SCENE I.--_A hall in the Chateau de Valmont._

Produced by Louise Hope, Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier and

the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at

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[Transcriber's Note:

Typographical errors are listed at the end of the text. No attempt

was made to regularize the use of quotation marks.

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 relocated to the end of the journal text,

before the play. Pages 1-108 refer to the present Number.]

THE MIRROR OF TASTE,

AND

DRAMATIC CENSOR.

Neque mala vel bona quae vulgus putet. --_Tacitus._

PROSPECTUS.

The advantages of a correct judgment and refined taste in all matters

connected with literature, are much greater than men in general imagine.

The hateful passions have no greater enemies than a delicate taste and a

discerning judgment, which give the possessor an interest in the virtues

and perfections of others, and prompt him to admire, to cherish, and

make them known to the world. Criticism, the parent of these qualities,

therefore, mends the heart, while it improves the understanding. The

influence of critical knowledge is felt in every department of social

life, as it supplies elegant subjects for conversation, and enlarges the

scope, and extends the duration of intellectual enjoyment. Without it,

the pleasures we derive from the fine arts would be transient and

imperfect; and poetry, painting, music, and that admirable epitome of

life, the stage, would afford nothing more than a fugitive, useless,

pastime, if not aided by the interposition of the judgment, and sent

home, by the delightful process of criticism, to the memory, there to

exercise the mind to the last of life, to be the amusement of our

declining years, and, when all the other faculties for receiving

pleasure are impaired by old age and infirmity, to cast the sunshine of

delight over the last moments of our existence.

In no age or country has the improvement of the intellectual powers of

man made a larger share of the business of life than in these in which

we live. In the promotion of this spirit the stage has been an

instrument of considerable efficacy, and, as such, lays claim to a full

share of critical examination; yet, owing to some cause, which it seems

impossible to discover, that very important subject has been little

attended to in this great commonwealth; and in Philadelphia, the

principal city of the union, has been almost totally neglected. No

apology, therefore, can be thought necessary for offering the present

work to the public.

The utility of miscellanies of this kind has been sometimes called in

question; nor are those wanting who condemn the whole tribe of light

periodical productions, as detrimental to the advancement of solid

science and erudition: yet, in the most learned and enlightened nations

of Europe, magazines and periodical compilations have, for more than a

century, been circulated with vast success, and, within the last twenty

years, increased in price as well as number, to an extent that shows how

essentially the public opinion, in that quarter of the world differs

from that of the persons who condemn them.

Taking that decision as a decree without appeal, in favour of such

works, the editors think themselves authorized in offering the present

without any formal apology. If the perusal of such productions had a

tendency to prevent the youth of the country from aspiring to deep and

solid erudition, or to divert men of talents from the prosecution of

more important studies, the editors would be among the last to make any

addition to the stock already in circulation; but, convinced that, on

the contrary, works of that kind promote the advancement of general

knowledge, they have no scruple whatever in offering this to the

American people; and so firm do they feel in the conviction of its

utility, that they let it go into the world, unaided by any of those

arts, or specious professions which are sometimes employed, in similar

cases, to excite the attention, enlist the partialities, and seduce the

judgment of the public.

Of those who possess at once the talents, the leisure, and the

inclination to hunt erudition into its deepest recesses, the number must

ever be inconsiderable; and of that number the portion must be small

indeed, who could be diverted from that pursuit by the casual perusal of

light fugitive pieces. On the other hand, the great majority of mankind

would be left without inducement to read, if they were not supplied, by

publications of the kind proposed, with matter adapted to their

circumstances, to their capacities, and their various turns of fancy;

matter accessible to them by its conciseness and perspicuity, attractive

by its variety and lightness, and useful by its easy adaptation to the

familiar intercourse of life, and its fitness to enter into the

conversation of rational society. Men whose time and labour are chiefly

engrossed by the common occupations of life, have little leisure to

read, none for what is called study. In books they do not search for

deep learning, but for amusement accompanied with information on general

topics, conveyed with brevity; happy if, in seeking relaxation from the

drudgery of business, they can pick up some new particles of knowledge.

For this most useful and numerous portion of society, some adequate

intellectual provision ought to be made. Nor should it be imagined that,

in supplying them, the general interests of literature are deserted. The

frequent perusal of well collated miscellanies imparts to youth an

appetite for diligent reading; by slow but certain gradation, stores the

young mind with valuable ideas; accumulates in it a large stock of

useful knowledge; and imperceptibly insinuates a correct and refined

taste. Nor is this all. It may serve, as it often has, to rouse the

indolent from the gratification of complexional sloth, and recall the

unthinking and irregular from the haunts of dissipation and vice to the

blessings of serious reflection.

Few things have more tended to inflame the general passion for

literature in Great Britain than the practice of uniting the plan of the

reviews with that of the magazines, and making them jointly vehicles of

dramatic criticism. Multitudes at this day know the character of books,

and form a general conception of their subjects, who, but for the light

periodical publications, would never have known that such books existed:

many who would not otherwise have extended their reading beyond the

columns of a newspaper, are led by the pleasures of a represented play,

to read the critic's strictures upon it, and thence, by a natural

transition, to peruse attentively the various other subjects which

surround those strictures in the magazines. This is the reason why

hundreds read the Monthly Mirror and similar productions of London, for

one who reads the Rambler.

For the passionate love of books, and the rapid advancement of

literature which distinguish her from all young countries, America is

greatly indebted to her periodical publications. Those, though small in

number, and, unfortunately, too often shortlived, have been read in

their respective times and circles with great avidity, and produced a

correspondent effect. THE PORT FOLIO alone raised, long ago, a spirit in

the country which malicious Dulness itself will never be able to lay.

Yet the disproportion in number of those miscellanies which have

succeeded in America, to those which enrich the republic of letters in

England, is astonishing, considering the comparative population of the

two countries. London boasts of several periodical publications founded

on the DRAMA alone; and though the other magazines occasionally contain

short strictures on that subject, those have the greatest circulation

which are most exclusively devoted to the stage.

IN AMERICA THERE HAS NOT YET BEEN ONE OF THAT DESCRIPTION.

To supply this defect, and raise the United States one step higher in

laudable emulation with Great Britain, the editors have planned the

present work, of which, (though not to the total exclusion of other

matter) the basis will be

THE DRAMA.

The first and by far the larger share will be allotted to the stage, and

dramatic productions. The residue to miscellaneous articles, most of

them connected with the fashionable amusements, and designed to correct

the abuses, which intemperate ignorance, and Licentiousness, running

riot for want of critical control, have introduced into the public

diversions of this opulent and luxurious city.

In the composition of the several parts of this work, care will be taken

to furnish the public with new and interesting matter, and to select

from the current productions of the British metropolis such topics as

will best tend to promote the cultivation of an elegant taste for

knowledge and letters, and, at the same time, repay the reader for the

trouble of perusal, with amusement and delight. Abstracts from the most

popular publications will be given, accompanied with short critical

remarks upon them, and, whatever appears most interesting in the

periodical productions of Great Britain will be transferred into this;

pruned if they be prolix, and illustrated by explanatory notes, whenever

they may be found obscured by local or personal allusion.

As the leading object of the work is, not to infuse a passion, but to

inculcate a just and sober taste for dramatic poetry and acting, the

editors propose to give, _seriatim_, a history of the drama from its

origin, with strictures on dramatic poesy, and portraits of the best

dramatic poets of antiquity. To this will succeed the history of the

British stage, with portraits of the most celebrated poets, authors, and

actors who have flourished on it, and strictures on the professional

talents of the latter, illustrated by parallels and comparisons with

those who have been most noted for excellence on the American boards.

From that history the reader will be able to deduce a proper conviction

of the advantages of the stage, and the importance, if not the

necessity, of putting the actors and the audience on a more proper

footing with each other than that in which they now stand. Actors must

lay their account with being told their faults. They owe their whole

industry and attention to those who attend their performance; but the

editors hold that critic to have forfeited his right to correct the

stage, and to be much more deserving of reprehension than those he

censures, who, in the discharge of his duty, forgets that the actor has

his rights and privileges also; that he has the same rights which every

other gentleman possesses, and of which his profession has not even the

remotest tendency to deprive him, to be treated with politeness and

respect; that he has the same right as every other man in society, as

the merchant, the mechanic, or the farmer, to prosecute his business

unmolested; shielded by the same laws which protect them from the

attacks of malicious libellers out of the theatre, and the insults of

capricious Ignorance or stupid Malevolence within. "Reproof," says Dr.

Johnson, "should not exhaust its power upon petty failings;" and "the

care of the critic should be to distinguish error from inability, faults

of inexperience from defects of nature. On this principle the editors

will unalterably act. And, since they have cited the great moralist's

maxim as a direction for critics, they, even in this their first step

into public view, beg leave to offer a few sentiments from the same high

source, for the guidance of AUDITORS. "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.[1]"

[Footnote 1: Johnson's Idler, No. 25.]

This work, therefore, will contain a regular journal of all, worthy of

notice, that passes in the theatre of Philadelphia, and an account of

each night's performances, accompanied with a critical analysis of the

play and after-piece, and remarks upon the merits of the actors. Nor

shall the management of the stage, in any particular, escape

observation. Thus the public will know what they owe to the manager and

to the leader of each department, and those again what they owe to the

public. To make THE MIRROR OF TASTE AND DRAMATIC CENSOR, as far as

possible a general national work, measures have been taken to obtain

from the capital cities, of the other states, a regular account of their

theatrical transactions. To this will be added a register of the other

public exhibitions, and, in general, of all the fashionable amusements

of this city, and, from time to time, the sporting intelligence of the

new and old country.

To the first part, which will be entitled "The Domestic Dramatic

Censor," will succeed the "Foreign Dramatic Censor." This will contain a

general account of all that passes in the theatres of Great Britain,

likely to interest the fashionable world and _amateurs_ of America, viz.

the new pieces, whether play, farce, or interlude, with their prologues

and epilogues, together with their character and reception there, and

critiques on the acting, collected from the various opinions of the best

critics, together with the amusing occurrences, anecdotes, bon-mots, and

greenroom chitchat, scattered through the various periodical

publications of England, Ireland, and Scotland.

The next head will be Stage Biography, under which the reader will find

the lives and characters of the leading actors of both countries.

These will be followed by a miscellany collated from the foreign

productions, catalogues of the best books and best compositions in

music, published or preparing for publication in Europe or America, with

concise reviews of such as have already appeared.

Poetry, of course, will be introduced; not, as usual, under one head,

but scattered in detached pieces through the whole.

TERMS.

_The price of the Mirror will be eight dollars per annum, payable on the

delivery of the sixth number._

_A number will be issued every month, forming two volumes in the year._

_To each number will be added, by way of appendix, an entire play or

after-piece, printed in a small elegant type, and paged so as to be

collected, at the end of each year, into a separate volume._

_The work will be embellished with elegant engravings by the first

artists._

THE MIRROR OF TASTE,

AND

DRAMATIC CENSOR.

Vol. I. JANUARY 1810. No. 1.

HISTORY OF THE STAGE.

Segnius irritant animos demissa per aurem

Quam quae sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus, et quae

Ipse sibi tradit spectator.[2] _Hor. de Arte Poetica._

[Footnote 2:

What we _hear_

With weaker passion will affect the heart

Than when the faithful eye beholds the part. --_Francis._ ]

CHAPTER I.

OBJECTIONS TO THE STAGE CONSIDERED AND REFUTED.

That amusement is necessary to man, the most superficial observation of

his conduct and pursuits may convince us. The Creator never implanted in

the hearts of all his intelligent creatures one common universal

appetite without some corresponding necessity; and that he has given

them an instinctive appetite for amusements as strong as any other which

we labour to gratify, may be clearly perceived in the efforts of

infancy, in the exertions of youth, in the pursuits of manhood, in the

feeble endeavours of old age, and in the pastimes which human creatures,

even the uninstructed savage nations themselves, have invented for their

relaxation and delight. This appetite evinces a necessity for its

gratification as much as hunger, thirst, and weariness, intimate the

necessity of bodily refection by eating, drinking, and sleeping; and not

to yield obedience to that necessity, would be to counteract the

intentions of Providence, who would not have furnished us so bountifully

as he has with faculties for the perception of pleasure, if he had not

intended us to enjoy it. Had the Creator so willed it, the process

necessary to the support of existence here below might have been carried

on without the least enjoyment on our part: the daily waste of the body

might be repaired without the sweet sensations which attend eating and

drinking; we might have had the sense of hearing without the delight we

derive from sweet sounds; and that of smelling without the capability of

enjoying the fragrance of the rose: but He whose wisdom and beneficence

are above all comprehension, has ordained in another and a better

manner, and annexed the most lively sensations of pleasure to every

operation he has made necessary to our support, thereby making the

enjoyment of pleasure one of the conditions of our existence. This is an

unanswerable refutation of one of the most abominable doctrines of the

atheists--the overbalance of evil; and as such, that wise and amiable

divine, doctor Paley, has made use of it in his Natural Theology. It is

true, that yielding to the tendency of our frail, overweening nature to

push enjoyment of every kind to its utmost verge, men too often

overshoot the mark, and frustrate the object they have most at heart, by

eagerness to accomplish it. For though to a reasonable extent and in

certain circumstances, all enjoyments are harmless, they degenerate into

crimes, when excessively indulged, and particularly when the imagination

is overstrained to improve their zest, or to refine or exalt them beyond

the limits which Nature and sobriety prescribe. But this can no more be

alledged as a reason for renouncing the moderate use of the enjoyment,

than the excesses of the drunkard or glutton for the rejection of food

and drink.

That man must have amusement of some kind, "Nature speaks aloud." He,

therefore, who supplies society with entertainment unadulterated by

vice, who contributes to the pleasure without impairing the innocence of

his fellow-beings, and above all, who instructs while he delights, may

justly be ranked among the benefactors of mankind, and lays claim to the

gratitude and respect of the society he serves. To that gratitude and

respect the dramatic poet, and those who contribute to give effect to

his works, are richly entitled. Accordingly history informs us that in

all recorded ages theatrical exhibitions have been not only held in high

estimation by the most wise, learned, and virtuous men, but sedulously

cultivated and encouraged by legislators as matters of high public

importance, particularly in those nations that have been most renowned

for freedom and science.

In the multitude and diversity of conflicting opinions which divide

mankind upon all, even the most manifest truths, we find some upon this

subject. Many well-meaning, sincere christians have waged war against

the enjoyment of pleasure, as if it were the will of God that we should

go weeping and sorrowing through life. The learned bishop of Rochester,

speaking of a religious sect which carries this principle as far as it

will go, says: "their error is not heterodoxy, but excessive, overheated

zeal." Thus we find that the stage has ever been with many well-meaning

though mistaken men, a constant object of censure. Of those, a vast

number express themselves with the sober, calm tenderness which comports

with the character of christians, while others again have so far lost

their temper as to discard in a great measure from their hearts the

first of all christian attributes--charity. We hope, for the honour of

christianity, that there are but few of the latter description. There

are men however of a very different mould--men respectable for piety and

for learning, who have suffered themselves to be betrayed into opinions

hostile to the drama upon other grounds: these will even read plays, and

profess to admire the poetry, the language, and the genius of the

dramatic poet; but still make war upon scenic representations,

considering them as stimulants to vice--as a kind of moral cantharides

which serves to inflame the passions and break down the ramparts behind

which religion and prudence entrench the human heart. Some there are

again, who entertain scruples of a different kind, and turn from a play

because it is a fiction; while there are others, and they are most

worthy of argument, who think that theatres add more than their share to

the aggregate mass of luxury, voluptuousness, and dissipation, which

brings nations to vitious refinement, enervation and decay.

In all reasoning of this kind, authority goes a great way, and therefore

before we proceed any further, we will enrol under the banners of our

argument a few high personages, whose names on such an occasion are of

weight to stand against the world, and enumerate some great nations who

reverenced and systematically encouraged the drama. If it can be shown

that some of the most exalted men that ever lived--men eminent for

virtue, high in power and distinction, and illustrious for talents, in

different countries and at different times, have countenanced the stage

and even written for it; nay, that some of that description have

themselves been actors, further argument may well be thought

superfluous: yet we will not rest the matter there, but taking those

along with us as authorities, go on and probe the error to which we

allude, even to the very bone.

It might not be difficult to prove by inference from a multitude of

facts scattered through the history of the world, that a passion for the

dramatic art is inherent in the nature of man. How else should it happen

that in every age and nation of the world, vestiges remain of something

resembling theatrical amusements. It is asserted that the people of

China full three thousand years ago had something of the kind and

presented on a public stage, in spectacle, dialogue and action, living

pictures of men and manners, for the suppression of vice, and the

circulation of virtue and morality. Even the Gymnosophists, severe as

they were, encouraged dramatic representation. The Bramins, whose

austerity in religious and moral concerns almost surpasses belief, were

in the constant habit of enforcing religious truths by dramatic fictions

represented in public. The great and good PILPAY the fabulist, is said

to have used that kind of exhibition as a medium for conveying political

instruction to a despotic prince, his master, to whom he dared not to

utter the dictates of truth, in any other garb. In the obscurity of

those remote ages, the evidences of particular facts are too faintly

discernible to be relied upon: All that can be assumed as certain,

therefore, is that the elementary parts of the dramatic art had then

been conceived and rudely practised. But the first _regular_ play was

produced in Greece, where the great Eschylus, whose works are handed

down to us, flourished not only as a dramatist, but as an illustrious

statesman and warrior.

Without dwelling on the many other examples afforded by Greece, we

proceed to as high authority as can be found among men: we mean Roscius

the Roman actor. That extraordinary man's name is immortalized by

Cicero, who has in various parts of his works panegyrized him no less

for his virtues than for his talents. Of him, that great orator,

philosopher and moralist has recorded, that he was a being so perfect

that any person who excelled in any art was usually called A

ROSCIUS--that he knew better than any other man how to inculcate virtue,

and that he was more pure in his private life than any man in Rome.

In the Roman catholic countries the priesthood shut out as far as they

could from the people the instruction of the stage. For ages the fire of

the HOLY inquisition kept works of genius of every kind in suppression

all over the south of Europe. In France the monarch supported the stage

against its enemies; but though he was able to support the actors in

life, he had not power or influence sufficient to obtain for them

consolation in death; the rights of the church and christian burial

being refused to them by the clergy.

In England, where the clouds of religious intolerance were first broken

and dispersed by the reformation, the stage has flourished, and

exhibited a mass of excellence and a constellation of genius

unparalleled in the annals of the world. There it has been encouraged

and admired by men whose authority, as persons deeply versed in

christian theology and learned as it is given to human creatures to be,

we do not scruple to prefer to that of the persons who raise their

voices against the stage. Milton, Pope, Addison, Johnson, Warburton,

bishop of Gloucester, and many others have given their labours to the

stage. In many of his elegant periodical papers Mr. ADDISON has left

testimonies of his veneration for it, and of his personal respect for

players; nay, he wrote several pieces for the stage, in comedy as well

as tragedy; yet we believe it will not be doubted that he was an

orthodox christian. The illustrious POPE, in a prologue which he wrote

for one of Mr. Addison's plays--the tragedy of Cato--speaks his opinion

of the stage in the following lines:

To wake the soul by tender strokes of art,

To raise the genius, and to mend the heart,

To make mankind in conscious virtue bold,

Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold:

For this the tragic Muse first trod the stage,

Commanding tears to stream through every age.

Tyrants no more their savage nature kept,

And foes to virtue wondered how they wept.

Warburton, the friend of Pope, a divine of the highest rank, wrote notes

to Shakspeare. And an infinite number of the christian clergy of as

orthodox piety as any that ever lived, have admired and loved plays and

players. If in religion doctor Johnson had a fault, it certainly was

excessive zeal--and assuredly his morality cannot be called in question.

What his idea of the stage was, may be inferred from his labours, and

from his private friendships. His preface to Shakspeare--his

illustrations and characters of the bard's plays--his tragedy of

Irene, of which he diligently superintended the rehearsal and

representation--his friendship for Garrick and for Murphy--his letters

in the Idler and Rambler, from one of which we have taken our motto for

the Dramatic Censor, and his constant attendance on the theatre, loudly

proclaim his opinion of the stage. To him who would persist to think

sinful that which the scrupulous Johnson constantly did, we can only say

in the words of one of Shakspeare's clowns--"God comfort thy capacity."

One example more. Whatever his political errors may have been, the

present old king of England can never be suspected of coldness in

matters of divinity, or of heterodoxy in religion. His fault in that way

leans to the other side--for it is doubted by the most intelligent men

in England whether his zeal does not border on excess. He has all his

life too taken counsel from those he thought the best divines; yet he

has done much to encourage the stage, and greatly delighted in scenic

representations--particularly in comedy. But as a much stronger proof of

his esteem for the drama, we will barely mention one fact: When his

majesty first read Arthur Murphy's tragedy of the Orphan of China, he

sent the poet a present of a thousand guineas.

The notion that the theatre should be avoided as a stimulant to the

passions deserves some respect on account of its antiquity; for it is as

old as the great grand-mother of the oldest man living. In good times of

yore, when ladies were not so squeamish as they are now about words,

because they did not know their meaning, but were more cautious of

facts, because the meaning of facts cannot be misunderstood, young men

had a refuge from the temptations of the stage in the reserved

deportment and full clothing of domestic society, we cannot wonder that

the good old ladies who abhorred the slightest immodesty in dress

little, if at all less than they abhorred actual vice, should urge to

their sons the necessity of keeping aloof from the allurements of the

theatre. If at that time the costume of the stage differed essentially

from that of private life, and was the reverse of modest, or if the

actresses indulged in meretricious airs which dared not be shown in

domestic society, there was a very just pretence, or rather indeed there

was the most cogent reason for preaching against the theatre. But at

this day, no hypothesis of the kind can be allowed. That beautiful young

women ornamented with every decoration which art can lend to enhance

their charms will perhaps excite admiration and licentious desires, is

true; but that those arts are more generally practised, or those

incitements more strongly or frequently played off on the boards of the

theatre than in respectable private life, our eyes forbid us to believe.

