DRAMATIC CENSOR.

I have always considered those combinations which are formed in the playhouse as acts of fraud or cruelty. He that applauds him who does not deserve praise, is endeavouring to deceive the public. He that hisses in malice or in sport is an oppressor and a robber.

Dr. Johnson’s Idler, No. 25.

Master Payne’s performances concluded.

Of the characters represented by this young gentleman, those in which he has evinced greatest powers are Douglas, Tancred, and Romeo, while that in which he is least exceptionable, is Frederick in Lover’s Vows. In his Octavian, which followed next after Douglas, some of the pathetic passages were beautifully expressed. Mrs. Inchbald, in her prefatory remarks to the play of the Mountaineers, says, “This true lover requires such peculiar art, such consummate skill in the delineation, that it is probable his representative may have given an impression of the whole drama unfavourable to the author. Nor is this a reproach to the actor who fails; for such a person as Octavian would never have been created, had not Kemble been born some years before him. But, notwithstanding the difference of their ages, it is likely they will both depart this life at the same time.” While the difficulty of delineating Octavian, and the merit of a living performer of it are such, that it is scarcely possible to think of the play without thinking of Kemble, it has so happened that scarcely any character has been attempted by so many actors of all qualities—nor is there one in which so few have come off with actual disgrace. Men who could scarcely be endured in third or fourth rate parts, have selected Octavian to figure in, on their benefit nights. One man who was laughed at in every other character, was supposed by a misjudging audience to play Octavian well; nay, to our knowledge, was preferred to Hodgkinson and Cooper in it. The reason is plain: to the portraying of madness, the injudicious can imagine no limits. The more a madman raves and roars, the better; rags, slovenliness, and matted hair, and beard too, are the usual associates of awkwardness and vulgarity. Any man, therefore, who can rant and play the extravagant, no matter how ungracefully, may pass with some audiences for a very natural Octavian—an abominable absurdity! For these two reasons, Octavian is a very hazardous part for a performer who aims at substantial fame, to attempt. In Master Payne’s performance of it, there was no extravagance to censure; nothing that had the least tendency to enrol him among the Bedlamite butchers of the character, nor was there, on the other hand, a complete uniform delineation of Octavian to afford him the same rank in that, which criticism willingly allows him in some other characters.

Not so Frederick, his performance of which was one consistent piece of natural, affecting, and indeed skilful acting. In the scenes of filial tenderness with his mother, and in the solemn but spirited remonstrances with the baron Wildenheim, he displayed such equal excellence that criticism might incur the charge of injustice by giving the preference to either. The character, as Master Payne acted it, was made up by him from the two antecedent translations of Mrs. Inchbald and Mr. Thompson;—by a union of both of which this youth has produced a better acting play than either. He lately published it at Baltimore with an advertisement prefixed, written by himself, to which we refer our readers, with a strong recommendation to them to peruse it.

In the characters selected by Master Payne there are but four which we can think judiciously chosen. For the whole selection we should find it difficult to account, if we did not know that they had before been chosen for Master Betty; by thus closely walking in the steps of whom, Master Payne has, in our opinion, wronged himself. It is evident that in choosing characters for the infant Roscius of England, his instructors had it more in view to exhibit the boy as a prodigy, than the characters well acted. The people were to be treated to an anomalous exhibition, and the greater the anomaly the better the treat. What but a determination to inflame public curiosity to the highest pitch by a contrast as absurd as unnatural, could have induced them to put forward a little boy of twelve years old in the formidable tyrant Richard? like modern composers of music, their object was not to produce harmony or natural sweetness, but to execute difficulties. As the actor was a boy loitering on the verge of childhood, the plan, if not correct, was at least politic. But the public do not look on Master Payne in that light, and therefore, he ought to have selected parts more suitable to his time of life and talents. Parts calculated to aid and not depress him. What judicious actor is there now living who would not think it injurious to him to be put forward by a manager in Selim or in Zaphna? The united powers of Mossop in Barbarosa, and Garrick in Selim could barely keep that play alive. We have seen Mossop play it to a house of not ten pound, though aided by the first Zaphira in the world, Mrs. Fitzhenry. From either of those characters Master Payne could not derive the least aid. His Hamlet we put out of the question—we did not see it.

On his Tancred we can dwell with very different sensations. Considering the materials he had to work upon, his delineation of the character was highly creditable to his talents. For the love part, little more can be done by a good actor, than by a good reader;—as poetry, it is soft, and sweet, and flowing; as a practical representation of that passion it is mawkish: yet, in the performance of Master Payne, it was not entirely destitute of interest. In all the rest; in every scene with Siffredi, particularly in his warm expostulations with the honest, but mistaken old statesman; in his subsequent indignation and despair; in his lofty bearing and menaces to Osmond, and thence onward to his death, he was truly excellent, seemed perfect master of the scene, and in depicting the tumult of passions which struggle in the bosom of the lordly Tancred, evinced that he possesses the legitimate genius, and true spirit that should inform the actor.

For his benefit he personified Romeo. The house was so crowded, and in all places that were accessible after the doors were opened, there was so much pressing, confusion, ill-mannered noise and struggle, and rudeness, that few but those who had places taken in the front boxes could see or hear the play out. From the upper gallery, where with difficulty we at last got a seat, we indistinctly saw what passed on the stage, and could hear a little by snatches. What we did hear and see induced us to lament our not hearing and seeing more, and to wish that we may speedily have another opportunity of witnessing a performance respecting which there is but one opinion, and that highly favourable to Master Payne’s reputation.

MR. COOPER.

Scarcely had master Payne disappeared in his transit southward, when Mr. Cooper followed, and, in describing his annual orbit, was seen here for nine nights; during which he performed the following characters.

Of all the actors we have ever seen in the old world or in the new, he who imposes the most difficult task upon the critic is Mr. Cooper. It is scarcely possible to generalize his acting. The great inequality of his performance, the defects of some parts, the doubtfulness of others, and the amazing beauties which he frequently displays, forbid the critic, if he have a due regard to truth, to give to the different parts of any one character Mr. Cooper performs the same measure of praise or disapprobation.

Hardly have our nerves ceased to vibrate, and our hearts to leap in consequence of perhaps a series of electrical strokes of irresistible effect and beauty, when our patience is put to trial by some defect, or our feelings left to grow cold and languid for want of an appropriate continuous excitement. To walk step by step with him through those alternations, and to decide in circumstantial detail upon this gentleman’s title to critical applause, would require a minuteness of description incompatible with the scheme of this publication; yet, since the high rank which he very deservedly holds in his profession renders it important that just opinions should be formed upon the subject of his performances, and that his merits should be as closely as possible canvassed, and as precisely ascertained, it would be inconsistent with the duty of a public critic wholly to decline the task, however difficult and laborious he may find it.

We have now before us a criticism upon Mr. Cooper which once appeared in a periodical publication at Charleston S. C. and in which I find the following passage.

“Nature husbands her gifts so carefully that where equality appears in all the parts of any object, supreme excellence is rarely seen; where great beauties are found, they are generally mixed with some considerable alloy. Of all the actors we have ever seen, Mr. Mossop was the one whom Mr. Cooper, in this respect, most resembles. With him, when it was not a blaze, it was a cloud. No man, not Garrick himself ever equalled his beauties; but his defects were great. The beauties, however, were so far superior in numbers to the defects, and in quality, to the excellencies of all other men, that he obtained from the greatest critic of that day, the tide of the Tragedy Sheet Anchor.” All this is strictly true; but there is this difference between that great actor and Mr. Cooper, Mossop never committed a fault from negligence; studiously, I might almost say superstitiously, devoted to the cultivation of his professional talents, he left nothing undone which industry could accomplish, and whenever he went wrong, failed from an almost pedantic desire to do too much—from a stiffness and stateliness of deportment, and an embarrassment of which he had begun to get rid but a few years before his death. Mr. Cooper labours under no obstruction of this kind.

The natural talents displayed by Mr. Cooper in most of his performances forbid it to be believed that his failures result from incompetency; or that there is any excellence, to which the actors of the present day attain, too great for his grasp, if his industry were nearly equal to his personal endowments. But the honest and zealous critic loses all patience, when he sees first talents supinely contenting themselves with less than first honours. What are the natural or acquired endowments of Kemble or Cooke, whether mental or corporeal? Certainly not superior to those of Mr. Cooper. How do they respectively stand in the records of professional fame? It would be invidious to give the answer.

If one could, with certainty, estimate a player’s actual performance from his untried talents, and were asked what disqualifying circumstance exists to prevent Mr. Cooper from playing Richard, Othello, Zanga or Hotspur as well as any man—we should answer none! But when, having seen him act, we come in the capacity of public critics to adjudge him his rights, we feel the mortifying necessity of speaking other language.

In Othello and Zanga, the inequality of Mr. Cooper’s acting is strikingly conspicuous. Of the great distinction between the colloquial familiarity suitable to ordinary dialogue, and the solemn, dignified, and lofty delivery becoming the orator in a great public assembly, Mr. Cooper seems to have entirely lost sight in the celebrated speech to the senate, the first lines of which may serve as a lesson how the whole should be spoken.

