Chapter VI: Front Matter (6)

"The Welsh footmen are said to have been the most contumacious in this affair; for after several meetings and mature considerations had, at the Goat and Harp alehouse, they unanimously resolved to support this essential privilege, at the hazard of their limbs and liveries; and likewise ordered a message to their brethren at the Ship victualling-house in the Old Palace-yard, Westminster, requiring the sense of that venerable body of _brass-button Senators_, at this _knotty_ and critical conjuncture. Were these pertinacious _gentlemen_ but to look into history, they, perhaps, may find by what means their _predecessors_ forfeited the privilege of wearing swords: for Rapin and others write, "That in the fourth year of Henry VI. a Parliament was held at Leicester, which was called the _Parliament of batts_, because, their footmen not being allowed _swords_, they followed their masters to the House with _batts_ and _cudgells_ in their hands. And it must be allowed that they have made a pretty good use of them ever since."

Numbers of anonymous letters were thrown down the areas of people of fashion after this affair, denouncing vengeance against those who assisted in depriving them of their liberty and property, as they were pleased to term their riots and the gallery of Drury-lane Theatre. Two footmen were committed without bail or mainprize to answer for their conduct; and, while in Newgate, received supplies of every kind through the _generous subscriptions_ of their sympathising brethren. At the same time 50 men mounted guard at the Theatre every night under the direction of Colonel De Veil.

Mary-le-bon Gardens were opened previous to 1737; and till that year were entered _gratis_ by all ranks of people; but the company resorting to them becoming more respectable, Mr. Gough, the keeper, determined to demand a shilling as entrance-money, for which the party paying was to receive an equivalent in viands.

Mr. Chetwynd and Mr. Odell, Inspectors of Plays under the Lord Chamberlain, were granted seats at each house _gratis_ in 1738.

The ensuing proposals were published by the master of Vauxhall-gardens in March 1738:

"The entertainment will be opened the latter end of April or beginning of May (as the weather permits), and continue three months or longer, with the usual illuminations and band of musick, and several considerable additions and improvements to the organ.

"A thousand tickets only will be delivered out, at 24 shillings each; the silver of every ticket to be worth 3_s._ 6_d._ and to admit two persons every evening (Sundays excepted) during the season.

"Every person coming without a ticket to pay 1_s._ each time for admittance.

"No servants in livery to walk in the gardens.

"All subscribers are desired not to permit their tickets to get into the hands of persons of evil repute, there being an absolute necessity to exclude all such.

"All possible endeavours will be used that the particulars provided at the entertainment may be the best in their several kinds; and, that the Company may judge of the reasonableness of them, printed tables of the prices of each will be fixed up in different parts of the gardens.

"Receipts will be delivering from this day till Thursday the 13th of April inclusive, and no longer, by Mr. Thomas Cox, bookseller, under the Royal Exchange; Mr. John Stagg, bookseller, in Westminster-hall; and at the Spring-gardens above-mentioned; at all which places tickets will be ready for delivery on Tuesday the 18th of April. N. B. As the striking the tickets and engraving the names must necessarily employ a considerable time, the subscribers are desired to take out receipts as soon as may suit their conveniency, in order that the tickets may be delivered at the time mentioned."

The Watermen's company gave notice, at the same time, that two of their beadles would attend at Vauxhall-stairs from five o'clock till eleven, to prevent impositions by the members of their Society.

Mrs. Arne sung at a Concert established in the succeeding winter at the Great Room, Panton-street, the band of which was selected from that of the Opera-house; but the singularity most attractive consisted of an organ combined with a harpsichord played by clock-work, which exhibited the movements of an orrery and air pump, besides solving astronomical and geographical problems on two globes, and shewing the moon's age with the Copernican system in motion; in the canopy, Apollo, and the Muses, &c. &c.

