SCENE I-- _A dungeon with a concealed door on one side, a tomb on the

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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 added to the end of the journal text,

before the play. Pages 189-268 refer to the present Number.

Errors are listed separately for the _Mirror of Taste_ and for the

_Novice of St. Mark’s_.]

THE MIRROR OF TASTE,

AND

DRAMATIC CENSOR.

Vol. I. MARCH 1810. No. 3.

HISTORY OF THE STAGE.

CHAPTER III.

SOPHOCLES--EURIPIDES--DIONYSIUS.

ÆSCHYLUS and SHAKSPEARE have each been styled the father of the drama

of his country: yet their claims to this distinction stand on very

different grounds. Æschylus laid the plan and foundation of the Grecian

tragedy and built upon it; but to his successor belongs the glory of

improving upon his invention. Shakspeare raised the drama of his country

at once to the utmost degree of perfection: succeeding poets have been

able to do nothing more than walk in the path trod by him, at an immense

distance, and endeavour to copy but without equalling his perfections.

The general admiration in which Æschylus was held, gave birth to a herd

of imitators, among whom were sons and nephews of his own; but as, like

most imitators, they could do little more than mimic his defects without

reaching his excellencies, they served only as a foil to set off the

lustre of his great successor Sophocles, who, while yet his scholar,

aspired to be his competitor, and gained the preeminence at the age of

twenty-five.

SOPHOCLES was born four hundred and ninety-seven years before the

birth of Christ, and at an early age rendered himself, like his master

Æschylus, conspicuous by his superior talents in war and in poetry. It

happened, when Sophocles was not yet five and twenty, that the remains

of Theseus were brought from Scyros to Athens, where festivals and games

were made in honour of that heroic monarch, as well as to commemorate

the taking of that island: among those a yearly contest was instituted

for the palm in tragedy. Sophocles became a candidate, and though there

were many competitors, and among them Æschylus himself, he bore away the

prize. The fondness of the Greeks for the theatre was so passionately

strong, that in order to excite emulation among the poets, they gave

rewards to those, who among the competitors, were judged to have the

preference; and they entrusted the management of their theatres to none

but persons of the most considerable rank and character. Hitherto the

prize was disputed by four dramatic pieces only, three of which were

tragedies--while the fourth was a comedy; but Sophocles brought about a

new arrangement, and by opposing, in all cases, tragedy to tragedy,

completely excluded comedy from its pretensions.

Another and an excellent revolution in the drama was brought about by

this great man. He added one actor more to the dramatis personæ, and

raised the chorus to fifteen persons, introducing them into the main

action, and giving to all of them such parts to perform as tended to

the carrying on of one uniform, regular plot. Encouraged by the great

success of his pieces, the honours conferred upon him, and the deference

paid to his opinions, he continued to write with unabated enthusiasm for

the stage, and obtained the public prize no less than twenty different

times. The admiration and wonder with which his genius was spoken of

through all Greece, induced a general opinion that he was specially

favoured by heaven, and that he held an intimate communication with the

gods. Cicero himself has gone so far as to assert that Hercules had a

prodigious esteem for him; and Apollonius[1] of Thyana, a Pythagorean

philosopher, said in an oration he delivered before the tyrant Domitian,

that “Sophocles, the Athenian, could tie up the winds, and stop their

fury.”

That Sophocles was a man of transcendant powers of mind, no one has ever

doubted, Æschylus himself condescended to visit him at his own house:

Aristotle made his works the ground work of his Art of Poetry: The

eulogists of Plato compared the advancements made by that great man in

philosophy, to those made by Sophocles in tragedy: Cicero gives him the

epithet of “the divine”--Virgil decidedly preferred him to all writers

of tragedy; and to this day, his works make a part of the course

appointed for students in the Greek language in all the great colleges

and seminaries of Europe. The great rival of Sophocles was Euripides,

who, in their public contentions for the prize, divided with him the

applause of the populace. At that time the theatre was held to be an

object of the highest magnitude and importance, and made an essential

and magnificent part of their pagan worship. The Athenians, therefore,

were delighted by the contentions of these two prodigious men: but, as

it generally happens in cases of rivalship between public favourites,

the people divided into two parties, one of which maintained the

superiority of Sophocles, while the other insisted on the preeminence

of Euripides. The truth is, that though rivals, and perhaps equals in

talent, they could not afford a just subject of comparison. _Magis pares

quam similes_--they were rather equal, than like to each other. In

dignity and sublimity Sophocles takes the lead, as Euripides does in

tenderness, feeling, and pathetic expression.

For the sake of human nature it is to be lamented that popular applause

produced envy, and jealousy between them, and notwithstanding their

divine talents, they sunk into the littleness that degrades the lowest

of the poets (irritabile genus) and regarded each other with abhorrence.

It is said, in vindication of the character of these great men, that

they were abused into a mutual dislike merely by the calumnious

misrepresentations of pretended friends. Finding, however, that their

animosities provoked general ridicule and contempt, and that their

quarrels had become the common theme with which the witlings and

poetasters of Greece amused the people,[2] they judiciously resolved

to treat each other with the respect and confidence that became such

exalted characters, and became friends again. It should seem that

Euripides was the first to make an advance towards reconciliation; as

appears from a letter of his, in which he speaks thus: “Inconstancy is

not my character. I have retained every friend except Sophocles; though

I no longer see him, I do not hate him. Injustice has alienated me from

him; justice reproaches me for it. I hope time will cement our reunion.

What mortal ill is not caused at times by those wicked spirits who are

never so happy as when they sow dissension among those who by nature and

reason are meant to promote the felicity of each other.”

A weakness of voice under which Sophocles laboured often prevented his

appearing in his own tragedies; but this did not at all injure his fame,

for he continued to write into extreme old age with uniformly increasing

reputation. It is recorded that he composed one hundred and twenty

tragedies, of which not more than seven are extant--namely, AJAX,

ELECTRA, OEDIPUS THE TYRANT, ANTIGONE, THE TRACHINIÆ, PHILOCTETES, and

OEDIPUS AT COLONOS. The last of those tragedies has been ever marked

with particular regard on account of a most interesting circumstance

that attended its production, and made it the apex of that great man’s

fame and fortune.

Like old Lear, Sophocles was cursed with ungrateful children.

Shakspeare’s imagination went no further than TWO ungrateful daughters:

Sophocles had in reality _four sons_, all as ungrateful as those

monsters of Shakspeare’s brain. The extreme age and bodily infirmities

of their venerable parent, having for sometime inflamed their anxiety to

become masters of his possessions, they grew at last impatient and,

weary of his living so long, formed a conspiracy against him, and

accused him before the Areopagus, of being insane, a driveller incapable

of governing his family, or managing his concerns--in short, a fool,

a madman. He had fortunately, at that time, just finished his OEDIPUS AT

COLONOS. When he heard the charge made against him by his ingrate sons,

he offered no defence but this tragedy, which he read to the judges, and

then with the boldness of conscious superiority demanded of them whether

the author of that piece could be taxed with insanity. Heart-struck with

the exquisite beauties and sublime sentiments of the piece, and

astonished at the vigorous mind, the exalted truth, the profound moral

wisdom, the accurate and solid judgment, and the almost divinely

persuasive language that pervaded every act of it, they heaped honours

along with their acquittal upon his head, dismissed him with a shout of

praise, and sent his sons home covered with shame and confusion. If firm

reliance can be placed on the authority of Lucian, the sons were, by the

Areopagus, voted madmen for having accused their father.

Like Æschylus, Sophocles was a high military character, and was ranked

among the foremost defenders of his country. He commanded an army in the

war which the Athenians (by the desire of the renowned Pericles, who so

willed it at the instance of his mistress Aspasia) waged against the

inhabitants of Samos; and he returned from it triumphant.

Great men are seldom let to die like ordinary people: a man like

Sophocles of course must be provided with one or more modes of death

unlike those which take off other men. Some have said that on the

extraordinary success of one of his tragedies, he expired with extreme

joy;--an effect rather extreme for one who had for more than sixty years

been accustomed to such successes. Others have asserted that he dropped

dead in consequence of holding in his breath, while reading his tragedy

of Antigonus, so long that the action of his lungs ceased--an event not

at all probable. Another (Lucian) says he was choked by a grape-stone.

These various rumours destroying each other, not only by their

contradiction but by their improbability, leaves the cause of his death

in that uncertainty in which it might hitherto, and may forever remain,

without any injury to the subject. Men of ninety-five are likely enough

to go off suddenly, without violent joy--violent exertion, or even

grape-stones. The story of the grape-stone is told also of Anacreon.

Perhaps in both cases it was a poetical fiction to mark the love of wine

which distinguished these two personages; for Sophocles is accused by

Athenæus of licentiousness and debauchery, particularly when he

commanded the Athenian army. In like manner it is asserted by Pausanias

that Bacchus appeared to Æschylus under the shadow of a vine, and

ordered him to write tragedies, thereby figuratively alluding to the

well known truth that that poet drank wine excessively, and composed his

tragedies while he was drunk.

The public influence of Sophocles was so great that, at his instance,

the people of Athens went to the most unbounded expense in the

construction and decoration of their theatres. The additional

magnificence they derived from him is scarcely credible. In fact the

expense was carried so far that it became a reproach to the country,

and it was said that the Athenians lavished away more money on the

representation of a single play, than on all their wars with the

barbarians.

Some of the sons of Sophocles composed tragedy and wrote some lyric

poems. But there exist no remains of their works, nor anything

particular respecting themselves; some loose anecdotes excepted, which

Plutarch has related respecting one of them of the name of Antiphon, who

wrote a tragedy by which Dionysius the tyrant obtained a prize, long

after he had put the author to death for dispraising his compositions.

EURIPIDES was born at Salamis in the year four hundred and eighty-five

before the Christian era, and on the very day on which Themistocles with

a handful of Grecians defeated the immense army of Xerxes. He was nobly

descended on the maternal side, and was placed in due time under the

first preceptors. From Prodicus he learned eloquence; from Socrates,

ethics, and under Anaxagoras he studied philosophy. His parents having,

before he was born, consulted the oracle of Apollo respecting his fate,

were informed that the world should witness his fame, and that he would

gain a crown. Of this answer which, like all the responses of the

oracle, was constructed with purposed ambiguity, they could come to no

decisive explanation: however, thinking it unlikely that the oracle

could mean any other than the athletic crown, the father took especial

care to fit him for a wrestler, and with such success, that he actually

won the athletic crown at the games and festivals celebrated in honour

of Ceres.

His original destination was to painting, to the study of which he

applied for sometime, and, as tradition informs us, with considerable

success. But nature, and the impulse of a vigorous genius, pointed out

another road to him. He abandoned the pencil, and devoted his whole

labours to the study of morality, philosophy and poetry. The drama being

most congenial to his mind, greatly engrossed his attention: he lamented

that the tragedies of even Æschylus and Sophocles themselves, contained

very little philosophy, and he diligently applied himself to the

effecting of a more intimate union between moral philosophy and dramatic

representation.

As he possessed the powers for accomplishing this valuable purpose in an

eminent degree, his writings became the subject of universal applause

and admiration with his countrymen. Indeed the effects that are related

to have been produced by his compositions, are so prodigious as almost

to stagger belief. His verses were in the mouths of persons in all

countries in which the Greek language was spoken; if prisoners pleaded

their cause in his words, they were dismissed with freedom; and it is an

historical fact that the unfortunate Greeks who had accompanied NICIAS

in his expedition against Syracuse, and were enslaved in Sicily,

obtained their liberty by repeating some appropriate verses taken from

one of his tragedies.

Sophocles was the great object first of his imitation, and then of his

envy and jealousy. In order to enable himself to contest the palm of

superiority with that great poet, Euripides frequently withdrew from

the haunts of men, and confined himself in a solitary cave near Salamis,

where he composed and finished some of the most excellent of his

tragedies. The full vein of philosophy which pervaded his dramatic

compositions, obtained for him the name of the philosophic poet, and so

loudly did fame proclaim his extraordinary excellence, that Socrates,

who never before visited the theatre, went constantly to attend the

tragedies of Euripides. Alexander admired him beyond all other

writers--Demosthenes confessed that he had learned declamation from his

works, and when Cicero was assassinated, the works of Euripides were

found clutched in his hands.

Together with this rare and felicitous genius, Euripides enjoyed the

blessing of a firm undaunted spirit, a great and bold dignity, and a

courage which nothing could shake. During the representation of one of

his tragedies, the audience took offence at some lines in the

composition and immediately ordered him to strike them out of the piece.

Euripides took fire at their presumption, and indignantly advancing

forward on the stage told the spectators that “he came there to instruct

them, and not to receive instruction.” Another time on the first

representation of a new play, the audience expressed great

dissatisfaction at a speech in which he called “riches the _summum

bonum_, and the admiration of gods and men.” The poet stepped forward,

reproved the audience for their hasty conclusion, and magisterially

desired them to listen to the play with the silent attention that was

due to it, and they would in the end find their error, as the

catastrophe would show them the just punishment which attended the

lovers of wealth. The last of these anecdotes is a proof of the moral

excellence and chastity, which the Grecian poets were constrained to

observe in their public compositions.

Of seventy-five tragedies which this admirable poet wrote and had

represented, nineteen only are in existence. The best of those are his

PHŒNISSÆ, his ORESTES, MEDEA, ANDROMACHE, ELECTRA, IPHIGENIA IN AULIS,

IPHIGENIA IN TAURIS, HERCULES, and the TROADES.

Euripides is particularly happy in expressing the passion of love,

especially when it is exalted to the most lively, ardent tenderness.

His pieces are not so perfect as those of Sophocles, but they are more

replete with those exquisite beauties which strike the heart with the

electrical fire of poetry, and his language is more soft and persuasive.

The drama is on the whole, however, much more indebted to Sophocles, to

whom Aristotle, who is certainly the very highest authority, gives the

precedence in point of general arrangement, disposition of parts, and

characteristic manner, and indeed in style also.

The most obvious point of inferiority in Euripides is the choice of his

subjects, which are charged with meanness and effeminacy; while

Sophocles and Æschylus chose for theirs the most dignified and noble

passions. He has moreover given very disgraceful pictures of the fair

sex, making women the contrivers, the agents, and the instruments of

the most impure and diabolical machinations. This unjust perversion

was attributed to a hatred he had to women, which occasioned him to be

called μισογυνης, or the woman-hater; but this he sturdily refuted by

insisting that in those bad characters he had faithfully copied the

nature of the sex. Notwithstanding this, he was married twice; but was

so injudicious in his choice of wives, that he was compelled to divorce

both. In his person Euripides was noble and majestic, and in his

deportment grave and serious.

No poet ever took more pains than Euripides in polishing and perfecting

his tragedies. He composed very slow, and laboured his periods with the

greatest care and difficulty; anticipating the valuable instructions

long afterwards given by Horace to poets. A wretched author, whose heart

was as malicious as his poetry was miserable, once sarcastically

observed that _he_ had written a hundred verses in three days, while

Euripides had written only three. “True,” replied Euripides, “but there

is this difference between your poetry and mine; yours will expire in

three days, but mine will live for ages.”

The disputes between Sophocles and our poet, the jealousy and envy of

his great fame and endowments, and, as some say, the resentment of the

female part of Athens, subjected him to a degree of ridicule and

rancorous invective, which induced him to leave Athens; when he went

into Macedonia, and lived at the court of king Archelaus, who considered

it an honour to patronise such a great poet, bestowing upon him the most

conspicuous marks of his friendship and munificence, and even carrying

his esteem and admiration so far, as to make him his prime minister.

This dignified office Euripides held when he lost his life, in a manner

the most cruel and horrible that can be conceived.

In one of his solitary walks, in a wood to which he had been accustomed

to repair every evening, for the purpose of uninterrupted contemplation,

a pack of dogs belonging to the king set upon him and tore him to pieces

in the seventy-eighth year of his age. So extraordinary and deplorable a

death naturally gave rise to a multitude of conjectures, and, of course,

not very charitable ones. By some, the creatures of Archelaus’s court

who hated him as a successful rival, and envied him the high favours

bestowed upon him by the king, were suspected of having purposely

procured the dogs to be let loose upon, in order to destroy him:

a conjecture not at all probable. By others again it has been suggested

that he was torn to pieces by women in revenge for his black pictures of

the sex: a still more improbable conjecture, and probably borrowed from

the fate of Orpheus; but which still serves to show how little kindness

he was thought to deserve from the women; while others more rationally

concluded that his encountering the dogs and their attacking him, was

purely an accidental circumstance; and that having in the abstraction

and absence of mind, attendant upon very profound meditation, encroached

upon some part of the palace grounds, which the dogs were appointed to

guard, he found his mistake too late to escape from their fury.

Sophocles outlived Euripides about a year, leaving behind him no one

capable of improving, or even of tolerably supporting the tragic stage

of Greece. The hopes of the Grecian drama was buried in the grave along

with him. Of those who succeeded him we know nothing; nor should we know

that any did succeed, if the history of Aristophanes did not inform us,

that there were such, who served only as butts for his malevolent wit.

Never were greater honours conferred by national gratitude and pride

than those which were paid by Greece to the memory of Æschylus,

Sophocles, and Euripides. Statues were erected to them by public edict,

and their works were recorded as matters of state in the archives of the

nation. This part of the history is worthy of very particular

consideration. That great, wise, and high spirited free nation, who

understood man’s nature, and national policy of the best kind, as well

as any other people that ever existed, knew the efficacy of the stage in

meliorating the morals, the manners, and the opinions of a people, and,

therefore, made use of it as a great state engine. Their poets

studiously interwove the public events of Greece into their dramatic

poetry, and made their tragedies national concerns, which, as such, were

sanctioned by law and supported out of the public treasury. Thus the

glories of their heroes were registered and rewarded--the influence of

their example extended--a lively ambition to excel in valour, virtue,

and wisdom was disseminated by the sentiments which the genius and skill

of the poets put into the mouths of their leading characters, and young

men endeavoured to model themselves by those characters and sentiments.

Dramatic criticism was not left by the Greeks, as it is by the moderns,

to operate at random, or yielded up to the will or the caprice of vain,

ignorant, presumptuous, or corrupt pretenders. A bench of judges to the

number of ten, selected for their learning, integrity, and acknowledged

excellence, were appointed by law to preside at theatric

representations, and to determine what was fit for the public to hear,

and what not. These were sworn to decide impartially, and they were

vested with an authority which extended to the infliction of summary

punishment on impure, mischievous, or offensive pieces. They had the

power to punish with whipping, and were authorised to bestow great

rewards for merit. Thus, Sophocles was awarded a dignified and lucrative

government for one of his pieces, and an unfortunate comic poet of the

name of Evangelus was publicly whipped. This circulated a spirit of

correctness, and a chaste and delicate taste through the people, as was

evidenced in the case already mentioned, of one of the tragedies of

Euripides, which was instantly censured for the introduction of a

vitious sentiment in favour of riches. How unlike our playhouse critics

of modern times were those Athenians. By them, no regard was paid to

private solicitation, to personal partiality, or to national, party, or

other prejudice. At these times it is otherwise, at least in Great

Britain and America; and the sentence to be passed on the piece or the

player, in common with most other popular decisions, too often turns on

the great master hinge of party spirit or personal prejudice. Imbecility

is bolstered up, and merit blasted by the clamours of an ignorant and

corrupt few, who, with roar and ruffian impudence spread their perverted

opinions, and at last pass them through the ignorant multitude with the

current stamp of public decision.

It would be unpardonable to omit in this part of the history the

circumstance of Dionysius, the horrible tyrant of Syracuse, having been

a candidate for fame in dramatic poetry. Though utterly destitute of

poetical talents, or of any means of obtaining approbation for his

writings, save only that of extorting it by terror, and even by the

infliction of death, he laboured under the most inveterate passion for

poetic honours. By means not known, he got possession of some loose

writings and memorandums of Æschylus, and from them patched up some

pieces which he vainly endeavoured to pass for his own: but the people

were not to be deceived. With a view to extend his fame he despatched

his brother Theodorus to Olympia, with orders to repeat there in public,

some verses in his name, in competition with some other poets for the

poetical prize: the people, however, had too much taste to endure them,

and rewarded his muse with groans and hisses. At Athens, however, he had

better success; for he obtained the prize there for a composition which

he sent in his name, but which was chiefly written by Antiphon, the son

of Sophocles, whom he put to death for declining to praise some of his

verses. Conscious, as he must have been, that the prize, though awarded

to his name, did not belong to himself, he was more overjoyed at

obtaining it than at all the victories he had ever obtained in the field

of blood. And absurd as it may appear, he had so obstinately set his

heart upon being considered a great poet, that he had recourse to the

most mean as well as cruel expedients to accomplish it. For this

purpose, he endeavoured to suborn a poet who lived under his patronage.

The man, whose name was Philoxenus, had lost the favour of the king, and

was imprisoned by him for the seduction of one of his female singers.

Having written some verses, the tyrant bethought him of establishing

their reputation by getting Philoxenus to express publicly his

approbation of them, and for that purpose ordered him from his prison:

but the poet, too proud and virtuous to purchase his liberty by the

sacrifice of truth, refused; in consequence of which, Dionysius ordered

him to the quarries to work as a slave. Some time afterwards, being

released, he was asked at a public feast, his opinion of some of the

king’s verses; upon which, knowing that the inquirers were the tyrant’s

agents, he answered, by exclaiming aloud, “Lead me back to the

quarries!” His answer had such an effect upon Dionysius that he forgave

Philoxenus, and restored him to his favour.

[Footnote 1: This was the same Apollonius, who while one day

vehemently haranguing the populace at Ephesus, suddenly broke off

and exclaimed--_Strike the tyrant, strike him!--the blow is

given!--he is wounded--he is fallen--he dies!_ And at that very

moment the emperor Domitian had been stabbed at Rome.]

[Footnote 2: Aristophanes ridiculed them both on the stage with

great humour and success.]

BIOGRAPHY--FOR THE MIRROR

SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF THE LATE MR. HODGKINSON.

The illustrious lord Verulam, detailing in one of his essays the various

motives to envy in the human bosom, says, “men of birth are noted to be

envious towards new men--for their distance is altered.” His lordship

might with safety have extended the proposition to those whom either

wealth, or casualty unconnected with high descent or personal merit,

have raised to worldly power and prosperity. Men who have been lifted to

the summits of society by the accumulation of money, still more than

those who stand there in right of the decayed merit of their ancestry

look down with scorn upon their fellow-beings who toil below, and too

often view with jealousy and repugnance, the endeavours of those who

aspire to that eminence, of which they themselves are so vain and

ostentatious. Elevation from an humble condition to conspicuity and

rank, bespeaks superior personal merit; and to many of those who figure

in, what is called, high life, it is to be feared that the bare mention

of personal merit, would look like an indirect reproach.

Not only in that class, however, but in most others of society, there

are multitudes who can boast of very different sentiments--men of real

worth and discernment, who do not disdain to contemplate the exertions

of a powerful mind in its aspirations to dignity, nor turn with contempt

from the man whom nature has enriched, though it should have been his

lot to come into the world under the depression of a needy or obscure

parentage.--Persons of liberal hearts, and luminous minds well know that

in the moral world there are natural laws, which like those of

gravitation in the physical, oppose the elevation of all whom chance has

thrown down to the bottom of life, rendering it difficult or rather

indeed utterly impracticable for them to rise, but by means of the most

gigantic powers; and therefore consider those who emerge to the top by

the fair exercise of their natural talents, as the only valuable

levellers--the real and substantial asserters of the equality of men.

No apology therefore can be expected, for offering to the public a short

sketch of the life of John Hodgkinson--a man, who, though dropped, at

his birth, a darkling, into the world, contrived by the exercise of his

personal endowments, without aid, friend, influence, or advantage, save

those which nature in her bounty vouchsafed him, to mount to the highest

rank in his profession--a profession to excel in which, requires more

rich endowments of mind and person jointly, than any of those to which

men have recourse for the acquisition of fame or fortune.

There may be some to whom the history of such a man, and the equitable

adjudication of applause to such talents as he possessed will not be

very palatable. Feeble men, ever jealous, ever envious, sicken at the

praise of greatness, and pride will elevate its supercilious brow in

disdain, at the eulogy of the lowly born. But the former may set their

hearts at rest (if such hearts can have rest) when they are told that in

the present instance truth will qualify the praise so richly deserved,

with some alloy of censure not less so: and the latter, who affect to

despise the stage while they draw from it delight and instruction, will

perhaps forgive the man’s endowments in consideration of his calling,

and think the sin of his talents atoned by the penance of being a

player.

The paternal name of this extraordinary actor was Meadowcroft;--but this

he relinquished on a certain necessity that will be mentioned hereafter,

taking in its stead, that of his mother’s family, which he continued to

retain long after that necessity had ceased to exist, and bore to the

day of his death. At the time of his birth his father was an humble

husbandman, and lived not far from Manchester; and very near to the

mansion-house of ---- Harrison, esquire. From this, he moved into the

city where he set up a public house well known to several persons now in

America, one of whom recollects to have seen young John figuring there

in capacity of waiter, or as it is commonly called in England, pot-boy.

His father dying, the widow married another husband--and John was put

out to an apprenticeship, in some inferior department of the silk trade.

Having, from his infancy, disclosed manifestations of that exquisite

voice and fine taste for music, which afterwards acquired him such fame

as a singer, he was put to sing with the boys in one of the churches of

Manchester, where he very soon distinguished himself not only for the

power and compass of one of the sweetest countertenor voices in the

world, but for a taste and accurate execution uncommon to his age and

untutored condition.