The pompous sound of these words, as well as the awfulness of the place, and the august character of the assembly to which they are addressed, sufficiently indicate the manner in which they ought to be uttered. Instead of this Mr. Cooper (no doubt with the view to avoid pomposity and bombast) threw into them an air of familiarity like that of a person narrating a private transaction to an intimate friend or acquaintance: Yet no sooner does he come to the impassioned parts, where strong emotions call forth the manly energies, than he flames up with the character. In the third scene of the second act, he displays much force and dignity in the following lines:

And afterwards:

And indeed through the whole of that scene he was impressive and important: nor, with the exception of those occasional lapses which we have to regret in almost every character he plays, even in his Macbeth, and the liberties he occasionally takes with the text, was there any reason to complain, while every now and then, he emitted some of those splendid scintillations of light which distinguish his acting from that of every competitor in America.

In the last act, his performance was superlatively great. So great indeed, that if all the other parts had been nearly equal to it, we should not at all hesitate to put it in competition with the Othello of any man now living. As it was, we pay it no compliment in saying that it was in every part much superior to that of Pope, the quondam Othello of Covent Garden.

Zanga.

The character of Zanga would at first sight seem to be well calculated for Mr. Cooper’s talents: yet we cannot say that we very much admire him in it. That in his execution of the part Mr. Cooper goes beyond Mr. Kemble is certain, while his conception of it is nearly the same. In the latter, both are deficient. If there ever was a character which only one man in the world could play perfectly, Zanga is that character, and Mossop was that man. In a mixed company some years ago at Mr. Foote’s, the celebrated doctor John Hill lanched out in praise of Mossop. Foote likewise admired him, but could not refrain from ridiculing and mimicking some of that great actor’s stately singularities; upon which Richard Malone said, and Garrick was present, “You must own this one truth, however, because I have it from the highest authority (bowing to Garrick) that Mossop is the only man who was ever known so to act a character that the judgment of a nation has not been able to mark a fault in it.” “I have often said,” replied Garrick, “that Mossop’s Zanga is perfectly faultless—but that is too little to say of it—it is a brilliant without a speck.”

Upon that extraordinary actor’s performance of Zanga, every word and action of which Fancy, while we are writing this, whispers in our ears and figures to our eyes, we build our conception of the character; and, in conformity to that conception, pronounce Mr. Cooper and Mr. Kemble to be both wrong in material points, chiefly in the first part of it. In the year 1800 we saw Kemble attempt the Moor, and endured great pain from his efforts; for not only his reading (as it is called) of the part was erroneous, but his organs were too feeble for the character; a defect of which Mr. Cooper has not to complain.

Of Mossop’s Zanga, there was not one line from the beginning to the end which, while he was uttering it, a spectator would not believe to be the best. In every part the grandeur of Zanga’s character broke through the clouds of horror and humiliation that surrounded him; and in the very first scene the magnanimity of the poet’s Moor, was exalted to something of more than human sublimity, by the player. In the disclosing of his discontent to Isabella, the painting to her of his mental agonies, and the avowal of his hatred to Alonzo, the emotions which Mossop excited in the spectators were too awful and interesting to be imagined by those who have not felt them. The deep and affecting solemnity of his narrative, interrupted by the occasional flashes of passion which burst from him, was in strict congeniality with the dreadful elementary storm in which it is introduced. In the hands of other actors this part makes little impression.

The loftiness of the Moor’s nature, and his conscious pride were by the peculiar delivery of the second line, as perfectly unfolded as they could be by volumes. Again:

The words comprehended in parentheses, are occasional starts of digression dictated by rage, and should be uttered passionately, we do not mean loudly, but with vehement indignation! So Mossop uttered them, changing his key and speaking the words with the rapidity expressive of rage—and then, after a struggle, falling down to the solemn level of his narrative again. These, however, Mr. Kemble spoke rather in a tone of whining lamentation. The limited organs of Mr. K. might make it policy in him to do so; but Mr. Cooper has not that plea to offer. Be that as it may, the character is defaced by it. The Moor’s fire is not supposed to be extinguished; it is only covered up, to break out with more terrible fury, when the accomplishment of his purpose will allow it. In going over the sad recital of his woes, to a confidential friend, the poet, in order the more perfectly to unfold his character, makes the hidden fire burst forth in momentary blazes. To sink this is to deprive the character of one of its most essential beauties; to give it the directly opposite expression of piteous lamentation is, indeed, reversing the noble character of the Moor.

One of the wonderful excellencies of Mossop in this part was his artful display of hypocrisy in the words and purpose, while his external port silently asserted his superiority, and the native majesty of his looks and manner bespoke the magnitude of the sacrifice he was making to vengeance, thereby giving a deeper colouring to the inexorable vindictiveness of his nature, and more forcibly illustrating the inflexible firmness of his soul. All other actors that we have ever seen reduce Zanga to a mere slavish croucher in all points; and destroy the very basis of the character by an overacted humiliation, highly improper because too glaring not to excite Alonzo’s suspicions. He must be a dull Alonzo indeed, if he could not look through such flimsy dissimulation.

Yet with all these defects, for which, as well as many other transgressions, the modern crop of young actors are indebted to the example of Mr. Kemble, Mr. Cooper gave us in several places as great satisfaction as with our remembrance of “THE Zanga,” we ever hoped to experience. From the time he avows his villany to Alonzo, on to the end, he deserved unqualified praise; nor can we imagine how any one who had not made up his mind upon the great original, to whom we have alluded, could wish or conceive it to be more happily performed.

Mr. Wood’s Alonzo was an animated and respectable piece of acting.

Richard III.

Mr. Cooper conceives that crookbacked usurper with sufficient accuracy, reads it with tolerable correctness, and acts it with great spirit. In this character he evidently has the greatest model extant [Cooke] in his eye. When first, some five years ago, we saw Mr. Cooper perform Richard, we thought he played it tolerably, but wanted weight. He is much improved in this respect since that time, and has acquired in those few years a sufficiency of the personal importance requisite for the character of Richard.

Venice Preserved.

Pierre is a character admirably suited to Mr. Cooper’s talents. There are but few of his performances to which we sit with more pleasure. Few in which he is so little exceptionable. On this occasion he was supported by his friend Jaffier in a manner that reflects much credit on Mr. Wood. And Mr. Wood is not a little indebted to his Belvidera also. Could we speak as favourably of his Iago, we should have introduced him in the proper place. Mr. Cooper’s grenadier’s cap, added nothing, to say no worse of it, to his appearance.

A fashion has prevailed for some years (introduced by the doctors of the perspective and statuary school of action) which sometimes increases the difficulty of giving verisimility to the scene, or rather destroys it altogether. We allude to the actors, in all possible cases, entering from the back, or near it. This though sometimes right, is peculiarly improper when the entering character is to speak aside as he enters, and is supposed by the cunning of the scene not to be heard by the character who is on the stage before him. It was particularly observable in the performances of Othello and Venice Preserved. In the third scene of the third act, when Othello, followed by Iago, enters to Desdemona, Emilia, and Cassio, (which last takes his leave suddenly on the Moor’s approach) and Iago, in prosecution of his plan, exclaims, so as to be heard by Othello only, “Ha! I like not that,” Mr. Cooper and Mr. Wood entering too far from the stage, rendered it necessary for the latter to utter those words (aside) so loud, that they must necessarily have been heard by all the other characters on the stage.

Again, in Venice Preserved, in the night-scene on the Rialto, Jaffier being on the stage in his proper place, soliloquizing, Pierre enters and says what certainly neither Jaffier nor any but the audience should be presumed to hear. Mossop, Sheridan, Henderson, et id genus omne, entered so near the stage, that the voice of Pierre might be supposed to reach the audience, without passing through Jaffier’s ear. Side speaking ought always to be done in that way. Mr. Cooper, on the contrary, entered from the wing next the back scene, so that Jaffier stood between him and the audience, and must of course be supposed to have heard him, if the audience heard him; as they did, very distinctly too, from the remote end of the stage, say aloud,

Exclusive of which a great injury to the necessary illusion arises from the side speaker being obliged to speak so high that not only the characters on the stage, but the people in the neighbouring houses must be supposed to be all let into the secret, and he cannot, therefore, be thought to intend to speak aside. In the good old times they were as scrupulously exact in these matters, as they are now most blamably lax.

Hamlet.