A company of French Comedians hired the Little Theatre in the Haymarket for the season of 1738, and attempted to play "_L'Embarras des Richesses_;" but the audience, evidently assembled to drive the performers from London, commenced a violent riot, in which they proceeded till Mr. Hewit, a fencing-master, had one of his cheeks cut almost off by a sword, and the actors had fled through the back-windows into Suffolk-street; every thing that could be broken within the house was completely demolished, and a wag, alluding to the title of the play, wrote these lines:

"Zealous for Britain, and to teach it sense,
The Gallic players came over----_not for pence_;
And as first trials oft give projects health,
Wisely they open'd with "The Plague of Wealth."
The grateful Britons, conscious what they ow'd
For unsought favours with such grace bestow'd;
To prove they lik'd the donor's wholesome lore,
Return'd them _cashless_ to their native shore."

The assertion in the latter line however is not true, as a handsome subscription was made to enable the disappointed Comedians to return in comfort to France, which amounted to 600_l._

Handel hired the Opera-house in 1738, for the performance of Oratorios twice a week.

One of the most extraordinary events upon record in the history of the stage occurred in 1749, when the Duke of Montague, in concert with some other wits, determined to make trial of the credulity of the publick, in order to ascertain how far it would extend: in the accomplishment of this purpose they inserted several most absurd and ridiculous advertisements in the newspapers, one of which announced that on Monday, the 16th of January, a man would enter a common wine-bottle on the stage, and sing in it. Contrary to all _probable_ calculation, the Little Theatre in the Haymarket received an overflowing audience, who waited without musick and with exemplary patience till eight o'clock. At that hour the usual testimonies of discontent appeared, to the terror of the proprietors of the house. And the contrivers of the scheme being now totally at a loss how to dismiss their dupes, a person was at length deputed to offer the return of the admission-money. At the same moment another unfortunately added, that the Conjuror would enter a pint bottle for _double_ prices. The riot then became general, and some injury occurred to the ladies' dresses and the gentlemen's wigs in effecting their escape from the Theatre. A party who were determined on mischief remained, and proceeded to demolish the boxes, benches, scenes, &c. &c. which they carried into the street, and burnt before the Guards arrived to prevent it.

Though the following incident, and some others of a similar nature, are not intrinsically worth notice; yet, as they serve to fill the general outline I have undertaken to sketch of the manners of the last century, they are necessarily introduced. During the season of 1757 the audience of Covent-garden Theatre missed their favourite actor Barry; and finding that the month of December had arrived without producing him, they loudly demanded his appearance, when Mr. Smith, stepping forward, assured them, that to his knowledge Mr. Rich was then engaged in a treaty with Mr. Barry. This information satisfied the majority; but, several riotous persons continuing their vociferation, partial battles took place in the pit, and even blood was shed before the civil and military powers conveyed the delinquents to the office of Justice Fielding.

An article inserted in the London Chronicle in November 1758 expresses the writer's surprize that the Theatres and Opera-house were not furnished with ventilators, as he was convinced many severe complaints had been and were then caused by the profuse perspirations of individuals suddenly encountering the chill air of the streets.

_Spouting_ Clubs, or, in other words, assemblies of persons ardent admirers of the antient art of Acting, were known before the middle of the century, and have flourished, under the influence of some unavoidable mutations, to the present moment. The violent action of the members, their improper emphasis, and their grimaces, have frequently been successfully ridiculed; but the evil still exists in private Theatres, where it is asserted some vices are acquired which are not very creditable to the possessors; and I shall only add that in my opinion youth is generally sufficiently presuming without having recourse to this improper mode of _education_. Influenced by this conviction, I am always grieved to hear of private plays at colleges and schools, and particularly at _female_ boarding-schools. It is from the latter custom, that we have witnessed so much folly in the recent exhibition of heroes and legislators by _infant girls_ and _boys_, whose feeble and shrill voices pronounce denunciations and elevated sentiments which are often injured by the imperfect organs even of our best tragic adults. To illustrate this assertion more forcibly, let posterity be informed, that _we enlightened inhabitants_ of London have actually listened to the ensuing speech with rapture uttered by children under fifteen years of age, and little more than four feet in height:

"_A thousand hearts are great within my bosom._
Advance our standards, set upon our foes,
Our antient word of courage, fair _St. George_,
Inspire us with the spleen of fiery dragons:
Upon them, Victory sits on our helms[204:A]."