While the boy was drinking in, with rapture, the applause bestowed upon

his musical talents, his master earnestly deprecated, and violently

opposed the cultivation of them. In the contentions between this

applause and that opposition--between the charming flattery of the one,

and the mortifying severity of the other, the boy took that side which

it was natural for him to prefer; and genius, the parent of courage and

enterprise, suggested to him from time to time a variety of expedients

for baffling all his master’s designs, and eluding his sharpest

vigilance. He collected around him a number of boys of about his own

age, who by a weekly subscription which they contrived to collect,

rented a cellar in an obscure retired alley--provided themselves with

musical instruments, and, with paper decorations and patchwork, formed a

little theatre, whither they resorted, every moment they could snatch by

stealth or pretext, from their parents’ and masters’ control, in order

privately to practise music and dancing, to spout and to perform (in

their way) plays, operas and farces. At this time the whole amount of

the schooling which the boy had received, barely enabled him to read a

chapter in the testament, to scrawl a very indifferent manuscript, and

to form an indistinct notion of the two or three first rules of vulgar

arithmetic. Such was the cunning and address with which these youngsters

_managed_ their theatre, that they enjoyed it several months without THE

OLD ONES being able to discover where they wasted their time. One answer

always served JOHN when questioned by his master--“Where have you been

miching now, you young rascal?”--“NOWHERE sir!” This NOWHERE (so very

indefinite) the master construed into _anywhere_ in the streets, playing

at marbles, top, or chuck-farthing; but of the true place he had not the

most distant conception. After some time they began to apprehend that

their retreat would be discovered either by accident or the vigilance of

the old folks, and this had the effect of increasing their caution and

sharpening their ingenuity and cunning. They affected to loiter and play

in distant streets, and courted detection there, in order to elude any

suspicions that might lead to a discovery of their playhouse; and as

they never ventured to indulge their ambition by figuring away before

any but their own little society, and were the only auditors, as well as

the actors of their pieces, they calculated upon being able to carry on

their scheme till time should set them free from parental control;

provided there should be no treachery among themselves. However, their

confidence in one another was great. “Of one only,” said Hodgkinson, to

this writer, “we entertained the least doubt, and you will smile to hear

the cause of it: it was, because he was the son of an attorney--he was

bottom however to the last, and is now as worthy a man as any in

society.”

Most of what is here related came to the knowledge of the writer in

desultory conversations with Hodgkinson, and two other persons now in

America. “I have very often,” said John, “reflected on the success of

our stratagems, and could not help inferring from it a truth which moral

philosophers have long since laid down; that little cunning is most

perfect in weakest minds. I am persuaded that our company could not,

when grown up to manhood, have acted with half the minute ingenuity

which we displayed on that occasion.” “I had one day, continued he, put

on my best clothes for the purpose of rehearsing LIONEL. I panted for a

suit of black for it, but could not obtain one; so I was fain to put up

with one of blue. It was almost new to be sure, but was daubed over with

brass buttons, and therefore rather unfit for the clerical Lionel. That,

however, I dared not alter. Returning home when our play was over,

I descried my master coming towards me, and, convinced that he saw me,

I turned into a corner, as if to hide myself, knelt down in order to

cover the knees of my small clothes with dust, pulled out my bag of

marbles and chalk, which I always carried for the purpose of deception,

and daubed my thumbs and fingers, and even my sleeves and waistcoat with

chalk, as if I had been playing marbles. “Aha, you young villain, he

cried, before he got up to me, you have been playing marbles, have you!

I’ll marble you, you rascal.” Having accomplished my purpose, I ran away

too fast for him to catch me. That night I heard him say, “One would

think the fellow was too old to play marbles, by this time!--I dont know

what the d--l to do with him.” In fact (continued Hodgkinson) we were,

like birds, in the daily habit of playing a thousand tricks to draw away

intruders or suspicion from our nest.”

After a concealment protracted to an astonishing length, however, the

nest was at last discovered, the poor birds were dispersed, and our hero

took his ill-fledged flight to perch upon distant sprays, and to pick

his meat from the hand that caters for the sparrow. This was the pivot

upon which the whole life of Hodgkinson turned. The irresistible impulse

of a vigorous genius would, most probably, under any other

circumstances, have sent him ultimately to the goal of his destination;

but this event hastened it, most unpropitiously hastened it, and, in an

evil hour, cast him forth upon the world, a youth, or rather a boy, ill

educated, untutored, unprotected, a precocious adventurer, unprovided

with money, and wholly dependant upon God and his own efforts, not only

for the food that was to sustain his existence, but for the whole stock

of prudence, moral rectitude, and knowledge that were to carry him

through life. On this part of the history of Mr. Hodgkinson the candid

reader will keep his eye steadily and unalterably fixed. If men who have

been brought up with every advantage of excellent education, good

breeding, and moral and religious instruction, and who have not been let

forth from the hand of guardianship, till their knowledge has been

established, and their morals confirmed by habit and good example, are

daily seen running headlong into vice, and, with shipwrecked morals,

sinking into ruin, can we at all wonder if a poor boy, cast forth into

the world in the circumstances of Hodgkinson, and, like a half decked

skiff, with lofty rigging and no ballast but its own intrinsic weight,

drifted out upon the tempestuous ocean of life, without compass, or

chart, or means of keeping reckoning, should have sometimes struck upon

those treacherous shelves which lay hidden in the track before him? Is

there not rather just cause for wonder that he did not speedily sink to

the bottom, but that, on the contrary, he kept afloat, advanced to

conspicuity and fame, and would, in all probability, have ultimately

come with flying colours to a mooring in the port of honour and

happiness, if Death had not unexpectedly arrested him in his progress.

It was a little after the time when Hodgkinson had entered his fifteenth

year, that the retreating place of our little company of players and

musicians was discovered. They were all lads not only of lively genius

but of high mettle, and of vigorous animal spirits. Like master Dick, in

Murphy’s farce of the Apprentice, they had their heads stuffed with

scraps of plays, with which they interlarded their discourse, cracked

their jests, praised their favourites, and satirized their enemies,

among which last the very worst, in their opinions, were their parents,

guardians, and masters. “The character of Dick,” said Hodgkinson more

than once to this writer, “is not overcharged.” Our youngsters were

quite pat at stage gabble, and

Fathers have flinty hearts, no tears can move them,

with effusions of a similar tendency, every day resounded from their

theatrical cellar, followed by bursts of thoughtless merriment and

laughter.

One day our little cellar company were engaged in rehearsing Dibdin’s

comic opera of the Padlock. Being the best singer, Hodgkinson had the

part of Leander allotted to him, sore against his will, Mungo being at

that time his favourite character. As he played the first fiddle he was

employed in scratching away an accompaniment to the Mungo of the day, in

the song of

Dear heart, dear heart, what a terrible life am I led,

when a noise was heard at the door of a passage that led to the cellar,

as if it were a person pushing against it. Interrupted thus

unseasonably, master Mungo, in apparent panic, suddenly ceased to sing.

“What do you stop for?” said John. “Didst thou not hear a noise?” said

the other, assuming the tone, and perhaps feeling the alarm too, of

Macbeth, in the dagger-scene. “Bravo, bravo!” cried Hodgkinson,

“excellent! You can’t do Mungo half so well. It is I, sir, I that can do

Mungo to the very life. Now I say, boys, with what feeling could I pour

out from my heart and soul, “Oh cussa heart of my old massa--him damn

impudence and his cuss assurance.” This he followed with a spirited

twang of “Dear heart” on the violin, accompanying it with the words.

Again a noise was heard. “What can it be?” said one. “What can it be?”

said another. There was a push at the door. “Oh!” cried Hodgkinson,

“it’s only one of the hogs that roam about the alley, who, having more

taste than the _old ones_, is come to hear our mirth and music.” At this

moment the door was burst open, and John’s master entered. Before the

latter had time to speak, or John to reflect, the boy’s wit got the

better of his prudence, and he roared out, in the words of Hamlet, “Oh

my prophetic spirit! did I not tell you that it was a hog?” Hitherto the

master had never gone so far as to strike him; but now, enraged beyond

all control at what he saw and heard, he struck the boy with his fist in

the face, wrung the fiddle out of his hand, and smashed it to pieces on

his head. John, who could run like a greyhound, and well knew how far he

could trust to his heels, no sooner got out of the cellar than he let

loose the floodgates of his wrath, and poured forth upon his astonished

master a torrent of invective, partly the slang of the mob, and partly

supplied from plays and farces by his memory; then assuring “the ugly

illnatured hunks” that he never should see him again till he was able to

make his thick scull ring with a drubbing, he disappeared, and prepared

to leave Manchester.

A few months antecedent to this event, a circumstance occurred to

Hodgkinson the relation of which properly comes in here. Two persons,

genteelly dressed, coming to his mother’s house, called for a room and

some beer, and asked if they could get dinner. It was Sunday, and John,

as usual, spent the day at home. He was busily employed in the entry

making a bridge for a fiddle, and, as he cut away, accompanied his

labour with a song, upon which a person belonging to the house[3] chid

him angrily or rather very severely for singing on the sabbath. He made

no other reply than that of changing from a soft song, which he barely

hummed, to the laughing song of Linco in Cymon, which he roared out

obstreperously, by way of asserting his independence. A verbal scuffle

ensued, which he still interlarded with bursts of song and laughter; the

door of the room opened; the two gentlemen interfered, and calling him

into the parlour, requested him to sing Linco’s song through for them.

He complied; they lavished encomiums on his performance; and one of them

said to the other “I’ll be hanged if he does not sing it much better

than Wilder,”[4] These words John never forgot; and he owned to this

writer, about six years ago, that they still tingled in his ear, though,

at the time they were uttered, he did not know who was meant by Wilder.

The person who said this patted him on the head, stroked down his hair,

affectionately, and added “You are a dear boy. May God Almighty bless

and prosper you!” The other gave him a crownpiece, and desired him to

keep it for his sake. Had he given him a hundred crowns they would have

been nothing to the honied words of the former. In truth, the leading

foible of Hodgkinson through life, was vanity--the great taproot of all

his irregularities and errors. He was quite agog to learn who those two

men might be: he asked, but no one knew them--they were strangers. In

the afternoon, however, they were joined by some players who were

performing in the town; and from one of those he learned that the two

strangers were from Ireland--He who gave him the crownpiece being a

gentleman of the name of Comerford, a merchant--he who gave him his

blessing, a Mr. Dawson, a player of Dublin, who was an acting assistant,

and a kind of purveyor for the manager of the theatre in that city, and

stepfather to the celebrated William Lewis. The Mr. Wilder alluded to

was many years an actor and singer in Dublin and the original Linco and

colonel Oldboy of that city.

That crownpiece John had put into the hands of his mother, to keep.

Having taken his resolution to leave Manchester, and seek his fortune,

he went home, took the crown piece from the place where it was

deposited, and getting up before break of day next morning, put on his

best clothes, packed up a shirt, and took leave of Manchester. His first

notion was to go to sea, to which end he took the road to Bristol,

knowing that his master would, by means of the constant intercourse

between Manchester and Liverpool, readily detect him if he went that

road--an event more terrible to him than death; the penalty for runaway

apprentices being very severe and disgraceful. It was on this occasion

he dropped the name of MEADOWCROFT, and adopted the much less elegant

one, of Hodgkinson.

Here the reader will naturally pause, in order to reflect upon the very

extraordinary picture now presented to him. A boy of little more than

fourteen years of age, unschooled; little better than illiterate;

destitute of useful knowledge; cut off from parents, friends and

connexions; and without any visible means of livelihood, rushing forward

into a world of strangers, undismayed at the prospect before him; “full

of life, and hope, and joy,” and, like the lark of a summer’s morning,

caroling as he winged his way. Any reader who has felt the fears and

anxieties of a parent when the dear boy of his heart has been for a

short time missing, and remembers the pangs of doubt, the apprehension,

the painful forebodings, nay, the despair itself into which an absence

protracted beyond custom, and not to be accounted for, has thrown him,

will be able, from a retrospect of his reflections on such an occasion,

to imagine what must have been the danger of this boy, and what the

courage he must have had to encounter it--and will, while pondering with

admiration upon his fortitude and manliness, tremble for his fate. This

writer once asked him if he was not horror-struck when he found himself

in Bristol separated from all his friends, and well remembers his

answer.--“No,” said he, “Though I was little instructed and no

book-scholar, I was not ignorant. Young as I was, I had formed opinions

of life from its pictures in plays and farces, and taken full measure of

my situation. I knew that I had nothing to expect in Manchester, or any

other place, but from my own exertions, and therefore thought that the

sooner I set to work the better. Those whom you call my friends, could

do little for me if they were ever so well disposed, and I cannot say

much for their disposition. I looked upon them and their purposes

respecting me, rather as clogs and fetters, than as aids; and I am

convinced I was right. I had no fear, because I had health and strength

to do several things to earn my bread, (I could sing if I could do

nothing else) and never once lost sight of the persuasion that I should

one time or other be something better than a pot-boy or a mechanic. Nor

did I meet in my journey anything to discourage me. Some suspected me of

being a runaway ’tis true, and looked severely at me; but I minded them

not; and one man, a wagoner who carried me a whole night in his wagon,

owned that he had taken me in gratuitously, for the purpose of having me

delivered up; but that I fairly sung and talked him into a regard for

me, during the night. Few charged me anything for what I eat, and I

brought more than half my crown into Bristol with me. I had besides a

pair of silver buckles in my shoes, and a silver seal to my watch.”

You had a watch then?--

“Yes--value sixpence, one of those they sell at fairs. I had bought it

about half a year before--put a nice green riband to it, and a twopenny

key.--This it was that got me the silver seal, and I’ll tell you how.

The Sunday after I bought it, I stood in the aisle of the church, looked

at the great clock, and pompously pulling out my pewter watch, and

looking at it as proudly as it were a real one, affected to wind it up

and set it, studiously comparing it with the church clock and putting it

up to my ear. A Mr. ----,[5] a worthy man of some opulence, who lived

near us and was in the habit of coming to our house to take his pint,

came up to me and, with a serious air, pulling out his old gold watch,

with a gold dial plate, gravely said to me, while he inwardly

laughed--“Pray sir what is the time of the day by your watch,--let us

see, do our watches agree, sir:” I blushed.--“Nay, said he, I do but

jest with you my child--you must not be angry with me. Come, come; if

you have not a gold watch, you shall have a silver seal to tie to your

riband,” saying which he brought me home and, taking one from the drawer

of a black inkstand, gave it to me. What had a boy to fear that had

three shillings in his pocket, a silver seal hanging to his watch

_string_, and a pair of large silver buckles in his shoes? nothing--at

least so I thought at that time.”

(_To be continued._)

[Footnote 3: I believe it was the man his mother married; but he

never told me so, being retentive on that subject. --_Biog._]

[Footnote 4: There are many people in America who remember

Hodgkinson’s excellence in singing the famous laughing song

“_Now’s the time for mirth and glee_.”]

[Footnote 5: The writer laments that he has forgot this person’s

name.]

PORTRAIT OF THE CELEBRATED BETTERTON.

(_Continued from page 140._)

Notwithstanding the extraordinary power he showed in blowing Alexander

once more into a blaze of admiration, Betterton had so just a sense of

what was true or false applause, that I have heard him say, he never

thought any kind of it equal to an attentive silence; that there were

many ways of deceiving an audience into a loud one; but to keep them

hushed and quiet was an applause which only truth and merit could arrive

at; of which art there never was an equal master to himself. From these

various excellencies, he had so full a possession of the esteem and

regard of his auditors, that, upon his entrance into every scene, he

seemed to seize upon the eyes and ears of the giddy and inadvertent. To

have talked or looked another way would then have been thought

insensibility or ignorance. In all his soliloquies of moment, the strong

intelligence of his attitude and aspect drew you into such an impatient

gaze, and eager expectation, that you almost imbibed the sentiment with

your eye, before the ear could reach it.

As Betterton is the centre to which all my observations upon action

tend, you will give me leave, under his character, to enlarge upon that

head. In the just delivery of poetical numbers, particularly where the

sentiments are pathetic, it is scarce credible upon how minute an

article of sound depends their greatest beauty or inaffection. The voice

of a singer is not more strictly tied to time and tune than that of an

actor in theatrical elocution. The least syllable too long, or too

slightly dwelt upon in a period, depreciates it to nothing; which very

syllable, if rightly touched, shall, like the heightening stroke of

light from a master’s pencil, give life and spirit to the whole. I never

heard a line in tragedy come from Betterton wherein my judgment, my ear,

and my imagination were not fully satisfied, which, since his time I

cannot equally say of any one actor whatsoever; not but it is possible

to be much his inferior with great excellencies, which I shall observe

in another place. Had it been practicable to have tied down the

clattering hands of the ill judges who were commonly the majority of an

audience, to what amazing perfection might the English theatre have

arrived, with so just an actor as Betterton at the head of it! If what

was truth only could have been applauded, how many noisy actors had

shook their plumes with shame, who, from the injudicious approbation of

the multitude, have bawled and strutted in the place of merit! If,

therefore, the bare speaking voice has such allurements in it, how much

less ought we to wonder, however we may lament, that the sweeter notes

of vocal music should so have captivated even the politer world into an

apostacy from sense to an idolatry of sound. Let us inquire whence this

enchantment rises. I am afraid it may be too naturally accounted for:

for when we complain that the finest music, purchased at such vast

expense, is so often thrown away upon the most miserable poetry, we seem

not to consider that when the movement of the air and the tone of the

voice are exquisitely harmonious, though we regard not one word of what

we hear, yet the power of the melody is so busy in the heart, that we

naturally annex ideas to it of our own creation, and, in some sort,

become ourselves the poet to the composer; and what poet is so dull as

not to be charmed with the child of his own fancy? So that there is even

a kind of language in agreeable sounds, which, like the aspect of

beauty, without words, speaks and plays with the imagination. While this

taste, therefore, is so naturally prevalent, I doubt, to propose

remedies for it were but giving laws to the winds, or advice to

inamoratos. And however gravely we may assert that profit ought always

to be inseparable from the delight of the theatre; nay, admitting that

the pleasure would be heightened by the uniting them, yet, while

instruction is so little the concern of the auditor, how can we hope

that so choice a commodity will come to a market where there is so

seldom a demand for it?

It is not to the actor, therefore, but to the vitiated and low taste of

the spectator that the corruptions of the stage, of what kind soever,

have been owing. If the public, by whom they must live, had spirit

enough to discountenance and declare against all the trash and fopperies

they have been so frequently fond of, both the actors and the authors,

to the best of their power, must naturally have served their daily table

with sound and wholesome diet.--But I have not yet done with my article

of elocution.

As we have sometimes great composers of music, who cannot sing, we have

as frequently great writers that cannot read; and though, without the

nicest ear, no man can be master of poetical numbers; yet the best ear

in the world will not always enable him to pronounce them. Of this truth

Dryden, our first great master of verse and harmony, was a strong

instance. When he brought his play of Amphytrion to the stage, I heard

him give it his first reading to the actors, in which, though it is

true, he delivered the plain sense of every period; yet the whole was in

so cold, so flat, and unaffecting a manner, that I am afraid of not

being believed when I affirm it.

On the contrary, Lee, far his inferior in poetry, was so pathetic a

reader of his own scenes, that I have been informed by an actor who was

present, that while Lee was reading to major Mohun, at a rehearsal,

Mohun, in the warmth of his admiration, threw down his part and said,

Unless I were able to play it as well as you read it, to what purpose

should I undertake it? And yet this very author, whose elocution, raised

such admiration in so capital an actor, when he attempted to be an actor

himself, soon quitted the stage in an honest despair of ever making any

profitable figure there.

From all this I would infer, that let our conception of what we are to

speak be ever so just, and the ear ever so true, yet, when we are to

deliver it to an audience (I will leave fear out of the question) there

must go along with the whole a natural freedom and becoming grace, which

is easier to conceive than to describe: for without this inexpressible

somewhat, the performance will come out oddly disguised, or somewhere

defectively unsurprising to the hearer. Of this defect too, I will give

you yet a stranger instance, which you will allow fear could not be the

occasion of. If you remember Estcourt, you must have known that he was

long enough upon the stage, not to be under the least restraint from

fear, in his performance. This man was so amazing and extraordinary a

mimic, that no man or woman, from the coquette to the privy-counsellor,

ever moved or spoke before him, but he would carry their voice, look,

mein, and motion instantly into another company. I have heard him make

long harangues, and form various arguments, even in the manner of

thinking, of an eminent pleader at the bar, with every the least article

and singularity of his utterance so perfectly imitated, that he was the

very _alter ipse_, scarce to be distinguished from his original. Yet

more; I have seen upon the margin of the written part of Falstaff, which

he acted, his own notes and observations upon almost every speech of it,

describing the true spirit of the humour, and with what tone of voice,

look, and gesture each of them ought to be delivered; yet, in his

execution upon the stage, he seemed to have lost all those just ideas he

had formed of it, and almost through the character, laboured under a

heavy load of flatness. In a word, with all his skill in mimickry, and

knowledge of what ought to be done, he never, upon the stage, could

bring it truly into practice, but was upon the whole, a languid

unaffecting actor. After I have shown you so many necessary

qualifications, not one of which can be spared in true theatrical

elocution, and have at the same time proved, that with the assistance of

them all united, the whole may still come forth defective, what talents

shall we say will infallibly form an actor? This, I confess, is one of

Nature’s secrets, too deep for me to dive into. Let us content

ourselves, therefore, with affirming, that Genius, which Nature only

gives, only can complete him. This genius then was so strong in

Betterton, that it shone out in every speech and motion of him. Yet

voice and person are such necessary supporters to it, that, by the

multitude, they have been preferred to genius itself, or at least often

mistaken for it. Betterton had a voice of that kind which gave more

spirit to terror than to the softer passions; of more strength than

melody. The rage and jealousy of Othello became him better than the

sighs and tenderness of Castalio: for though in Castalio he only

excelled others, in Othello he excelled himself, which you will easily

believe, when you consider, that, in spite of his complexion, Othello

has more natural beauties than the best actor can find in all the

magazine of poetry, to animate his power and delight his judgment with.

The person of this excellent actor was suitable to his voice, more manly

than sweet, not exceeding the middle stature, inclining to the

corpulent; of a serious and penetrating aspect; his limbs nearer the

athletic than the delicate proportion; yet however formed, there arose

from the harmony of the whole a commanding mein of majesty, which the

fairer faced, or as Shakspeare calls them, the curled darlings of his

time, ever wanted something to be equal masters of. There was some years

ago to be had, almost in every print-shop, a mezzotinto, from Kneller,

extremely like him.

In all I have said of Betterton, I confine myself to the time of his

strength, and highest power in action, that you may make allowances from

what he was able to execute at fifty, to what you might have seen of him

at past seventy: for though to the last he was without his equal, he

might not then be equal to his former self; yet so far was he from being

ever overtaken, that for many years after his decease, I seldom saw any

of his parts in Shakspeare supplied by others, but it drew from me the

lamentation of Ophelia upon Hamlet’s being unlike what she had seen him.

Ah! wo is me!

T’ have seen what I _have_ seen, see what I see!

The last part this great master of his profession acted was Melantius,

in the Maid’s Tragedy, for his own benefit, when being suddenly seized

by the gout, he submitted, by extraordinary applications, to have his

foot so far relieved, that he might be able to walk on the stage, in a

slipper, rather than wholly disappoint his auditors. He was observed

that day, to have exerted a more than ordinary spirit, and met with

suitable applause; but the unhappy consequence of tampering with his

distemper was, that it flew into his head, and killed him in three days,

I think, in the seventy-fourth year of his age.

That Betterton was as good an actor as ever lived, and that he shone

most conspicuously in parts of dignity and fire, is pretty certain; yet

his externals were such as would at first sight be thought very

unfavourable. The famous TONY ASTON, in a work called “A brief

Supplement to Colley Cibber,” gives the following picture of Mr.

Betterton, the fidelity of which has never been questioned.

“Mr. Betterton though a superlative good actor, laboured under ill

figure, being clumsily made, having a great head, a short thick neck,

stooped in the shoulders, and had fat short arms, which he rarely lifted

higher than his stomach. His left hand frequently lodged in his breast,

between his coat and waistcoat, while with his right he prepared his

speech. His actions were FEW, BUT JUST. He had little eyes and a broad

face, a little pock-frecken, a corpulent body, and thick legs, with

large feet. He was better to meet than to follow; for his aspect was

serious, venerable and majestic. In his latter time he was a little

paralytic. His voice was naturally low and grumbling; yet he could tune

it by an artful _climax_, which enforced universal attention, even from

the fops and orange-girls. He was incapable of dancing even in a country

dance, as was Mrs. Barry; but their good qualities were more than equal

to their deficiencies. Betterton was the most extensive actor from

Alexander to sir John Falstaff.”

“His younger cotemporary, Powel, who was only forty, when Betterton was

sixty-three, attempted several of Betterton’s parts, as _Alexander_,

_Jaffier_, &c. but lost his credit, as in Alexander he maintained not

the dignity of a king, but out-heroded Herod; and in his poisoned mad

scene out-raved all probability, while Betterton kept his passion under,

and showed it most, as fume smokes most when stifled. If I was to write

of him all day, I should still remember fresh matter in his behalf.”

The following facetious story of Betterton and a country tenant of his

is related by Aston.

Mr. Betterton had a small farm near Reading, in Berkshire, and the

countryman came, in the time of Bartholomew fair, to pay his rent. Mr.

Betterton took him to the fair, and going to one Crawley’s puppet-show,

offered two shillings for himself and Roger, his tenant. “No, no, sir,”

said Crawley, “_we never take money from one another_.” This affronted

Mr. Betterton, who threw down the money, and they entered. Roger was

hugely diverted with Punch, and bred a great noise, saying that he would

drink with him, for he was a merry fellow. Mr. Betterton told him he was

only a puppet, made up of _sticks and rags_. However Roger still cried

out that he would go and drink with Punch. When Master took him behind

where the puppets hung up, he swore he thought Punch had been alive.

However, said he, though he be but _sticks and rags, I’ll give him

sixpence to drink my health_. At night Mr. Betterton went to the

theatre, when was played the Orphan, Mr. Betterton acting Castalio, Mrs.

Barry Monimia. “Well,” said Master, “how dost like this play, Roger?”

“Why, I don’t know,” said Roger, “_it’s well enough for sticks and

rags_.”

This anecdote is falsely related of Garrick.

DRAMATIC CENSOR.

I have always considered those combinations which are formed in the

playhouse as acts of fraud or cruelty. He that applauds him who does not

deserve praise, is endeavouring to deceive the public. He that hisses in

malice or in sport is an oppressor and a robber.

_Dr. Johnson’s Idler, No. 25._

_Master Payne’s performances concluded._

Of the characters represented by this young gentleman, those in which he

has evinced greatest powers are Douglas, Tancred, and Romeo, while that

in which he is least exceptionable, is Frederick in Lover’s Vows. In his

Octavian, which followed next after Douglas, some of the pathetic

passages were beautifully expressed. Mrs. Inchbald, in her prefatory

remarks to the play of the Mountaineers, says, “_This true lover

requires such peculiar art, such consummate skill in the delineation_,

that it is probable his representative may have given an impression of

the whole drama unfavourable to the author. Nor is this a reproach to

the actor who fails; for such a person as Octavian would never have been

created, had not Kemble been born some years before him. But,

notwithstanding the difference of their ages, it is likely they will

both depart this life at the same time.” While the difficulty of

delineating Octavian, and the merit of a living performer of it are

such, that it is scarcely possible to think of the play without thinking

of Kemble, it has so happened that scarcely any character has been

attempted by so many actors of all qualities--nor is there one in which

so few have come off with actual disgrace. Men who could scarcely be

endured in third or fourth rate parts, have selected Octavian to figure

in, on their benefit nights. One man who was laughed at in every other

character, was supposed by a misjudging audience to play Octavian well;

nay, to our knowledge, was preferred to Hodgkinson and Cooper in it. The

reason is plain: to the portraying of madness, the injudicious can

imagine no limits. The more a madman raves and roars, the better; rags,

slovenliness, and matted hair, and beard too, are the usual associates

of awkwardness and vulgarity. Any man, therefore, who can rant and play

the extravagant, no matter how ungracefully, may pass with some

audiences for a very natural Octavian--an abominable absurdity! For

these two reasons, Octavian is a very hazardous part for a performer who

aims at substantial fame, to attempt. In Master Payne’s performance of

it, there was no extravagance to censure; nothing that had the least

tendency to enrol him among the Bedlamite butchers of the character, nor

was there, on the other hand, a complete uniform delineation of Octavian

to afford him the same rank in that, which criticism willingly allows

him in some other characters.