Many of Mr. Cooper’s admirers set down his Hamlet as the best of his performances; a proposition to which we can never accede. Some parts of it, no doubt, are excellent, and in the play scene before the court, he is scarcely surpassed by any one. But in our opinion his Hamlet fades from the sight, when put in competition with his

Macbeth,

in which he unquestionably takes the lead of all the actors that have ever appeared in this country; and is in our judgment preferable, in many parts, to either Kemble or Cooke; far, very far, superior to Holman. His dagger-scene is inimitably fine; but by following Mr. Kemble’s idea, he loses much in his return from the scene of murder. Before Mr. Kemble every actor followed the plan of Garrick with more or less success; and from them, viz. Sheridan, Mossop, Reddish, Henderson, all of whom we have seen, we can state the difference between the old and new school in this most trying scene. We have never witnessed the performance of Garrick; but have seen pictures of him in that very part, one particularly by Sir Joshua Reynolds, of which there is an engraving, and which exactly corresponds with the action of all of his whole school, of whom the best was certainly Mr. Sheridan. Just as lady Macbeth, who is waiting his return from the chamber of blood, says, in soliloquy,

the noise of a hasty foot was heard within, she paused, and then proceeded,

At that moment the door opened and Macbeth appeared, a frightful figure of horror, rushing out sideways with one dagger, and his face in consternation, presented to the door, as if he were pursued, and the other dagger lifted up as if prepared for action. Thus he stood as if transfixed, seeming insensible to every thing but the chamber, unconscious of any presence else, and even to his wife’s address of “my husband.” In this breathless state, he hastily said in a whisper, as if to himself,

then, after a pause, in a tone of anguish and trepidation, without ever taking his eyes from the chamber, he still whispered in a quick, sharp tone,

Nor did he quit this attitude, but with eyes still fixed upon the chamber door continued to carry on the broken dialogue that follows, in fearful whispers.

Then for the first time he drew his hands together with the daggers in them, and in the most heart-rending accents exclaimed,

Thus represented by Mr. Sheridan, this scene was perhaps the most interesting in the drama. What then must it have been when done by Garrick. A critic now before us speaking of Garrick and Mrs. Pritchard in this part, says, “His distraction of mind and agonizing horrors were finely contrasted by her apathy, tranquillity, and confidence. The beginning of the scene, after the commission of the murder, was conducted in terrifying whispers. Their looks and action supplied the place of words. The poet here gives only an outline of the consummate actor—“I have done the deed,” &c. “Didst thou not hear,” &c. The dark colouring given by Garrick to these abrupt speeches made the scene tremendous to the auditors. The wonderful expression of heart-felt horror which Garrick felt when he viewed his bloody hands, can only be conceived by those who saw him.” Murphy, who confirms this account by Davies, says that when Garrick reentered the scene with the bloody daggers in his hands, he [Murphy] was absolutely scared out of his senses. It is but fair to add, that the great dramatic censor who wrote in 1770 says “Without any exaggeration of compliment to Mr. Sheridan, we must place him in a very respectable degree of competition with Mr. Garrick in the dagger-scene; and confess a doubt whether any man ever spoke the words “this is a sorry sight,” better.

How vapid, meagre, frigid, and unaffecting has been the performance of this part since Mr. Kemble’s reign. According to his institutes, Macbeth closes the door with the cold unfeeling caution of a practised house-breaker, then listens, in order to be secure, and addresses lady Macbeth as if, in such a conflict, Macbeth could be awake to the suggestions of the lowest kind of cunning.

In his entrance to the witches in the cauldron scene, Mr. Cooper suffers the character to sink. This is one of the parts with which the audience, at one time, used to be most gratified by the powers of their great actors. The critic from whom we have cited above, adverting to Henderson’s Macbeth, which was astonishingly great, says, “In the masterly conjuration of the witches, in the cavern, so idly omitted by Kemble, he was wonderfully impressive.”

Yet there is upon the whole so little exceptionable, and such abundant beauties in Mr. Cooper’s Macbeth, that we think he ought there to plant his standard. Imagination figures to us the magnificent exhibition he might make of it, by studying from the best authorities and descriptions, the various attitudes and action of Garrick in the scenes alluded to, which are recorded not only in several books and portraits, but in the memory of many men living.

Henry iv.

Of Mr. Cooper’s Hotspur we do not wish to speak in depreciation, nor are we prepared greatly to praise it. To compensate, however, for this, to our own wishes, we confess our inability to say too much of his performance of Leon. And we feel pleasure in adding that in

Adelgitha,

he reaped a whole harvest of laurels. His Michael Ducas, being not only a masterly, but an original performance, one which we cannot reasonably hope to see excelled, and which we may in vain, perhaps, expect to see equalled.

We have a long arrear against us on account of the theatre. But we hope to discharge it in regular order and in due time. Meantime we cannot refrain from expressing by forestallment our great satisfaction at the successful run and favourable reception of “The Foundling of the Forest.” If the manager and actors are indebted to the public for the great encouragement and approbation bestowed upon that play, the public are no less indebted to the manager for his zeal, unsparing expense, and judicious arrangements in the casting of the parts, and to the actors, particularly Mr. Wood, for their excellent performance of it. But upon that subject we shall enlarge hereafter.

THEATRICAL INTELLIGENCE.

Mr. Dwyer.

The American stage has received, in the person of Mr. Dwyer, one of the greatest acquisitions that it has ever had to boast of. We have never had the pleasure of seeing this gentleman’s performance; but we have collected from the periodical publications of Great Britain sufficient to convince us that he is an actor of great merit, and, in his line, of the first promise. No man treads so closely on the heels of the inimitable Lewis as Mr. Dwyer. “Light dashing comedy,” says a judicious British critic, “is his forte, and in it he is almost faultless.” In Belcour, Charles Surface, and characters of that cast, he excels, and his Liar is acknowledged to be the first on the British boards.

From a professional gentleman of this city of acknowledged taste and erudition, who saw him in England, we have had a description of Mr. Dwyer. He says that nature has been uncommonly bountiful to this actor. That he is very handsome, has a fine person, and might, in lively, bustling, genteel comedy, be as great as any man, if his industry were equal to his natural endowments.

Mr. Dwyer has played Hamlet and other tragic characters; but the critics we have read seem so intent upon his excellence in the sock, that they forget to say anything particular of his merits in the buskin.

In this dearth of theatrical talents, every lover of the drama will rejoice at this new acquisition to the American theatre. Mr. Dwyer is said to be an Irishman. His name says it for him. No doubt his countrymen will be not a little proud of him; for he is reported to possess, in no common measure, all the recommendations to the eye on which they nationally set such value—stature, bone, muscle, symmetry, and comeliness.

State of the British stage.

Notwithstanding the losses sustained by the death of some actors, and the defection of others, the stock of talents is not likely to be entirely exhausted. Though nothing has for years appeared that has a tendency to fill up the void which succeeded the Augustan age of acting, which ended with the death of Garrick, Barry, and Mossop, still meritorious performers, both male and female, arise, who promise to preserve the stage from sinking into utter disrepute.

Foremost among these is a Mr. Young, who bids fair to outstrip all competitors, as a general actor. The extent of his powers, the versatility of his talents, and the advantages of his face and person are stated by the critics, in the public prints, to be very extraordinary; and we feel great pleasure in having it in our power to say that the opinions of those are amply confirmed by the verbal reports of American gentlemen of taste and discernment, who, in the course of the last year, frequently saw Mr. Young perform. Some think he excels in comedy; the majority prefer his tragedy. Admitting the Stranger to fall under the latter denomination, Mr. Young must stand higher in the buskin than in the sock, since that is allowed to be his most perfect performance. In confirmation of which little more need be advanced than that it is admitted he very seldom, if ever, falls short of the great original, Mr. Kemble, in that character, and sometimes goes beyond him.

In Don Felix, Belcour, Charles Surface, and characters of that cast, he stands conspicuous for ease, elegant hilarity, gayety of manners, and vivacity of action. In tragic characters, not only in the fiery, the impassioned, and the grand, but in those of pomp and solemnity, he is said to be original, great, and striking. On his Hamlet and Macbeth the critics seem to have dwelt with peculiar attention and pleasure.

Speaking of Mr. Y’s Hamlet, a learned and perspicuous critic says “A performance exhibiting stronger marks of genius, finer animation, or happier display of intellect we have seldom witnessed. Mr. Young has studied this masterpiece of Shakspeare with infinite care, not merely as to the text and general scope of the character, but throughout all its shades and gradations, discriminating with the utmost truth and nicety, each particular feature of Hamlet, and presenting a whole so finished and forcible, as to leave the strongest impressions on the mind of his audience.” The same critic enters, with a spirit derived from a lively admiration of his subject, into the whole of Mr. Young’s Hamlet, of which he speaks in a strain of warm eulogy. Adverting to the instructions given by Hamlet to the players, he pays Mr. Y. this elegant compliment: “The instructions to the players could not be better delivered. His own sensible performance was an apposite illustration of the excellent lesson which Shakspeare has in this scene bequeathed to the profession.” And he concludes thus: “He is indeed an acquisition of importance. Of intellectual actors we have very few. Strutters and bellowers we have in abundance. We therefore hail Mr. Young’s appearance with more than usual satisfaction; and the more so, since we hear that his manners are highly estimable in private life. On and off the stage he will thus prove an ornament to his profession.”

