SCENE I.--_O'Dedimus's office. Ponder discovered._

Produced by Barbara Tozier, Nigel Blower, Bill Tozier and

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[Transcriber's Note:

Typographical errors are listed at the end of the text.

The printed book contained the six Numbers of Volume I with their

appended plays. The Index originally appeared at the beginning of

the volume; it has been included at the end of the journal text of

Number 1 (Project Gutenberg EBook #22488), before the play.

Pages 109-188 refer to the present Number.]

THE MIRROR OF TASTE,

AND

DRAMATIC CENSOR.

Vol. I. FEBRUARY 1810. No. 2.

HISTORY OF THE STAGE.

CHAPTER II.

RISE AND PROGRESS OF THE DRAMA IN GREECE--ORIGIN OF

TRAGEDY--THESPIS--AESCHYLUS, "THE FATHER OF THE TRAGIC ART"--HIS

ASTONISHING TALENTS--HIS DEATH.

It has been already remarked that at a very early period, considerably

more than three thousand years ago, the Chinese and other nations in the

east understood the rudiments of the dramatic art. In their crude,

anomalous representations they introduced conjurers, slight of hand men

and rope dancers, with dogs, birds, monkies, snakes and even mice which

were trained to dance, and in their dancing to perform evolutions

descriptive of mathematical and astronomical figures. To this day the

vestiges of those heterogeneous amusements are discernible all over

Indostan: but that which will be regarded by many with surprise, is that

in all countries pagan or christian the drama in its origin, with the

dancings and spectacles attending it have been intermixed with divine

worship. The Bramins danced before their god Vishnou, and still hold it

as an article of faith that Vishnou had himself, "in the olden time"

danced on the head of a huge serpent whose tail encompassed the world.

That very dance which we call a minuet, has been proved by an ingenious

Frenchman, to be the same dance originally performed by the priests in

the temple of Apollo, and constructed by them, to be symbolical of the

zodiac; every figure described by the heavenly bodies having a

correspondent movement in the minuet: the diagonal line and the two

parallels representing the zodiac generally, the twelve steps of which

it is composed, representing the twelve signs, and the twelve months of

the year, and the bow at the beginning and the end of it a profound

obedience to the sun. About the year four hundred after the building of

the city of Rome, the Romans, then smarting under great public calamity,

in order to appease the anger of heaven, instituted theatrical

performances, as feasts in honour of their gods. The first Spanish plays

were founded, sometimes on the loves of shepherds, but much more

frequently on points of theology, such as the birth of Christ, the

passion, the temptation in the desert and the martyrdom of saints. The

most celebrated dramatic poet of Portugal, Balthazar, wrote dramas which

he called AUTOS chiefly on pious subjects--and the prelate Trissino, the

pope's nuncio, wrote the first regular tragedy, while cardinal Bibiena

is said to be the author of the first comedy known in Italy, after the

barbarous ages. The French stage began with the representation of

MYSTRIES, by the priests, who acted sacred history on a stage, and

personated divine characters. The first they performed was the history

of the death of our Saviour, from which circumstance the company who

acted, gave themselves the name of THE CONFRATERNITY OF THE PASSION: and

in England one single paper which remains on record, proves that the

clergy were the first dramatists. This paper is a petition of the clerks

or clergy of St. Paul's to king Richard the Second, and dated in 1378

which prayed his majesty to prohibit a company of _unexpert_ people from

representing the history of the Old Testament, to the great prejudice of

the said clergy, who had been at great charge and expense to represent

the same at christmas.

It would be little to the purpose, to dwell longer on that part of the

history of the drama, which lies back in the darkness of remote

antiquity. Having shown that it did exist, in some shape or other, of

which but very imperfect traces remain, and of course very inadequate

notions can be collected, all further inquiry backward would be but the

loss of so much time and trouble. The scope of human knowledge is

extended at too heavy a price when the industry which might be more

usefully applied, is exercised in hunting down origins into the

obscurity of times so extremely distant. Where the greatest pains have

been lavished on that sort of research, little knowledge has been

gained; and the most diligent inquirers have been compelled either to

confess that they were baffled, or rather than own their disappointment,

to substitute fable for fact, and pass the fictions of imagination for

historical truths.

It is in the records of Greece the dramatic art first presents itself in

the consistent shape and with the circumstantial detail of authentic

history. There, plays were first moulded into regular form, and divided

into acts. Yet the people of that country knew so little of its having

previously existed in any shape, in any other country, that the

different states contested with each other, the honour of having

invented it; each asserting its claim with a warmth that demonstrates

the high sense they entertained of its importance: and surely what such

a people highly valued is entitled to the respect of all other nations.

Of the drama, therefore, it might perhaps be enough to say that it was

nursed in the same cradle with Eloquence, Philosophy, and Freedom, and

that it was so favourite a child of their common parents, that they

contended, each for an exclusive right to it. The credit of having first

given simplicity, rational form, and consequent interest to theatrical

representations has, by the universal concurrence of the learned, been

awarded to Attica, whose genius and munificence erected to the drama

that vast monument the temple of Bacchus, the ruins of which are yet

discernible and admired by all travellers of taste and erudition.

The origin of tragedy is a subject of curious contemplation. A rich

planter of Attica, finding, one day, a goat devouring his grapes, killed

it, and invited the peasantry to come and feast upon it. He gave them

abundance of wine to drink, intoxicated with which they daubed their

faces with the lees, ornamented their heads with chaplets made of the

vine branches, and then danced, singing songs in chorus to Bacchus all

the while round the animal destined for their banquet. A feast so very

agreeable was not likely to go unrepeated; and it was soon reduced to a

custom which was pretty generally observed in Attica, during the

vintage. On those occasions the peasants, absolved from all reserve by

intoxication, gave a loose to their animosities against the opulent, and

in token of defiance of their supposed oppressors, went in bodies to

their houses, and in set terms of abuse and sarcasm, called aloud for

redress of their grievances. The novelty of the exhibition drew a

multitude round them who enjoyed it as a new species of entertainment.

Far from preventing it, the magistrates authorized the proceeding in

order that it might serve as an admonition to the rich; taking special

care, however, that no positive violence should be resorted to, and thus

making it a wholesome preventive of public disorder. To this yearly

festival which was called "the feast of the goat" the people of all

parts were invited; and as this extraordinary spectacle was performed in

a field near the temple of Bacchus, it was gradually introduced into the

worship of that god. Hymns to the deity were sung both by priests and

people in chorus while the goat was sacrificing, and to these hymns the

name was given of _Tragodia_ (tragedy) or "the song of the goat."

During these exhibitions the vintagers, intoxicated with wine and joy,

revenged themselves not only on the rich by publishing and satirizing

their injustice, but on each other with ridicule and sarcasm. In their

other religious festivals also, choruses of fauns and bacchants chaunted

songs and held up individuals to public ridicule. From such an humble

germe has sprung up an art which in all parts of the world has, for

centuries, administered to the advancement of poetry and elegant

literature, and to the delight and improvement of mankind.

To these performances succeeded pieces composed by men of poetical

talents, in some of which the adventures of the gods were celebrated and

in others the vices and absurdities of individuals were attacked with

much asperity. The works of all those poets probably died with them; nor

is there any reason to believe that the loss of them is to be

regretted--they are mentioned here only because they form a link in the

chain of this history. By them, such as they were, however, the

influence of the drama was established so far that it was soon found

necessary to regulate it by law; the players who entered into

competition at the Pythian games being enjoined to represent

successively the circumstances that had preceded, accompanied and

followed the victory of Apollo over Python. Some years after this, came

Susarion of Megara, the first inventor of comedy who appeared at the

head of a company of actors attacking the vices of his time. This was

562 years before Christ, and in twenty-six years after, that is 536

before Christ, appeared Thespis.

THESPIS has the credit of being the first inventor of regular tragedy.

Disgusted with the nonsensical trash exhibited on the subject of

Bacchus, and indignant, or pretending to be so, at the insult offered by

such representations to that deity, he wrote pieces of a new kind, in

which he introduced recitation, leaving Bacchus entirely out, lashing

the vices and follies of the times, and making use, for the first time,

of fiction. Though his representations were very rustic and imperfect

they still make the first great era in the history of the tragic art:

and they must be allowed to have made no slight impression upon the

public mind, when it is remembered that they called forth the opposition

of SOLON, the great lawgiver of Athens; who, on seeing the

representations of Thespis, sternly observed, that if falsehood and

fiction were tolerated on the stage they would soon find their way into

every part of the republic. To this Thespis answered, that the fiction

could not be harmful which every one knew to be fiction; that being

avowed and understood, it lost its vicious character, and that if

Solon's argument were true, the works of Homer deserved to be burned.

Solon, however, exercised his authority upon the occasion, and

interdicted Thespis not only from writing but from teaching the art of

composing tragedies at Athens. Whether Thespis was supported by the

people in contradiction to Solon, or whether he contrived to follow his

business in some other part of Attica, out of the jurisdiction of that

great man, is not known; but he certainly disregarded the interdict, and

not only wrote tragedies, but instructed others in their composition.

For Phrynicus, the tragic poet of Athens, (the first who introduced a

female character on the stage) was his disciple.

In less than half a century after Thespis had, by his ingenuity, so

improved the dramatic art as to form an era in its history, arose the

illustrious personage, whose further improvements and astonishing

poetical talents justly obtained for him the high distinction of "The

Father of Tragedy." AEschylus, in common with all the natives of Attica,

was bred to arms. The same genius which, applied to poetry, placed him

at the head of tragic writers, raised him in the field to a high rank

among the greatest captains of antiquity. At the celebrated battles of

Marathon, Salamis and Plataea he distinguished himself in a manner that

would have rendered his name forever illustrious as a warrior, if the

splendor of his martial fame were not lost in the blaze of his poetical

glories. Descended from some of the highest Athenian blood, he was early

placed under Pythagoras to learn philosophy, and at the age of

twenty-one was a candidate for the prize in poetry. Thus illustrious as

a philosopher, a warrior and a poet, it is no wonder that he was held in

the highest respect and consideration by his countrymen. He wrote

sixty-six, or, as some say, ninety tragedies, forty of which were

rewarded with the public prize. Of all these, seven only have escaped

the ravages of time, and descended to us perfect.

Thespis, who had gone before him, still left the Grecian stage in a

state of great rudeness and imperfection, and, what was worse, in a

condition of low buffoonery. Before Thespis tragedy consisted of no more

than one person, who sung songs in honour of Bacchus. Thespis introduced

a second performer; such was the state of the Grecian stage when

AEschylus arose, and made an illustrious epoch in the history of the

drama. Before him the chorus was the principal part of the performance;

but he reduced it to the state of an assistant, which was introduced

between the acts to heighten the effect by recitation or singing, and by

explaining the subject in its progression. He introduced another actor,

which made his dramatis personae three. He divided his pieces into acts,

and laid the foundation of those principles of dramatic poesy upon which

Aristotle afterwards built his rules. Thespis and his successors before

AEschylus, acted from a cart in the streets: neither his actors nor

himself were distinguished by any more than their ordinary dress.

AEschylus built a theatre, embellished it with appropriate scenery,

machinery, and decorations, and clothed his actors with dresses suitable

to their several characters. This would have been effecting much if he

had done nothing more; but to the theatre which he erected, he added

plays worthy of being represented with the splendor of such

preparations. Abandoning the monstrous extravagancies and uncouth

buffoonery of his predecessors, he took Homer for his guide, and

composed pieces which for boldness and terrible sublimity have never

been surpassed. His fiery imagination, when once on the wing, soared

beyond the reach of earth, and seemed to spurn probability, and to

delight in gigantic images and tremendous prodigies. No poet ever had

such talents for inspiring terror. When his tragedy of EUMENIDES was

represented, many children died through fear, and several pregnant women

actually miscarried in the house, and it is related of him that nothing

could surpass the terrible ferocity of his countenance while, under the

inspiration of his sublime Muse, he composed his tragedies.

The mind of this very extraordinary man was comprehensive, energetic,

vigorous, and fiery: of him may with equal truth be said what doctor

Johnson has said of our Shakspeare:

Existence saw him spurn her wide domain.

For his imagination, daring, wild, and disorderly, resorted to the

agency of preternatural beings, and in one of his plays called up the

dead, with a degree of skill which Shakspeare only has surpassed, and

none but Shakspeare could at all equal. He selected his subjects from

the highest regions of sublimity, and his morals, always excellent, are

enforced by the most dreadful examples of divine vengeance. To sum up

his character in a few words--Longinus, the prince of Critias, says of

him that he had a noble boldness of expression, with an imagination

lofty and heroic, and his claim to the sublime has never been contested.

At the same time it must be owned that his style is, at least to modern

readers, obscure, and that his works are considered the most difficult

of all the Greek classics. The improvements he made in the drama seemed

to his cotemporaries to bespeak an intelligence more than human;

wherefore, to account for his wonderous works, they had recourse to

fable, and related that the god Bacchus revealed himself to him

personally, as he lay asleep under the shade of a vine, commanded him to

write tragedy, and inspired him with the means. This story is very

gravely told by the historian Pausanias.

There is little doubt that AEschylus felt a gratification in putting down

the monstrous rhapsodies to Bacchus and the other deities, with which

the idolatrous priests of that day blindfolded and deceived the people;

his plays having frequent cuts upon the gross superstition which then

darkened the heathen world. For some expressions which were deemed

impious he was condemned to die. Indeed christian scholars particularly

mark a passage in one of his tragedies in which he palpably predicts,

the downfall of Jupiter's authority, as if he had foreseen the

dispersion of heathenism. The multitude were accordingly going to stone

him to death when they were won over to mercy by the remonstrances and

intreaties of his brother Amynias who had commanded a squadron of ships

at the glorious battle of Salamis, and was regarded as one of the

principal saviours of his country. This brave man reminded the people

what they owed to his brother AEschylus for his valour at Marathon and at

Plataea, and then of what they owed himself for his conduct at Salamis,

in which bloody but glorious battle he had been chiefly supported by

that brother whom they were now ungratefully going to put to

death:--having said this, he threw aside his cloak and exposing his arm

from which the hand had been cut off, "Behold," he cried--"behold this,

and let it speak for my brother and myself!" The multitude relented, and

were all at once clamorous in their applause and benediction of the two

brothers. The highminded AEschylus however was so incensed at the

ingratitude of the mob and the slight they put upon him, that he retired

into Sicily where he lost his life by a most singular accident. Having

wandered into the fields, an eagle which had mounted into the air with a

tortoise, for the purpose of dropping it upon a rock in order to break

the shell, mistaking the bald head of AEschylus for a stone, let the

animal fall upon it, and killed him on the spot. The Athenians gave him

the honour of a pompous public funeral with orations, and all that could

denote their respect for the hero, the philosopher, the poet, and the

father of the tragic art--and succeeding tragedians made it a ceremony

to perform plays at his tomb.

To complete the glories of this wonderful man, the ruins of the theatre

he planned and erected, furnished the Romans with the model, upon which

they afterwards raised those magnificent edifices which still are the

objects of admiration and delight with the world, and of imitation with

the scientific professors of architecture.

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF MRS. WARREN.

Mrs. Ann Warren, whose name has, for some years, stood so high in

theatrical annals, was the daughter of Mr. John Brunton, who as an actor

and a manager, maintained a respectable rank in Great Britain, while he

remained upon the stage; and all his life has been considered a man of

great worth, and an estimable gentleman. Having received a good

classical education under the tuition of the reverend Mr. Wilton,

prebendary of Bristol, Mr. Brunton was bound apprentice to a wholesale

grocer in Norwich, and when his time was out, married a Miss Friend, the

daughter of a respectable merchant of that city, soon after which he

went to London, and entered into business, as a tea-dealer and grocer in

Drury-Lane. Here he became acquainted with Mr. Joseph Younger, who was

at the time prompter at Covent Garden theatre, and though no actor

himself, knew stage business as well as any man in England. Mr. Younger,

discerning in Mr. Brunton good talents for an actor, advised him to try

the experiment, and gave him such strong assurances of success, that he

agreed to make the attempt and actually made his first appearance in the

character of Cyrus for his friendly adviser's benefit, sometime in the

year 1774. His reception in this character was so very encouraging that

he again came forward before the end of the season, and played the

character of Hamlet for the benefit of Mr. Kniveton. So completely did

the event justify Mr. Younger's opinion, and evince his discernment that

Mr. Brunton soon found it his interest to abandon commerce, and take

entirely to the stage. At this time his eldest daughter, the subject of

the present memoir, was little more than five years of age. Having

settled his affairs in London, and sold off his stock in trade, Mr.

Brunton returned to the city of Norwich in which he got an engagement,

and met all the encouragement, he could hope for, being considered the

best actor that had ever appeared on that stage. From this he was

invited to Bath and Bristol, where he continued to perform for five

years, and at the end of that time returned to the Norwich theatre of

which he became manager. Mr. B.'s family had now become very numerous;

he had six children,--a charge which in England would be thought to lean

too heavy upon a very large estate--and yet with nothing more than the

income which he derived from his professional industry, did this

exemplary father tenderly rear and genteelly educate that family.

From the circumstances of her father's situation, and from her early

accomplishments and success as an actress, it will be imagined by many,

that Miss Brunton was early initiated in stage business; that she had

seen every play acted, and had studied and imitated the many great

models of her time, the Barrys, the Bellamys, the Yeates, and the

Siddonses; that under a father so well qualified to instruct her, her

talents were brought forth in the very bud, by constant exercise, and

that while yet a child she had learned to personate the heroine. What

then will the reader's surprise be, when he is informed that she had

seen very few plays; perhaps fewer than the general run of citizens'

daughters--and that the stage was never even for an instant contemplated

as a profession for her till a very short time before her actual

appearance in public. The fact is, that Mr. Brunton's conduct through

life was distinguished no less by prudence and discretion, than by a

lofty regard to the honourable estimation of his family. While he

himself drudged upon the stage and faced the public eye, his family,

more dear to him, lived in the repose of retired life, and instead of

fluttering round the scenes of gayety and dissipation, or haunting the

theatre before or behind the curtain, Mrs. Brunton trained her children

to domestic habits, and contented herself with qualifying her daughters

to be like herself, good wives and mothers. Not in the city but in the

country near Bath did Mr. Brunton live in an elegant cottage, where his

little world inhaled the pure air of heaven, and grew up in

innocence--Mrs. Brunton herself being their preceptress. Nothing was

farther from his thoughts than that any of his daughters possessed

requisites for the stage; they were all very young, even the eldest, our

heroine, had but turned past fifteen, and, exclusive of her youth, had

a lowness of stature and an exility of person, than which nothing could

be farther from suggesting ideas of the heroine, or of tragic

importance, when one day, by desire of her mother, she recited some

select passages in her father's presence. He listened with mixed

emotions of astonishment and delight--a new train of thought shot across

his mind; he put her over and over again to the trial, and at every

repetition had additional motives to admire and to rejoice. Then, for

the first time, was he aware of the mine which lay concealed in his

family under modesty and reserve, and then, for the first time, he

resolved that she should try her fate upon the stage, his fond heart

prognosticating that _his_ darling would, ere long, be the darling of

the people. That she should possess such an affluence of endowment,

without letting it earlier burst upon her father's sight, is evidence of

a share of modesty and diffidence as rare as lovely, and well worthy

imitation, if under the present _regime_ the imitation of such virtues

were practicable.

As this circumstance exhibits our heroine's private character in a most

exalted and amiable view, so it demonstrates the native powers of her

genius. Let it only be considered!--while she yet fell, by two months,

short of sixteen years of age, or in other words while she had yet

scarcely advanced a step from the date of childhood, without any

previous stage practice, without the advantage of studying, in the

performances of other actresses, what to do, or what to avoid, she comes

forward, for the first time, in one of the most arduous characters in

tragedy, and at one flight mounts to the first rank in her profession.

It is a circumstance unexampled in the records of the stage, and would

be incredible if not too universally known to be doubted.

Mr. Brunton immediately on discovering the treasure he possessed,

resolved to bring it forth to public view. The time was nearly at hand

when he was to take his benefit, and he judiciously thought that there

could not be a more happy way of introducing her with advantage than in

the pious office of aiding him on that occasion--nor can the most lively

imagination, conceive an object more interesting than a creature so

young, so lovely, and so much wiser than her years standing forward to

encounter the hazards and the terrors of that most trying situation in

cheerful obedience to a father's will, and for a father's benefit. The

selection of the character of Euphrasia for her, while he played the

aged father, Evander, who is supposed to be sustained by the nourishment

given from his daughter's bosom, was judicious, as it formed a

coincidence of fact and fiction, which if it had been only moderately

supported by her performance, could scarcely fail to excite in every

bosom, in the house, the most lively and interesting sensations. Nothing

that paternal affection, and good sense could dictate were wanting on

the part of Mr. Brunton. Of the short time he had for instructing her,

no part was lost. The appearance of Mr. Brunton's daughter in Euphrasia,

with a prologue written for the occasion, was announced, and

notwithstanding there were not wanting wretches mean and miserable

enough to trumpet abroad her youth and smallness of stature, as

insurmountable obstacles to her personating the Grecian daughter, more

just ideas of her, or perhaps curiosity brought a full house. Mr.

Brunton himself spoke the prologue, which was written for him by the

ingenious Mr. Meyler, and was as follows:

Sweet Hope! for whom his anxious parent burns,

Lo! from his tour the travelled heir returns,

With each accomplishment that Europe knows,

With all that Learning on her son bestows;

With Roman wit and Grecian wisdom fraught,

His mind has every letter'd art been taught.

Now the fond father thinks his son of age,

To take an active part in life's vast stage;

And Britain's senate opes a ready door,

To fill the seat his sire had fill'd before,

There when some question of great moment springs,

He'll rise--then "hear him, hear him," loudly rings,

He speaks--th' enraptur'd list'ning through admire

His voice, his argument, his genius' fire!

The fond old man, in pure ecstatic joy,

Blesses the gods that gave him such a boy!

But if insipid Dulness guide his tongue,

With what sharp pangs his aged heart is wrung--

Despair, and shame, and sorrow make him rue

The hour he brought him to the public view.

And now what fears! what doubt, what joys I feel!

When my first hope attempts her first appeal,

Attempts an arduous task--Euphrasia's wo--

Her parent's nurse--or deals the deadly blow!

Some sparks of genius--if I right presage,

You'll find in this young novice of the stage:

Else had not I for all this earth affords

Led her thus early on these dangerous boards.

If your applause gives sanction to my aim,

And this night's effort promise future fame,

She shall proceed--but if some bar you find,

And that my fondness made my judgment blind,

Discern no voice, no feeling she possess,

Nor fire that can the passions well express;

Then, then forever, shall she quit this scene,

Be the plain housewife, not the tragic queen.

Such an appeal, delivered with all the powers of an excellent speaker,

and enforced by the genuine and unfeigned feelings of a father's heart,

told home--peals of applause gave assurance that her entrance was

strewed with flowers, and that at least, her reception, would correspond

with his fondest wishes.

The accounts that have been given by spectators of the events of that

night are extremely interesting. Many, no doubt, went there with a

prepossession, raised by the unfavourable reports of her personal

appearance; and if lofty stature were indispensibly necessary to a

heroine, no external appearance could be much less calculated to

personify a Thalestris than Miss Brunton's--but the mighty mind soon

made itself to be felt, and every idea of personal dimensions vanished.

"The audience (says a British author) expected to see a mawkin, but saw

a Cibber--the applause was proportionate to the surprise: every mouth

emitted her praise, and she performed several parts in Bath and Bristol,

a phenomenon in the theatrical hemisphere." Though the trepidation

inseparable from such an effort diminished her powers at first, the

sweetness of her voice struck every ear like a charm: the applause that

followed invigorated her spirits so far that in the reciprocation of a

speech or two more, her fine clear articulation struck the audience with

surprise, and when, more assured by their loud approbation, she came to

the speech:

"Melanthon, how I loved, the gods who saw

Each secret image that my fancy formed,

The gods can witness how I loved my Phocion,

And yet I went not with him. Could I do it?

Could I desert my father?--Could I leave

The venerable man, who gave me being,

A victim here in Syracuse, nor stay

To watch his fate, to visit his affliction,

To cheer his prison hours, and with the tear

Of filial virtue bid each bondage smile."

she seemed to pour forth her whole heart and soul in the words, and

emitted such a blaze as filled the house with rapture and astonishment.