He who looks from the ladies on the stage to those seated on the

benches, and compares their dress and artificial allurements must have

either very strong nerves or very bad sight, if he persist in saying

that there is more danger to be apprehended from the former than the

latter. He knows very little of modern manners and must be a very

suckling in the ways of the world who imagines that a young man has any

thing to fear from the actresses on the stage, who has gone through the

ordeal of a common ball-room, or even walked of a fine day through our

streets. The ladies of London, Dublin, New-York, Philadelphia and

Baltimore, have thrown those of the stage quite into the back ground in

the arts of the toilet. Nor is this qualification confined to those of

the _haut-ton_, but has descended to tradesmen's wives and daughters; to

chambermaids, laundresses, and wenches of the kitchen white, yellow, and

black, coloured and uncoloured.

Familiarity with impressive objects soon robs them of their influence;

and if our natural disgust and anger at the shameful innovations in the

female costume for which Great Britain and America stand indebted to the

_virtues_ of France, be blunted by the constant obtrusion of them on our

sight, it is to be hoped that the pernicious influence of them upon

public morals will be diminished also. In those regions where a tropical

sun renders clothing cumbersome, and the costume of the ladies of

necessity exceeds a little that of ears in transparency and scantiness,

familiarity renders it harmless; little or nothing is left for the

imagination to feed upon; cheapened by their obviousness, the female

charms are rejected by the fancy which loves to dwell on what it only

guesses at, or has but rarely seen, and the youthful heart finds its

ultimate safety in the apparent excess of its danger. Thus the stage, if

it ever possessed, has lost its vitious allurements, as a bucket of

water is lost in the ocean. To test this reasoning by matter of fact we

appeal to the general feeling, and have no fear of being contradicted

when we assert that, with reference to their comparative numbers, more

mischievous throbs have been excited in every theatre in London,

New-York, and Philadelphia for some years past before, than behind the

curtain.

We are aware that there are some who will object, as a thing taken for

granted, the greater licentiousness of a player's life; but this, before

it can be admitted in argument, must be proved, and the proof of it

would be very difficult indeed. From a long and attentive consideration

of the subject, founded upon a perfect knowledge of the private

characters of the stage, and the general complexion of society off of

it, we are persuaded that in point of intrinsic virtue the players stand

exactly on a par with the general mass of society. That there are

offenders against the laws of morality and religion among them is

certain; but it must be remembered that they labour in this respect

under great disadvantages, from the publicity of their situation. There,

they stand exhibited to public view, every turn of their conduct,

private and public, becomes a subject of general scrutiny. Ten thousand

eyes are rivetted upon them, for one that is fixed upon individuals in

private life. And though it often happens that some of them are

suspected whose lives are perfectly pure, none who have deviated from

the paths of virtue can long keep their fall concealed. Can the same be

said of the other departments of life? No. Now and then indiscretion,

accident, or a total abandonment of decency brings to light the

misconduct of an individual; but in general the irregularities of

private life either escape detection or are hushed up by pride.

Sometimes indeed one vitious purpose occasions the detection of another,

and family disgrace is revealed to pave the way to a divorce, with a

view to another marriage, and perhaps to another divorce. Were the

private conduct of individuals in other stations as well known as that

of the people of the stage, the former would have no cause to exult at

the superiority of their morals; and in truth if a candid review be

taken individually of the actresses of the English stage, by which we

mean every stage where the English language is spoken, it will appear

that, with few exceptions, they stand highly respectable for private

worth and pure moral character. In England, Scotland and still more in

Ireland, an unblemished reputation is necessary to a lady's success on

the stage. In some instances, the greatest favourites of the public have

been driven for a time from the stage, for trespasses upon virtue, and

when permitted to return were never after much more than endured. To

these instances we shall have occasion to advert in the course of this

work.

While we assert, on the best grounds, that the theatre may be made, by

proper established regulations, a school of virtue and manners, we do

not wish to conceal our persuasion that there is nothing more potent to

debase and corrupt the minds of a people than a licentious stage. But it

may be averred with equal truth, that the abuses of every other

institution are fraught with no less mischief to the public. At this

very moment the abuse of the pulpit is the parent of more public

mischief in Great Britain and America than the stage ever produced in

its most prolific days of vice; and it is deplorable to reflect that the

former is rapidly increasing, while the vitiation of the latter has been

for a century on the decline. The licentiousness of the stage in the

reign of Charles II was enormous: but it was a licentiousness which the

theatre in common with the whole nation derived from the court, and from

a most flagitious monarch whose example made vice fashionable. In

servile compliance with the reigning taste, the greatest poets of the

day abandoned true fame, and discarded much of their literary merit:

Otway and Dryden sunk into the most mean and criminal slavery to it--the

former with the greatest powers for the pathetic ever possessed by any

man, Shakspeare excepted, has left behind him plays which in an almost

equal degree excite our admiration and contempt, our indignation and our

pity. It is charitable to suppose that "his poverty and not his will

consented." But Dryden had no such excuse to plead for his base

subserviency to pecuniary advantage, or for the detestable

licentiousness of his comedies. He who will take the pains to turn to

that admirable tragedy, Venice Preserved, by Otway, will find in the

scenes between Aquileia and the old senator Antonio enough to disgust

the taste of any one not callous to all sense of delicacy. But had

Juvenal lived at that period, he would have scourged Dryden out of

society. To those we might add Wycherly. Congreve and other cotemporary

authors succeeded: but the offences committed by those men can no more

be alleged as a ground of general condemnation of the stage, than the

works of lord Rochester can be set up as a reason for condemning Milton,

Pope, Thomson, Goldsmith, and all our other poets, or the innumerable

murders committed by unprincipled quacks, be alleged as a cause for

abolishing the whole practice of medicine.

Exasperated by the outrages of the dramatic poets, on virtue and

decency, Jeremy Collier, a non-juring clergyman, attacked the stage. His

charge against the authors was unquestionably right; but his attack upon

the stage itself, exhibited a disposition splenetic almost to

misanthropy, and an austerity of principle urged to unsocial ferocity.

In his fury he renounced the idea of reforming the stage; he was for

abolishing it entirely. He attacked the poets with "unconquerable

pertinacity, with wit in the highest degree keen and sarcastic, and with

all those powers exalted and invigorated by just confidence in his

cause."[3] Thus arose a controversy which lasted ten years, during which

time authors found it necessary to become more discreet. "Comedy (says

Dr. Johnson) grew more modest; and Collier lived to see the reformation

of the stage." Colley Cibber, who was one of those whose plays Collier

attacked, candidly says, "It must be granted that his calling our

dramatic writers to this account had a very wholesome effect upon those

who writ after his time. Indecencies were no longer wit; and by degrees

the fair sex came again to fill the boxes on the first day of a new

comedy, without fear or censure."

[Footnote 3: Dr. Johnson.]

Such a licentious stage as is here described well deserved the severest

attacks: but what is there to justify severity now? at this day not only

the success of every new play so much depends upon its purity, but so

scrupulously correct in that particular is the public taste, and so

abstinent from every the slightest indelicacy are the authors of plays

and even farces, that not a word is uttered upon the stage from which

the most timid _real_ modesty would shrink. In conformity to this happy

state of the general taste and morals, all the old plays that retain

possession of the stage, have been cleared of their pollution, and all

the offensive passages in them have been expunged; some have been

entirely thrown out as incapable of amendment, and in truth, purity of

sentiment, and delicacy of expression, have become so prevalent, that it

is very much to be doubted whether if it were proposed to act one of

Wycherly's, Dryden's, or Otway's offensive plays in its original state,

a set of players could be found who would prostitute themselves so far

as to perform it.

From the offences of mankind arise despotic restrictions and penal laws

of every kind. From the licentiousness of the stage in England, arose

the licensing law which still continues to hold a heavy hand over all

the dramatic productions that are acted; and which has too often been

perverted to corrupt purposes.

But if the abuses of the stage in the times alluded to, serve to show

its power to do mischief, the general reformation in the public taste,

which followed that of the dramatic writings, equally show its

competency to effectuate good. Rousseau, who had little less dislike to

plays and players than Jeremy Collier, says, in a letter to D'Alembert,

"Let us not attribute to the stage the power of changing opinions or

manners, when it has only that of following and heightening them. An

author who offends the general taste may as well cease to write, for

nobody will read his works. When Moliere reformed the stage he attacked

modes and ridiculous customs, but he did not insult the public taste; he

either followed or explained it." So far Rousseau was right. It is the

public that gives the stage its bias--necessarily preceding it in taste

and opinion, and pointing out the direction to its object. In return the

stage gives the public a stronger impulse in morals and manners.

Wherever the stage is found corrupted with bad morals, it may be taken

for granted that the nation has been corrupted before it; when it

labours under the evils of a bad taste, it may safely be concluded that

that of the public has been previously vitiated. The truth is evident in

the wretched state of dramatic taste in England at this moment, where,

corrupted by the spectacles and mummery of the Italian opera, by the

rage for preternatural agency acquired from the reading of ghost novels

and romances, and by the introduction of German plays or translations,

the people can relish nothing but melo-drame, show, extravagant

incident, stage effect and situation--goblins, demons, fiddling,

capering and pantomime, and the managers, in order to live, are

compelled to gratify the deluded tasteless multitude at an incalculable

expense.

What the advantages are which could be derived from abolishing the stage

can only be judged from a view of the moral state of those countries in

which the drama has been for ages discouraged and held in disrepute,

compared with that of countries where it has been supported and

cultivated. Spain comes nearest to a total want of a regular drama of

any Christian country in Europe; and if there be any person who prefers

the moral state of that country to the moral state of Great Britain or

America, we wish him joy of his opinion, and assure him that we admire

neither his taste, his argument, nor his inference.

We have thus far entered into a vindication of the stage, not with the

slightest hope of changing the opinion of its enemies, nor with the

least desire to increase the admiration of its friends; but to awaken

public opinion to a sense of its vast importance, and of the advantages

which society may derive from giving full and salutary effect to its

agency, by generous encouragement, and vigilant control--by directing

its operations into proper channels, and fostering it by approbation in

every thing that has a tendency to promote virtue, to improve the

intellectual powers, and to correct and refine the taste, and the

manners of society. This desirable end can only be attained by making it

respectable, and sheltering its professors from the insult and

oppression of the ignorant, the base-minded, and the illiberal. None

will profit by the precepts of those whom they contemn; and the youth of

the country will be very unlikely to yield to the authority of the

instructor whom they see subjected to the sneers and affronts of the

very rabble they themselves despise. Besides, if actors were to be

treated with injustice and contumely, young gentlemen of talents and

virtue would be deterred from entering into the profession; and the

stage would soon become as bad as it is falsely described to be by

fanatics--a sink of vice and corruption: but the wisdom and liberality

of the British nation, after the example of old Rome, having, on the

contrary, given to the gentlemen of the stage their merited rank in

society, and raised actors and actresses of irreproachable private

character, to associate with the families of peers, statesmen,

legislators, and men of the highest rank in the nation, the profession

is filled with persons eminently respectable for talents, learning and

morals, and estimable as those of other classes in social

life--estimable as husbands, fathers, children, friends and companions.

But in Great Britain, they have a twofold protection--that of the

audience and that of the law--from the insults and injustice of

capricious, saucy, or malignant individuals. There, the line that

separates the rights of the actor from those of the auditor has been

exactly defined by the highest judicial authority.[4] And if an

individual assaults a performer by hissing[5] without carrying the

audience, or a large majority of it, along with him, the performer has

his action against his malicious assailant, and is adjudged damages as

certainly as persons of any of the other professions or trades recover

for an assault, a calumny, or a libel. Hence the stage is looked up to

as a great school, and the eminent actors are universally looked to as

the best instructors in action, elocution, orthoepy, and the component

parts of oratory. By following the same liberal and wise system with

respect to OUR stage, we may reasonably hope soon to bring it to a

reputable state of competition with that of Great Britain, and in that

as in most other parts of the elegancies of life, not very long hence,

to place the new on a complete footing with the old country.

[Footnote 4: By Lord Mansfield in the King's Bench, in the case of

Macklin against Sparks, Miles, Reddish, and others.]

[Footnote 5: The audience, whenever an individual hisses against the

sense of the house, always silence the offender by crying, "there's

a goose in the pit (or wherever it is) turn him out," and if he

persists they expel him by force. It is to be hoped our audiences

would follow the example. It is frequently necessary.]

BIOGRAPHY--FOR THE MIRROR.

The passion for inquiring into the lives of conspicuous men is so

universally felt, that we cannot help indulging it in cases where not

only the person is unknown, but where his actions are so remote, that we

can neither form a picture of the one, nor any possible way be affected

by the other. The delight with which children themselves read the

histories of remarkable characters, and the avidity with which, at every

period of life, we read biography, are proofs that this passion has it

source in nature, abstracted from any connexion imagined to exist

between the object and our own heart. It is, however, more lively when

the object lives in our time, and when his actions are the subject of

daily conversation in our hearing, or when we have ourselves been

witnesses of them; and still more so, when the person being still in

existence has found means by the force of his talents to agitate a whole

people, to rouse general curiosity and admiration, and to form, as it

were, a landmark in any interesting department of civilized life.

That mankind, in general, derive greater pleasure from biography than

from most other kinds of writing is universally acknowledged. One of the

greatest moral philosophers of Britain justly observes, that of all the

various kinds of narrative writing, that which is read with the greatest

eagerness, and may with the greatest facility and effect be applied to

the purposes of life is biography; and the accomplished and sagacious

Montaigne, speaking in raptures, upon the same subject, says "Plutarch

is the writer after my own heart, and Suetonius is another, the like of

whom we shall never see."

As a master key to the study of the human heart, the biographical

account of particular individuals is infinitely superior to history.

History, in fact, is not a just picture of man and nature, but a

registry of prominent actions which derive conspicuity from their name,

place, and date, while the inward nature of the agent, the secret

springs, the slow and silent causes of those actions, being left

unnoticed and undistinguished, remain forever unknown. The man himself

is seen only here and there, and now and then, and lies hidden from

view, except in those points in which his conduct is connected with

those actions. But biography follows him from his public exhibition into

his private retreat, haunts him in his closet concealments, accompanies

him through his house, where his desires, passions, irregularities,

vices, virtues, foibles, and follies take their full swing--sits by his

fireside--watches for his unsuspecting, unguarded moments,--catches and

lays up all the ebullitions of his heart, when it is freed from all

restraint by domestic confidence--scans all his expressions when he is

mixing in free social converse with his friends and family, and thus

penetrates into his heart--detects every secret emotion of the man's

soul, even when he thinks himself most effectually concealed, and in

every glance of his eye, every whisper, every unpremeditated act and

expression, dives to the very bottom of his designs and brings up his

real character.

In the regulation of life, therefore, or the improvement of moral

sentiment, little benefit is to be derived from a knowledge of the

events of history, the subjects of which are so far removed from the

ordinary business of the world, that they seldom address a salutary

example to the heart or understanding--seldom present an action in any

way applicable to the ordinary transactions of the world, or which men

in general can hope or wish to imitate, and which are therefore read

with comparative indifference, and passed by without improvement, while

biography conveys the best instruction for the conduct of life, by a

happy mixture of precept and example.

Doctor Johnson has, in some of his writings, given it as his opinion

that "a life has rarely passed, of which a judicious and faithful

narrative would not be useful; for not only, says he, every man has, in

the mighty mass of the world, great numbers in the same condition with

himself, to whom his mistakes and miscarriages, escapes and expedients

would be of immediate and apparent use; but there is such a uniformity

in the state of man considered apart from adventitious and separable

decoration and disguises, that there is scarce any possibility of good

or ill but is common to human kind." How much more beneficial as a mass

of precept and example, and how much more captivating as a narrative

must be the biography of any person who has held a conspicuous place for

any length of time in the eye of the world, particularly if, by the

industrious exercise of vigorous or brilliant talents, he has

contributed more than his share to the happiness, the improvement, or

the innocent pleasure of society. In that case a mixed sentiment of

admiration and gratitude insensibly fills the public mind, from which

there arises a lively interest in all that concerns the person and an

eager curiosity to learn his origin, his early education, private

opinions and habits, the fortunes and incidents of his life, and, above

all, the singularities of his temper, and the peculiarities of his

manners and deportment. Few men in society stand so much in the public

eye, or have such opportunities to engage popular interest and personal

admiration as celebrated actors. In the general account current of life,

casting up the debtor and creditor between individual and individual,

the balance between the auditor and actor will be found largely in

favour of the latter. There are few, we know, to whom this assertion

will not appear paradoxical, because few have given themselves time to

consider that there is no place where a person, having an hour or two to

bestow on relaxation, can obtain so much delight and improvement with so

little concurrence of his own efforts as at the theatre. "At all other

assemblies," says Dr. Johnson, "he that comes to receive delight will be

expected to give it; but in the theatre nothing is necessary to the

amusement of two hours but to sit down and be willing to be pleased."

Where the private deportment and moral character of a celebrated actor,

therefore, are not at great variance with the general feelings, he

becomes by the very nature of his profession and talents an object of

general interest, and his life, character, and every circumstance

belonging to him are inquired into with earnest curiosity and

solicitude.

He who fairly considers the requisites indispensable to a tolerable

actor, will allow that the professors of that art must be persons of

intellectual capacity and personal endowments much superior to the

common herd of mankind. The vivid intelligence, the high animal spirits,

the aspiring temper, and the resolute intrepidity, which impel them to

the stage and support them under its difficulties, are generally

associated with an eccentricity of character and a giddy disregard of

prudential considerations, which generate adventure and chequer their

lives with a greater variety of incidents and whimsical intercourse with

the world than falls to the lot of men of other professions. Hence it

follows that the stage presents the most ample field for the biographer;

and that whether he writes for the instruction or the entertainment of

his readers, he will not be able to find in any other department of

society men whose lives comprise such an interesting variety as the

actors.

In selecting the persons with whose lives it is intended to enrich this

work, the editors find it necessary in the very first instance to depart

from the rule which their original purpose and strict justice, as well

as a due regard to priority, had prescribed to them. The biography of

the deceased Mr. Hallam, as the father of the American stage, no doubt

lays claim to the first place. There were others too, whose priority to

Mr. Cooper cannot be contested; but, as the materials were not to be

immediately had they have been obliged to postpone them.

LIFE OF MR. COOPER.

Mr. Thomas Abthorpe Cooper is the descendant of a very respectable Irish

family, though he was, himself, born in England. His father, doctor

Cooper--a gentleman universally known, and not more known than beloved

and respected by all who have had any intercourse with East Indian

affairs, was a native of Ireland, and after having served his time to

one of the most eminent surgeons in that kingdom, with the reputation of

a young man of genius and great promise, went over to England, in order

to acquire, in the London hospitals, more perfect practical skill in his

business, and to avail himself of the lectures of the principal

professors of surgery and medicine in that metropolis; intending to

return to his native country again, and there practise for life. It

happened with the doctor however, precisely as it does with the greater

part of young Irish gentlemen, who have their fortunes to raise chiefly

by their own efforts. London gradually unfolded to his view all her

irresistible charms; the ligaments which tied him to his native home,

grew every day more and more slender and weak: the dictates of common

sense and prudence, in this one instance at least enforced by the

attractions of pleasure, pointed out the vast superiority of England to

the oppressed, impoverished country which he had left, as a field for

genius and industry to work upon. Having a prepossessing face and

person, and manners frank, conciliating and firm, he soon extended his

acquaintance to a wide circle of friends, whose advice conspired with

his own taste to bring him to a determination, in consequence of which

he settled near the metropolis, and became a practitioner in surgery and

physic. While he was successfully engaged in this career, he was

introduced to some of the great men of Leadenhall-street, by whom he was

appointed to the lucrative office of inspecting-surgeon of the recruits

destined for the service of the East India Company. In the discharge of

this duty it fell to his share to visit the ships preparing for a voyage

to India, and of course to mingle with the company's servants of all

ranks and conditions, by whom he was in no common degree beloved and

respected--by the higher order for his agreeable and manly

deportment--by the lower for his tenderness and humanity. Though he

lived in England, he viewed his own country with a laudable fond

partiality; and being constitutionally benevolent, and having a heart

"open to melting Charity," and a hand prompt to indulge it, it may

reasonably be conjectured that in his office of inspecting-surgeon he

was exposed to many sharp attacks upon his feelings; the far greater

part of the recruits who came under his inspection being unfortunate

Irish youths who had thrown themselves upon a strange world, destitute

of every thing but health, youth, and bodily vigor. By such objects, the

sympathy of such a warm heart as that which beat in doctor Cooper's

bosom, could not fail to be strongly excited, and it was pretty

generally believed that his family had less reason than his unfortunate

countrymen to exult at the goodness of his nature. Nor was his

philanthropy confined to those wretched children of misfortune, the

recruits; many young Irish gentlemen who were going to India as cadets,

experienced his kindness also, but in another form. He had many friends,

and considering his rank, very extraordinary interest with the high

officers and commanders in the company's service. This he never failed

to exert in favour of such of his young countrymen as he considered

deserving of it: and in short strained his powers in every way to

increase their comfort and accommodation during that trying ordeal,

their passage to India, and to procure them friends when they got there.