Mr. Young has played, besides the characters already named, Rolla, Penruddock, Lothaire, Othello, George Barnwell, Octavian, Osmond (Castle Spectre) Hotspur, Frederick in Lovers Vows, Petruchio, Gondebert, and many others, if not all with equal excellence, at least with so much as to rank him among the first masters of the art.

Mr. Young’s face and person are said to be of a superior order. A good height, his figure is well formed; his features expressive and flexible; his voice, from the lowest note to the top of its compass, excellent, and his action and deportment gentlemanly and graceful.

An actress of as great promise as any that has appeared on the British theatre in the memory of man, has lately come forth at Covent Garden, in the arduous character of Lady Macbeth, in which, if we are to trust the London critics, she at once started to a level with Mrs. Siddons. Her name is Smith. She has, like Mrs. Siddons, been on the stage from childhood, without being noticed by any but the happy few, some of whom augured highly of her from the first, and she has fully accomplished their prognostications. The first impressive trace we find of her in theatrical annals is in an Edinburgh criticism. “As I think most highly of this juvenile performer,” says that writer, “and entertain most sanguine hopes of seeing her soon at the head of her profession, I will not insult her by indiscriminate panegyric or mawkish praise. Her comedy is by no means satisfactory to me. The disadvantage of a petite figure is not, in this department compensated by any high excellencies. Her comedy is generally speaking, rather meagre and unadorned, and in a degree pointless and ineffective.—But her tragedy merits every praise. In richness and variety of tone; in propriety and justness of action and gesture; in picturesque and impressive attitude, in a nervous mellowed modulation; in appropriate deportment—above all in the discriminating delicacy of taste, by which she distinguishes and expresses the feelings and workings of the heart, she is above praise.”

Miss Smith next meets us in London in 1808, playing lady Macbeth at Covent Garden, and is spoken of as follows:

“Macbeth by Mr. Kemble so frequently the subject of remark, and often of well-earned eulogy, affords little occasion for notice at this time; but concerning “his NEW partner of greatness”, as there was much to be admired, it is fit that something should be said. A just personification of lady Macbeth is perhaps the most difficult and dangerous undertaking an actress can enter upon: that silent but efficient aid, derived from the contagion of the gentler affections, from pity, sorrow, love; or even from the turbulent emotions of the mind, from anger, jealousy, revenge, “she must not look to have” in the sympathetic bosoms of hearers or spectators; her only operant power is terror, a frigid and unsocial passion, and hence perhaps it is that no actress, at least in modern times, has been found fully adequate to the task; the according testimony indeed of the best living or recent opinions may warrant a belief that Mrs. Pritchard displayed successfully the portraiture of this singular character; but when we hear a performer of our day, whom the public has long and deservedly applauded, extolled as a perfect representative of lady Macbeth, and find this part held forth and distinguished as the pattern of her excellence, true criticism must reject the fallacy of the assertion, and the injustice it imposes upon that great actress herself, who in many other situations of the drama, sustains an eminence above all rivalship; physical defects may often be lessened or concealed; but they will sometimes be too stubborn for the force of art, and thus, in the language of venal compliment, the poet said “Pritchard’s genteel and Garrick’s six feet high” it cannot be denied that the former was eclipsed by the easy elegance of Mrs. Woffington, and the latter overborne by the majestic stature and deportment of Barry. The first appearance of Miss Smith last night in lady Macbeth, could not fail to conjure up, perversely to our mental view, the comparative superiority of Mrs. Siddons’s person; the effect was strong, but it was momentary; a delicate yet powerful and distinct varied voice, a pure, correct, and exemplary enunciation, guided at once by a sound understanding, a correct ear, and a discriminating taste, a frame and expression of features not inferior to that of Mrs. Siddons herself, with action always just and frequently commanding, soon led us to the forgetfulness of her moderate stature, though oppressed, incidentally, by the towering dignity of her lord: It is the duty of an artist to contemplate the works of a renowned predecessor or contemporary with unaffected reverence, but not with servile devotion, and Miss Smith occasionally varied, and with advantage, from the model that was before her. When Macbeth, incited to the murder of Duncan, interposes—“if we should fail,” Mrs. Siddons with cool promptitude replies “we fail.” The punctuation indeed was suggested by Mr. Steevens; but it appears much too colloquially familiar for the temper and importance of the scene; a failure, which here must be ruin, is an idea that could never be urged with temerity or indifference, and we heard the words with more decorum and much better effect from Miss Smith “we fail?” i.e. is it to be supposed that we, possessing as we do, the power to overcome every obstacle, can miscarry? In the sleeping scene too, we have generally observed that the candlestick was deliberately placed upon the table in order to let the lady act the washing her hands more freely, but Miss Smith contrived to represent this action of a dream more naturally with the light in one hand.

Some faults no doubt were discoverable, the most material of which was an emotion of tenderness at times, and a querulous sensibility not proper to the character of lady Macbeth’s cool, deliberate, and inflexible resolution by which the poet has distinguished her. Great allowance is due for the perturbation of the actress in so perilous and trying a situation, and into these, perhaps, much of the objection just hinted may be resolved: enough however was displayed of power, judgment, and execution to warrant a prediction, that as Miss Smith has already advanced to the first class in her profession, lady Macbeth bids fair to rank among the first of her performances.

Master Payne.

From some English papers now in our possession, we find that the fame of this young gentleman has already reached Europe; in such sort too, as in all probability will ensure him a very favourable reception there, if he should be disposed to try the experiment. Even at this time, the intercourse between the two countries is such that nothing worthy of notice passes in one, without being soon known in the other. English gentlemen, who were lately in America, spoke, on their return to London, in such terms of Master Payne’s performances, as if they thought he would eclipse young Betty. However, we hope that the justice of his own country will prevent the necessity of merit such as his seeking encouragement in strange and distant lands.

MISCELLANY.

THEOBALDUS SECUNDUS,

OR

SHAKSPEARE AS HE SHOULD BE.

NO. II.

Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.

When the celebrated Nat Lee was reproached with writing like a madman, his answer was, “It is very difficult to write like a madman, but very easy to write like a fool.” This sentence involves two assertions; the former is proved to be true by the play now under consideration, and the latter by the numerous commentators it has produced. Doctor Farmer has obligingly exhausted all his learning to prove that Shakspeare had none. “Animasque in vulnere ponunt.” And Mr. Malone has thought it necessary to borrow queen Elizabeth’s ruff, and eat beef-steaks with her maids of honour, in order, by living that age over again, to qualify himself to decypher the local allusions of our great bard. Poor Malone! if he had ever heard the old adage, that “none but a poet should edit a poet,” he would have saved his midnight oil, and solicited a ray from Phœbus. Now, I take the road to poetry to be just as plain as the road to Clapham. In the latter journey you have nothing to do but to invoke Rowland Hill, and in the former to invoke the sacred nine, and your business is done. You are dubbed one of the elect from that time forth, and nothing but Bedlam or the mint can invalidate your title. For myself, I can attribute my profound knowledge of the real text of my author, to no other than the following cause. On turning accidentally to volume I, page 409, of cunning little Isaac’s edition, I happened to alight upon certain antique instructions, “how a gallant should behave himself in a playhouse.” This code of dramatic laws I found ushered in by the following sentence: “The theatre is your poet’s exchange, upon which their Muses (that are now turned to merchants) meeting, barter away that light commodity of words, for a lighter ware than words, plaudities, and the breath of the great beast, which, like the threatenings of two cowards, vanish all into air.” This great beast I take to be, “The many headed monster of the pit,” mentioned in after times by Pope, and the renowned John Bull, celebrated by me, Theobaldus Secundus, in my dedication of last month. Be that however, as it may, I read the treatise through, and was so smitten with the accurate view it exhibited of the theatres of these days, that I immediately determined to transport myself, as well as I could, to the golden times of the beheader of Mary Queen of Scots. I instantly ran to the water-side, bartered for a garret, purchased the wares of a strolling company at a bargain, and I now pen this dissertation reclining on clean straw, on a stage of my own construction, and smoking a pipe of Maryland tobacco, according to the authority above quoted. “By spreading your body on the stage, and by being a justice in examining plaies, you shall put yourself into such a true scænical authority, that some poet shall not dare to present his Muse rudely before your eyes, without having first unmasked her, rifled her, and discovered all her bare and most mystical parts before you at a taverne, when you, most knightly, shall for his paines, pay for both their suppers.” If all these paines do not produce a proportionate modicum of inspiration, then know I nothing of Parnassus. Let us now proceed to business.

In the very first scene of this celebrated tragedy, I find matter of discussion.

This word has never (mirabile dictu) excited a single comment; but in my opinion it implies that Bernardo enters with his arms folded. The judicious player will remember this, and when thus accosted will immediately throw back his arms, and discover his under vestments, like the “Am I a beef-eater now?” in the critic.