In a word, no actress at the highest acme of popularity ever received

greater applause. Next day her performance was the topic of every circle

in Bath. Horatia in the Roman Father, and Palmyra in Mahomet, augmented

her reputation, and in less than a month the fame of this prodigy, for

such she appeared to be, had reached every town and city of Great

Britain and Ireland.

It was natural to imagine that such extraordinary powers would not be

long suffered to waste themselves upon the limited society of country

towns. Mr. Harris, as soon as he received intelligence on which he could

depend, upon the subject of Miss Brunton's talents, resolved to be

himself an eye-witness of her performance, and set off to Bath with a

view, if his judgment should concur with that of the public of that

city, to offer her an engagement at Covent Garden. To see her was to

decide; he resolved to have her if possible, and lost no time to make

such overtures at once as could not well be refused. These included an

engagement at a very handsome salary for her father; her own of course

was liberal--when one considers how long Mrs. Siddons had appeared upon

the stage before she got a firm footing on the London boards, one cannot

but be astonished at the rise of this lady at one leap from the

threshold to the top of her profession. It is worthy of observation that

the real children of nature generally burst at once upon the view in

excellence approaching to perfection; while the mere artists of the

stage lag behind, labouring for years, before they attain the summit of

their ambition; when their consummate art and their skill in concealing

that art (ars celare artem) if they have it, entitles them at last to

the highest praise. Mrs. Bellamy was one of those children of nature.

Before she appeared, Quin decidedly gave judgment against her: yet the

first night she performed he was so struck with her excellence, that,

impatient to wipe away his injustice by a candid confession he

emphatically exclaimed, "My child, the spirit is in thee." Garrick it is

said never surpassed his first night's performance: and the Othello of

Barry's first appearance, and the Zanga of Mossop's never were equalled

by any other actors, nor were ever surpassed even by themselves.

Such was the impression made by this phenomenon, even before she left

the country for London, that the presses teemed with tributes to her

extraordinary merit, in verse and prose. Learning poured forth it praise

in deep and erudite criticism--Poetry lavished its sparkling encomium in

sonnets, songs, odes, and congratulatory addresses, while the light

retainers to literature filled the magazines and daily prints with

anecdotes, paragraphs, bon-mots, and epigrams. In a word, there was for

sometime no reading a newspaper, or opening a periodical publication

without seeing some production or other addressed to Miss Brunton. From

the number which appeared the following is deservedly selected, for the

elegance of its Latin and the beauty of its thoughts:

AD BRUNTONAM.

E GRANTA EXITURAM.

Nostri praesidium et decus thartri;

O tu, Melpomene severioris

Certe filia! quam decere formae

Donavit Cytherea; quam Minerva

Duxit per dubiae vias juventae,

Per plausus populi periculosus;--

Nec lapsam--precor, O nec in futuram

Lapsuram. Satis at Cam[oe]na dignis

Quae te commemoret modis? Acerbos

Seu praeferre Monimiae dolores,

Frater cum vetitos (nefas!) ruebat

In fratris thalamos, parumque casto

Vexabat pede; sive Julietae

Luctantes odio paterno amores

Maris: te sequuntur Horror,

Arrectusque comas Pavor. Vicissim

In fletum populus jubetur ire,

Et suspiria personant theatrum.

Mox divinior enitescis, altrix

Altoris vigil et parens parentis.

At non Graecia sola vindicavit

Paternae columen decusque vitae

Natam; restat item patri Britanno

Et par Euphrasiae puella, quamque

Ad scenam pietas tulit paternam.

O Bruntona, cito exitura virgo,

Et visu cito subtrahenda nostro,

Breves deliciae, dolorque longus!

Gressum siste parumper oro; teque

Virtutesque tuas lyra sonandas

Tradit Granta suis vicissim almunis.

The following very elegant poem, published as a version of this ode, is

rather a paraphrase than a translation. What Gibbon said of Pope's Homer

may with some truth be applied to it: "_It has every merit but that of

resemblance to the original._" Might not a version equally elegant, but

adhering more closely to the original, and preserving more of its

peculiar genius be found in America. We wish some of our readers who

feel the inspiration of a happy Muse would make the experiment.

Maid of unboastful charms, whom white-rob'd Truth,

Right onward guiding through the maze of youth,

Forbade the Circe, PRAISE, to witch thy soul,

And dash'd to earth th' intoxicating bowl;

Thee, meek-eyed Pity, eloquently fair,

Clasp'd to her bosom, with a mother's care;

And, as she lov'd thy kindred form to trace,

The slow smile wander'd o'er her pallid face,

For never yet did mortal voice impart

Tones more congenial to the sadden'd heart;

Whether to rouse the sympathetic glow,

Thou pourest lone Monimia's tale of wo;

Or happy clothest, with funereal vest,

The bridal loves that wept in Juliet's breast.

O'er our chill limbs the thrilling terrors creep,

Th' entranc'd passions still their vigils keep;

Whilst the deep sighs, responsive to the song,

Sound through the silence of the trembling throng.

But purer raptures lighten'd from thy face,

And spread o'er all thy form a holier grace;

When from the daughter's breast the father drew

The life he gave, and mix'd the big tear's dew.

Nor was it thine th' heroic strain to roll,

With mimic feelings, foreign from the soul;

Bright in thy parent's eye we mark'd the tear;

Methought he said, "Thou art no actress here!

A semblance of thyself, the Grecian dame,

And _Brunton_ and _Euphrasia_ still the same!"

O! soon to seek the city's busier scene,

Pause thee awhile, thou chaste-eyed maid serene,

Till Granta's sons, from all her sacred bow'rs,

With grateful hand shall weave Pierian flow'rs,

To twine a fragrant chaplet round thy brow,

Enchanting ministress of virtuous wo!

It was on the 17th of October, 1785, that Miss Brunton made her first

appearance at Covent Garden theatre in the character of Horatia. The

public had anxiously looked for her, and the house was crowded to

receive her. The venerable Arthur Murphy wrote a prologue for the

occasion, in which he displayed his accustomed delicacy and judgment. It

was as follows, and was well spoken by Mr. Holman:

The tragic Muse long saw the British stage

Melt with her tears, and kindle with her rage,

She saw her scenes with varied passions glow,

The tyrant's downfall and the lover's wo;

'Twas then her Garrick--at that well-known name

Remembrance wakes, and gives him all his fame;

To him great Nature open'd Shakspeare's store,

"Here learn," she said, "here learn the sacred lore;"

This fancy realiz'd, the bard shall see,

And his best commentator breathe in thee.

She spoke: her magic powers the actor tried;

Then Hamlet moraliz'd and Richard died;

The dagger gleam'd before the murderer's eye,

And for old Lear each bosom heav'd sigh;

Then Romeo drew the sympathetic tear,

With him and Cibber Love lay bleeding here.

Enchanting Cibber! from that warbling throat

No more pale Sorrow pours the liquid note.

Her voice suppress'd, and Garrick's genius fled,

Melpomene declined her drooping head;

She mourn'd their loss, then fled to western skies,

And saw at Bath another genius rise.

Old Drury's scene the goddess bade her choose,

The actress heard, and spake, "herself a muse."

From the same nursery, this night appears

Another warbler, yet of tender years;

As a young bird, as yet unus'd to fly

On wings, expanded, through the azure sky,

With doubt and fear its first excursion tries

And shivers ev'ry feather with surprise;

So comes our chorister--the summer's ray,

Around her nest, call'd forth a short essay;

Now trembling on the brink, with fear she sees

This unknown clime, nor dares to trust the breeze.

But here, no unfledg'd wing was ever crush'd;

Be each rude blast within its cavern hush'd.

Soft swelling gales may waft her on her way,

Till, eagle-like, she eyes the fount of day:

She then may dauntless soar, her tuneful voice

May please each ear and bid the grove rejoice.

It would be superfluous, and indeed only going over the same ground

already beat at Bath, to describe Miss Brunton's reception on her first

appearance in London. Suffice it to say that plaudits and even

exclamations of delight were, if possible, more rapturous and more

incessant at Covent Garden than at Bath. Of the reputation thus quickly

acquired, she never, to the day of her death, lost an atom; but

continued to perform, in different parts of England, with accumulating

fame, till her marriage deprived the people of England of her talents.

Mr. Robert Merry, a gentleman well known in the literary world, and

rendered conspicuous by some pretty poetry published under the name of

_Della Crusca_, had the honour of rendering himself so agreeable to Miss

Brunton that she suffered him to lead her to the altar. He was of a

gentleman's family, and received his education under that mass of

learning, doctor Parr, was a man of brilliant genius, amiable

disposition, elegant manners, with a fine face and person. Being a _bon

vivant_ and a little addicted to play, as well as to other fashionable

and wasteful frivolities of high life, his affairs were in a very

unpleasant state, but for this there was an abundant remedy in his

wife's talents; and perhaps (with her aid) a little in his own too.

Family pride, however, forbid it. He was much swayed by his relatives,

particularly by two old maiden aunts, who were, or affected to be

wounded at his marrying an actress. Nothing but his withdrawing his wife

from the stage could assuage their wrath or heal the wound, and Mrs.

Merry, in a spirit of obedience to her husband, and of amiable feeling

for his situation, which will ever do honour to her memory, complied;

and as soon as her engagement at Covent Garden expired (in 1792) left

the stage, to the great regret, and a little to the indignant contempt

for the old ladies, of the whole British nation.

Mr. and Mrs. Merry soon after paid a visit to the continent, where they

lived for a little more than a year, when they returned to England, and

settled in retired life in the country and there remained till the year

1796, when they removed to America. Mr. Brunton, the father of Mrs.

Merry, was, no less than the old ladies alluded to, and on much more

substantial grounds, averse to her marriage with Mr. Merry, and still

more to her coming to America. In obedience to a higher duty, however,

she followed the fortunes of her husband, and with the most poignant

regret left her native country and her father, to sojourn in a strange

land. On the 19th of September, 1796, they sailed from the Downs, and on

the 19th of October following landed at New-York.

Few country theatres in Great Britain have been able to boast of so good

a company as that which assembled at Philadelphia on the season which

succeeded Mrs. Merry's arrival. The theatre opened on the fifth of

December, with Romeo and Juliet, and the Waterman. The elegant and

interesting Morton played Romeo--Mrs. Merry Juliet; all the characters

had excellent representatives, and Mrs. Merry appeared to the audience a

being of a superior kind. That winter she played all her best parts, but

though supported by such a company it often happened that the receipts

were insufficient to pay the charges of the house, and the season was,

on the whole, extremely unsuccessful; a circumstance which at first view

will excite surprise, but at the time might reasonably have been

expected. This will be understood when the general financial condition

of the city is called to recollection. Every one who has known the

country but for a few years back must remember the almost general

bankruptcy occasioned by the failure of land speculating men of opulence

and high credit. During that time commerce in all its classes sensibly

felt the shock, and business languished in all its branches. No wonder

that the theatre, which can only be fed by the superflux of all other

departments of society, should droop, neglected and unsupported. The

prices then too were higher than now--the boxes a dollar and a

quarter--the pit a dollar. And here we cannot help expressing a wish,

founded we believe on justice and common sense, that admittance to the

pit were raised:--first, because it is, at least, equal if not

preferable to the boxes; and next because it would in some degree tend

to exclude many who, though fit to sit only in the upper gallery, make

their way into the pit to the great annoyance of those decent well

behaved people who go to enjoy and understand the play, and not to

blackguard and speak aloud.

When the theatre was closed, according to civil regulation, the company,

went to New-York. At that time Hallam and Hodgkinson had possession of

both the theatres of that city--the old one in John-street, and the new

one at the Park. The Philadelphia company, still bleeding from the

wounds of the unsuccessful season, and urged by necessity for future

support, applied to Hallam and Hodgkinson to rent them the theatre in

John-street. Guided by a policy, rational enough and perhaps justifiable

on principles of self-defence, though certain not very liberal, and in

the end greatly injurious to themselves, the York proprietors

peremptorily refused. The circus of Ricketts, the equestrian, in

Greenwich-street then presented itself, and the Philadelphia company

opened in full force. In order to oppose them, Hallam and Hodgkinson

invited Mr. Sollee with his company to John-street. The Philadelphia

company, however, made a very successful campaign of it. Sollee also had

his visitors, and the consequence to H. and H. was that when they came

to open the new house they played to thin or rather empty boxes; the

town being saturated with theatrical exhibitions, and a little exhausted

too of the cash disposable for such recreations.

In New-York as well as Philadelphia, and indeed in every place where

Mrs. M. went, she was no sooner seen than admired; and the impression

she never failed to make at first sight remained, not only uneffaced but

more deeply augmented in proportion as she was seen, even to the end of

her life. She afterwards visited Baltimore and other places, and

wherever she went, was the polar star to which the attention of all was

directed.

While she was proceeding in this career of success her felicity met with

the most cruel interruption by the sudden death of her husband, which

happened at Baltimore in the latter end of the year 1798. Mr. Merry had

not laboured under any specific physical complaint from which his death

could in the smallest degree be apprehended. On the day before christmas

he was apparently well, had walked out into the garden, and was soon

after followed by some friends who found him lying senseless on the

ground. Medical aid was immediately called in--several attempts were

made to draw blood from him but without the least success; the

physicians pronounced it an apoplectic case, and from every circumstance

the conclusion was that his death was instantaneous and without pain.

Mr. Merry was large and of a plethoric habit; and to that his death may,

in some sort, and was then entirely ascribed. But circumstances appeared

after his death which led to a conclusion that concealed sorrow, might

have had some share in it. From refined motives of tenderness for a

beloved wife's feelings, and that loftiness of spirit which clings to

the perfect gentleman, he concealed the state of his affairs in England,

which had for some time been in a rapid decline, and of the complete

ruin of which he had a short time before been fully informed. His

patrimonial estate had been foreclosed and sold under a mortgage, and he

remained debtor for a considerable sum after the sale. To this effect a

letter was found after his death. As soon as this was discovered, every

one who knew his exquisite sensibility, reflected with astonishment upon

the delicacy which dictated and the fortitude with which he managed his

concealment, and felt deep and sympathetic sorrow for the anguish he

must have been privately enduring while he endeavoured to dress his face

with tranquillity and to converse with his accustomed cheerfulness and

ease. Smothered grief is one of the most deadly inmates; and it is

reasonable to believe that a paroxysm of violent emotion in a moment

when solitude gave an opportunity for giving a loose to reflection,

operating upon a plethoric habit, occasioned his sudden dissolution.

That Mr. Merry was a gentleman of great private worth we believe the

evidence of all those to whom familiar intercourse had revealed his

disposition; that he was learned and accomplished in a very eminent

degree no one has ever denied; and that he was a man of genius, his

"Della Crusca," and the many witty and satirical epigrams he wrote for

the public prints under the signature of "Tom Thorne," abundantly prove.

But the pen of state vengeance was raised against him, and his poetical

fame was immolated as an expiation for his political offences. Attached

to French revolutionary, or, as they were then called, jacobin

principles, to a degree which even Foxites censured, he was viewed with

abhorrence by one party, and with no great regard by the other; so that

when the witty author of the Pursuits of Literature drew his sword, and

the sarcastic author of the Baviad and Maeviad lifted his axe against him

there was no one to ward off the blows. There is a fact respecting Mr.

M. which, though it does not properly belong to this biographical

sketch, yet as it is curious enough to apologize for its introduction,

we take the liberty to relate. The celebrated Mrs. Cowley, under the

name of "Anna Matilda," and Mr. M. under that of "Della Crusca,"

corresponded with and admired each other, without being known or even

suspected by one another, or, for some time, by the public. These

productions formed a new era or rather a new school of poetry, which

excited such attention and curiosity that every art was resorted to in

order to discover the authors. It was at length whispered abroad, and

then what most surprised the world was, that the two persons were

totally strangers to each other.

Mrs. Merry remained a widow for more than four years: she then, on the

first of January 1803, married Mr. Wignell, the manager of the

Philadelphia theatre, who died in seven weeks after their marriage. For

three years and a half she retained the name of Wignell, when the

present manager solicited her hand so successfully that she consented,

and took the name of Warren, on the 15th of August, 1806. By this

marriage the property and management of the Philadelphia theatre

devolved upon Mr. Warren; than whom, exclusive of the personal

attachment that subsisted between them, she could not have pitched upon

any one person more competent to the care of her property or the

direction of the theatre; or one more worthy of the sacred trust of

being a parent and a guardian to her infant daughter. For near two years

they lived together in a state of ease and felicity which bid fair to

last for years, when he being obliged to attend his company to their

customary summer stations, Mrs. Warren, then in a far advanced state of

pregnancy, desired to go along with him. Aware of the fatigue, the

inconveniences, and the privations to which she would, in all

likelihood, be exposed, during her journey southward, and still more in

her _accouchement_, which must necessarily take place before his return,

he endeavoured to prevail upon her to stay behind. But "Fate came into

the list," and she would go. Arrived at Alexandria, he took a large

commodious house, and put it in a condition sufficiently comfortable;

Mrs. Warren was in lusty health, and as the time approached all was fair

and promising. By one of those turns, however, which it pleases

Providence for his own wise purposes frequently to ordain, to mock our

best hopes and baffle our most sanguine expectations, this admirable

woman was, contrary to every antecedent prognostic, visited in her

travail with epileptic fits, in which she expired, "leaving," (as the

sublime Burke no less truly than pathetically said on the death of

doctor Johnson,) "not only nothing to fill her place, but nothing that

has a tendency to fill it."

Here, we let the curtain drop. Neither her private nor her public

character can derive additional lustre from any pen.

PORTRAIT OF THE CELEBRATED BETTERTON.

Mr. Thomas Betterton, dramatist and actor, was born in Tothill-street,

Westminster; and after having left school, is said to have been put

apprentice to a bookseller. It is supposed he made his first appearance

on the stage about the year 1657, at the opera house, which was then

under the direction of sir William Davenant. He went over to Paris to

take a view of the French scenery, and on his return, made such

improvements, as added greatly to the lustre of the English stage.

The professional merits of this great man were of a kind so perfectly

unequivocal and unalloyed that there never was heard one dissenting

voice upon the subject of his superiority to all other actors. He stood

so far above the highest of his profession that competition being

hopeless there was no motive for envy.

Of the few who lived to see him and Garrick, the far greater number gave

him the palm, with the exception of Garrick's excellence in low comedy.

Indeed he seems to have combined in himself the various powers of the

three greatest modern actors, of Garrick, except as before excepted, of

Barry, and of Mossop; add to which, he played Falstaff as well as Quin.

The present writer got this from old Macklin, who was stored with

anecdotes of his predecessors.

Of Betterton, Colley Cibber speaks thus, in his apology for his own

life:

"Betterton was an actor, as Shakspeare was an author, both without

competitors! formed for the mutual assistance, and illustration of each

other's genius! how Shakspeare wrote, all men who have a taste for

nature may read, and know--but with what higher rapture would he still

be read, could they conceive how Betterton _played_ him! Then might they

know, the one was born alone to speak what the other only knew to write!

pity it is, that the momentary beauties flowing from a harmonious

elocution, cannot, like those of poetry, be their own record! that the

animated graces of the player can live no longer than the instant breath

and motion that presents them; or at best can but faintly glimmer

through the memory, or imperfect attestation of a few surviving

spectators. Could _how_ Betterton spoke be as easily known as _what_ he

spoke, then might you see the Muse of Shakspeare in her triumph, with

all her beauties in their best array, rising into real life, and

charming her beholders. But alas! since all this is so far out of the

reach of description, how shall I show you Betterton? Should I therefore

tell you, that all the Othellos, Hamlets, Hotspurs, Mackbeths, and

Brutuses, whom you may have seen since his time, have fallen far short

of him; this still would give you no idea of his particular excellence.

Let us see then what a particular comparison may do! whether that may

yet draw him nearer to you?

"You have seen a Hamlet perhaps, who, on the first appearance of his

father's spirit, has thrown himself into all the straining vociferation

requisite to express rage and fury, and the house has thundered with

applause; though the misguided actor was all the while (as Shakspeare

terms it) tearing a passion into rags--I am the more bold to offer you

this particular instance, because the late Mr. Addison, while I sate by

him, to see this scene acted, made the same observation, asking me with

some surprize, if I thought Hamlet should be in so violent a passion

with the ghost, which though it might have astonished, it had not

provoked him? for you may observe that in this beautiful speech, the

passion never rises beyond an almost breathless astonishment, or an

impatience, limited by filial reverence, to inquire into the suspected

wrongs that may have raised him from his peaceful tomb! and a desire to

know what a spirit so seemingly distressed, might wish or enjoin a

sorrowful son to execute towards his future quiet in the grave! this was

the light into which Betterton threw this scene; which he opened with a

pause of mute amazement! then rising slowly, to a solemn, trembling

voice, he made the ghost equally terrible to the spectator, as to

himself! and in the descriptive part of the natural emotions which the

ghastly vision gave him, the boldness of his expostulation was still

governed by decency, manly, but not braving; his voice never rising into

that seeming outrage, or wild defiance of what he naturally revered. But

alas! to preserve this medium, between mouthing, and meaning too little,

to keep the attention more pleasingly awake, by a tempered spirit, than

by mere vehemence of voice, is of all the master-strokes of an actor the

most difficult to reach. In this none yet have equalled Betterton. But I

am unwilling to show his superiority only by recounting the errors of

those, who now cannot answer to them, let their farther failings

therefore be forgotten! or rather, shall I in some measure excuse them!

For I am not yet sure, that they might not be as much owing to the false

judgment of the spectator, as the actor. While the million are so apt to

be transported, when the drum of their ear is so roundly rattled; while

they take the life of elocution to lie in the strength of the lungs, it

is no wonder the actor, whose end is applause, should be also tempted,

at this easy rate, to excite it. Shall I go a little farther? and allow

that this extreme is more pardonable than its opposite error? I mean

that dangerous affectation of the monotone, or solemn sameness of

pronunciation, which to my ear is insupportable; for of all faults that

so frequently pass upon the vulgar, that of flatness will have the

fewest admirers. That this is an error of ancient standing seems evident

by what Hamlet says, in his instructions to the players, _viz._

Be not too tame, neither, &c.

The actor, doubtless, is as strongly tied down to the rules of Horace as

the writer:

Si vis me flere, dolendum est

Primum ipsi tibi----

He that feels not himself the passion he would raise, will talk to a

sleeping audience: but this never was the fault of Betterton; and it has

often amazed me to see those who soon came after him, throw out in some

parts of a character, a just and graceful spirit, which Betterton

himself could not but have applauded. And yet in the equally shining

passages of the same character, have heavily dragged the sentiment along

like a dead weight; with a long-toned voice, and absent eye, as if they

had fairly forgot what they were about. If you have never made this

observation, I am contented you should not know where to apply it.

"A farther excellence in Betterton, was, that he could vary his spirit

to the different characters he acted. Those wild impatient starts, that

fierce and flashing fire, which he threw into Hotspur, never came from

the unruffled temper of his _Brutus_ (for I have more than once, seen a

_Brutus_ as warm as Hotspur) when the Betterton Brutus was provoked, in

his dispute with Cassius, his spirit flew only to his eye; his steady

look alone supplyed that terror, which he disdained an intemperance in

his voice should rise to. Thus, with a settled dignity of contempt, like

an unheeding rock, he repelled upon himself the foam of Cassius. Perhaps

the very works of Shakspeare will better let you into my meaning:

Must I give way, and room, to your rash choler?

Shall I be frighted when a madman stares?

And a little after,

There is no terror, Cassius, in your looks! &c.

Not but in some part of this scene, where he reproaches _Cassius_, his

temper is not under this suppression, but opens into that warmth which

becomes a man of virtue; yet this is that _hasty spark_ of anger, which

Brutus himself endeavours to excuse.

"But with whatever strength of nature we see the poet show, at once, the

philosopher and the hero, yet the image of the actor's excellence will

be still imperfect to you, unless language could put colours in our

words to paint the voice with.

"_Et, si vis similem pingere, pinge sonum_, is enjoining an

impossibility. The most that a _Vandyke_ can arrive at, is to make his

portraits of great persons seem to _think_; a Shakspeare goes farther

yet, and tells you _what_ his pictures thought; a Betterton steps beyond

them both, and calls them from the grave, to breathe, and be themselves

again, in feature, speech, and motion. When the skilful actor shows you

all these powers at once united, and gratifies at once your eye, your

ear, your understanding. To conceive the pleasure rising from such

harmony, you must have been present at it! 'tis not to be told you!