Let it also be recorded, that the season of 1806 produced a _juvenile Theatre_, which was well attended. But let us return to the Spouting-clubs, lest we pass them without _due_ notice: that indeed they received in 1759, when these excellent lines appeared in the London Chronicle, to which I can add nothing new.

"THE SPOUTING CLUB.
_A Poetical Dish newly cooked up_
By RIGDUM FUNNIDOS, Esq.
Professor of Bombast and Blank Verse in the
University of Queerumania.
_Conamur tenues grandia._

"NOW o'er the world, in sable cincture clad,
Night rolls her awful clouds. Her misty veil
Hangs black'ning 'fore the eye, whose visual orb
In vain attempts to penetrate the gloom
Condens'd; save where the cotton 'mers'd in oil
Within some glassy concave yields its flame
Twinkling; and save where in the servile hand
Behind a rattling coach, the tædal stick
Held waving glimmers on the face of things.
Free from the business of the bustling day,
This interval indulging, to the Club
Of Spouters I repair; where mortal forms,
Borne high upon the feathers of conceit,
Rise into air; while puffing blasts of wind,
Bursting from loosely-flying Fancy's cave,
Blow them to regions where Theatra dwells.
Here, o'er the summit of a chair I loll;
My circumspective eyes explore the room.
A groupe of staring objects strike my sight;
Features distinct and various. While upon
The table's oval, the resplendent cup
Its pure contents and frothy surface boasts
Invigorant. Virginia's plant matur'd
Lies in the centre. With a clay-form'd tube
Each member graces his extended hand.
Above the rest, with looks erect and sage,
Deputed sits the regent of the night,
In elbow-chair pre-eminent. His hand
The silence-knocking hammer wields. Before
His optic balls are plac'd two shining plates,
Betwixt whose pewter confines, interspers'd
With glittering pieces of argental coin,
Lie wide-spread half-pence, jingling at the touch.
There great he sits, with glee magnificent,
The strong potation quaffing. On the slate
The num'rous pots he marks, with aspect keen.
So, with superior power invested, sits
A constable elate, in dome rotund,
Imbibing porter solid. With an air
Self-confident he scrawls the captive's name.
Now moves around, with circulation quick,
The tankard less'ning. Strait again receives
Its due completion. Like the changing tide
It ebbs and flows alternate. Curling spires
Ascending paint the plaster'd canopy
Fuliginous: the wafture dims the sight,
And thro' the smoaky mist the candles shine
Azure. But lo! a Roscian stands erect
Stentorophontes. Him long time I mark'd,
Saw meditation hover o'er his brow,
And all his faculties absorb'd in thought.
He bends his head addressive to the board,
And thus harangues--"Why sit we here thus mute,
"And frustrate all the purpose of our meeting?
"Already has the hoarse-lung'd watchman bawl'd
"Past nine o'clock." So saying, forth he stalks,
With step theatric. Mark his buskin tread,
And eye-balls rolling. Rang'd along the floor
The candles blaze. And now the signal giv'n,
All bend their eyes on him--No longer now
Pauses the youth, but storms in wild Macbeth.
Lo! now apparent on his horrid front
Sits grim distortion. Every feature's lost,
Screw'd horrible, unhumaniz'd--On stage
Of quack itinerant thus have I seen
An Andrew wring the muscles of his face,
Deforming nature, and extort the grin
And wonder of the many-headed crowd.
He spoke; when strait a loud applauding noise
Ensues: the clap of hands and thump of feet
Commingling. Knuckles on the table's verge
With fury beating, and the sound of sticks
Junctive confirm the rattle of applause.
Tremble the pewter vases, and within
The fluid fluctuates. The surging pipes
Roll from their beds of tin. The wooden plain
Is strew'd on all sides with the clatt'ring ruin.
Lo! now another of theatric mould
"Rises in clouded majesty," yclep'd
Ranter. Forth issue from his steaming mouth
These long imprisoned Alps of tow'ring smoke,