Mr. Malone merely observes that this sentence appears to have been the watchword. So it was; but, in my mind, the watchword of rebellion. The times, as Hamlet afterwards observes, were out of joint, and the ambitious Bernardo, as it appears to me, was desirous of mounting the throne, having doubtless as good a right to do so, as the murderer Claudius. The answer of Francisco favours my construction. If the loyal exclamation had been pointed at king Claudius, Francisco would have said Amen; instead of which he says, “Bernardo,” signifying, What! you king? and Bernardo cooly answers, “He,” signifying “Yes, I.” Francisco contents himself with replying, “You come most carefully upon your hour,” and the rejoinder of the future monarch puts my reading out of all doubt.

This so exactly resembles the charge of the usurper, Macbeth, to his torch-bearing domestic,

Thus the guilt of Bernardo is proved by all laws of analogy. Here then we have two beef-eaters in disguise. Ay, beef-eaters! and I’ll prove it by the next sentence.

Thus all the editors, without a single comment—Oh the blockheads! Listen to my reading.

Bernardo should in this place present an edge-bone to his friend, who should courteously accept it, like a good natured visiter, who bolts into the dining-room when dinner is half over and endeavours to avert the frowns of the lady of the house, by saying “O! make no apologies—it’s my own fault—I like it better cold, &c. Let the property man, when this play is next acted, remember the beef. In the same scene Bernardo inquires “Is Horatio here?” who answers “A piece of him.” Warburton, that bow-wow, “dog in forehead,” says this signifies his hand, which direction should be marked. But how if his hand be not marked? It is not every player who has committed manslaughter on anybody but his author. In my opinion, an actor who scorns to be a mannerist will take it to signify his leg, which is quite as good a piece of him, as his hand, and, if he be a dancer, a much better. My interpretation of this passage is strengthened by the usage of the clown in the dramatic entertainment entitled Mother Goose. When the late Mr. Lewis Bologna, as Pantaloon, proffered his hand in token of amity and forgiveness, Mr. Joseph Grimaldi protruded his foot into his master’s palm. His reading was certainly the right one.

In the course of conversation, Horatio asks, “What! has this thing appeared again to night?” which is both irreverent and nonsensical. A ghost is not a thing. Macbeth says to that of Banquo, “Unreal mockery, hence!” The passage should be “Has this king appeared?”

This allusion to fortified ears, implies that the parties wore helmets that covered these organs. For we two nights, therefore, read “we two knights.” Knights were at that time soldiers. So Joppa in his prophecy of the year 1790.

The ghost now enters, and retreats like lord Burleigh, in the critic.

Walks, if you please, Mr. Bernardo. I have heard of stalking horses indeed, and that of Troy made many ghosts. But ghosts themselves walk. In speaking to it afterwards, Horatio says, “You spirits oft walk,” “He durst as soon have met the devil in fight,” as have said “stalk.” The shades of difference in the meaning of these two words were nicely marked in a pantomime song of the late Mr. Edwin, in which he courteously applied the word “walk” to the softer sex,

The following letter received from an unknown correspondent at Boston, was intended to be placed in the biographical part of the number, by way of supplement to the life of Mrs. Warren. Having been omitted, we offer it to our readers in the Miscellany.

To the editor of the Dramatic Censor.

Sir,

In No. II, of the Dramatic Censor, I notice with pleasure a biography of Mrs. Warren, in which, however, all mention of her appearance in Boston is omitted. That she excited enlightened admiration there, the following lines may evince, which were published there soon after her decease, and in which her voice is not unhappily commended. I transcribe them, that you may hereafter insert them or not, according to your opinion of their intrinsic merit.

LINES, ON THE DEATH OF MRS. WARREN, FORMERLY MRS. MERRY, OF THE LONDON THEATRE.

They appeared in a paper of limited circulation and would now possess to most readers the charm of novelty. The English of these lines seems to the writer of this to fall upon the ear with hardly less mellifluence than the fine latinity of Wranghams’s.

Your humble servant, A FRIEND TO YOUR WORK.

Boston, March 1810.

ANECDOTES OF MACKLIN.

One night sitting at the back of the front boxes with a gentleman of his acquaintance, (before the alterations at Covent Garden theatre took place) one of the under-bred box-lobby loungers, so like some of this city of the present day, stood up immediately before him, and his person being rather large, covered the sight of the stage from him. Macklin took fire at this; but managing himself with more temper than usual, patted him gently on the shoulder with his cane, and with much seeming civility, requested of him, “when he saw or heard anything that was entertaining on the stage, to let him and the gentleman with him know of it: for you see, my dear sir,” added the veteran, “that at present we must totally depend on your kindness.” This had the desired effect, and the lounger walked off.

Talking of the caution necessary to be used in conversation among a mixed company, Macklin observed, Sir, I have experienced to my cost, that a man in any situation should never be off his guard—a Scotchman never is; he never lives a moment extempore, and that is one great reason of their success in life.

A COMPARISON BETWEEN MILTON AND SHAKSPEARE.

Among the compositions of our own country, Comus certainly stands unrivalled for its affluence in poetic imagery and diction; and, as an effort of the creative power, it can be paralleled only by the Muse of Shakspeare, by whom, in this respect, it is possibly exceeded.

With Shakspeare, the whole, with exception to some rude outlines or suggestions of the story, is the immediate emanation of his own mind: but Milton’s erudition prohibited him from this extreme originality, and was perpetually supplying him with thoughts which would sometimes obtain the preference from his judgment, and would sometimes be mistaken for her own property by his invention. Original, however, he is; and of all the sons of song inferior, in this requisite of genius, only to Shakspeare. Neither of these wonderful men was so far privileged above his species as to possess other means of acquiring knowledge than through the inlets of the senses, and the subsequent operations of the mind on this first mass of ideas. The most exalted of human intelligences cannot form one mental phantasm uncompounded of this visible world. Neither Shakspeare nor Milton could conceive a sixth corporal sense, or a creature absolutely distinct from the inhabitants of this world. A Caliban, or an Ariel; a devil, or an angel, are only several compositions and modifications of our animal creation; and heaven and hell can be built with nothing more than our terrestrial elements newly arranged and variously combined. The distinction, therefore, between one human intelligence and another must be occasioned solely by the different degrees of clearness, force, and quickness, with which it perceives, retains, and combines. On the superiority in these mental faculties it would be difficult to decide between those extraordinary men who are the immediate subjects of our remark: for, if we are astonished at that power, which, from a single spot as it were, could collect sufficient materials for the construction of a world of its own, we cannot gaze without wonder at that proud magnificence of intellect, which, rushing like some mighty river, through extended lakes, and receiving into its bosom the contributary waters of a thousand regions, preserves its course its name, and its character, entire. With Milton, from whatever mine the ore may originally be derived, the coin issues from his own mint with his own image and superscription, and passes into currency with a value peculiar to itself. To speak accurately, the mind of Shakspeare could not create; and that of Milton invented with equal, or nearly equal, power and effect. If we admit, in the Tempest, or the Midsummer’s Nights Dream, a higher flight of the inventive faculty, we must allow a less interrupted stretch of it in the Comus: in this poem there may be something, which might have been corrected by the revising judgment of its author; but its errors in thought and language, are so few and trivial that they must be regarded as the inequality of the plumage, and not the depression or unsteadiness of the wing. The most splendid results of Shakspeare’s poetry are still separated by some interposing defect; but the poetry of Comus may be contemplated as a series of gems strung on golden wire, where the sparkle shoots along the line with scarcely the intervention of one opake spot.

KEMBLE AND COOKE COMPARED.

A German gentleman of the name of Goede, after having travelled in different parts of the world, arrived in England in 1802, where he resided for two years. On his return to Germany, he communicated his observations to his countrymen in five volumes, from which translations have been made and given to the world under the name of “The Stranger in England.” His remarks are deemed in general just. He has particularly expatiated at some length on the English stage, which he thinks on the decline, and, in his strictures, has shown great knowledge of the subject, and exemplary liberality. Of Cooke and Kemble he speaks thus in one place; “The countenance of Kemble is the most noble and refined; but the muscles are not so much at command as those of Cooke, who is also a first rate comedian; but Kemble almost wholly rejects the comic muse. Both are excellent in the gradual changes of the countenance; in which the inward emotions of the soul are depicted and interwoven as they flow from the mind. In this excellence I cannot compare any German actors with them, unless it be Issland and Christ. Among French tragedians even Talma and Lafond are far inferior to them.”

Again—“Kemble has a very graceful manly figure, is perfectly well made, and his naturally commanding stature appears extremely dignified in every picturesque position, which he studies most assiduously. His face is one of the noblest I ever saw on any stage, being a fine oval, exhibiting a handsome Roman nose, and a well-formed and closed mouth; his fiery and somewhat romantic eyes retreat as it were, and are shadowed by bushy eyebrows; his front is open and little vaulted; his chin prominent and rather pointed, and his features so softly interwoven that no deeply marked line is perceptible. His physiognomy, indeed, commands at first sight; since it denotes in the most expressive manner, a man of refined sentiment, enlightened mind, and correct judgment. Without the romantic look in his eyes, the face of Kemble would be that of a well-bred, cold, and selfish man of the world; but this look from which an ardent fancy emanates, softens the point of the chin and the closeness of the mouth. His voice is pleasing, but feeble; of small compass but extreme depth. This is, as has been previously observed, the greatest natural impediment with which he, to whom nature has been thus bountiful, has still to contend.