"There cannot be a stronger proof of the charms of harmonious elocution,

than the many, even unnatural scenes and flights of the false sublime it

has lifted into applause. In what raptures have I seen an audience, at

the furious fustian and turgid rants in _Nat. Lee's Alexander the

Great_! for though I can allow this play a few great beauties, yet it is

not without its extravagant blemishes. Every play of the same author has

more or less of them. Let me give you a sample from this. Alexander, in

a full crowd of courtiers, without being occasionally called or provoked

to it, falls into this rhapsody of vainglory:

Can none remember? Yes, I know all must!

And therefore they shall know it again.

When Glory, like a dazzling eagle, stood

Perched on my beaver, in the Granic flood,

When Fortune's self, my standard trembling bore,

And the pale Fates stood frighted on the shore,

When the immortals on the billows rode,

And I myself appeared the leading god.

When these flowing numbers come from the mouth of a Betterton, the

multitude no more desired sense to them, than our musical connoisseurs

think it essential in the celebrated airs of an Italian opera. Does not

this prove, that there is very near as much enchantment in the

well-governed voice of an actor, as in the sweet pipe of a eunuch? If I

tell you, there was no one tragedy, for many years, more in favour with

the town than Alexander, to what must we impute this its command of

public admiration? not to its intrinsic merit, surely, if it swarms with

passages like this I have shown you! If this passage has merit, let us

see what figure it would make upon canvas, what sort of picture would

rise from it. If Le Brun, who was famous for painting the battles of

this hero, had seen this lofty description, what one image could he have

possibly taken from it? In what colours would he have shown us _Glory

perched upon a beaver_? how would he have drawn _Fortune trembling_? or,

indeed, what use could he have made of _pale Fates_, or _immortals_

riding upon _billows_, with this blustering _god_ of his own making at

the _head_ of them! where, then, must have lain the charm, that once

made the public so partial to this tragedy? why plainly, in the grace

and harmony of the actor's utterance. For the actor himself is not

accountable for the false poetry of his author; that, the hearer is to

judge of; if it passes upon him, the actor can have no quarrel to it;

who, if the periods given him are round, smooth, spirited, and

high-sounding, even in a false passion, must throw out the same fire and

grace, as may be required in one justly rising from nature; where those

his excellencies will then be only more pleasing in proportion to the

taste of his hearer. And I am of opinion, that to the extraordinary

success of this very play, we may impute the corruption of so many

actors, and tragic writers, as were immediately mislead by it. The

unskilful actor, who imagined all the merit of delivering those blazing

rants, lay only in the strength, and strained exertion of the voice,

began to tear his lungs, upon every false, or slight occasion, to arrive

at the same applause. And it is hence I date our having seen the same

reason prevalent, for above fifty years. Thus equally misguided too,

many a barren-brained author has streamed into a frothy flowing style,

pompously rolling into sounding periods, signifying--roundly nothing; of

which number, in some of my former labours, I am something more than

suspicious, that I may myself have made one, but to keep a little closer

to Betterton.

"When this favourite play I am speaking of, from its being too

frequently acted, was worn out, and came to be deserted by the town,

upon the sudden death of Monfort, who had played Alexander with success,

for several years, the part was given to Betterton, which, under this

great disadvantage of the satiety it had given, he immediately revived

with so new a lustre, that for three days together it filled the house;

and had his then declining strength been equal to the fatigue the action

gave him, it probably might have doubled its success; an uncommon

instance of the power and intrinsic merit of an actor. This I mention

not only to prove what irresistible pleasure may arise from a judicious

elocution, with scarce sense to assist it; but to show you too, that

though Betterton never wanted fire, and force, when his character

demanded it; yet, where it was not demanded, he never prostituted his

power to the low ambition of a false applause. And further, that when,

from a too advanced age, he resigned that toilsome part of Alexander,

the play, for many years after never was able to impose upon the public;

and I look upon his so particularly supporting the false fire and

extravagancies of that character, to be a more surprizing proof of his

skill, than his being eminent in those of Shakspeare; because there,

truth and nature coming to his assistance he had not the same

difficulties to combat, and consequently, we must be less amazed at his

success, where we are more able to account for it.

(_To be continued._)

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._

PHILADELPHIA THEATRE.

_Dec. 6th._--Douglas, _with the_ Shipwreck. Young Norval }

_8th._--Mountaineers--Raising the Wind. Octavian }

_9th._--Lover's Vows--Rosina. Frederick }

_11th._--Mahomet--Spoiled Child. Zaphna } _BY_

_13th._--Hamlet--Weathercock. Hamlet }

_15th._--Pizarro--The Ghost. Rolla } _MASTER_

_16th._--Douglas--Youth, Love and Folly. Young Norval }

_18th._--Tancred and Sigismunda--Farmer. Tancred } _PAYNE._

_20th._--Barbarossa--Too Many Cooks. Selim }

_22d._--Romeo and Juliet--Love laughs at }

Locksmiths, for his own benefit. Romeo }

All those plays are well known. From the peculiar circumstances

attending their performance they call for a share of particular

attention, which would otherwise be superfluous. Where there is

something new, and much to be admired, it would be inexcusable to be

niggard of our labour, even were the labour painful, which in this

instance it is not. The performance of Master Payne pleased us so much

that we have often since derived great enjoyment from the recollection

of it; and to retrace upon paper the opinions with which it impressed

us, we now sit down with feelings very different from those, which, at

one time, we expected to accompany the task. Without the least

hesitation we confess, that when we were assured it would become our

duty to examine that young gentleman's pretensions, and compare his

sterling value with the general estimate of it, as reported from other

parts of the union, we felt greatly perplexed. On one hand strict

critical justice with the pledge which is given in our motto,

imperiously forbidding us to applaud him who does not deserve it, stared

us in the face with a peremptory inhibition from sacrificing truth to

ceremony, or prostrating our judgment before the feet of public

prejudice: while, on the other we were aware that nothing is so

obstinate as error--that fashionable idolatry is of all things the most

incorrigible by argument, and the least susceptible of conviction--that

while the dog-star of favouritism is vertical over a people, there is

no reasoning with them to effect; and that all the efforts of common

sense are but given to the wind, if employed to undeceive them, till the

brain fever has spent itself, and the public mind has settled down to a

state of rest. We had heard Master Payne's performances spoken of in a

style which quite overset our faith. Not one with whom we conversed

about him spoke within the bounds of reason: few indeed seemed to

understand the subject, or, if they did, to view it with the sober eye

of plain common rationality. The opinions of some carried their own

condemnation in their obvious extravagance; and hyperbolical admiration

fairly ran itself out of breath in speaking of the wonders of this

cisatlantic young Roscius.

While we knew that half of what was said was utterly impossible, we

thought it due to candor to believe that such a general opinion could

not exist without some little foundation; that in all likelihood the boy

had merit, considerable for his years and means, to which his puerility

might have given a peculiar recommendation, and that when he came to be

unloaded by time and public reflection of that injurious burthen of

idolatrous praise, which to our thinking had all the bad effects of

calumny, we should be able to find at bottom something that could be

applauded without impairing our veracity, deceiving the public, or

joining the multitude in burning the vile incense of flattery under the

boy's nose, and hiding him from the world and from himself in a cloud of

pernicious adulation.

But how to encounter this reigning humour was the question: to render

his reasoning efficacious, the critic must take care not to make it

unpalatable. And here the general taste seemed to be in direct

opposition to our reason and experience; for we had not yet (even in the

case of young Betty, with the aggregate authority of England, Ireland,

and Scotland in his favour) been free from scepticism: the Roscio-mania

contagion had not yet infected us quite so much: in a word, we had no

faith in MIRACLES, nor could we, in either the one case or the other,

screw up our credulity to any sort of unison with the pitch of the

multitude. We shall not readily forget the mixed sensations of concern

and risibility with which, day after day, from the first annunciation of

Master Payne's expected appearance at Philadelphia, we were obliged to

listen to the misjudging applause of his panegyrists. There is a

narrowness of heart, and a nudity of mind too common in our nature,

under the impulse of which few people can bring themselves to do homage

to one person without magnifying their incense by the depreciation of

some other. According to these a favourite has not his proper station,

till all others are put below him; as if there was no merit positive,

but all was good but by comparison. In this temper there certainly is at

least as much malice to one as kindness to the other: but an honourable

and beneficent wisdom gives other laws for human direction, and dictates

that in the house of merit there are not only many stories, but many

apartments in each story: and that every man may be fairly adjudicated

all the praise he deserves without thrusting others down into the ground

floor to make room for him. Yet not one in twenty could we find to

praise Master Payne, without doing it at the expense of others. "He is

superior to Cooper," said one; "he speaks better than Fennell," said a

second: these sagacious observations too, are rarely accompanied by a

modest qualification, such as "I think," or "it is my opinion"--but

nailed down with a peremptory IS. This is the mere naked offspring of a

muddy or unfinished mind, which, for want of discrimination to point

out the particular beauties it affects to admire, accomplishes its will

by a sweeping wholesale term of comparison, more injurious to him they

praise than to him they slight. Nay, so far has this been carried, that

some who never were out of the limits of this union have, by a kind of

telescopical discernment, viewed Cooke and Kemble in comparison with

their new favourite, and found them quite deficient. We cannot readily

forget one circumstance: a person said to another in our hearing at the

playhouse, "You have been in England, sir, don't you think Master Payne

superior to young Betty?" "I don't know, sir, having never seen Master

Betty," answered the man; "I think he is very much superior," replied

the former--"You have seen Master Betty then, sir," said the latter;

"No, I never did," returned he that asked the first question, "but I am

sure of it--I have heard a person that was in England say so!!"--This

was the pure effusion of a mind subdued to prostration by wonder. In

England this was carried to such lengths, that the panegyrists of young

Betty seemed to vie with each other in fanatical admiration of that

truly extraordinary boy. One, in a public print, went so far as to

assert, that Mr. Fox (who, as well as Mr. Pitt, was at young Betty's

benefit when he played Hamlet) declared the performance was little, if

at all, inferior to that of his deceased friend Garrick. With the very

same breath in which we read the paragraph we declared it to be a

falsehood. Mr. Fox had too much judgment to institute the

comparison--Mr. Fox had too much benignity to utter such a malicious

libel upon that noble boy.

These considerations naturally augmented our anxiety, and we did most

heartily wish, if it were possible, to be relieved from the task of

giving an opinion of Master Payne. For in addition to his youthfulness,

we knew that he wanted many advantages which young Betty possessed. The

infant Roscius of England, had, from his very infancy, been in a state

of the best discipline; being from the time he was five years of age,

daily exercised in recitation of poetry, by his mother, who shone in

private theatricals; and having been afterwards prepared for the stage,

and hourly tutored by Mr. Hough, an excellent preceptor. By his father

too, who is one of the best fencers in Europe, he was improved in

gracefulness of attitude--and nature had uncommonly endowed him for the

reception of those instructions. Of such means of improvement Master

Payne was wholly destitute, for there was not a man that we could hear

of in America who was at once capable and willing to instruct him.

Self-dependent and self-taught as he must be, we could see no feasible

means by which he could evolve his powers, be they what they might, to

adequate effect for the stage. We deemed it scarcely possible that he

could have got rid of the innumerable provincialisms which must cling to

his youth: and we laid our account at the best with meeting a fine

forward boy who would speak, perhaps not very well either, by rote; and

taking the most prominent favourite actor of his day, as a model, be a

mere childish imitator. We considered that when young people do any

thing with an excellence disproportioned to their years, they are viewed

through a magnifying medium; and that being once seen to approach to the

perfection of eminent adults, they are, by a transition sufficiently

easy to a wondering mind, readily concluded to excel them. Thus Betty

was said to surpass Kemble and Cooke; and thus young Payne was roundly

asserted to surpass Cooper and Fennell. Such were the feelings and

opinions with which we met Master Payne on his first appearance, for

which the tragedy of Douglas was judiciously selected; and we own that

the first impression he made upon our minds was favourable to his

talents in this way: He appeared to be just of that age which we should

think least advantageous to him; too young to enforce approbation by

robust manly exertion of talents; too far advanced to win over the

judgment by tenderness; or by a manifest disproportion between his age

and his efforts, to excite that astonishment which, however shortlived,

is, while it lasts, despotic over the understanding. Labouring,

therefore, under most of the disadvantages without any of the

advantages of puerility, candor and common sense pronounced at once that

much less of the estimation in which he was held, was to be ascribed to

his boyishness, and of course much more to his talents than we had been

led to imagine. If, therefore, he got through the character handsomely,

and still carried the usual applause along with him, we directly

conceived that there would be just ground for thinking it not entirely

the result of prejudice, nor by any means undeserved.

At his entrance he seemed a little intimidated, as if he were dubious of

his reception; nor could he for some minutes devest himself of that

feeling, though he was received with the most flattering welcome;--this

transient perturbation gave a very pleasing effect to his first words;

and when he said, "My name is Norval," he uttered it with a pause which

seemed to be the effect of the modest diffidence natural to such a

character upon being introduced into a higher presence than he had ever

before approached. Had this been the effect of art it would have been

fine--perhaps it was--but we thought it was accidental.

The utter impossibility of a beardless boy of sixteen or seventeen

years, at all assimilating to the character of a warrior and mighty

slayer of men, is of itself an insuperable obstacle to the complete

_personification_ of certain characters by a young gentleman of the age

and stature of Master Payne. He might speak them with strict

propriety--he might act them with feeling and spirit; but had he the

general genius of Garrick--the energies of Mossop--the beauty of Barry,

the elocution of Sheridan, and the art of Kemble, he could not with the

feminine face and voice, and the unfinished person inseparable from such

tender years, _personate_ them: nor so long as he is seen or heard can

the perception of his nonage be excluded, or he be thought to represent

that character, to the formation of which, not gristle, nor fair, round

soft lineaments, but huge bone and muscle, well-knit joints, knotty

limbs, and the hard face of Mars are necessary. If we find, as we do in

many great works of criticism, objections made to the performance of

several characters by actors of high renown merely for their deficiency

in personal appearance--if the externals of Mr. Garrick are stated by

his warmest panegyrists as unfitting him for characters of dignity or

heroism, even to his exclusion from Faulconbridge, Hotspur, &c. and if

we find that the greatest admirers of Barry considered the harmony and

softness of his features, as reducing his Macbeth, Pierre, &c. to poor

lukewarm efforts, how can it be expected that a boy, just started from

childhood, should present a true picture of a warrior or a philosopher?

We premise this for the purpose of having it understood that what we are

to say of Master Payne is to be subject to these deductions, and that in

the praise which it is but just to bestow upon him, we exclude all idea

of external resemblance to the characters. Of the mental powers, the

informing spirit, the genius, the feeling which he now discloses, and

the rich promise they afford of future greatness--of these it is, we

profess to speak: further we cannot go without insincerity, untruth, and

manifest absurdity.

As might have been expected from Master Payne's limited means of stage

instruction, he several times discovered want of judgment. In the speech

in which Norval tells his story, he trespassed on propriety in his

efforts to throw an air of martial ardor into his expressions; by

suddenly changing the key and raising the tone of his voice, and

speaking with increased rapidity the words that more immediately related

to fighting, erecting them into a kind of _alto relievo_ above the level

of the rest; particularly in "I had heard of battles," &c. "We fought

and conquered," &c. all which is a narrative that should be delivered

with humility, and a strict avoidance of any thing like vainglory, or

egotism, studiously softening down, with modest air, those details of

his own prowess which the author has _necessarily_ given to the

character.

Had Master Payne had a Hough to instruct him, or a Cooke for his model,

he would have escaped the error into which he fell in that part of the

fourth act in which Norval describes the hermit who instructed him: he

would have known that acting what he narrates is highly improper--indeed

absurd; as it is acting in the first person, and speaking in the third

at one and the same time. While he repeated the words

----Cut the figures of the marshall'd hosts,

Described the motions, and explain'd the use

Of the deep column, and the lengthened line,

The square, the crescent, and the phalanx firm,

Master Payne cut those figures, and described the square and the

crescent with his hands--a great error! A better lesson cannot be

offered to a young actor on this subject than may be found in the novel

of Peregrine Pickle, in which doctor Smollet ridicules Quin the player

for acting narrative in Zanga.

Master Payne would find it his interest to avoid as much as may be, long

declamatory speeches, till his organs are enlarged and confirmed. But in

those parts in which Douglas discloses his lofty spirit, and no less in

all the pathetic parts, he far exceeded expectation, and deserved all

the applause he received.

Oh, tell me who and where's my mother!

Oppressed by a base world, perhaps she bends

Beneath the weight of other ills than grief,

And, desolate, implores of Heaven the aid

Her son should give----

Oh, tell me her condition.

There was, in his delivering these lines, an expression of tenderness

which appealed forcibly to the heart; and was rendered still more

striking by the abrupt transition to his sword,

Can the sword----

Who shall resist me in a parent's cause?

which he executed with a felicity that nothing but consummate genius

could accomplish. Again he blazed out with _the true spirit_ in the

following lines:

The blood of Douglas will protect itself.

Then let yon false Glenalvon beware of me.

That part, however, in which he disclosed not only exquisite feeling but

a soundness of judgment that would do honour to an experienced actor,

was where Glenalvon taunts him, for the purpose of rousing his spirit to

resentment. In that speech particularly which begins,

Sir, I have been accustomed all my days

To hear and speak the plain and simple truth.

The suppression of his indignation in this and the succeeding

passages--the climax of passion marked in his face, his tone and his

action, when he says to himself

If this were told!----

the gradation thence to

Hast thou no fears for thy presumptuous self?

till at last he flames into ungovernable rage in

Did I not fear to freeze thy shallow valour,

And make thee sink too soon beneath my sword,

I'd tell thee--what thou art--I know thee well.

was altogether a string of beauties such as it rarely falls to the lot

of the critic to commemorate. Had age and personal hardihood been added,

it would have defied the cavils of the most churlish criticism, and

deprived even enmity of all pretence to censure.

The next striking beauty he disclosed was in his reply to Randolph, when

the latter offers his arbitration between him and Glenalvon.

Nay, my good lord, though I revere you much,

My cause I plead not, nor demand your judgment.

The cold peremptory dignity he threw into these words was beautifully

conceived, and executed in a masterly manner: nor was he less successful

in the transition to an expression of poignant but smothered sensibility

in the next line:

I blush to speak: I will not, cannot speak

Th' opprobrious words that I from him have borne.

His delivery of this and all the other lines of the speech that followed

it, deserved the thunders of applause with which it was greeted--it was,

indeed, admirable.

In impassioned feeling lies Master Payne's strength. Hence his last

scene was deeply affecting. Though we could well have spared that

KEMBLEIAN dying trope, his rising up and falling again. It is because we

seriously respect Master Payne's talents that we make this remark:

clap-traps and stage trick of every kind cannot be too studiously

avoided by persons of real parts.

It would be injustice to omit one passage--

Just as my arm had mastered Randolph's sword

The villain came behind me----BUT I SLEW HIM.

In the break, the pause, and the last four words he was inimitably fine.

In Master Payne's performance of this character we perceived many

faults, which call for his own correction. They are, we think, such as

he has it in his power to get rid of. As they are general and pervade

all his performances, we reserve our observations upon them till we

close the course of criticism we are to bestow upon him, when we mean to

sum up our opinion of his general talents. Meantime we beg leave to

remind him that Mr. Garrick himself, after he had been near forty years

upon the stage, often shut himself up for days together restudying and

rehearsing parts he had acted with applause a hundred times before. _Sat

sapienti._

Nature has bestowed upon this young gentleman a countenance of no common

order. Its expression has not yet unfolded itself; but we entertain no

doubt that when manhood and diligent professional exercise shall have

brought the muscles of his face into full relief, and strengthened its

lines, it will be powerfully capable of all the inflexions necessary for

a general player. At present the character of his physiognomy is

perfectly discernible only upon a near view. When he advances towards

the front of the stage, the lines may be perceived from that part of the

pit and boxes which are near the orchestra; even then the shades are so

very much softened by youth, and the parts so rounded, and so utterly

free from acute angles, that they can, as yet, but faintly express

strong, turbulent emotions, or display the furious passions. In a boy of

his age, this, so far from being a defect, is a beauty, the reverse of

which would be unnatural; and if it were a defect, every day that passes

over his head would remedy it. What is now wanting in muscular

expression, is in a great measure supplied by his eye, which glows with

animation, and intelligence, and at times SPEAKS the language of a soul

really impassioned. Upon a close view, when apart from the factitious

aids and incumbrances of stage-lights, costume, and paint, he must be a

shallow-sighted physiognomist who would not at the first glance be

struck by Master Payne's countenance. A more extraordinary mixture of

softness and intelligence never were associated in a human face. The

forehead is particularly fine; Lavater would say that genius and energy

were enthroned there; and over the whole, though yet quite boyish, there

is a strong expression of what is called manliness; by which is to be

understood, not present, but the indications of future manliness. How

strongly and distinctly this is characterised in the boy's face, may be

collected from an anecdote which, exclusive of its application to this

subject, we think well worth relating on account of the other party

concerned in it.

A day or two before Master Payne left Philadelphia he and a friend of

his walking in a remote part of the city, were encountered by a strange

old woman, who requested alms with an earnestness which exacted

attention. The gentleman who was in company with our youth, and from

whom we deliver the story, being an Irishman, instantly recognizing in

the petitioner, an unhappy countrywoman, stopped, surveyed her with more

than cursory regard, and put his hand into his pocket in order to give

her money. As there was in her aspect that which bespoke something that

had once been better accommodated, and had claims above a common

mendicant, he was searching in his pocket for a suitable piece of

silver, when the generous boy outstripping him, put unostentatiously,

into the old lady's hand some pieces of silver. She viewed them--drew

back--gazed upon him for some seconds with a fixed look of wonder,

delight and affection, then lifting up her eyes to heaven, in a tone of

voice, and with a solemnity which no words can express, exclaimed, "May

the great God of heaven shower down his blessings on YOUR INFANT YEARS,

AND MANLY FACE!" Quickness of conception beyond all other people is now

allowed, even by the English, to be characteristic of the people of

Ireland, once considered by those of the sister kingdom as the Baeotians

of Britain; and we are disposed to concur with the Irish gentleman, who,

in his exultation and honest prejudice said, "that the woman might be

known to be Irish from her warm gratitude, her quick discernment, and

her elegant extemporaneous compliment." In fact, if Edmund Burke

himself, who exceeded all mankind in the quickness and elegance of

complimentary replies, had been considering the matter a whole hour, he

could not have uttered anything to surpass it.

Of Master Payne's person we cannot speak (nor do we hope) so favourably

as of his face. And we much fear that he will not undergo the pain of

mending it by abstinence from indulgence. Early hours, active or even

hard exercise, particularly of the gymnastic kind, and diligent

unremitting study are as indispensable to his fame, if he means to be a

player, as food or drink are to his support. In general his action is

elegant--his attitudes bold and striking; but of the former he sometimes

uses too much, and in his appropriation of the latter he is not always

sufficiently discriminating. This was particularly observable in his

performance of Frederick in Lover's Vows--a character in which we shall

have occasion to speak of him, and with great praise in a future number.

His walk too, which in his own unaffected natural gait is not

exceptionable, he frequently spoils by a kind of pushing step, at open

war with dignity of deportment. It would be well for this young

gentleman if he had never seen Mr. Cooper. Perhaps he will be startled

at this; and flatters himself that he never imitates that gentleman. We

can readily conceive him to think so even at the moment he is doing it.

To imitate another, it is not necessary to intend to do so. Every day of

their lives men imitate without the intervention of the will. The

manners of an admired, or much-observed individual, insensibly root

themselves in a young person's habits--he draws them into his system, as

he does the atmosphere which surrounds him. We doubt very much whether

Mr. Cooper himself would not be surprised if he knew how much he

imitates Kemble. Though seemingly a paradox, we firmly rely upon it--Mr.

Cooper _may_ be aiming at Cooke, when he is by old habitual taint really

hitting Kemble.[1] On this subject of imitation much is to be said.