His son Thomas, the subject of this paper, was born in the year 1777,

and received an early liberal education. As doctor Cooper's interest lay

wholly with the East India company, his children were sent to that

emporium of wealth, Bengal, as soon as their ages fitted them for

admission into the world. Had he lived till our hero was of a suitable

age the probability is that the American stage would at this day want

one of its greatest ornaments; and that the hand which now wields the

truncheon of Macbeth, Richard, and Coriolanus on the American boards,

would be grasping a sword or driving a quill in the service of the East

India company in Bengal, whither doctor Cooper at last went himself,

being promoted to a respectable rank on the medical staff of that

settlement, and where at length he died to the deep regret of all who

knew him, and to the irretrievable loss of an amiable family. To the

last will and testament of the generous man there is seldom any great

trouble in administering--doctor Cooper made a great deal of money; but

retained little of it. We do not mention this as a feature in that

worthy man's character to be imitated. On the contrary we wish it, so

far as it goes, to operate as a warning against the indulgence of a

spirit, which, though it be a virtue of the highest order when kept

under the control of discretion, does, like every other virtue,

degenerate into a foible, when carried to excess. Fortunately for that

member of doctor Cooper's family of whom we are writing, he found, when

his youth wanted it, a sincere friend. Mr. Godwin, whose name is well

known in the republic of letters, particularly as the author of a work

the name of which we will not put upon the same page with this

honourable instance of posthumous friendship to doctor Cooper, took the

youth to his own care; adopted, educated, and, as some say, intended him

for an author; a scheme too absurd in our opinion, to be meditated by a

person of Mr. Godwin's sagacity, who would at least postpone such a

project till the genius of the young man should unfold itself in full

maturity. Such, however, is said to have been the plan, which, whether

the story be true or false, there is cause to rejoice was frustrated. At

this distance it would be hopeless, if indeed it were very desirable, to

trace that strange report to its origin, but we think it not at all a

forced conclusion that it arose from the nature of the education which

Mr. Godwin bestowed upon the youth. Hence without knowing the amount of

Mr. Cooper's literary attainments, we think it may be fairly inferred

from the existence of such a report, that his education was a learned

one, and that he was early grounded in the dead as well as the most

useful modern languages. Mr. Godwin cannot be suspected of intending for

an author by trade, a youth from whom he had withheld the Greek and

Latin classics.

It is not necessary to recur to the instructions of Mr. Godwin for the

fervid partiality which Mr. Cooper early disclosed for the French

revolution. In that feeling he partook in common with men who as

radically, substantially, and essentially differed in principle from Mr.

Godwin, as light from darkness, or heat from cold. Several high

statesmen in England, who afterwards deplored it, at first viewed that

extraordinary event with a favourable eye, as likely to better the

condition of twenty millions of people. So, Mr. Dundas, now lord

Melville, for himself and his colleague Pitt, openly avowed in

parliament. And even Burke himself, whose penetrating eye discerned from

the outset, and foretold all the mischiefs that lurked under that event,

complimented a young Irish gentleman of reputable birth, upon his having

fought as a volunteer with Dumourier, at the battle of Jamappe; adding,

that he gloried in every instance in which he found his young countrymen

disclosing an enthusiastic love of freedom. Nay, he did not scruple to

declare very frequently that, considering the plausible appearance of

the revolution, he should entertain but a very poor opinion of a youth

who was not enamoured with it. With such an authority to warrant us, we

feel no hesitation in stating it as an honourable trait in the character

of Mr. Cooper, that he was delighted with the French revolution, and

that in his enthusiastic admiration of that event, he resolved to

abandon his literary pursuits to give his young arm (he being then not

above seventeen years of age) to the defence of the new republic and, as

he thought, the cause of liberty. He had scarcely taken this resolution,

and made preparations to go to the continent and join the army of the

French republic, when the war broke out between England and France, and

totally overset his purpose and his hopes of military promotion,

rendering that which before would have been lawful if not laudable, an

act of treason to his country, of the bare contemplation of which, it is

fair to believe, he was incapable.

It was on occasion of this disappointment and check to his military

ambition, that Mr. Cooper turned his thoughts to the stage. Young as he

was, he made a full and accurate estimate of his situation. Too proud by

nature to be dependant, his feelings suggested the necessity of

immediately doing something for his own support and advancement. He

boldly resolved to be the architect of his own fame and fortune, and it

is probable had too much common sense to take the author's pen either as

a material or an instrument in constructing the edifice. Having made up

his mind to try his fortune on the stage, he imparted his intention to

Mr. Godwin, who received the communication with deep regret, and

encountered it with the most decided disapprobation, and with every

argument and dissuasive which ingenuity and a perfect knowledge of the

subject could lend to friendship. It was in vain every topic was urged

which could serve to dissuade, to deter, or to disgust: Mr. Cooper

firmly adhered to his purpose, and Mr. Godwin perceiving him immovable,

yielded to what he could not overcome, and resolved, since he could not

divert him from the stage, to do all he could to set him forward on it

to the best advantage. To this end, Mr. Holcroft, the friend of Mr.

Godwin, was called in; and he gave the young man some preparatory

lessons, a task for which he was exceedingly well qualified uniting in

himself the several talents of actor, author, and critic.

To procure admission on the stage in England is not always an easy task.

In the present instance it seemed to Mr. Holcroft and Mr. Godwin a

matter of serious consideration to whom an application should be made

for the purpose, and what theatre would be most likely to receive him

with least disadvantage. At length application being made to Mr. Stephen

Kemble he agreed, without seeing the young gentleman, to take him under

his auspices; and to that end Mr. Cooper repaired to Edinburgh. Of his

reception by Mr. Kemble the most ludicrous description has been given;

a description, which, as biographers, we should not think of introducing

on the present occasion, if it had not already appeared in public,

accompanied with an assertion that it came from Mr. Cooper himself. "The

writer of this sketch (says the publisher of that account) has heard

Cooper himself describe with great pleasantry his first interview with

the Scotch manager; he was at that time a raw country youth of

seventeen. On his arrival in Edinburgh, little conscious of his

appearance and incompetency, he waited on Mr. Kemble, made up in the

extreme of rustic foppery, proud of his talents, and little doubting his

success. When he mentioned his name and errand, Mr. Kemble's countenance

changed from a polite smile to a stare of disappointment: Cooper had

been prepared for young Norval; but he was obliged to exchange all his

expected eclat for a few cold excuses from the manager, and the chagrin

of seeing some nights after, his part filled by an old man and a bad

player. During the remainder of the season he continued with Stephen

Kemble, without at all appearing on the stage. From Edinburgh he went

with the company to Newcastle-upon-Tyne, there he lived as dependent,

inactive, and undistinguished as before, till, owing to the want of a

person to fill the part of Malcolm in Macbeth, he was cast to that

humble character. In so inferior a sphere did he begin to move who is

now become one of the brightest luminaries of the theatrical hemisphere.

His debut was even less flattering than his reception from the manager

had been. Till the last scene he passed through tolerably well, but when

he came to the lines which conclude the play--

"So thanks to all at once, and to each one,

Whom we invite to see us crown'd at Scone."

After stretching out his hands and assuming the attitude and smile of

thankfulness, a slight embarrassment checked him, and he paused, still

keeping his posture and his look--the prompter made himself heard by

every one but the bewildered Malcolm, who still continued mute, every

instant of his silence naturally increasing ten-fold his

perplexity--Macduff whispered the words in his ear--Macbeth who lay

slaughtered at his feet, broke the bonds of death to assist his dumb

successor, the prompter spoke almost to vociferation. Each thane dead or

alive joined his voice--but this was only "confusion worse

confounded"--if he could have spoken the amazed prince might with great

justice have said, "So thanks to all at once"--but his utterance was

gone "_vox faucibus haesit_"--a hiss presently broke out in the pit, the

clamor soon became general, and the curtain went down, amid a universal

condemnation."

No part of biography is so interesting, or affecting as that which

brings before us the struggles of unassisted vigour and genius with the

obstructions which accident, or the ignorance or malice of vulgar souls

throw in their way, and their ultimate triumph over adversity. Few men

have enjoyed that triumph more than Mr. Cooper, for few have in their

outset met with a more mortifying repulse, or more discouraging

difficulties. There are not many whose resolution could have outlived

such a cruel discomfiture as that at Edinburgh: but on him it seemed to

have the happy effect of steeling his natural fortitude, and sending his

spirit forward in its career with increased impetuosity.

Disappointed and chagrined, but not humiliated, he returned back to

London, more determinately than ever resolved to persevere till he had

mastered fortune and established a footing on the stage--exhibiting a

degree of confidence which generally inheres in genius, and which his

ultimate success well justified. Far from being depressed or obscured by

his Edinburgh adventure, his talents had so much unfolded themselves and

been so visibly improved, that his friends Godwin and Holcroft felt

convinced he had not mistaken or overrated his powers; but, on the

contrary, possessed qualifications, which, if diligently and judiciously

cultivated, would raise him to a rank with the most eminent actors then

living. The great bar to his advancement was that diffidence which

occasioned his discomfiture in Edinburgh: but his friends knew enough of

the human heart and powers to be assured that that very diffidence is so

universally the concomitant of sterling merit, that where it

superabounds wise men give credit for much excellence, and bestow their

partiality with a liberal hand; while the want of it is generally

suspected of denoting a great deficiency in merit: and they were right;

for the young person who wants modesty wants every thing. Fraught with

these considerations, those discerning men and steady friends thought

that they would best consult their _protege's_ interest by putting him

into training in some obscure company, and took measures to introduce

him into a routine of acting in the country theatres, from which

novitiate they expected he would soon emerge well practised in stage

business, and fully qualified to give out the whole force of his natural

powers on some of the stages of the metropolis.

The country managers, however, seemed to think very differently from

Messrs. Godwin and Holcroft of Mr. Cooper's capabilities. If they had

not the genius, the discernment, or the "spirits learned in human

dealings" of our hero's patrons, they had self-sufficiency and obstinacy

in abundance, and what was more unfortunate, they had the power in their

hands; a power which in such persons is rarely softened in its exercise

by liberality or candor. These, notwithstanding the authority of Godwin

and Holcroft's opinion, considered or affected to consider Mr. Cooper as

a poor juvenile adventurer, who had no one requisite for the profession.

"Their hands, they said, were already full--(of trash no doubt they

were) every character even the lowest was engaged. To show their

deference, however, to the high opinion of the young man's friends, they

would endeavour to think of something for him to perform." In conformity

to the dictates of this _generous_ spirit, they vouchsafed him some

inferior parts: but every one knows, who knows any thing at all of

theatrical affairs, that the coldness of a manager to a young performer,

creates at least, distrust in the audience--that the young candidate who

is set forward in humiliation, is forbidden to rise; as he who is thrust

into characters far beyond the reach of his powers will, for a time, get

credit for talents which he does not possess: for discerning and

despotic as the multitude think themselves, they are still the dupes or

the submissive slaves of dexterous leaders in every department of life.

By the error, the ignorance, or the churlishness of the country

managers, Mr. Cooper was excluded from any fair opportunity to redeem

the credit he had lost in Edinburgh--they considered, or affected to

consider him as wholly incompetent to any character of consequence:

those which were vouchsafed him were of so inferior a rank that they

denied scope to the exercise of his yet latent powers; for such a genius

as that of Cooper could no more dilate in a meagre character, than

Eclipse or Flying Childers could lay themselves out at full speed in a

city building lot; and it is reasonable to suppose that, notwithstanding

all his fortitude, the spirits of the youth were depressed, and his

faculties chilled by such humiliating neglect, and such reiterated

disappointments. Who is he that would not, under such circumstances,

sink into languor? It cannot be doubted that dejection every day

detracted from his powers, and that by a kind of irresistible

gravitation, he descended like a falling body in the physical world,

with accelerated velocity, till at last he reached the very bottom of

the profession. Reader, behold--and refrain from regret if you

can--behold COOPER, on whom crowded theatres have since gazed with

astonishment and delight, reduced to the condition of a mere deliverer

of letters and messages upon the stage of a low country theatre. The

writer of this cannot help picturing to himself the feelings of a

multitude of great and worthy personages in Great Britain and India, and

particularly the feelings of a sister, the lovely inheritress of her

family's virtues, if they had known at the time, that which our hero's

manly pride concealed, that the son of doctor Cooper, whose goodness of

heart had often been the refuge of the distressed, was for months

languishing under the chill of public neglect, and dragging on existence

upon a miserable pittance which scarcely afforded him physical support;

or if they had seen him in his unaccommodated removal from that

situation, walking on foot to the metropolis.

The repulses of a mistaken and unworthy few, and the neglect of a world

very little better, had no other effect upon Mr. Cooper's friends Godwin

and Holcroft, than to quicken their sensibility and inflame their ardour

to serve him. It is more than probable those mortifications tended to

increase the conviction of the former that his _eleve_ had made a

deplorable choice of profession, but did not at all shake the opinion

which both, and particularly the latter, entertained that he had great

capabilities for the profession. The youth had now waded in so far, that

to go back might be worse than to go forward; Mr. Holcroft therefore

again took him in hand; read Shakspeare with him, and accompanied their

reading with practical commentaries upon the force of that author's

meaning, marked out to him those parts where the character was to depend

for its interest and impression, on the actor's exertions; heard him

over and over again repeat the most difficult speeches, and instructed

him how to adapt his action, looks, and utterance to the passion which

the author designed to exhibit, so as to excite appropriate feelings in

the auditor. Though Shakspeare is above all others the poet of Nature,

his meaning frequently eludes the dim or vulgar mind, and to be

intelligibly elicited from the stiffness and obscurity which sometimes

injures his language, requires profound consideration. For the minute

investigation requisite for this purpose few men were better qualified

than Mr. Holcroft--few men much more equal to the task of bringing forth

from the rich mine where they lay and purify of their dross the talents

of Mr. Cooper. With an earnestness and indefatigable zeal proportioned

to the object, and which nothing but the most generous friendship could

impel him to employ, Mr. Holcroft gave those powers to the instruction

of our hero, and with such speedy and felicitous effect, that the young

gentleman was, in the course of a few months, considered by his two

friends as perfectly qualified to appear before a London audience in

some of Shakspeare's most important characters. Having been for some

time a successful dramatic writer, Mr. H. enjoyed the ear and confidence

of the managers, and arranged with those of Covent Garden for his

pupil's appearance on that stage. And now the time arrived when his

fortitude was to be rewarded, his sufferings compensated, and his

talents to find their proper levels. His first appearance was in Hamlet,

in which he received unbounded applause. In two or three nights after he

performed the very arduous part of Macbeth to a house so very full as to

occasion an overflow. It is but justice to the Edinburgh and other

provincial managers to observe, that when Mr. Cooper appeared on the

London boards he was greatly improved in his externals. His person had

grown more into masculine bulk and manly shape; his face had become more

marked and expressive, and his voice had swelled into a more full deep

tenor.

The friendship of Mr. Holcroft caused Mr. Cooper to be universally

misjudged. The opposition prints represented him in the most extravagant

terms of eulogy. The government prints ran into the opposite extreme,

and he became at once the idol and the victim of party spirit. Yet such

a reception, by a London audience, was a sufficient pledge of future

success. He was still young, had much to learn in order to reach the

first rank of that profession, and if a real, well-grounded, just fame

had been his object, he ought to have felt that it could only be

attained by perseverance, and by the customary natural gradations. The

London managers offered him an engagement, which, though allowed to have

been liberal, seems not to have come up to his own estimate of his

deserts. Playing two or three or four characters well is a very

different thing from sustaining a whole line of acting, to which long

practice and great constitutional force are as necessary as any other

requisite. In this view of the matter, as well as because managers

neither desire nor will be permitted in England to supersede established

favourite servants of the public, it will not appear surprising that the

first rate rank of characters to which Mr. Cooper aspired, was refused

to him by the managers, who thought that they better consulted the

public feeling, their own interest, and even the young gentleman's fame

and ultimate prosperity, by placing him in a secondary general line, in

which he might improve himself by playing with and observing the best

models, and in regular gradation make his way to the first, as Kemble,

Cooke, and others had done before him. This however was too unpalatable

for his ambition to swallow. The first he would be, or none. There is

not a sentiment of Julius Caesar's that is thought so censurable and

unworthy of his great mind as that which he uttered when, pointing to a

small town, he said, "I would rather be the first man in that village

than the second in Rome." This has been justly called perverted

ambition, and Milton stamped it with terrible condemnation when he put

into the mouth of his arch fiend the sentiment--"better to reign in hell

than serve in heaven." The passions of youth extenuate those errors

which in ripened manhood are criminal; and it is not improbable that Mr.

Cooper's own opinion at this day concurs with ours when we say that his

refusal of the manager's offer seems to us to have been very

injudicious. From Plautus, with whom we dare say he had long before had

an intimacy, he might have taken this profitable lesson,

Viam qui nescit qua deveniat ad mare

Eum oportet amnem quaerere comitem sibi.

Had he not rejected that offer he would long ere this have had permanent

possession of the rank to which he too prematurely aspired. His refusal

was followed by a retreat into the country, where, with the perseverance

of Demosthenes, he laboured in fitting himself for a more successful

effort; resolved to force his way if possible to the high object of his

ambition.

During his retirement intimations of his success crossed the Atlantic.

Mr. Tyler, some time since the manager of the New-York theatre, received

the intelligence from a friend in England: "Prepare yourself for

astonishment," said his correspondent, "that identical Mr. Cooper who,

a few months ago, was playing the very underling characters at our

theatre, and who appeared so extremely incompetent, is now performing

Hamlet with applause in London." Sometime after this the agent of the

Philadelphia manager in England made proposals to Mr. Cooper, who

exulting in the thoughts of obtaining in America that rank which he was

refused in London, closed with the offer, and soon after passed over to

America. In Philadelphia, however, he found that his object was not

altogether so attainable as he imagined. In no place does favouritism

flourish with much more rank luxuriance than in that city--in no place

do personal prepossessions more frequently operate to the overthrow of

judgment, to the exclusion of merit, and to the fostering of incapacity.

The multitude had their favourites whose merit touched the highest

standard of their conceptions--any thing beyond that was hid in an

intellectual mist. The taste of the many was formed upon the kind of

merit which they so much admired in their favourites, and little did it

relish that of Mr. Cooper. It is astonishing how constantly fond

overweening prejudice deceives itself. The philosopher who told the

powerful despot, his sovereign, that there was no royal way to

mathematics, was believed, because the despot had common sense--but a

headstrong multitude can never be persuaded that a person can be

incompetent to any one thing, if they only _will_ him to be great in it:

and thus it has happened not infrequently, in all cities as well as

Philadelphia, that splendid talents have stood behind as lackeys, while

doleful incapacity has feasted upon public favour.

The abilities of Mr. Cooper gave great uneasiness, for they every day

forced a passage for themselves to some share of approbation, in the

very teeth of favouritism and prejudice. Some there were who could

discern no merit at all in him; some who industriously employed

themselves in depreciating and denying the little which others allowed

him. At last his vigorous struggles made it necessary to call in a

_corps de reserve_ which he little suspected; his private life was

impeached, and the careless, irregular habits of youth--habits, by the

by, in which no youth indulge more than our own, were arrayed against

him. Unjust as this was, it produced the desired effect; for when his

benefit was announced, very few seats were taken in the boxes. And here

we have to record a feature in that gentleman's character which marks

his honest pride and magnanimity in deep impression. The manager was

bound by his contract to make up to a certain stated amount, the

proceeds of Mr. C.'s benefit. To such an advantage Mr. C. disdained to

have recourse. At the same time his pride shrunk from the thoughts of

playing to empty boxes at his benefit. He resolved to have a full house,

and hit upon an expedient which showed that, young as he was, he knew

something of the human heart, and that, though a stranger, he had made a

very shrewd estimate of the public taste, for which he had the skill to

cater more appropriately and successfully than he could by merely

dishing up a play of Shakspeare's in his own rough cookery. Fortunately

for his purpose there had lately arrived in Philadelphia an actor of

great weight and merit, a native of India, of whose immense and popular

talents he resolved to avail himself; this was an elephant, which for

the trifling _douceur_ of sixty dollars, that is, near twice as much as

the best actor in the city now gets for one week's labour, he prevailed

upon to _press the boards_ of the theatre for that one time only, and be

the chief performer and great attraction of the night. This was what a

seaman would call hitting the public between wind and water: Mr. Cooper

therefore poured in a whole broadside of printed notices, which were put

into every hand, and a huge playbill, which glared at the corner of

every street in letters of elephantine size, informing the public that

the distinguished performer already mentioned, had kindly consented to

act a principal part in the entertainment of the evening. No sooner was

this announced than the whole city was in one hubbub of curiosity--one

twitter of delight; and Mr. Cooper had so many _friends_ who were all at

once intent upon giving him their dollar at his benefit, that the house

was crammed, and there was as great an overflow from every part of it as

if the renowned master Betty himself were to have occupied the place of

the elephant.

Very different was Mr. Cooper's reception at New-York, whither he went

when the theatre of Philadelphia closed for the season. On his very

first appearance he established himself in the public opinion as a first

rate actor. The New-York stage might about that time vie for actors in

number and quality with the best provincial company that ever played in

England. Hodgkinson, Cooper, Fennell, Jefferson, Harwood, Bernard, Mrs.

Morris, and Mrs. Hodgkinson, besides two or three admirable comedians.

Pierre is well adapted to Mr. Cooper's talents and style of acting, and

he evinced his judgment in selecting it for his first appearance.

Through the whole play the ball was well tossed to him by the other

actors; the consequence was that the impression he made has never been

erased. The opinion entertained of him was more substantially evinced

than by mere applause. There was a unanimous desire that he should leave

the Philadelphia theatre and engage at New-York; but to this it was

objected, that he was bound by his contract with the manager of the

former, to play for a certain time under a penalty of two thousand

dollars; this objection, however, was soon superseded by a subscription

raised among the gentlemen of New-York to pay off that sum if the

manager should be able to enforce it. Thus honourably was Mr. Cooper

planted in the city which he contrived to make his head-quarters till

the beginning of the year 1803, when he passed over to England. During

that period he paid a professional visit to Philadelphia, where he was

so justly appreciated that he had no further occasion for the aid of the

elephant.