“Cooke does not possess the elegant figure of Kemble; but his countenance beams with great expression. The most prominent features in the physiognomy of Cooke are a long and somewhat hooked nose, a pair of fiery and expressive eyes, a lofty and somewhat broad front, and the lines of his muscles which move the lips are pointedly marked. His countenance is certainly not so dignified as that of Kemble, but it discovers greater passion; and few actors are, perhaps, capable of delineating, in such glowing colours the storm of a violent passion, as Cooke. His voice is powerful and of great compass; a preeminence he possesses over Kemble, of which he skilfully avails himself. His exterior movements are by far inferior in the picturesque to those of Kemble.”

GERMAN THEATRE.

It has for a considerable time been fashionable to declaim against the theatrical performances translated from the German. They are pretty generally charged with having corrupted the English dramatic taste, and been the means of introducing the ribaldry and nonsense which, particularly in the form of songs, have so frequently appeared of late, and disgraced the London audiences, who countenanced such trash. This charge is more than insinuated in the first number of this miscellany, page 97, and by way of illustration, the sublime, refined, and admirable song of Alderman Gobble is introduced.

On this point I hold an opinion diametrically opposite, and hope to convince the reader that the allegations against the German writers are entirely groundless. In no German play that I have ever seen is there to be found any thing of this species. The true character of the German theatre is the very antipodes to this. Strong bold sentiment—incidents numerous and interesting—a dramatis personæ of the boldest and most finished kind—and in fact every thing that can command the most marked and pointed attention of the reader or spectator. And all this notwithstanding the disadvantages of appearing in foreign dress; for it hardly need be stated how wretchedly many of the translations have been executed.

That many of the German plays are highly exceptionable in their tendency is equally lamentable as it is undeniable. And when they are adapted for representation here, they ought to be altered and modified to suit the taste, the manners, and the state of society in this country. I allude to the Stranger, Lovers’ Vows, and others of this cast.

But the depravation of taste of which such loud complaints are now made, and which is so freely charged to the account of the German theatres, existed on the London stage before any of the German plays were translated. I have not in my possession at this moment means of deciding with certainty when the first made its appearance. But from an examination of a small history of the stage, which now lies before me, I am inclined to believe that the Stranger was among the earliest of them, and that its first appearance was in the year 1798. One thing, however, is absolutely certain, that not one of them was acted previous to the year 1788: as “Egerton’s Theatrical Remembrancer,” published in that year, and containing “a complete list of all the dramatic performances in the English language,” makes no mention of them. If I prove that this depraved taste existed anterior to 1788, it therefore finally decides the question.

This, I presume, is tolerably plain and clear. I now proceed to fix a much earlier origin for those vile slang songs. To O’Keefe they may be fairly traced. His motley productions contained many of them, and paved the way for the deluge of them that has since followed; for his successful example has been too frequently copied since by other writers.

“The Castle of Andalusia” was performed in 1782, and contains a song6 which, I think, fully proves my position. An audience who could not only tolerate but applaud such rank nonsense and folly as that song, richly deserves to be regaled even to surfeiting with Tom Gobble, and Jem Gabble, and ribaldry of the like kind. It would indeed be “throwing pearls before swine” to offer them such delicate effusions as are to be found in Love in a Village, Lionel and Clarissa, the Maid of the Mill, and the Duenna. It is hardly possible for sublimity and elegance to be relished by persons of so depraved a taste as is necessary to hear such trash without disgust. Were I to be called upon to make a choice, and pronounce between O’Keefe’s Galloping Dreary Dun, and Alderman Gobble, I should give a preference to the latter without hesitation: for, notwithstanding the detestable St. Giles’s slang it contains, it has the merit of containing something of a delineation of a character too common, I mean that of an epicure. Whereas, “Draggle Tail Dreary Dun” has no such recommendation to rescue it from universal execration.

DRAMATICUS.

DESCENT INTO ELYSIUM, FOR A STAGE POET.

Suggested by a scene in Aristophanes.

It is necessary to mention that this was written when Mr. Sheridan was in office, and before Mr. Colman had written his best piece, the Africans. Nothing however has occurred to alter the author’s opinions.

The idea was suggested by a scene in the frogs of Aristophanes. It is a dialogue between Hercules and Bacchus. Bacchus asking Hercules the way to the infernal regions, is naturally interrogated as to his reasons for going. He answers he is going for a poet. On this a short dialogue ensues concerning the living poets of Athens, in which Aristophanes takes occasion to satirize some of his brother dramatists.

Comic Muse, and Porter of Elysium.

Porter. Who knocks so loud and frequent at this gate?

Comic Muse. ’Tis I—the laughing muse of comedy.

P.

What? with that mournful melancholy face?

Why sure—thou’st wandered through Trophonius’ cave.

C. M.

I’ve cause for grief: I’m scorn’d despis’d, neglected,

A vulgar muse, got by some Grub-street bard,

On obscure Ignorance, in gaol or stews,

Usurps my place, and arrogates my honours.

P.

’Tis sad:—but wherefore bend this way thy steps?

C. M.

I come to seek some high and gifted bard,

Whose fiery genius with just judgment temper’d,

May vindicate my rights; and with strong satire

Whip the vile ignorant triflers from the stage.

P.

What! is there none alive of power sufficient?

Lives not the attic wit of Sheridan?

C. M.

He lives: but, oh, disgrace to letters! long

Has left me for the sweets of dissipation,

Left me whose hand had crowned his head with honours,

And still would crown,—to join the noisy band

Of brawling, jangling, patriot politicians.

At length his wonderful deserts have raised him7

To the top of office; and the quondam play-wright.

Ungrateful scorning fair Thalia’s favours,

Courts the green Naiades of Somerset.

P.

But have you not the classic Cumberland?8

C. M.

He still exists: but ah! how chang’d from him

Whose gen’rous Belcour touch’d all hearts with rapture,

Whose honest Major charm’d with native humour,

Whose Charlotte, pleasant, frank and open hearted,

Call’d forth our tears of pleasure—April showers!

His pages now, stuff’d with false maudlin sentiment,

Scarce please our whimpering-girls and driveling ensigns:

P.

But laughing Colman9 lives, a son of humour.

C. M.

’Tis true—his dashes of coarse fun and drollery,

Might smooth the wrinkles of a pedant’s brow,

And loose a stoic’s muscles: and sometimes

Beneath his various merry-andrew coat

I’ve thought I spied the stamp of manly genius,

Some vestige of his father’s purest wit.

But ah! I fear ’twas a false light betray’d me.

Let him write farce; but let him not presume

To jumble fun and opera, grave and comic,

In one vile mess—then call the mixture Shakspeare.

No more of him: my hopes are all evanish’d,

For “Hexham’s battle,” slew him: “The Iron Chest”

Sunk him to Shadwell’s bathos; and “John Bull”

Drove off in wild affright the polish’d muse.

P.

Sure there are more, whose names have not yet reach’d me.

C. M.

Why should I rescue from oblivion’s flood,

Such names as Morton, Reynolds, Dibdin, Cherry.

Morton a melancholy wight, whose muse,

Now sighs and sobs, like newly bottled ale,

Now splits her ugly mouth with grinning.10

Reynolds,11 whose muse most monstrous and misshapen,

Outvies the hideous form that Horace drew.

Dibdin12 a ballad monger—and for Cherry—

But Cherry has no character at all.

P.

Who is the favour’d bard you come to seek?

C. M.

For sterling wit and manly sense combin’d,

Where, Congreve, shall I find thy parallel?

For charming ease, who equals polish’d Vanbrugh?

Where shall we see such graceful pleasantry

As Farquhar’s muse with lavish bounty scatters?

But yet, ye great triumvirate—I fear

To call you back to earth, for ye debas’d

With vile impurities the comic muse,

And made her delicate mouth pronounce such things

As would disgust a Wilmot in full blood,

Or shock an Atheist roaring o’er his cups13

O shameful profligate abuse of powers,

Indulg’d to you for higher, nobler purposes,

Than to pollute the sacred fount of virtue,

Which, plac’d by heaven, springs in each human breast.

P.

Too true your words. But what of Massinger?14

C. M.

O how I love his independent genius,

As vigorous as the youthful eagle’s pinion.

With admiration and with joy I view

The master-touches of his powerful hand.

But, oh! I fear his muse too grand and weighty,

For this less manly, though more elegant age.15

P.

Then choose the milder song of gentle Fletcher.

C. M.

’Tis true, ’tis mild as notes of dying swans,16

But I’d have something of a loftier strain,

Which sweeps with manlier cadence o’er the strings.

P.

The page austere of learned Jonson17 suits you.

C. M.

Yes—’tis a noble and a virtuous muse,

But still her range is rugged and confined.

