[Illustration: C]Critics, as well as placemen, are occasionally
sinecurists, and, like the gentlemen of England immortalised by Dibdin,
are able, now and then, to "live at home at ease"--to dine (on dining
days) in comfort, not having to rise from table to give authors or actors
their dessert. This kind of novelty in our lives takes place when managers
produce no novelties in their theatres; when authors are lazy, and actors
do not come out in new parts but are contented with wearing out old
ones--when, in short, such an eventless theatrical week as the past one
leaves us to the enjoyment of our own hookahs, and the port of our
cellar-keeping friends. The play-bills seem to have been printed from
stereotype, for, like the laws of the Medes and Persians, they have never
altered--since our last report.
This unexpected hot weather has visited the public with many a "Midsummer
night's dream," _although_ it is--and Covent Garden has opened _because_
it is September; Sheridan's "Critic" has been very busy there, though
PUNCH'S has had nothing to do. "London Assurance" is still seen to much
advantage, and so is Madame Vestris.
The Haymarket manager continues to wade knee-deep in tragedy, in spite of
the state of the weather. The fare is, however, too good for any change in
the _carte_. "Werner" forms a substantial standing dish. The "Boarding
School" makes a most palpable _entrée_; while "Bob Short," and "My Friend
the Captain," serve as excellent after-courses. The promises recorded in
the Haymarket bills are, a new tragedy by a new author, and an old comedy
called "Riches;" a certain hit, if the continued success of "Money" be any
criterion.
It is with feelings of the most rabid indignation that we approach the
_Strand Theatre_, and the ruthless threat its announcements put forth of
the future destruction of the only legitimate drama that is now left
amongst us; that is to say, "PUNCH." When Thespis and his pupil Phynicus
"came out" at the feasts of Bacchus; when "Roscius was an actor in Rome;"
when Scaramouch turned the Materia Medica into a farce, and became a quack
doctor in Italy; when Richardson set up his show in England--all these
geniuses were peregrinate, peripatetic--their scenes were really moving
ones, their tragic woes went upon wheels, their comedies were run through
at the rate of so many miles per hour; the entire drama was, in fact, a
travelling concern. Punch, the concentrated essence of all these, has, up
to this date, preserved the pristine purity of his peripatetic fame; he
still remains on circuit, he still retains his legitimacy. But, alas! ere
this sheet has passed through the press, while its ink is yet as wet as
our dear Judy's eyes, he will have fallen from his high estate: Hall will
have housed him! Punch will have taken a stationary stand at the Strand
Theatre!! The last stroke will have been given to the only ancient drama
remaining, except the tragedies of Sophocles, and "Gammer Gurton's
Needle."
With feelings of both sorrow and anger, we turn from the pedestrian to the
equestrian drama. The Surrey has again, as of yore, become the Circus; she
has been joined to Ducrow and his stud by the usual symbol of union--a
_ring_. "Mazeppa" is _ridden_ by Mr. Cartlitch, with great success, and
the wild horse performed by an animal so highly trained, that it is as
tame as a lap-dog--has galloped through a score or so of nights, to the
delight of some thousands of spectators. The scenes in the circle exhibit
the usual _round_ of entertainment, and the _Merryman_ delivers those
reliques of antique facetiæ which have descended to the clowns of the
ring from generation to generation, without the smallest innovation. Thus
the Surrey shows symptoms of high prosperity, and properly declines to fly
in Fortune's face by attempting novelty.
The Victoria continues to kill "James Dawson," in spite of our prediction.
The bills, however, promise that he shall die outright on Monday next, and
a happy release it will be. The proprietor of "Sadler's Wells" is making
most spirited efforts to attract play-goers to the Islington side of the
New River, by a return to the legitimate drama of _his_ theatre,
viz.--real water; while his box check-taker has kept one important integer
of the public away; namely, that singular plural _we_--by impertinence for
which we have exhausted all patience without obtaining redress.
There are, we hear, other theatres open in London, one called the "City of
London," somewhere near Shoreditch; another in Whitechapel, both _terræ
incognitæ_ to us. The proprietors of these have handsomely presented us
with free admissions. We beg them to accept our thanks for their courtesy;
but are sorry we cannot avail ourselves of it till they add the obligation
of providing us with _guides_.
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