will not be less sincere, nor our supplications less fervent, when we have no external enemy to combat, and no national calamity to dread.

THE PROJECTOR. No 27.

"Steal but a Beggar's Dog,

And give it Timon, why the Dog coins gold.”

SHAKSPEARE.

January 1804.

ALTHOUGH the poverty of us Projectors be notorious, men in general seem to consider it rather as a matter of amusement, than as a subject for serious investigation. Yet surely it is not befitting a great and liberal nation, that those who labour and toil during all seasons and weathers, in a most disinterested vocation, and, under every disadvantage, expose themselves for the good of the publick, should not only be left to starve, but that their hunger should be a topic for merriment. And how frequently do we find this to be the case, while

few will take the trouble to ask why these things are so !

and

One or two reasons have recently occurred to me, on which I wish to dilate a little, as introductory to the main design of this paper; my readers will, I trust, the more readily bear with my loquacity on a subject which may appear selfish, when they are told, as I now tell them, with great concern, that, although I have discovered something like a cause, I do not pretend to offer any thing like a cure. It appears, then, to me, that the number of Projectors has of late increased beyond the regular, and even the extraordinary demands of the public; and experience proves, that whenever this happens, in the case of any commodity, it is attended with a proportional diminution of value. The noble art of Projecting, or scheming for the public good, which was formerly confined to a few choice geniuses, who appeared, like meteors, once or twice in a century, is now assumed by so many persons, in all ranks of life, that it would not be too much to say, Every man is become his own Projector. That this universal ambition is, in a few instances, attended with good effect, I cannot altogether deny; but I hope I be allowed, at the same time, to say, that it has been the

may

means of overstocking the publick with a multitude of pretenders and intruders, who are not qualified to strike out any thing new or enterprising.

There is another reason for the poverty of Projectors, and not altogether unconnected with the above. Many envious persons, who are, against their will, obliged to acknowledge the excellence of any new plan laid before the publick, will nevertheless affect to overlook or despise it for years, until either it seems to be forgotten, or the author of it has gone to receive the reward of his merit, and of his sufferings, in another world. When this happens, they produce the invention with, perhaps, some trifling alteration, carry it into execution, and lay claim to the first discovery. Now I appeal to my candid readers, and I hope all my readers are of that description, whether they are not more sensible of the ingenuity than of the justice of such a practice, and whether it be not rather cunning than honest? I shall, however, endeavour to illustrate these remarks by an instance of very recent date, and, I hope, handle the subject with all the tenderness due to the parties concerned, the blame of whose conduct I may yet be permitted to insinuate, as becomes a lover of truth and

justice, and a Projector anxious to guard the property of his poor, persecuted, and plundered brethren.

Nearly a century ago, some of my predecessors, who were not tame Spectators of what went forward in the world at that time, perceiving, among the play-going people of their days, a predilection for the animal creation, proposed the introduction of such beasts and birds as might appear properly qualified to fill up certain parts in the drama. But this scheme, although well recommended, and clearly demonstrated to be practicable, even on a very extensive scale, fell to the ground. The publick at large was not yet ripe for so great a revolution, nor disposed to see plays acted without some decent proportion of the human species on the stage. The record of it, however, remaining in print, the manager of one of our theatres lately laid hold of it, studied it with great attention, foresaw the possibility of success, and the strongest probability of profit, and determined to attempt a revival of the scheme, by adding a Newfoundland dog. to the other performers of a new opera, which was, in the theatrical phrase, to be got up with all the strength, not only of the house, but of the kennel. An author was accordingly

employed who could write a part suited to the talents of this dumb candidate for public applause; and a fable was invented such as might exhibit a dog to the greatest advantage. How well the scheme has succeeded, the most crowded audiences of modern times, in the largest theatre ever built, have amply testified every night since the first appearance of this bold Project.

It has not, however, been unanimously applauded by the criticks, from whom, perhaps, perfect unanimity is not to be expected in any case. Some of them admit the ingenuity, while they doubt the originality of the plan, and wish to remind us of the learned dogs and pigs which the managers under the auspices of St. Bartholomew have for many years exhibited in Smithfield. Among these criticks of memory and research, my readers may suppose, from what has been already advanced, that I am to be classed. But there are others who think proper to represent the introduction of dogs, as an insult to the dignity of the drama, an infringement of the rights of Man, and probably as the first step to the entire expulsion of the human species. Here I beg leave to pause: I cannot hastily subscribe to these opinions. I have not that quick apprehension