Not so Frederick, his performance of which was one consistent piece of

natural, affecting, and indeed skilful acting. In the scenes of filial

tenderness with his mother, and in the solemn but spirited remonstrances

with the baron Wildenheim, he displayed such equal excellence that

criticism might incur the charge of injustice by giving the preference

to either. The character, as Master Payne acted it, was made up by him

from the two antecedent translations of Mrs. Inchbald and Mr.

Thompson;--by a union of both of which this youth has produced a better

acting play than either. He lately published it at Baltimore with an

advertisement prefixed, written by himself, to which we refer our

readers, with a strong recommendation to them to peruse it.

In the characters selected by Master Payne there are but four which we

can think judiciously chosen. For the whole selection we should find it

difficult to account, if we did not know that they had before been

chosen for Master Betty; by thus closely walking in the steps of whom,

Master Payne has, in our opinion, wronged himself. It is evident that in

choosing characters for the infant Roscius of England, his instructors

had it more in view to exhibit the boy as a prodigy, than the characters

well acted. The people were to be treated to an anomalous exhibition,

and the greater the anomaly the better the treat. What but a

determination to inflame public curiosity to the highest pitch by a

contrast as absurd as unnatural, could have induced them to put forward

a little boy of twelve years old in the formidable tyrant Richard? like

modern composers of music, their object was not to produce harmony or

natural sweetness, but to execute difficulties. As the actor was a boy

loitering on the verge of childhood, the plan, if not correct, was at

least politic. But the public do not look on Master Payne in that light,

and therefore, he ought to have selected parts more suitable to his time

of life and talents. Parts calculated to aid and not depress him. What

judicious actor is there now living who would not think it injurious to

him to be put forward by a manager in Selim or in Zaphna? The united

powers of Mossop in Barbarosa, and Garrick in Selim could barely keep

that play alive. We have seen Mossop play it to a house of not ten

pound, though aided by the first Zaphira in the world, Mrs. Fitzhenry.

From either of those characters Master Payne could not derive the least

aid. His Hamlet we put out of the question--we did not see it.

On his Tancred we can dwell with very different sensations. Considering

the materials he had to work upon, his delineation of the character was

highly creditable to his talents. For the love part, little more can be

done by a good actor, than by a good reader;--as poetry, it is soft, and

sweet, and flowing; as a practical representation of that passion it is

mawkish: yet, in the performance of Master Payne, it was not entirely

destitute of interest. In all the rest; in every scene with Siffredi,

particularly in his warm expostulations with the honest, but mistaken

old statesman; in his subsequent indignation and despair; in his lofty

bearing and menaces to Osmond, and thence onward to his death, he was

truly excellent, seemed perfect master of the scene, and in depicting

the tumult of passions which struggle in the bosom of the lordly

Tancred, evinced that he possesses the legitimate genius, and true

spirit that should inform the actor.

For his benefit he personified Romeo. The house was so crowded, and in

all places that were accessible after the doors were opened, there was

so much pressing, confusion, ill-mannered noise and struggle, and

rudeness, that few but those who had places taken in the front boxes

could see or hear the play out. From the upper gallery, where with

difficulty we at last got a seat, we indistinctly saw what passed on the

stage, and could hear a little by snatches. What we did hear and see

induced us to lament our not hearing and seeing more, and to wish that

we may speedily have another opportunity of witnessing a performance

respecting which there is but one opinion, and that highly favourable to

Master Payne’s reputation.

MR. COOPER.

Scarcely had master Payne disappeared in his transit southward, when Mr.

Cooper followed, and, in describing his annual orbit, was seen here for

nine nights; during which he performed the following characters.

Friday 29th Dec.--Richard the Third.

Saturday 30th.--Zanga in the Revenge.

Monday 1st Jan.--Leon in Rule a Wife and have a Wife.

Wednesday 3d.--Othello.

Friday 5th.--Macbeth.

Saturday 6th.--Pierre in Venice Preserved.

Monday 8th.--Hamlet.

Wednesday 10th.--Hotspur.

Friday 12th.--Michael Ducas in Adelgitha.

Saturday 13th.--Penruddock--and after it Petruchio.

Of all the actors we have ever seen in the old world or in the new, he

who imposes the most difficult task upon the critic is Mr. Cooper. It is

scarcely possible to generalize his acting. The great inequality of his

performance, the defects of some parts, the doubtfulness of others, and

the amazing beauties which he frequently displays, forbid the critic, if

he have a due regard to truth, to give to the different parts of any one

character Mr. Cooper performs the same measure of praise or

disapprobation.

Hardly have our nerves ceased to vibrate, and our hearts to leap in

consequence of perhaps a series of electrical strokes of irresistible

effect and beauty, when our patience is put to trial by some defect, or

our feelings left to grow cold and languid for want of an appropriate

continuous excitement. To walk step by step with him through those

alternations, and to decide in circumstantial detail upon this

gentleman’s title to critical applause, would require a minuteness of

description incompatible with the scheme of this publication; yet, since

the high rank which he very deservedly holds in his profession renders

it important that just opinions should be formed upon the subject of his

performances, and that his merits should be as closely as possible

canvassed, and as precisely ascertained, it would be inconsistent with

the duty of a public critic wholly to decline the task, however

difficult and laborious he may find it.

We have now before us a criticism upon Mr. Cooper which once appeared in

a periodical publication at Charleston S. C. and in which I find the

following passage.

“Nature husbands her gifts so carefully that where equality appears in

all the parts of any object, supreme excellence is rarely seen; where

great beauties are found, they are generally mixed with some

considerable alloy. Of all the actors we have ever seen, Mr. Mossop was

the one whom Mr. Cooper, in this respect, most resembles. With him, when

it was not a blaze, it was a cloud. No man, not Garrick himself ever

equalled his beauties; but his defects were great. The beauties,

however, were so far superior in numbers to the defects, and in quality,

to the excellencies of all other men, that he obtained from the greatest

critic of that day, the tide of the _Tragedy Sheet Anchor_.” All this is

strictly true; but there is this difference between that great actor and

Mr. Cooper, Mossop never committed a fault from negligence; studiously,

I might almost say superstitiously, devoted to the cultivation of his

professional talents, he left nothing undone which industry could

accomplish, and whenever he went wrong, failed from an almost pedantic

desire to do too much--from a stiffness and stateliness of deportment,

and an embarrassment of which he had begun to get rid but a few years

before his death. Mr. Cooper labours under no obstruction of this kind.

The natural talents displayed by Mr. Cooper in most of his performances

forbid it to be believed that his failures result from incompetency; or

that there is any excellence, to which the actors of the present day

attain, too great for his grasp, if his industry were nearly equal to

his personal endowments. But the honest and zealous critic loses all

patience, when he sees _first talents_ supinely contenting themselves

with less than _first honours_. What are the natural or acquired

endowments of Kemble or Cooke, whether mental or corporeal? Certainly

not superior to those of Mr. Cooper. How do they respectively stand in

the records of professional fame? It would be invidious to give the

answer.

If one could, with certainty, estimate a player’s actual performance

from his untried talents, and were asked what disqualifying circumstance

exists to prevent Mr. Cooper from playing Richard, Othello, Zanga or

Hotspur as well as any man--we should answer none! But when, having seen

him act, we come in the capacity of public critics to adjudge him his

rights, we feel the mortifying necessity of speaking other language.

In Othello and Zanga, the inequality of Mr. Cooper’s acting is

strikingly conspicuous. Of the great distinction between the colloquial

familiarity suitable to ordinary dialogue, and the solemn, dignified,

and lofty delivery becoming the orator in a great public assembly, Mr.

Cooper seems to have entirely lost sight in the celebrated speech to the

senate, the first lines of which may serve as a lesson how the whole

should be spoken.

“Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors,

My very worthy and approved good masters.”

The pompous sound of these words, as well as the awfulness of the place,

and the august character of the assembly to which they are addressed,

sufficiently indicate the manner in which they ought to be uttered.

Instead of this Mr. Cooper (no doubt with the view to avoid pomposity

and bombast) threw into them an air of familiarity like that of a person

narrating a private transaction to an intimate friend or acquaintance:

Yet no sooner does he come to the impassioned parts, where strong

emotions call forth the manly energies, than he flames up with the

character. In the third scene of the second act, he displays much force

and dignity in the following lines:

He that stirs next to carve for his own rage,

Holds his soul light; he dies upon his motion.

Silence that dreadful bell, it frights the isle

From her propriety.

And afterwards:

Now by heaven

My blood begins my safer guides to rule;

And passion, having my best judgment collied,

Assays to lead the way: If I once stir

Or do but lift this arm, the best of you

Shall sink in my rebuke, &c. &c.

And indeed through the whole of that scene he was impressive and

important: nor, with the exception of those occasional lapses which we

have to regret in almost every character he plays, even in his Macbeth,

and the liberties he occasionally takes with the text, was there any

reason to complain, while every now and then, he emitted some of those

splendid scintillations of light which distinguish his acting from that

of every competitor in America.

In the last act, his performance was superlatively great. So great

indeed, that if all the other parts had been _nearly equal_ to it, we

should not at all hesitate to put it in competition with the Othello of

any man now living. As it was, we pay it no compliment in saying that it

was in every part much superior to that of Pope, the _quondam_ Othello

of Covent Garden.

ZANGA.

The character of Zanga would at first sight seem to be well calculated

for Mr. Cooper’s talents: yet we cannot say that we very much admire him

in it. That in his _execution_ of the part Mr. Cooper goes beyond Mr.

Kemble is certain, while his conception of it is nearly the same. In the

latter, both are deficient. If there ever was a character which only one

man in the world could play perfectly, Zanga is that character, and

Mossop was that man. In a mixed company some years ago at Mr. Foote’s,

the celebrated doctor John Hill lanched out in praise of Mossop. Foote

likewise admired him, but could not refrain from ridiculing and

mimicking some of that great actor’s stately singularities; upon which

Richard Malone said, and Garrick was present, “You must own this one

truth, however, because I have it from the highest authority (bowing to

Garrick) that Mossop is the only man who was ever known so to act a

character that the judgment of a nation has not been able to mark a

fault in it.” “I have often said,” replied Garrick, “that Mossop’s Zanga

is perfectly faultless--but that is too little to say of it--it is a

brilliant without a speck.”

Upon that extraordinary actor’s performance of Zanga, every word and

action of which Fancy, while we are writing this, whispers in our ears

and figures to our eyes, we build our conception of the character; and,

in conformity to that conception, pronounce Mr. Cooper and Mr. Kemble to

be both wrong in material points, chiefly in the first part of it. In

the year 1800 we saw Kemble attempt the Moor, and endured great pain

from his efforts; for not only his _reading_ (as it is called) of the

part was erroneous, but his organs were too feeble for the character;

a defect of which Mr. Cooper has not to complain.

Of Mossop’s Zanga, there was not one line from the beginning to the end

which, while he was uttering it, a spectator would not believe to be the

best. In every part the grandeur of Zanga’s character broke through the

clouds of horror and humiliation that surrounded him; and in the very

first scene the magnanimity of the poet’s Moor, was exalted to something

of more than human sublimity, by the player. In the disclosing of his

discontent to Isabella, the painting to her of his mental agonies, and

the avowal of his hatred to Alonzo, the emotions which Mossop excited in

the spectators were too awful and interesting to be imagined by those

who have not felt them. The deep and affecting solemnity of his

narrative, interrupted by the occasional flashes of passion which burst

from him, was in strict congeniality with the dreadful elementary storm

in which it is introduced. In the hands of other actors this part makes

little impression.

Hear then. ’Tis twice three years since that great man,

(_Great let me call him for he conquered me_)

Made me the captive of his arm in fight.

The loftiness of the Moor’s nature, and his conscious pride were by the

peculiar delivery of the second line, as perfectly unfolded as they

could be by volumes. Again:

One day (_may that returning day be night,

The stain, the curse, of each succeeding year!_)

For something, or for nothing, in his pride

He struck me. (_While I tell it do I live?_)

He smote me on the cheek.

The words comprehended in parentheses, are occasional starts of

digression dictated by rage, and should be uttered passionately, we do

not mean loudly, but with vehement indignation! So Mossop uttered them,

changing his key and speaking the words with the rapidity expressive of

rage--and then, after a struggle, falling down to the solemn level of

his narrative again. These, however, Mr. Kemble spoke rather in a tone

of whining lamentation. The limited organs of Mr. K. might make it

policy in him to do so; but Mr. Cooper has not that plea to offer. Be

that as it may, the character is defaced by it. The Moor’s fire is not

supposed to be extinguished; it is only covered up, to break out with

more terrible fury, when the accomplishment of his purpose will allow

it. In going over the sad recital of his woes, to a confidential friend,

the poet, in order the more perfectly to unfold his character, makes the

hidden fire burst forth in momentary blazes. To sink this is to deprive

the character of one of its most essential beauties; to give it the

directly opposite expression of piteous lamentation is, indeed,

reversing the noble character of the Moor.

One of the wonderful excellencies of Mossop in this part was his artful

display of hypocrisy in the words and purpose, while his external port

silently asserted his superiority, and the native majesty of his looks

and manner bespoke the magnitude of the sacrifice he was making to

vengeance, thereby giving a deeper colouring to the inexorable

vindictiveness of his nature, and more forcibly illustrating the

inflexible firmness of his soul. All other actors that we have ever seen

reduce Zanga to a mere slavish croucher in all points; and destroy the

very basis of the character by an overacted humiliation, highly improper

because too glaring not to excite Alonzo’s suspicions. He must be a dull

Alonzo indeed, if he could not look through such flimsy dissimulation.

Yet with all these defects, for which, as well as many other

transgressions, the modern crop of young actors are indebted to the

example of Mr. Kemble, Mr. Cooper gave us in several places as great

satisfaction as with our remembrance of “THE Zanga,” we ever hoped to

experience. From the time he avows his villany to Alonzo, on to the end,

he deserved unqualified praise; nor can we imagine how any one who had

not made up his mind upon the great original, to whom we have alluded,

could wish or conceive it to be more happily performed.

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

RICHARD III.

Mr. Cooper conceives that crookbacked usurper with sufficient accuracy,

reads it with tolerable correctness, and acts it with great spirit. In

this character he evidently has the greatest model extant [Cooke] in his

eye. When first, some five years ago, we saw Mr. Cooper perform Richard,

we thought he played it tolerably, but wanted weight. He is much

improved in this respect since that time, and has acquired in those few

years a sufficiency of the personal importance requisite for the

character of Richard.

VENICE PRESERVED.

PIERRE is a character admirably suited to Mr. Cooper’s talents. There

are but few of his performances to which we sit with more pleasure. Few

in which he is so little exceptionable. On this occasion he was

supported by his friend JAFFIER in a manner that reflects much credit on

Mr. Wood. And Mr. Wood is not a little indebted to _his_ Belvidera also.

Could we speak as favourably of his Iago, we should have introduced him

in the proper place. Mr. Cooper’s grenadier’s cap, added nothing, to say

no worse of it, to his appearance.

A fashion has prevailed for some years (introduced by the doctors of the

perspective and statuary school of action) which sometimes increases the

difficulty of giving verisimility to the scene, or rather destroys it

altogether. We allude to the actors, in all possible cases, entering

from the back, or near it. This though sometimes right, is peculiarly

improper when the entering character is to speak _aside_ as he enters,

and is supposed by the cunning of the scene not to be heard by the

character who is on the stage before him. It was particularly observable

in the performances of Othello and Venice Preserved. In the third scene

of the third act, when Othello, followed by Iago, enters to Desdemona,

Emilia, and Cassio, (which last takes his leave suddenly on the Moor’s

approach) and Iago, in prosecution of his plan, exclaims, so as to be

heard _by Othello only_, “HA! I LIKE NOT THAT,” Mr. Cooper and Mr. Wood

entering too far from the stage, rendered it necessary for the latter to

utter those words (_aside_) so loud, that they must necessarily have

been heard by _all_ the other characters on the stage.

Again, in Venice Preserved, in the night-scene on the Rialto, Jaffier

being on the stage in his proper place, soliloquizing, Pierre enters and

says what certainly neither Jaffier nor any but the audience should be

presumed to hear. Mossop, Sheridan, Henderson, _et id genus omne_,

entered so near the stage, that the voice of Pierre might be supposed to

reach the audience, without passing through Jaffier’s ear. Side speaking

ought always to be done in that way. Mr. Cooper, on the contrary,

entered from the wing next the back scene, so that Jaffier stood between

him and the audience, and must of course be supposed to have heard him,

if the audience heard him; as they did, very distinctly too, from the

remote end of the stage, say aloud,

“Sure I’ve staid too long:

The clock has struck, _and I may lose my proselyte_.”

Exclusive of which a great injury to the necessary illusion arises from

the _side_ speaker being obliged to speak so high that not only the

characters on the stage, but the people in the neighbouring houses must

be supposed to be all let into the secret, and he cannot, therefore, be

thought to intend to speak aside. In the good old times they were as

scrupulously exact in these matters, as they are now most blamably lax.

HAMLET.

Many of Mr. Cooper’s admirers set down his Hamlet as the best of his

performances; a proposition to which we can never accede. Some parts of

it, no doubt, are excellent, and in the play scene before the court, he

is scarcely surpassed by any one. But in our opinion his Hamlet fades

from the sight, when put in competition with his

MACBETH,

in which he unquestionably takes the lead of all the actors that have

ever appeared in this country; and is in our judgment preferable, in

many parts, to either Kemble or Cooke; far, very far, superior to

Holman. His dagger-scene is inimitably fine; but by following Mr.

Kemble’s idea, he loses much in his return from the scene of murder.

Before Mr. Kemble every actor followed the plan of Garrick with more or

less success; and from them, viz. Sheridan, Mossop, Reddish, Henderson,

all of whom we have seen, we can state the difference between the old

and new school in this most trying scene. We have never witnessed the

performance of Garrick; but have seen pictures of him in that very part,

one particularly by Sir Joshua Reynolds, of which there is an engraving,

and which exactly corresponds with the action of all of his whole

school, of whom the best was certainly Mr. Sheridan. Just as lady

Macbeth, who is waiting his return from the chamber of blood, says, in

soliloquy,

“Hark! I laid their daggers ready,

He could not miss them,”

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

proceeded,

“Had he not resembled

My father as he slept, I had done’t.”

At that moment the door opened and Macbeth appeared, a frightful figure

of horror, rushing out sideways with one dagger, and his face in

consternation, presented to the door, as if he were pursued, and the

other dagger lifted up as if prepared for action. Thus he stood as if

transfixed, seeming insensible to every thing but the chamber,

unconscious of any presence else, and even to his wife’s address of “my

husband.” In this breathless state, he hastily said in a whisper, as if

to himself,

“I have done the deed.”

then, after a pause, in a tone of anguish and trepidation, without ever

taking his eyes from the chamber, he still whispered in a quick, sharp

tone,

“Didst thou not hear a noise?”

Nor did he quit this attitude, but with eyes still fixed upon the

chamber door continued to carry on the broken dialogue that follows, in

fearful whispers.

“L. M. Did not you speak?

M. When?

L. M. Now.

M. As I descended?

L. M. Ay.

M. Hark!

Who lies in the second chamber.

L. M. Donaldbain.”

Then for the first time he drew his hands together with the daggers in

them, and in the most heart-rending accents exclaimed,

“This is a sorry sight.”

Thus represented by Mr. Sheridan, this scene was perhaps the most

interesting in the drama. What then must it have been when done by

Garrick. A critic now before us speaking of Garrick and Mrs. Pritchard

in this part, says, “His distraction of mind and agonizing horrors were

finely contrasted by her apathy, tranquillity, and confidence. _The

beginning of the scene, after the commission of the murder, was

conducted in terrifying whispers._ Their looks and action supplied the

place of words. The poet here gives only an outline of the consummate

actor-- “I have done the deed,” &c. “Didst thou not hear,” &c. The dark

colouring given by Garrick to these abrupt speeches made the scene

tremendous to the auditors. The wonderful expression of heart-felt

horror which Garrick felt when he viewed his bloody hands, can only be

conceived by those who saw him.” MURPHY, who confirms this account by

Davies, says that when Garrick reentered the scene with the bloody

daggers in his hands, he [Murphy] was absolutely _scared out of his

senses_. It is but fair to add, that the great dramatic censor who wrote

in 1770 says “Without any exaggeration of compliment to Mr. Sheridan, we

must place him in a very respectable degree of competition with Mr.

Garrick in the dagger-scene; and confess a doubt whether any man ever

spoke the words “this is a sorry sight,” better.”

How vapid, meagre, frigid, and unaffecting has been the performance of

this part since Mr. Kemble’s reign. According to his institutes, Macbeth

closes the door with the cold unfeeling caution of a practised

house-breaker, then listens, in order to be secure, and addresses lady

Macbeth as if, in such a conflict, Macbeth could be awake to the

suggestions of the lowest kind of cunning.

In his entrance to the witches in the cauldron scene, Mr. Cooper suffers

the character to sink. This is one of the parts with which the audience,

at one time, used to be most gratified by the powers of their great

actors. The critic from whom we have cited above, adverting to

Henderson’s Macbeth, which was astonishingly great, says, “In the

_masterly conjuration of the witches_, in the cavern, _so idly omitted

by Kemble_, he was wonderfully impressive.”

Yet there is upon the whole so little exceptionable, and such abundant

beauties in Mr. Cooper’s Macbeth, that we think he ought there to plant

his standard. Imagination figures to us the magnificent exhibition he

might make of it, by studying from the best authorities and

descriptions, the various attitudes and action of Garrick in the scenes

alluded to, which are recorded not only in several books and portraits,

but in the memory of many men living.

HENRY IV.

Of Mr. Cooper’s Hotspur we do not wish to speak in depreciation, nor are

we prepared greatly to praise it. To compensate, however, for this, to

our own wishes, we confess our inability to say too much of his

performance of Leon. And we feel pleasure in adding that in

ADELGITHA,

he reaped a whole harvest of laurels. His Michael Ducas, being not only

a masterly, but an original performance, one which we cannot reasonably

hope to see excelled, and which we may in vain, perhaps, expect to see

equalled.

We have a long arrear against us on account of the theatre. But we hope

to discharge it in regular order and in due time. Meantime we cannot

refrain from expressing by forestallment our great satisfaction at the

successful run and favourable reception of “The Foundling of the

Forest.” If the manager and actors are indebted to the public for the

great encouragement and approbation bestowed upon that play, the public

are no less indebted to the manager for his zeal, unsparing expense, and

judicious arrangements in the casting of the parts, and to the actors,

particularly Mr. Wood, for their excellent performance of it. But upon

that subject we shall enlarge hereafter.

THEATRICAL INTELLIGENCE.

_Mr. Dwyer._

The American stage has received, in the person of Mr. Dwyer, one of the

greatest acquisitions that it has ever had to boast of. We have never

had the pleasure of seeing this gentleman’s performance; but we have

collected from the periodical publications of Great Britain sufficient

to convince us that he is an actor of great merit, and, in his line, of

the first promise. No man treads so closely on the heels of the

inimitable Lewis as Mr. Dwyer. “Light dashing comedy,” says a judicious

British critic, “is his forte, and in it he is almost faultless.” In

Belcour, Charles Surface, and characters of that cast, he excels, and

his Liar is acknowledged to be the first on the British boards.

From a professional gentleman of this city of acknowledged taste and

erudition, who saw him in England, we have had a description of Mr.

Dwyer. He says that nature has been uncommonly bountiful to this actor.

That he is very handsome, has a fine person, and might, in lively,

bustling, genteel comedy, be as great as any man, if his industry were

equal to his natural endowments.

Mr. Dwyer has played Hamlet and other tragic characters; but the critics

we have read seem so intent upon his excellence in the sock, that they

forget to say anything particular of his merits in the buskin.

In this dearth of theatrical talents, every lover of the drama will

rejoice at this new acquisition to the American theatre. Mr. Dwyer is

said to be an Irishman. His name says it for him. No doubt his

countrymen will be not a little proud of him; for he is reported to

possess, in no common measure, all the recommendations to the eye on

which they nationally set such value--stature, bone, muscle, symmetry,

and comeliness.

_State of the British stage._

Notwithstanding the losses sustained by the death of some actors, and

the defection of others, the stock of talents is not likely to be

entirely exhausted. Though nothing has for years appeared that has a

tendency to fill up the void which succeeded the Augustan age of acting,

which ended with the death of Garrick, Barry, and Mossop, still

meritorious performers, both male and female, arise, who promise to

preserve the stage from sinking into utter disrepute.

Foremost among these is a Mr. Young, who bids fair to outstrip all

competitors, as a general actor. The extent of his powers, the

versatility of his talents, and the advantages of his face and person

are stated by the critics, in the public prints, to be very

extraordinary; and we feel great pleasure in having it in our power to

say that the opinions of those are amply confirmed by the verbal reports

of American gentlemen of taste and discernment, who, in the course of

the last year, frequently saw Mr. Young perform. Some think he excels in

comedy; the majority prefer his tragedy. Admitting the Stranger to fall

under the latter denomination, Mr. Young must stand higher in the buskin

than in the sock, since that is allowed to be his most perfect

performance. In confirmation of which little more need be advanced than

that it is admitted he very seldom, if ever, falls short of the great

original, Mr. Kemble, in that character, and sometimes goes beyond him.

In Don Felix, Belcour, Charles Surface, and characters of that cast, he

stands conspicuous for ease, elegant hilarity, gayety of manners, and

vivacity of action. In tragic characters, not only in the fiery, the

impassioned, and the grand, but in those of pomp and solemnity, he is

said to be original, great, and striking. On his Hamlet and Macbeth the

critics seem to have dwelt with peculiar attention and pleasure.

