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Updated: June 8, 2025
For the whole system of your drama is a moral and intellectual Jacobinism of the most dangerous kind, and those common-place rants of loyalty are no better than hypocrisy in your playwrights, and your own sympathy with them a gross self-delusion. And now good night! Truly!
Much more deplorable is the low tone of morality and taste which marks their proceedings from first to last, the ruffian-like denunciations, the puerile rants, the sanguinary sentiments poured forth day by day without check or censure. This is harsh language, but they shall be judged out of their own mouths.
It is positively revolting! But the things he does to get asked! sings, rants, conjures, ventriloquises, mimics, stands on his head. His great performance is a parliamentary debate. We will make him do it for you. And yet with all this a dull dog a very dull dog, sir. He wrote for 'Scaramouch' some little time, but they can stand it no more. Between you and me, he has had notice to quit.
Flush'd with Success, for Stage-Renown she pants, And melts, and swells, and pens luxurious Rants." The first two lines might apply to the notorious Mrs. Manley, lately deceased, who had for some time been living as a hack writer for Alderman Barber, but she had written no plays since "Lucius" in 1717. Mrs.
"I loved you then I know it now and you " "No not love, John Markham," she went on. "If you had loved me you would have sent me back to Paris and saved me from from myself. You loved me then, you say," she laughed scornfully. "What kind of love is this that slinks in hiding, preaches of friendship for its own ends and rants of philosophy?
After this the Dane commenced an harangue on religion, and mistaking me for un philosophe in the continental sense of the word, he talked of Deity in a declamatory style, very much resembling the devotional rants of that rude blunderer, Mr. Thomas Paine, in his Age of Reason, and whispered in my ear, what damned hypocrism all Jesus Christ's business was.
Can you believe it, boy? your servant, that scoundrel Bertrand, that soldier of the ranks, that waiter of the Café de l'École, is a great man in Paris these days. He is listened to by thousands when he rants in the garden of the Palais Royal; he is hand in glove with Danton; he divides attention with Robespierre; he is a power in himself.
He rants about the room; hectors the old man about his spendthrift practices; ridicules his tastes and pursuits; insists that he shall turn the old servants out of doors, give the broken-down horses to the hounds, send the fat chaplain packing, and take a field-preacher in his place; nay, that the whole family mansion shall be levelled with the ground, and a plain one of brick and mortar built in its place.
We only beg of them, if they will own their own diseases and not by noisy rants and popular harangues incur the imputation of false bravery, either not to take the health of the whole body for the ground of their content, or else not to say that men under the extremities of dolors and diseases can yet rally and be pleasant.
There is also another Particular, which may be reckoned among the Blemishes, or rather the false Beauties, of our English Tragedy: I mean those particular Speeches, which are commonly known by the Name of Rants.
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