It happened that Mr. John Kemble the chief actor, and once the acting

manager of Drury Lane theatre, had in the year 1802, a misunderstanding

with the proprietors, in consequence of which he left it, and visited

the continent, leaving the first line of character very inadequately

filled. Intelligence of this secession having reached America in the

latter end of 1802, Mr. Cooper, who was invited, as it is said, by the

proprietors of Drury Lane, to take Mr. Kemble's place, if his reception

by the town would warrant them in retaining him, crossed the Atlantic,

and once more appeared in London. His success was by no means equal to

the expectations of his New-York friends. Those however who were better

acquainted with the general subject and the state of the stage in

England, who were aware how much actors of the greatest talents profit

by constantly playing with men of equal standing with themselves, and

how much they lose by the want of great models either to emulate or

follow, were far from being so sanguine in their expectations. By the

London audience he was handsomely received, and greeted with the

applause and kindness due to a stranger of respectable powers: but in

efficient benefit to the house and to himself he failed; wherefore,

passing on to Liverpool, he played a few nights in that town with great

applause, then took shipping and returned to America, where he was

received with open arms.

After his departure the theatre of New-York fell into a state of decline

for want of a proper manager and proper company. The deceased Hodgkinson

having been joined in the management of the Charleston theatre, and

brought along with him some of the best performers, it was resolved by

the proprietors of the New-York theatre, to give it upon encouraging

terms to a manager of sufficient qualifications to conduct the business

of it successfully. Hodgkinson was elected to the management of it

almost unanimously; but soon after died of the yellow fever. Mr. Cooper

then undertook it--bought the theatre at a vast expense--improved and

embellished the house, and was amply remunerated by the immense receipts

of the first season; at the end of which he sold out his property in it

to another gentleman, who we believe now owns and manages it.

No actor ever made so much money in America as Mr. Cooper. By a skilful

distribution of his time and exertions, he takes care never to stay so

long in one place as to satiate the public appetite. Regardless of the

fatigues of travelling, and always supplied with the best cattle, he

flies from city to city over this extended union, like a comet; one day

he is seen at New-York, the very next he performs in Philadelphia. A few

days after, we have an account of his playing at Boston, and perhaps

before a month elapses we again have intelligence of his acting at

Charleston, (S.C.) in each of which places he receives an enormous

salary, and always has a full benefit. Thus if he possesses the gift of

retention as he does that of gaining, he must necessarily become very

rich. There are modes of getting rid of money, however, to which gossip

Fame, we regret to say it, whispers he is much addicted. That he may be

more extravagant than he ought to be, we can suppose without injury to

his moral character. Whether he be so or not is not our business to

discuss--but it is our duty to relate those things which may be set down

as a counterpoise to the blamable disregard of economy of which he is

impeached by many who are perhaps little capable of estimating his means

or his motives. He is one of the most dutiful and generous of sons to an

amiable mother, whose old age he cheers with punctual bounty, and by the

most constant and pious filial reverence and affection.

Mr. Cooper has a sister, or at least had one, a lady of high personal

endowments and great goodness. She was early married to Mr. Perreau of

Calcutta, a gentleman who stands as high in the opinion of the world as

any man in India.

Of the merit of Mr. Cooper as an actor we shall have occasion to speak

in another part of this work.

LIFE OF ALLEYN, THE PLAYER.

Mr. Edward Alleyn, who though an actor, is ranked among "the British

Worthies," was born in London in 1566, and trained at an early period to

the stage, for which he was naturally qualified by a stately port and

aspect, corporal agility, flexible genius, lively temper, retentive

memory, and fluent elocution. Before the year 1592 he seems to have

acquired a very considerable degree of popularity in his profession; he

was one of the original actors in the plays of Shakespeare, and a

principal performer in some of those of Jonson; but it does not now

appear what were the characters which he personated. They were probably

the most dignified and majestic, for to these the portly and graceful

figure of his person was well adapted. At length he became master of a

company of players, and the proprietor of a playhouse called the

Fortune, which he erected at his own expense, near Whitecross-street;

and he was also joint proprietor and master of the Royal Bear-Garden, on

the Bank side, in Southwark. By the profits accruing from these

occupations, added to his paternal inheritance, and to the dowries of

his two wives, by whom he had no children, he amassed a considerable

property, which he bestowed in a manner that has redounded more to his

honour than his professional merit. The wealth thus acquired enabled him

to lay the foundation of a college, for the maintenance of aged people,

and the education of children, at Dulwich in Surrey, which institution,

called "The College of God's Gift," subsists at this time in an improved

and prosperous state. The liberal founder, before he was forty-eight

years of age, began this building after the design, and under the

direction of Inigo Jones: and it is presumed that he expended eight or

ten thousand pounds upon the college, chapel, &c. before the buildings

and gardens were finished, which was about the year 1617.

Alleyn had long been regarded by all the great and good people of

England, including the sovereign Elizabeth, with admiration and respect.

This charitable endowment presented him to the world in a new and

grander attitude. But still as he was a player, the vulgar and

superstitious were unable to account for this act which would have done

honour to a king or a saint, by any other than diabolical influence. It

was therefore reported, and by the ignorant multitude was believed, that

Mr. Alleyn, "playing a demon with six others in one of Shakspeare's

plays, was in the midst of the play surprised by the apparition of the

devil, which so worked on his fancy, that he made a vow, which he

performed at this place." This most laughable story is handed down

seriously in a book written by a person of the name of Aubrey. Tradition

says that it was from Alleyn's acting and conversation Shakspeare wrote

his admirable instructions to players which he has put into the mouth of

Hamlet.

After the founder had built this college, he met with difficulties in

obtaining a charter for settling his lands in mortmain, that he might

endow it, as he proposed, with 800_l._ per annum, for the support and

maintenance of one master, one warden, and four fellows, three of whom

were to be ecclesiastics, and the other a skilful organist; also six

poor children, as many women, and twelve poor boys, who were to be

maintained and educated till the age of fourteen or sixteen years, and

then put out to honest trades and callings. The master and warden were

to be unmarried, and always to be of the name of Allen or Alleyn. At

length the opposition of the lord chancellor Bacon was overcome, and

Alleyn's benefaction obtained the royal license, and he had full power

granted him to establish his foundation, by his majesty's letters patent

under the great seal, bearing date June 21, 1619. When the college was

finished, the founder and his wife resided in it and conformed in every

respect to the regulations established for the government of his

almoners. Having by his will liberally provided for his widow, and for

founding twenty almshouses, ten in the parish of St. Botolp, without

Bishopgate, in which he was born, and ten in St. Saviour's parish,

Southwark, and bequeathed several small legacies to his relations and

friends, he appropriated the residue of his property to the use of the

college. He died in 1626, in the sixty-first year of his age, and was

buried in the chapel of his own college. The chapel, master's

apartments, &c. are in the front of this building, and the lodgings of

the other inhabitants, &c. in the two wings, of which that on the east

side was handsomely new built, in 1739, at the expense of the college.

They have a small library of books and a gallery of pictures with that

of the founder at full length. The inscription over the door concludes

with these words: _abi tu et fac similiter_--go thou and do likewise.

INTRODUCTION

TO

THE 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 sport is an oppressor and a robber.

_Dr. Johnson's Idler, No. 25._

The establishment of a regular and permanent work of dramatic criticism,

and of censorship upon the public amusements of this city has often been

attempted. The uniform failure of these efforts renders it natural to

apprehend that the proposition now submitted to the public will incur

the charge of presumption, and perhaps experience, for a time, the

coldness and discouragement with which the majority of mankind are

always inclined to treat even laudable exertions, if they in any degree

militate against the dictates of common prudence, and are not

recommended by a certainty of public approbation. Taking their auspices

of the present undertaking from the fate of those hasty productions on

the same subject, which have been brought forth and expired within the

compass of their short season, there are too many, who, instead of

applauding the hazardous boldness of the measure, and for the sake of

its public utility standing forward in its encouragement and support,

will endeavour to damp it by premature censure, ascribe the undertaking

to vanity, or unworthiness, and if it should fail, be ready to aggravate

the disappointment of the projectors with the galling imputation of

temerity, impudence, or overweening self-conceit. The sympathy which

mankind in general think it handsome to feel for unassuming merit,

stumbling in its way through life by incautiously venturing upon ground

untrodden before, will be gladly withheld from persons who are supposed

wilfully to rush forward into error, with the warning monitions of

example before their eyes--who obstinately persist in an unadvised and

hopeless enterprise, in defiance of manifold and recent experience, and

whom the imprudence and misfortunes of others have been incapable of

rendering cautious or discreet.

With encountering these, and many other objections (the offspring of

indistinct conception and cold hearts) the projectors of the present

work lay their account; yet, since nothing honourable or arduous would

ever be accomplished, if hope were to be extinguished by partial defeat,

and a generous enterprise were to be abandoned, because it had before

been tried without success, the work now proposed is undertaken, with

the most firm conviction of its utility and the most unequivocal

confidence of success. Let their difficulties be what they may, however,

the editors are prepared to meet them, not only without fear, but with

satisfaction; since they know that nothing but impossibility will be

refused to undismayed perseverance and unremitting industry, and that in

the work they are entering upon, they labour for the promotion of a

purpose which, whatever the amount of their pecuniary advantage may be,

will entitle them to public respect and to the gratitude of the rising

generation. Before such proud hopes, all the little obstructions they

anticipate--the cavils of the scrupulous, the doubts of the sceptical,

the reluctance of the timid, the resistance of the refractory and

incorrigible, and the sneers, the censures, and the sarcasms of the

curious and the malignant vanish, as the gloomy chills and shades of the

night recede before the glorious luminary of the morning.

That the drama is a most powerful moral agent in society has been

admitted by men of learning and wisdom in all ages of its existence.

Whether its effects be, on the whole, injurious or not, will long be a

subject of contest; but be they what they may, it can have very little

influence of any kind beyond that of harmless amusement, on the wise,

the pious, the learned and the experienced. Were those alone to visit

theatres and be exposed to its allurements, the task of the dramatic

censor might without injury be dispensed with: but since it is the

young, the idle, the thoughtless, and the ignorant, on whom the drama

can be supposed to operate as a lesson for conduct, an aid to experience

and a guide through life, and since such persons are generally

unfurnished with ideas and undefended by principles, prompt to receive

first impressions, and easily susceptible of false opinions and

pernicious sentiments, it becomes a matter of great importance to the

commonwealth that this very powerful engine, (acting as it does upon our

youth through the delightful medium of amusement, and by the

instrumentality of every circumstance that can lay hold of the fancy,

and through the senses fascinate the heart) should be kept under the

control of a systematic, a vigilant and a severe, but a just criticism.

To the formation of that rare compound "a finished man" there belong,

besides the higher requisites of moral character, an infinite number of

minor accomplishments, which are materially affected either for the

better or the worse, by a frequent and studious attendance on dramatic

representations. MANNERS, which constitute so important a part of the

character of every people, are considerably fashioned by a constant

observation of the pictures of human life exhibited in the theatre: on

the action, the utterance and the general deportment, the effects of the

stage have ever been materially felt and are unequivocally acknowledged.

The most eloquent men of antiquity, and the most eloquent men in

England, have owned themselves indebted to actors for perfecting them in

oratory. Roscius, the actor of Rome, is immortalized by Cicero, and

Garrick by lord Chatham and Edmund Burke. If then the stage has been

felt to produce such weighty effects in the more arduous part of human

improvement, how ponderous in its operation must it not of necessity be,

on the other hand, in the promotion of evil, if it exhibit to the

growing generation corrupt examples and defective models, not only

unrestrained and uncensured, but sanctioned with the applause of an

uninstructed and misjudging multitude. Every plaudit which a vitious

play, or a bad actor receives is a blow to the public morals, and the

public taste. Man is an imitative animal, and insensibly conforms to the

models and examples before him. Young men who excessively admire a

favourite actor, will insensibly imitate him, without scanning the man's

merits or defects; and without ever reflecting upon the ultimate

influence which their partiality, if it should be misplaced, may have

upon their lives, fortunes and characters, will adopt his manner, his

action, his enunciation, nay, his worst defects, and in short every

thing that is imitable about him.

Those who dissent from us on other propositions, will agree with us at

least in this, that the highest degree of attention ought to be paid to

the morals, the manners, the address and the language of youth; and that

nothing which has a tendency to mislead them, in any of those

essentials, should be submitted to their eyes or ears; but that on the

contrary, every thing should be done, as a great moral philosopher has

instructed us, "to secure them from unjust prejudices, from perverse

opinions, and from incongruous combinations of images." Let it be kept

in mind that we are not now discussing the question whether the stage be

beneficial to society or not. Though it be a fair subject of inquiry,

and will hereafter engage a share of our attention, we have no use for

it, at present; since be our opinions or those of our readers what they

may, the stage exists, and will continue to exist and attract the

regards of mankind. The true point of consideration, therefore, is, not

how far it is beneficial or how far injurious; but in what way its

benefits may be enhanced, and its mischiefs, if any, be abated. He who

should demonstrate that it has a pernicious tendency, would but the more

strongly enforce our propositions; since he would thereby show the

expediency of diminishing that tendency and of mitigating that evil

which the public will forbids to be entirely prevented.

It is not merely on account of its effects upon the audience, but on

that of the actors themselves, that the theatre calls loudly for a

strict critical regimen. An actor resigned to his own opinion, and

committed to the unrestrained licentious exercise of his own judgment,

if he be not one in a million, sinks into negligence, becomes wilful,

and if, as is nine times in ten the case, he should obtain the casual

applause of a few stupid and injudicious spectators, becomes headstrong,

refractory, and incorrigibly hardened in error. If by means of the

oversight of critical judges, or the false adjudication of applause, an

actor insensibly slides into popularity, he is erected into a standard

of taste, by those who have not seen better; instead of being himself

tested by sound principles of criticism and estimated by comparison,

with the best models, he becomes gradually absolved from submission to

all authority, is held up as a criterion for determining the merit of

other actors, and dubbed the Roscius of his little theatre by a number

of confident pretenders who know just as much about dramatic character

and acting, and on the very same grounds too, as the poor islander of

St. Kilda did of architecture, when he sagaciously concluded that the

great church of Glasgow was excavated out of a rock, because he had

never before seen an edifice made of hewn stone and mortar. Thus not

only a false taste is circulated among the youth at large, but the very

fountain of taste is itself polluted. This is an evil which nothing but

a well-regulated body of competent critical authority can prevent. In

the prosecution of the intended work, an occasion will occur of pointing

out eras during which, even in the great metropolitan seat of the

English drama, the public taste suffered years of vitiation from

defective models being at the head of the stage. Till Garrick, led on by

Nature herself, introduced her school, the theatre presented a stage on

which scarce a vestige of the human character as it really existed, was

to be seen. But pompous monotony of speech held the highest praise, and

"DECLAMATION ROARED WHILE PASSION SLEPT."

Hitherto the theatre of Philadelphia has been too much resigned to the

licentiousness of bold, and blind opinion. Men of letters, with which

the city abounds, and who in every society are the natural guardians of

the public taste and morals, seem to have deserted this important trust.

Applause which ought to be measured out with scrupulous justice,

correctness and precision, has been by admiring ignorance, poured forth

in a torrent roar of uncouth and obstreperous _glee_ on the buffoon,

"the clown that says more than is set down for him," and on "the

robustious perriwig-pated fellow, who tears a passion all to rags,"

while chaste merit and propriety have often gone unrewarded by a smile.

If critical judgment were a matter of physical force or numerical

calculation, then indeed the roar of the multitude would be as

conclusive in reason, as it too often is in practical effect; but

criticism is a matter of intellectual estimate; and many acquirements go

to the composition of a well-qualified dramatic critic, to any one of

which, but a small number of the auditors of a play can, in the nature

of things, have the smallest pretensions. If indeed any man under the

assumption of the critic's name should attempt dogmatically to impose

his _dictum_ as a law upon the public, he would deserve to be repelled

with indignity and rebuke. All the genuine critic will attempt to do, is

to hold out those lights, with which his own study, experience, and

observation have supplied him, in order to enable the public to discern

more clearly what in the play or the actor is worthy of censure or

applause--of rejection or adoption. In the common operations of human

life, every man is compelled by the necessity of his nature to take

succedaneous aid from others. The mechanic in erecting the poorest

building, or forming the most simple machine, is indebted for his means

to the practical geometrician, and instrument maker, and the latter

again, to the master of the science of mathematics. The practical

surveyor or navigator finds it his interest to be governed by rules

supplied by those whom study has furnished with the great elementary

principles of science, and is contented to stand indebted to them for

his means of determining, the area of his land, or the latitude and

longitude at sea, without impugning the rights of those studious men who

have given him the compendious rules and the tables by which he works.

It is so with dramatic criticism. The legitimate source of judgment lies

with those who have by deep study made themselves masters of the first

principles of the science; and from them the people at large, who are

too much otherwise and certainly better employed, to learn those

principles, must be content to take the rules and laws by which they

judge. The most infatuated self-devotee would be ashamed to contest this

point, if he were at all apprised of the various acquirements requisite

for forming an accurate judgment of the business of the theatre,

interwoven, as the dramatic art is, with some of the highest departments

of literature, and the multifarious operations of the human heart. The

vainest being who cajoles himself into the notion that a man either

unlettered or inexperienced can form a just judgment of a play and

actors, must at once be convinced of his error by reflecting that "the

drama is an exhibition of the real state of sublunary nature;" and that

"to instruct life, and for that purpose to copy what passes in it, is

the business of the stage."[6] To understand this well, demands not only

some book-learning, but that experience which, though books improve,

they cannot impart, and which never can be attained by seclusion or

solitary study, but must be derived from intercourse with men in all

their forms of conduct, from converse with society, and from an

attentive and accurate examination of that complex miscellany, the

living world. To know the drama we must know men; and "if we would know

men (says Rousseau) it is necessary that we should see them act." It is

equally necessary too that we should lift the veil which time has thrown

over the past, and see how men have thought and acted through the lapse

of ages upon the uniform principles of human passion, which ever have

been and ever will be the same, and by that means distinguish that which

is natural, innate and permanent in man, from that which is adventitious

and acquired. He whose knowledge of the world is circumscribed within

the narrow limits of one generation or one society can know man only as

he appears in the superficial colouring and peculiar modification of

personal habit, derived from the fashions, the modes, and the capricious

changes of that time, and that society, while the great body of human

nature remains buried from his sight. "The accidental compositions of

heterogeneous modes (says the gigantic critic Johnson) are dissolved by

the chance which combined them, but the uniform simplicity of primitive

qualities neither admits increase nor suffers decay." And assuredly

there was never an age in which man so masked his nature under modish

innovations as he does in the present.

[Footnote 6: Dr. Johnson.]

The works of the ancients, says a great writer, are the mines from which

alone the treasures of true criticism are to be dug up--the pure sources

of that penetration which enables us to distinguish legitimate

excellence from spurious pretensions to it. He, therefore, who would get

at the true principles of dramatic criticism ought to read the poetry

and criticism of the two great ancient languages, and to have formed

some acquaintance with those authors, whether ancient or modern, who

have furnished the world with the great leading principles upon which

dramatic poetry is constructed. Doctor Johnson has informed us that

before the time of Dryden, the structure of dramatic poetry was not

generally understood; and what was the consequence? "AUDIENCES,"

continues the doctor, "APPLAUDED BY INSTINCT, AND POETS OFTEN PLEASED BY

CHANCE."[7]

[Footnote 7: See Johnson's Life of Dryden.]

Without calling in the aid of such high authority, no risk of

contradiction can be incurred by asserting that he must be radically

deficient in the requisites of a dramatic critic, who is not

sufficiently versed in philological literature to discriminate between

the various qualities of diction--to distinguish the language of the

schools from that of the multitude--the polished diction of refinement

from the coarse style of household colloquy--the splendid, figurative,

and impressive combination of terms adapted to poetry, from those plain

and familiar expressions suited to the sobriety of prose; and finally,

to form a just estimate of a poet's pretensions to that delicacy in the

selection of words which constitutes what is called beauty in style. Nor

is this all, he should be perfectly competent to form a judgment of the

fable and its contrivance, to determine according to the canons of

criticism laid down by the greatest professors of the art, whether the

scheme of a piece be obscured by unnatural complexity or rendered jejune

and uninteresting by extreme simplicity, and familiarity of

design--whether description be bloated, or overcharged, or imagery

misplaced or extravagant; and lastly, whether the performance be on the

whole deficient in, or replete with moral institution.

The editors are free to confess that while they enumerate the requisites

necessary to a critic, they tremble for their own incompetency. Labour

however shall not be spared---and they cherish the most sanguine hopes

of supplying their general deficiency by candour and integrity; being

determined while they endeavour with encouragement and applause to

foster the rising genius and growing merit of the stage, to rescue it

from the encroachment of sturdy incapacity, and while they sit in

judgment for the security of the public taste, to be as far as the

canons of dramatic criticism will allow, the strenuous advocates of the

valuable man and unassuming actor--still keeping in sight that

impressive truth contained in the motto: "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."

The editors have said thus much merely to explain their motives, and to

smooth their way to the discharge of a task, in the performance of which

they will necessarily be exposed to many invidious remarks from the

misconceptions of presumptuous ignorance. Having done so they fearlessly

commit the subject to the public judgment, and proceed to the execution

of their duty.

DRAMATIC CENSOR.

_The Philadelphia Theatre opened on Monday the 20th of November, with_

"A CURE FOR THE HEART-ACH."