"Riding upon the bosom of the air."
Him had his inauspicious cruel stars
Destin'd to oil, to dress the flowing curl,
And with nice hand to weave the yielding hair.
But each revolving, rising, setting sun
Beheld this hero looking on his trade
With eyes indignant. His exalted soul
Launch'd 'yond the limits of his narrow sphere.
Fraught with extended notions of the stage,
His ample-daring mind the drama's laws
Sole entertain'd--The tonsor now assumes
The part of Richard, and with awkward strut
Affects majestic air.--So at the wake
Roger begins the dance, but, wanting skill,
Betrays himself unequal to the task.
Thy graceful periods, so oft admir'd,
Divine inspir'd Shakspeare! on his tongue
Imperfect die away. His labour'd speech
Sounds gutt'ral, like the hoarsely croaking race
Upon the banks of some pellucid stream.
Scarce had he finish'd, when salutes his ears
The mingled noise upon the dusty floor
Reverberated. Down the shaver sits
Well-pleas'd. And next upstarts Hibernia's son,
Like some enthusiast on a tripod rais'd
With apish gesture, and with strange grimace,
To rant unto the multitude. The cork
Intruded swift into the candle's blaze
Is nigrified, and marks th'aspiring youth
With whiskers bold. Ferocity now darts
From either eye her broad unmeaning stare;
In Bajazet he raves, and low'ring bids
Defiance. 'Yond just Nature's ample pow'r
He rants elaborate. His roaring voice
Calls echo forth respondent. On the mart
Of fishy Billingsgate thus have I heard
A harsh lung-cracking noise, nor yet to this
Dissimilar. He ended; but the tribe
Withhold the grasp'd-at banners of applause.
Then down he sits, with woeful aspect dull.
But strait emerging from a sea of thought,
He swallows hasty the salubrious stream,
And re-inthrones his abdicated soul.
Bronzoides next his meteor lays down
Igniferous. Him had his parents sent
To London (seat of business)--there the laws
Of England's state to learn and exercise.
For him a well-experienced Don was found,
Whose quick-turn'd eyes foresaw each quibble quaint,
And quirk evasive. As an osier light,
That bending yields to ev'ry blast of wind,
His heart to fraud was flexible,--his heart,
Where dark Deceit, in honest guise array'd,
Had sown its seeds, and poison'd ev'ry grain
Which, warm'd by potent Truth's congenial ray,
With Virtue's plenteous harvest might have teem'd.
But fruitless was the youth's parental aim,
Tho' sedulous. For scarce two years had roll'd
Since fair Augusta first had bless'd his eyes,
When great Bronzoides first soliloquiz'd:
'Was it for this, that o'er the classic deep
I sail'd, and landed on poetic shores?
Have I for this flew round the Aonian mount
With plumes immortal, and so often play'd
With spotless Muses, in Pierian meads?
Am I, ye Gods, eternally to scribe
Inglorious? No--Some power uplifts my soul,
Buoyant, above the common class of earth's
Dull reptiles. Hence, ye wrong-adjudg'd Reports;
Ye dry collections, hence. I leave ye all
To those grave, solid-looking fools, whose ears
Tautology best charms. Oh! Shakspeare, come
With all thy pupils. Fire my glowing breast,
Expand my genius, and enlarge my soul.'
Kindled that instant at the raptur'd thought,
His intellects, high tow'ring flew to realms
Dramatic. There the storehouse of his brain
He fill'd redundant. Here he tries his skill
Theatric, ere upon the graceful stage
With steps adventurous he dares to tread.
So children dabble in the shallow stream
Playful, till fear forsakes their little souls;
Then bold they rush into the middle Thames.
'List, list, O list'--Oh! how his tuneful voice
Rises and falls, as Oysterella's soft
And strong, when ev'ry street and curving lane
Adjacent echo the testaceous cry.
He spouted--and receiv'd his share of praise.
Inflated with the swellings of conceit,
And newly flush'd with large-aspiring hopes
Of excellence, uprises Leatheronzo
Fam'd. In repairing worn-out calcuments
None was his equal. No one better knew
The pointed awl to handle. Yet his breast