Kemble rose when every bright luminary of the stage had set. Being the

best of his day, in the metropolis, he has become the standard of acting

to the young and inexperienced; more from pride than want of judgment he

goes wrong; his system of acting is radically vitious; but as it makes

labour pass as a substitute for genius, by transferring expression from

its natural organs to the limbs, and making attitude and action the

chief representatives of the passions and the feelings, it not only

fascinates because it catches the eye, but is adopted because extremely

convenient to the vast majority of young adventurers on the stage, who,

possessing neither the feelings fit for the profession, nor the organs,

nor the genius to express them if they had, are glad to find a

substitute for both. Hence the system of Mr. Kemble has spread like a

plague--infected the growing race of actors, mixed itself with the very

life-blood of the art, and extended its contagion through every new

branch, even to the very last year's bud. Thus Mr. Kemble is imitated by

those who never saw him. Let us tell Master Payne that it is the very

worst school he could go to, this of the statuary. It is as much

inferior to the old one--to that of Garrick, Barry, Mossop, and nature,

as the block of marble from which the Farnesian Hercules was hewed, is

to the god himself. Of its superiority we need urge no farther proof

than that of Mr. Cooke, who, though assuredly inferior to several of the

old stock, and groaning under unexampled intemperance, has in spite of

every impediment which artful jealousy and envy of his talents could

raise against him, risen so high in public estimation, that even when

just reeking from offences which would not have been endured in Garrick

or Barry, his return is hailed with shouts, as if it were a national

triumph. And why?--because he is of the old school, and scorns the

cajolery of statue-attitude and stage-trick.

[Footnote 1: Had Mr. Cooper entered on the profession in the days of

Garrick, we are persuaded he would, with the advantage of that great

man as a model, and the scientific Macklin as an instructor, have been

one of the first actors that ever existed.]

We speak thus freely to Master Payne because we think he has talents

worth the interposition of criticism, and if we speak at all, must speak

the whole truth. The praise we give him might well be distrusted, if

from any false delicacy we slurred over his defects and errors. The most

dangerous rock in his way will be adulation. Sincerely we wish him to be

assured that those who mix their applause with a proper alloy of censure

are his best friends. Indiscriminate flatterers are no better than the

snake which besmears its prey with slime, only to gorge it the more

easily.

On reviewing what we have written, we find no observation on Master

Payne's voice, in which nature has been very bountiful to him. We heard

him a few times, with no little pain strain it out of its compass. He

need not do so; since, judiciously managed, it is equal to all the

purposes of his profession. Those are dangerous experiments, by which

he may spoil a voice naturally clear, melodious, and of tolerable

compass. His pronunciation is at times hurtful to a very nice ear. He is

not to imagine that he has spoken as he ought when he has uttered words

as they are pronounced in general conversation. There are some, and high

ones too, who will say "good boy" when they mean "goodbye;" and it would

not be at all impossible to hear a very fine lady say that she was daown

in taown, to buy a gaown. We do not accuse Master Payne of this; but at

times a little of the _a_ cheats the _o_ of its good old round rights;

so distantly however, as not to be noticed except by a very accurate

ear--but he ought not to let _any ear_ discover it.

To the correct orthoepist, several persons on the stage give offence in

the pronunciation of the pronoun possessive MY--speaking it in all cases

with the full open Y, as it would rhyme to _fly_, which should only be

when it is put in contradistinction to _thy_ or _his_, or any other

pronoun possessive: in all other cases it should be sounded like _me_.

This is a pure Americanism, not practised in any other place where the

English language is spoken, and, so far as it goes, deprives the word of

a quality of nice distinctness.

It gives us great pleasure to communicate to our readers the

intelligence that Master Payne's success at Richmond, even surpassed

that which he had met before. From a letter submitted to our perusal we

have, with permission, made the following extract: "Wednesday night

Payne arrived; Thursday was the first day of his performance; the other

nights, being Saturday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and

Saturday, when the house closed for the season; and on Sunday he

departed in the mail stage. This flying visit (of ten days only)

produced him upwards of SEVENTEEN HUNDRED DOLLARS!!"

* * * * *

It was our intention to confine our remarks on this occasion entirely to

Master Payne. It seemed to us that the interest taken by the public in

this native plant, the novelty of his appearance, and, indeed, his own

merits, laid claim to a very particular discussion of his performances:

but as we read over the play for that purpose, Mr. M'Kenzie's _Old

Norval_ forced itself so imperiously upon our remembrance, that we could

not drop the subject without doing justice to that gentleman's

performance and our own feelings. It was a specimen of acting and

speaking we little expected to meet with: masterly, chaste, and

exquisitely affecting; no less gratifying to the critical ear than to

the feeling heart. We particularly admired his attestation to heaven of

his innocence:

As I hope

For mercy before the judgment seat of heaven

The tender lamb that never nipt the grass

Is not more innocent than I of murder.

And his pathetic supplication for mercy:

Oh, gentle lady! by your lord's dear life,

Which these weak hands, I swear, did ne'er assail,

And by your children's welfare spare my age!

Let not the iron tear my aged joints,

And my gray hairs bring to the grave with pain.

The first of these he poured forth with an expression of simple

sincerity, and the second with a gentle earnestness, so humble, so

passionately moving, that none but the most hardened hearts could resist

it. Even the gallery felt its force and made the house resound with its

rude applause--'twas well; and we may say with Pierre,

We could have hugged the greasy rogues; they pleased us.

As in the two former passages Mr. M'Kenzie presented a specimen of

exquisitely pathetic expression, so he evinced his skill and powers of

speaking in that speech which may be called the pride of the

play--perhaps of all Scottish poetry too, in which he relates the

finding of the child:

One stormy night, as I remember well,

The wind and rain beat hard upon our roof;

Red came the river down, and loud and oft

The angry spirit of the water shriek'd, &c.

Lord Randolph is a character of which we doubt whether Cooke himself

could make any thing. Mr. Warren did all that is usually done for him.

Partial as we are to Mr. Wood's acting generally, we did not perceive in

his performance of Glenalvon any thing to please us very much, or

augment his reputation.

In Lady Randolph, Mrs. Barrett would deserve much commendation, if she

could get rid of a few faults in her speaking. Her feelings and personal

appearance are finely adapted to the character.

* * * * *

A correspondent at Baltimore, of whose judgment we think highly, has

sent us the following communication, and expressed a wish that we should

publish it--at the same time acknowledging that it had been printed in

some periodical paper. As we wish to oblige our correspondent, and there

is no opinion in it which, according to our present idea of the company

violently militates against our own, we give it a place.

While so interesting a scene is now acting upon the great theatre of the

world, and as the chief performer has recently closed one of the acts

with a very important incident, it may, by many be considered as a

relaxation, to employ a few minutes in taking a concise view of our own

little theatre; the leader of which has also so lately closed his

campaign in Baltimore.

I am the more desirous of offering a few remarks upon this subject, from

having occasionally heard observations indicating some disapprobation

relative to our theatrical arrangements. Such impressions, we flatter

ourselves, a little more information upon the subject, and a candid

reconsideration will do away. From a knowledge of the state of the

theatres in other parts of the continent, we feel ourselves perfectly

safe in declaring, that ours is most unquestionably entitled to the

first place, whether we have reference to the performers composing the

company, the scenery, dresses, decorations or music.

In tragedy and genteel comedy, Mr. Wood must certainly be considered

preeminent, with the exception of Mr. Cooper only, who though perhaps[2]

excelling him in some tragical characters, is considered by many good

judges, as by no means his superior in many appertaining to genteel

comedy.

[Footnote 2: Perhaps!!! Mr. Wood we dare say has too much good sense

to relish this _perhaps_, it rather savours of irony.]

Mrs. Wood ranks high in the same line; the correct style in which she

gives the sense of her author, the refinement of her taste and her clear

and distinct utterance, must always ensure to her the approbation of an

enlightened audience; we feel some reluctance in adding that her

uniformity of declamation, and something in her tones approaching to

monotony, retard her progress to that excellence to which the

qualifications abovementioned must evidently lead her.

Mr. Warren, viewed only as a performer, will be found fairly deserving

of our praise. In the arduous character of the "inimitable and

unimitated Falstaff" he has no rival on this side the Atlantic. In the

other class of characters, to which he modestly confines himself, he is

always correct and respectable.

In Mr. Cone, we see a young performer gradually rising in estimation. To

the manners of a gentleman, he adds a habit of discrimination, the

effect of a liberal education; and could he get over a certain

inflexibility of voice, (whether arising from nature or habit we know

not) he must very soon become a distinguished performer.

Mr. M'Kenzie is also a most respectable and useful actor: his person and

manner give him many advantages in performing characters requiring

dignity and firmness of deportment; as Glenalvon in Douglas, he is

excellent; and those who have witnessed his performance of sir Archy

M'Sarcasm and sir Pertinax M'Sycophant, will unite with us in paying him

the tribute of applause for his correct personification of the wily

Scotchman.--His talents do not seem calculated for genteel comedy in

general.

Mrs. Barrett must be considered as a very useful actress; her figure is

well adapted to the characters she undertakes, and her general

deportment upon the stage immediately indicates her perfect acquaintance

with the boards.

Mrs. Wilmot needs not our panegyric to call forward that public

attention she has so long merited; her qualifications as an actress are

uncommonly general--whether we see her in genteel comedy, or in the

English opera, we are equally gratified with the diversity of her

talents. As a singer, her voice and judgment are equally conspicuous,

and those who have seen her in the character of Ophelia, will readily

admit her claim to the pathetic.

In addition to Mrs. Wilmot as a vocal performer, we have Mrs. Seymour,

who possesses much sweetness and melody of tone, and whose modest and

unassuming manner of giving her songs is not their smallest attraction.

In low comedy where shall we find a competitor to Jefferson? The only

performer who seems to bear the comparison for a moment is Twaits; but

although we willingly subscribe to his merits, yet we can by no means

admit him capable of that variety of character for which Mr. Jefferson

is so distinguished.

Mr. Blisset is also very prominent in the same line--Together with a

fund of humour he possesses a whimsical eccentricity of character which

is always diverting; his voice however, is frequently too weak to be

heard in the remote parts of the house.

Mr. and Mrs. Francis have long enjoyed the _favour_ of the public.

Francis has much comic talent, sometimes, however, he is led by it, a

little too much into the caricature. Mrs. F. is not less diverting, and

remarkable for her appropriate manner of dressing for old characters; a

property very estimable. The ladies too often sacrifice a correct

representation of the character in this respect, to an unconquerable

aversion they so naturally retain of appearing old and ugly.

Mr. West, lately added to the company, seems to promise something in low

comedy; and Mr. Hardinge, in Irish characters, and vocal parts will

certainly be an acquisition to the theatre. Although our dramatis

personae do not afford much strength as to their vocal abilities; some of

those abovenamed, with the assistance of Wilmot and Jacobs, form a group

sufficient to render a musical piece very entertaining.

It should be recollected, that in all theatrical companies, there must

necessarily be a number of inferior rank; performers of merit will not

take the minor parts abounding in every dramatic piece; and while we

condemn a want of excellence in the performer, we should consider, that

did he possess more talent, he would not fill that situation.

Our orchestra will assuredly bear the strictest scrutiny.--The names of

Gillingham and Niniger are sufficient of themselves to stamp its

character. The other accompaniments are very respectable and

sufficiently numerous. The scenery, as far as the scale of the stage

will admit, is frequently beautiful, sometimes superb. The illuminated

wings recently exhibited in some of the pieces last produced, are new to

this country, and have a very brilliant effect: they do much credit to

Messrs. Robins and Stewart in the painting-room. The dresses of the

principal performers are rich and beautiful; to those who are acquainted

with European theatres, it will not be considered as amplifying, when we

assert, that we do not yield to them in that species of decoration. The

management of the scenery is as correct and subject to as few

interruptions as possible; and the expedition with which one act

succeeds another, can be only appreciated by those who have witnessed

the tedious delay so often experienced in other places.

We are assured no pains have been spared by the manager to procure the

most eminent performers; nor is any opportunity omitted to take

advantage of the accidental presence of any performer, whose engagement

promises to gratify the town.

This theatre has taken the lead in getting up every thing novel, in

either branch of the drama, and that in a style very much superior to

any other establishment of the kind upon the continent. It must be

evident that it is the wish, as it is the interest of the manager, to

conduct the trust committed to him upon the most liberal principles:

that which pleases the public most, is most favourable to him.

It must be observed, that the limits of a sketch like this, could only

admit of a very concise and general view of the subject. The writer has

no farther connexion or interest in the theatre, than that he holds in

common with those who are partial to dramatic entertainments, and who

think with him that a well regulated theatre, which is the only public

amusement Baltimore can boast of, instructs while it amuses, and

conduces much to that grace and elegance of conversation and manners so

fascinating in private life.

IRISH MUSIC.

In the last number, the reader was presented with a short sketch upon

the subject of Irish music, in a letter from the celebrated poet Moore.

That gentleman very philosophically ascribes the mixture of levity and

melancholy which is discernible in the character, as well as the music

of the original native Irish, to political circumstances. All who have

paid attention to the airs of that country must have perceived that they

are extremely lively and exhilarating, or delightfully plaintive and

melancholy. The former may be considered as displaying the ground-work,

or the natural temperament, the other the superinduced adventitious

character, derived from poverty and oppression. A writer of considerable

talents and intimate knowledge of the subject (Mr. Walker) adverting to

the poetry as well as the music of Ireland, speaks as follows:

"We see that music maintained its ground in this country even after the

invasion of the English, but its style suffered a change; for the

sprightly Phrygian gave place to the grave Doric, or the soft Lydian

measure. Such was the nice sensibility of the bards, such was their

tender affection for their country, that the subjections to which the

kingdom was reduced affected them with the heaviest sadness. Sinking

beneath this weight of sympathetic sorrow, they became a prey to

melancholy: hence the plaintiveness of their music: for the ideas that

arise in the mind are always congenial to, and receive a mixture from

the influencing passion. Another cause might have occurred in the one

just mentioned, in promoting a change in the style of our music; the

bards often driven together with their patrons, by the sword of

oppression, from the busy haunts of men, were obliged to lie concealed

in marshes, and in glyns and vallies resounding with the noise of

falling waters, or filled with portentous echoes. Such scenes as these,

by throwing a settled gloom over the fancy, must have considerably

increased their melancholy; so that when they attempted to sing, it is

not to be wondered at that their voices, thus weakened by struggling

against heavy mental depression, should rise rather by minor-thirds,

which consist but of four semitones, than by major-thirds which consist

of five. Now almost all the airs of this period are found to be set in

the minor-third, and to be of the sage and solemn nature which Milton

requires in his IL PENSEROSO."[3]

[Footnote 3: See Hist. Mem. of the Irish Bards.]

To illustrate his position, Mr. Walker introduces the following

anecdote: "About the year 1730, one Maguire, a vintner, resided near

Charing Cross, London. His house was much frequented, and his skill in

playing on the harp was an additional incentive: even the duke of

Newcastle and several of the ministry sometimes condescended to visit

it. He was one night called upon to play some Irish tunes; he did so;

they were plaintive and solemn. His guests demanded the reason, and he

told them that the native composers were too deeply distressed at the

situation of their country, and her gallant sons, to be able to compose

otherwise. But, added he, take off the restraints under which they

labour, and you will not have reason to complain of the plaintiveness of

their notes.

"Offence was taken at these warm effusions: his house became gradually

neglected, and he died soon after of a broken heart. An Irish harper who

was a cotemporary of Maguire, and like him, felt for the sufferings of

his country, had this distich engraven on his harp:

Cur lyra funestas edit percussa sonores?

Sicut amissum sors diadema gemit.

But perhaps the melancholy spirit which breathes through the Irish music

and poetry, may be attributed to another cause; a cause which operated

anterior and subsequent to the invasion of the English: we mean the

remarkable susceptibility of the Irish to the passion of love; a passion

which the munificent establishment of the bards left them at liberty

freely to indulge. While the mind is enduring the torments of fear,

despair or hope, its effusions cannot be gay. The greater number of the

productions of those amorous poets, Tibullus, Catullus, Petrarch and

Hammond, are elegiac. The subject of their songs is always love, and

they seem to understand poetry to be designed for no other purpose than

to stir up that passion in the mind.

SPORTING INTELLIGENCE.

COLONEL THORNTON'S DEPARTURE FROM YORKSHIRE.

Every true sportsman of this county must regret to hear that what has

been for sometime rumoured has at last taken place. Colonel Thornton has

been induced to part with Falconer's-hall, and if the report is true, we

have to congratulate him in having selected the most enviable and

princely domain in England, a residence unparalleled in its situation,

either for a man of fashion, a _bon vivant_, or a sportsman. After

having given the very best sport in hawking, coursing and hunting, at

Scarborough, Falconer's-hall, and to the Saltergate Club, the colonel, a

few days since, proceeded through York, in his way to Spy Park, in

Wiltshire, followed by a cavalcade, (such as attracted the attention of

the whole of this place) in the following order:

First, the boat-wagon, so well known by the opponents of my lord Milton,

and held by the owner invaluable, from having conveyed not less than

three thousand independent free-holders of this virtuous county to vote,

and ultimately, in spite of ministerial influence, to elect lord Milton,

a descendent of that man, the pattern of patriotism and unexampled

rectitude, Charles Watson Wentworth, marquis of Rockingham;--this wagon,

admirably contrived for the carrying of luggage or loose dogs, covered

with the skins of stags, fallow-deer and roebucks killed by the colonel,

nets, otter spears, fishing rods, and guns, drawn by four thorough-bred

cream-coloured Arabian mares bred by the king. Next a dog-cart, which

carried milk-white terriers, and beautiful gray-hounds; these were all

sheeted and embroidered with the different matches they had won: the

novelty of this appeared to excite particular gratification. The

huntsman, mounted upon a powerful, fine gray hunter, followed by an

immense pack (judged not less than one hundred couple) of stag-hounds,

fox-hounds, and otter-hounds, and lively lap-dog beagles. A stud-groom

and four grooms, each leading a thorough-bred horse, the descendants,

as it was said, of Jupiter;--deer-skins covered them by way of housing.

A keeper appropriately dressed, with three brace of pointers. The

falconer in green and silver, surrounded by hawks, and on his fist a

venerable grand-duke, closed this procession. Following, we understand,

there were nine wagon loads of old wine and ale, brought from Thornvile

Royal, inestimable from its age, and held by the duke of York as the

finest wine in the kingdom. These wines, moved at such an immense

expense, were from twenty-five to an hundred years old.

Many sportsmen, though delighted with the _coup d'[oe]il_, could not

forbear saying they should never see such sport as they had enjoyed with

the colonel, and envied those who were now to partake of his amusements

and hospitality in Wiltshire.

The distance we understand this cavalcade is to travel, is about two

hundred miles. A farther account of this very valuable removal, and

their safe arrival at their destination (and such was the sincere wish

of all the spectators) we hope to give hereafter.

* * * * *

Spy Park is situated in that part of the county of Wilts called North

Wiltshire, which is very dissimilar, in geographical features and

natural characteristics, to the southern portion of the county. Whilst

the former is distinguished by its numerous inclosures, dairy farms, and

manufacturing towns, the latter is chiefly occupied by the

wide-spreading downs called Salisbury Plain.

Spy Park has, for many generations, been the property of the Baynton

family, some of whom appear to have been knights of St. John of

Jerusalem, in the time of Henry II. The late sir Edward Baynton Holt,

bart. died at the advanced age of ninety, in January, 1800, when his

estates devolved to his son and heir, sir Andrew Baynton Holt, who has

recently sold or let Spy Park to colonel Thornton.

The mansion is a plain but spacious building, seated in a park which

abounds with fine old oak and other timber trees. The grounds are

diversified by bold swells and winding vallies, and command at various

stations, some extensive and interesting prospects. To the south-east

the bold promontory called Roundaway-hill, presents its steep acclivity,

with its commanding encampment on the summit. A range of lofty

chalk-hills extend thence for several miles to the east, on the southern

face of which is the White-Horse of Cherril, and above it is another

encampment, called Oldbury-castle.

At the extremity of the park, towards the west, the grounds slope

gradually to the river Avon, and its fertile meadows; and at an old

gate, called the Spy, a very extensive tract of country is unfolded.

Whilst the plantations of Bowden Park, and the venerable abbey of

Laycock, attract the eye near the fore-ground, the lofty free-stone

hills around Bath are seen in the middle distance, and a large tract of

Gloucestershire is observed extending to the north-east; whilst the more

picturesque and romantic features of Somersetshire are beheld,

stretching to the horizon, in the west and south-western directions. The

park includes an area of nearly eight miles in circumference, and during

the residence of the late sir Edward, its venerable forest-like trees

were sacredly preserved from the axe; they were, however, I am informed,

considerably thinned by the last proprietor.

* * * * *

Since the publication of colonel Thornton's departure from Yorkshire,

the following letter has appeared in the public prints:

I am happy to inform the public, through the medium of your interesting

paper, that the cavalcade of colonel Thornton at this place, was

distinguished by a junction of an immense number of sporting and other

valuable paintings; together with a collection of rare exotic plants,

and three wagon loads of bald-faced and other red deer, roebucks,

Asiatic deer, and party-coloured fallow deer; a _garde chasse_ had the

charge of two brace of Russian and French wild boars, the latter

understood to be a present from Napoleon, in return for seventy couple

of high-bred fox-hounds, descended from the famous old Conqueror, and

sent to the emperor Napoleon during the last peace, whose high mettle

afforded him the most exquisite gratification. A brace of cormorants

with silver rings around their necks, and broke in for fish-hunting;

together with ichneumons and pole-cat ferrit, for rat-hunting, and some

beautiful milk-white Muscovy ducks, and a number of high-bred blood

mares, foals, colts, fillies, and the two famous horses, the Esterhazy

and Theodolite, closed this splendid procession; and it is understood

that on their arrival at Spy Park they were met by the colonel and some

sporting friends, who expressed their astonishment, that after having

travelled through such almost impassable roads, amid torrents of rain,

and particularly the lap-dog beagles, not more than thirteen inches and

a half in height, and consequently often swimming, they should have

arrived without the least injury.

I am, &c.

A SPECTATOR.

_Chippenham._

* * * * *

At Rockdale races, the Brighton shepherd, so well known as a pedestrian,

was matched against a horse of the honourable captain Harley Rodney's

(rode by lord Rodney), for one hundred yards. This race, from its

novelty, excited very considerable attention, and was won by the

shepherd.

* * * * *

A short time since, Rickets, the celebrated Hampshire pedestrian,

undertook, for a wager of five guineas, to run seventeen miles in two

hours, which he performed in one hour and forty-nine minutes. He has

undertaken, for one hundred guineas, to run twenty miles in two hours,

and will attempt it soon.

* * * * *

An extraordinary feat of pedestrianism was performed, by a man of the

name of Williams, steward to Mr. Crouch. He was backed for twenty

guineas, to go twenty miles in two hours. He started at Hammersmith, and

did the distance in unfavourable weather, in seven minutes within the

given time. His track was from Colnbrook, and to return to near the

Magpies.

* * * * *

THE BUXTON BIT AND CHARLTON BRADOON.

The former useful as well as elegant appendage to the harness of the

dashing chariot of the day is just introduced by Charles Buxton, esq.

The advantages arising from this improvement are obvious: in respect to

their infallible quality of preventing the numberless accidents which

daily occur by horses running away, they are peculiarly desirable. These

bits are made upon a very simple construction; they give the person who

has the reins in hand, the power of checking the horse by the most easy

movement imaginable, however light in hand, or hard in mouth (boring on

the bit) he may be. There are four loops in this regulating bit; in all

others there is only one. Mr. Buxton very much opposes the principle on

which lord Hawke, Mr. Annesley, and Mr. Thornhill act, with respect to

the chain, instead of the pole pieces. The Charlton bradoon, a favourite

for more than twenty years, has lost its consequence by the new

invention; the bearing rein now passes through the throat lash, but

formerly it only entered the bit, and went straight to the territ.

* * * * *

The two divines who rendered themselves so very conspicuous at the late

punching match, at Moulsey, excuse themselves by observing, that the

apostolic injunction, "a bishop should be no striker," was never

intended to restrain the conduct of the inferior clergy.

* * * * *

A match was made a short time ago, for one hundred guineas, play or pay,

for a hack mare, the property of Mr. Sitwell, to perform fifty-six miles

in four hours, with half an hour stoppage allowed for feeding. The match

was undertaken soon after, from a spot near Shillingford, Berks, to

Haunston, and the mare did her task in seven minutes less than the given

time. She performed chiefly by the trot, and baited after going half the

distance in three minutes less than half the time. The odds were

considerably against the performance.

* * * * *

A HARE CHASED BY A FLOCK OF GEESE!

