but could wish, for the honor of our country, and for his own too, that many of his scenes were forgotten.  A man blind of one eye should always be painted in profile.  Let the spectator who assists at any of these new revived pieces only ask himself whether he would approve such a performance, if written by a modern poet.  I fear he will find that much of his applause proceeds merely from the sound of a name and an empty veneration for antiquity.  In fact, the revival of those pieces of forced humor, far-fetched conceit and unnatural hyperbole which have been ascribed to Shakspere, is rather gibbeting than raising a statue to his memory.”

The words that I have italicized make it evident that what Goldsmith was really finding fault with was the restoration of the original text of Shakspere’s plays, in place of the garbled versions that had hitherto been acted.  This restoration was largely due to Garrick, but Goldsmith’s language implies that the reform was demanded by public opinion and by the increasing “veneration for antiquity.”  The next passage shows that the new school had its claque, which rallied to the support of the old British drama as the French romanticists did, nearly a century later, to the support of Victor Hugo’s melodrames.[13]

“What strange vamped comedies, farcical tragedies, or what shall I call them—­speaking pantomimes have we not of late seen?. . .  The piece pleases our critics because it talks Old English; and it pleases the galleries because it has ribaldry. . .  A prologue generally precedes the piece, to inform us that it was composed by Shakspere or old Ben, or somebody else who took them for his model.  A face of iron could not have the assurance to avow dislike; the theater has its partisans who understand the force of combinations trained up to vociferation, clapping of hands and clattering of sticks; and though a man might have strength sufficient to overcome a lion in single combat, he may run the risk of being devoured by an army of ants.”

Goldsmith returned to the charge in “The Vicar of Wakefield” (1766), where Dr. Primrose, inquiring of the two London dames, “who were the present theatrical writers in vogue, who were the Drydens and Otways of the day,” is surprised to learn that Dryden and Rowe are quite out of fashion, that taste has gone back a whole century, and that “Fletcher, Ben Jonson and all the plays of Shakspere are the only things that go down.”  “How,” cries the good vicar, “is it possible the present age can be pleased with that antiquated dialect, that obsolete humor, those overcharged characters which abound in the works you mention?” Goldsmith’s disgust with this affectation finds further vent in his “Life of Parnell” (1770).  “He