Speaking of Mr. Y’s Hamlet, a learned and perspicuous critic says “A

performance exhibiting stronger marks of genius, finer animation, or

happier display of intellect we have seldom witnessed. Mr. Young has

studied this masterpiece of Shakspeare with infinite care, not merely as

to the text and general scope of the character, but throughout all its

shades and gradations, discriminating with the utmost truth and nicety,

each particular feature of Hamlet, and presenting a whole so finished

and forcible, as to leave the strongest impressions on the mind of his

audience.” The same critic enters, with a spirit derived from a lively

admiration of his subject, into the whole of Mr. Young’s Hamlet, of

which he speaks in a strain of warm eulogy. Adverting to the

instructions given by Hamlet to the players, he pays Mr. Y. this elegant

compliment: “The instructions to the players could not be better

delivered. His own sensible performance was an apposite illustration of

the excellent lesson which Shakspeare has in this scene bequeathed to

the profession.” And he concludes thus: “He is indeed an acquisition of

importance. Of _intellectual_ actors we have very few. _Strutters_ and

_bellowers_ we have in abundance. We therefore hail Mr. Young’s

appearance with more than usual satisfaction; and the more so, since we

hear that his manners are highly estimable in private life. _On_ and

_off_ the stage he will thus prove an ornament to his profession.”

Mr. Young has played, besides the characters already named, Rolla,

Penruddock, Lothaire, Othello, George Barnwell, Octavian, Osmond (Castle

Spectre) Hotspur, Frederick in Lovers Vows, Petruchio, Gondebert, and

many others, if not all with equal excellence, at least with so much as

to rank him among the first masters of the art.

Mr. Young’s face and person are said to be of a superior order. A good

height, his figure is well formed; his features expressive and flexible;

his voice, from the lowest note to the top of its compass, excellent,

and his action and deportment gentlemanly and graceful.

An actress of as great promise as any that has appeared on the British

theatre in the memory of man, has lately come forth at Covent Garden, in

the arduous character of Lady Macbeth, in which, if we are to trust the

London critics, she at once started to a level with Mrs. Siddons. Her

name is Smith. She has, like Mrs. Siddons, been on the stage from

childhood, without being noticed by any but the happy few, some of whom

augured highly of her from the first, and she has fully accomplished

their prognostications. The first impressive trace we find of her in

theatrical annals is in an Edinburgh criticism. “As I think most highly

of this juvenile performer,” says that writer, “and entertain most

sanguine hopes of seeing her soon at the head of her profession, I will

not insult her by indiscriminate panegyric or mawkish praise. Her comedy

is by no means satisfactory to me. The disadvantage of a _petite_ figure

is not, in this department compensated by any high excellencies. Her

comedy is generally speaking, rather meagre and unadorned, and in a

degree pointless and ineffective.--But her tragedy merits every praise.

In richness and variety of tone; in propriety and justness of action and

gesture; in picturesque and impressive attitude, in a nervous mellowed

modulation; in appropriate deportment--above all in the discriminating

delicacy of taste, by which she distinguishes and expresses the feelings

and workings of the heart, she is above praise.”

Miss Smith next meets us in London in 1808, playing lady Macbeth at

Covent Garden, and is spoken of as follows:

“Macbeth by Mr. Kemble so frequently the subject of remark, and often of

well-earned eulogy, affords little occasion for notice at this time; but

concerning “his NEW partner of greatness”, as there was much to be

admired, it is fit that something should be said. A just personification

of lady Macbeth is perhaps the most difficult and dangerous undertaking

an actress can enter upon: that silent but efficient aid, derived from

the contagion of the gentler affections, from pity, sorrow, love; or

even from the turbulent emotions of the mind, from anger, jealousy,

revenge, “she must not look to have” in the sympathetic bosoms of

hearers or spectators; her only operant power is terror, a frigid and

unsocial passion, and hence perhaps it is that no actress, at least in

modern times, has been found fully adequate to the task; the according

testimony indeed of the best living or recent opinions may warrant a

belief that Mrs. Pritchard displayed successfully the portraiture of

this singular character; but when we hear a performer of our day, whom

the public has long and deservedly applauded, extolled as a perfect

representative of lady Macbeth, and find this part held forth and

distinguished as the pattern of her excellence, true criticism must

reject the fallacy of the assertion, and the injustice it imposes upon

that great actress herself, who in many other situations of the drama,

sustains an eminence above all rivalship; physical defects may often be

lessened or concealed; but they will sometimes be too stubborn for the

force of art, and thus, in the language of venal compliment, the poet

said “Pritchard’s genteel and Garrick’s six feet high” it cannot be

denied that the former was eclipsed by the easy elegance of Mrs.

Woffington, and the latter overborne by the majestic stature and

deportment of Barry. The first appearance of Miss Smith last night in

lady Macbeth, could not fail to conjure up, perversely to our mental

view, the comparative superiority of Mrs. Siddons’s person; the effect

was strong, but it was momentary; a delicate yet powerful and distinct

varied voice, a pure, correct, and exemplary enunciation, guided at once

by a sound understanding, a correct ear, and a discriminating taste,

a frame and expression of features not inferior to that of Mrs. Siddons

herself, with action always just and frequently commanding, soon led us

to the forgetfulness of her moderate stature, though oppressed,

incidentally, by the towering dignity of her lord: It is the duty of an

artist to contemplate the works of a renowned predecessor or

contemporary with unaffected reverence, but not with servile devotion,

and Miss Smith occasionally varied, and with advantage, from the model

that was before her. When Macbeth, incited to the murder of Duncan,

interposes--“if we should fail,” Mrs. Siddons with cool promptitude

replies “we fail.” The punctuation indeed was suggested by Mr. Steevens;

but it appears much too colloquially familiar for the temper and

importance of the scene; a failure, which here must be ruin, is an idea

that could never be urged with temerity or indifference, and we heard

the words with more decorum and much better effect from Miss Smith “we

fail?” i.e. is it to be supposed that we, possessing as we do, the power

to overcome every obstacle, can miscarry? In the sleeping scene too, we

have generally observed that the candlestick was deliberately placed

upon the table in order to let the lady act the washing her hands more

freely, but Miss Smith contrived to represent this _action of a dream_

more naturally with the light in one hand.

“Some faults no doubt were discoverable, the most material of which was

an emotion of tenderness at times, and a querulous sensibility not

proper to the character of lady Macbeth’s cool, deliberate, and

inflexible resolution by which the poet has distinguished her. Great

allowance is due for the perturbation of the _actress_ in so perilous

and trying a situation, and into these, perhaps, much of the objection

just hinted may be resolved: enough however was displayed of power,

judgment, and execution to warrant a prediction, that as Miss Smith has

already advanced to the first class in her profession, lady Macbeth bids

fair to rank among the first of her performances.”

_Master Payne._

From some English papers now in our possession, we find that the fame of

this young gentleman has already reached Europe; in such sort too, as in

all probability will ensure him a very favourable reception there, if he

should be disposed to try the experiment. Even at this time, the

intercourse between the two countries is such that nothing worthy of

notice passes in one, without being soon known in the other. English

gentlemen, who were lately in America, spoke, on their return to London,

in such terms of Master Payne’s performances, as if they thought he

would eclipse young Betty. However, we hope that the justice of his own

country will prevent the necessity of merit such as his seeking

encouragement in strange and distant lands.

MISCELLANY.

THEOBALDUS SECUNDUS,

OR

SHAKSPEARE AS HE SHOULD BE.

NO. II.

_Hamlet, Prince of Denmark._

When the celebrated Nat Lee was reproached with writing like a madman,

his answer was, “_It is very difficult to write like a madman, but very

easy to write like a fool_.” This sentence involves two assertions; the

former is proved to be true by the play now under consideration, and the

latter by the numerous commentators it has produced. Doctor FARMER has

obligingly exhausted all his learning to prove that SHAKSPEARE had none.

“_Animasque in vulnere ponunt._” And Mr. MALONE has thought it necessary

to borrow _queen Elizabeth’s ruff_, and eat beef-steaks with her maids

of honour, in order, by living that age over again, to qualify himself

to decypher the local allusions of our great bard. POOR MALONE! if he

had ever heard the old adage, that “_none but a poet should edit a

poet_,” he would have saved his midnight oil, and solicited a ray from

Phœbus. Now, I take the road to poetry to be just as plain as the road

to Clapham. In the latter journey you have nothing to do but to invoke

Rowland Hill, and in the former to invoke the sacred nine, and your

business is done. You are dubbed one of the elect from that time forth,

and nothing but Bedlam or the mint can invalidate your title. For

myself, I can attribute my profound knowledge of the real text of my

author, to no other than the following cause. On turning accidentally to

volume I, page 409, of cunning little ISAAC’s edition, I happened to

alight upon certain antique instructions, “_how a gallant should behave

himself in a playhouse_.” This code of dramatic laws I found ushered in

by the following sentence: “The theatre is your poet’s exchange, upon

which their Muses (that are now turned to merchants) meeting, barter

away that light commodity of words, for a lighter ware than words,

_plaudities_, and the breath of _the great beast_, which, like the

threatenings of two cowards, vanish all into air.” This great beast I

take to be, “The many headed monster of the pit,” mentioned in after

times by POPE, and the renowned JOHN BULL, celebrated by me, THEOBALDUS

SECUNDUS, in my dedication of last month. Be that however, as it may,

I read the treatise through, and was so smitten with the accurate view

it exhibited of the theatres of these days, that I immediately

determined to transport myself, as well as I could, to the golden times

of the _beheader of Mary Queen of Scots_. I instantly ran to the

water-side, bartered for a garret, purchased the wares of a strolling

company at a bargain, and I now pen this dissertation reclining on clean

straw, on a stage of my own construction, and smoking a pipe of Maryland

tobacco, according to the authority above quoted. “By spreading your

body on the stage, and by being a justice in examining plaies, you shall

put yourself into such a true scænical authority, that some poet shall

not dare to present his Muse rudely before your eyes, without having

first unmasked her, rifled her, and discovered all her bare and most

mystical parts before you at a taverne, when you, most knightly, shall

for his paines, pay for both their suppers.” If all these paines do not

produce a proportionate modicum of inspiration, then know I nothing of

Parnassus. Let us now proceed to business.

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

discussion.

_Bernardo._ Who’s there?

_Francisco._ Nay, answer me--stand and _unfold_ yourself.

This word has never (_mirabile dictu_) excited a single comment; but in

my opinion it implies that _Bernardo_ enters with his arms _folded_. The

judicious player will remember this, and when thus accosted will

immediately throw back his arms, and discover his under vestments, like

the “_Am I a beef-eater now?_” in the critic.

_Bernardo._ Long live the king.

_Francisco._ Bernardo?

_Bernardo._ He.

Mr. Malone merely observes that this sentence appears to have been the

watchword. So it was; but, in my mind, the watchword of rebellion. The

times, as _Hamlet_ afterwards observes, were out of joint, and the

ambitious _Bernardo_, as it appears to me, was desirous of mounting the

throne, having doubtless as good a right to do so, as the murderer

_Claudius_. The answer of _Francisco_ favours my construction. If the

loyal exclamation had been pointed at king Claudius, Francisco would

have said _Amen_; instead of which he says, “_Bernardo_,” signifying,

What! _you_ king? and Bernardo cooly answers, “_He_,” signifying “Yes,

_I_.” _Francisco_ contents himself with replying, “_You come most

carefully upon your hour_,” and the rejoinder of the future monarch puts

my reading out of all doubt.

_Bernardo._ ’Tis now struck twelve, get thee to bed _Francisco_.

This so exactly resembles the charge of the usurper, _Macbeth_, to his

torch-bearing domestic,

_Go bid thy mistress when my drink is ready

She strike upon the bell--get thee to bed._

Thus the guilt of _Bernardo_ is proved by all laws of analogy. Here then

we have two _beef-eaters_ in disguise. Ay, beef-eaters! and I’ll prove

it by the next sentence.

_Francisco._ For this relief much thanks: ’tis _bitter_ cold

And I am sick at heart.

Thus all the editors, without a single comment--Oh the blockheads!

Listen to my reading.

_Francisco._ For this _good beef_ much thanks: ’tis _better_ cold, &c.

_Bernardo_ should in this place present an edge-bone to his friend, who

should courteously accept it, like a good natured visiter, who bolts

into the dining-room when dinner is half over and endeavours to avert

the frowns of the lady of the house, by saying “O! make no

apologies--it’s my own fault--I like it _better cold_, &c. Let the

property man, when this play is next acted, remember the beef. In the

same scene _Bernardo_ inquires “Is _Horatio_ here?” who answers “A piece

of him.” Warburton, that _bow-wow_, “dog in forehead,” says this

signifies his _hand_, which direction should be marked. But how if his

hand be not marked? It is not every player who has committed

manslaughter on anybody but his author. In my opinion, an actor who

scorns to be a mannerist will take it to signify his leg, which is quite

as good a _piece_ of him, as his hand, and, if he be a dancer, a much

better. My interpretation of this passage is strengthened by the usage

of the clown in the dramatic entertainment entitled _Mother Goose_. When

the late Mr. Lewis Bologna, as Pantaloon, proffered his hand in token of

amity and forgiveness, Mr. Joseph Grimaldi protruded his foot into his

master’s palm. His reading was certainly the right one.

In the course of conversation, _Horatio_ asks, “What! has this _thing_

appeared again to night?” which is both irreverent and nonsensical.

A _ghost_ is not a _thing_. _Macbeth_ says to that of _Banquo_,

“_Unreal_ mockery, hence!” The passage should be “Has this king

appeared?”

_Bernardo._ Sit down a while

And let us once again assail your ears,

That are so fortified against our story,

What we _two nights_ have seen.

This allusion to fortified ears, implies that the parties wore helmets

that covered these organs. For we two _nights_, therefore, read “we two

knights.” Knights were at that time soldiers. So Joppa in his prophecy

of the year 1790.

The knight now, his helmet on,

The spear and falchion handles;

But knights _then_, as thick as hops,

In bushy bobs shall keep their shops,

And deal, good lack! in figs and tripe,

And soap, and tallow candles.

The ghost now enters, and retreats like _lord Burleigh_, in the

_critic_.

_Bernardo._ See, it _stalks_ away.

_Walks_, if you please, Mr. _Bernardo_. I have heard of stalking horses

indeed, and that of Troy made many ghosts. But _ghosts_ themselves

_walk_. In speaking to it _afterwards_, _Horatio_ says, “You spirits oft

_walk_.” “He durst as soon have met the devil in fight,” as have said

“_stalk_.” The shades of difference in the meaning of these two words

were nicely marked in a pantomime song of the late Mr. EDWIN, in which

he courteously applied the word “walk” to the softer sex,

Then ma’am will you _walk_ in, sing folderol liddle,

And sir, will you _stalk_ in, sing folderol liddle, &c.

The following letter received from an unknown correspondent at Boston,

was intended to be placed in the biographical part of the number, by

way of supplement to the life of Mrs. Warren. Having been omitted, we

offer it to our readers in the Miscellany.

_To the editor of the Dramatic Censor._

SIR,

In No. II, of the Dramatic Censor, I notice with pleasure a biography of

Mrs. Warren, in which, however, all mention of her appearance in Boston

is omitted. That she excited _enlightened_ admiration there, the

following lines may evince, which were published there soon after

her decease, and in which her _voice_ is not unhappily commended.

I transcribe them, that you may hereafter insert them or not, according

to your opinion of their intrinsic merit.

_LINES, ON THE DEATH OF MRS. WARREN, FORMERLY MRS. MERRY,

OF THE LONDON THEATRE._

Shall Belvidera’s voice no more

Lend to the Muse its peerless aid,

That erst on Albion’s ingrate shore

Sooth’d Otway’s discontented shade?

She--to no single soil confin’d,

Sought in our climes extended fame;

The wreaths of either world entwin’d,

And taught both continents her name.

Nor, of those strains that crowds have hail’d,

Small is the praise, or light the gain;

Clio can boast such sounds prevail’d,

When faith and freedom pray’d in vain.

Such notes the Mantuan minstrel owns

Long lur’d her Trojan from the main:

And bleeding Arria, in such tones,

Assur’d her lord she “felt not pain.”

Such notes, in Rome’s delirious days,

Could liberty and laws restore;

Could bid “be still” sedition’s waves,

And faction’s whirlwind cease to roar

’Twas by such suasive sounds inspir’d,

The matrons press’d the hostile field;

The Volscian hosts, amaz’d, retir’d;

The proud Patrician learn’d to yield.

Such powers, oh had Calphurnia known,

Great Julius all unarm’d had stood!

No senate walls beheld his doom,

Nor Pompey’s marble drank his blood!

For thee--though born to happier times,

And gentler tasks than these endur’d,

Thy voice might oft prevent those crimes,

Which e’en thy voice could scarce have cur’d.

Although no civic aim was there,

Yet not in vain that voice was given,

Which, often as it bless’d the air,

Inform’d us what was heard in heaven.

Sure, when renew’d thy powers shall rise,

To hymn before th’ empyreal throne,

Angels shall start in wild surprise,

To hear a note so like their own!

They appeared in a paper of limited circulation and would now possess to

most readers the charm of novelty. The English of these lines seems to

the writer of this to fall upon the ear with hardly less mellifluence

than the fine latinity of Wranghams’s.

Your humble servant,

A FRIEND TO YOUR WORK.

_Boston, March 1810._

ANECDOTES OF MACKLIN.

One night sitting at the back of the front boxes with a gentleman of his

acquaintance, (before the alterations at Covent Garden theatre took

place) one of the under-bred box-lobby loungers, so like some of this

city of the present day, stood up immediately before him, and his person

being rather large, covered the sight of the stage from him. Macklin

took fire at this; but managing himself with more temper than usual,

patted him gently on the shoulder with his cane, and with much seeming

civility, requested of him, “when he saw or heard anything that was

entertaining on the stage, to let him and the gentleman with him know of

it: for you see, my dear sir,” added the veteran, “that at present we

must totally depend on your kindness.” This had the desired effect, and

the lounger walked off.

Talking of the caution necessary to be used in conversation among a

mixed company, Macklin observed, Sir, I have experienced to my cost,

that a man in any situation should never be off his guard--a Scotchman

never is; he never lives a moment _extempore_, and that is one great

reason of their success in life.

A COMPARISON BETWEEN MILTON AND SHAKSPEARE.

Among the compositions of our own country, Comus certainly stands

unrivalled for its affluence in poetic imagery and diction; and, as an

effort of the creative power, it can be paralleled only by the Muse of

Shakspeare, by whom, in this respect, it is possibly exceeded.

With Shakspeare, the whole, with exception to some rude outlines or

suggestions of the story, is the immediate emanation of his own mind:

but Milton’s erudition prohibited him from this extreme originality, and

was perpetually supplying him with thoughts which would sometimes obtain

the preference from his judgment, and would sometimes be mistaken for

her own property by his invention. Original, however, he is; and of all

the sons of song inferior, in this requisite of genius, only to

Shakspeare. Neither of these wonderful men was so far privileged above

his species as to possess other means of acquiring knowledge than

through the inlets of the senses, and the subsequent operations of the

mind on this first mass of ideas. The most exalted of human

intelligences cannot form one mental phantasm uncompounded of this

visible world. Neither Shakspeare nor Milton could conceive a sixth

corporal sense, or a creature absolutely distinct from the inhabitants

of this world. A Caliban, or an Ariel; a devil, or an angel, are only

several compositions and modifications of our animal creation; and

heaven and hell can be built with nothing more than our terrestrial

elements newly arranged and variously combined. The distinction,

therefore, between one human intelligence and another must be occasioned

solely by the different degrees of clearness, force, and quickness, with

which it perceives, retains, and combines. On the superiority in these

mental faculties it would be difficult to decide between those

extraordinary men who are the immediate subjects of our remark: for, if

we are astonished at that power, which, from a single spot as it were,

could collect sufficient materials for the construction of a world of

its own, we cannot gaze without wonder at that proud magnificence of

intellect, which, rushing like some mighty river, through extended

lakes, and receiving into its bosom the contributary waters of a

thousand regions, preserves its course, its name, and its character,

entire. With Milton, from whatever mine the ore may originally be

derived, the coin issues from his own mint with his own image and

superscription, and passes into currency with a value peculiar to

itself. To speak accurately, the mind of Shakspeare could not create;

and that of Milton invented with equal, or nearly equal, power and

effect. If we admit, in the Tempest, or the Midsummer’s Nights Dream,

a higher flight of the inventive faculty, we must allow a less

interrupted stretch of it in the Comus: in this poem there may be

something, which might have been corrected by the revising judgment of

its author; but its errors in thought and language, are so few and

trivial that they must be regarded as the inequality of the plumage, and

not the depression or unsteadiness of the wing. The most splendid

results of Shakspeare’s poetry are still separated by some interposing

defect; but the poetry of Comus may be contemplated as a series of gems

strung on golden wire, where the sparkle shoots along the line with

scarcely the intervention of one opake spot.

KEMBLE AND COOKE COMPARED.

A German gentleman of the name of Goede, after having travelled in

different parts of the world, arrived in England in 1802, where he

resided for two years. On his return to Germany, he communicated his

observations to his countrymen in five volumes, from which translations

have been made and given to the world under the name of “The Stranger in

England.” His remarks are deemed in general just. He has particularly

expatiated at some length on the English stage, which he thinks on the

decline, and, in his strictures, has shown great knowledge of the

subject, and exemplary liberality. Of COOKE and KEMBLE he speaks thus in

one place; “The countenance of Kemble is the most noble and refined; but

the muscles are not so much at command as those of Cooke, who is also a

first rate comedian; but Kemble almost wholly rejects the comic muse.

Both are excellent in the gradual changes of the countenance; in which

the inward emotions of the soul are depicted and interwoven as they flow

from the mind. In this excellence I cannot compare any German actors

with them, unless it be Issland and Christ. Among French tragedians even

Talma and Lafond are far inferior to them.”

Again--“Kemble has a very graceful manly figure, is perfectly well made,

and his naturally commanding stature appears extremely dignified in

every picturesque position, which he studies most assiduously. His face

is one of the noblest I ever saw on any stage, being a fine oval,

exhibiting a handsome Roman nose, and a well-formed and closed mouth;

his fiery and somewhat romantic eyes retreat as it were, and are

shadowed by bushy eyebrows; his front is open and little vaulted; his

chin prominent and rather pointed, and his features so softly interwoven

that no deeply marked line is perceptible. His physiognomy, indeed,

commands at first sight; since it denotes in the most expressive manner,

a man of refined sentiment, enlightened mind, and correct judgment.

Without the romantic look in his eyes, the face of Kemble would be that

of a well-bred, cold, and selfish man of the world; but this look from

which an ardent fancy emanates, softens the point of the chin and the

closeness of the mouth. His voice is pleasing, but feeble; of small

compass but extreme depth. This is, as has been previously observed, the

greatest natural impediment with which he, to whom nature has been thus

bountiful, has still to contend.

“Cooke does not possess the elegant figure of Kemble; but his

countenance beams with great expression. The most prominent features in

the physiognomy of Cooke are a long and somewhat hooked nose, a pair of

fiery and expressive eyes, a lofty and somewhat broad front, and the

lines of his muscles which move the lips are pointedly marked. His

countenance is certainly not so dignified as that of Kemble, but it

discovers greater passion; and few actors are, perhaps, capable of

delineating, in such glowing colours the storm of a violent passion, as

Cooke. His voice is powerful and of great compass; a preeminence he

possesses over Kemble, of which he skilfully avails himself. His

exterior movements are by far inferior in the picturesque to those of

Kemble.”

GERMAN THEATRE.

It has for a considerable time been fashionable to declaim against the

theatrical performances translated from the German. They are pretty

generally charged with having corrupted the English dramatic taste, and

been the means of introducing the ribaldry and nonsense which,

particularly in the form of songs, have so frequently appeared of late,

and disgraced the London audiences, who countenanced such trash. This

charge is more than insinuated in the first number of this miscellany,

page 97, and by way of illustration, the sublime, refined, and admirable

song of Alderman Gobble is introduced.

On this point I hold an opinion diametrically opposite, and hope to

convince the reader that the allegations against the German writers are

entirely groundless. In no German play that I have ever seen is there to

be found any thing of this species. The true character of the German

theatre is the very antipodes to this. Strong bold sentiment--incidents

numerous and interesting--a dramatis personæ of the boldest and most

finished kind--and in fact every thing that can command the most marked

and pointed attention of the reader or spectator. And all this

notwithstanding the disadvantages of appearing in foreign dress; for it

hardly need be stated how wretchedly many of the translations have been

executed.

That many of the German plays are highly exceptionable in their tendency

is equally lamentable as it is undeniable. And when they are adapted for

representation here, they ought to be altered and modified to suit the

taste, the manners, and the state of society in this country. I allude

to the Stranger, Lovers’ Vows, and others of this cast.

But the depravation of taste of which such loud complaints are now made,

and which is so freely charged to the account of the German theatres,

existed on the London stage before any of the German plays were

translated. I have not in my possession at this moment means of deciding

with certainty when the first made its appearance. But from an

examination of a small history of the stage, which now lies before me,

I am inclined to believe that the Stranger was among the earliest of

them, and that its first appearance was in the year 1798. One thing,

however, is absolutely certain, that not one of them was acted previous

to the year 1788: as “Egerton’s Theatrical Remembrancer,” published in

that year, and containing “a _complete list_ of all the dramatic

performances in the English language,” makes no mention of them. If I

prove that this depraved taste existed anterior to 1788, it therefore

finally decides the question.

This, I presume, is tolerably plain and clear. I now proceed to fix a

much earlier origin for those vile slang songs. To O’Keefe they may be

fairly traced. His motley productions contained many of them, and paved

the way for the deluge of them that has since followed; for his

successful example has been too frequently copied since by other

writers.

“The Castle of Andalusia” was performed in 1782, and contains a song[6]

which, I think, fully proves my position. An audience who could not only

tolerate but applaud such rank nonsense and folly as that song, richly

deserves to be regaled even to surfeiting with Tom Gobble, and Jem

Gabble, and ribaldry of the like kind. It would indeed be “throwing

pearls before swine” to offer them such delicate effusions as are to be

found in Love in a Village, Lionel and Clarissa, the Maid of the Mill,

and the Duenna. It is hardly possible for sublimity and elegance to be

relished by persons of so depraved a taste as is necessary to hear such

trash without disgust. Were I to be called upon to make a choice, and

pronounce between O’Keefe’s Galloping Dreary Dun, and Alderman Gobble,

I should give a preference to the latter without hesitation: for,

notwithstanding the detestable St. Giles’s slang it contains, it has the

merit of containing something of a delineation of a character too

common, I mean that of an epicure. Whereas, “Draggle Tail Dreary Dun”

has no such recommendation to rescue it from universal execration.