A flock of geese belonging to Mr. Lloyd, of the town-house, at Marford,

seven miles from Chester, lately set a hare on the top of that hill,

when poor puss, bursting from the cackling tribe, ran down the hill and

was pursued by the whole flock, some flying, some running with extended

wings till they overtook her, when puss slyly gave them the double; and,

returning, was so closely pursued by the irritated flock as to be taken

alive by a servant-girl of Mrs. Pate's, as she was attempting the latch

in her mistresses garden, in the presence of upwards of twenty

spectators. Her carcass was afterwards made a present of to a

wedding-party in that neighbourhood.

* * * * *

THE WALKING-POST.

The name of this extraordinary person, whose labours surpass any of the

boasted pedestrian achievements, is William Brackbank. He is a native of

Millom, in Cumberland. He daily performed the distance between

Whitehaven and Ulverstone, on foot, under the disagreeable circumstance

of frequently wading the river at Muncaster, by which place he

constantly went, which is at least three miles round; and, including the

different calls he had to make, at a short distance from the road, his

daily task was not short of forty-seven miles. He is at present

walking-post from Manchester to Glossop, in Derbyshire, a distance of

sixteen miles, which he performs every day, Sundays excepted; returns

the same evening, and personally delivers the letters, newspapers, &c.

in that populous and commercial county, to all near the road, which

makes his daily task not less than thirty-five miles, or upwards; and

what is more extraordinary, he has performed this business, for upwards

of two years, without the intervention of a day, except Sunday, and has

never varied a quarter of an hour, from his usual time of arriving at

Glossop. He performs all this in less than twelve hours a day.

* * * * *

A foot-race was run in the park between a lieutenant Hawkey and a Mr.

Snowden of Nottingham-street. The distance was two hundred yards, the

stakes fifty guineas, and the performers not being professional runners,

some betting took place. The race was won by about a yard by Mr.

Snowden, and the distance was performed in twelve seconds.

* * * * *

PUGILISM.

A battle took place at Wilsden Green, between Tom O'Donnell, and a

countryman, by trade a boot-closer. They fought forty-five hard rounds,

in which the countryman got a severe beating. Having boasted before the

battle that he could beat any man, he left the field of action, as may

be supposed, a little ashamed of himself.

* * * * *

A severe battle was fought at Marlborough-common, Wilts, by Mr. Howell,

hatter, and Mr. Titcomb, both of Marlborough. Soon after eight they set

to, the former seconded by Mr. Mead, collar-maker, and the latter by an

ostler at the Castle-inn. The first three rounds were in favour of

Howell, who laughed at his antagonist, and told him if he could not

strike harder he had better have staid at home; but the fourth round put

an end to his laughing, having received a left-handed blow on his head,

which cut his ear, and brought him to the ground; although he never

recovered this blow, yet he stood twenty-five rounds and showed good

bottom, but was so exhausted by the loss of blood, and so severely

beaten in the body as well as his face, that he gave in to Titcomb, who

said he had no objection to such exercise every morning in the week.

A pitched battle for one hundred guineas, was fought at Bognor, Bucks,

between a farmer of the name of Mitchell, who resides at Bognor, and a

publican of the name of George. The match was made in consequence of a

dispute respecting their merits as boxers. The battle lasted fifty-five

minutes, in the presence of about one thousand spectators. It was what a

professional boxer would have termed gluttony from beginning to ending.

There was no advantage in skill, strength or bottom, the former of which

neither of the champions possessed, but it was fighting in earnest at a

scratch, until one was knocked down. Mitchell at length gave in, but he

was able to walk away, which was not the case with the victor, who was

put to bed at the house next the scene of action. The victor was

seconded by Jones, a professional bruiser from London.

* * * * *

A remarkable instance of the effects of fear on irrational animals

lately occurred in Blickling Park, Norfolk, during the races there: At

the very height of sport, a covey of partridges sprang up, and were

flying across the ground, when overcome with alarm at the noise and

bustle of the scene, they fell lifeless among the crowded throng, and

were picked up by some of the spectators.

* * * * *

A singular occurrence lately took place at Cobham church: The earl of

Darnley was followed there by one of his pointers, which shortly became

mad, and threw the whole congregation into confusion and alarm. A

countryman, with great courage, procured a rope, and slipped it round

the animal's neck, and hung him across one of the pews. Fortunately no

person sustained any injury.

* * * * *

A most enormous shark was lately caught by the fishermen at Hastings; it

was entangled in seventeen of their nets, and completely broke them all;

but being wounded and nearly spent, they contrived to tow on shore this

monster of the deep. It measures thirty feet in length, and upwards of

twenty in circumference, and is supposed to weigh at least ten ton; has

four rows of teeth, and the throat is so large that it could swallow a

man with the greatest ease. It is considered to be the largest of the

species ever met with in any of the seas of Europe. Colonel Bothwell has

purchased it for his friend Mr. Home, the surgeon, of Sackville-street,

who intends to dissect it, and place the skeleton in his museum.

* * * * *

DUCK SHOOTING.

FROM "FOWLING,"--A POEM.

The shadowy Night has nearly run her course

Over the silent world--the cock repeats

His warning note--behooves us to prepare

For our expected sport. Now when the stars

Slowly decrease, and the faint glimmering light,

First trembles in the east, we hasten forth,

To seek the rushing river's wandering wave.

The doubtful gloom shall favour our approach,

And should we through th' o'erhanging bushes view

The dim-discovered flock, the well-aim'd shot

Shall have insur'd success, nor leave the day

To be consum'd in vain. For shy the game,

Nor easy of access: the fowler's toils

Precarious; but inur'd to ev'ry chance,

We urge those toils with glee. E'en the broad sun,

In his meridian brightness, shall not check

Our steady labour; for some rushy pool,

Some hollow willowy bank, the skulking birds

May then conceal, which our stanch dogs shall pierce,

And drive them clam'ring forth. Those tow'ring rocks,

With nodding wood o'erhung, that faintly break

Upon the straining eye, descending deep,

A hollow basin form, the which receives

The foaming torrent from above. Around

Thick alders grow. We steal upon the spot

With cautious step, and peering out, survey

The restless flood. No object meets our eye.

But hark what sound is that approaching near,

"Down close," The wild-ducks come, and darting down,

Throw up on ev'ry side the troubled wave;

Then gayly swim around with idle play,

With breath restrain'd, and palpitating heart,

I view their movements, whilst my well-taught dogs

Like lifeless statues crouch. Now is the time,

Closer they join; nor will the growing light

Admit of more delay--with fiery burst,

The unexpected death invades the flock;

Tumbling they lie, and beat the dashing pool,

Whilst those remoter from the fatal range

Of the swift shot, mount up on vig'rous wing,

And wake the sleeping echoes as they fly.

Quick on the floating spoil my spaniels rush,

And drag them to the shore.

* * * * *

MISCELLANY.

A more lively and yet poignant satire upon the wilful corruption of the

stage, the degeneracy of the public taste, and the reigning follies of

the British nation can scarcely be imagined than the following, which,

with several more under the same signature, has appeared in a celebrated

periodical work in London.

_To the right worshipful John Bull, of the united kingdom of Great

Britain and Ireland._

RESPECTED SIR,

Denied access to your sacred person, I avail myself of the press to

solicit your notice. You have, doubtless, by this time totally forgotten

poor Theobaldus Secundus, for short memories are not the exclusive

property of great wits. Truth is said to lie at the bottom of a well,

and as your worship seldom looks beyond the surface, I am not surprised

that she should hitherto have eluded your researches. If fate has

ordained my inkstand to be the bucket that shall draw her from her

watery grave for your edification, I expect a premium from your humane

society for my pains. If not, "you may kill the next Percy yourself." I

am now to solicit your patience, while I recount my adventures, in doing

which I shall ape the dignity rather than the prolixity, of the runaway

prince of Troy, when seated on the high bed of the enamoured queen of

Carthage.

I am, may it please your worship, grand nephew to the renowned Lewis

Theobald, one of those numerous broth-spoiling commentators, who have

smothered poor Shakspeare in the onion sauce of conjectural criticism.

My great uncle was, with reverence be it spoken, a great blockhead; but

that was no fault of his, he being a younger brother, and the family

genius being vested in my grandfather, with remainder to his sons in

tail male. From my earliest childhood I have looked upon Shakspeare as

the real king of England, and the two winter theatres as his proper

palaces. "The period spent on stubborn Troy," has now elapsed, since I

began a commentary on the plays of our immortal bard. O, the rivers of

ink that I have exhausted in cleansing his Augean page from the

black-letter filth heaped upon it by his different commentators! The

task was laborious, but such labour is my delight. The waters of Avon

suit my palate better than Boniface's ale. "I eat my Shakspeare, I drink

my Shakspeare, and (when certain players enact him) I always sleep upon

my Shakspeare."

Apollo was a doctor of physic as well as a doctor of divinity, and

Dryden, we are told, took his physic whenever he wanted to borrow his

inspiration. A dramatic writer of the present day writes tragedy in a

helmet facing a mirror. Ever while you live encourage the imagination!

My faith in Shakspeare is so unbounded, that I verily believe the

hell-broth of Macbeth's witches would, if properly mixed, engender a

real armed head and bloody child. I lately at a great expense, collected

all the materials in my kitchen-copper; I must own the experiment

failed; but I found out the cause. The resurrection man, whom I employed

to get me the "liver of blaspheming Jew," had made free with the corpse

of a very religious man of that persuasion. I must be more careful

another time--but this is foreign to our present purpose.

Having completed my commentary, my parched hopes sighed for the golden

shower, which I expected from presenting my dedication to your worship.

The times were tempting, your two winter playhouses were at that time

experiencing a nightly overflow, and a Tragedy was, as she should be,

all the rage! I knew not the cause, but rejoicing in the effect, huddled

my manuscript into my great-coat pocket, and trotted to your residence

in Portland-place. For be it known, sir, to those whom it may concern,

(your tradesmen) that you no longer reside within five minutes' walk of

the Royal Exchange. Formerly you passed your evenings in posting your

leger, and shaking your head at the follies of Fashion; you now exhaust

that portion of the day in posting to the opera, or shaking your heels

at Willis's rooms, and your elbows at the Union Club. If I felt pleased

at finding you at home, how was my satisfaction increased, by hearing

from a yellow-bellied waspish footman that you were busy with the first

tragedian of the day? Good! said I to myself, this must be Kemble: there

is no man better able to appreciate my labours--I'll break in upon them

without ceremony. On approaching your worship's door, I heard the words

"knuckle down" articulated in a shrill voice. I thought this an odd

exclamation for the first tragedian of the day; but how was I petrified

with astonishment, on entering the room, to find you on your knees,

playing at marbles with the little Roscius! Speechless with admiration I

retired unperceived. To have deranged a single taw would, in my mind,

have been a sacrilege as great as an attempt to upset the balance of the

Copernican system. I had scarce time to reflect on your improvement in

dramatic taste, when I learned that you had engaged a Roscia at your

theatre in Covent-Garden. Indeed, so wide had your love of the rising

generation at that time extended, I was credibly informed that Genoa was

on the point of shipping a squalling Roscium for the edification of your

opera-house, when the bubble burst like the gas of the Pall-Mall

lamp-lighter: Reason's dragon-teeth had been buried long enough, and a

race of men succeeded. The worshipful John Bull acted the part of the

cow, in Tom Thumb. Ridicule, that infallible emetic of sick minds, had

eased your stomach of its baby incumbrance; Miss Mudie returned to her

mamma, and Master Betty also retired to break Priscian's head, and hide

his own in the bosom of alma mater.

How elastic is hope when a man thinks he has written a good book, and

what mortal ever supposed himself the author of a bad one? _Quassas

reficit rates._ I again collected my darling notes on Shakspeare, and in

the firm hope that your stomach was well disposed to its natural

aliment, assaulted your door with face as brazen as the knocker I

handled. It was Saturday night, and your yellow barouche was waiting at

the door, but I confidently reckoned upon five minutes' conversation

with you, ere you repaired to the evening lecture, to which I concluded

a sober man like you was about to adjourn. While hesitating upon the fit

mode to address you, a figure descended the stairs, which, at first

sight, I mistook for an Alguazil, in a plethora, but upon nearer

approach found to be your worshipful self, posting to the opera, clad in

a great-coat of the newest cut, all fringe and frippery, the offspring

of a German tailor. You and your cloak were so enveloped in frogs and

self-conceit, that I could compare you to nothing but king Pharaoh,

inoculated with a plague greater than any in Egypt, an Italian singer.

After desiring me in a surly tone, to call tomorrow morning, your

worship mounted your vehicle, and scampered away to the region of

recitative. O, cried I, in bitterness of spirit, why has John Bull, my

revered patron, quitted his city residence? in his warehouse he has

bales of cotton in abundance, and might, like the wise Ulysses, stuff

his large and long ears with a portion of that commodity, to enable him

to escape the snares of the Haymarket syren.

Those who have patrons must also have patience. I dissembled my chagrin,

and you may remember, most worshipful sir, that I called the ensuing

day, at two o'clock, to allow you time to ponder on the morning's

service. Alas! I was now fated to be forestalled by a son of France, as

I had before been by a daughter of Italy. Both kingdoms boast the same

emperor, and their natives come hither upon the same embassy. While I

and Shakspeare were kicking our heels in the hall, you and Mons.

Deshayes were kicking yours before a pier glass in the drawing-room. I

had soon the satisfaction to observe your worship endeavouring to

imitate the te-totum pirouettes of that agile gentleman, in doing which

you bore a much stronger resemblance to the dervise in the Arabian Tale,

inasmuch, as after spinning some time, you threw down a purse, which the

wily foreigner, as light of finger as of foot, did not fail to pocket.

This, to be sure was no time for Shakspeare; I, therefore, left your

worship, hoodwinked by the Frenchman, _so turn about three times and

catch whom you may_.

I now sported the sullens in dignified retirement--but it would not do:

murder will out, and so will manuscripts. I resolved to make one more

effort. But were I to bring to your recollection all the mortifying

repulses I endured, I should quite destroy that patience of which you

stand so much in need, to listen to the debates at the next meeting of

your common council. At one time, naked from the waist upwards, you were

waging war with Belcher, the _Hittite_: at another, you had taken an

invisible girl into keeping: your cash was drained by lotteries,

missionaries, and mountebanks of all sorts and sizes: boys, even the

deaf, the dumb, and the blind, quitted their asylum in St. George's

Fields, for a more lucrative one on the boards of your theatres. Your

comic operas were, like Muzio Clementi's carts, mere vehicles for music,

and vehicles withal of such a clumsy fabric, that poor Euterpe, when she

took her nightly airings, reminded the spectator of Punch's wife in a

wheelbarrow; every expense was incurred, and every scribbler taken into

pay, except poor Shakspeare and his poorer commentator.

One morning, about eleven o'clock, as I was indulging myself in a

solitary ramble over Blackfriars-bridge, I espied your well-known

barouche, which I followed, and observed to stop at the Elephant and

Castle! Heighday! said I, this is a metamorphosis indeed! John Bull has

returned to nature at last. He prefers "the sanded floor that grits

beneath the tread," to a Persian carpet, and a pot of porter to the

"wines of France and milk of Burgundy." I'll go and smoke a pipe with

him! here again I was in error, your carriage having passed the

public-house, and stopped at a methodist meeting adjoining. It seems

your worship had, with religious abhorrence, passed by the Elephant and

Castle, but borrowing in part the imagery of that sign, had converted

your half-reasoning self into a clumsy Christian pedler, with a bundle

of contraband goods at your back. One Joanna, it seems, was the

priestess of this temple, and your worship had commenced so strong a

flirtation with the Lambeth sybil, that all the world looked upon

wedlock as inevitable. As I stood in the porch, I overheard your amatory

sighs and groans which sounded in my ears like Boreas wooing Vulcan

through a cranny in a chimney-corner. On approaching your pew, how was I

struck with the change in your physiognomy! Your face heretofore as red

and round as the full moon, had, by the joint influence of that planet

and the aforesaid Joanna, extended itself to a length, which Momus

forbid mine should ever attain, unless when reflected from a

table-spoon, at the Piazza coffee-house!

It was now confidently reported, that the days of Jeremy Collier had

returned: that the theatres were to be shut up, his majesty's servants

to receive their arrears of scarlet cloth, for regimentals to serve him

in the capacity of foot-soldiers: that the slayers of Syntax, who had

stuffed their mouths with melo-drames, and other pernicious compounds,

were to turn hewers of wood, and that your worship would license no

pantomimes, except those exhibited in the Blackfriars and

Tottenham-court roads.

This intelligence rather pleased than alarmed me. I believed it only to

a certain extent, conceiving the fact to be, that my respected patron

was sick of silk banners and Peruvian suns, exhausting more gold than

they engendered, and that a ray of true taste was hereafter to dawn upon

the dramatic horizon. "The theatre," exclaimed I, "is the school of

morality; and morality and religion are inseparable." Without stopping

to prove my syllogism, I seized my commentary, and with a head and a

great-coat pocket full of my immortal labours, called once more in

Portland-place. You received me with civility, desired me to take a

seat, and treated me with a cup of chocolate, declining to take any

yourself, on account of a nausea at your stomach, which I ascribed to a

certain sentimental pill you had lately swallowed, rolled up in the

shape of a comedy, and for which I undertook to prescribe. You requested

me with eagerness to do so, and I drew my manuscript from my pocket,

thinking the golden moment at hand. I conjured you to consider, that in

dramatic entertainments the love of show was like the love of money, and

increased by indulgences, beyond the power of a manager to gratify: I

proved by mathematical demonstration, that small theatres wanted nothing

but good dialogue to support them: I entreated you to send your gorgeous

trumpery to rag-fair, and to diminish your overgrown Drury, which no man

could now think of entering unaccompanied by a telescope and an

ear-trumpet. All the persuasions of a Tully, all the energy of a

Waithman, were enlisted into my harangue; which finished by exhorting

your worship to step back half a century in your dramatic career, to a

period when theatrical property was somewhat more than a mouthful of

moonshine;--when Shakspeare was, indeed as he should be, and when

nothing was talked of in this great metropolis, save the great Goliath

of Stratford, on the banks of the Avon, and little David, of the

Adelphic terrace, on the banks of the Thames.

This eloquent harangue was no sooner concluded, than your worship burst

into a horse-laugh, and stamping your foot on the floor, the room was

instantly filled with as motley a group as ever giggled decorum out of

countenance at a masquerade: among whom I recognized a zany, with a

blue perriwig, bestriding a large goose, and brandishing a golden egg,

whilst your worship was clapping your hands in all the raptures of

applause. "Perdition seize this fellow," cried your worship, pointing to

me, "his tongue chatters like a cherry-clapper, and lies like the

prospectus of a new magazine! All you, my pimps, parasites, and

pensioners--my leading mistresses and led captain--my mummers and

melo-dramatists, who conspire to drill holes in the breeches-pockets of

John Bull, that his coin may not corrode for want of circulation; if

ever this fellow enters my house again, with his deer-stealing Stratford

vagabond under his arm, tie them both up in a hopsack, and throw them

into the Thames!

Such treatment, sir, I did not expect, for I never had a patron before.

When I expected the golden apple,--to be then pelted with a golden egg,

was too much for human endurance; I, therefore, took my leave with the

following address: "May your worship's stage be glutted with monsters,

running upon all fours, with your own taste! May wit and humour wing

their flight to another region, and the mighty void be supplied by

maukish sentiment, horse-collar grins, wood-demons, and other

show-cattle of the Smithfield muses! May you be visited by a locust

tribe of scribblers, who shall conspire to torment that groaning martyr,

the Press, with ducal lampoons, drowsy epics, and zig-zag heroics! With

Hope the upholsterer, and Bryon the idler, with Joe Miller in quarto,

Genius in thin duodecimo, Leadenhall romances, and Puritan biography:

and should your worship ever find yourself deviating from the path of

virtue, may _Hannah Glasse_ preserve your temperance, _Hannah More_ your

soberness, and _Anacreon Moore_ your chastity!"

One word more, sir, and I take my leave. It was the opinion of Ophelia's

grave digger, that your worship was to the full as mad as the

hare-brained lover of that young lady. This circumstance gives that

royal youth a title to your first regards: my annotations on _Hamlet,

Prince of Denmark_, shall accordingly be submitted to your consideration

at our next monthly meeting,

I am, &c,

THEOBALDUS SECUNDUS.

* * * * *

DR. YOUNG.--THE BROTHERS.

Young, the celebrated author of the Night Thoughts, wrote a tragedy

called the Brothers, and appropriated the profits of his third nights of

the representation for the benefit of some public charity. But the

proceeds falling short of one thousand pounds, which he had expected

would have been raised in this way, he very bountifully supplied the

deficiency by an additional donation.

* * * * *

OTHELLO BURLESQUED.

There was formerly in the Northern Liberties a petty theatre, called

Noah's Ark, from its being in the neighbourhood of a tavern, of which

that was the sign. A ludicrous circumstance took place there about

twenty years ago; a hobble-de-hoy, of the name of Purcell, with a wizen

face like "Death and Sin," having met with misfortunes, hired the

theatre for one night, and advertised Othello for his benefit. He played

himself the character of the valiant Moor. As he had many friends who

made considerable exertions in his favour, the house was crowded. His

acting was so truly ludicrous, that the audience instead of letting fall

the pearly drops over their cheeks, were in an unceasing roar of

laughter. Between the play and the farce a drunken fellow of the name of

Vaughan was to deliver the celebrated epilogue of "Bucks, have at ye

all." He had made the most solemn promise to abstain from his usual drop

of grog till he had performed his tour of duty. But alas! poor human

nature, like other great men, he yielded to the temptation of a flowing

bowl. When he came on the stage, and had just made a beginning--

"Ye social friends--

A slight hiss was heard, which enraged him so much that he stopped, and

looked among the audience with indignation, trying to discover what

jealous rival was endeavouring to discompose him--a silence ensued for a

minute; Vaughan then began again:

Ye social friends of claret and of wit,

Where'er dispersed in merry groupes ye sit.

About ten or a dozen persons then hissed pretty loudly. Vaughan stamped

on the floor, clenched his fist, struck his thigh, and cried out in a

loud voice, "damn you, ye black-guards--I wish I had you here--I'd soon

settle you." A universal hiss took place--the enraged orator was pelted

off the stage, and poor Purcell had to come forward and make an apology.

In this extemporaneous effort, his success was as splendid as in his

performance of Othello. He hoped, he said, the ladies and gentlemen

would not go for to say, for to do, for to think that he was at all to

blame--that it was all Dr. Vaughan's fault--for though he had promised

to keep sober till the play was over, he had got as drunk as David's sow

before it began. This elegant harangue produced the desired effect, and

appeased the angry passions of the gods and goddesses. A parley ensued.

Peace was made. A promise was given that Vaughan should be allowed to

proceed without hissing--and he accordingly came out and recited the

epilogue, now and again looking among the audience to discover who was

murmuring a slight hiss, which the keen ears of the speaker would not

let escape. As soon as he was done, he had the high gratification of a

universal hiss from almost every individual in the house, and was once

more pelted off in spite of all his ire and loudly vociferated threats.

* * * * *

VANDERMERE.

This performer was the most complete Harlequin that ever trod the

British stage. His agility was to the last degree astonishing. He has

leaped through a window on the stage, when pursued by the clown, full

thirteen feet high. Whenever he was in the play-bills in Dublin, he

attracted crowded houses. One night, when he had a prodigious leap to

perform, the persons behind the scenes who were to have received him in

a blanket, were not prepared in time, and of course he fell on the

boards, and was miserably bruised. He then took a most solemn oath, that

he would never leap again on the stage. Nor did he violate his oath.

Thenceforward, when he performed Harlequin, George Dawson, another

actor about his size, and very active, was attired in the party-coloured

robes. Whenever in the course of the pantomime a leap was requisite,

Vandermere passed off on one side--Dawson came in on the other, and

leaped. Then Vandermere returned and went through the Harlequinian

tricks.

* * * * *

A TRUE STORY.

In days of yore, th' historic page

Says, women were proscrib'd the stage;

And boys and men in petticoats

Play'd female parts with Stentor's notes.

The cap, the stays, the high-heel'd shoe,

The 'kerchief and the bonnet too,

With apron as the lily white,

Put all the male attire to flight--

The culotte, waistcoat, and cravat,

The bushy wig, and gold-trimm'd hat.

Ye gods! behold! what high burlesque,

Jane Shore and Juliet thus grotesque!

* * * * *

King Charles one night, jocund and gay,

To Drury went, to see a play--

Kynaston was to act a queen--

But to his tonsor he'd not been:

He was a mirth-inspiring soul

Who lov'd to quaff the flowing bowl--

And on his way the wight had met

A roaring bacchanalian set;

With whom he to "_the Garter_" hies,

Regardless how time slyly flies.