It has been said by a great moral philosopher that fashion supplies the

place of reason. On superficial consideration the assertion will appear

paradoxical; but there is much truth in it, and much biting satire too,

upon the absurdities of the world. Fashion could not supply the place of

reason, if reason were not absent; and most irrational and unaccountable

indeed are all her ladyship's ways. Her capriciousness is proverbial,

and her agency is generally illustrated by comparison with the most

unsteady elements of the physical world. We say "Fashion that

_fluctuating_ lady," alluding to the ebbing and flowing of the tide--and

"Fashion that weathercock," implying that she veers about with every

puff of wind. There are some few cases, however, on the other hand, in

which she may be compared to a rock, because she stands immovably fixt

to her seat; supplying, according to the idea of the philosopher

abovementioned, the place of reason, who stands self-exiled forever. It

would seem as if fashion never could take repose but in supreme

irrationality. There and there alone she is firm. Whoever will take the

trouble (or rather the pleasure) to read "Browne's Vulgar Errors," will

see how much deeper root absurd notions strike in "the brain of this

foolish compounded clay man," than those that belong to sound sense and

reason. The insignia of fashion, therefore, may be considered in

relation to the human head, as the notification on the door of an empty

house, signifying that the family has removed to another tenement. Hence

no one of common sense expects any caprice of that lady to be accounted

for on rational grounds. There is one of her freaks, however, which we

have endeavoured to trace to its source in the wilds of luxuriant

absurdity, and have never been able to succeed. Nay, we venture to

affirm that if the most sagacious man in America were asked, why it was

considered a violation of the laws of fashion for a lady to attend the

theatre on the opening night of a season, he would be puzzled for any

other reply than that it was permanently fashionable, because it was

prodigiously absurd. On the opening of our theatre this season the house

was full of MEN. The audience presented one dark tissue of drab and

brown, and black and blue woolen drapery, with here and there a solitary

exception of cheering female attire. Had there been a heavy fall of

snow, the ladies would have been sleighing--had there been a public ball

the darkness of the streets would have been broken by multitudes of

attractive meteors in muslin, either "hanging on the cheek of night," or

hurried along like gossamer through the air. But fashion has so ordained

it: and a good play and after-piece were well represented to a house

which, from the little intermixture of the lovely sex, somewhat

resembled the auditory of a surgeon's dissecting theatre.

Mr. Morton's comedy "A Cure for the Heart Ach," is by this time so well

known that to relate the fable of it here, would be uselessly to

encumber the work. Of the quality of this production it would be

difficult for criticism to speak candidly, without adverting to the

present miserable state of dramatic poetry in England, which from the

days of Sam Foote has been gradually descending to its present

deplorable condition. The body of dramatic writers of the last thirty

years first corrupted the public taste, and now thrive by that

corruption. By hasty sketches, not of Nature as she appears in all times

and places, but of particular and eccentric manners and characters, the

excressences of overloaded society, they have made a short cut to the

favour of the public, and inundated the stage with a torrent of

ephemeral productions, to the depravation of public taste, and in

defiance of classical criticism: their highest praise that they do no

moral mischief, and that if they possess not the bold outline and

faithful colouring of nature which distinguished the productions of

their mighty predecessors, they are no less exempt from the obscenity

and immoral effects of those authors. As bad writing is infinitely

easier than good, the pens of our living dramatic writers in general

teem with an inconceivable fertility--and the purlieus of London are

beat over in every direction to hunt up game suitable to the genius of

their weak-winged muse; in short, to find out new modifications of

character, attractive not by its consonance to man's general nature, but

by its eccentricity and departure from the ordinary tracks of human

conduct.

Having thus insulated this class of comedies, and put them apart from

the old stock, to which, with the exception of the Honey Moon, there is

no modern production comparable, criticism may weigh the merits of each

piece as compared with its class, and perhaps find something to praise.

We consider some of the comedies of Mr. Morton, however, as raised high

above the throng. The Cure for the Heart Ach has much in it to commend.

The moral tendency of many parts of it is good, while the incidents are

exceedingly laughable. _Old Rapid_ continually betraying his trade by

stuffing his conversation with the technical terms of the taylor--his

son's distress at it--the honest rusticity of _Frank Oatland_--the

baseness, vanity and folly of _Vortex_ the nabob--the insolence and

amorousness of _Miss Vortex_ his daughter, and the whimsical incidents

arising from their various designs, mistakes, detections and

disappointments, form altogether a _melange_ of pleasantry highly

provocative of laughter, yet by no means so low as to reduce the piece

to the rank of farce, which some austere critics in London have

assigned it.

Of the performance generally, we repeat that it was good. Young Rapid

afforded criticism much satisfaction in the person of Mr. Wood, who in

many parts persuaded us that he had seen Mr. Lewis in that character,

and seen him with profit. Mr. Wood's walk is not unlike that of the

great original in London--a nasal tone of voice too is common to both.

These, if they did not create, certainly increased the resemblance

between those two gentlemen, which, however remote, was yet discernible.

In _Sir Hubert Stanley_, as in every other character in which we have

seen him, Mr. M'Kenzie deserved warm applause--he was dignified,

pathetic and interesting. Mr. Francis gave a strong colouring to Vortex;

and to say that Frank Oatland was all that the author could wish, we

need only to state that he fell to the share of Mr. Jefferson. After

all, we are doubtful whether old Rapid was not as well off in the hands

of Mr. Warren as any other character in the play.

We were greatly interested and indeed delighted by Mrs. Wood in Jesse

Oatland. Mrs. Francis was abundantly droll in Mrs. Vortex; and Mrs.

Seymour was entitled to the marks of approbation she received.

_November 22._

PIZARRO and the Review composed the bill of fare for this evening.

Although in the attack and defence of Pizarro criticism has worn down

the edges of its weapons to very dulness, we cannot forbear taking this

opportunity of recording our opinions of that extraordinary production.

No play that has appeared during the last century, possesses the power

of agitating the passions, and interesting the feelings in an equal

degree to Pizarro. From a child of the brain of Kotzebue, trained and

corrected by Sheridan, much might be expected. And the piece before us

is worthy of the talents of such men.

In any contest between _oppressed_ and _oppressors_ the heart takes in

an instant, a decided and a warm part. If the crime of _oppression_ is

aggravated by other guilt in the _oppressor_, and the object of it is

rendered more lovely and respectable by the most exalted virtues, pity

for the one rises to respect and affection--indignation against the

other becomes exasperated to hatred, to abhorrence, and disgust; without

the intervention of the will, but merely from the spontaneous movements

of the heart, we sympathise, we silently pray for the one--we recoil

from, we execrate the other. We are pressed by our very nature into the

service of virtue; our souls are up in arms against vice and improbity,

and thus we receive lasting impressions, which, when our hearts are not

very corrupt, must forever after have a favourable influence on our

moral conduct.

To elucidate and confirm our opinions on this subject, we beg leave to

ask, what is that play in which there is such a mass of virtue and

simplicity, and such a number of amiable personages, opposed to such a

mass of villany, subtlety, fraudful avarice, and sensual vice, as in

Pizarro? Not one. The lofty moral sentiments of Rolla, his exquisite

feelings and exalted notions as the patriot, the friend, the lover, are

unequalled. He exists out of himself, and lives but for others: for his

country, his king, his friend, and the dearest object of his love, of

whom being bereft by that very friend, he becomes their brother--their

protector--devotes his life to death to save the man--escaping that,

devotes it again to save their offspring. How much worse, if worse could

be, than a satanic soul must that man have, who could be insensible to

such a character! Who is there whose heart beats in harmony with heroic

virtue and humanity, that would not accept such a death, to have lived

such a life? Need we say more then of Pizarro than to contrast him with

such a character. The only gleam of light that breaks in upon that black

_Erebus_, his heart, is his conduct to Rolla when the latter throws

aside his dagger; and this the poet (Sheridan) has artfully contrived

for the purpose of heightening the lustre of such virtue, by showing

that even that monster could not be insensible to it.

Let us add that in the true liberal spirit of Christian piety, tolerance

and humanity displayed by Las Casas, a popish Spanish priest; in the

noble indignation, the inflexible fortitude, and the intrepid patriotism

and virtue of Orozimbo; in the valour, the beneficent wisdom, and the,

ardent connubial fidelity and affection of the young Alonzo, in the

tenderness, the simplicity, the conjugal and maternal virtues of Cora,

and in the artless display of vivid patriotism in the old blind man and

his boy--there is, exclusive of Rolla's glorious qualities, a mass of

excellence sufficient to make the character of any two plays, and put

each out of the reach of competition with any other that we can

immediately think of.

Such as we have described are the emotions which are always produced by

the play now under consideration, when it happens to be properly

represented. Fortunately or unfortunately as it may happen, the play is

so constructed that almost every part in it contributes largely,

according to its kind, to the interest of the piece. Every person of the

_oppressed_--the Peruvians, even down to the blind man and the little

boy, are made by the poet to produce a large share of the general

effect. For this reason it is a piece which taxes a manager highly,

calling for a variety of excellent talents in the actors. It is not one

of those plays which satisfy the mind and from which we come home

contented, if two or three characters are well done. The play of Pizarro

is a lifeless body when compared with what it ought to be, if _all_ the

high Peruvians at least, are not well performed. In the movement of a

watch every small wheel and every little rivet is as necessary to the

general effect as the mainspring. So Las Casas, Orozimbo, the blind man,

and the blind man's boy, are as necessary not perhaps to the mean

progress of the fable (but to that effect, that necromantic influence

upon the feelings, that penetrating moral which alone can render a play

useful as well as delightful) as is the character of Rolla.

It may appear a singular avowal, yet being truth we will not withhold

it, that having witnessed the performance of this play many times in

England and America, we have never yet seen it performed to our

_perfect_ satisfaction. Kemble was great in Rolla, but the feebleness of

his voice was severely felt by the audience in the celebrated speech of

the Peruvian to his soldiers. That speech has been the stumbling block

of most actors we have seen. Hodgkinson, who in other respects was

unexceptionable, rather failed in it. Throughout the whole character,

Mr. Wood preserved a very equable tenor of acting. He had neither the

rich beauties nor the striking defects of others. He evinced

considerable judgment, but at times powers were evidently wanting.

Mr. M'Kenzie supported Pizarro well, and showed that he possesses

abilities to support it better. It appears to us that this gentleman's

physical powers are sometimes subdued by an over-scrupulous chasteness.

In his answers to Elvira's solicitations on behalf of the unhappy

Alonzo, he did not, we think, sufficiently mark all the feeling and

emotions of the tyrant. Pizarro is stung with jealousy as well as rage;

not so much the jealousy of love as of infernal pride; but both rage and

jealousy are mastered by triumphant insolence and contempt. The

utterance therefore of his laconic decisive sentence, "He dies," should

be marked with a triumphant sneer as well as malice.

Mr. Warren did ample justice to the venerable Las Casas.

Mr. Cone who, though labouring under the disadvantages of a voice

radically, and we fear, incurably monotonous, gives promise of being a

useful actor, displayed considerable spirit in Alonzo. To the praise of

diligence and attention to his business Mr. C. is entitled, and those

rarely fail in any department to insure respectability and success. Mr.

Cone's personal appearance is very much in his favour.

The only part in the play on which we can justly bestow _unqualified_

applause was Mr. Jefferson's Orozimbo. It is seldom that criticism has

such a repast, a repast in which there was no fault but that of the poet

in making it too short.

Elvira is not one of the characters in which Mrs. Barret appears to

advantage.

Had Mrs. Wood the requisite talent of singing, we should have been much

pleased with her Cora. Certainly so far as that lady was able to go, we

know no person on this stage who could be substituted in her place with

advantage to the character. But the omission of Cora's exquisitely

beautiful, wild, and pathetic song, was a great drawback from the effect

of the part.

_December 21._--TOWN AND COUNTRY, by Morton--Village Lawyer. Some of the

British critics rank Mr. Morton with the farce-writers of the day,

others again pronounce his comedies to be the best which the age has

produced, and say that they will be selected by posterity from the

perishable trash of the day. We agree with neither, thinking it likely

they may remain for a _few_ years among the stock of acting plays. To

say that they will be admired by posterity is praise as hyperbolical and

unjust, as ranking them in farce is calumnious and untrue.

The comedy before us is a very pleasing production. The plot is well

imagined, and the author has contrived to condense into it more bustle

and incident than can readily be found in a piece of the same length.

Reuben Gleuroy, the hero, is a noble character, possessed of the most

exalted virtues, which are continually brought into active exercise for

the good of his fellow beings. He preaches little and does a great deal,

and displays a generosity and greatness of mind touching, as the world

now goes, upon the chivalrous. But that which makes him more

conspicuously amiable and interesting is that while he takes the most

ardent and active concern in the happiness of mankind, he is himself

reduced by the wickedness of others to a state of misery almost of

distraction, which awakens the most poignant sympathy for his situation.

Deserted, as he imagines, by the object of his dearest affections,

Rosalie Summers, who is supposed to have eloped with a villain of high

rank of the name of Plastic, he goes to London and finds his brother in

the last stage of ruin and despair by gambling, and stops his hand just

at the moment he is attempting suicide. In the end he reforms the

brother, discovers his Rosalie, and finds that she is innocent and

faithful; and by a series of those events, which whether likely or not,

modern dramatists without scruple press into their service, is made

perfectly happy. The colouring of this admirable portrait is not a

little heightened in its effect by a tinge of eccentricity caught from a

life of rural retirement in the romantic mountainous country of Wales.

On this character and that of old Mr. Cosey, a philanthropic, wealthy,

and munificent stock-broker, whose cash, always at the disposal of his

friends, enables Reuben to accomplish his purposes, the author seems to

have dwelt _con amore_. The comic dialogue of the piece arises chiefly

from the contrasted feelings of Mr. Cosey and Mr. Trot. Cosey admires

the city, and is miserable in Wales, while Trot, a wealthy

cotton-spinner, rejoices at the loss of a large share of his property

because it furnishes him with a pretext for returning to the country and

leaving the _abominable_ city to which he was hurried away by the vanity

of his wife.

Mr. Wood displayed in Reuben, much ability, sound sense, and fine

feeling. No person that we know on the stage discloses in his

performances so little of the mere actor. That indefinable something,

which though obvious to perception cannot be described, but is

understood by the term "plain gentleman," tinctures all he says and does

upon the stage. Whether this be detrimental to him as a general actor,

we have not yet seen this gentleman often enough to determine: but this

we will say, that while it stands a perpetual security against his being

positively disagreeable in any character he may be obliged to act, it

throws a charm over all those for which he is best fitted by nature.

The amiable, the inimitable Cosey, never was, nor ever can be more

perfectly at home than in the person of Mr. Jefferson. Were the author

to see the performance and to observe the correspondence of the actor's

physiognomy as well as action and utterance, with the sentiments of the

character, he would from his heart exclaim in the words of Cosey

himself, "NOW THIS IS WHAT I CALL COMFORTABLE."

It would be great injustice not to acknowledge the pleasure we received

from Mr. Francis in the character of Trot, which he conceived and

executed with great humour and spirit.

A Mr. West from the southward made his appearance in the Yorkshire

rustic Hawbuck. His face and person are well adapted to a certain class

of low comedy; his voice still more so. If he will but avoid that bane

of comedians, the effort to raise laughter by spurious humour and low

trick, he will thrive in his department.

In the drawing of the female parts there is nothing sufficiently

striking to call forth the powers of an actress. What was to be done was

sufficiently well done by Mrs. Wood and Mrs. Wilmot. But, were they well

cast? or, should they not change sides?

_FARCES FOR THE FIRST WEEK._

_November 20._ OF AGE TOMORROW.

Every character tolerably well played.

_November 22._ WAGS OF WINDSOR.

Hardinge, an old favourite of the town in Irish characters, appeared the

first time for four years in Looney M'Twoulter. His return to this stage

was hailed with thunders of applause; and all his songs were

_encored_.--We have not seen Caleb Quotem better performed in England,

nor so well by a great deal in America as this night by

Jefferson.--Wilmot is a true child of nature and simplicity in all such

characters as John Lump.

_November 24._ VILLAGE LAWYER.

We abhor this farce. Scout, from whom it takes its name, is too

detestable a picture of human meanness and depravity to be fit for

farce, the proper effects of which, however nonsensical it may be, ought

to be to enliven and not create disgust. We cannot bear to see a

respectable actor in it. Blisset, a favourite son of Momus, played the

Sheepstealer. Mr. West, whom we have mentioned in Hawbuck, played Old

Snarl with great humour, which his audience, and indeed himself, seemed

heartily to enjoy. In characters of low humour, particularly crabbed old

men, Mr. West would be very pleasing, if he would aim less at raising

gallery laughter by spurious means. And all that could be done for Mrs.

Scout was done by Mrs. Francis.

_November 27._

ELLA ROZENBERG.--WOOD DEMON.

Ella Rozenberg, a melo-drame, by Mr. Kenny, was brought out for the

first time at Drury Lane in 1807, and has ever since maintained its

ground in the public opinion. It is extremely interesting, and though

there is nothing new or singular in the plot or incidents is calculated

to lay fast hold on the imagination and feelings. At the opening of the

piece, the scene of which is laid near a Prussian camp, the heroine

_Ella Rosenberg_ reduced by the disappearance of her husband to a state

of poverty, is living under the protection of captain _Storm_,

a crippled old officer of invalids, and the friend of her deceased

father. Here she has concealed herself for two years, when she is

discovered by colonel _Mountfort_, who having conceived a criminal

passion for her, had in order to gratify that passion, purposely

provoked her husband to draw his sword upon him, in consequence of which

apprehending the severity of the military law, the latter had set off to

the capital to appeal to the electoral prince, but was no more heard of.

The colonel, who is a finished master of intrigue, enters Storm's house

in disguise, and attempts with the help of a band of his soldiers to

carry off Ella by force. In this he is opposed by the good and gallant

old officer, who, sword in hand, beats off the soldiers, tears the

colonel's sash from him, and in a rage tramples it under foot, in

consequence of which Storm is made prisoner, and Ella left unprotected,

is borne away by the soldiers. The elector, who has just returned

victorious from the war, appears considering a petition from old Storm

on behalf of Ella, which interests him so much, that he resolves to

visit her incognito. Mountfort, who is a favourite of the elector's and

has just arrived to congratulate him, is alarmed, endeavours to dissuade

him from going to Ella, and in the meantime to secure himself from

detection orders the immediate trial of Storm, who is found guilty and

sentenced to die. Ella escapes and reaches Storm, her old protector,

just as he is on his way to execution. He does all he can to keep his

fate concealed from her; but it being betrayed, she is torn from him in

a state of distraction and anguish, and being consigned by her generous

protector to the care of a brother officer who commands the guard, is

conducted to a solitary inn by a soldier. The elector appears at night

passing in disguise to visit the cottage of Storm, and is encountered by

Rosenberg, who appears in the most wretched state, flying from his

pursuers, and supplicates him for the means to procure shelter. Without

disclosing who he is, Rosenberg informs the elector that he (Rosenberg)

has been secretly and violently imprisoned. The elector directs him to

the house to which Ella is carried by the soldiers, and promises to meet

him there in the morning and assist him. Rosenberg reaches the inn

whither Ella too is brought in a state of insensibility, and placed in a

separate apartment. Mountfort arrives alone, and not knowing Rosenberg

engages him to guard Ella, while he goes to seek a conveyance for her.

Rosenberg now finds the cause of his imprisonment--an interesting

discovery takes place between him and Ella--but he is detected by one of

his pursuers, and is again in the hands of his enemies, when the elector

enters, and obtaining the most perfect conviction of the villany of

Mountfort, disgraces him, restores the young couple to rank and

happiness, and the brave and virtuous old Storm to life, liberty and

joy.

The plot of this melo-drame is wrought up with uncommon skill: the

interest rising by a progressive climax which keeps the heart in a warm

glow of feeling from the first scene to the last. Old Storm is worth a

whole army of what are called heroes, and the elector is a model of

justice and humanity for princes to imitate.

According to the London casting Rosenberg would have fallen to the share

of the first player in the house: but we had no reason to complain of

Mr. Cone. Mr. Warren discharged the high office of elector with dignity;

and Mr. M'Kenzie was an excellent representative of the old

cut-and-thrust-colonel. Such characters as Ella are always interesting

when played by Mrs. Wood.

The tasteful amateur must have been roused and delighted by the music,

particularly the overture.

Ella Rosenberg was followed by one of the most monstrous productions,

the mind of man ever groaned withal. Never did melancholy madman

labouring under the horrors of an inflammation of the brain--never did a

wretch fevered with gluttony and intemperance, and writhing under the

pressure of the night-mare, dream of more horrible circumstances than

those which Mr. Lewis has offered in this prodigious melo-drame, for the

ENTERTAINMENT of the British nation. Where will the taste of England

stop in its descent? Where will the impositions on it by bastard genius

end? Yet since this monster has produced a powerful effect, and is

managed with such perverted skill as to excite a strong interest, and

since whole audiences condescend to club tastes with the scarecrow old

women of the heath and the mountain, and to play "look at the bugabow,"

with the nurselings of the lap, we should be sorry to be deficient in

curtesy, or when so many good and wise people drivel not to drivel a

little too; we bend therefore with stiff and painful obedience to our

duty, and offer our readers a short summary of the fable.

To clear the way then, be it in the first place known, that Mr. Matthew

Lewis has found out a new kind of infernal agent--a demon who delights

in human sacrifices, and lives in the woods. Perhaps it is because we

are poorly versed in demonology that we do not recollect to have heard

of this particular infernal before. Be that as it may, _Count

Hardyknute_ of Holstein, having been sent into the world deformed in

person and poor in circumstances, and being resolved to sell his soul to

damnation for the bettering of his body, makes a contract with the

demon, in condition of his being made handsome and powerful, to

sacrifice to him a human victim on a particular day in each year; in

failure of which he is to become the prey of the demon, who is very

handsomely named _Sangrida_. The count has sacrificed nine victims

before the opening of the piece, and is meditating with himself with

what fat offering he shall next glut the maw of Sangrida, in anniversary

punctuality. _Leolyn_, a dumb boy, the rightful heir of the estate and

title which Hardyknute had usurped, has been secretly bred up by

_Clotilda_ as her own, but Hardyknute discovers him by the mark of a

bloody arrow on his wrist, and determines to help Sangrida to his little

body. _Una_, a beautiful young lady, to whom the count pays his

addresses, is selected by the guardian spirit of Holstein to be the

preserver of the intended victim. The time approaches for the fulfilment

of the agreement. By a process of the most horrible kind of enchantment

Una is enabled to remove the boy so as to elude the count, and gets

possession of the key of an enchanted place on which the boy is chained.