DRAMATICUS.

[Footnote 6: That nonsensical song called _Galloping Dreary Dun_.]

DESCENT INTO ELYSIUM, FOR A STAGE POET.

_Suggested by a scene in Aristophanes._

It is necessary to mention that this was written when Mr. Sheridan was

in office, and before Mr. Colman had written his best piece, the

Africans. Nothing however has occurred to alter the author’s opinions.

The idea was suggested by a scene in the frogs of Aristophanes. It is a

dialogue between Hercules and Bacchus. Bacchus asking Hercules the way

to the infernal regions, is naturally interrogated as to his reasons for

going. He answers he is going for a poet. On this a short dialogue

ensues concerning the living poets of Athens, in which Aristophanes

takes occasion to satirize some of his brother dramatists.

_Comic Muse, and Porter of Elysium._

_Porter._ Who knocks so loud and frequent at this gate?

_Comic Muse._ ’Tis I--the laughing muse of comedy.

_P._ What? with that mournful melancholy face?

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

_C. M._ I’ve cause for grief: I’m scorn’d despis’d, neglected,

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

On obscure Ignorance, in gaol or stews,

Usurps my place, and arrogates my honours.

_P._ ’Tis sad:--but wherefore bend this way thy steps?

_C. M._ I come to seek some high and gifted bard,

Whose fiery genius with just judgment temper’d,

May vindicate my rights; and with strong satire

Whip the vile ignorant triflers from the stage.

_P._ What! is there none alive of power sufficient?

Lives not the attic wit of Sheridan?

_C. M._ He lives: but, oh, disgrace to letters! long

Has left me for the sweets of dissipation,

Left me whose hand had crowned his head with honours,

And still would crown,--to join the noisy band

Of brawling, jangling, patriot politicians.

At length his wonderful deserts have raised him[7]

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

Ungrateful scorning fair Thalia’s favours,

Courts the green Naiades of Somerset.

_P._ But have you not the classic Cumberland?[8]

_C. M._ He still exists: but ah! how chang’d from him

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

Whose honest Major charm’d with native humour,

Whose Charlotte, pleasant, frank and open hearted,

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

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

Scarce please our whimpering-girls and driveling ensigns:

_P._ But laughing Colman[9] lives, a son of humour.

_C. M._ ’Tis true--his dashes of coarse fun and drollery,

Might smooth the wrinkles of a pedant’s brow,

And loose a stoic’s muscles: and sometimes

Beneath his various merry-andrew coat

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

Some vestige of his father’s purest wit.

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

Let him write farce; but let him not presume

To jumble fun and opera, grave and comic,

In one vile mess--then call the mixture Shakspeare.

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

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

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

Drove off in wild affright the polish’d muse.

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

_C. M._ Why should I rescue from oblivion’s flood,

Such names as Morton, Reynolds, Dibdin, Cherry.

Morton a melancholy wight, whose muse,

Now sighs and sobs, like newly bottled ale,

Now splits her ugly mouth with grinning.[10]

Reynolds,[11] whose muse most monstrous and misshapen,

Outvies the hideous form that Horace drew.

Dibdin[12] a ballad monger--and for Cherry--

But Cherry has no character at all.

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

_C. M._ For sterling wit and manly sense combin’d,

Where, Congreve, shall I find thy parallel?

For charming ease, who equals polish’d Vanbrugh?

Where shall we see such graceful pleasantry

As Farquhar’s muse with lavish bounty scatters?

But yet, ye great triumvirate--I fear

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

With vile impurities the comic muse,

And made her delicate mouth pronounce such things

As would disgust a Wilmot in full blood,

Or shock an Atheist roaring o’er his cups[13]

O shameful profligate abuse of powers,

Indulg’d to you for higher, nobler purposes,

Than to pollute the sacred fount of virtue,

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

_P._ Too true your words. But what of Massinger?[14]

_C. M._ O how I love his independent genius,

As vigorous as the youthful eagle’s pinion.

With admiration and with joy I view

The master-touches of his powerful hand.

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

For this less manly, though more elegant age.[15]

_P._ Then choose the milder song of gentle Fletcher.

_C. M._ ’Tis true, ’tis mild as notes of dying swans,[16]

But I’d have something of a loftier strain,

Which sweeps with manlier cadence o’er the strings.

_P._ The page austere of learned Jonson[17] suits you.

_C. M._ Yes--’tis a noble and a virtuous muse,

But still her range is rugged and confined.

No. I’ll have one who conquers all--’tis Shakspeare,[18]

Whose genius now with rapid wing sublime,

Soars with strong course, like generous Massinger;

Now warbles forth her “native wood notes wild,”

In tones more sweet than Fletcher’s tender lays.

Now with strong arrows steeped in caustic wit,

Like Jonson, stabs the follies of the times,

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

He always joy’d in me, and I in him.

He will revive the glory of the stage.

Then all the puny bards of modern days,

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

Shun the full blaze of heaven’s refulgent orb.

[Footnote 7: I congratulate Mr. S. on his promotion to office.

Certainly a person of his rigid economy will discharge the duties

of treasurer of the navy, with the utmost precision; nor could a

properer man be fixed on to manage public business of a pecuniary

nature, than he who administers his own affairs with such care and

frugality. Heaven forefend then, I should object to the propriety

of his election to that office.--I only join with the muse in

lamenting his dereliction from her service.]

[Footnote 8: It is with regret that I animadvert on such a veteran

in literature as Mr. Cumberland. I admire his abilities and

attainments. I have read his Observer, particularly the papers

relating to Greek comedy, with the highest pleasure; but I think

it a disgrace to him to have carried his admiration and fondness

for that witty profligate Aristophanes to such a length as to

attempt to raise his character on the ruins of the brightest

ornament of the Heathen world, the wise and virtuous Socrates. As

to his account in his “Memoirs” of Bentley’s Manuscripts, credat

judæus.]

[Footnote 9: Mr. Colman cannot plead that, like Shakspeare, he

wishes to humour the age. This would be to insult the acknowledged

taste of many thousands of the present day. But if he is sunk so

low, as to prefer the noisy applause of the “groundlings,” or

rather of the “gods,” to the approbation of the judicious, who are

now “not a few,” then the case is hopeless, and he must be content

to be despised by those whose esteem alone is worth having.]

[Footnote 10: I allude to such characters as the blubbering droll

Tyke.]

[Footnote 11: Reynolds’s characters are as faithful copies of

nature as Woodward’s caricatures of men with heads ten times

bigger than their bodies. How could Mr. Surr, in a late well

written novel, offer any apology for him? But friendship is as

blind as love, in spite of Horace’s opinion.]

[Footnote 12: Though I call Dibdin a ballad-monger, I do not think

him by any means equal to the other songster, sans-souci Dibdin.]

[Footnote 13: It is a melancholy thing, that men of the first

abilities have frequently lent their aid to the cause of vice.

Better be dull as Cobb, or Hoare, than so to abuse great talents.]

[Footnote 14: The age are under great obligations to Mr. Gifford

for his very excellent edition of Massinger. I wish he had not

been so severe on poor Mason and Coxeter. Their inaccuracies

certainly warranted a few expressions of spleen, but not such

harsh language as Mr. Gifford uses; but alas! his Persian fist

cannot hit a gentle blow. Like his author, whom he has so

successfully translated, whenever he attacks, “instat, insultat,

jugulat.” --_Scal. de Satira._]

[Footnote 15: I am not one of those who think the age degenerate:

but certainly the rigid manly character of old times is melted

into one of elegance and comparative softness. Perhaps the change

is for the better, as I think no virtue has been lost in the

transfusion. Be that as it may, there is something in the tone of

Massinger not altogether suited to the general taste of the

present time. I wish it was.]

[Footnote 16: Fletcher is an amiable writer; but the general

effect of his tragedies appears to me languid. His comedies,

however, are exceedingly entertaining.]

[Footnote 17: Jonson’s genius and learning shine to advantage in

his Volpone, Alchymist, Silent Woman, and Every Man in his Humour.

It is to be lamented his characters are not more general.]

[Footnote 18: Let me join my voice to the universal chorus of

praise to Shakspeare, “si quid loquar audiendum.” It is merely a

testimony of gratitude; nor presumes to add to that fame which has

been celebrated, not to mention a thousand others, by the nervous

prose of Johnson and the rapturous poetry of Gray. O “Magnum et

memorabile nomen!”]

MUSIC.

_Reviews of late publications._

Respecting the overture to the opera of _Il don Giovanni_ lately

published, and the manner in which it was composed, the following

singular anecdote is related. The celebrated _Mozart_ had completed the

whole of the opera, with the exception of the overture, and as the

performance was to take place in a few days, the managers began to be

alarmed, lest in his usual habit of procrastination, he should leave his

task incomplete, and thus disappoint the public.

For of old

Mozart’s virtue, we are told

Often with a bumper glow’d

And with social rapture flow’d. --_Francis’s Horace._

Messengers were sent to remind him of the shortness of the time, and

urge him to finish the undertaking--but in vain; Mozart was nowhere to

be found. At length he was discovered in a billiard-room, half

intoxicated, earnestly engaged in a critical part of this very

fascinating game. The person who came in search of him, aware of

Mozart’s passionate fondness for this amusement, contrived to remove the

queues out of the way, and refused to let the game proceed till the

overture was written. Mozart, therefore, called for music-paper, &c. and

in the state of mind we have described (the agitation of which must have

been considerably increased by the vexation of being interrupted in his

favourite game) actually completed the overture while leaning over the

billiard-table. After this wonderful effort of genius (for such it must

be called) he resumed his game as if nothing had happened--

What cannot wine perform? it brings to light

The secret soul; it bids the coward fight--

Gives being to our hopes; and from our hearts

Drives the dull sorrow, and inspires new arts.

Whom hath not an inspiring bumper taught

A flow of words, and loftiness of thought.

_Where shall the lover rest_, the song of I. Eustane, from Scott’s

Marmion, has been set to music by three different composers--but that of

sir John Stephenson is preferred far before the others--the melody being

tasteful and elegant--the words judiciously distributed, and the

passages well adapted to the different voices allotted to perform them.

The accompaniment is ingenious and expressive, and the symphonies

tasteful and much in the style of Moore.

A duet composed by _V. Rauzzini_, and sung at the Bath concerts by Mrs.

Billington and Signora Cimador, has deservedly received the greatest

approbation. It is called “_Care luci inamorati_”--the style is truly

Italian; being simple, natural, and of course pleasing.

_Sweet Ellen, Sorrows Child_, a ballad set to music by Rauzzini also, is

spoken of with great applause. The ballad itself is censured as being

too long, it consisting of four verses, which produces a slight

monotony, notwithstanding that the composer has displayed vast ingenuity

in varying the accompaniment to each verse. The most beautiful melody is

generally found to become tiresome after a third repetition. The present

is sweetly plaintive and well adapted to the words.

_The Sigh and the Tear_, a duet--the words by Cumberland, the music by

Hawes, is very particularly recommended by the reviewers of music. The

words are excellent, the music well adapted and finely impressive. The

melody, particularly of the first movement, elegant, pathetic and

graceful--the harmonies scientific, and the accompaniments varied and

appropriate. “We recommend it,” say the reviewers, “to our fair readers

as one of the most pleasing duets we have met with for a long time.”

Of “_A grand Sonata_” for the piano-forte, composed by J. B. Cramer,

fame speaks largely. An eminent connoisseur and reviewer speaks of it in

these words: “We here recognise the genuine style of J. B. Cramer--this

is really a _grand_ sonata. It consists of three different movements,

each so excellent in its kind, that it is difficult to decide which is

best!

“The first is expressive and majestic, in which are introduced several

novel and ingenious ideas. One hand takes the chord of the 6-4, and the

other the chord of the 7th, and by a very quick alternation an effect is

produced similar to a triple shake.

“The passage at the beginning of page 5 is exceedingly beautiful--the

whole movement will require considerable practice from the most expert

performers.

“The second movement is an _adagio_, which for beauty and originality we

think equal to any thing of the kind that Mr. Cramer has written. The

change of time to triple, at the part marked _scherzando_ is unexpected

and strikingly original. This idea is carried on till near the

conclusion, when the movement again resumes the majestic character with

which it commences.

“Upon the whole we think this sonata superior to any Mr. Cramer has

published since those he dedicated to Haydn.”

Irish music is quite the ton now in England. Corri the composer has

published “The Feast of Erin, a fantasy for the piano-forte,” in which

the original Irish airs of ‘Flanerty Drury,’ ‘The Summer is Coming,’

‘Erin go Bragh,’ and ‘Fly not Yet’ are introduced. Mr. C. (says the

reviewer) has displayed some judgment in the selection of these airs,

particularly in _Erin go Bragh_, which is one of the most expressive and

pathetic melodies ever written. We are sorry we cannot bestow equal

praise on the manner in which he has arranged them. We candidly confess

that we would rather hear the original airs performed with a tasteful

simplicity, than with the embellishments and episodes of Mr. Corri.

_Lays of Erin, arranged as rondeaus for the piano-forte, by the most

eminent composers._

Of this publication the reviewers speak thus:

“We are happy to find a work commenced which will render more familiar

to the English ear, the beautiful melodies of the sister kingdom.

“The air selected on this occasion is “St. Patrick’s Day,” and the

manner in which Mr. Logier has arranged it, is such as to give us a very

favourable opinion of his abilities. The little imitation introduced at

bar 9, page 1, discovers considerable ingenuity. The return to the

subject in the key of F, is well arranged. The minor is uncommonly

spirited, and the conclusion playful and striking.”

Under the head “Music” in a former number, allusion was made to the airs

of the celebrated bard of Ireland, Carolan--particularly to one called

Gracey Nugent, the music of which is published with accompaniments by

sir John Stephenson and Mr. Moore. The following translation of that

song _from the original Irish_ is done by Miss Brooke.

_SONG_

FOR GRACEY NUGENT--BY CAROLAN.

Of Gracey’s charms enraptur’d will I sing!

Fragrant and fair, as blossoms of the spring;

To her sweet manners and accomplished mind;

Each rival fair the palm of love resign’d.

How blest her sweet society to share!

To mark the ringlets of her flowing hair;[19]

Her gentle accents--her complacent mien!--

Supreme in charms, she looks--she reigns a queen!

That alabaster form--that graceful neck

How do the cygnets down and whiteness deck?--

How does that aspect shame the cheer of day;

When summer suns their brightest beams display.

Blest is the youth whom fav’ring fates ordain

The treasures of her love, and charms to gain!

The fragrant branch with curling tendrils bound,

With breathing odours--blooming beauty crown’d.

Sweet is the cheer her sprightly wit supplies!

Bright is the sparkling azure of her eyes!

Soft o’er her neck her lovely tresses flow!

Warm in her praise the tongues of rapture glow!

Here is the voice--tun’d by harmonious love,

Soft as the songs that warble through the grove!

Oh! sweeter joys her converse can impart!

Sweet to the sense, and grateful to the heart!

Gay pleasures dance where’er her footsteps bend,

And smiles and rapture round the fair attend:

Wit forms her speech, and wisdom fills her mind,

And sight and soul in her their object find.

Her pearly teeth, in beauteous order plac’d;

Her neck with bright, and curling tresses grac’d.

But ah, so fair!--in wit and charms supreme,

Unequal song must quit its darling theme.

Here break I off;--let sparkling goblets flow,

And my full heart its cordial wishes show:

To her dear health this friendly draught I pour.

Long be her life, and blest its every hour.

[Footnote 19: Hair is a favourite object with all the Irish poets,

and endless is the variety of their description: “Soft misty

curls;” “Thick branching tresses of bright redundance;” “Locks of

fair waving beauty;” “Tresses flowing on the wind like the bright

waving flame of an inverted torch.” They even appear to inspire it

with expression: as, “Locks of gentle lustre;” “Tresses of tender

beauty;” “The maid with the mildly flowing hair,” &c. &c.]

SPORTING INTELLIGENCE.

_Remarks on modern pedestrianism._

“They leap, exulting, like the bounding roe.”

Many of our modern gentlemen seem to take infinite delight in reversing

the original order of things; for instance, placing the heels where the

head should be, as nothing possibly can confer so much honour upon a

gentleman, as being able to vie with a Venetian running footman of

former times, who would post at the rate of some eight miles an hour,

with a dozen, pounds weight of lead clapped in each pocket, by way of

expediting his progress. In these remarks, however, I do not intend to

level the least sarcasm at _pedestrianism_, which, if properly attended

to, may, in the lapse of time, render the properties of the canine race

of no utility whatsoever; nor, indeed, does it at all signify how the

game be caught, for a troop of Mercury-heeled puppies would do just as

well as a full pack of hounds. To be sure I am at a loss on the score of

_scent_, and the nose is confessedly a most material point to be

considered, unless to this _leg exercise_ we allow the man to possess

the keen sight of the greyhound, which will remove the objection, though

the odds are much against him, as he makes so little use of his eyes as

never to see that which he ought to do.

But in order the better to establish a _running system_, I shall have

recourse to the Classics, to prove, that the pursuit will confer honour

upon its practitioners; for instance, has not Ovid recorded the

gallopings of the lovely Atalanta, who, being determined to live in a

state of celibacy, positively ran away from the male sex? This

establishes the vast antiquity of running, and nothing can possibly

stand the test of inquiry, which has not such a voucher as antiquity to

bear it out against the growlings of scepticism.

Athletic exercises have, in all ages, been considered conducive to the

health, strength, and perfection, of youthful citizens, and consequently

to the welfare of the state. In this point of view, the feats of our

pedestrian candidates for fame who run against old Time himself, are

certainly entitled to popular applause; and should the passion for

running become general, we may soon expect to behold an exhibition,

unparalleled even at the Olympic games formerly celebrated in Greece.

The art of running is, like that of dancing, acquirable from a master;

but gracefulness of motion is not essential to the perfection of the

runner, swiftness being the principal requisite. Hence, whether the

performer display his agility by bounding along on the light fantastic

toe, or waddling with the zig-zag respectability of a corpulent

alderman, if he can first reach the destined goal within a given period

of time, he is rewarded, not with a civic crown--but a purse of gold.

Captain Barclay has obtained much notoriety, by an exhibition of his

personal agility; he seems, from his attainments, eminently qualified to

fill the office of running footman--an establishment, the revival of

which would give permanence to this gymnastic exercise; but it is to be

hoped that he will find few imitators in the British army. Celerity of

movement might, indeed, be very advantageous in the field of battle, and

a column, advancing at the rate of ten miles an hour, might attack the

artillery of the enemy with success; but should a sudden panic on any

occasion seize the troops, they might prove their agility by running

away, to the great disgrace of our national honour. The introduction of

Captain Barclay’s improvement in the motion of legs and feet into the

army, might therefore be attended with disastrous consequences.

This excellent art, however, will probably supersede equestrian

performances on the turf. The horse will no longer be tortured for the

amusement of man; but fellow bipeds, equipped _in querpo_, will start

for the prize, and, with the fleetness of a North-American Indian, bound

along the lists, amid the acclamations and cheers of admiring

multitudes. The competition between man and man in the modern foot-race

is certainly fair; but, for the better regulation of the movements of

public runners, it might be expedient that an amateur, mounted on an

ass, should keep pace with the performers, and, by the judicious

application of a whip, prevent any of the tricks belonging to the turf,

such as crossing and jostling, that gamesters might have a fair chance

for their money. As for those gymnastic heroes, who, like captain

Barclay, merely run against old Time, they are, indeed, unentitled to

the fame they _pant_ for. It may be thought ungenerous to oppose

youthful agility to the hobbling pace of the old gentleman, yet, as he

is well known to be sound in wind, he probably will run the briskest of

them down at last.

The art of running only requires the sanction of some man of quality, to

establish it at the head of all our modern amusements. There is a

certain sameness in other divertisements, which must become irksome to

the spectator. But in the noble exhibitions of the foot-race there will

be no danger of satiety, for the art of running may be diversified by

such innumerable modifications, that it will appear “ever charming, ever

new.” For instance, let the competitors for fame in the celerity of

motion always be selected according to the strictest laws of decorum,

consequently a lord and a lady cannot, without great impropriety, start

against each other.

But if persons of rank and respectability choose to take an airing on

their own legs, instead of an equestrian exhibition, for the _amusement_

of the public, there is no necessity that they should be of equal size

and weight. Every individual must be the best judge of his own muscular

powers; and if the duke of Lumber should think proper to challenge my

lord Lath, to run four times round the canal in St. James’s Park, for

10,000l. the contrast in their figure would only render the diversion

more entertaining to the admiring spectators.

As the ladies have ever been emulous to distinguish themselves, and

their proficiency in dancing is an excellent preparative to running, we

may soon hope to see them exhibit themselves in the gymnastic lists, as

candidates for that public admiration which seems to be the great

business of their lives. The disparity between the competitors will

doubtless be very amusing, as well as edifying.--When we behold the fat

duchess of ----, with a face like Cynthia in all her glory, boldly

approach the promenade in Kensington Gardens, in open defiance of public

decorum, and, unzoned and divested of superfluous drapery, prepare for

the race, in opposition to a slim vestal from ------, how shall we be

able to restrain our risibility? The running ladies will, however,

labour under one great disadvantage. Their muscular exertions must

affect the lungs, and, in a great degree, suspend the exercise of their

blandiloquence, not only during the race, but for some minutes after its

termination.

On a general view of the national utility resulting from this modern

amusement, it appears admirably well calculated for the exercise of the

legs of our nobility, gentry, and merchants, and may operate as an

efficacious remedy for indolence, _alias_ laziness. It will also be

conducive to the benefit of those ingenious individuals who devote their

talents to the fabrication of ornaments; and we may soon expect to see,

in the advertisements of mantuamakers, milliners, hosiers, and tailors,

a list of _patent bounding corsets_, _Atalanta robes_, and _winged

bonnets_, for the equipment of female adventurers in the lists of

gymnastic glory; while _flying trowsers_, _elastic jackets_, and

_feathered buskins_, fit for Mercury himself, will contribute at once to

the adornment, the swiftness, and the reputation, of our noble and

ignoble racers.

BACKSWORD PLAYING--MIDDLESEX PASTIME.

At Wilsden Green, a hat, and a purse of twenty shillings, were played

for at backsword, and, as an encouragement for young players, five

shillings were given to the winner of every head, and two shillings to

the loser. On the umpire’s proclaiming the game, a hat was thrown into

the ring (being the ancient mode of defiance) another soon followed, and

the owners entered and played several bouts with much good humour, till

the blood trickled down the head of the least fortunate. Other gamesters

followed, to the number of seventeen, affording most excellent sport to

a numerous and well-dressed field. The prize was won by a Dorsetshire

lad, who, by breaking four heads proved himself to be the best man.

CURIOUS PEDESTRIANISM.

A very extraordinary wager was decided upon the road between Cambridge

and Huntingdon. A gentleman of the former place, had betted a very

considerable sum of money, that he would go, at a yard distance from the

ground, upon _stilts_, the distance of _twelve miles_ within the space

of _four hours and a half_: no stoppage was to be allowed except merely

the time taken up in exchanging one pair of stilts for another, and even

then his feet were not to touch the ground. He started at the second

milestone from Cambridge in the Huntingdon road to go six miles out and

six in: the first he performed in one hour and fifty minutes, and did

the distance back in two hours and three minutes, so that he went the

whole in three hours and fifty-three minutes, having thirty-seven

minutes to spare beyond the time allowed him. He appeared a good deal

fatigued; and his hands we understand were much blistered from the

continued pressure upon one part. This, we believe, is the first

performance of the kind ever attempted; but as novelty appears to

attract, as well as direct the manners of the age, _stilting_ may become

as fashionable in these, as tilting formerly was in better times.

Twenty-four gamesters contended manfully at Harrow-on-the-Hill for a

prize of a hat and purse, at the _right valiant_ game of backsword. Many

a crown was cracked and many a heavy blow was given with right good

will, and received with true humour. Much skill also in assault and

defence in this game (the most lively picture of war) was evinced. Jack

Martin of Harrow played the best stick among the Harrow lads--but the

prize, alas was actually borne away by--a LONDON TAILOR. Fourteen broken

heads graced the ring.

On Monday the 19th inst. a large audience assembled at the theatre

with the expectation of seeing the Foundling of the Forest performed

for the benefit of Mr. Cone. Unfortunately, Mr. Wood, whose

performance of De Valmont constitutes the principal attraction in

the representation of that play, was suddenly seized with an

indisposition so very severe as to demand medical assistance, and

confine him to his room. It was then too late to issue new bills or

advertisements, and nothing was left to Mr. Cone but to throw

himself on the good nature of his audience, and to request their

acceptance of another play: with some opposition on the part of a

discontented few, “the Way to get Married” was accepted as a

substitute for that which was promised.

Influenced by a laudable zeal for the discharge of his duty, Mr.

Wood, though still very feeble, ventured to promise himself to the

public for the character of De Valmont on Friday. As soon as his

name appeared in the bills, a report was circulated through the city

that he was to be assaulted: that is to say that he had so highly

offended that _high and mighty body of gentlemen_ apprentices and

else who swagger in good broadcloth clothes and brass buttons in the

theatre, by not leaving his bed of sickness for the amusement of

their high mightinesses, that they had resolved to hiss and drive

him off the stage. Those who were most prompt to condemn the

insolence and indecency of the band alluded to, thought that such a

design would be an outrage too unjust, too stupid even for such

persons as their high mightinesses; and, therefore, refused to give

it credit. In this, however, they very much underrated the _modesty_

and _good nature_ of their “high mightinesses,” since half the

barbers in the city were amused with the threats uttered by those

doughty champions of what they would do to Mr. Wood. The consequence

was that that gentleman felt it necessary to humiliate himself with

an apology, in order to escape the wrath of a set of obscure chaps,

not one of whom perhaps could reasonably aspire to sit in his

company.

The private character of Mr. Wood is almost as well known as his

professional: by the most respectable part of the community he is

highly valued for his personal worth. No one could suspect him of

wilfully neglecting his duty, or acting the part of dishonour.

Indeed, what motive could he have to injure Mr. Cone? He cannot,

surely, look upon that gentleman as a rival. But, if he could

harbour such a wish, his moral and intellectual character stands too

high, to allow a suspicion of his employing such means--means so

base and so bungling, that it may well be wondered at how even their

high mightinesses could think of them. The truth is, no such thing

was imagined--the whole had its root in causes which more deeply

concern the public than Mr. Wood or Mr. Cone. A set of ignorant

self-conceited young despots have erected themselves into a body of

riot, for the purpose of controling the theatre, and bullying, not

only the actors but the audience. Mr. Cone has really no more to do

with it than Mr. Cooke or Mr. Kemble; but these fellows use him as

drunken Irishmen in fairs are known to use their great coats. These

champions of the _real_ cudgel draw their great coats along with the

skirts trailing on the ground, and keeping their eyes fixed upon

them, cry, in order to kick up a riot, “Who dare tread upon my

coat.”