And while he circulates the glass,

Too rapidly the moments pass;

At length in haste the prompter sends.

And tears Kynaston from his friends;

Tho' he'd much rather there remain,

He hurries on to Drury Lane.

When in the green-room he appear'd,

He scar'd them with his bushy beard,

The barber quick his razor strops,

And lather'd well _her royal chops_:

While he the stubble mow'd away,

The audience curs'd such long delay:

They scream'd--they roar'd--they loudly bawl'd.

And with their cat-calls _sweetly_ squall'd:

Th' impatient monarch storm'd and rav'd--

"_The queen, dread sire, is not quite shav'd_!"

Was bellow'd by the prompter loud--

This cogent reason was allow'd

As well by king as noisy crowd.

* * * * *

VOLTAIRE'S IDEA OF ORIGINALITY IN WRITING.

A young poet having consulted him on a tragedy full of extraordinary

incidents, Voltaire pointed out to him the defects of his piece. The

writer replied, that he had purposely forsaken the beaten track of

Corneille and Racine. "So much the worse," replied Voltaire,

"originality is nothing but judicious imitation."

* * * * *

One day when his Irene was performing at the house of the marquis de

Villette, a celebrated actress reciting her part rather negligently,

Voltaire said to her, "Really, mademoiselle, it is unnecessary for me to

write verses of six feet, if you gulp down three of them."

* * * * *

On the performance of one of his tragedies, the success of which was

equivocal, the abbe Pellegrin complained loudly that Voltaire had stolen

some verses from him. "How can you, who are so rich," said the abbe,

"thus seize upon the property of another?" "What! have I stolen from

you?" replied Voltaire; "then I no longer wonder that my piece has met

with so little approbation."

* * * * *

KNOW THYSELF.

There is an anecdote related in the Memoirs of the Court of Louis XIV,

which reflects some credit on that monarch's understanding, and may be

of service to multitudes of the _bourgeoisie_ of every city in the

world, if properly digested and acted upon.

A _negociant_, who took the lead of all the rest in Paris, was in

particular favour with the king, and without formality consulted by him,

in all that he wished to know relating to mercantile affairs. At length

the man of the counting-house, whose wealth was enormous, felt his

ambition excited, and nothing would content him but a _title_. After

many fruitless overtures, Louis at last granted his request, and never

treated him with friendly familiarity again. The trader, exceedingly

hurt at this neglect, made free one day to inquire the cause. "It is

your own fault," said the monarch, "you have degraded yourself--you were

the first as a merchant--you are the lowest as a peer."

* * * * *

MADAME MARE AND FLORIO.

This once celebrated singer has, according to German papers, retired to

an estate in Poland. During her late residence at Moscow, her companion

Florio, was involved in a very unpleasant affair. A letter, signed

Richard Florio, written in French, and filled with invectives against

the Russian government, was put into the post office at St. Petersburgh.

The person it was addressed to handed it over to the police. Florio was

arrested at Moscow, and conveyed prisoner to St. Petersburgh. Here,

however he was speedily released, his name being not Richard, but

Charles, and it appearing that he was totally ignorant of the French

language. The emperor Alexander overhearing of the circumstances, made

Florio a present of a handsome sum of money, over and above the expenses

he had been put to in his journey from Moscow.

* * * * *

LEWIS'S RETIREMENT FROM THE STAGE.

That celebrated comedian, the inimitable LEWIS, retired from the stage

in May last, to devote the residue of his days to tranquil domestic

enjoyment. His talents and prudence have enabled him to sit down with

property sufficient for all the rational purposes of life. Since his

retirement he made a transfer in the bank of five thousand pounds to

each of his three daughters, and now, say the wits of London, many a

Bassanio will doubtless say, their

_Sunny_ locks

Hang on their temples like a golden fleece.

It was on the night of his own benefit that Mr. Lewis took a formal and

final farewell of the public, under circumstances so honourable to him

as no actor, perhaps has ever been able to boast of. _During the

thirty-six years he had been a player, he had never once fallen under

the displeasure of his audience._ The play was "Rule a Wife and have a

Wife," in which he performed THE COPPER CAPTAIN. After the comedy, when

the curtain dropped, Mr. Lewis came forward and addressed the house in

the following words:

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,

"I have the honour of addressing you for the last time. This is the

close of my theatrical life; (loud cries of no! no!) and I really

feel so overcome by taking leave forever of my friends and patrons;

that might it not be deemed disrespectful or negligent I could wish

to decline it; (Loud applause, and a cry of go on! go on!) but it

is a duty which I owe, and I will attempt to pay it, conscious I

shall meet your indulgence; for when I remind you that I have been

thirty-six years in your service, and cannot recollect to have

fallen once under your displeasure, my dramatic death cannot be met

by me without the strongest emotions of regret and gratitude.

"I should offer my acknowledgments for innumerable acts of kindness

shown to my earliest days, and your yet kinder acceptance of, and

partiality shown to my latest efforts; all these I powerfully feel,

though I have not the words to express those feelings.----But while

this heart has a sensation it will beat with gratitude.

"Ladies and gentlemen, with the greatest respect, and, if you will

admit the word, the sincerest affection, I bid you farewell."

During the delivery of this address, Mr. Lewis was evidently much

affected. His voice faultered, and the tear started from his eye. The

audience were also much affected at this parting scene, and took leave

of their favourite with loud and universal acclamations. The house was

crowded to excess.

Thus (says the London writer) every hour is seen stealing from this

stock of harmless pleasure, and our theatrical register serves only to

record our losses. What can we put in balance against the death of

Parsons, Suett, Palmer, and King, and the retirement of Mrs. Mattocks,

Miss Pope, and Mr. Lewis?--Nothing. What is there in prospect?--the

further loss of Mrs. Siddons and Mrs. Jordan. These two stars of the

first magnitude will also soon be missing in the theatrical hemisphere,

and where is he who can say that he has discovered any promise that this

light will, in our time, be repaired?--Nowhere.

"The greatest fires are out, and glimmering night succeeds."

On his taking a final leave of the Dublin stage, Mr. Lewis spoke the

following address:

From ten years old till now near fifty-six,

Of all I've gained, the _origin_ I fix

_Here on this fav'rite spot_; when first I came

A trembling candidate for scenic fame,

In numbers _lisping, here_ that course began

Which, through your early aid, has smoothly ran;

Here too, returning from your sister land,

Oft have I met your smile, your lib'ral hand:

Oft as I came Hibernia still has shown

That hospitality so much her own.

But _now_ the prompter, _Time_, with warning bell,

Reminds me that I come to bid farewell!

With usual joy this visit I should pay,

But _here_, adieu is very hard to say.

Yet take my thanks for thousand favours past--

My wishes that your welfare long may last--

My promise that, though Time upon this face

May make his annual marks, no time can chase

Your memory here, while memory here has place.

My meaning is sincere, though plainly spoke--

My heart, like yours, I hope, is heart of oak;

And that although the bark, through years, may fail ye,

The trunk was, is, and will be true shillaly.

* * * * *

MAN AND WIFE.

_The Comedy annexed to this number._

The favourable reception which this comedy met in London, will no doubt

induce the managers of America to produce it on their boards. For _this

reason_ it has been selected by the editors.

In the general reception of this comedy on the stage, the author has

been more successful than in the judgment it has received from the

press. Of the criticisms which have appeared in the London publications,

we have seen two, which disagree with each other on its merits. That the

reception by a large audience and the opinion of a critic should differ,

is not at all surprising. In the present instance one of those critics

is at complete variance with the audience, and says "it is as dull as

the ministerial benches, and yet as patriotic as the opposition." The

editors reserve their opinion till they see it acted.

* * * * *

CORRESPONDENCE.

The conductors thank "DRAMATICUS" for his communications, to which they

will pay the proper attention. Though the series for the month of

February is complete, they have made room for four of the articles with

which he has favoured them.

* * * * *

* * * *

Errors and Inconsistencies: The Mirror of Taste

Spellings were changed only when there was an unambiguous error,

or the word occurred elsewhere with the expected spelling.

Omitted closing quotation marks are as in the original text.

[oe] indicates an oe ligature.

_Unchanged:_

chaunted [chanted]

cotemporary/ies [contemporary/ies]

descendent [descendant]

devest [divest]

monkies [monkeys]

mystries [mysteries]

pedler [pedlar]

surprize [surprise]

wo [woe]

wonderous [wondrous]

then "hear him, hear him," loudly rings, [final comma is unclear]

assuage their wrath or heal the wound, [comma is unclear]

_Corrected:_

From the circumstances of her father's situation [farther's]

Though the trepidation inseparable from such an effort [inseperable]

Each secret image that my fancy formed [Eech]

Quin decidedly gave judgment against her [decidely]

is rather a paraphrase than a translation [pharaphrase]

the season which succeeded Mrs. Merry's arrival [whith]

vainglory [occurs with and without hyphenation]

signifying--roundly nothing [signifyng]

the dog-star of favouritism [favourite-ism]

don't [occurs with and without apostrophe]

strength as to their vocal abilities [abilites]

a wedding-party in that neighbourhood [neigbourhood]

* * * * *

* * * *

MAN AND WIFE;

OR,

MORE SECRETS THAN ONE:

A COMEDY.

By SAMUEL JAMES ARNOLD, Esq.

Published by Bradford and Inskeep, Philadelphia;

Inskeep and Bradford, New-York; and William

M'Ilhenny, Boston.

Smith and Maxwell, Printers.

1810.

MAN AND WIFE;

OR,

MORE SECRETS THAN ONE.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

Lord Austencourt.

Sir Rowland Austencourt.

Charles Austencourt.

Sir Willoughby Worret.

Falkner.

Abel Grouse.

Mr. Cornelius O'Dedimus.

Ponder.

William.

Servant.

Countryman.

Sailor.

Game-Keeper.

Parish Officer.

Lady Worret.

Helen Worret.

Fanny.

Tiffany.

ACT I.

SCENE I.--_Abel Grouse's cottage. Enter_ Abel Grouse _and_ Fanny.

_Ab. Gr._ Don't tell me of your sorrow and repentance girl. You've

broke my heart. Married hey? and privately too--and to a lord into the

bargain! So, when you can hide it no longer, you condescend to tell me.

Think you that the wealth and title of lord Austencourt can silence the

fears of a fond father's heart? Why should a lord marry a poor girl like

you in private, if his intentions were honourable? Who should restrain

him from publicly avowing his wife?

_Fanny._ My dearest father, have but a little patience, and I'll explain

all.

_Ab. Gr._ Who was present, besides the parson, at your wedding?

_Fanny._ There was our neighbour, the attorney, sir, and one of his

clerks, and they were all--

_Ab. Gr._ My heart sinks within me--but mark me. You may remember I was

not always what now I seem to be. I yesterday received intelligence

which, but for this discovery, had shed a gleam of joy over my remaining

days. As it is, should your husband prove the villain I suspect him,

that intelligence will afford me an opportunity to resume a character in

life which shall make this monster lord tremble. The wrongs of Abel

Grouse, the poor but upright man, might have been pleaded in vain to

him, but as I shall soon appear, it shall go hard but I will make the

great man shrink before me, even in his plenitude of pride and power.

_Fanny._ You terrify me, sir, indeed you do.

_Ab. Gr._ And so I would. I would prepare you for the worst that may

befal us: for should this man, this lord, who calls himself your

husband--

_Fanny._ Dearest father, what can you mean? Who _calls_ himself my

husband! He _is_ my husband.

_Ab. Gr._ If he _is_ your husband, how does he dare to pay his

addresses, as he now publicly does, to the daughter of sir Willoughby

Worret, our neighbour. I may be mistaken. I'm in the midst here of old

acquaintances, though in this guise they know me not. They shall soon

see me amongst them. Not a word of this, I charge you. Come girl, this

lord shall own you. If he does not, we will seek a remedy in those laws

which are at once the best guardians of our rights and the surest

avengers of our wrongs. [_Exeunt._

SCENE II.--_A parlour in_ sir W. Worret's _house. The breakfast

prepared, urn, &c._ Sir Willoughby _reading the newspaper. He rises and

rings the bell; then pulls out his watch._

_Sir W._ Three quarters of an hour since breakfast was first announced

to my wife. My patience is exhausted. Oh wedlock, wedlock! why did I

ever venture again into thy holy state--of misery! Of all the taxes laid

on mankind by respect to society and the influence of example, no one is

so burthensome as that which obliges a man to submit to a thousand ills

at home, rather than be suspected of being a bad husband abroad. (_enter

servant_) Go to your lady.

_Serv._ I told her ladyship five times before, sir Willoughby, that

breakfast was waiting.

_Sir W._ Then tell her once more, and that will make six, and say I

earnestly request the favour she will hasten to breakfast, as while she

stays I starve.

_Serv._ Yes, sir Willoughby, but she'll stop the longer for the message.

(_Aside going out._) [_Exit._

_Sir W._ My wife is the very devil. It seems that she'd be miserable if

she did not think me happy; yet her tenderness is my eternal torment;

her affection puts me in a fidget, and her fondness in a fever.

_Enter servant._

_Serv._ My lady says she wont detain you a moment, sir Willoughby.

[_Exit._

_Sir W._ The old answer. Then she's so nervous. A nervous wife is worse

than a perpetual blister; and then, as the man says in the play, your

nervous patients are always ailing, but _never die_. Zounds! why do I

bear it? 'tis my folly, my weakness, to dread the censure of the world,

and to sacrifice every comfort of my fire side to the ideal advantage of

being esteemed a _good husband_. (_Lady Worret is heard speaking

behind_) Hark! now she begins her morning work, giving more orders in a

minute than can be executed in a month, and teasing my daughter to death

to teach her to keep her temper; yet every body congratulates me on

having so good a wife; every body envies me so excellent an economist;

every body thinks me the happiest man alive; and nobody knows what a

miserable mortal I am.

_Lady W._ (_behind_) And harkye, William, (_entering with servant_) tell

the coachman to bring the chariot in a quarter of an hour: and William,

run with these books immediately to the rector's; and William, bring up

breakfast this moment.

_Will._ Yes, my lady: (_aside_) Lord have mercy upon us! [_Exit._

_Lady W._ My dear sir Willoughby, I beg a thousand pardons; but you are

always so indulgent that you really spoil me. I'm sure you think me a

tiresome creature.

_Sir W._ No, no, my life, not at all. I should be very ungrateful if I

didn't value you _just exactly as highly_ as you deserve.

_Lady W._ I certainly _deserve_ a good scolding: I do indeed. I think if

you scolded me a little I should behave better.

_Sir W._ Well, then, as you encourage me, my love, I must own that a

little more punctuality would greatly heighten the zest of your society.

_Lady W._ And yet, sir Willoughby, you _must_ acknowledge that my time

is ever dedicated to that proper vigilance which the superintendance of

so large an establishment undoubtedly requires.

_Sir W._ Why, true, my love; but somehow I can't help thinking, that, as

my fortune is so ample, it is quite unnecessary that you should undergo

so much fatigue: for instance, I _do_ think that the wife of a baronet

of 12,000l. a year owes it to her rank to be otherwise employed than in

hunting after the housemaid, or sacrificing her time in the storeroom in

counting candles, or weighing out soap, starch, powder-blue, and brown

sugar.

_Lady W. (in tears)_ This is unkind, sir Willoughby, this is very

unkind.

_Sir W._ So! as usual, here's a breeze springing up. What the devil

shall I say to sooth her? Wife, wife! you drive me mad. You first beg me

to scold you, and then are offended because I obligingly comply with

your request.

_Lady W._ No, sir Willoughby, I am only _surprised_ that you should so

little know the value of a wife who daily degrades herself for your

advantage.

_Sir W._ That's the very thing I complain of. You _do_ degrade yourself.

Your economy, my life, is downright parsimony: your vigilance is

suspicion; your management is meanness; and you fidget your servants

till you make them fretful, and then prudently discharge them because

they will live with you no longer. Hey! ods life, I must sooth her: for

if company comes, and finds her in this humour, my dear-bought

reputation as a good husband is lost forever. _(Enter servant with

breakfast.)_ Come, come, my dear lady Worret, let us go to breakfast,

come _(sitting down to breakfast)_ let us talk of something else. Come,

take your tea.

_Lady W. (to servant)_ Send William to speak to me. [_Exit servant._

_Sir W._ Where's Helen?

_Lady W._ I have desired her to copy a few articles into the family

receipt book before breakfast; for as her marriage will so shortly take

place, it is necessary she should complete her studies.

_Sir W._ What, she's at work, I suppose, on the third folio volume.

_Lady W._ The _fifth_, I believe.

_Sir W._ Heaven defend us! I don't blame it; I don't censure it at all:

but I believe the case is _rather_ unprecedented for an heiress of

12,000l. a year to leave to posterity, in her own hand writing, five

folio volumes of recipes, for pickling, preserving, potting, and pastry,

for stewing and larding, making ketchup and sour krout, oyster patties,

barbacued pies, jellies, jams, soups, sour sauce, and sweetmeats.

_Lady W._ Oh, sir Willoughby! if young ladies of the present day paid

more attention to such substantial acquirements, we should have better

wives and better husbands.

_Sir W._ Why that is singularly just.

_Lady W._ Yes, if women were taught to find amusement in domestic

duties, instead of seeking it at a circulating library, assemblies, and

balls, we should hear of fewer appeals to Doctor's Commons and the court

of King's Bench.

_Sir W._ Why that is undeniably true _(aside)_ and now, as we have a

moment uninterrupted by family affairs--

_Enter_ William.

_Lady W._ Is the carriage come?

_Will._ No, my lady.

_Lady W._ Have you carried the books?

_Will._ No, my lady.

_Lady W._ Then go and hasten the coachman.

_Will._ No, my lady--_yes_, my lady.

_Lady W._ And William, send up Tiffany to Miss Helen's room, and bid her

say we expect her at breakfast.

_Will._ Miss Helen has been in the park these two hours.

_Sir W. (Laughs aside.)_

_Lady W._ How! in the park these two hours? Impossible. Send Tiffany to

seek her.

_Will._ Yes, my lady. [_Exit._

_Sir W._ So, as usual, risen with the lark, I suppose.

_Lady W._ Her disobedience will break my heart.

_Sir W._ Zounds! I shall go mad. Here's a mother-in-law going to break

her heart, because my daughter prefers a walk in the morning to writing

culinary secrets in a fat folio family receipt book!

_Lady W._ Sir Willoughby, sir Willoughby, it is you who encourage her in

disregarding my orders.

_Sir W._ No such thing, lady Worret, no such thing: but if the girl

likes to bring home a pair of ruddy cheeks from a morning walk, I don't

see why she is to be balked of her fancy.

_Lady W._ Ruddy cheeks, indeed! Such robust health is becoming only in

dairy maids.

_Sir W._ Yes, I know your taste to a T. A consumption is always a key to

your tender heart; and an interesting pallid countenance will at any

time unlock the door to your best affections: but I must be excused if I

prefer seeing my daughter with the rosy glow of health upon her cheek,

rather than the sickly imitations of art, which bloom on the surface

alone, while the fruit withers and decays beneath--but zounds! don't

speak so loud, here's somebody coming, and they'll think we are

quarrelling. _(Helen sings behind)_ So here comes our madcap.

_Enter_ Helen.

_Helen._ Good morning, good morning. Here, papa, look what a beautiful

posy of wild flowers I have gathered. See, the dew is still upon them.

How lovely they are! To my fancy, now, these uncultivated productions of

nature have more charms than the whole garden can equal. Why can we not

all be like these flowers, simple and inartificial, with the stamp of

nature and truth upon us?

_Lady W._ Romantic stuff! But how comes it, Miss Helen, that my orders

are thus disobeyed?

_Helen._ Why lord, mamma, I'll tell you how it was; but first I must eat

my breakfast; so I'll sit down and tell you all about it. _(sits down.)_

In the first place, I rose at six, and remembering I was to copy out the

whole catalogue of sweetmeats, and as I hate all sweet things, (some

sugar, if you please, papa) I determined to take one run round the park

before I sat down to my morning's work: so taking a crust of bread and a

glass of cold water, which I love better than (some tea, if you please,

mamma) any thing in the world, out I flew like a lapwing; stopped at the

dairy; and (some cream, if you please, papa) down to the meadows and

gathered my nosegay; and then bounded home, with a heart full of gayety,

and a rare appetite for--some roll and butter, if you please, mamma.

_Lady W._ Daughter, this levity of character is unbecoming your sex, and

even your age. You see none of this offensive flightiness in me.

_Sir W._ Come, come, my dear lady Worret. Helen's gayety is natural.

Helen, my love, I have charming news for you. Every thing is at last

arranged between lord Austencourt and me respecting your marriage.

_Helen._ Why now, if mamma-in-law had said this, I should have thought

she meant to make me as grave as herself.

_Lady W._ In expectation that Helen will behave as becomes her in this

most important affair of her life, I consent to pass over her negligence

this morning in regard to my favourite receipts.

_Helen._ I hate all receipts, sweet, bitter, and sour.

_Lady W._ Then we will now talk of a husband.

_Helen._ I hate all husbands, sweet, bitter, and sour.

_Sir W._ Whoo! Helen, my love, you should not contradict your mamma.

_Helen._ My dear papa, I don't contradict her; but I will not marry lord

Austencourt.

_Lady W._ This is too much for my weak nerves. I leave you, sir

Willoughby, to arrange this affair, while I hasten to attend to my

domestic duties.

_Sir W._ (_aside to lady W._) That's right; you'd better leave her to

me. I'll manage her, I warrant. Let me assist you--there--I'll soon

settle this business. (_Hands lady Worret off._)

_Helen._ Now, my dear papa, are you really of the same opinion as her

ladyship?

_Sir W._ Exactly.

_Helen._ Ha! ha! lud! but that's comical. What! both think alike?

_Sir W._ Precisely.

_Helen._ That's very odd. I believe it's the first time you've agreed in

opinion since you were made one: but I'm quite sure you never can wish

me to marry a man I do not love.

_Sir W._ Why no, certainly not; but you _will_ love him; indeed you

_must_. It's my wife's wish, you know, and so I wish it of course. Come,

come, in this one trifling matter you must oblige us.

_Helen._ Well, as _you_ think it only a trifling matter, and as I think

it of importance enough to make me miserable, I'm sure _you'll_ give up

the point.

_Sir W._ Why no, you are mistaken. To be sure I _might_ have given it

up; but my lady Worret, you know--but that's no matter. Marriage is a

duty, and tis incumbent on parents to see their children settled in that

_happy_ state.

_Helen._ Have _you_ found that state _so happy_, sir?

_Sir W._ Why--yes--that is--hey? happy! certainly. Doesn't every body

say so? and what every body says _must_ be true. However, that's not to

the purpose. A connexion with the family of lord Austencourt is

particularly desirable.

_Helen._ Not to _me_, I assure you, papa.

_Sir W._ Our estates join so charmingly to one another.

_Helen._ But sure that's no reason _we_ should be joined to one another.

_Sir W._ But their contiguity seems to invite a union by a marriage

between you.

_Helen._ Then pray, papa, let the stewards marry the estates and give me

a separate maintenance.

_Sir. W._ Helen, Helen, I see you are bent on disobedience to my lady

Worret's wishes. Zounds! you don't see me disobedient to her wishes; but

I know whereabouts your objection lies. That giddy, dissipated young

fellow, his cousin Charles, the son of sir Rowland Austencourt, has

filled your head with nonsensical notions and chimeras of happiness.

Thank Heaven, however, he's far enough off at sea.

_Helen._ And _I_ think, sir, that because a man is fighting our battles

abroad, he ought not to be the less dear to those whom his courage

enables to live in tranquillity at home.

_Sir W._ That's very true: (_aside_) but I have an unanswerable

objection to all you can say. Lord Austencourt is rich, and Charles is a

beggar. Besides sir Rowland himself prefers lord Austencourt.

_Helen._ More shame for him. His partial feelings to his nephew, and

unnatural disregard of his son, have long since made me hate him. In

short, you are for money, and choose lord Austencourt: I am for love,

and prefer his poor cousin.