She gets him down from it--the clock is seen just near the stroke of

one--she resolves to push the hand forward--Hardyknute seizes and is

about despatching her, when Leolyn with difficulty mounts to the clock,

pushes forward the hand and it strikes one--the demon appears, seizes

the count in his claws--the earth opens, and the demon carries him down,

in the same manner that an alligator or shark carries down a puppy dog,

to devour him in comfort.

Such is the piece, and such the depravity of a nation's taste. It is no

wonder that the tasteful, the learned and the judicious, should wage an

open war of wit and satire upon such things. On this subject we refer

our readers to a piece signed THEOBALDUS SECUNDUS, which will appear in

our next number.

SECOND WEEK.

_November 29._ RECONCILIATION, OR FRATERNAL DISCORD, _with_ FALSE AND

TRUE.

It would be superfluous to say any thing of a play so well known and so

justly admired.

_December 1._ ABAELLINO, OR THE GREAT BANDIT, _with the_ LADY OF THE

ROCK.

The Great Bandit is one of those extraordinary productions which

distinguish the present dramatic writers of Germany from those of all

ages and all countries. There are but few topics connected with the

stage which deserve more serious discussion than this of the German

drama. A proper investigation of it would require more room than we can

at present spare: but we shall not so far desert our duty as to decline

it when we can devote to it the deliberation it deserves. A future, and

not far distant number will contain such reflections as occur to us on

the subject.

_December 2._ ROAD TO RUIN--DON JUAN.

Mr. Wood in _Harry Dornton_ was very successful. It is a line of acting

for which he is well calculated. The character of _Goldfinch_ was better

performed by Mr. Jefferson than it could be in any other person in this

theatre. But we received less pleasure from it than from any other we

have seen him play, _Scout_ excepted.

_FARCES FOR THIS WEEK._

The Wood Demon, though used as an after-piece, demanded observation of a

more serious kind than is due to farce, and has therefore received it in

pages 71 and 72.

The farce of "False and True" is a wretched thing. To speak

Johnsonically it is a congeries of inexplicable nonsense. An Irishman,

who, after having committed the _very probable_ blunder of going to

Naples instead of Dublin, mistakes Vesuvius for the hill of Hoath, is

the most laughable character of the piece. What could be done for it

Hardinge did. A song of his was spoiled by the neglect of the band,

whose conduct deserved reprehension from the manager.

The Lady of the Rock is the production of Holcroft. Had he not himself

given it to the world as his own, we should have thought it a libel upon

his understanding to ascribe it to his pen.

No pantomime has ever made so deep and so universal an impression as Don

Juan. The merit of the original belongs to the celebrated Moliere.

Averse on principle to pantomime, we have often felt ourselves indebted

to it for relief from the drowsiness induced by some modern plays; but

that perhaps was more owing to the badness of the play than the value of

the pantomime. Of all pantomimes Don Juan is the most blamable. It is

good in its kind, but the kind _is bad_.

THIRD WEEK.

_Monday, Dec._ 4. SPEED THE PLOUGH--ELLA ROSENBERG.

The comedy of Speed the Plough is deservedly reckoned among the best of

the modern stock, and considered as reflecting great credit upon the

muse of Mr. Morton. The plot is very skilfully mixed up, notwithstanding

the difficulty that always must attend carrying on, in connection with

each other, two interests of a totally distinct and opposite nature,

connecting two contradictory agencies without either encroaching on the

other, and conducting an alternation of serious and comic scenes to one

end, without making them clash. This Mr. Morton has, to a considerable

degree, successfully accomplished; making that which occasions the

difficulty subservient to one of the most desirable but arduous ends in

dramatic writing, that of concealing the final unravelling or

denouement, as it is called, of the plot.

A striking beauty in this play, and the more striking because seldom met

with, is the fidelity with which some of the characters are drawn from

life; not as it is found in a solitary individual, but as it appears in

a whole numerous class. Such is farmer Ashfield--such is dame Ashfield.

Yet the characters in general are not very impressive, and there are

some inconsistencies in them as well as in the arrangement of the

incidents. A young lady's suddenly, and at first sight, falling in love

with a peasant boy, though it may have happened, is an occurrence too

singular to be perfectly natural; and as a dramatic incident, it is a

coarseness which cannot well be reconciled to the characteristic

delicacy of such a young lady, even by the _ex post facto_ discovery

that the object of her love was in reality a person of condition. We do

not think that love at first sight, which is in reality nothing more

than Forwardness indulging itself in the airs of Romance, and Prurience

calling in Fate to sanction its indelicacy, ought to be clothed in such

a respectable and captivating dress as our author has bestowed upon it

in this play.

Yet with these defects to counterbalance them, Speed the Plough is

replete with beauties--the dialogue is neat, spirited, and forcible; and

there are many delicate touches of the pathetic, and much excellent

moral sentiment to recommend it.

The best character, beyond all comparison, is that of Farmer Ashfield.

It is a picture of real life, originals of which are found in multitudes

in England--plain, honest, benevolent, and under a rustic garb,

possessing a heart alive to the noblest feelings. No man that we know in

this country possesses such happy requisites for exhibiting the farmer

in the true colours of nature as Mr. Jefferson. In the rustic deportment

and dialect--in the artless effusions of benignity and undisguised

truth--and in those masterly strokes of pathos and simplicity with which

the author has finished this inimitable picture Mr. Jefferson showed

uniform excellence: and as in the humorous parts his comic powers

produced their customary effect on our risibility, so in the serious

overflowings of the farmer's honest nature the mellow, deep, impressive

tone of the actor's voice vibrated to the heart, and excited the most

exquisite sensations.

Mr. Wood performed Bob Handy. He was given out in the bills for sir

Philip Blandford; but was, by a casualty, obliged to take the part of

Bob: a change which, on more accounts than one, the audience had no

cause to regret. Nor in our opinion, had either Bob or sir Philip any

cause to lament it. Mr. Wood is at home in light comedy, while Mr.

M'Kenzie, whose merits seem not to be sufficiently appreciated, is well

calculated for such characters as Philip Blandford.

The judgment of Mr. Warren enables him to perform any character he

undertakes with propriety--but there are some parts in comedy for which

he seems admirably qualified by nature and knowledge of stage business.

We could enumerate several; but this is not the place for doing so--his

representation of sir Abel Handy was uncommonly humorous and

appropriate.

Mr. Cone's Henry was pleasing. This young actor promises well. Though,

to adopt the cant of the turf, he will never be first, there is no fear

of his being distanced, unless he carries too great weight.

Dame Ashfield in the performance of Mrs. Francis would be admired by

Mrs. Grundy herself; and to express our opinion of Mrs. Wood's Susan

would be only to repeat what we have already said of her on more

occasions than one.

It gives us infinite regret to be compelled, just as we put our foot

upon the threshold of the critic's office, to animadvert upon some

errors and defects in pronunciation, of which we could not have imagined

the persons concerned to be capable. Our purpose is to persuade the

people to encourage the stage upon principles honourable to it; not as a

place of mere barren pastime; but as a school of improvement. But how

shall we be able to bring the public mind to that habitual respect for

the stage without which it must lose all useful effect, if the actors

show themselves unfit for conveying instruction. Were this to be the

case, and were mere pastime the object of theatres, Astley's

horse-riders, the tumblers and rope-dancers of Sadlers-Wells, nay, the

PUNCH of a puppet-show, would be as useful and respectable as Garrick,

Barry, Cooke, or Kemble, and the circus might successfully batter its

head against the walls of that building in Chesnut-street which the

sculptor has enriched with the wooden proxies of Melpomene and Thalia.

But criticism will not allow this. For the sake of the stage it will

exert all its might to support the actors--and for the sake of the stage

it will hold them in admonition. If the established principles of

literature be violated by the actors, the very ground upon which the

critic would support them, is blown up by a mine of their own

construction, and not only they must sink, but the critic must, for the

maintenance of a just cause, put his hand to their heads and give them a

lanch. The theatre is a school for elocution or it is nothing. In Great

Britain it has time immemorial been attended to, not as authority for

innovations, but as an organ of conveyance of the authorised

pronunciation, to which the growing youth of the country were to look

for accurate information of what was correct, as settled and considered

by their superiors, that is, by high learned men and statesmen. If the

actors, therefore, run counter to authority, and thereby endanger the

cause which they are presumed to aid, the mischief is too general and

extensive in its operation to be neglected or endured. There is nothing

belonging to the stage which demands such strict discipline as its

orthoepy, because there is none in which it can so immediately and

powerfully affect the public. On this point therefore we are determined

to sacrifice nothing to ceremony; being convinced that debasing the

language is essentially as injurious, though legally not so punishable,

as defacing the current coin of a country.

Without pointing to individuals by name, we request the ladies and

gentlemen of the green-room to consult all the acknowledged authorities

for the pronunciation of the words: true, rude, brute, shrewd, rule, in

which the u is by some of them sounded very improperly; _true_ so as to

rhyme to _few_, _new_, &c. _rule_ as if it were to rhyme to _mule_, and

so on; whereas true ought to be pronounced as if it were spelled _troo_,

and rhymed to _do_; rule as if spelled _rool_, and so on; and thus they

will find them in the dictionaries of acknowledged authority.

Since we are on the subject we will now advert to some other words which

are often most lamentably mispronounced, not only contrary to the

pronunciation established by all learned men and orators in Great

Britain, but exactly in that way in which skilful actors often pronounce

them in Europe when they wish to mimic the most low and ignorant classes

of society. Of this description is the pronunciation of the word

"sacrifice." For these words we refer all whom it may concern to the

dictionaries of the best orthoepists, by which they will be instructed

that it is not pronounced say-crifice but sac-rifize. If the former be

really the pronunciation, the old ladies who smoke short pipes in the

chimney corners of English and Irish cottages, are right, and Burke,

Fox, Pitt, Windham, Curran, Grattan, Sheridan, and in short every man

who speaks in a public assembly in England or Ireland, are wrong. We are

not sure whether Mr. Kemble, who, as an excellent critic has observed,

is always seeking for novelty and always running into error, may not

lately have added that patch to his motley garb of new readings; but his

authority is disallowed. Even Garrick, whose claims were of a very

superior kind, when he attempted to render the English language, already

too unstable, more so, by his innovations, was repelled with helpless

contempt.

This is a point to which it is the manager's duty to attend, because it

is not a matter of doubt, nor subject to discretionary opinion. What

must that part of our youth who attend to these things from a laudable

desire for improvement, think, when they hear the same word differently

pronounced in the same scene by different actors. Upon one night

particularly, Mr. M'Kenzie several times returned the mispronounced

word, pronounced as it should be, with an emphasis which could not be

misunderstood: yet the mispronunciation was persisted in.

Before we drop this subject we must observe that the pronunciation of

the last syllable of the word sacrifice is sometimes as erroneously

pronounced as the first, indeed worse, as the sound given to it

approximates to one which conveys an offensive idea. Properly pronounced

it rhymes to the verbs _advise_, _rise_, and not to mice, spice, &c.

Having brought our critical journal up to the appearance of that

phenomenon of the stage of this new world, Master Payne, we find

ourselves constrained, by the limits of this number, to postpone our

observations upon the plays in which that extraordinary boy, for so many

nights, astonished and delighted crowded houses, and far beyond our

expectations, made good his title to the partiality of every city in

which he has performed.

CRITICISM.

THE FOUNDLING OF THE FOREST--A PLAY.

This production which we have annexed to our first number, not on

account of its superior merit, but because it was the most recently

published of any that has yet come to our hands, will, on the most

superficial reading, be discerned to be of the true German cast. The old

trick of grouping the characters at the end of a scene, and dropping the

curtain upon them, by way of leaving it to the general conception of the

audience to guess the rest, as is done in the Stranger, and all others

of that breed, is here twice put in practice. Those who like such drugs

mixed up with a _quantum sufficit_ of horror, and all the tenterhook

interest, hair-breadth escapes, and incident so forced as to stagger

belief, which make up the hotchpotch romances whether narrative or

dramatic of the present day, will like this. Mr. Dimond has in this

piece certainly shown great skill in working up that kind of materials

to the production of stage effect; since to those who can be interested

or affected by the marvellous and mysterious, and who love to step for

amusement out of the precincts of nature, and the conduct of "the folks

of the world" the Foundling of the Forest will be interesting and

affecting. Viewing it with a strict critical eye, not only the plot is

faulty, but the composition is in many places extremely bad. If the

production of original character was the author's design, he has

succeeded to his heart's content in that of Florian, which we believe

has never had a prototype in this world. In this _hero_ who is sometimes

as bombastical as ancient Pistol, and sometimes as ridiculous as a

buffoon, the author attempts to be droll, and

Aims at wit--but levell'd in the dark,

The random arrow never hits the mark.

A London critic remarking with just severity upon the strange way in

which the divinity is addressed in this piece, says, "This blot defaces

almost all the modern things called dramas or plays. In the farcical

comedies we have low vulgar swearing unworthy even the refuse of

society; while in the _comedies larmoyantes_ (_weeping comedies_) and

tragedies, we have eternal imprecations of the deity, indicative only of

madness in literature." To this observation as well as that which

follows from the same critic we heartily subscribe. "It is interspersed

with songs, to one of which we direct[8] the reader, to remind the

author of what Pope says:

Want of decency shows want of sense.

[Footnote 8: _See the Duett between Rosabelle and L'Eclair, Act.

III, scene I, page 16._]

"Among _soi-disant_ jolly fellows revelling in senseless ribaldry and

inebriety (continues the reviewer) this song might be deemed very fine;

but we shrewdly suspect that if the lines had been spoken at the theatre

instead of being sung, the audience would have resented the insult."

It would be injustice not to add that the concluding speech of count

Valmont, and many other parts scattered through the piece, must be

admired as specimens of very fine composition.

MUSIC.

The lovers of poetry and music have lately been highly gratified by the

publication of "A Selection of Irish Melodies, with Symphonies and

Accompaniments, by Sir JOHN STEVENSON, Doctor of Music, and

Characteristic Words, by THOMAS MOORE, Esq. the first number of which

was published in London and Dublin in the month of February of the last

year, the reviewers spoke with decided approbation. To the second

number, published in April, they are no less favourable. These melodies

have been for some time anxiously expected--it being pretty generally

understood that that fascinating poet, Moore, was employed in the

pursuit of them. He had promised them for sometime. "It is intended,

says the editor, to form a collection of the best Irish melodies, with

characteristic symphonies and accompaniments, and with words containing

as frequently as possible, allusions to the manners and history of the

country;" and in a letter of Mr. Moore's which appears in the

publication, he says, "I feel very anxious that a work of this kind

should be undertaken. We have too long neglected the only talent for

which our English neighbours ever deign to allow us any credit. While

the composers of the continent have enriched their operas and sonatas

with melodies borrowed from Ireland, very often without even the honesty

of acknowledgment, we have left these treasures in a great degree

unclaimed and fugitive. Thus our airs, like too many of our countrymen,

for want of protection at home, have passed into the service of

foreigners. But we are come I hope to a better period both of politics

and music: and how much they are connected, in Ireland at least, appears

too plainly in the tone of sorrow and depression which characterizes

most of our early songs. The task which you propose to me of adapting

words to these airs, is by no means easy. The poet who would follow the

various sentiments which they express, must feel and understand that

rapid fluctuation of spirits, that unaccountable mixture of gloom and

levity which composes the character of my countrymen, and has deeply

tinged their music. Even in their liveliest strains we find some

melancholy note inhere, some minor third or flat seventh which throws

its shade as it passes, and makes even mirth interesting. If BURNS had

been an Irishman (and I would willingly give up all our claims upon

Ossian for him) his heart would have been proud of such music, and his

genius would have made it immortal."

A London reviewer speaking of the first number, says, "the idea is

excellent, and the twelve vocal airs which this first number of the work

contains, are tastefully arrayed by sir John Stevenson, and happily

provided with language by Mr. Moore.

"We are happy (continues the reviewer) to find that even where Mr.

Moore's subject is amatory, his poetry is very little in the style of

those baneful effusions which are undergoing so rigorous an examination.

His verse is here fanciful and gentlemanly, full of his subject, and, as

far as our English souls can judge, faithfully expressing it. Nothing

can be more pathetic than "Oh! breathe not his name;" nothing more

brilliant than "Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour;" and nothing more

poetical than "As a beam o'er the face of the waters may glow." We must

be indulged in quoting one of those effusions of Mr. Moore's genius; and

we can find none more elegant or natural than the following:

_SONG._

Oh! think not my spirits are always as light,

And as free from a pang as they seem to you now,

Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of tonight,

Will return with tomorrow to brighten my brow.

No, Life is a waste of wearisome flowers,

Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns;

And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers,

Is always the first to be touch'd by the thorns.

But send round the bowl, and be happy awhile;

May we never meet worse in our pilgrimage here

Than the tear that Enjoyment can gild with a smile,

And the smile that Compassion can turn to a tear.

The thread of our life would be dark, heaven knows!

If it were not with friendship and love intertwined;

And I care not how soon I may sink to repose,

When these blessings shall cease to be dear to my mind!

But they who have lov'd the fondest, the purest,

Too often have wept o'er the dream they've believed;

And the heart that has slumber'd in friendship securest,

Is happy indeed if 'twas never deceiv'd.

But send round the bowl; while a relic of truth

Is in man or in woman, this pray'r shall be mine,

That the sunshine of love may illumine our youth,

And the moonlight of friendship console our decline.

"The airs of the first number are excessively beautiful in

themselves--particularly those of the well known "Gramachree," "Plausty

Kelly," and the "Summer is Coming," and the duets of "The Maid of the

Valley," and the "Brown Maid," are very delightful. "The latter (says

the London reviewer) is a perfect specimen of the genius of duet, each

part taking up the other alternately. The publication of these Irish

airs fully discovers the source of Mr. Moore's musical compositions."

Speaking of the second number, the reviewer says it is by no means

inferior to the first either in music or in poetry. The air "Oh! weep

for the hour" ("The Pretty Girl of Derby O!") is harmonized in a style

of great elegance; and that, and "The Red Fox," "The Black Joke," and

"My Lodging is on the Cold Ground," have particularly pleased us in

their arrangement. The song which Mr. Moore has written to "The Black

Joke," is both poetical and political, and though the affairs of Spain

have now rendered it, as to that country, an _old newspaper_, yet it is

still good in the cause of Ireland."

SPORTING INTELLIGENCE.

The coterie of old ladies in the British parliament, the _chairwoman_ of

which was the late sir Richard Hill, have failed in all their attempts

to tie up the hands of the people from their old sports. They have

declaimed in parliament, and they have declaimed in print, against all

the gymnastic exercises which time immemorial have been the pride and

the pastime of the hardy natives of the British islands. Never did

Robespierre weep such unfeigned tears over "sweet bleeding humanity," as

those good souls have shed over the broken heads, and black eyes, and

bloody noses of the Bull family, who, obstinate dogs, will still go on

and laugh at their ladyships. Indeed Bonaparte himself, whose interest

it really is, could not more anxiously desire the abolition of those

gymnastic exercises.

The sports of England are horse-racing; fox, hare, and stag-hunting;

coursing with greyhounds; shooting, fishing, bull-baiting, wrestling,

single stick, pugilism, pedestrianism, cricket, &c. These are practised

by all ranks and on national accounts, are encouraged by all the wise

and patriotic men of the country; some few, and those mostly fanaticks,

excepted. To those games they add, in Ireland, the noble sport of

hurling, in which that vigorous race exhibit such prodigies of strength

and activity as induced the celebrated Arthur Young to speak to this

effect in his Tour through Ireland: "In their hurlings, which I would

call the cricket of savages, they perform feats of agility that would

not do discredit to Sadler's Wells."

The gymnastic games have been long carried on so systematically that

they make as regular a part of the public intelligence as any that finds

its way into the public papers, and have, like the theatre, their

appropriated periodical publications.[9] On this subject we would say

much more, as we mean to present our readers with such things as appear

curious or extraordinary in those publications; but by way of a

beginning, and to pave the road for the reception of this part of our

work by the public, we beg leave to offer, not to their hasty perusal,

but their profound consideration, the following defence of pugilism,

written, it is said, by that profound statesman, patriot, and scholar,

William Windham, whose eloquence and wit caused sir R. Hill's

bull-baiting bill to be laughed out of the House of Commons.

[Footnote 9: The Sporting Magazine for one.]

"I lay it down as a principle, that in every state of society, men,

particularly those of the lower ranks, will ever require some means of

venting their passions and redressing personal affronts, independently

of those which the laws of their country might afford them; and that it

is of more benefit to the community that these personal contests should

be under such regulations as place bounds to resentment, than that they

should be left to the unrestrained indulgence of revenge and ferocity.

In most countries on the northern continent of Europe, bodily strength

exclusively decides the contest; hands, feet, teeth, and nails are all

employed, and the strongest gratifies his resentment by biting, kicking,

and trampling upon his prostrate adversary.[10] In the south the appeal

is usually to the stiletto, and a _colpo dicoltello_ is so common at

Naples, that there is hardly a lazarone who has not the marks of it on

some parts of his body; not a year passes in which there are not

hundreds of assassinations in this city. Now, observe the different

effects of a different principle: A sailor, some time since, at

Nottingham, lent an aeronaut his assistance in preparing the ascent of

his balloon; when receiving a blow from one of the by-standers while he

held a knife in his hand--"You scoundrel," exclaims the tar, "you have

taken the advantage by striking me because you knew that, as I held a

knife I could not strike you again." Under similar circumstances, what

would have been the conduct of a Genoese or a Neapolitan?