It behoves the citizens in general to interfere in some way and

prevent those shameful outrages upon their rights and feelings.

Places of amusement ought to be resorts of good-humour and

peace--not rendezvous for swaggering petulant bullies. The law

ought to be called in to prevent a repetition of such offences. For

certainly there are legal provisions to answer the purpose. If not,

it were better to shut up the playhouse at once than have it open,

a school of riot and impertinence.

If these men be really the friends of Mr. Cone, they certainly

take the very worst way to show it. Mr. Cone’s own talents and the

unbiassed judgment of the public are more substantial grounds for

him to rely upon, than all that the whole body of Hectors could do

for his support or advancement. They have long been the pest of the

playhouse, and always the worst enemies of those whose cause they

have officiously assumed to espouse. It is but justice to Mr. Cone

to declare our firm persuasion that he has too much sense, and too

much honour to wish for the interference of men whose pretended

friendship cannot fail to subject any person who is its object to

public odium and to the dislike and suspicion of every wise, honest

and respectable gentleman in the community.

Mr. Lewis, the player, on his late retirement from the stage,

reminded the public that he had been six and thirty years playing to

them, and had never once received the slightest disapprobation. Had

a fragment of the ignorant mob of London been permitted to rule the

theatre he would have been hissed a thousand times, if it were for

nothing else but his superior merit. This we can affirm, that Mr.

Wood is at least as inoffensive as Mr. Lewis.

INDEX.

A

Actors, animadversion on

WOOD,

in Rapid, 62

Rolla, 65

Reuben Glenroy, 67

Harry Dornton, 73

Bob Handy, 76

Alonzo, 229, 337

Jaffier, 337

Copper Captain, 339

Prince of Wales, 339

CONE,

Alonzo, 65

Henry, 76

WARREN,

Las Casas, 65

Abel Handy, 76

Falstaff, 344

Cacafogo, 344

JEFFERSON,

Frank Oatland, 62

Orozimbo, 65

Cosey, 67

Goldfinch, 73

Farmer Ashfield, 75

M‘KENZIE,

Sir Hubert Stanley, 62

Pizarro, 65

Old Norval, 155

FRANCIS,

Vortex, 62

Trot, 68

Mrs. WOOD,

Jessy Oatland, 62

Cora, 66

Mrs. FRANCIS,

Mrs. Vortex, 62

Dame Ashfield, 76

Mrs. SEYMOUR, 62

PAYNE,

in Douglas, 145

Octavian, 220

Frederick, 221

Zaphna and Selim, 222

Tancred, 222

Romeo, 223

COOPER,

Othello, 225

Zanga, 227

Richard, 230

Pierre, 230

Hamlet, 231

Macbeth, 231

Hotspur, 234

Michael Ducas, 234

Alexander, 422

Antony, Jul. Cæs. 420

WEST, 68, bis

DWYER,

Belcour, 425

Tangent, 427

Ranger, 427

Vapid, 427

Liar, 427

Rapid, 427

Sir Charles Racket, 427

Advice to conductors of magazines, 402

Æschylus, 114, 189

Alleyn, the player, account of, 45

Anecdotes and good things

Dick the Hunter, 92

Dr. Young, 181

Othello burlesqued, 181

Voltaire, 184

Louis XIV. 184

Mara and Florio, 185

Macklin, 247, 248, 397, 408, 409

Mozart, the composer, 257

Old Wignell, 343

Macklin and Foote, 397

Impertinent _Petit Maitre_, 406

Curious Slip Slop, 406

Specific for blindness, 407

Kemble and a stage tyro, 407

Kemble’s bon mot on Sydney playhouse, 407

Irish forgery, 407

Woman and country magistrate, 408

French dramatic, 481

Bacon and cabbage, 485

Apparition, sable or mysterious bell-rope, 325

Aristophanes, 269

Authors’ benefits

see Southern, 502

B

Barry, the great player, account of, 298

Bedford, duke of, monument, 317

Betterton, the great actor, 133, 213

Biography, 24, 118, 202, 357

Bull, a dramatic one, 505

C

Carlisle, countess of, opinion of drama, 398

Catalani, madam, 96

Cibber, Colley, his merit, 506

Coffee and Chocolate, account of, 311

Cone, see actors

Cooper, life of, 28

Cooper, see actors

Cooper, account of his acting, 223

Correspondence

on abuses of the Theatre, 103, 104

----, from Baltimore on Theatricals, 157

----, from New-York, ditto, 414

D

Dramatic Censor, 49, 141, 220, 337, 414

Drama, Grecian, 109, 189, 269, 350

----, lady Carlisle’s opinion on, 398

Dwyer, actor, 235

----, see actors.

Dramaticus, 251, 328, 502

Dungannon, famous horse, 500

E

Edenhall, luck of, old ballad, 487

Edward and Eleonora, remarks on, 502

English, parallel between English men and English mastiffs,

by cardinal Ximenes, 88

Epilogues, humorous ones after tragedies censured, 400

Euripides, 195

F

Francis, see actors

----, Mrs., ibid.

Fullerton, actor, driven to suicide, 504

G

German Theatre, vindication of, by Dramaticus, 251

Gifford, Wm. life of, 357, 447

Greek drama, 109, 189, 269, 350

H

History of the stage, 9, 109, 189, 269, 350, 431

High Life below Stairs, account of, 506

Hodgkinson, biography of, 202, 283, 368, 457

I

Irish bulls, specimen of, 455

Jefferson, see actors

L

Lear, essay on the alterations of it, 391

Le Kain, the French actor, account of, 438

Lewis, his retirement from the stage, 185

Literary World, what is it? 406

Longevity, instance of, 496

Lover general, a rhapsody, 399

M

Macklin checked practice of hissing, 504

Man and Wife, a comedy, 188

Menander, 350

Metayer Henry, anecdote of with Theobald, 503

M‘Kenzie, see actors

Milton and Shakspeare, comparison between, 248

Miscellany, 96, 173, 241, 307, 384, 467

Music, 81, 257

----, Oh think not my spirits are always as light,

a song by Anacreon Moore, 83

----, Irish, 161

Musical performance, expectation of a grand one, 428

N

New-York reviewers impeached, 505

Nokes, comedian, 381

O

O’Kelly’s horse Dungannon, 500

Originality in writing, Voltaire’s idea of, 184

Otway, observations on, 502

P

Payne, American young Roscius, criticised on, 141, 220, 241

----, see actors

Pedestrianism, humorous essay on, 262

Players celebrated compared with celebrated painters, 387

Plays, names of, attached to each No.

Foundling of the Forest, No. I

Man and Wife, No. II

Venoni, No. III

New Way to pay Old Debts, No. IV

Alfonso, king of Castile, No. V

The Free Knights, No. VI

Plays criticised in the Censor

Cure for the Heart-ach, 59

Pizarro, 62

Town and Country, 66

Ella Rosenberg, 69

Wood Demon, 71

Abaellino, 73

Road to Ruin, 73

Speed the Plough, 74

Man and Wife, 188

Foundling of the Forest, 80, 345

Africans, 418

Poetry

Tom Gobble, 97

English bards and Scotch reviewers, extract from, 98

Occasional prologue on the first appearance of Miss Brunton,

afterwards Merry and Warren, at Bath, 121

Latin verses on do. and translation, 124

Prologue on first appearance, of the same lady in London,

by A. Murphy, 126

Duck shooting, 172

A true story, 183

Lewis’s address on taking leave of Ireland, 187

On the death of Mrs. Warren, 246

Descent into Elisium, 253

Gracy Nugent, by Carolan, 261

O never let us marry, 324

Epilogue by Sheridan, censuring humourous ones after tragedies, 401

Logical poem on chesnut horse and horse chesnut, 404

Quin, an anecdote in verse, 409

Luck of Edenhall, 487

The parson and the nose, 495

Solitude, advantages of for study, 495

Soldier to his horse, 499

Prospectus, 1

R

Reviews of New-York impeached, 505

S

Seymour, Mrs. see actors

She would and she would not, merit of, 506

Southern, 502

Socrates, death of, 280

Sophocles, 189

SPORTING, 85, 164, 262, 410, 499

Spain, divertissements in, 495

Strolling Player, a week’s journal of, 396

Stage, history of, 8, 9, 109, 189, 269, 350

T

Taylor, Billy, critique on ballad, 467

Thespis, account of, 113

Theobaldus Secundus, 173, 241, 307, 384

Theatre, misbehaviour there, 267

Theobald, his theft from Metayer, 503

Theatrical contest, Barry and Garrick, in Romeo, 507

Thornton, Col. his removal from York to Wilts, 164

V

Voltaire, his idea of originality in writing, 184

W

Warren, Mrs. life of, 118

Warren, actor, see actors

West, see actors

Wit, pedigree of, by Addison, 406

Wife, essay on the choice of, 477

Wood, actor, see actors

----, Mrs., ibid.

Y

Young, celebrated actor, 236

Z

Zengis, so unintelligible audience not understand it, 507

* * * * *

* * * *

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. Lower-case

titles such as “lady Macbeth” and “captain Barclay” are used regularly.

No attempt was made to regularize the use of quotation marks, except

to supply those that were clearly missing. Nested double quotes are

standard and were not changed. A few missing or incorrect punctuation

marks in the Index were silently regularized.

_Unchanged:_

Apollonius[1] of Thyana,

“Oh cussa heart [mismatched quotes]

his play of Amphytrion

His younger cotemporary [standard spelling for this publication]

he avows his villany [common spelling]

_Corrected:_

which occasioned him to be called μισογυνης [μισογυνησ]

in the case already mentioned [men/ed at line break]

as the only valuable levellers [valuabe]

so flat, and unaffecting a manner [unaffecing]

many of the German plays are highly exceptionable [exeptionable]

_Punctuation and Typography:_

HA! I LIKE NOT THAT

[_Printed in small capitals, with ordinary lower-case “no”

in “NOT”_]

... spoke the words “this is a sorry sight,” better. [missing ”]

an ornament to his profession.” [missing ”]

Miss Smith ... is spoken of as follows:

“Macbeth by Mr. Kemble ...

“Some faults ... performances.”

[_the original has opening quotes at the beginning of the second

paragraph only; opening and closing quotes were added conjecturally

in the final paragraph_]

_none but a poet should edit a poet_,” [missing open quote]

“What! has this _thing_ appeared again to night?”

[missing close quote]

“You spirits oft _walk_.” [missing close quote]

And faction’s whirlwind cease to roar [missing punctuation]

preserves its course, its name, [missing ,]

“a _complete list_ ... in the English language,”

[missing close quote]

springs in each human breast [missing .]

“si quid loquar audiendum.” [missing open quote]

similar to a triple shake. [extraneous close quote]

“The maid with the mildly flowing hair,” [missing close quote]

Many a crown was cracked and many a heavy blow [invisible “and”]

_Index_:

Missing or inconsistent punctuation has been silently regularized.

_Poetry_

Soldier to his horse, 499 [tohis]

Zengis, so unintelligible audience not understand it

[word missing in original]

* * * * *

* * * *

VENONI,

OR THE

NOVICE OF ST. MARK’S.

A DRAMA, IN THREE ACTS.

By M. G. LEWIS.

Printed for Bradford and Inskeep, No. 4, South Third-Street,

Philadelphia; Inskeep and Bradford, New-York;

and William M‘Ilhenny, Boston,

by Smith And Maxwell.

VENONI; OR, THE NOVICE OF ST. MARK’S.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

The Viceroy of Sicily.

The Marquis Caprara.

Father Cœlestino, prior of St. Mark’s.

Venoni.

Lodovico.

Jeronymo, }

Michael, }

Anastasio, } _gray friars_.

Nicolo, }

Benedetto.

Carlo, }

Pietro, } _servants_.

Giovanni, }

Fishermen.

Hortensia, marchioness Caprara.

Veronica.

Josepha.

Teresa.

Sister Lucia.

_The scene lies in Sicily._

ACT I.

SCENE I.-- _The port of Messina-- on one side the viceroy’s palace._

_Benedetto_, _Teresa_, _Carlo_, _Pietro_, _Giovanni_, and

servants are discovered.

_Ben._ Bless my heart! bless my heart! no signs of them yet! tis past

mid-day, and yet not coming? surely some misfortune has happened, or

they must have been in sight ere this.

_Teresa._ Your impatience makes the time seem long, Benedetto; else

you’d know, that on these great occasions it wouldn’t be for the

viceroy’s dignity to move with more expedition. Besides, all the

grandees of Messina are gone out to receive and conduct him to his

palace; and with such a crowd of gallies and gondolas, take what care

they may, I’m sure, twill be a mercy, if half the good company dont get

tumbled into the water.

_Ben._ Well, well, Teresa, perhaps you’re in the right; but no wonder,

that every minute appears an age, till I once more embrace the knees of

my excellent master. However, I’ll be calm, Teresa, I’ll be calm; I’ll

wait quietly for the arrival of the gondolas without uttering a single

impatient word. Only, my good Carlo, do just run up the leads of the

palace, and try whether you can’t see the gallies coming at a distance.

_Carlo._ That I’ll do with all my heart, master steward, and I’ll make

what speed I can.

_Ben._ Oh, I’m not at all impatient; I assure you, I can wait very

contentedly for your return: so pray dont hurry yourself; only my dear

good fellow, do just make as much haste as you can.

[Exit _Carlo_.

_Ben._ Bless my heart! what an agitation I am in! oh, how happy will

Sicily be under this good man’s government! how happy too will it make

the poor marchioness, when after an absence of four long years she again

embraces her invaluable brother.

_Teresa._ The poor marchioness indeed! well, Benedetto, for my part I

feel no pity for misfortunes which people bring upon themselves. Why did

not the marchioness take her daughter with her to the court of Naples?

why did a mother ever consent to trust her daughter out of her sight!

but forsooth she must be left behind in a convent, where soon afterwards

an epidemic complaint attacks the sisterhood, and Josepha, abandoned to

the care of strangers, sinks into an untimely grave, the victim of her

mother’s neglect and imprudence.

_Ben._ But the dangers of the voyage-- Her confessor had so often

assured her that Josepha would be more safe in the convent--

_Teresa._ More safe? more safe indeed: where can a daughter be more safe

than in the arms of her mother? and then as to her confessor--

_Pietro._ What, the prior of St. Mark’s? he with that humble

hypocritical air-- who speaks so softly and bows so low--

_Teresa._ Ay, ay; the same-- oh, I can’t bear the sight of him!

_Pietro._ Nor I.

_Giovanni._ Nor I.

_Ben._ Stop, stop! not so violent, my good friends, not so violent; for

as to the prior, you must permit me to tell you that for my part,

I can’t say I like him any better than yourself. And yet, signor Venoni,

who is a man of great sense, believes that since the world was a world,

there never was such a saint as this father Cœlestino!

_Teresa._ Ah! poor signor Venoni! where is he now, Benedetto?

_Ben._ Still in St. Mark’s monastery, whither he fled in despair on

losing his destined bride, the lady Josepha.

_Pietro._ And his senses-- are they right again?

_Ben._ Why, as he believes father Cœlestino to be a saint, I should

rather suppose, that they must still be very wrong indeed.

_Pietro._ Perhaps that friar, who twice this morning has inquired at the

palace whether the viceroy was arrived, is the bearer of some message

from Venoni?

_Ben._ Very likely, very likely! and therefore, Pietro, should that

friar call again----

_Carlo._ (_appearing at the balcony of the palace_) Benedetto,

Benedetto! the gallies, the gallies!

_Ben._ Indeed! are you sure? yes, yes, yes, I hear the music! (_shouting

without_) and hark, Teresa! hark! the mob are huzzaing like---- bless my

heart, I shall certainly expire at his feet for joy! they come! oh!

look, look, look!

[A marine procession arrives-- the _viceroy_ lands from the

state-galley, accompanied by the grandees of _Messina_, who

conduct him to the palace gate, and take their leaves of him

respectfully. While the grandees, &c. retire, _Benedetto_ and the

servants pay their homage to the viceroy, who receives them

graciously. _Teresa_ and the rest then busy themselves in taking

charge of the baggage, and retire into the palace. The viceroy

motions to _Benedetto_ to remain.]

_Viceroy._ (_to the servants, as they go off_) Farewell, my friends, and

for your own sakes take good care of yonder chests; part of their

contents will convince you, that during my absence your fidelity and

attachment have still been present to my recollection.

[Exeunt _Teresa_ and _servants_.

_Ben._ Ay! ay! just the same kind master! ever attentive to others!

_Vice._ And without the attention of others, how could I exist myself?

good Benedetto, in imparting pleasure we receive it in return: to make

ourselves beloved is to make ourselves happy; and never can others love

that man, who is not capable himself of loving others.

_Ben._ My dear, dear lord!

_Vice._ But inform me, Benedetto; my sister?--

_Ben._ The marchioness, my lord, is still inconsolable; and in truth,

she has good cause to be so. The marquis wished his daughter to be

married immediately; my lady chose to defer it for a year, and my lady

was obstinate. The marquis wished to take his daughter with him to

Naples; my lady chose she should remain in a convent; and my lady was

obstinate. Her daughter fell ill there, and died; my lady says, that she

shall never recover her death, and it is but fair that my lady should be

now as obstinate on this point, as she has formerly been on every other.

_Vice._ Beloved unfortunate Josepha!-- and Venoni----?

_Ben._ Good lack, poor gentleman! he was absent, when this sad event

took place: for you must know, my lord, that when after the departure of

her parents he went to visit his betrothed at the convent-grate, the

sour-faced old abbess would’nt suffer him to see the lady Josepha. Nay,

what is the strangest circumstance of all, she produced a letter from

the marchioness commanding positively, that during her absence no person

whatever should have access to her daughter.

_Vice._ Most unaccountable!

_Ben._ The poor signor was almost frantic with surprise and grief: away

he flew for Naples; contrary winds for awhile delayed his arrival; but

at length he did arrive, and hastened to plead his cause to the parents

of his mistress.

_Vice._ And was the marquis aware of his lady’s strange orders to the

abbess?

_Ben._ Oh, no! and Venoni returned to Messina, authorized to see Josepha

as often and for as long as he pleased. Alas, he was destined never to

see her more! the report had reached me, that a contagious disorder had

broken out in the Ursuline convent. I hastened thither. I inquired for

the dear lady; “she was ill!” I implored permission to see her; the

marchioness’s commands excluded me. I returned the next day; “she was

worse.” Another four-and-twenty hours elapsed and-- merciful heaven! she

was dead!

_Vice._ (_concealing his tears_) Josepha! thou wert dear to me as my own

child, Josepha! (_after a moment’s silence, recovering himself_) And

where is Venoni now?

_Ben._ In the monastery of St. Mark, of which your sister’s confessor is

now the superior.

_Vice._ What! the father Cœlestino?

_Ben._ Even he-- Venoni’s grief brought him to the brink of the grave.

They say, that his senses were disordered for a time. But it is certain

that he only exchanged the bed of sickness for a cell in St. Mark’s

monastery, where he shortly means to pronounce his vows.

_Vice._ What! so early in life will he quit the world? his immense

wealth too----

_Ben._ His wealth? ah, my good lord, I suspect tis that very wealth

which has proved the cause of his seclusion from the world. The prior

Cœlestino knew of his riches, and kindly came to comfort him in his

distress. He talked to him-- he soothed him-- he flattered him-- he is

as subtle as a serpent, and as smooth and slippery as an eel! he wormed

himself into Venoni’s very heart; the deluded youth threw himself into

his arms, and the seducer bore him to the convent.

_Vice._ Benedetto, he shall not long remain there. My sister’s

afflictions claim my first visit; but that duty paid, I’ll hasten to St.

Mark’s, dissipate the illusions by which Venoni’s judgment is obscured,

and tell him plainly that the man commits a crime, who is virtuous like

him, and denies mankind the use and example of his virtues. Venoni has

youth, wealth, power, abilities: let him not tell me, that he quits the

world, because it contains for him nothing but sufferings; he must

remain in it, to preserve others from suffering like himself. Let him

not tell me, that his own prospects are forever closed; the noblest is

still entirely open to him, that of brightening the prospects of

others!-- oh! shame on the selfish being who looks upon life as

worthless, while it gives him the power to impart comfort, or to relieve

distress; who, because happiness is dead to himself, forgets that for

others it still exists; and who loses not the sense of his own heart’s

anguish while contemplating benefits with which his own hand’s bounty

has blest his fellow creatures! [Exit.

_Ben._ Ah! very true, my good master! all very true! but lord, lord,

lord! it is really mighty difficult to forget one’s own dear self.

Heaven knows, poor sinner that I am, a few twinges of the gout are

always enough to make me as hard-hearted as a rock of adamant; and even

when dear lady Josepha died, I’m almost afraid I should have felt very

little for any body but myself, if just at that time I had happened to

have a touch of the toothach! ah! we are all poor weak creatures! poor

weak creatures! poor weak creatures! (_going_)

Father _Michael_ enters hastily.

_Michael._ Friend! hist! friend!

_Ben._ (_returning_) Well, friend! hey a monk? I beg your pardon then;

well, father!

_Mich._ The viceroy is at length arrived?

_Ben._ He is.

_Mich._ Conduct me to him: I must speak with him instantly.

_Ben._ Stop, stop! no hurry-- the viceroy is already gone out.

_Mich._ Unfortunate! my business is of such importance----

_Ben._ Well, well! I dare say, some few hours hence----

_Mich._ My superior knows not that I am absent; I have ventured here

without permission, I dare not stay, and perhaps my return may be

impossible!

_Ben._ Indeed! that’s a pity! and is your superior then so rigid, that

he would’nt excuse-- (_looking at his habit_) ha, ha! I see now how it

is. Is not your superior the prior Cœlestino?

_Mich._ The same! and-- (_looking round anxiously, and lowering his

voice_) and I am no favourite with him.

_Ben._ No? that’s very much to your credit.

_Mich._ (_acquiring confidence_) Nor am I partial to him.

_Ben._ Nor I neither, heaven knows! there’s my hand upon it. Father,

you’re a very sensible honest man.

_Mich._ You appear to be well acquainted with the prior’s character: but

for heaven’s sake do not betray me!

_Ben._ I betray you? to be sure one ought not to wish one’s neighbour

ill. But if the fire, which lately consumed a wing of your convent, had

consumed in it-- you understand me, I wont say no more: but if a certain

event had taken place, I dont believe I should have broken my heart for

grief, father.

_Mich._ The prior was absent at the time of the conflagration; he ran no

danger; but that accident may be the source of other dangers to him, of

which at present he little dreams.

_Ben._ Indeed! as how, pray, as how? as how? dear, I shall be mighty

glad to hear how.

_Mich._ I dare not explain myself except to your lord. But tell me, good

old man, is not the viceroy greatly interested in the fate of young

Venoni?

_Ben._ Extremely.

_Mich._ Is he aware, that tomorrow Venoni will pronounce his vows?

_Ben._ Bless my heart! so soon!

_Mich._ The victim of despair, looking on the world with horror and

disgust, considering as the only good left for him on earth, the

permission to inhabit an asylum contiguous to that which contains the

ashes of his beloved. (_mysteriously_) For you are aware, that our

monastery is only separated from the Ursuline convent by a party-wall.

_Ben._ Indeed? the Ursuline convent? it was there, that Josepha breathed

her last-- if I remember rightly, it is under father Cœlestino’s

direction?

_Mich._ (_expressively_) Under his direction? you are right! yes! it is

under his direction; and who says that, says every thing.

_Ben._ Well, father; and so Venoni-- ?

_Mich._ (_with energy_) Assists the superior’s views, and languishes

till the hour arrives when he must sacrifice his liberty for ever: when,

renouncing the world and himself, he will become subject to the insolent

caprice, to the arbitrary commands, to the tyrannical hatred of a man

frequently unjust, never to be appeased; and who is himself the prey of

all those worldly passions, which he secretly and dearly cherishes in

his own heart, but whose slightest indulgence he punishes without mercy

upon others.

_Ben._ Well, father, this at least I must say for you, you seem to be

perfectly well acquainted with the moral characters of your fellows.

Dear, dear! and so then it is tomorrow, that this poor gentleman, so

amiable-- with talents so brilliant, with a heart so generous and so

good--

_Mich._ His talents? his heart? those perhaps are still unknown to our

superior:-- but Venoni is immoderately wealthy, and of that the prior

was perfectly well informed. But the viceroy returns not, and I dare not

tarry longer!-- good old man, give your lord this letter; say that my

seeing him before tomorrow is of the utmost importance to Venoni-- to

himself!

_Ben._ You will return then?

_Mich._ Alas! that will be impossible! entreat, that for heaven’s love,

the viceroy would deign to visit me at my convent. He must inquire for

father Michael.

_Benedetto._ For father Michael? I’ll not forget; and he shall have this

letter immediately.

_Mich._ I thank you-- as to the manner in which I have spoken of my

superior, the most profound secrecy----

_Ben._ Oh! mum’s the word.

_Mich._ Should it reach his knowledge-- blessed saints, protect me!

Jeronymo, the prior’s confidant, comes this way! (_drawing his cowl over

his face in great agitation_) should he observe me-- my liberty--

perhaps my life-- friend, farewell! (_going._)

_Ben._ (_opening a side door in the palace_) Stay, stay! go down this

passage; at the end of it, turn to the left-- it leads to the garden;

traverse it, and you will find a little door unlocked, which will let

you out unseen within a bow-shot of your monastery.

_Mich._ Heaven’s blessing be with you! a thousand, thousand thanks!

[Exit hastily.

_Ben._ (_calling after him_) That’s right! a little further! take care,

there are two or three steps. To the left, to the left!-- that’s it--

your most obedient servant-- (_with a low bow; after which he turns from

the palace_) and now-- mum, mum!

Enter father _Jeronymo_.

_Jer._ Bless you, son!

_Ben._ Save you, father!

_Jer._ Was not a friar of our order here even now?

_Ben._ Not that I saw-- (_aside_) there’s a good round lie now!

_Jer._ I suppose, then, I was mistaken.

_Ben._ I suppose you were: I can’t conceive any thing more likely.

_Jer._ (_aside_) I could have sworn, that father Michael-- this shall be

inquired into further-- _salve_, son!

[Exit.