_Sir W._ Then, once for all, as my lady Worret must be obeyed, I no

longer consult you on the subject, and it only remains for you to retain

the affection of an indulgent father, by complying with my will (I mean

my wife's) or to abandon my protection. [_Exit._

_Helen._ I won't marry him, papa, I won't, nor I won't cry, though I've

a great mind. A plague of all money, say I. Oh! what a grievous

misfortune it is to be born with 12,000l. a year? but if I can't marry

the man I like, I won't marry at all; that's determined: and every body

knows the firmness of a woman's resolution, when she resolves on

contradiction. [_Exit._

SCENE III.--O'Dedimus's _office. Boxes round the shelves._ O'Dedimus

_discovered writing at an office table. A few papers and parchments,

&c._

_O'Dedimus._ There! I think I've expressed my meaning quite plainly,

(_reads_) "Farmer Flail, I'm instructed by lord Austencourt, your

landlord, to inform you, by word of letter, that if you can't afford to

pay the additional rent for your farm, you must turn out." I think

that's clear enough. "As to your putting in the plea of a large family,

we cannot allow that as a set off; because, when a man can't afford to

support seven children with decency, he ought not to trouble himself to

get them." I think that's plain English.

"Your humble servant,

"CORNELIUS O'DEDIMUS,

"Attorney at law.

"P.S. You may show this letter to his lordship, to convince him I have

done my duty; but as I don't mean one word of it, if you'll come to me

privately, I'll see what can be done for you, without his knowing any

thing of the matter," and I think _that's_ plain English.

_Enter_ gamekeeper _with a_ countryman _in custody._

_O'Ded._ Well, friend, and what are you?

_Countryman._ I be's a poacher: so my lord's gamekeeper here do say.

_O'Ded._ A poacher! Faith that's honest.

_Gamekeeper._ I caught him before day-light on the manor. I took away

his gun and shot his dog.

_O'Ded._ That was bravely done. So, you must pamper your long stomach

with pheasants and partridges, and be damned to ye! Will you prefer

paying five pounds now, or three month's hard labour in the house of

correction?

_Countrym._ Thank ye, sir, I don't prefer either, sir.

_O'Ded._ You must go before the justice. He'll exhort you, and commit

ye.

_Countrym._ Ees, I do know that _extortion_ and _commission_, and such

like, be the office of the justice; but I'll have a bit of law, please

punch. He ha' killed my poor dog, that I loved like one o' my own

children, and I've gotten six of 'em, Lord bless 'em.

_O'Ded._ Six dogs!

_Countrym._ Dogs! No, children, mun.

_O'Ded._ Six children! Och, the fruitful sinner!

_Countrym._ My wife be a pains-taking woman, sir. We ha' had this poor

dog from a puppy.

_O'Ded._ Shut your ugly mouth, you babbler.--Six children! Oh! we must

make an example of this fellow. An't I the village lawyer? and an't I

the terror of all the rogues of the parish? (_aside to him._) You must

plead "not guilty."

_Countrym._ But I tell you, if that be guilt, I _be_ guilty.

_O'Ded._ Why, you blundering booby, if you plead guilty, how will I ever

be able to prove you innocent?

_Countrym._ Guilty or innocent, I'll have the law of him, by gum. He has

shot my poor old mongrel, and taken away my musket; and I've lost my

day's drilling, and I'll make him pay for it.

_O'Ded._ A mongrel and a musket! by St. Patrick, Mr. Gamekeeper, and you

have nately set your foot in it.

_Gamekeeper._ Why, sir, its a bad affair, sir. 'Twas so dark, I couldn't

see; and when I discovered my mistake, I offered him a shilling to make

it up, and he refused it.

_O'Ded._ (_aside to gamekeeper._) Harkye, Mr. Gamekeeper; he has one

action against ye for his dog, and another for false imprisonment.

(_aloud_) I love to see the laws enforced with justice: (_aside_) but

I'll always help a poor man to stand up against oppression. (_to

gamekeeper_) He has got you on the hip, and so go out and settle it

between yourselves, and do _you_ take care of yourself: (_to

countryman_) and do _you_ make the best of your bargain. [_Exeunt._

Parish officer _brings forward the_ sailor.

_Officer._ Here's a vagrant. I found him begging without a pass.

_O'Ded._ Take him before his worship directly. The sturdy rogue ought to

be punished.

_Sailor._ Please your honour, I'm a sailor.

_O'Ded._ And if you're a sailor, an't you ashamed to own it? A begging

sailor is a disgrace to an honourable profession, for which the country

has provided an asylum as glorious as it is deserved.

_Sailor._ Why so it has: but I an't bound for Greenwich yet.

_O'Ded._ (_aside to him._) Why, you're disabled, I see.

_Sailor._ Disabled! What for? Why I've only lost _one_ arm yet. Bless

ye, I'm no beggar. I was going to see my Nancy, thirty miles further on

the road, and meeting some old messmates, we had a cann o' grog

together. One cann brought on another, and then we got drinking the

king's health, and the navy, and then _this_ admiral, and then _t'other_

admiral, till at last we had so many gallant heroes to drink, that we

were all drunk afore we came to the reckoning; so, your honour, as my

messmates had none of the rhino, I paid all; and then, you know, they

had a long journey upwards, and no biscuit aboard; so I lent one a

little, and another a little, till at last I found I had no coin left in

my locker for myself, except a cracked teaster that Nancy gave me; and I

couldn't spend that, you know, though I had been starving.

_O'Ded._ And so you begged!

_Sailor._ Begged! no. I just axed for a bit of bread and a mug o' water.

That's no more than one Christian ought to give another, and if you call

that begging, why I beg to differ in opinion.

_O'Ded._ According to the act you are a vagrant, and the justice may

commit ye; (_aside to the officer_) lookye, Mr. Officer--you're in the

wrong box here. Can't you see plain enough, by his having lost an arm,

that he earns a livelihood by the work of his hands; so lest he should

be riotous for being detained, let me advise you to be off. I'll send

him off after you with a flea in his ear--the other way.

_Officer._ Thank ye, sir, thank ye. I'm much obliged to you for your

advice, sir, and shall take it, and so my service to you. [_Exit._

_O'Ded._ Take this my honest lad; (_gives money_) say nothing about it,

and give my service to Nancy.

_Sailor._ Why now, heaven bless you honour forever; and if ever you're

in distress, and I'm within sight of signals, why hang out your blue

lights; and if I don't bear down to your assistance, may my gun be

primed with damp powder the first time we fire a broadside at the enemy.

[_Exit._

O'Dedimus _rings a bell._

_O'Ded._ Ponder! Now will this fellow be thinking and thinking, till he

quite forgets what he's doing. Ponder, I say! (_enter Ponder._) Here,

Ponder, take this letter to farmer Flail's, and if you see Mrs. Muddle,

his neighbour, give my love and duty to her.

_Ponder._ Yes, yes, sir; but at that moment, sir, I was immersed in

thought, if I may be allowed the expression; I was thinking of the vast

difference between love and law, and yet how neatly you've spliced them

together in your last instructions to your humble servant, Peter Ponder,

clerk.--Umph!

_O'Ded._ Umph! is that your manners, you bear-garden? Will I never be

able to larn you to behave yourself? Study _me_, and talk like a

gentleman, and be damn'd to ye.

_Ponder._ I study the law; I can't talk it.

_O'Ded._ Cant you? Then you'll never do. If your tongue don't run faster

than your client's, how will you ever be able to bother him, you booby?

_Ponder._ I'll draw out his case; he shall read, and he'll bother

himself.

_O'Ded._ You've a notion. Mind my instructions, and I don't despair of

seeing you at the bar one day. Was that copy of a writ sarved yesterday

upon Garble, the tailor?

_Ponder._ Aye.

_O'Ded._ And sarve him right too. That's a big rogue, that runs in debt

wid his eyes open, and though he has property, refuses to pay. Is he

safe?

_Ponder._ He was bailed by Swash the brewer.

_O'Ded._ And was the other sarved on Shuttle, the weaver?

_Ponder._ Aye.

_O'Ded._ Who bailed him?

_Ponder._ Nobody. He's gone to jail.

_O'Ded._ Gone to jail! Why _his_ poverty is owing to misfortune. He

can't pay. Well, that's not our affair. The law must have its course.

_Ponder._ So Shuttle said to his wife, as she hung crying on his

shoulder.

_O'Ded._ That's it; he's a sensible man; and that's more than his wife

is. We've nothing to do with women's tears.

_Ponder._ Not a bit. So they walked him off to jail in a jiffey, if I

may be allowed the expression.

_O'Ded._ To be sure, and that was right. They did their duty: though for

sartin, if a poor man can't pay his debts when he's at liberty, he wont

be much nearer the mark when he's shut up in idleness in a prison.

_Ponder._ No.

_O'Ded._ And when he that sent them there comes to make up his last

account, 'tis my belief that he wont be able to show cause why a bill

shouldn't be filed against him for barbarity. Are the writings all ready

for sir Rowland?

_Ponder._ All ready. Shall I now go to farmer Flail's with the letter?

_O'Ded._ Aye, and if you see Shuttle's wife in your way, give my service

to her; and d'ye hear, as you're a small talker, don't let the little

you say be so cursed crabbed; and if a few kind words of comfort should

find their way from your heart to your tongue, don't shut your ugly

mouth, and keep them within your teeth. You may tell her that if she can

find any body to stand up for her husband, I shan't be over nice about

the sufficiency of the bail. Get you gone.

_Ponder_ I shall. Let me see! farmer Flail--Mrs. Muddle, his

neighbour--Shuttle's wife--and a whole string of messages and

memorandums--here's business enough to bother the brains of any

ordinary man! You are pleased to say, sir, that I am too much addicted

to thinking--I think _not_. [_Exit Ponder._

_O'Ded._ By my soul, if an attorney wasn't sometimes a bit of a rogue,

he'd never be able to earn an honest livelihood. Oh Mr. O'Dedimus! why

have you so little when your heart could distribute so much!

Sir Rowland, _without_.

_Sir Row._ Mr. O'Dedimus--within there!

_O'Ded._ Yes, I'm within there.

_Enter_ sir Rowland.

_Sir Row._ Where are these papers? I thought the law's delay was only

felt by those who could not pay for its expedition.

_O'Ded._ The law, sir Rowland, is a good horse, and his pace is slow and

sure; but he goes no faster because you goad him with a golden spur; but

every thing is prepared, sir; and now, sir Rowland, I have an ugly sort

of an awkward affair to mention to you.

_Sir Row._ Does it concern _me_?

_O'Ded._ You know, sir Rowland, at the death of my worthy friend, the

late lord Austencourt, you were left sole executor and guardian to his

son, the present lord, then an infant of three years of age.

_Sir Row._ What does this lead to? (_starting_)

_O'Ded._ With a disinterested view to benefit the estate of the minor,

who came of age the other day, you some time ago embarked a capital of

14,000l. in a great undertaking.

_Sir Row._ Proceed.

_O'Ded._ I have this morning received a letter from the agent, stating

the whole concern to have failed, the partners to be bankrupts, and the

property consigned to assignees not to promise, as a final dividend,

more than one shilling in the pound. This letter will explain the rest.

_Sir Row._ How! I was not prepared for this--What's to be done?

_O'Ded._ When one loses a sum of money that isn't one's own, there's but

one thing to be done.

_Sir Row._ And what is that?

_O'Ded._ To pay it back again.

_Sir Row._ You know that to be impossible, utterly impossible.

_O'Ded._ Then, sir Rowland, take the word of _Cornelius O'Dedimus_,

attorney at law, his lordship will rigidly exact the money, to the

uttermost farthing.

_Sir Row._ You are fond, sir, of throwing out these hints to his

disadvantage.

_O'Ded._ I am bold to speak it--I am possessed of a secret, sir Rowland,

in regard to his lordship.

_Sir Row._ (_alarmed._) What is it you mean?

_O'Ded._ I thought I told you it was a _secret_.

_Sir Row._ But to me you should have no secrets that regard my family.

_O'Ded._ With submission, sir Rowland, his lordship is my client, as

well as yourself, and I have learned from the practice of the courts,

that an attorney who blabs in his business has soon no suit to his back.

_Sir Row._ But this affair, perhaps, involves my deepest interest--my

character--my all is at stake.

_O'Ded._ Have done wid your pumping now--d'ye think I am a basket full

of cinders, that I'm to be sifted after this fashion?

_Sir Row._ Answer but this--does it relate to Charles, my son?

_O'Ded._ Sartinly, the young gentleman has a small bit of interest in

the question.

_Sir Row._ One thing more. Does it allude to a transaction which

happened some years ago--am I a principal concerned in it?

_O'Ded._ Devil a ha'porth--it happened only six months past.

_Sir R._ Enough--I breathe again.

_O'Ded._ I'm glad of that, for may-be you'll now let me breathe to tell

you that as I know lord Austencourt's private character better than you

do, my life to a bundle of parchment, he'll even arrest ye for the

money.

_Sir R._ Impossible, he cannot be such a villain!

_Abel Grouse._ (_without_) What ho! is the lawyer within?

_Sir Row._ Who interrupts us?

_O'Ded._ 'Tis the strange man that lives on the common--his name is Abel

Grouse--he's coming up.

_Sir R._ I'll wait till you dismiss him, for I cannot encounter any one

at present. Misfortunes crowd upon me; and one act of guilt has drawn

the vengeance of Heaven on my head, and will pursue me to the grave.

[_Exit to an inner room._

_O'Ded._ Och! if a small gale of adversity blows up such a storm as

this, we shall have a pretty hurricane by and by, when you larn a little

more of your hopeful nephew, and see his new matrimonial scheme fall to

the ground, like buttermilk through a sieve.

_Enter_ Abel Grouse.

_Abel Grouse._ Now, sir, you are jackall, as I take it, to lord

Austencourt.

_O'Ded._ I am his man of business, sure enough; but didn't hear before

of my promotion to the office you mention.

_Ab. Gr._ You are possessed of all his secret deeds.

_O'Ded._ That's a small mistake--I have but one of them, and that's the

deed of settlement on Miss Helen Worret, spinster.

_Ab. Gr._ Leave your quibbling, sir, and speak plump to the point--if

habit hasn't hardened your heart, and given a system to your knavery,

answer me this: lord Austencourt has privately married my daughter?

_O'Ded._ Hush!

_Ab. Gr._ You were a witness.

_O'Ded._ Has any body told you that thing?

_Ab. Gr._ Will you deny it?

_O'Ded._ Will you take a friend's advice?

_Ab. Gr._ I didn't come for advice. I came to know if you will confess

the fact, or whether you are villain enough to conceal it.

_O'Ded._ Have done wid your bawling--sir Rowland's in the next room!

_Ab. Gr._ Is he? then sir Rowland shall hear me--Sir Rowland!--he shall

see my daughter righted--Ho there! Sir Rowland!

_O'Ded._ (_aside_) Here'll be a devil of a dust kicked up presently

about the ears of Mr. Cornelius O'Dedimus, attorney at law!

_Enter_ Sir Rowland.

_Sir Row._ Who calls me?

_Ab. Gr._ 'Twas I!

_Sir Row._ What is it you want, friend?

_Ab. Gr._ Justice!

_Sir Row._ Justice! then you had better apply there, (_pointing to

O'Dedimus._)

_Ab. Gr._ That's a mistake--he deals only in _law_--'tis to you that I

appeal--Your nephew, lord Austencourt, is about to marry the daughter of

sir Willoughby Worret.

_Sir Row._ He is.

_Ab. Gr._ Never! I will save him the guilt of that crime at least!

_Sir Row._ You are mysterious, sir.

_Ab. Gr._ Perhaps I am. Briefly, your nephew is privately married to my

daughter--this man was present at their union--will you see justice done

me, and make him honourably proclaim his wife?

_Sir Row._ Your tale is incredible, sir--it is sufficient, however, to

demand attention, and I warn you, lest by your folly you rouse an

indignation that may crush you.

_Ab. Gr._ Hear me, proud man, while I warn _you_! My daughter is the

lawful wife of lord Austencourt--double is the wo to me that she _is_

his wife: but as it is so, he shall publicly acknowledge her--to you I

look for justice and redress--see to it, sir, or I shall speedily appear

in a new character, with my wrongs in my hand, to hurl destruction on

you. [_Exit._

_Sir Row._ What does the fellow mean?

_O'Ded._ That's just what I'm thinking--

_Sir Row._ _You_, he said, was privy to their marriage.

_O'Ded._ Bless ye, the man's mad!

_Sir Row._ Ha! you said you had a secret respecting my nephew.

_O'Ded._ Sir, if you go on so, you'll bother me!

_Sir Row._ The fellow must be silenced--can you not contrive some means

to rid us of his insolence?

_O'Ded._ Sir, I shall do my duty, as my duty should be done, by

Cornelius O'Dedimus, attorney at law.

_Sir Row._ My nephew must not hear of this accursed loss--be secret on

that head, I charge you! but in regard to this man's bold assertion, I

must consult him instantly--haste and follow me to his house.

_O'Ded._ Take me wid ye, sir; for this is such a dirty business, that

I'll never be able to go through it unless you show me the way.

[_Exeunt._

_End of act I._

ACT II.

SCENE I.--_A library at_ Sir Willoughby's. _Enter_ Helen _with_ Servant.

_Helen._ Lord Austencourt--true--this is his hour for persecuting

me--very well, desire lord Austencourt to come in. (_exit servant_) I

won't marry. They all say I shall. Some girls, now, would sit down and

sigh, and moan, as if that would mend the matter--that will never suit

me! Some indeed would run away with the man they liked better--but then

the only man I ever liked well enough to marry--is--I believe, run away

from _me_. Well! that won't do!--so I'll e'en laugh it off as well as I

can; and though I wont marry his lordship, I'll teaze him as heartily as

if I had been his wife these twenty years.

_Enter_ lord Austencourt.

_Lord A._ Helen! too lovely Helen! once more behold before you to

supplicate for your love and pity, the man whom the world calls proud,

but whom your beauty alone has humbled.

_Helen._ They say, my lord, that pride always has a fall some time or

other. I hope the fall of your lordship's hasn't hurt you.

_Lord A._ Is it possible that the amiable Helen, so famed for gentleness

and goodness, can see the victim of her charms thus dejected stand

before her.

_Helen._ Certainly not, my lord--so pray sit down.

_Lord A._ Will you never be for one moment serious?

_Helen._ Oh, yes, my lord! I am never otherwise when _I think_ of your

lordship's proposals--but when you are making love and fine speeches to

me in person, 'tis with amazing difficulty I can help laughing.

_Lord A._ Insolent vixin. (_aside_) I had indulged a hope, madam, that

the generosity and disinterested love I have evinced--

_Helen._ Why as to your lordship's generosity in condescending to marry

a poor solitary spinster, I am certainly most duly grateful--and no one

can possibly doubt your disinterestedness, who knows I am only heiress

to 12,000l. a year--a fortune which, as I take it, nearly doubles the

whole of your lordship's rent roll!

_Lord A._ Really, madam, if I am suspected of any mercenary motives, the

liberal settlements which are now ready for your perusal, must

immediately remove any such suspicion.

_Helen._ Oh, my lord, you certainly mistake me--only as my papa

observes, our estates _do join so charmingly to one another_!

_Lord A._ Yes:--that circumstance is certainly advantageous to both

parties (_exultingly._)

_Helen._ Certainly!--only, as mine is the biggest, perhaps yours would

be the greatest gainer by the bargain.

_Lord A._ My dear madam, a title and the advantages of elevation in rank

amply compensate the sacrifice on your part.

_Helen._ Why, as to a title, my lord (as Mr. O'Dedimus, your attorney,

observes) there's no title in my mind better than a good title to a fine

estate--and I see plainly, that although your lordship is a peer of the

realm--you think this title of mine no mean companion for your own.

_Lord A._ Nay, madam--believe me--I protest--I assure you--solemnly,

that those considerations have very little--indeed _no_ influence _at

all_ with me.

_Helen._ Oh, no!--only it is natural that you should feel (as papa again

observes) that the _contiguity_ of these estates seem to _invite_ a

union by a marriage between us.

_Lord A._ And if you admit that fact, why do you decline the invitation?

_Helen._ Why, one doesn't accept _every_ invitation that's offered, you

know--one sometimes has very disagreeable ones; and then one presents

compliments, and is extremely sorry that a prior engagement obliges us

to decline the honour.

_Lord A._ (_aside_) Confound the satirical huzzy--But should not the

wishes of your parents have some weight in the scale?

_Helen._ Why, so they have; _their_ wishes are in one scale, and _mine_

are in the other; do all I can, I can't make mine weigh most, and so the

beam remains balanced.

_Lord A._ I should be sorry to make theirs preponderate, by calling in

their authority as auxiliaries to their wishes.

_Helen._ Authority!--Ho! what, you think to marry me by force! do ye my

lord?

_Lord A._ _They_ are resolute, and if _you_ continue obstinate--

_Helen._ I dare say your lordship's education hasn't precluded your

knowledge of a very true, though _rather_ vulgar proverb, "one man may

lead a horse to the water, but twenty can't make him drink."

_Lord A._ The allusion may be classical, madam, though certainly it is

not very elegant, nor has it even the advantage of being applicable to

the point in question. However I do not despair to see this resolution

changed. In the mean time, I did not think it in your nature to treat

any man who loves you with cruelty and scorn.

_Helen._ Then why don't you desist, my lord? If you'd take an answer,

you had a civil one: but if you will follow and teaze one, like a sturdy

beggar in the street, you must expect at last a reproof for your

impertinence.

_Lord A._ Yet even in their case perseverance often obtains what was

denied to poverty.

_Helen._ Yes, possibly, from the feeble or the vain; but genuine

Charity, and her sister, Love, act only from their own generous impulse,

and scorn intimidation.

_Enter_ Tiffany.

_Tiffany._ Are you alone, madam?

_Helen._ No; I was only wishing to be so.

_Tiff._ A young woman is without, inquiring for sir Willoughby, ma'am; I

thought he had been here.

_Helen._ Do you know her?

_Tiff._ Yes, ma'am; 'tis Fanny, the daughter of the odd man that lives

on the common.

_Helen._ I'll see her myself--desire her to walk up. [_Exit Tiffany._

_Lord A._ (_seems uneasy_) Indeed! what brings her here?

_Helen._ Why, what can be the matter now? your lordship seems quite

melancholy on a sudden.

_Lord A._ I, madam! oh no!--or if I am--'tis merely a head ach, or some

such cause, or perhaps owing to the influence of the weather.

_Helen._ Your lordship is a very susceptible barometer--when you entered

this room your countenance was _set fair_; but now I see the index

points to _stormy_.

_Lord A._ Madam, you have company, or business--a good morning to you.

_Helen._ Stay, stay, my lord.

_Lord A._ Excuse me at present, I have an important affair--another

time.

_Helen._ Surely, my lord, the arrival of this innocent girl does not

drive you away!

_Lord A._ Bless me, madam, what an idea! certainly not; but I have just

recollected an engagement of consequence--some other time--Madam, your

most obedient-- [_Exit._

_Enter_ Fanny.

_Fan._ I beg pardon, madam, I'm fearful I intrude; but I inquired for

sir Willoughby, and they showed me to this room. I wished to speak with

him on particular business--your servant, madam.

_Hel._ Pray stay, my good girl--I rejoice in this opportunity of

becoming acquainted with you--the character I have heard of you has

excited an affectionate interest--you must allow me to become your

friend.

_Fanny._ Indeed, indeed, madam, I am in want of friends; but you can

never be one of them.

_Helen._ No! Why so?

_Fan._ You, madam! Oh no--you are the only enemy I ever had.

_Hel._ Enemy! This is very extraordinary! I have scarce ever seen you

before--Assuredly I never injured you.

_Fan._ Heaven forbid I should wish any one to injure you as deeply.

_Hel._ I cannot understand you--pray explain yourself.

_Fan._ That's impossible, madam--my lord would never forgive me.

_Hel._ Your lord! Let me entreat you to explain your meaning.

_Fan._ I cannot, madam; I came hither on business of importance, and no

trifling business should have brought me to a house inhabited by one who

is the cause of all my wretchedness.

_Hel._ This is a very extraordinary affair! There is a mixture of

cultivation and simplicity in your manner that affects me strongly--I

see, my poor girl, you are distressed; and though what you have said

leaves on my mind a painful suspicion--

_Fan._ Oh heavens, madam! stay, I beseech you!--I am not what you think

me, indeed I am not--I must not, for a moment, let you think of me so

injuriously: yet I have promised secrecy! but sure no promise can be

binding, when to keep it we must sacrifice all that is valuable in

life--hear me, then madam--the struggle is violent; but I owe it to

myself to acknowledge all.