No. I’ll have one who conquers all—’tis Shakspeare,18

Whose genius now with rapid wing sublime,

Soars with strong course, like generous Massinger;

Now warbles forth her “native wood notes wild,”

In tones more sweet than Fletcher’s tender lays.

Now with strong arrows steeped in caustic wit,

Like Jonson, stabs the follies of the times,

Deep in the “heart’s core:” He’s the bard I seek,

He always joy’d in me, and I in him.

He will revive the glory of the stage.

Then all the puny bards of modern days,

Scar’d at his looks, shall fly; as birds of night,

Shun the full blaze of heaven’s refulgent orb.

MUSIC.

Reviews of late publications.

Respecting the overture to the opera of Il don Giovanni lately published, and the manner in which it was composed, the following singular anecdote is related. The celebrated Mozart had completed the whole of the opera, with the exception of the overture, and as the performance was to take place in a few days, the managers began to be alarmed, lest in his usual habit of procrastination, he should leave his task incomplete, and thus disappoint the public.

Messengers were sent to remind him of the shortness of the time, and urge him to finish the undertaking—but in vain; Mozart was nowhere to be found. At length he was discovered in a billiard-room, half intoxicated, earnestly engaged in a critical part of this very fascinating game. The person who came in search of him, aware of Mozart’s passionate fondness for this amusement, contrived to remove the queues out of the way, and refused to let the game proceed till the overture was written. Mozart, therefore, called for music-paper, &c. and in the state of mind we have described (the agitation of which must have been considerably increased by the vexation of being interrupted in his favourite game) actually completed the overture while leaning over the billiard-table. After this wonderful effort of genius (for such it must be called) he resumed his game as if nothing had happened—

Where shall the lover rest, the song of I. Eustane, from Scott’s Marmion, has been set to music by three different composers—but that of sir John Stephenson is preferred far before the others—the melody being tasteful and elegant—the words judiciously distributed, and the passages well adapted to the different voices allotted to perform them. The accompaniment is ingenious and expressive, and the symphonies tasteful and much in the style of Moore.

A duet composed by V. Rauzzini, and sung at the Bath concerts by Mrs. Billington and Signora Cimador, has deservedly received the greatest approbation. It is called “Care luci inamorati”—the style is truly Italian; being simple, natural, and of course pleasing.

Sweet Ellen, Sorrows Child, a ballad set to music by Rauzzini also, is spoken of with great applause. The ballad itself is censured as being too long, it consisting of four verses, which produces a slight monotony, notwithstanding that the composer has displayed vast ingenuity in varying the accompaniment to each verse. The most beautiful melody is generally found to become tiresome after a third repetition. The present is sweetly plaintive and well adapted to the words.

The Sigh and the Tear, a duet—the words by Cumberland, the music by Hawes, is very particularly recommended by the reviewers of music. The words are excellent, the music well adapted and finely impressive. The melody, particularly of the first movement, elegant, pathetic and graceful—the harmonies scientific, and the accompaniments varied and appropriate. “We recommend it,” say the reviewers, “to our fair readers as one of the most pleasing duets we have met with for a long time.”

Of “A grand Sonata” for the piano-forte, composed by J. B. Cramer, fame speaks largely. An eminent connoisseur and reviewer speaks of it in these words: “We here recognise the genuine style of J. B. Cramer—this is really a grand sonata. It consists of three different movements, each so excellent in its kind, that it is difficult to decide which is best!

“The first is expressive and majestic, in which are introduced several novel and ingenious ideas. One hand takes the chord of the 6-4, and the other the chord of the 7th, and by a very quick alternation an effect is produced similar to a triple shake.

“The passage at the beginning of page 5 is exceedingly beautiful—the whole movement will require considerable practice from the most expert performers.

“The second movement is an adagio, which for beauty and originality we think equal to any thing of the kind that Mr. Cramer has written. The change of time to triple, at the part marked scherzando is unexpected and strikingly original. This idea is carried on till near the conclusion, when the movement again resumes the majestic character with which it commences.

“Upon the whole we think this sonata superior to any Mr. Cramer has published since those he dedicated to Haydn.”

Irish music is quite the ton now in England. Corri the composer has published “The Feast of Erin, a fantasy for the piano-forte,” in which the original Irish airs of ‘Flanerty Drury,’ ‘The Summer is Coming,’ ‘Erin go Bragh,’ and ‘Fly not Yet’ are introduced. Mr. C. (says the reviewer) has displayed some judgment in the selection of these airs, particularly in Erin go Bragh, which is one of the most expressive and pathetic melodies ever written. We are sorry we cannot bestow equal praise on the manner in which he has arranged them. We candidly confess that we would rather hear the original airs performed with a tasteful simplicity, than with the embellishments and episodes of Mr. Corri.

Lays of Erin, arranged as rondeaus for the piano-forte, by the most eminent composers.

Of this publication the reviewers speak thus:

“We are happy to find a work commenced which will render more familiar to the English ear, the beautiful melodies of the sister kingdom.

“The air selected on this occasion is “St. Patrick’s Day,” and the manner in which Mr. Logier has arranged it, is such as to give us a very favourable opinion of his abilities. The little imitation introduced at bar 9, page 1, discovers considerable ingenuity. The return to the subject in the key of F, is well arranged. The minor is uncommonly spirited, and the conclusion playful and striking.”

Under the head “Music” in a former number, allusion was made to the airs of the celebrated bard of Ireland, Carolan—particularly to one called Gracey Nugent, the music of which is published with accompaniments by sir John Stephenson and Mr. Moore. The following translation of that song from the original Irish is done by Miss Brooke.

SPORTING INTELLIGENCE.

Remarks on modern pedestrianism.

Many of our modern gentlemen seem to take infinite delight in reversing the original order of things; for instance, placing the heels where the head should be, as nothing possibly can confer so much honour upon a gentleman, as being able to vie with a Venetian running footman of former times, who would post at the rate of some eight miles an hour, with a dozen, pounds weight of lead clapped in each pocket, by way of expediting his progress. In these remarks, however, I do not intend to level the least sarcasm at pedestrianism, which, if properly attended to, may, in the lapse of time, render the properties of the canine race of no utility whatsoever; nor, indeed, does it at all signify how the game be caught, for a troop of Mercury-heeled puppies would do just as well as a full pack of hounds. To be sure I am at a loss on the score of scent, and the nose is confessedly a most material point to be considered, unless to this leg exercise we allow the man to possess the keen sight of the greyhound, which will remove the objection, though the odds are much against him, as he makes so little use of his eyes as never to see that which he ought to do.

But in order the better to establish a running system, I shall have recourse to the Classics, to prove, that the pursuit will confer honour upon its practitioners; for instance, has not Ovid recorded the gallopings of the lovely Atalanta, who, being determined to live in a state of celibacy, positively ran away from the male sex? This establishes the vast antiquity of running, and nothing can possibly stand the test of inquiry, which has not such a voucher as antiquity to bear it out against the growlings of scepticism.

Athletic exercises have, in all ages, been considered conducive to the health, strength, and perfection, of youthful citizens, and consequently to the welfare of the state. In this point of view, the feats of our pedestrian candidates for fame who run against old Time himself, are certainly entitled to popular applause; and should the passion for running become general, we may soon expect to behold an exhibition, unparalleled even at the Olympic games formerly celebrated in Greece. The art of running is, like that of dancing, acquirable from a master; but gracefulness of motion is not essential to the perfection of the runner, swiftness being the principal requisite. Hence, whether the performer display his agility by bounding along on the light fantastic toe, or waddling with the zig-zag respectability of a corpulent alderman, if he can first reach the destined goal within a given period of time, he is rewarded, not with a civic crown—but a purse of gold.

Captain Barclay has obtained much notoriety, by an exhibition of his personal agility; he seems, from his attainments, eminently qualified to fill the office of running footman—an establishment, the revival of which would give permanence to this gymnastic exercise; but it is to be hoped that he will find few imitators in the British army. Celerity of movement might, indeed, be very advantageous in the field of battle, and a column, advancing at the rate of ten miles an hour, might attack the artillery of the enemy with success; but should a sudden panic on any occasion seize the troops, they might prove their agility by running away, to the great disgrace of our national honour. The introduction of Captain Barclay’s improvement in the motion of legs and feet into the army, might therefore be attended with disastrous consequences.

This excellent art, however, will probably supersede equestrian performances on the turf. The horse will no longer be tortured for the amusement of man; but fellow bipeds, equipped in querpo, will start for the prize, and, with the fleetness of a North-American Indian, bound along the lists, amid the acclamations and cheers of admiring multitudes. The competition between man and man in the modern foot-race is certainly fair; but, for the better regulation of the movements of public runners, it might be expedient that an amateur, mounted on an ass, should keep pace with the performers, and, by the judicious application of a whip, prevent any of the tricks belonging to the turf, such as crossing and jostling, that gamesters might have a fair chance for their money. As for those gymnastic heroes, who, like captain Barclay, merely run against old Time, they are, indeed, unentitled to the fame they pant for. It may be thought ungenerous to oppose youthful agility to the hobbling pace of the old gentleman, yet, as he is well known to be sound in wind, he probably will run the briskest of them down at last.