[Footnote 10: He might have added gouging, as practised in the

southern States of this Union.]

Boxing, as it is conducted in this country, is a remnant of the ancient

tilt and tournament, conducted on the principles of honour and equity;

a contest of courage, strength, and dexterity, where every thing like an

unfair and ungenerous advantage, is proscribed and abhorred. It is a

custom peculiarly our own, and to which probably we are not only

indebted for the infrequency of murder and assassination, but also for

the victories of Maida, and Trafalgar.

Some persons are willing to allow these effects, provided the practice

was confined to casual contests, and not extended to public combats and

stage fights. These, they say, induce the laborious men to quit their

occupations, and serve as a rendezvous for the disorderly and the

profligate; but is not the same objection to be made to all amusements

in which the lower orders are peculiarly interested, and where else

would men of this description practically learn, that the gratification

of their personal resentments must be limited by the laws of honour and

forbearance? Had Crib struck Gregson after the decision of the contest

in his favour, what would have been the indignant feelings of the

surrounding multitude, and what would he not have experienced from their

resentment? And are these feelings not worth inculcating? will they not

characterise a nation, and are they not the genuine sources of

generosity and honour? If it be admitted, which I think cannot be

denied, that any advantage be derived to society from individuals in

these combats being restrained from giving full scope to ferocity and

revenge, these advantages must be exclusively ascribed to the custom of

public exhibitions. It is from these that all regulations and

restrictions originate--it is from these they are propagated, and with

these they will be extinguished.

"I am not without apprehension, that from abhorrence of what some call

brutal and vulgar pursuits, the noble science of attack and defence

should be in future proscribed at the seminaries of Eton, Winchester,

and Westminster, and that little master should be enjoined by his mama,

in case of an affront, to resort to his master for redress and

protection. To the custom, indeed, as it now prevails, the English youth

are, in a great measure indebted for their nobleness and manliness of

character. Two boys quarrel, they agree to box it out--they begin and

they end by shaking hands; the enmity terminates with the contest--And

what is this but a lesson of courage, magnanimity, and forgiveness? the

principles of which are thus indelibly impressed on the mind of the boy,

and must ever after influence the character of the man.

"Away then with this effeminate cant about maintaining order and

decorum, by the suppression of the public exhibitions of manly

exercises. To them the individual Englishman owes his superiority to the

individual of every other country, in courage, strength, and agility:

and as a country is composed of individuals, to what other causes can

England more reasonably impute her proud preeminence among nations which

she now enjoys, and which she will ever maintain till this spirit is

tamed into servility, under the pretence of applying salutary

restrictions to the licentiousness of the people."

After the foregoing essay, a parallel drawn between English men and

English mastiffs by the celebrated cardinal Ximenes comes not

unappropriately in this place.

The cardinal, who was minister to one of the French monarchs, observed

that the English, like their native mastiffs, lived in a state of

internal hostility. "The cause," said he, "which creates a canine

uproar, every one knows, is a bone; whence among the English, every

statistical elevation, as well as other causes of contest, is called A

BONE OF CONTENTION. During the time of profound peace, these island dogs

are always growling, snapping at, and tearing each other; but the moment

the barking of foreign dogs is heard, the contention about bones ceases,

the whole species become friends, and with one heart and mind they join

their teeth to defend their kennels against foreign enemies."

The following extraordinary circumstances are selected from the British

sporting intelligence of the last year.

"A herdsman lately met a fox in the morning, on a mountain in the

neighbourhood of Ballycastle (Ireland). On his approach, the animal did

not offer to avoid him, but allowed him to come close up, when he struck

it with a stick and killed it. On examination the fox was found to be

completely destitute of teeth, and is supposed to have been blind with

age.

"A fox lately turned out at Fisherwick-park, the hunting seat of the

marquis of Donnegal, being hard pressed, forced his way into the window

of a farm house, and took shelter under the bed of the farmer's wife who

had not an hour before lain in. The feelings of all parties may easier

be imagined than described. The good woman, however, suffered no

material injury by Reynard's unexpected visit, who was taken and

reserved for the sport of another day.

"On Wednesday last, about six o'clock, a covey of partridges were seen

to pitch in the middle of the CIRCUS, Bath, supposed to have taken

refuge there, after having escaped from the aim of some distant gunner.

Under the effects of fright and fatigue six were easily caught by three

servants, and strange as it may appear the three servants of three

eminent physicians who reside in that elegant pile. Doctor F.'s man

secured three; doctor P.'s two, and doctor G.'s the other bird.

A _consultation_ afterwards took place respecting the fate of these poor

tremblers, when it was humanely determined that they should be taken in

a basket to some distance, and liberated, which was accordingly done.

A keen sportsman would not approve of this forbearance; but perhaps none

of the doctors had taken out a license to kill--GAME.

"A male and female hare were put together by lord Ribblesdale for one

year, when the offspring amounted to sixty-eight. A pair of rabbits

inclosed for the same time produced above three hundred. The value of

rabbits' wool used annually in the manufacture of hats in England is two

hundred and fifty thousand pounds.

"A few days ago a hare was observed lying before a door in

Manchester-street, London. The poor animal was immediately pursued, and

in less than a minute the street was crowded: she succeeded in making

her way down through Duke-street, followed by an immense mob. The

novelty of a hunt in such a place caused every person in the surrounding

streets to join in the chase. Notwithstanding her numerous pursuers she

made her way down Oxford-street and into Stratford-place, where she got

into the corner next to the duke of St. Alban's house, and remained

quietly until she was taken alive by the duke's porter in the presence

of an immense concourse of spectators.

"On the twenty-ninth of October last, in the afternoon, a fox was seen

crossing the fields of Camptown in Bedfordshire, followed by a

shepherd's dog. The fox first made his way into the grounds of the

reverend Mr. Davies's boarding-school, at Campton, where the boys were

at play. Reynard was no sooner in the midst of this juvenile assembly

than a tumultuous uproar assailed him, from which he fled with all speed

through a border plantation into the road, and crossing to the house of

the reverend Mr. Williamson the minister of the parish, he bolted

through the glass into the library. Here a female servant was cleaning

the room, who by the sudden and unexpected appearance of this new

visitor was thrown into fits. The family running into the apartment

found the fox skulking in a corner, and the poor girl lying extended on

the floor. With some difficulty she was recovered, and master Reynard

was bagged for a future chase. Nobody can tell where the chase

commenced, but the dog is known to belong to a shepherd at Meppershall,

the adjoining parish to Campton.

"The Cranborne chase pack had one of the finest runs ever known in the

western part of the kingdom. They unkennelled at Punpernwood, four miles

east of Blandford. The fox went off immediately for "the chase," and

having taken a round in the West-walk, broke off over Iwern hills, and

entered the vale of Blackmore, leaving the parish of Shooten to the

left, making his play towards Duncliffwood near Shaston; but having been

headed, he bent his course to the river Stow, which he boldly crossed in

defiance of the flood, and after running the vale many miles passed

through Piddleswood towards Okeford, Fitzpaine, but the hounds pressing

him hard he was obliged to return to the cover, where having taken a

turn or two he broke on the opposite side near the town of Shirminster,

and crossed the commons to Mr. Brunes's seat at Plumber, where he

entered a summer-house, passed through the chimney flue, and entered a

drain, whence being bolted, he was run into and killed at Fifehide

Neville, fourteen miles straight from the place where he was found,

after a chase of two hours and ten minutes.

BACKGAMMON.

"It appears from the glossary to the Welch Laws that the game of

backgammon was invented in Wales, sometime before the reign of Canute

the Great, and that it derived its name from _Back_, which in the welch

language meant _little_, and _Cammon_, which in the same language

signified _Bottle_.

"A blacksmith of Winchester in Hampshire, undertook, for a wager, to

shoe six horses, and make the shoes and nails himself complete in _seven

hours_. He accomplished it in twenty-five minutes less than the time.

"Mr. Brewer of the Crown inn, Nothingham, undertook for a wager of forty

guineas to go with a mare belonging to him in a cart, to Newark and back

again, being a distance of _forty miles, in four hours_. He performed it

in twelve minutes less than the given time. Considerable bets were laid

against the performance. The mare is under fourteen hands high.

DICK THE HUNTER.

"A poor fellow, half an ideot, has by his singularity got himself so

noticed by the sporting gentlemen at Newmarket, that his picture has

been painted by Mr. Chalon, and engravings from it have been published.

He was intended for a blacksmith, but being untractable, was allowed to

follow his own inclination. Being always fond of hunting he soon

attracted the attention of the gentlemen of the chase, and never failed

joining the hounds whenever they made their appearance. Dick is such an

amazing swift runner that he keeps in with the hounds for many miles

together, to the surprise of all the gentlemen, who confess him to be a

very useful man among them, as he instantly discovers the track of a

fox, and is very clever at finding a hare sitting, and who therefore

support him. He never goes out without carrying a knife, a fork, a spoon

and a spur, which are all of his own making, a performance that shows

him not to be destitute of ingenuity, as they are not separately made,

but contained in one, and with these he is at once equipped either for

sporting or eating. The spur he uses for pricking himself, which he

fancies enables him to keep up with the hounds. He frequently uses it to

the no small amusement of the spectators. His dress is quite as singular

as his mode of life, for he always wears a long surtout coat,

a hunting-cap, a boot on one leg and a shoe on the foot of the

other--and thus equipped he runs with the speed of a hunting-horse,

clearing with ease all the ditches and fences the riders do.

"One of the best packs of hounds in England was most completely beat

lately by a fox. The latter was turned out before them near Wold Newton,

in Yorkshire, and after running rings for sometime, went off for

Scarborough, near which place the hounds were so completely knocked up

that he beat them in view, for the huntsman could not get them a yard

further--a number of riders lost their horses in the cars, and were seen

wading up to their necks to catch them again. The fox ran upwards of

twenty miles.

"In the discussions which have arisen in and out of parliament in

England about the abolition of the Briton's old favourite sports, it was

conceded by all but a few, that from the custom of boxing, singlestick

and backsword playing, wrestling, &c. arose the good temper which

distinguishes that people--Englishmen being less subject to violent fits

of anger than the people of any other nation in the world. In the

compass of eighteen pages of a work now before us we have details of no

less than two grand matches of singlestick, one Wiltshire against

Somersetshire, and the other Somersetshire against all England, for

large purses. In both cases the champions of Somerset county beat; and

what must astonish those who hear it, the victors (though men in the

lowest classes of life in one case) shared the prize with the

vanquished. In the former, Somerset gave nine broken heads and received

seven--in the latter, gave eight and received six. The Wiltshire men

went to Trowbridge in Somersetshire, the appointed place of meeting,

attended by some of the leading gentry of Wiltshire, and the gentleman

who was appointed by them to preside, bore public testimony to the

liberal and kind treatment his countrymen experienced.

"Any person who has seen the farce of Hob in the Well, performed, will

remember to have seen a specimen of this kind of prize fighting, for

which as well as wrestling, the people of Somersetshire have for ages

been renowned. In Scotland they excel at the backsword--the Irish too

are admirable hands--but neither have the temper of the English;

"Oppression makes a wise man mad;" what should it do then with a poor

peasantry? The tempers of the English have not had that to irritate

them. We will close this subject with a letter from an intelligent

Londoner, who was travelling through Hampshire.

"Passing, sometime since, through Rapley Dean, Hants, my attention being

attracted by a crowd of rustics on a little green near the road I turned

my horse thither, and arrived in the time when a lame elderly man, who I

afterwards found was the knight marshal of the field, from the middle of

a ring made by ropes, proclaimed, that "a hat worth one guinea was to be

played for at backsword; the breaker of most heads to bear away the hat

and honour," and inviting the youth there to contend for it. A little

after, a young fellow threw his hat into the ring and followed, when the

lame umpire called out "a challenge," and proceeded to equip the

challenger for the game. His coat and waiscoat were taken off, his left

hand tied by a handkerchief to his left thigh, and a stick, with basket

hilt, put into his hand; he then walked round the ring till a second hat

was thrown in, and the umpire called out, "the challenge is answered."

"As soon as prepared, the knights met, measured weapons, shook hands,

walked once round, turned and began the contest. In about a minute, the

umpire called out "About," when they dropped the points of their weapons

and walked round, and this calling I observed, was repeated as often as

the umpire judged either distressed. After some twenty minutes play,

some blood trickled down the challenger's head; the umpire called

"Blood;" and declared the other to have won a head.

"When both left the ring another hat was thrown in, and the challenge

again accepted, and played off in the like manner, till the umpire

announced there were four winners of heads, and proceeded to call the

ties, that is, he called on the winners of the first two heads to play

together, and afterwards on the winners of the third and fourth heads;

after which the winners of two heads each played for the hat, and the

proud victor (Morgan) thus to earn it, broke three heads. I was much

struck with the amazing temper with which the game was played: not a

particle of ill-will was shown, two young fellows, who played together

forty-five minutes, and in the course of it gave each other many severe

blows, one alone of which would have satisfied the most unconscionable

taylor or man-milliner breathing, drank frequently together between the

bouts, shaking hands as often as the weight of the blows given seemed to

require it of their good-nature. Indeed it appeared to be a rule with

each pair that played, to drink together after the contest, and a

general spirit of harmony seemed to prevail. This game is certainly of

great antiquity, and the only relick (with the exception of wrestling)

of the ancient tournament. The knight defied with throwing down his hat

or gauntlet--the rustic gamester does the same, and is equally courteous

with the knight towards his opponent: nor were there in this instance

village dames or damsels wanting, to animate the prowess of the youth.

"It has been asserted, that these exhibitions engender a ferocious

spirit; but were I to judge from what I saw, and from the inquiries I

made into the characters of the players at Ropley Dean, from the farmers

on my right and left, I should pronounce quite the contrary; and think

that as long as the sword is used by our cavalry and navy, and as long

as we wish to entertain in the nation a fearless, generous, martial

spirit, we should encourage the like pastimes at our fairs and revels."

MISCELLANY.

A general sense seems to pervade all the most intelligent men of Great

Britain that a reformation is wanting in almost every department of life

in that country. The corruption of public taste in dramatic literature

and acting, and in most of the fashionable amusements of the high flyers

cries aloud, no less than that of the state, for a heavy-handed scourge

and receives it. Among other things, the _musico-mania_ is attacked as

having reached the highest acme of absurdity. The Covent Garden

proprietors are very roughly handled, but not more roughly than they

deserve, for hiring Madam Catalani at the enormous salary of four

thousand pounds sterling and a free benefit for the season, with a

provision annexed, which is thought insolent, degrading, and unjust; no

less than that of her French husband putting what fiddlers he pleases

into the orchestra. The public prints are filled with remonstrances to

the people, whose attention is directed to the storm which was raised on

a similar occasion in 1755 and 1756, and which burst with such

tremendous mischief on the head of Garrick. One writer thus vehemently

expresses himself: "Shall a judge of the land be required to exercise

the faculties of his vigorous mind, which have been cultivated and

matured by an expensive education and the most laborious study; shall he

be continually employed in discriminating between right and wrong, in

the adjustment of individual differences, and in protecting the persons

and properties of the honest and peaceable part of his majesty's

subjects from the assaults of violence and the stratagems of fraud;

shall his sensibility be wounded, and his heart pierced by the painful

necessity to which he is frequently reduced of passing on his fellow-man

those awful sentences which the nature of their crimes, and the voice of

Justice imperiously demand; shall he, in short, be compelled to

discharge the duties of an office which necessarily renders his nights

anxious and restless, and subjects him in the day to the most irksome

fatigue--and shall he, for all this fatigue of body and unremitting

solicitude of mind, receive a salary scarcely exceeding _half_ the sum

given to an ITALIAN CANTATRICE for the display of her vocal powers for a

few nights?"

The fact is that the robust and vigorous appetite of the English has

been worn down by the intemperate use of German dramas, and is so

vitiated and enfeebled that it can swallow nothing but hot spiced trash,

or water gruel spoon-meat. Are the French wrong in calling John Bull

_stupide barbare_ when they see him pouring thousands into the laps of

foreign singers--and for what?--why, to sing such songs as this:

Tom Gobble was a grocer's son,

Heigho! says Gobble;

He gave a ven'son dinner for _fun_,

And he had a belly as big as a _tun_,

_With his handy dandy, bacon and gravy_,

Ah, hah, says alderman Gobble.

The servants ushered the company in,

Heigho! says Gobble;

The dinner is ready, quoth Tom, with a grin,

So he tucked a napkin under his chin,

With his handy dandy, bacon and gravy,

Ah, hah, says alderman Gobble,

Then Betty the cook-maid she gave a squall,

Heigho! says Gobble;

Poor John the footman has had a fall,

And down stairs tumbled, ven'son and all,

With his handy dandy, bacon and gravy,

Alas! says alderman Gobble.

So down the alderman ran in a fright,

Heigho! says Gobble;

And there sat John in a terrible plight

Astride on the ven'son _bolt upright_,

With his handy dandy, bacon and gravy,

Dear me! says alderman Gobble.

Was ever man so cruelly put on,

Heigho! says Gobble;

Get off the meat you rascally glutton,

You've made my ven'son a saddle of mutton,

With your handy dandy, bacon and gravy,

Good lack, says alderman Gobble.

Lord, sir, says Betty, what a _splash_,

Heigho! says Gobble;

'Tis a monstrous bad _rumbistical_ crash,

But tomorrow I'll tickle it up in a hash,

With your handy dandy, bacon and gravy,

Ay, do! says alderman Gobble.

This vile, low, degrading farrago is taken from an opera called the

Russian Impostor, or Siege of Sloremskho.

After such trash it will be delightful to turn to some lines, written by

lord Byron on this general subject of complaint. They are extracted from

an excellent poem entitled "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers,

a Satire," with notes by the author.

Now to the DRAMA turn--oh, motley sight!

What precious scenes the wondering eyes invite!

Puns, and a prince within a _barrel_ pent,[11]

And Dibdin's nonsense yield complete content.

Though now, thank heaven! the _Roscio mania's_ o'er,

And full-grown actors are endured once more;

Yet, what avails their vain attempts to please,

While British critics suffer scenes like these;

While Reynolds vents his '_dammes_, _poohs_' and '_zounds_'[12]

And common place, and common sense confounds?

While Kenny's World just suffered to proceed,

Proclaims the audience very kind indeed?

And Beaumont's pilfer'd Caratach affords

A tragedy complete in all but words?[13]

Who but must mourn while these are all the rage,

The degradation of our vaunted stage?

Heavens! is all sense of shame and talent gone?

Have we no living bard of merit?--none?

Awake, George Colman! --Cumberland, awake!

Ring the alarum bell, let Folly quake!

Oh, Sheridan! if aught can move thy pen,

Let Comedy resume her throne again,

Abjure the mummery of German schools,

Leave new Pizarros to translating fools;

Give, as thy last memorial to the age,

One classic drama, and reform the stage.

Gods! o'er those boards shall Folly rear her head,

Where Garrick trod, and Kemble lives to tread?

On those shall Farce display Buffoonery's mask,

And Hook conceal his heroes in a _cask_?

Shall sapient managers new scenes produce

From Cherry, Skeffington, and Mother Goose?

While Shakspeare, Otway, Massinger, forgot,

On stalls must moulder, or in closets rot?

Lo! with what pomp the daily prints proclaim,

The rival candidates for attic fame!

In grim array though Lewis'[14] spectres rise,

Still Skeffington and Goose divide the prize.

And sure _great_ Skeffington must claim our praise,

For skirtless coats and skeletons of plays

Renowned alike; whose Genius ne'er confines

Her flight to garnish Greenwood's gay designs;[15]

Nor sleeps with 'Sleeping Beauties,' but anon

In five facetious acts comes thundering on,[16]

While poor John Bull, bewildered with the scene,

Keeps wondering what the devil it can mean;

But as some hands applaud, a venal few!

Rather than sleep, why John applauds it too.

Such are we now, ah! wherefore should we turn

To what our fathers were, unless to mourn?

Degenerate Britons! are ye dead to shame,

Or, kind to dulness, do you fear to blame?

Well may the Nobles of our present race

Watch each distortion of a Naldi's face;

Well may they smile on Italy's buffoons,

And worship Catalani's pantaloons,[17]

Since their own drama yields no fairer trace

Of wit than puns, of humour than grimace.

Then let Ausonia, skill'd in ev'ry art

To soften manners, but corrupt the heart,

Pour her exotic follies o'er the town,

To sanction Vice and hunt Decorum down:

Let wedded strumpets languish o'er Deshayes,

And bless the promise which his form displays;

While Gayton bounds before the enraptured looks

Of hoary marquises and stripling dukes:

Let high-born lechers eye the lively Presle

Twirl her light limbs that spurn the needless veil;

Let Angiolini bare her breast of snow,

Wave the white arm and point the pliant toe;

Collini trill her love-inspiring song,

Strain her fair neck and charm the listening throng!

[Footnote 11: In the melo-drama of Tekeli, that heroic prince is

clapt into a barrel on the stage: a new asylum for distressed

heroes!]

[Footnote 12: All these are favourite expressions of Mr. R. and

prominent in his comedies, living and defunct.]

[Footnote 13: Mr. T. Sheridan, the new manager of Drury Lane

Theatre, stripped the tragedy of Bonduca of the Dialogue, and

exhibited the scenes as the spectacle of Caractacus. Was this worthy

of his sire, or of himself?]

[Footnote 14:

Oh, wonder-working Lewis! monk, or bard,

Who fain would make Parnassus a church-yard!

Lo! wreaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy brow,

Thy Muse a sprite, Apollo's sexton thou!

Whether on ancient tombs thou tak'st thy stand,

By gibbering spectres hail'd, thy kindred band;

Or tracest chaste descriptions on thy page,

To please the females of our modest age.