_Hel._ No, no, my dear girl! I now see what it would cost you to reveal

your secret, and I will not listen to it; rest assured, I have no longer

a thought to your disadvantage: curiosity gives place to interest: for

though 'tis cruelty to inflict a wound, 'tis still more deliberate

barbarity to probe when we cannot hope to heal it. (_going._)

_Fan._ Stay, madam, stay--your generosity overpowers me! oh madam! you

know not how wretched I am.

_Hel._ What is it affects you thus?--come, if your story is of a nature

that may be revealed, you are sure of sympathy.

_Fan._ I never should have doubted; but my father has alarmed me

sadly--he says my lord Austencourt is certainly on the point of marriage

with you.

_Hel._ And how, my dear girl, if it were so, could that affect you?

Come, you must be explicit.

_Fan._ Affect me! merciful Heaven! can I see him wed another? He is my

husband by every tie sacred and human.

_Hel._ Suffering, but too credulous girl! have you then trusted to his

vows?

_Fan._ How, madam! was I to blame, loving as I did, to trust in vows so

solemn? could I suppose he would dare to break them, because our

marriage was performed in secret?

_Hel._ Your marriage, child! Good Heavens, you amaze me! but here we may

be interrupted--this way with me. If this indeed be so all may be well

again: for though he may be dead to _feeling_ be assured he is alive to

_fear_: the man who once descends to be a villain is generally observed

to be at heart a coward. [_Exeunt._

SCENE II.--_The door of a country inn._--Ponder _sitting on a

portmanteau._

_Ponder._ I've heard that intense thinking has driven some philosophers

mad!--now if this should happen to _me_, 'twill never be the fate of my

young patron, Mr. Charles Austencourt, whom I have suddenly met on his

sudden return from sea, and who never thinks at all. Poor gentleman, he

little thinks what--

_Enter_ Charles Austencourt.

_Charles._ Not gone yet? How comes it you are not on the road to my

father? Is the fellow deaf or dumb. Ponder! are ye asleep?

_Pon._ I'm thinking, whether I am or not.

_Charles._ And what wise scheme now occupies your thoughts?

_Pon._ Sir, I confess the subject is beneath me (_pointing to the

portmanteau._)

_Char._ The weight of the portmanteau, I suppose, alarms you.

_Pon._ If that was my heaviest misfortune, sir, I could carry double

with all my heart. No, sir, I was thinking that as your father, sir

Rowland, sent you on a cruize, for some cause best known to himself; and

as you have thought proper to return for some cause best known to

_yourself_, the chances of war, if I may be allowed the expression, are,

that the contents of that trunk will be your only inheritance, or, in

other words, that your father will cut you off with a shilling--and now

I'm thinking--

_Char._ No doubt--thinking takes up so many of your waking hours, that

you seldom find time for _doing_. And so you have, since my departure,

turned your thinking faculties to the law.

_Pon._ Yes, sir; when you gave me notice to quit, I found it so hard to

live honestly, that lest the law should take to me, I took to the law:

and so articled my self to Mr. O'Dedimus, the attorney in our town: but

there is a thought unconnected with law that has occupied my head every

moment since we met.

_Char._ Pr'ythee dismiss your thought, and get your legs in motion.

_Pon._ Then, sir, I have really been thinking, ever since I saw you,

that you are a little--(_going off to a distance_) a little _odd_

hereabouts, sir; (_pointing to his head_) a little damned mad, if I may

be allowed the expression!

_Char._ Ha! ha! very probably. My sudden return, without a motive, as

you suppose, has put that wise notion in your head.

_Pon._ Without a motive! No, sir, I believe I know tolerably well the

motive--the old story, sir, ha! love!

_Char._ Love! And pray, sirrah, how do you dare to presume to suppose,

that I--that I can be guilty of such a folly--I should be glad to know

how you dare venture to think that I----

_Pon._ Lord bless you, sir, I discovered it before you left the country.

_Char._ Indeed! and by what symptoms, pray?

_Pon._ The old symptoms, sir--in the first place, frequent fits of my

complaint.

_Char._ _Your_ complaint?

_Pon._ Yes, thinking, long reveries, sudden starts, sentimental sighs,

fits of unobserving absence, fidgets and fevers, orders and counter

orders, loss of memory, loss of appetite, loss of rest, and loss of your

senses, if I may be allowed the expression.

_Char._ No, sir, you may not be allowed the expression--'tis

impertinent, 'tis false. I never was unobserving or absent; I never had

the fidgets; I never once mentioned the name of my adored Helen; and,

heigho! I never sighed for her in my life!

_Pon._ Nor I, sir; though I've been married these three years, I never

once sighed for my dear wife in all that time--heigho!

_Char._ I mustn't be angry with the fellow. Why, I took you for an

unobserving blockhead, or I would never have trusted you so near me.

_Pon._ Then, sir, you _mis_-took me. I fancy it was in one of your most

decided unobserving fits that you took _me_ for a blockhead.

_Char._ Well, sir; I see you have discovered my secret. Act wisely, and

it may be of service to you.

_Pon._ Sir, I haven't studied the law for nothing. I'm no fool, if I may

be allowed the expression.

_Char._ I begin to suspect you have penetration enough to be useful to

me.

_Pon._ And craving your pardon, sir, I begin to suspect your want of

that faculty, from your not having found out that before.

_Char._ I will now trust you, although once my servant, with the state

of my heart.

_Pon._ Sir, that's very kind of you, to trust your humble servant with a

_secret_ he had himself discovered ten months ago.

_Char._ Keep it with honour and prudence.

_Pon._ Sir, I _have_ kept it. Nobody knows of it, that I know of, except

a few of your friends, many of your enemies, most travelling strangers,

and all your neighbours.

_Char._ Why, zounds! you don't mean to say that any body, except

yourself, suspects me to be in love.

_Pon._ Suspects! no, sir; _suspicion_ is out of the question; it is

taken as a proved fact in all society, a bill found by every grand jury

in the county.

_Char._ The devil it is! Zounds! I shall never be able to show my

face--this will never do--my boasted disdain of ever bowing to the power

of love--how ridiculous will it now render me--while the mystery and

sacred secrecy of this attachment constituted the chief delight it gave

to the refinement of my feelings--O! I'll off to sea again--I won't stay

here--order a post-chaise--no--yes--a chaise and four, d'ye hear?

_Pon._ Yes, sir; but I'm thinking--

_Char._ What?

_Pon._ That it is possible you may alter your mind.

_Char._ No such thing, sir; I'll set off this moment; order the chaise,

I say.

_Pon._ Think of it again, sir.

_Char._ Will you obey my orders, or not?

_Pon._ I think I will. (_aside_) Poor gentleman! now could I blow him up

into a blaze in a minute, by telling him that his mistress is just on

the point of marriage with his cousin, but though they say "ill news

travels apace," they shall never say that I rode postillion on the

occasion. [_Exit into inn._

_Char._ Here's a discovery! all my delicate management destroyed! known

all over the country! I'm off! and yet to have travelled so far, and not

to have one glimpse of her! but then to be pointed at as a poor devil in

love, a silly inconsistent boaster! no, that wont do--but then I may see

her--yes, I'll see her once--just once--for three minutes, or three

minutes and a half at most--no longer positively--Ponder, Ponder!

(_enter Ponder_) Ponder, I say--

_Pon._ I wish you wouldn't interrupt me, for I'm thinking--

_Char._ Damn your thinking, sir!

_Pon._ I was only thinking that you may have altered your mind already.

_Char._ I have not altered my mind: but since I _am_ here, I should be

wanting in duty not to pay my respects to my father; so march on with

the trunk, sir.

_Pon._ Yes, sir: but if that's all you want to do, sir, you may spare

yourself the trouble of going further, for, most fortunately, here he

comes; and your noble cousin, lord Austencourt, with him--

_Char._ The devil!

_Pon._ Yes, sir; the devil, and his uncle, your father, if I may be

allowed the expression. [_Exit._

_Enter_ sir Rowland _and_ lord Austencourt.

_Char._ My dear father, I am heartily glad to see you--

_Sir R._ How is this, Charles! returned thus unexpectedly?

_Char._ Unexpected pleasure, they say, sir, is always most welcome--I

hope you find it so.

_Sir R._ This conduct, youngster, requires explanation.

_Char._ Sir, I have it ready at my tongue's end--My lord, I ask your

pardon--I'm glad to see you too.

_Lord A._ I wish, sir, I could return the compliment; but this

extraordinary conduct--

_Char._ No apologies, my lord, for your civil speech--you might easily

have returned the compliment in the same words, and, believe me, with as

much sincerity as it was offered.

_Sir R._ This is no time for dissention, sir--

_Lord A._ My cousin forgets, sir Rowland, that although united by ties

of consanguinity, _birth_ and _fortune_ have placed me in a station

which commands some respect.

_Char._ No, my lord, for I also am in a station where I _too_ command

respect, where I respect and am respected. I therefore well know what is

due to my superiors; and this duty I never forget, till those above me

forget what they owe to themselves.

_Lord A._ I am not aware, good cousin, that I have ever yet forfeited my

title to the respect I claim.

_Char._ You have, my lord: for high rank forfeits every claim to

distinction when it exacts submissive humility from those beneath it,

while at the same time it refuses a graceful condescension in exchange.

_Sir R._ Charles, Charles, these sentiments but ill become the dependent

state in which Fortune has placed you.

_Char._ Dependent state! Dependent upon whom! What, on _him_! my titled,

tawdry cousin there? What are his pretensions, that he shall presume to

brand me as a poor dependent!--What are _his_ claims to independence?

How does he spend the income Fortune has allotted to him? Does he

rejoice to revive in the mansion of his ancestors the spirit of old

English hospitality? Do the eyes of aged tenants twinkle with joy when

they hope his coming? do the poor bless his arrival? I say no. He is the

lord of land--and is also, what he seems still more proud of, a lord of

parliament; but I will front him in both capacities, and frankly tell

him, that in the first he is a burthen to his own estate, and not a

benefactor; and in the second, a peer but not a prop.

_Sir R._ Charles, how dare you thus persevere! You cannot deny, rash and

foolish boy, that you are in a dependant state. Your very profession

proves it.

_Char._ O, father, spare that insult! The profession I glory to belong

to, is above dependence--yes! while we live and fight, we feel, and

gratefully acknowledge, that our pay depends on our king and country,

and therefore you _may_ style us dependant; but in the hour of battle we

wish for nothing more than to show that the glory and safety of the

nation _depends on us_; and by our death or blood to repay all previous

obligation.

_Sir R._ Dismiss this subject.

_Char._ With all my heart--My cousin was the subject, and he's a

fatiguing one.

_Sir R._ Though you do not love your cousin, you ought to pay that

deference to his rank which you refuse to his person.

_Char._ Sir, I do; like a fine mansion in the hands of a bad inhabitant.

I admire the building, but despise the tenant.

_Lord A._ This insolence is intolerable, and will not be forgotten. You

may find, hot sir, that Where my friendship is despised, my resentment

may be feared. I well know the latent motives for this insult. It is the

language of a losing gamester, and is treated with deserved contempt by

a _successful rival_. [_Exit._

_Char._ Ha! a _successful rival_! Is this possible?

_Sir. R._ It is. The treaty of marriage between lord Austencourt and

Helen is this morning concluded.

_Char._ And does she consent?

_Sir R._ There can be little doubt of that.

_Char._ But _little_ doubt! False Helen! Come, come, I know my Helen

better.

_Sir R._ I repeat my words, sir. It is not the curse of every parent to

have a disobedient child.

_Char._ By Heaven, sir, that reflection cuts me to the heart. You have

ever found in me the obedience, nay more, the affection of a son, till

circumstance on circumstance convinced me, I no longer possessed the

affection of a father.

_Sir R._ Charles, we are too warm. I feel that I have in some degree

merited your severe reproof--give me your hand, and to convince you that

you undervalue my feelings towards you, I will now confess that I have

been employed during your absence, in planning an arrangement which will

place you above the malice of fortune--you know our neighbour, Mrs.

Richland--

_Char._ What, the gay widow with a fat jointure? What of her?

_Sir R._ She will make not only a rich, but a good wife. I know she

likes you--I'm sure of it.

_Char._ Likes _me_!

_Sir R._ I am convinced she does.

_Char._ But--what the devil--she doesn't mean to marry me surely!

_Sir R._ That will, I am convinced, depend upon yourself.

_Char._ Will it? then by the Lord, though I sincerely esteem her, I

shall make my bow, and decline the honour at once. No, sir; the heart is

_my_ aim, and all the gold I care for in the hand that gives it, is the

modest ring that encompasses the finger, and marks that hand as mine

forever.

_Sir R._ Thus I see another of my prospects blighted! Undutiful,

degenerate boy! your folly and obstinacy will punish themselves. Answer

me not; think of the proposal I have made you; obey your father's will,

or forever I renounce you! [_Exit._

_Char._ Whoo! here's a whirligig! I've drifted on to a pleasant lee

shore here! Helen betrothed to another! Impossible.--Oh Helen! Helen!

Zounds! I'm going to make a soliloquy! this will never do! no, I'll see

Helen; upbraid her falsehood; drop one tear to her memory; regain my

frigate; seek the enemy; fight like a true sailor; die like a Briton;

and leave my character and memory to my friends--and my blessing and

forgiveness to Helen. [_Exit._

_End of act II._

ACT III.

SCENE I.--_O'Dedimus's office. Ponder discovered._

_Ponder._ So! having executed my commission, let me _think_ a little

(_sits down,_) for certain I and my master are two precious rogues

(_pauses._) I wonder whether or not we shall be discovered, as

assistants in this sham marriage (_pauses._) If we _are_, we shall be

either transported or hanged, I wonder which:--My lord's bribe, however,

was convenient; and in all cases of _conscience versus convenience_,

'tis the general rule of practice to nonsuit the plaintiff. Ha! who's

here? The poor girl herself. (_Enter Fanny._) I pity her; but I've been

bribed; so I must be honest.

_Fanny._ Oh, sir! I'm in sad distress--my father has discovered my

intercourse with lord Austencourt, and says, he is sure my lord means to

deny our marriage; but I have told him, as you and your master were

present, I am sure you will both be ready to prove it, should my lord

act so basely.

_Pon._ I must mind my hits here, or shall get myself into a confounded

scrape--ready to do what, did you say, ma'am, to prove your marriage?

_Fan._ Yes, as you both were present.

_Pon._ Present! me! Lord bless me, what is it you mean? Marriage! prove!

me! present!

_Fan._ Why do you hesitate? come, come, you do but jest with me--you

cannot have forgotten it--

_Pon._ Hey? why no! but I can't say I remember it--

_Fan._ Sure, sure, you cannot have the barbarity to deny that you were a

witness to the ceremony!

_Pon._ I may be mistaken--I've a remarkably short memory; but to the

best of my recollection I certainly--

_Fan._ Ay, you recollect it--

_Pon._ I certainly _never was_ present--

_Fan._ Cruel! you were--indeed, indeed you were.

_Pon._ But at one wedding in my life.

_Fan._ And that was mine--

_Pon._ No, that was mine.

_Fan._ Merciful Heaven! I see my fate--it is disgrace and misery!

_Pon._ Bless you, if I could remember it; but I can't--however I'll

speak to my master about it, and if _he_ recollects it I dare say _I_

shall.

_Fan._ I have then no hope, and the fate of the hapless Fanny is

decided.

_Pon._ Ha! yonder I see comes my master and his lordship. I wonder what

they are thinking of--they're coming this way. _I_ think we had better

retire.

_Fan._ O hide me! hide me! In any corner let me hide my head, from

scorn, from misery, and, most of all, from him--

_Pon._ You can't escape that way, so you must come this. They wont think

of coming here. (_puts her into another room_) Poor girl! I've a great

mind to confess the whole affair. What shall I get by that? Nothing!

nothing! Oh! that's contrary to law! [_Exit.

Enter_ lord Austencourt _and_ O'Dedimus.

_Lord A._ Are you certain no one can overhear us?

_O'Ded._ There's nobody can hear us except my ould housekeeper, and

she's as deaf as St. Dunstan's clock-strikers.

_Lord A._ There is no time to be lost. You must immediately repair to

Fanny--tell her my affection is unabated--tell her I shall ever love

her, and make her such pecuniary offers, as shall convince her of my

esteem and affection; but we must meet no more. (_Fanny utters a cry

behind._)

_O'Ded._ What's that?

_Lord A._ We are betrayed!

_O'Ded._ Och! 'tis only my ould housekeeper.

_Lord A._ Your housekeeper! I thought you told me she was deaf.

_O'Ded._ Yes; but she isn't dumb. Devil a word can she _hear_ for

sartin; but she's apt to _say_ a great many, and so we may proceed.

_Lord A._ You will easily accomplish this business with Fanny.

_O'Ded._ I'm afraid not. To tell you the truth, my lord, I don't like

the job.

_Lord A._ Indeed! and why, sir?

_O'Ded._ Somehow, when I see a poor girl with her pretty little eyes

brim full of tears, which I think have no business to be there, I'm more

apt to be busy in wiping them away, than in saying cruel things that

will make them flow faster; you had better tell her all this yourself,

my lord.

_Lord A._ That, sir, is impossible. If _you_ decline it, I shall find

some one less delicate.

_O'Ded._ There's reason in that, and if you send another to her, he may

not be quite so delicate, as you say: so I'll even undertake it myself.

_Lord A._ The poor girl disposed of, if the old fool, her father, will

be thus clamorous, we must not be nice as to the means of silencing

him--money, I suppose, is his object.

_O'Ded._ May be not--If a rich man by accident disables a poor man from

working, money may make him easy; but when his feelings are deliberately

tortured, devil fly away with the mercenary miser, if he will take

shining dirt as a compensation for cruelty.

_Lord A._ I can dispense with moral reflections--It may serve your

purpose elsewhere, but to me, who know your practice, your preaching is

ridiculous--What is it you propose? If the fellow wont be satisfied by

money he must be removed.

_O'Ded._ Faith, 'tis a new way, sure enough, to make reparation to the

feelings of a father, after having seduced daughter under the plea of a

false marriage, performed by a sham priest, and a forged licence!

_Fanny_ (_behind._) Oh, heaven! let me pass--I must and will see him

(_enters._) Oh, my lord! my lord! my husband! (_she falls at his feet,

he raises her_) Surely my ears deceived me--you cannot, cannot mean it!

a false marriage! a pretended priest! What is to become of me! In mercy

kill me! Let me not live to see my broken-hearted father expire with

grief and shame, or live to curse me! Spare me but this, my lord, and I

will love, forgive, will pray for you--

_Lord A._ This is a plot against me--You placed her there on purpose to

surprise me in the moment of unguarded weakness.

_O'Ded._ By St. Patrick, how she came there is a most mysterious mystery

to Cornelius O'Dedimus, attorney at law.

_Lord A._ Fanny, I entreat you, leave me.

_Fanny._ Oh, do not send me from you! Can you, my lord, abandon thus to

shame and wretchedness the poor deluded victim of your treachery!

_Lord A._ Ha! leave me, I charge you!

_Fanny._ No, no, my dearest lord! I cannot leave you! Whither shall I

fly, if these arms deny me refuge! Am I not yours? What if these wicked

men refuse me justice! There is another witness who will rise in

dreadful evidence against you! 'Tis Heaven itself! 'tis there your vows

were heard! 'tis there where Truth resides, your vows are registered!

then oh! reflect before you plunge too deep in guilt for repentance and

retreat! reflect that we are married!

_Lord A._ I cannot speak at present; leave me, and we will meet again.

_Fanny._ Do not command me from you; I see your heart is softened by my

tears; cherish the stranger Pity in your breast; 'tis noble, excellent!

Such pity in itself is virtue! Oh, cherish it, my lord! nor let the

selfish feelings of the world step in to smother it! Now! now, while it

glows unstifled in your heart! now, ere it dies, to be revived no more,

at once proclaim the triumph of your virtue, and receive into your arms

a fond and an acknowledged wife!

_Lord A._ Ha! impossible! Urge me no more! I cannot, will not hear

you--My heart has ever been your own, my _hand must_ be another's; still

we may love each other; still we may sometimes meet.

_Fanny_ (_after a struggle._) I understand you! No, sir! Since it must

be, we will meet no more! I know that there are laws; but to these laws

I disdain to fly! Mine is an injury that cannot be redressed; for the

only mortal witnesses to our union you have suborned: the laws,

therefore, cannot do me justice, and I will never, inhuman as you are, I

will never seek them for revenge. [_Exit._

_O'Ded_ (_aside._) I'm thinking, that if I was a lord, I should act in a

clean _contrary_ way; by the powers now, that man has got what I call a

tough constitution; his heart's made of stone like a brick wall--Oh!

that a man should have the power of a man, and not know how to behave

like a man!

_Lord A._ What's to be done? speak, advise me!

_O'Ded._ That's it: have you made up your mind already, that you ask me

to advise you?

_Lord A._ I know not how to act.

_O'Ded._ When a man's in doubt whether he should act as an honest man or

a rogue, there are two or three small reasons for choosing the right

side.

_Lord A._ What is't you mean, sir?

_O'Ded._ I mean this thing--that as I suppose you're in doubt whether to

persecute the poor souls, or to marry the sweet girl in right earnest.

_Lord A._ Marry her! I have no such thoughts--idiot!

_O'Ded._ Idiot! That's no proof of your lordship's wisdom to come and

ask advice of one.--Idiot, by St. Patrick! an idiot's a fool, and that's

a Christian name was never sprinkled upon Cornelius O'Dedimus, attorney

at law!

_Lord A._ I can feel for the unfortunate girl as well as you; but the

idea of marrying her is too ridiculous.

_O'Ded._ The unfortunate girl never knew misfortune till she knew you,

my lord; and I heartily wish your lordship may never look more

ridiculous than you would do in performing an act of justice and mercy.

_Lord A._ You presume strangely, sir, on my confidence and

condescension!

_O'Ded._ What! are you coming over me now with the pride of your

condescension. _That_ for your condescension! When a great man, my lord,

does me the honour to confide in me, he'll find me trusty and

respectful; but when he condescends to make me an agent and a partner in

his iniquity, by your leave from that moment there's an end of

distinction between us.

_Lord A._ There's no enduring this! Scoundrel!

_O'Ded._ Scoundrel! ditto, my lord, ditto! If I'm a scoundrel, it was

you that made me one, and by St. Patrick, there's a brace of us.

_Lord A._ (_aside_) The fellow has me in his power at present--you see

me irritated, and you ought to bear with me--let us think of this no

more. The father and daughter must both be provided for out of that

money which sir Rowland still holds in trust for me.

_O'Ded._ And if you depend upon that money to silence the old man, you

might as well think to stop a mouse-hole with toasted cheese.

_Lord A._ Pray explain, sir.

_O'Ded._ Devil a penny of it is there left. Sir Rowland ventured it in a

speculation, and all is lost--Oh! blister my tongue, I've let out the

secret, sure enough!

_Lord A._ Indeed! and what right had sir Rowland to risk my property? Be

assured I will exact every guinea of it.

_O'Ded._ That's just what I told him. Sir, says I, his lordship is one

of the flinty-hearted ones, and devil a thirteener will he forgive

you--but, my lord, it will utterly ruin sir Rowland to replace it.

_Lord A._ Sir Rowland should have thought of that before he embarked my

property in a hazardous enterprise. Inform him, sir, from me that I

expect an instant account of it.

_O'Ded._ I shall do that thing, sir: but please to reflect a little--the

money so laid out was honestly intended for your advantage.

_Lord A._ Another word sir, and I shall think it necessary to employ

another attorney.

_O'Ded._ Sir, that's a quietus--I've done--only remember that if you

proceed to extremities, I warrant you'll repent it.

_Lord A._ _You_ warrant--

_O'Ded._ Ay, sir, and a warrant of attorney is reckoned decent good

security.

_Lord A._ Since my uncle has so far forgotten his duty as a guardian, I

have now an opportunity, which I shall not neglect, to bring him to a

proper recollection--you have nothing to do but to obey my orders; and

these are that the fourteen thousand pounds, of which he has defrauded

my estate, shall be immediately repaid. Look to it, sir, and to the

other affair you are entrusted with, and see that the law neglects no

measures to recover what is due to me. [_Exit._

_O'Ded._ And by St. Patrick, if the law gives you what is due to you,

that's what I'm too polite to mention. You've had your swing in iniquity

long enough, and such swings are very apt to end in one that's much too

exalted for my notions. [_Exit._