_Ben._ (_bowing_) Your sanctity’s most obedient.-- And this is the

prior’s confidant? then the prior’s confidant is as ill-looking a

hang-dog, as I’ve set my eyes upon this many a day!

Enter _Fishermen_.

_Ben._ Now lads, now! why, you look busily.

_1st fish._ Well we may, signor: the viceroy entertains all the grandees

of Messina this evening, and our fish will bear a treble price. Come,

come, look to the nets, lads, (_they go to their boats_)

_Ben._ Ay, ay! good luck to you! and now I’ll seek my lord with this

letter. So, so, my reverend father Cœlestino!-- a convent of nuns under

your direction! only separated by a party-wall!-- ha, ha! that looks to

me very much as if-- hush, hush, signor Benedetto! what you are saying

is not quite so charitable as it should be! bless my heart, bless my

heart, how naturally is a man disposed to think the worst he can of his

neighbours! ah, fy upon you, Benedetto; fy upon you!

[Exit.

_1st fish._ (_in the boat_) Now, lads, are you ready?

_2d fish._ Ay, ay! pull away!

_1st fish._ Off we go then.

_All._ Huzza!

GLEE.

Ply the oar, brother, and speed the boat;

Swift o’er the glittering waves we’ll float;

Then home as swiftly we’ll haste again,

Loaded with wealth of the plundered main.

Pull away, pull away! row, boys, row

A long pull, a strong pull, and off we go.

Hark how the neighbouring convent bell!

Throws o’er the waves its vesper swell;

Sullen it bomes from shore to shore,

Blending its chime with the dash of the oar.

Pull away, pull away! row, boys, row!

A long pull, a strong pull, and off we go.

SCENE II-- _An apartment in the Caprara palace._

The _viceroy_ enters, followed by _Hortensia_ and the _Marquis_;

a servant attending.

_Hor._ Nay, but in truth, my dear brother, this is carrying your

prejudice too far. What! refuse to endure, for a single half hour,

father Cœlestino in your presence, merely because his countenance and

manner happen not to be exactly to your taste?

_Vic._ His conversation is as little to my taste as his manner and

countenance: he uses too much honey to please my palate!-- surely, if

there is one thing more odious than another, tis your eternal maker of

compliments; one who lies in wait for opportunities of thrusting down

your throat his undesired applause; and who compels you to bow in return

for his nauseous civilities, till he makes your neck feel almost as

supple as his own.

_Hor._ You know no ill of him.----

_Vic._ I know him to be a flatterer: what would you more?

_Hor._ Well, I protest, it never struck me that he flattered.

_Vic._ Very likely; and yet my good sister, it’s possible that he might

be flattering, while to you he appeared so be speaking the pure simple

truth.

_Hor._ However, if not for his own sake, at least endure him for mine.

He is my friend; you are now the chief person in the island; and should

you compel me to reject his offered visit, such a mark of contempt from

the viceroy of Sicily might injure the good prior in the world’s

opinion.

_Vic._ If the good prior be in fact as good as you assert, the contempt

of the viceroy of Sicily or of any other viceroy, must be to him a

matter of the most absolute indifference. However, be it as you please.

_Hor._ I thank you; (_to the servant_) the prior’s visit will be

welcome.

[Servant bows, and Exit.

_Hor._ Ah! did you but know the good man’s heart as well as I do, this

unreasonable dislike----

_Vic._ Unreasonable? ah! Hortensia; have we not all then reasons but too

strong for abhorring the sight of this Cœlestino? was it not his advice,

which induced you to place Josepha in that fatal convent?

_Mar._ Right, right, Benvolio; twas his advice, twas his alone.

_Hor._ I do not deny it; but I appeal to yourself, marquis, whether he

gave not good reasons for that advice? the dangers of the voyage-- the

inclement season-- ah! had Josepha lived, perhaps the example of that

holy sisterhood might have weaned her heart from worldly follies, and

inspired----

_Mar._ (_surprised_) How, Hortensia! I hope that in placing your

daughter in that convent, no views concealed from me-- (Hortensia _looks

confused_)

The servant ushers in the _prior_, and retires.

_Pri._ Humbly I bend in salutation to this illustrious company! will the

lady marchioness deign to confirm my hopes, that at length she begins to

bear her afflictions with some serenity?

_Hor._ Thanks to your pious exhortations, father, I am at least

resigned; more shall I never answer-- for my heart is broken.

_Pri._ Little as I dare flatter myself, that a poor monk’s

congratulations can be acceptable to your excellency, I cannot refrain

from expressing my joy at your newly acquired dignity. But it is not the

count Benvolio, whom I congratulate on being appointed governor of

Sicily; tis Sicily, on being governed by the count Benvolio.

_Vic._ I am perfectly aware, reverend sir, that the high-flown elegance

of that compliment can only be equalled by its sincerity; believe me no

less sincere, when I assure you on my honour, that my gratitude for your

approbation bears an exact proportion to the pleasure experienced by

yourself at my appointment.

_Pri._ (_bowing_) More can I not desire. Yet must I excuse myself for

intruding into your presence at a moment when fraternal attachment must

needs make you wish to be undisturbed: but the claims of compassion

admit of no delay, and my heart is ever too weak to resist the

entreaties of a sufferer. My noble lord and lady, I bring to you the

request of an unfortunate youth-- of Venoni.

_All._ (_eagerly_) Venoni?

_Pri._ His noviciate is nearly expired; tomorrow he will pronounce his

vows.

_Mar._ Unhappy youth!

_Vic._ Tomorrow?

_Pri._ But ere he renounces the world for ever, he intreats permission

to take leave of those dear and illustrious persons, who once did not

disdain to look upon him as their son.

_Hor._ (_greatly agitated_) No, no! I cannot-- I dare not----

_Vic._ (_seriously_) Sister-- Venoni must not be refused.

_Pri._ Reflect, dear lady; the ear of true piety is never closed against

the sighs of the wretched. The poor youth is already in the palace,

and--

_Vic._ (_eagerly_) Already here?-- where, where is he?

_Mar._ Who waits? (_servant enters_) signor Venoni-- conduct him hither

instantly, away!

[Exit servant.

_Pri._ (_observing the viceroy’s emotion_) Ah! my good lord, what a

heart have you for friendship! happy, thrice happy he whose worth or

whose misfortunes can inspire you with such interest and such zeal!

(_The viceroy answers by a gesture of contemptuous impatience_)

_Venoni_, in the habit of a novice, pale, wild, and haggard,

enters, conducted by the servant, who retires.

_Vice._ } _together._ { My friend!

_Mar._ } { My son!

(_hastening to receive him_)

_Venoni._ (_embracing them with a melancholy smile_) I am permitted then

to see you once more-- you, whom I have ever loved so truly-- you, the

only ones who are still dear to me in the world! (_he sees Hortensia;

his countenance becomes disturbed, and he shudders: then recovering

himself, he bows humbly, but with a look of gloom, and addresses her in

a lowered voice, with much respect_) noble lady, can you pardon this

intrusion? I fear the sight of one so lost, so wretched--

_Hor._ (_embarrassed_) Venoni can never be unwelcome. I have not

forgotten-- I never shall forget-- that there was a time when-- that had

I not hoped to make my child adopt--

_Pri._ (_interrupting her hastily_) Dear lady, compose yourself: your

extreme sensibility overpowers you.

_Vice._ But answer me, Venoni; why is it that I see you in this habit?

_Mar._ Wherefore renounce the world? wherefore adopt a resolution so

desperate, so extreme? your country has a right to your services, and--

_Pri._ My noble lords, when the voice of religion calls an unfortunate

to her bosom--

_Venoni._ The voice of religion! no, father, no! the voice which has

called me, is the voice of despair, my friends. I have lost every thing,

every thing! and what then have I to do with the world? they who would

serve their country, must possess strength of mind and health of body:

mine have both yielded to the pressure of calamity! they who would serve

their country, must possess their reason in full force and clearness: my

reason-- it is gone, quite gone! despairing passion has deranged all my

ideas, has ruined all my faculties-- I now have left but one sentiment,

one feeling, one instinct-- and that one is love!

_Pri._ What say you my son?

_Venoni._ (_passionately_) I say, that one is love! and I say the truth!

father, I have engaged to renounce the world, to descend alive into the

tomb; but I have not engaged to forget that I had, that I still have,

a heart; that that heart is broken; that it burns, and will burn till it

ceases to beat, with a passion which heaven cannot blame, since it was

an angel who inspired it! I have told you, that her image would

accompany me even to the altar’s foot; I have told you that I would give

up the world, but would never give up her; her who exists no longer

except in this sad heart, this heart, where she shall never cease to

exist-- till I do!

_Vice._ Dear unfortunate youth!

_Venoni._ Unfortunate, say you? oh, no! the day of misfortune, the day

of despair was that when I heard the death-bell sound, and they told

me-- twas for her! when I asked for whom was that funeral bier, and they

told me-- twas for her! but from that hour I ceased to suffer. It’s

true, my heart-- all there is a devouring fire-- my brain-- all there is

confusion and clouds: but that fire, it was she who first kindled it!

but among these gloomy clouds, she is the only object which I still

perceive distinctly-- she is there, near me, always there; I see her,

I speak to her, she replies to me-- oh! judge then, my friend, whether

with justice I can be called unfortunate! (_sinking into the viceroy’s

arms_)

_Mar._ Two victims! Hortensia, two victims! one has already perished,

and the other--

_Hor._ (_greatly affected_) Oh! spare me, my husband! could I have

forseen-- never, never shall I cease to reproach myself--

_Pri._ My daughter, this trial is too severe for sensibility like yours.

Let me entreat you, retire, and compose your mind!

_Hor._ You are right, father; you shall be obeyed. Venoni-- farewell,

Venoni! (_going_)

_Venoni._ (_starting forward with a frantic look, and grasping her by

the arm_) Hold! you must not leave me yet! first tell me, why was the

marriage so long delayed? why were your orders given, that Josepha

should not see me at the convent? answer me-- I will be answered!

_Pri._ My son, my son! you will make me repent that I allowed this

interview-- let us retire!

_Venoni._ (_violently_) No, no, no! I will stay here-- here (_with

affection, and embracing the marquis_) with my father. (_returning to

Hortensia_) Answer me!

_Hor._ (_terrified_) Venoni! for heaven’s sake! have mercy!

_Venoni._ (_furious_) Mercy? had you mercy upon me?

_Pri._ Venoni! follow me this instant! I command you!

_Venoni._ (_violently but firmly_) Tomorrow I will obey you; today I am

still free! (_to Hortensia_) Answer, or-- (_turning suddenly to the

marquis, while he releases Hortensia, who throws herself on a couch, and

weeps_) You know it well, my father, she was inexorable! you, you pitied

me; but your wife saw my anguish, and her eye was still dry, and her

heart was still marble! she opposed your granting me permission to see

Josepha; she even insisted on your resuming that permission; but I

rushed from her presence-- I hastened to Messina-- to the Ursuline

convent-- as I approached it, the death-bell tolled! the sound echoed to

the very bottom of my soul, every stroke seemed to fall upon my heart!

I trembled, my blood ran cold-- (_in a faltering voice_) “who is dead?”

(_with a loud burst of agony_) She, she! your daughter; my betrothed! my

brain whirled round and round-- I rushed into the chapel-- a bier-- a

coffin-- it inclosed your daughter! my betrothed, my happiness, my life!

I sprang towards it-- I extended my arms to clasp it, what followed I

know not; I was at peace, I was happy, I had ceased to feel: but oh! the

barbarians, they restored me to sense, and twas only to the sense of

misery! (_he falls weeping upon the viceroy’s neck_)

_Hor._ Every word he utters-- seems a dagger to my heart!

_Pri._ (_aside_) Ah! how I repent!

_Venoni._ (_recovering, and looking round_) Twas here-- in this very

room-- that I have passed so many happy, happy hours? twas here that I

received your sanction to our union; twas in yon alcove, that I

endeavoured to transmit to canvas Josepha’s features-- features

impressed upon my heart indelibly! love guided my pencil-- that

portrait-- tis there! tis she! tis Josepha! (_he suddenly draws away the

curtain, and discovers a picture of Josepha at full length-- the prior

stands forward on the scene, his hands tremble with passion, and his

countenance expresses extreme vexation and stifled rage-- on the

picture’s being discovered, Hortensia springs forward, sinks on her

knees, and extends her arms towards, it-- the marquis turns away from

the picture, towards which his left hand points, while he hides his face

on the viceroy’s bosom; the viceroy stands in an attitude of grief with

his arms extended towards the picture; he and the marquis are rather

behind the other persons-- Venoni stands before the picture, which is to

the left of the audience, and gazes upon it with rapture_)

_Hor._ My child! my child!

_Mar._ My Josepha!

_Pri._ (_aside_) Oh rage!

_Hor._ I expire! (_Venoni on hearing Hortensia’s last exclamation, turns

round, hastens to raise her from her kneeling attitude, places her on

the couch, and throws himself at her feet_)

_Venoni._ You weep? you repent?-- ah! then my resentment is over, and I

find my mother once more! (_kissing her hand affectionately, and in the

gentlest voice_) Look on me, my mother! cast on me one kind look; twill

be the last; you will never see the wretched frantic youth

again-- tomorrow-- oh! Hortensia, before we part for ever, tell me that

you forgive me-- tell me, that you do not hate me for having thus

wounded your feelings-- for having inflicted on you this unnecessary

pain!

_Hor._ (_embracing him passionately as he kneels_) Forgive you? yes, yes

my son! my beloved son! I pardon you---- heaven knows, I pardon you--

and oh! in return may heaven and you pardon me!

_Pri._ (_aside_) Ah! how I suffer!

_Venoni._ I thank you! tis enough! now then I have no more to do with

the world! (_to the prior_) good father, your pardon: I offended you

even now; I remember it well.

_Prior._ (_embracing him with dissembled affection_) And I, my son, had

already forgotten it-- but tis time for us to retire-- come!

_Venoni._ Yes, yes! let us away-- farewell, my friends! my mother,

farewell! I shall never see you more; but you will never cease to be

dear to me; never, never!-- and you too, my Josepha-- farewell! for a

little while farewell! whom death hath divided, death shall soon

re-unite-- come, father, come!-- farewell! bless you, bless you: oh!

come, come, come! (_during this speech, his voice grows fainter; he

leans on the prior, who conducts him slowly towards the door; at the end

of the speech he sinks totally exhausted on the bosom of the prior, who

conveys him away; while the viceroy and marquis lead off Hortensia on

the other side_).

_End of Act I._

ACT II.

SCENE I.-- _The gardens of St. Mark-- in the background is a gothic

chapel, to which is a flight of steps; adjoining is the cemetery of

the Ursuline convent, and several tombs are visible through a large

iron gate._

[Vespers are performing in the chapel; the last words are chanted,

while the curtain rises-- the organ plays a voluntary, while the

prior and his monks, descend from the chapel in procession. Father

_Jeronymo_ enters hastily, and accosts the prior, who comes

forward; he starts at the information given him, and hastily

bestows his benediction on the monks, who go off.]

_Prior._ Father Michael, say you? he wishes to see father Michael?

_Jeronymo._ Wishes? nay, he insists upon seeing him.

_Prior._ What business can he have with father Michael? what connexion

can possibly subsist between them? how should it be even known to the

viceroy, that such a being as father Michael exists?

_Jer._ On these points I can give you no information-- yet now I

recollect, that this very morning I observed a friar, whose air greatly

resembled father Michael’s loitering about the viceroy’s palace.

_Prior._ Indeed! Jeronymo, I have long suspected this Michael to be a

false brother; there is an affectation of rigid principles about him--

of philosophical abstinence-- of reserve respecting his own conduct and

of vigilance respecting that of others, which make me look on him as a

dangerous inmate of our house. However, he has not yet encountered the

viceroy?

_Jer._ Fortunately, it was to me that count Benvolio expressed his wish

to see this friar. I promised to go in search of him, and instantly

commanded father Michael, in your name, not to presume till further

orders to set his foot beyond the precincts of his cell. I then

returned, to inform the viceroy, with pretended regret, that the person

whom he desired to see was not at that time to be found in the

monastery.

_Prior._ Good!

_Jer._ He appeared much disappointed, and announced his intention of

waiting the friar’s return. I was compelled to promise, that as soon as

he should re-enter these walls, father Michael should be sent to him.

_Prior._ The viceroy then is still here?

_Jer._ He is: I left him in the garden parlour adjoining the refectory.

_Prior._ No matter: night approaches, and then he will be compelled to

withdraw. Yet that he should rather desire to see father Michael than

Venoni-- that, I own, appears to me unaccountable. I was prepared for

his endeavouring to obtain another sight of his friend, and using every

possible means to disgust him with the idea of renouncing the world for

ever. Secure of my influence over Venoni, absolute master of his

understanding, and feeling my own strength in the knowledge of his

weakness, I meant not to object to their interviews; and would have

suffered count Benvolio to exert all his efforts freely, convinced that

all his efforts would have been exerted in vain.

_Jer._ And in acting thus, you would have done wisely: else, if the

viceroy had been denied admittance to his friend, he might have spread

abroad, that you feared lest his arguments should dispel Venoni’s

illusion.

_Prior._ True; therefore should he demand to see our novice, even let

his wish be gratified-- this hated youth is ours beyond reprieve, this

Venoni whom Josepha preferred to me, this Venoni to whom alone I impute

my disappointment. I had worked upon the superstition and enthusiasm of

the weak-minded Hortensia; I had persuaded her, that happiness and

virtue existed not, except within the walls of a convent; already she

saw in fancy her daughter’s head encircled with a wreath of sainted

glory, and she placed her in the Ursuline convent, in hopes that the

example of the nuns might induce her to join their sisterhood-- Josepha

was in my power defenceless!

_Jer._ And yet she defeated your views!

_Prior._ She did, oh, rage! though snares were laid for her at every

step, though where’er she turned, her eye met seductions of such

enchanting power, as might have thawed the frozen bosom of chastity

herself! but virtuous love already occupied Josepha’s whole heart; and

no room was left for impurer passions: or if for a moment she felt her

wavering senses too forcibly assailed, she only pronounced the name of

Venoni, and turned with disgust from every thought of pleasure, whose

enjoyment would have made her less worthy of his love. But the hour of

my revenge approaches! Venoni----

_Jer._ His last abode is prepared: his wealth once secured to our

monastery, the donor shall be soon disposed of.

_Prior._ I hear a noise-- tis Venoni: ever about this hour he comes to

bathe yonder grating with his tears. Let us retire: solitude and the

ideas which Josepha’s tomb suggests, can but increase the confusion of

his mind, and rivet the chains which bind him in our power. He is here:

follow me in silence.

[Exeunt.

[As they go off on one side, _Venoni_ enters on the other: he

walks slowly; his arms are folded, and his head reclines on his

shoulder.

_Venoni._ It was no mistake! oh, man, man! frail and inconstant! yes;

for an instant I felt pleasure, and yet Josepha is no more; but the

dream was of thee, my beloved, and oh! it was so fair, so lovely!

however it is gone, and I am myself again; again am fit for the dead,

and I hasten to thee my Josepha! (_turning to the grate_) I salute ye,

cruel bars, which separate my beloved and me: another day has past, and

again I mourn beside you! ye are cold: (_kissing them_) so is Josepha’s

heart; so too will mine be shortly. (_rapidly_) Yet while still that

heart shall palpitate, while one spark of that fire still lives in it

which was kindled by her eyes, still will I mourn beside you, cruel

bars; still kneel and mourn beside you! (_kneeling, and resting his head

against the grate_)

The _viceroy_ enters.

_Viceroy._ That plaintive voice-- I cannot be mistaken. Tis he! tis

Venoni! my friend!

_Venoni._ (_starting_) Benvolio! you within these walls! ah, did I not

entreat-- I told you, I repeat it now, I’m dead to the world. I exist

for no one-- for nothing-- but grief and the memory of Josepha. Leave

me! leave me! (_he resumes his despondent attitude_)

_Vice._ Not till I have obtained one last, last interview. Venoni,

I claim it in the name of that paternal friendship which I have borne

you for so many years, and which even now I feel for you as strong as

ever. I claim it in the name of that sacred union, once so near

connecting us by the most tender ties: I claim it in the name of her,

who while living was alike the darling of both our hearts, and in whose

grave the affection of both our hearts alike lies buried-- Venoni,

I claim it in the name of Josepha.

_Venoni._ (_quitting the grate_) Of Josepha? say on you shall be heard.

_Vice._ Tell me then, cruel friend, what is your present object? why

bury yourself in this abode of regret and sorrow, of repentance and

despair? what reason, nay, what right have you to deprive society of

talents, bestowed on you by Nature to employ for the benefit of mankind?

and what excuse can you make for resigning into the hands of strangers

that wealth which it is your sacred duty to distribute with your own?

heaven has endowed you with talents capable of making your own existence

useful; and your ungrateful neglect renders the gift of no avail: heaven

has bestowed on you wealth, capable of making the existence of others

happy; and your selfish indolence declines an office which the saints

covet, and for which even the angels contend!

_Venoni._ Friend! Benvolio! in pity!

_Vice._ You are neither weak nor credulous: vulgar prejudices,

superstitious terrors, enthusiastic dreams have never subjugated a mind

whose innate purity can have left you nothing to fear, and whose genuine

piety must have made you feel, that every thing is yours to hope. Why

then do I find you in this seclusion? what good is to arise from this

servile renunciation of yourself, this forgetfulness of the dignity of

human nature, this disgraceful sinking under afflictions which are the

common lot of all mankind? tis but too frequently the fate of man to

encounter calamity; but to bear it with resignation is always his duty.

Now speak, Venoni, and say, what arguments can defend your present

conduct.

_Venoni._ (_weakly and despondingly_) Benvolio-- I am wretched! I have

lost every thing; my strength of mind is broken; my heart is the prey of

despair.

_Vice._ Of despair? oh, blush to own it! true, you have met with

sorrows; and who then is exempt from them? true, your hopes have been

deceived; accident has dissolved your dream of happiness; death has

deprived you of the mistress of your choice: but you are a man and a

citizen; you have a country which requires your services, and yet, oh

shame! you resign yourself to despair, Venoni, where is your fortitude?

_Venoni._ Fortitude? oh! I have none-- none but to sue for death at the

hand of heaven: had I possessed less fortitude, my own hand would have

given me what I sue for long since!

_Vice._ And say, that death be the only blessing left yourself to wish

for; is it then only for yourself, that you wish for blessing? say, that

your heart be dead to pleasure, ought it not still to live for virtue?

your prospects of happiness may indeed be closed, but the field of your

duties remains still open. Mark me, Venoni; life may become to man but

one long scene of misery; yet surely the spirit of benevolence should

never perish but with life.

_Venoni._ Nor shall mine perish even then, Benvolio. In the hands of

those virtuous men to whom I shall confide my treasures, they will

become the patrimony of the widow and the orphan, of the wanderer in a

foreign land, and of him on whom the hand of sickness lies heavy. When

my bones shall be whitened by time, still shall my riches feed the

fainting beggar. When this heart, itself so heavy, shall be mouldered

away into dust, my bounty shall still make light the heavy hearts of my

fellow-sufferers! yes; even in his grave, Venoni shall still make others

happy!

_Vice._ And how can you hope that these friars will perform that duty

hereafter, which you now through indolence refuse to perform yourself?

you, who decline the task of distributing your wealth to advantage, how

can you expect to find in strangers the spirit of benevolence more

active?-- would you have your fortune well administered, at least set

yourself an example to your heirs: summon your fortitude, return to the

world once more, and----

_Venoni._ I cannot! tis impossible! I am here!-- here I must remain. My

understanding impaired-- a wretched creature, quite alone in the wide,

wide, world-- a feeble reed, crushed and broken by the tempest-- I

required support-- I require it still-- the superior of this house-- the

good man regrets my beloved, and mingles his tears with mine. I have

found no one but him whose heart was open to my affliction-- who would

listen to my complaints unwearied-- who would talk to me of Josepha.

I am here-- and Josepha-- she is here too! nothing separates us except

those bars. I am near her grave-- I am near her-- I live near her--

I will die near her! (_leaning against the grate_)

_Vice._ The superior of this house? and are you sure you know his real

character? mark me, unfortunate! yet should we be overheard----

_Venoni._ We are alone-- proceed.

_Vice._ Know you a friar, called in this monastery by the name of

Michael?

_Venoni._ I have seen the man; and now it strikes me that unusual care

has been always taken to prevent our being left alone.

_Vice._ This Michael has written to me-- but I know not if I ought--

Venoni, should you betray----

_Venoni._ How, Benvolio? you doubt----

_Vice._ I doubt the soundness of your head, not the sentiments of your

heart-- yet it must be risked-- Venoni, I came hither in search of

father Michael-- I heard your voice, and hastened to embrace you once

more. Doubtless, I shall not be permitted to see this friar; be that

your care. He writes, that what he has to disclose is of extreme

importance; that it concerns-- but you shall hear his letter--

(_reading_) “I have secrets to divulge of consequence too great to be

confided to paper. Suffice it, that your friend Venoni is in danger;

totally in the power of his most cruel enemy----”

[At this moment the _prior_ enters; the viceroy hastily conceals

the letter in his bosom.]

_Prior._ (_in an humble voice_) I heard that your excellence was in the

convent, and was unwilling to deprive you of an uninterrupted interview

with your friend. But the hour is come, when our rules enjoin us

solitude; pardon me then, when my duty compels me to observe----

_Vice._ I understand you, father; it is time that I should retire: yet

surely your rules are not so strict as to prohibit my conversing with

Venoni for one half hour more?

_Prior._ It grieves me to inform your excellence, that I have already in

some degree infringed upon the scrupulous observance of our regulations.

It may not be.

_Venoni._ How, father? a single half hour surely----

_Prior._ Ah, what do you request of me, my son? the viceroy’s visit aims

at depriving me of my dearest friend; of that friend whom I have

selected from all mankind; and shall I not oppose the perseverance of

his efforts? I know well the count Benvolio’s influence over your mind,

and tremble at the power of his persuasions. I cannot, and I ought not

to abandon you to the tender anxious insinuations of generous but

misjudging friendship; and I must not permit your eyes to dwell too long

upon the deceitful pleasures of that world, which you have quitted with

so much reason, and to which with such mistaken kindness your friends

would force you back.

_Vice._ Father, this eagerness----

_Prior._ You have promised to be my brother, to be that which is far

dearer, my friend: and shall I renounce a treasure so invaluable at the

very moment, which ought to make it mine forever? No, no! Venoni, nor

will I fear your exacting from me so great a sacrifice. He whose tears I

have dried, whose sorrows I have shared-- who has told me a thousand

times that I was his only consolation, and that my sympathy shed the

only gleam over his days of mourning. No! never will I believe that he

will now reward my friendship with caprice, with desertion, with

ingratitude so cruel, so cutting, so unlooked for!