The art of running only requires the sanction of some man of quality, to establish it at the head of all our modern amusements. There is a certain sameness in other divertisements, which must become irksome to the spectator. But in the noble exhibitions of the foot-race there will be no danger of satiety, for the art of running may be diversified by such innumerable modifications, that it will appear “ever charming, ever new.” For instance, let the competitors for fame in the celerity of motion always be selected according to the strictest laws of decorum, consequently a lord and a lady cannot, without great impropriety, start against each other.

But if persons of rank and respectability choose to take an airing on their own legs, instead of an equestrian exhibition, for the amusement of the public, there is no necessity that they should be of equal size and weight. Every individual must be the best judge of his own muscular powers; and if the duke of Lumber should think proper to challenge my lord Lath, to run four times round the canal in St. James’s Park, for 10,000l. the contrast in their figure would only render the diversion more entertaining to the admiring spectators.

As the ladies have ever been emulous to distinguish themselves, and their proficiency in dancing is an excellent preparative to running, we may soon hope to see them exhibit themselves in the gymnastic lists, as candidates for that public admiration which seems to be the great business of their lives. The disparity between the competitors will doubtless be very amusing, as well as edifying.—When we behold the fat duchess of ——, with a face like Cynthia in all her glory, boldly approach the promenade in Kensington Gardens, in open defiance of public decorum, and, unzoned and divested of superfluous drapery, prepare for the race, in opposition to a slim vestal from ———, how shall we be able to restrain our risibility? The running ladies will, however, labour under one great disadvantage. Their muscular exertions must affect the lungs, and, in a great degree, suspend the exercise of their blandiloquence, not only during the race, but for some minutes after its termination.

On a general view of the national utility resulting from this modern amusement, it appears admirably well calculated for the exercise of the legs of our nobility, gentry, and merchants, and may operate as an efficacious remedy for indolence, alias laziness. It will also be conducive to the benefit of those ingenious individuals who devote their talents to the fabrication of ornaments; and we may soon expect to see, in the advertisements of mantuamakers, milliners, hosiers, and tailors, a list of patent bounding corsets, Atalanta robes, and winged bonnets, for the equipment of female adventurers in the lists of gymnastic glory; while flying trowsers, elastic jackets, and feathered buskins, fit for Mercury himself, will contribute at once to the adornment, the swiftness, and the reputation, of our noble and ignoble racers.

BACKSWORD PLAYING—MIDDLESEX PASTIME.

At Wilsden Green, a hat, and a purse of twenty shillings, were played for at backsword, and, as an encouragement for young players, five shillings were given to the winner of every head, and two shillings to the loser. On the umpire’s proclaiming the game, a hat was thrown into the ring (being the ancient mode of defiance) another soon followed, and the owners entered and played several bouts with much good humour, till the blood trickled down the head of the least fortunate. Other gamesters followed, to the number of seventeen, affording most excellent sport to a numerous and well-dressed field. The prize was won by a Dorsetshire lad, who, by breaking four heads proved himself to be the best man.

CURIOUS PEDESTRIANISM.

A very extraordinary wager was decided upon the road between Cambridge and Huntingdon. A gentleman of the former place, had betted a very considerable sum of money, that he would go, at a yard distance from the ground, upon stilts, the distance of twelve miles within the space of four hours and a half: no stoppage was to be allowed except merely the time taken up in exchanging one pair of stilts for another, and even then his feet were not to touch the ground. He started at the second milestone from Cambridge in the Huntingdon road to go six miles out and six in: the first he performed in one hour and fifty minutes, and did the distance back in two hours and three minutes, so that he went the whole in three hours and fifty-three minutes, having thirty-seven minutes to spare beyond the time allowed him. He appeared a good deal fatigued; and his hands we understand were much blistered from the continued pressure upon one part. This, we believe, is the first performance of the kind ever attempted; but as novelty appears to attract, as well as direct the manners of the age, stilting may become as fashionable in these, as tilting formerly was in better times.

Twenty-four gamesters contended manfully at Harrow-on-the-Hill for a prize of a hat and purse, at the right valiant game of backsword. Many a crown was cracked and many a heavy blow was given with right good will, and received with true humour. Much skill also in assault and defence in this game (the most lively picture of war) was evinced. Jack Martin of Harrow played the best stick among the Harrow lads—but the prize, alas was actually borne away by—a London tailor. Fourteen broken heads graced the ring.

On Monday the 19th inst. a large audience assembled at the theatre with the expectation of seeing the Foundling of the Forest performed for the benefit of Mr. Cone. Unfortunately, Mr. Wood, whose performance of De Valmont constitutes the principal attraction in the representation of that play, was suddenly seized with an indisposition so very severe as to demand medical assistance, and confine him to his room. It was then too late to issue new bills or advertisements, and nothing was left to Mr. Cone but to throw himself on the good nature of his audience, and to request their acceptance of another play: with some opposition on the part of a discontented few, “the Way to get Married” was accepted as a substitute for that which was promised.

Influenced by a laudable zeal for the discharge of his duty, Mr. Wood, though still very feeble, ventured to promise himself to the public for the character of De Valmont on Friday. As soon as his name appeared in the bills, a report was circulated through the city that he was to be assaulted: that is to say that he had so highly offended that high and mighty body of gentlemen apprentices and else who swagger in good broadcloth clothes and brass buttons in the theatre, by not leaving his bed of sickness for the amusement of their high mightinesses, that they had resolved to hiss and drive him off the stage. Those who were most prompt to condemn the insolence and indecency of the band alluded to, thought that such a design would be an outrage too unjust, too stupid even for such persons as their high mightinesses; and, therefore, refused to give it credit. In this, however, they very much underrated the modesty and good nature of their “high mightinesses,” since half the barbers in the city were amused with the threats uttered by those doughty champions of what they would do to Mr. Wood. The consequence was that that gentleman felt it necessary to humiliate himself with an apology, in order to escape the wrath of a set of obscure chaps, not one of whom perhaps could reasonably aspire to sit in his company.

The private character of Mr. Wood is almost as well known as his professional: by the most respectable part of the community he is highly valued for his personal worth. No one could suspect him of wilfully neglecting his duty, or acting the part of dishonour. Indeed, what motive could he have to injure Mr. Cone? He cannot, surely, look upon that gentleman as a rival. But, if he could harbour such a wish, his moral and intellectual character stands too high, to allow a suspicion of his employing such means—means so base and so bungling, that it may well be wondered at how even their high mightinesses could think of them. The truth is, no such thing was imagined—the whole had its root in causes which more deeply concern the public than Mr. Wood or Mr. Cone. A set of ignorant self-conceited young despots have erected themselves into a body of riot, for the purpose of controling the theatre, and bullying, not only the actors but the audience. Mr. Cone has really no more to do with it than Mr. Cooke or Mr. Kemble; but these fellows use him as drunken Irishmen in fairs are known to use their great coats. These champions of the real cudgel draw their great coats along with the skirts trailing on the ground, and keeping their eyes fixed upon them, cry, in order to kick up a riot, “Who dare tread upon my coat.”

It behoves the citizens in general to interfere in some way and prevent those shameful outrages upon their rights and feelings. Places of amusement ought to be resorts of good-humour and peace—not rendezvous for swaggering petulant bullies. The law ought to be called in to prevent a repetition of such offences. For certainly there are legal provisions to answer the purpose. If not, it were better to shut up the playhouse at once than have it open, a school of riot and impertinence.

If these men be really the friends of Mr. Cone, they certainly take the very worst way to show it. Mr. Cone’s own talents and the unbiassed judgment of the public are more substantial grounds for him to rely upon, than all that the whole body of Hectors could do for his support or advancement. They have long been the pest of the playhouse, and always the worst enemies of those whose cause they have officiously assumed to espouse. It is but justice to Mr. Cone to declare our firm persuasion that he has too much sense, and too much honour to wish for the interference of men whose pretended friendship cannot fail to subject any person who is its object to public odium and to the dislike and suspicion of every wise, honest and respectable gentleman in the community.

Mr. Lewis, the player, on his late retirement from the stage, reminded the public that he had been six and thirty years playing to them, and had never once received the slightest disapprobation. Had a fragment of the ignorant mob of London been permitted to rule the theatre he would have been hissed a thousand times, if it were for nothing else but his superior merit. This we can affirm, that Mr. Wood is at least as inoffensive as Mr. Lewis.

Footnotes

The printed book contained the six Numbers of Volume I with their appended plays. The Index (unpaginated) originally appeared at the beginning of the volume. Pages 189-268 refer to the present Number; pages 1-108 are in Number 1 (e-text 22488). Index references are linked to the appropriate page. Other Numbers (in preparation as of July 2008) cover the remaining pages:

Volume I, Number 1: pp. 1-108 I.2: pp. 109-188 I.3: pp. 189-268 I.4: pp. 269-348 I.5: pp. 349-430 I.6: pp. 431-510