All hail, M.P.![a] from whose infernal brain

Thin sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train;

At whose command, "grim women" throng in crowds,

And kings of fire, of water, and of clouds,

With "small gray men," "wild yagers," and what not,

To crown with honour thee and Walter Scott:

Again, all hail! if tales like thine may please,

[b]St. Luke's alone can vanquish the disease;

Even Satan's self with thee might dread to dwell,

And in thy skull discern a deeper hell.

[Footnote 14a: See a poem to Mr. Lewis, in the Statesman, supposed

to be written by Mr. Jekyll.]

[Footnote 14b: St. Luke's is an hospital for lunatics in London.

_Editor of the Mirror._] ]

[Footnote 15: Mr. Greenwood is, we believe, scene-painter to Drury

Lane Theatre--as such, Mr. S. is much indebted to him.]

[Footnote 16: Mr. S. is the illustrious author of the "Sleeping

Beauty" and some Comedies, particularly "Maids and Bachelors."

_Baculaurii Baculo magis quam lauro digni._]

[Footnote 17: Naldi and Catalani require little notice--for the

visage of the one and the salary of the other, will enable us long

to recollect these amusing vagabonds; besides, we are still black

and blue from the squeeze on the first night of the lady's

appearance in trowsers.]

A London critic adds the following pertinent observations: "Thus far our

author concerning the stage, to which we add an observation or two of

our own. We certainly think the _barrel_ a curious asylum for a

distressed prince; but when we reflect on what kind of princes and

heroes the modern stage and modern authors exhibit, (the seige of St.

Quintin for instance, by the same author, Mr. Hook) we cannot help

exclaiming (no plagiarism, we hope)

We with the sentence are indeed content,

To see _such_ princes in _such_ barrels pent.

And as a barrel is described by our best lexicographers to be "any thing

hollow," what vehicle more appropriate could be found? The ingenious

author, was surely a favourite of the barrel, and well acquainted with

the virtues of a _cask_; although according to sir Walter Raleigh, "some

are so ill-seasoned and conditioned that a great part of the contents is

ever lost and cast away."

Respecting Mr. Reynolds's indulgence of himself, in perpetual repetition

of his vocables,[18] we should be glad to have it in our power to affirm

that the _beef and mutton_[19] author was the only one who disgraced

himself by such contemptible degradation; but, alas! the pages of our

work have too often exhibited similar complaints against the majority of

our great playwrights--many of these _gentlemen_ being reduced to

silence, without their auxiliary _dammes_!

[Footnote 18: Damme, pooh, zounds, &c.]

[Footnote 19: "Authors have lived and still live who write for

what they call _fame_! --For my part I write for more substantial

food--_beef_ and _mutton_ are the objects of my ambition."

--_Reynold's Preface to Begone Dull Care._]

We differ widely from our author respecting Mr. T. Sheridan's

_stripping_ of Bonduca--for we really think it worthy the son of that

poet, who, neglecting his own genius and the duties of a regular

practitioner, condescends to turn quack, and bedizen that high German

doctor Pizarro, in an English dress!!

Apropos of awaking George Colman! --We beg the noble lord's pardon; but

we are not in such a violent hurry to disturb this gentleman; for if,

when awake, he should not acquit himself better than in his last

production of the Africans, we think the sounder he sleeps the more

solid will be his reputation. Therefore,

Sleep on, George Colman! prithee, don't awake!

Nor let the alarum bell thy slumbers shake!

Lest jokes like _Mugg's_[20] should make our senses quake!

[Footnote 20: One of Mr. Colman's witty characters in the

_Africans_.]

Why our author has coupled John Kemble's name with that of Garrick we

cannot conceive; but that there appears more rhyme than reason in it, we

can safely aver. We have somewhere heard that "a live ass is better than

a dead lion," which we quote, not as individually applicable, but as a

general adage; for we disclaim personalities, and well know that J. K.

is an eminent actor, and one whom we have not niggardly praised. Yet we

will not disparage departed excellence for any person existing; and

therefore cannot avoid wishing our young author had seen Garrick, and

bearing in his "mind's eye" his natural acting of Lear, Hamlet, Macbeth,

Richard, &c.--he might then go and witness the performances of Mr.

Kemble--and judge!

CORRESPONDENCE.

The conductors of the Mirror of Taste, and Dramatic Censor, have already

to make acknowledgments to correspondents. Scarcely had their intention

been promulgated when they were favoured with a letter, which, in less

than a week afterwards was followed by two more, all of them upon the

same subject, though evidently written by different persons. It had

before been the intention of the conductors to call the public attention

very soon to that very point to which these letters are intended to

direct them; and conceiving that a fairer occasion for doing so can

hardly occur than these letters afford them, they hasten to lay the

contents of them before the public.

"_To the Conductors of the Dramatic Work to be published by Messrs.

Bradford and Inskeep._

_November 27._

"Sirs,

"From what I can learn about your intended publication I like the idea,

and have no doubt it may be of great use. I have often said that such a

thing was much wanting, for I look upon a playhouse to be a very good

thing, often keeping young men from worse places, and young women from

worse employment. But if our playhouse goes on as it does, it will soon

be a worse place to go to than any I allude to. Last evening I brought

my family to see the play, and I assure you, I often wished we were all

away again, the scandalous talk in the gallery was so bad. The noise was

so great that there was no hearing any thing else. The players' voices

were ten or a dozen times interrupted so that they could not be heard,

and two or three fellows in the gallery were particularly scandalous.

Above all the rest there was one, a finished vagabond, who spoke smut

and roared it out loud, directing it to the ladies in the boxes. If any

of you was there, gentlemen, you must have noticed it; if not, I can't

write such filthy words as was spoken the whole evening. My wife begged

me to come away on our little girl's account who was with us. It is not

the players you ought to criticise, they behave themselves--but it is

those vagabonds that think they have a right to disturb the house

because they pay their half dollar a piece. I think it your duty to take

notice of this, and I beg you will.

A CITIZEN."

N.B. They in the pit were bad enough, and so was some in the boxes.

_To the Editors of the Mirror, &c._

"Gentlemen,

"As your intended publication is to come out monthly, I am doubtful

whether I should trouble you on the present occasion; more particularly

as you may probably think of the matter yourselves without a hint

from me. Besides, I am not sure whether it is not the duty of the

editors of the daily papers rather than yours. For my part, I think it

is the duty of all people who regard the credit of the city, or tender

the peaceableness and comfort of society. Our theatre, gentlemen, has

sunk to the worst state imaginable of licentiousness and savage riot.

Don't mistake me--I don't mean behind the curtain; but before it. While

we hold ourselves so proudly to the world, what must those foreigners

think of us who visit our theatre. From a place of rational recreation,

and improvement, it has become a mere bear-garden. The play is

interrupted, and all enjoyment, save that of riot and brawling, killed

in various ways. The very boxes themselves are no sanctuary from

ruffianish incivility; while the ears are stunned, and the cheek of

Decency crimsoned with the profaneness, obscenity, and senseless brawl

of barbarians in the gallery, the sight is intercepted, and all comfort

destroyed by the unmannerly and unjust conduct of intruders in the boxes

and pit, who think they have a right to push in and even stand up before

another who has been previously seated, provided they have bodily

strength to make good their violence. I say, gentlemen, this ought to be

stopped. The spirit of the manager at New-York, backed by the laws, has

put an end to it there, so far, that no theatre in Europe precedes it in

order and decency. The same power exists here and ought to be exercised.

These things disgrace the city as well as annoy our audiences, and I

think our daily editors on both sides would evince their regard for the

public by giving a few lines every day to the reform of this evil till

it shall be abated. The proprietors and manager ought to call a meeting,

invoke the aid of the magistrates and the people, and come to some

decisive resolutions on the subject.

Forensis."

COMMUNICATION.

_For the Mirror, &c._

"The manager, or the magistrates, or somebody is greatly to blame about

the playhouse. I brought my family to the pit to see that great actor,

Cooper, play Zanga. We sat in the pit the whole time the blackguards

were throwing down various kinds of things upon our heads. Scraps of

apples, nutshells in handfulls, and what is worse something I can't well

name--some about me said that brandy or strong grog was thrown down--it

might be so once;--but it was not exactly that which fell on me and my

family. Since then, I went to see him in Macbeth, and left my wife and

daughter at home for fear; and the fellows above were as bad as

before--and had not I luckily kept my hat on I should once have got my

head broke with a hard heavy hiccory-nut that was thrown with all the

force and spitefulness as if the person wanted to hurt somebody very

severely."

We agree with our correspondents that some prompt and effectual remedy

ought to be applied to the evils of which they complain: and we are

surprised it has not yet been done, because every person with whom any

of us converses, makes pretty nearly the same complaint, and expresses

the very same wish.

In every country there exist multitudes as well disposed as those now

alluded to, to disturb the playhouse, and bring brutal riot within its

walls--but they will not be allowed. Any one who reads Colquhoun's

account of London and its rabble, will perceive that there are people

enough there ready to do offensive offices for the pure sake of offence

and savageness; but not only the magistrates, but the audience

themselves will not put up with it. The latter generally abate the

nuisance in a summary way--they turn out the offender; and the law

warrants, and if necessary aids them. If our audience suffer these

encroachments what will be the fair conclusion, but that they concur

with the offenders.

It was but a few nights ago, a company (of perhaps ten,) converted the

boxes into a grog shop--brought jug and bottle, and glass, and tumbler

into the front seats, and there caroused, laughing, talking aloud, and

swearing aloud, even during the performance. On the night the Revenge

was performed, even while Mr. Cooper was engaged in a most interesting

scene, a boy, not in mean clothes either, stood up at the front corner

of the gallery, roaring out and speaking as loud as he could to some one

on the opposite side. Yet this, were it not for the time it happened,

was to the surrounding tumult, as a dying sigh to the roar of a

northwester.

It cannot be doubted that in a civilized society like this, some legal

means must exist to put an end to these grievances. There are other

grievances, however, that cannot be so _immediately_ made the subject of

redress by the magistrate, but which, nevertheless, require correction,

and would never occur if every one who can afford to wear such a coat as

gentlemen wear, could imitate the manners of gentlemen as well as they

can ape their dress. By a number of _well-coated_ persons of this kind,

the time immemorial privileges of the theatre are violated, and its

customary rights denied. Provided they think themselves able to scuffle

it out by bodily strength they will indulge themselves at the expense of

others--one of those will sit before a lady and refuse to take off his

hat--another coming late will force his way contrary to all right and

usage, before a person who has an hour before taken his seat--and if

spoken to, utter surly defiance. Against every such unmannered intruder,

the whole audience ought, for the establishment of the general right and

the good old custom, to make common cause, and thrust him out by force.

No doubt there are drawcansirs enough to push this offence as far as it

will go. Let them know that there have been and still are drawcansirs in

England, Ireland and Scotland--that Dublin particularly was once full of

them; but that they were soon brought to manners by the just resentment

of the audience--the gripe of the constable, and the contempt of every

body.

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. Caes. 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

AEschylus, 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.

_Unchanged:_

But this can no more be alledged

Congreve and other cotemporary authors

melo-drame [most common spelling for this publication]

the excressences of overloaded society

Ella Rozenberg

[this spelling is used in the header and first citation; later

references use "Rosenberg"]

put his hand to their heads and give them a lanch

A poor fellow, half an ideot

His coat and waiscoat were taken off

_Corrected:_

From Edinburgh he went with the company [Edinburg]

notwithstanding the difficulty [dfficulty]

the reviewers spoke with decided approbation [appprobation]

Is happy indeed if 'twas never deceiv'd

in the adjustment of individual differences [idividual]

While Reynolds vents his '_dammes_, _poohs_' and '_zounds_'[12]

[word "and" italicized]

_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]

* * * * *

* * * *

THE

FOUNDLING OF THE FOREST:

A PLAY.

By WILLIAM DIMOND, Esq.

Author of "Adrian and Orrila," "Hero of the North,"

"Hunter of the Alps," &c. &c.

"And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy." _Beattie._

Published by Bradford and Inskeep, Philadelphia;

Inskeep and Bradford, New-York; and William

M'ilhennny, Boston.

Smith and Maxwell, Printers.

1810.

THE FOUNDLING OF THE FOREST.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

Count De Valmont.

Baron Longueville.

Florian, _a foundling adopted by De Valmont_.

Bertrand, _valet to Longueville_.

L'Eclair, _valet to Florian_.

Gaspard, _an old domestic_.

Sanguine, } _bravoes in the pay of Longueville_.

Lenoire, }

Geraldine, _niece to De Valmont_.

Rosabelle, _her woman_.

Monica, _an old woman_.

Unknown Female.

_Domestics, Peasants, Dancers, &c. &c._

SCENE--_The Chateau de Valmont and its environs, situate in the

upper Alsace, near the River Rhine._

ACT I.

SCENE I.--_A hall in the Chateau de Valmont._

Enter _Bertrand_, in agitation, followed by _Longueville_.

_Ber._ Forbear, my lord! to urge me further.--Would you tempt me to

insure perdition?--my soul is heavy enough with weight of crimes

already.

_Long._ Hypocrite! You, whom I have known in childhood--a villain, even

from the cradle--committing crimes as pastimes--has your hand been

exercised thus long in blood, to shake with conscience, and desert me

now?

_Ber._ I have, indeed, deserved reproaches, but not from your lips,

my lord! Remember, for you it was this hand was first defiled with

blood--remember, too--

_Long._ Yes, villain! I do remember, that my misplaced bounty once gave

you back a forfeit life. Twenty years past, when, as a deserter, you

were sentenced, by the regiment under my command, to death, your fate

was inevitable, had not I vouchsafed a pardon. Traitor! you, too, had

best remember a solemn oath at that same period passed your lips, which

bound you, soul and body, to my service ever--unscrupling to perform my

pleasures, whether good or ill, and still to hold my secrets fast from

earthly ears, though unabsolving priests renounced you on the death-bed.

_Ber._ (_shuddering_) Ay! ay! it was an oath of horror, and if you

command, it must be kept. Well, then--the young, the brave, the good,

kindhearted Florian--yes--he dies!

_Long._ Then only may your master be esteemed to live.

_Ber._ But whence this hatred to an unoffending youth?--one, whose form

delights all eyes, and whose virtues are the theme of every tongue?

_Long._ Fool! that person and those virtues of which you vaunt, are

with me his worst offences--they have undone my love and marred my

fortunes--the easy heart of Geraldine is captivated by the stripling's

specious outside, while his talents and achievements secure him with the

uncle undivided favour.

_Bert._ Can nothing but his blood appease your enmity?

_Long._ Nothing--for now my worst suspicions stand confirmed. I have

declared to De Valmont my passion for his niece, and the sullen

visionary has denied my suit--nay, insolently told me "Geraldine's

affections are another's right." --Curses on that minion's head!--'tis

for Florian De Valmont's heiress is reserved--and shall I suffer this

vile foundling, this child of charity, to lord it over those estates,

for which my impatient soul has paid a dreadful earnest! No, by heavens!

never!

_Bert._ Fatal avarice! already have we bartered for those curst estates

our everlasting peace!--for those did midnight flames surprise the sleep

of innocence--for those did the sacrificed Eugenia with her shrieking

babe--

_Long._ Wretch! dare not repeat those names! Now, mark me: this night

Florian returns a triumpher from his campaign--two of my trusty

blood-hounds watch the road to give me timely note of his approach. One

only follower attends the youth. In the thick woods 'twixt the chateau

and Huningen, an ambush safely laid, may end my rival and my fears

forever. In the west avenue, at sunset, I command your presence. Mark

me! I command you by your oath. [_Exit._

_Bert._ Miserable man! I am indeed a slave, soul and body--both are in

the thrall! I know the fiend I serve. If I attempt to fly, his vengeful

agency pursues me to the world's limit. No--my doom is fixed--I must

remain the very wretch I am for life--and after life--Oh! let me not

think of that!

Enter _Rosabelle_ behind, who taps his shoulder.

_Ros._ Talking to yourself, Mr. Bertrand? that's not polite in a lady's

company.

_Bert._ (_starting_) Ah! Rosabelle--good lass!--how art, Rosabelle?

_Ros._ Why, Mr. Bertrand, how pale you look, and your limbs quite

tremble--I fear me you are ill.

_Bert._ Oh, no--I am well--quite well--never better.

_Ros._ Then you are out of spirits.

_Bert._ You mistake--I am all happiness--ha! ha!--all joy!

_Ros._ What! because the wars are over, and chevalier Florian returns to

us?--'tis a blest hearing, truly--after all the hardships and dangers he

has passed to see him once again in safety--

_Bert._ (_involuntarily_) Ah! would to heaven we might!

_Ros._ Can there be any doubt? He reaches the chateau this night--will

he not be in safety then?

_Bert._ Yes, yes, with this night every danger certainly will cease.

_Ros._ Bertrand! why do you rub your hand before your eyes?--surely you

are weeping.

_Bert._ No, 'tis a momentary pain that--but 'twill leave me soon. At

night, Rosabelle, you shall see me jovial--joyous!--we'll dance

together, wench--ay, and sing--then--ha! ha! ha!--then who so mirthful,

who so mad, as Bertrand. [_Exit._

_Ros._ What new spleen has bewitched the man? he is ever in some sullen

mood, with scowling brows, or else in a cross-arm'd fit of melancholy;

but I never marked such wildness in his looks and words before.

[_Geraldine_ speaks without.

_Ger._ Rosabelle.

_Ros._ Here, my lady, in the hall.

Enter _Geraldine_.

_Ger._ Girl! I have cause to chide you; my toilette must be changed--you

have dressed me vilely--here! remove these knots--I hate their fashion.

_Ros._ Yet they are the same your ladyship commended yesterday.

_Ger._ Then 'tis the colour of my robe offends me--these ornaments are a

false match to it--either all the mirrors in the house have warped since

yesterday, or never did I look so ill before.

_Ros._ Now, in my poor judgment, you rarely have looked better.

_Ger._ Out! fool; you have no judgment.

_Ros._ Well, fool or not, there's one upon the road who holds faith with

me, or I'm a heretic. Your charms will shine bright enough, lady, to

dazzle a soldier's eye.

_Ger._ Ah! no, Rosabelle--you would deceive your mistress. Florian

returns not as he left us; his travelled eyes have gazed on beauties of

the polished court--and now he will despise the wild untutored

Geraldine.

_Ros._ Will he? Let him beware he shows not his contempt before me.

What! my own beautiful and high-born mistress; the greatest heiress in

all Alsace; to be despised by a foundling, picked up in a forest, and

reared upon her uncle's charity?

_Ger._ Hush!--the mystery of my Florian's birth is his misfortune, but

cannot be his reproach. Our countrymen may dispute his title to command,

but our enemies have confessed his power to conquer; and trust me, girl,

the brave man's laurel blooms with as fresh an honour in the poor

peasant's cap as when it circles princely brows; nay, Justice deems it

of a nobler growth, for Flattery often twines the laurel round a

coronet, but Truth alone bestows it on the unknown head.

_Ros._ I confess the Chevalier is a proper gallant for any woman. Ay,

and so is the Chevalier's man. I warrant me, that knave, L'Eclair, when

he returns, will follow me about, wheedling and whining, to recollect

certain promises. Well, well, let but the soldiers return with whole

hearts from the war, and your ladyship and myself know how to reward

fidelity. In sooth, the chateau has been but a doleful residence in

their absence; the count never suffered his dwelling to be a merry one;

but of late his strange humours have so increased, that the household

might as well have lodged in purgatory.

_Ger._ Hold! I must not hear my uncle's name pronounced with levity. An

angel at his birth, mingled the divine spirit with less than human

frailty; but fiends have since defaced the noble work with more than

human trials. That fatal night, when the fierce Huguenots fired his

castle, and buried both his wife and infant in the blazing ruin; that

night of horrors has to his shocked and shrinking fancy still been ever

present; there still it broods--settled, perpetual and alone! Ah!

Rosabelle! the petulancies of misfortune claim our pity, not resentment.

My dear uncle is a recluse, but not a misanthrope; he rejects the

society of mankind, yet is he solicitous for their happiness; and while

his own heart breaks in silence under a weight of undivided sorrows,

does he not seek incessantly to alleviate the burthen of his complaining

brethren?

_Ros._ I know the count has an excellent heart; but surely his temper

has its flaws.

_Ger._ And shall we deem the sun that cheers the season less gracious in

its course, because a cloud at intervals may hide or chill its beams?

(_A bell rings_). Hark! 'tis the bell of his chamber. Perhaps he will

admit me now; for four days past I have applied at the door in vain. Ah

me!--these constant growing maladies sometimes make me tremble for his

life. Girl! if from the turret-top at distance you espy the hastening

travellers, turn, swift as thought, and call me to partake your watch!

[_Exit._

_Ros._ If they arrive before sun-set, I'm sure I shall know L'Eclair a

mile off by the saucy toss of his head: before that rogue went on the

campaign, he certainly extorted some awkward kind of promises from me.

As a woman of honour, I'm afraid it must be kept; I don't want a

husband--oh! no, positively--to be sure, winter is coming on, my chamber

faces the north, and when the nights are long, and dark, and cold, when

the wind blusters, and the hail patters at the casement, then a solitary

woman is apt to have strange fancies, and sometimes to wish that--well,

well, my promise must be kept at all events.

SONG.--_Rosabelle._

Oh! come away! my soldier boy,

From war to peace incline thee;

Thy laurel, Time shall ne'er destroy.

But Love with roses twine thee.

Come, come away,

Love chides thy stay,

Oh! prithee come my soldier!

Let fife and drum preserve their place,

While softer sounds delight thee;

The fiddle shall our wedding grace,

But _horns_ shall never fright thee.

Come, come away,

Love chides thy stay,

Oh! prithee come my soldier!

[Exit.