_Venoni._ Oh, good father-- I know not how----

_Vice._ You talk, sir, much of your friendship? I too profess to feel

for Venoni no moderate share of that sentiment; and I think, that I

prove my friendship best, when I advise him not to renounce a world, to

which he owes the service of his talents and the example of his virtues.

Yes, sir, yes! I advise Venoni to return into the world-- and at least

in giving that advice, I am certain that no one will suspect me of

having views upon his fortune.

_Pri._ (_to Venoni_) You hear this accusation, my son! you hear it, and

are silent! you, who are acquainted with my whole heart; you who know

well how little I regard your wealth; that wealth, which perhaps I might

desire without a crime, since it would only be placed in my hands, in

order that it might pass into those of the unfortunate: that wealth

which you would aid me yourself to distribute, and which-- you turn away

your eyes? you are afraid to encounter mine? the blow is then struck.

I see-- I feel too well that my friend is lost to me!

_Venoni._ (_eagerly_) Oh, no, no, no! never shall I forget the share

which you have taken in my misfortunes; never shall I forget how much I

owe to your consoling attentions, to your sympathy and pity. But yet-- I

confess-- Benvolio’s remonstrances-- the duties which he has recalled to

my contemplation-- my country’s claims upon my services----

_Vice._ (_embracing him_) Courage, my friend! proceed! dare to become a

man once more, and restore to your native land that most precious

treasure, a virtuous citizen!

_Pri._ (_with assumed gentleness_) I have no more to say: since such is

your choice, return to the world, my son; I oppose it no longer.

Undoubtedly you will there meet with pleasures and indulgences, such as

the sad and silent cloister could little hope to offer you. Perhaps you

act wisely; perhaps in the tumult of society, surrounded by gay and

fascinating objects who will spare no pains to charm and please you, at

length you may succeed in forgetting the unfortunate, to whose

remembrance you once were prepared to sacrifice every thing.

_Venoni._ (_starting in horror at the idea_) I! I forget her! forget

Josepha!

_Pri._ And in fact-- why renounce all the delights of life for one who

cannot know the sacrifice-- who now is nothing more than an unconscious

heap of ashes----

_Venoni._ Josepha!

_Pri._ No more will you kneel at yonder grate; no more will that

tomb----

_Venoni._ Josepha!

_Vice._ (_indignant at the prior’s success_) This artifice-- this

insidious language----

_Pri._ (_pressing his point_) Yes, yes! I see how it will be! she, whom

heaven scarcely balanced in your heart, soon abandoned, soon forgotten,

soon replaced----

_Venoni._ (_almost frantic_) Never, never!

_Vice._ Rash youth! pronounce not----

_Pri._ You have sworn a thousand times to live near her, to die near

her----

_Venoni._ (_in the most violent agitation_) I have! I have sworn it!

I will keep my vow, and-- hark! (_the bell strikes nine; at the first

sound Venoni starts, and utters a dreadful shriek; the blood seems to

curdle in his veins, and he remains in an attitude of horror like one

petrified._)

_Pri._ (_triumphant_) Ah, listen to that bell! twas at this very hour,

that Josepha’s eye-lids closed for ever! twas at this very hour, that--

(_the bell ceases to strike; Venoni recovers animation_)

_Venoni._ Josepha! oh, my Josepha! (_he rushes towards the grate, sinks

on his knees, and extends his arms through the bars towards the tomb._)

_Venoni._ (_after a short pause starts up, comes forward, and embraces

the viceroy in a hurried manner_) Farewell! I am grateful for your zeal;

but my fate is irrevocable!

_Vice._ Cruel youth! yet hear----

_Venoni._ No more, no more! I am dead to the world! yet forget not, that

while I lived, I lived to love you. Farewell, Benvolio-- farewell for

ever!

[Breaks from him, and exit.

(The viceroy remains in an attitude of profound grief; the prior

surveys him in silence with a look of malignant joy; at length

he advances towards him)

_Pri._ (_in a hypocritical tone_) May I without offence represent to

your excellence, that night approaches? it must be near the time, when

our rules require, that the monastery gates should be closed.

_Vice._ I read your soul, and your inhuman joy bursts out in spite of

your hypocrisy. Exult; but your triumph will be short. I have eyes--

they are fixed upon you!-- tremble!

[Exit.

_Pri._ (_fiercely_) And you who talk so loudly and so high-- tremble for

yourself! vain man, you little dream to what heights I can extend my

vengeance!

(Father _Jeronymo_ enters with a dark lantern.)

(_During the following scene, night comes on, and the moon rises_)

_Jer._ Even now I encountered Venoni, his eyes wild, his lips pale, his

whole frame trembling with agitation. I almost dread to inquire the

issue of this interview. Say, what result----

_Pri._ Jeronymo, there was one dreadful moment, when I gave up all for

lost-- Venoni was on the point of escaping from my power.

_Jer._ What! the viceroy’s arguments----

_Pri._ Spoke but too forcibly to Venoni’s heart. He talked to him of his

duties; he painted the world as a spacious field for the exercise of

virtue, and Venoni no longer looked upon the world with disgust.

_Jer._ But surely his love-- his despair-- the shock which his

understanding has received--

_Pri._ Right: tis to them that we are indebted for retaining our captive

in his chains. His resolution was shaken; the viceroy already triumphed;

but I pronounced Josepha’s name, and instantly he forgot all but her. He

is ours once more; tomorrow will see him resign his wealth and liberty

in my hands; and much time shall not elapse, ere that first sacrifice is

followed by a second.

_Jer._ And does then this count Benvolio inspire you with no

apprehensions? As viceroy of Messina his power is great; and how to

escape the vigilance of his suspicious eye--

_Pri._ And by what means then have I veiled from every eye the fate of

the wretched Lodovico, who for twenty years has expiated in the gloom of

our subterraneous cells the crime of having revealed our convent

secrets; and yet who on earth suspects, that he has not long since

sought the grave, the victim of an accidental malady? Jeronymo, fear

nothing; give me but time, and the success of my design is certain.

_Jer._ I would fain believe it so-- yet forget not, that father

Michael--

_Pri._ His fate is decided. It’s true, I as yet accuse him only on

suspicions, but these suspicions are enough. I will not live in fear,

and tomorrow-- some one approaches.

_Jer._ As well as the moonlight enables me to discern, tis

Venoni-- perhaps he returns hither, hoping that the viceroy may not be

yet departed.

_Pri._ Let us retire. I have still much to say to you-- summon our

friends to my cell, that our proceedings may be finally arranged.

Afterwards we will rejoin Venoni, and spare no pains to confirm him in

that resolution, which secures at once his destruction and my revenge.

Silence! he is here!

[Exeunt.

_Venoni_ enters hastily.

_Venoni._ Benvolio! friend! he is gone! how abruptly did I quit him! how

ungratefully have I repaid his kindness! ah, whither is my reason fled!

he said-- I was in danger! in danger? and what then have I left to fear?

what have I still left to lose? my life? oh, I were happy-- too, too

happy-- if the moment of parting with it were even now arrived!

Enter father _Michael_, with a dark lantern; which he afterwards

just opens to observe Venoni, and having ascertained his person,

closes it again looking round cautiously.

_Mi._ (_in a low, hurried voice_) That voice could be none but his.

Venoni! answer! is it thou, Venoni?

_Venoni._ Who speaks? ha! father Michael?

_Mi._ (_closing the lantern_) I sought you-- I must speak with you-- I

must save you!

_Venoni._ Save me?

_Mi._ The viceroy has been here: was he admitted?

_Venoni._ He was-- I saw him.

_Mi._ Mentioned he a letter?

_Venoni._ He did.

_Mi._ I was not suffered to see him: they suspect me, and confined me in

my cell a prisoner, till he had left the monastery. I am compelled then

to address myself to you; but I must be speedy: one moment only is

allowed me, while the prior and his confederates are engaged in their

secret councils. Venoni, collect your powers of mind; summon up all your

strength; this is a moment which demands courage and resolution-- your

Josepha is lost to you--

_Venoni._ For ever!

_Mi._ And know you the man who tore her from your arms? know you the man

who-- _murdered_ her?

_Venoni._ Murdered her? almighty powers! what mean you? whom mean you?

_Mi._ Your rival! your friend! the man who today possesses most

influence over your mind, and who tomorrow will become despotic master

of your destiny: the tiger whose tongue submissively licks your hand

today, and whose talons will tear out your heart tomorrow.

_Venoni._ Whom, whom?

_Mi._ The father Cœlestino.

_Venoni._ (_in the greatest horror_) He? the prior? powers of mercy!--

(_then with decision_) away! it cannot be.

_Mi._ You doubt me? be convinced then. Some months are past since a

tremendous fire broke out in this convent at midnight. The prior was

absent; his apartment was in flames; I burst the door, and rescued such

articles as appeared to be of most importance; a crucifix of value; his

casket; his papers--

_Venoni._ Go on, go on!

_Mi._ Among these papers one letter was half open: unintentionally the

first words caught my eye, and their import compelled me to read the

rest. It was from the abbess of the Ursulines, whose chapel is only

separated from ours by a party-wall. It informed me, that a

communication exists between the two convents, unknown to all but the

prior and his confidants; that the most scandalous abuses--

_Venoni._ (_frantic with impatience_) Josepha, Josepha-- oh! speak to me

of Josepha!

_Mi._ Other letters leave no doubt, that the prior’s motive for

secluding her in the Ursuline convent was a licentious passion for your

bride. In that convent every art was employed to corrupt her heart, but

every art was employed in vain. She endeavoured to escape; she was

watched and closely confined. Your return was expected daily-- Josepha

threatened her tyrants with disclosure of this atrocious secret-- the

prior and his accomplice stood on the brink of an abyss, and, to prevent

it, she was precipitated into an untimely grave.

_Venoni._ (_leaning against a tree_) My brain turns around.

_Mi._ Nay, sink not beneath the blow; think upon Josepha’s murder, and

hasten to avenge it-- think upon the dreadful fate which awaits

yourself. I come hither to rescue you, and--

_Venoni._ Stay, stay! my brain-- my ideas-- oh, God! oh, God! can there

be men so cruel-- can there be hearts so hard! he, he who supported my

aching head on his bosom-- who wept with me-- who pitied me-- rage!

distraction!-- but no! (_shuddering_) this crime is too horrible, nature

revolts at it, this crime is impossible!

_Mi._ Impossible? then read this. (_taking out a letter_) I have seen

the prior show you notes from the abbess, in which she affected to pity

your situation, and lament the loss of Josepha-- you recollect her

writing?

_Venoni._ Recollect it? oh heaven, too well!-- let me look on the

letter! (_father Michael opens the lantern and throws a light upon the

paper, at the same time shading it with his habit to prevent its being

observed at the convent_) Yes, this is her hand; I should know it among

a thousand others.

_Mi._ Read! read, and be convinced.

_Venoni._ (_reading, while emotion frequently chokes his voice_) “We are

undone, Cœlestino; her parents have written to me; and in a few days we

must expect Venoni’s return. The incensed Josepha threatens to reveal

all that has past; prayers and menaces have been tried in vain; she has

determined on our destruction, and nothing can preserve us but her

removal from the world. You must decide immediately; answer me but one

word, and before three days are elapsed, Josepha and this dangerous

secret shall be buried together, and for ever!” (_he sinks upon a bank

of turf, as if stupified, and sits there in an attitude of motionless

despair_)

_Mi._ Josepha’s death, which happened within three days after this

letter’s date, declares but too plainly, what was the villain’s answer.

You are now master of the whole plot. Tis evident, that your life also

is aimed at: you are a rival, whom the prior abhors; and whom it was

first necessary to deceive, before he could gratify his vengeance. Your

vows once pronounced-- your wealth secured-- separated from your

friends-- deprived of all assistance; then it is that the storm of

revenge and malice will burst in all its horrors on your devoted head.

You will be dead to all the rest of nature, but you will still exist for

Cœlestino; will exist to feel the whole extent of his barbarity, to

experience every refinement of torture and every species of agony;

without being really permitted to expire, daily to suffer a thousand and

a thousand deaths. You answer not? you move not?-- rouse, rouse, Venoni;

let us hasten from this dangerous abode: my fate is no less certain than

your own, and flight alone can save me. It’s true, the gates are locked,

but I possess the key to a private door of the garden. We are yet

unobserved; rise then and let us hence.

_Venoni._ (_recovering from his stupor, and suddenly starting up_) Where

is he? where does the monster hide himself? I will revenge her! I will

punish her murderers!

_Mi._ (_violently alarmed_) What would you do? whither would you go?

_Venoni._ Whither? whither? to revenge Josepha!

_Mi._ For mercy’s sake, recollect yourself! this way; let us fly.

_Venoni._ (_raving_) What? fly? and leave her unavenged? never! I will

die, I will die! but I will punish her assassins!

_Mi._ Silence, silence! these shrieks-- we shall be betrayed: you

destroy yourself, Venoni! yourself and me!

_Venoni._ (_with frantic screams_) Josepha! Josepha!

_Mi._ (_endeavouring to force him away_) I must be gone! follow me, or

you are lost! hark! holy saints they are at hand! wretched youth, they

bring the death warrant of us both! come, come! for heaven’s sake come!

_Venoni._ (_without heeding him_) The miscreant! the monster! oh,

Josepha!

_Mi._ (_in despair releasing him_) Remain, then, madman, since thou wilt

have it so! remain, and perish!

[Exit hastily.

_Venoni._ (_alone, and wandering about the garden with a distracted

air_) Where shall I direct-- where seek-- a cloud obscures my

eyes-- despair, rage, powers of vengeance! powers of fury! guide me,

desert me not; give me strength to-- my limbs refuse to bear me:

I faint, I die! (_he falls upon the ground_)

The _prior_, the fathers _Jeronymo_, _Anastasio_, and _Nicolo_,

and other monks enter with torches.

_Pri._ (_speaking without_) What clamours make the garden resound? who

thus disturbs the hallowed silence which---- how? Venoni! alone!

stretched on the earth! he is insensible; yet sure there was some one

with him! speak, Jeronymo; heard you not?--

_Jer._ Two voices certainly seemed to mingle, and the dispute was

earnest.

_Ana._ Whoever was here, cannot have gone far. Let us seek.

_Pri._ Lose not a moment: be Nicolo your companion.

[Exeunt Anastasio and Nicolo.

_Pri._ Meanwhile, be it our care to restore Venoni to himself: his

fortune is not yet in our possession. (_he kneels and supports Venoni in

his arms_) My son! Venoni! look up, Venoni.

_Venoni._ (_reviving_) Who names me? who speaks to me?

_Pri._ One whom your situation cuts to the very heart. What has produced

this new distress? tell me, my son?

_Venoni._ (_whom the prior has assisted to rise, casts round him a wild

unconscious look, and unable to support himself reclines his head on the

prior’s bosom_) What has happened? where am I?

_Pri._ In the arms of that tender friend whose sympathy--

_Venoni._ (_struck by the voice, and recollecting himself, raises his

head, fixes his eyes on the prior, and repulses him with a look of

extreme horror_) Thou? thou? oh, eternal justice!

_Pri._ (_astonished_) How is this? you drive me from you; and does then

the sight of me inspire you with disgust?

_Venoni._ (_shuddering_) Disgust?

_Pri._ In what have I offended? what is my crime?

_Venoni._ (_exasperated beyond bounds_) And still dare you ask? inhuman!

still dare you ask-- what is your crime? oh, monstrous hypocrisy! oh,

guilt beyond belief! she is dead! and still dare you ask-- in what have

you offended?

Enter father _Anastasio_ and father _Nicolo_.

_Ana._ Tis in vain that--

_Pri._ Silence! (_with calm dignity_) hear me, Venoni! tis plain that

your senses are disordered, and I therefore listen to these insults

without resentment: these insults which I have so little deserved from

you. But I know well that your injustice proceeds not from your heart;

and when this paroxysm of delirium is past--

_Venoni._ Delirium? no, no! do not hope it! excess of misery-- desire of

vengeance have restored my reason: I feel but too well, both for myself

and you, that my senses are right again, and tremble thou to hear they

are so! I see you now in your true colours, in all the horrors of your

atrocious guilt! your hour is arrived; your cup is full; and the abyss

already yawns beneath your feet, which within an hour shall bury you in

its womb for ever! farewell! (_going_)

_Pri._ Yet stay, Venoni! you must not-- you shall not leave me thus.

What means this talk of guilt, of vengeance? declare at once what

troubles you! I boldly challenge an immediate explanation.

_Venoni._ (_furious_) What? you brave me? ha! read! read, then, monster!

(_gives him the letter, which he received from father Michael: but

immediately afterwards, becoming aware of his imprudence, he endeavours

to regain it_) merciful heavens, what have I done!

_Pri._ (_after examining the letter turns to the monks, and says in a

calm decided tone_) Every thing is discovered-- we are betrayed.

_Jer._ How? how?

_Ana._ What must be done? we are lost!

_Jer._ But one moment is still ours.

_Ni._ There is but one chance of escape--

_Pri._ Silence! (_during these speeches he seems to have been collecting

his thoughts; he advances to Venoni, and says in a firm decided tone_)

those words, in which you threatened my destruction, assured your own--

(_in a voice of thunder_) die! die, and be our dangerous secret buried

for ever in your grave! (_to Jeronymo_) unclose the chapel door and

raise the secret stone.

_Jeronymo_ enters the chapel.

_Pri._ Seize him!

_Venoni._ (_who during the above speeches has remained in silent

consternation, on being seized by father Anastasio, &c. bursts out into

the most passionate exclamations_) What, barbarians! do you dare?--

_Pri._ Bear him to the chapel!

_Venoni._ (_struggling_) Inhuman monsters! the vengeance of heaven-- my

friends-- my cries-- help-- save me!

_Pri._ Stifle his shrieks! away with him! (_the monks surround him-- a

handkerchief is thrown over his face, and he sinks into their arms

exhausted-- the scene drops, as they are conveying him towards the

chapel, the prior being the last who follows, pointing to him with a

look of triumphant vengeance_)

_End of Act. II._

ACT III.

SCENE I-- _A dungeon with a concealed door on one side, a tomb on the

other, and a gallery above-- a grated door in the back._

_Lod._ (_with an iron bar in one hand and lamp in the other, comes

feebly from the concealed door_) My efforts are unavailing! wretched,

wretched Lodovico, the hopes of escape, which thou hast so long

indulged, must at length be abandoned forever! in vain has the labour of

twenty years forced me a passage from my own cell into this adjoining

dungeon: in vain has my persevering vigilance at length succeeded in

discovering yonder private door, whose artful concealment during whole

years eluded my inquiries-- the upper portal-- its massive bars-- its

inflexible locks: increasing age-- increasing weakness. Farewell, hope!

I will make the attempt no more, (_he throws down the iron bar_) Oh,

faint-- faint! my efforts have quite exhausted me-- now, even were the

means of flight mine, weakness would forbid-- I will regain my own cell,

sink on my couch of straw, pardon my enemies, and expire! let me see!

yes! twas about this spot that I made the opening, and these stones

removed--

_Pri._ (_above_) For a few moments wait above: you, Jeronymo, precede me

with the torch.

_Lod._ Heavens! tis the prior! twenty years have elapsed since I heard

it; but too well do I remember that dreadful voice, which pronounced on

me the sentence of separation from the world forever. What

business-- perhaps, my death-- alas, alas! I fear it! wretched as my

existence is, frail as is the fibre by which I am attached to life,

still the moment is awful, which must sever it for ever; whither shall I

turn-- how avoid-- I dare not regain my prison-- this cell too will

doubtless be searched-- (_a light flashes across the gallery_) he comes!

tis to this very dungeon that his steps are addrest-- where then, oh,

where shall I drag my fainting limbs-- ha! perhaps, that secret passage

may be unknown even to the prior-- perhaps it may awhile conceal-- it

must be tried-- see, see! he is here! away, away!

[Exit, and closes the door after him.

Enter the _prior_ and _Jeronymo_, with torches.

_Pri._ I tell you this dungeon is impenetrable: in vain will our enemies

seek its entrance.

_Jer._ But still the viceroy’s suspicions aided by his authority.

Besides, is not father Michael fled?

_Pri._ Father Michael! absurd! and how then, is it in his power to

betray us? we reposed in him no confidence; he has never been initiated

into our mysteries, and can have no possible reason for suspecting even

the existence of this dungeon.

_Jer._ Yet still I cannot but fear--

_Pri._ Your fears are groundless-- I am aware that Venoni will be

inquired after; but how plausible will be the answer? “he has escaped

from us in the night, and whither delirium may have led the wanderer, we

are ignorant.” Say that the viceroy insists that Venoni is still within

these walls! we have no objection to his searching through the whole

monastery, perfectly secure that his search must be of no avail. Tis

already midnight. Place the lamp upon yonder tomb; place too that dagger

near it, the only mercy which my hatred can allow him;-- then when

despair shall reach its height, when he feels that hope is lost to him,

and that existence is a curse, then if he has courage let him grasp that

weapon, and thank the clemency of Cœlestino. Come! all is prepared!

Enter _Anastasio_ and _Nicolo_, with _Venoni_, whom they throw

upon the floor.

_Pri._ Object of everlasting hate! object of never to be sated

vengeance, lie thou there! live to feel the pangs of dying with every

moment of the day, that day whose light thou never shalt behold again.

Follow me!

[Exeunt prior, &c.

_Lodovico_ appears at the private door.

_Lod._ They are gone; their victim remains-- oh, let but his escape be

effected through my aid, and then how soon this old weak frame ceases to

feel, I care not! (_he descends_)

_Venoni._ Where am I? have they left me? the mist which obscures my

sight allows me to distinguish nothing; the objects which surround me

seem all confused; a thousand wild distorted images distract my brain--

I must give way.

_Lod._ Alas, poor youth! on the ground? I’ll hasten to pour upon his

wounded heart the balm of consolation-- yet hold! may they not return!

yet a few moments--

_Venoni._ (_rising_) The clouds disperse. I am alone-- they are

gone-- doubtless are gone for ever! what? and shall then the barbarian

triumph? shall then Josepha die unavenged? she must, she must! then

farewell, liberty; farewell hope! despair, despair! ha, what glitters--

a dagger? a tomb? doubtless designed for me-- tis there that all sorrows

terminate! tis there, that I shall dread no more the treachery and

crimes of man, his perfidious friendship, his dissembled spite, his

infernal thirst for vengeance! ha, and if all this indeed be so-- why

not this instant seize a blessing within my grasp? why not at once

defeat the malice of my jailors? it shall be so, and thus-- (_going to

stab himself, when Lodovico arrests his arm_)

_Lod._ Hold, hold! ungrateful!

_Venoni._ Ha! a stranger?

_Lod._ Short-sighted mortal! blush to have attempted that impious act!

you despaired of succour; you doubted the goodness of Providence; and at

that very moment heaven had commissioned me to comfort and preserve you.

_Venoni._ What are you? what mean you? speak, oh, speak!

_Lod._ Like yourself, I am the object of Cœlestino’s hatred; like

yourself was I condemned to descend alive into the tomb. Mark me, young

man. I knew well, that between these vaults and those belonging to the

adjoining convent there existed various private communications-- the

faint hope of discovering one of them formed the only amusement of my

solitary hours: I sought it-- I persevered-- youth, I have found it--

_Venoni._ Have found it? go on, for heaven’s sake.

_Lod._ Have found it here; found it, where its existence is probably

unknown even to the prior, since he selected this dungeon for your

confinement-- observe this private door-- (_opening it_) this passage

leads to a closed portal; its fastnings are massy-- I endeavoured but in

vain to force them; that bar, which I wrenched from my dungeon door--

_Venoni._ That bar? tis mine! I have it! come father, come! to the

portal!

_Lod._ Alas, my son! the ponderous fastenings-- the bolts-- the bars

will resist!

_Venoni._ Oh, talk not to me of resistance! what force can oppose the

efforts of a lover, a frantic desperate lover! father, there was a

maiden-- how fair she was, nothing but thought can imagine-- how I

adored her, nothing but this heart can feel! father, this maiden-- they

tore her from me, they murdered her-- murdered her barbarously-- tis for

her sake that I wish for liberty! tis to avenge her murder that I go to

labour; and can you doubt my success? no, no! that thought will turn my

blood into consuming fire, will harden every nerve into iron, will endow

every limb, every joint, every muscle with vigour and strength and

powers herculean-- come, father, come.

_Lod._ Oh! that I could! but age-- but infirmity-- go, go, my son,

I will remain, and pray for you.

_Venoni._ What? go, and leave you still in the power of your foe! never,

never!

_Lod._ Dear generous youth, you must! I should but impede your flight;

I should but mar your exertions. Away then! effect your own escape--

then return, and rescue me, if possible-- but should you find me dead,

oh! believe, that it will have sweetened the bitter hour to think, that

my existence lasted long enough to preserve yours.

_Venoni._ Thou good old man--

_Lod._ Yet one word! should you force the portal, and reach the interior

of the Ursuline convent in safety, shape your course towards the garden:

the wall is low-- to scale it is easy and--

_Venoni._ Enough! and now-- (_going_)

_Lod._ And when you are free-- when smiling, friends surround you-- when

all for you is liberty, and peace and happiness, do not-- oh! do not

quite forget, that a poor captive, languishing in his solitary cell--

_Venoni._ Forget you? never! by that life which you now give me, never;

I swear it! once at liberty, my first care shall be to effect your

rescue, my second to secure your happiness. Oh! surely if aught in life

is sweet it is when the heart overflows with gratitude, and the hand has

the power to perform what that grateful heart dictates and desires: oh!

surely if there is aught which gives mortals a foretaste of the bliss of

angels, it is when affection brings a smile upon the furrowed cheeks of

those to whom we are indebted for our existence. Tis to you that I owe

that gift; and while I have life, never will I forget that it is to you

I owe it. Now then away! one embrace: one blessing: then pray for me,

father, pray for me, and farewell!

[Exit with the lamp.

_Lod._ (_alone_) Spirits who favour virtue oh! strengthen his arms! aid

him! support him! hark he is at the door! I hear him! again, and again!

repeat the blow! hark, hark, it breaks, it shivers! and see--

_Venoni_, appearing above with the lamp.

_Venoni._ Freedom, freedom, freedom, friend, farewell! I speed to rescue

you.

[Exit.

_Lod._ Fly, fly! you bear with you my blessing! (_kneeling_) Heaven,

I adore and thank you! I have preserved a fellow creature’s life.

[The scene closes.