With rage dramatic glow'd. In mad-struck Lear
The scene he opens: but for want of crown
Paus'd his mock-majesty. Around the place
Long time his eyes terrific roll'd. At length
'In a black corner of the room he spied'
An empty urinal--Fir'd at the sight,
He snatch'd the vacuum, and to his head
Adapted it well pleas'd. Now, now he raves
With brazen lungs, until a sudden jerk
His action terminates. Upon the floor
Down drops the jordan. As it rolls along
It rings applause unto his list'ning ear.
Lo! now springs forward with elastic step,
A son of Comedy, Soccado call'd.
The tunic dazzling with its golden pride,
The button-hole gay-wrought with wondrous art,
The mode-cut collar, and well-fancied sleeve,
Had oft proclaim'd his taste. Yet not to this
Was his great soul confin'd. Theatra now,
Dramatic goddess, whispers in his ear,
And bids him shine away in Foppington.
Where's now that stately flatness of the gait?
That easy stiffness where? so often seen
In thee, O Cibber! and so oft admir'd,
Alas! how faintly, rudely copied here!
With joints inflexible, and neck oblique,
An object stiff'ning to the sight he stands
In attitude unmeaning, and deprives
Each injur'd word of its emphatic due.
He finish'd, when the wonted noise begins,
Loud as his all-attentive ears can wish;
Nor less than that which shakes the bending stairs
To the Theatric semicircled seats,
Hight upper gallery, ductive, when some
Grand-habited scene-boasting pantomime,
From 'hind their compters, and from cleaning knives,
And from tenebrious porter-breathing cells,
Where all day long in glee they tippling sat,
Calls forth the terrene quick-ascending gods.
Prologues and epilogues increase the sport,
To periodize the humours of the night
Now far advanced; goes round the jovial song,
The laugh-exciting catch, or wanton tale
Re-iterated. Bacchus, King of Joys,
Twines not his vine-branch here. "Trueman's entire"
Reigns arbitrary. With its vapours bland
Their giddy-rolling heads anointed turn
Upon an axis brittle. Total noise
Its anarchy extends. But oh! how soon
Terrestrial mirth evaporates. Amidst
Their jocund glee, and lovely-floating hours,
Enter the Constables. Ten watchmen brave
Their presence dignify. Amazement chill
Sits on each spouting face. So looks the wretch
Involv'd in debt, when first he spies the front--
The front most hated of a Catch-pole grim.
Not e'en Macbeth stands more appall'd with fear,
When murder'd Banquo's horrid-glaring ghost
Disturbs the regal banquet. Such, so great
Their fear unmanly, that their passive souls
To their hard fate submit. Restless all,
All walk desponding to the round-house dire;
And one sad exit terminates the scene.
All hail to thee! thou young dramatic bard!
Ingenious M-rp-y, hail! Before thy shrine
I bend the knee. This epidemic rage
Well hast thou ridicul'd. Oh! may thy scenes
On Fame's high-pending annals be enroll'd:
And as thy Muse shall henceforth deign to grace
Th'enlighten'd scene, and with a steady hand
To hold up Nature's mirrour, may the tribe
Of snarling Critics, with invidious eyes,
View the bright image, and confess it true."

The reader will of course forgive the chasms in dates which he frequently meets with, by recollecting that most of the amusements of the people of London occur in succession annually: the Theatres, the Opera, concerts, exhibitions, Ranelagh, and Vauxhall, have always had their regular stated periods of opening; and when nothing remarkable took place at either, it is by no means necessary they should be mentioned under every year. The Vauxhall season of 1759 produced some unpleasant animadversions; and the proprietors were publicly called upon to prevent the infamous conduct of loose women and their male companions, whose yells have been described as issuing from the dark walks in sounds full as terrific as "the imagined horror of Cavalcanti's bloodhounds:" indeed the latter were charged with driving ladies from their friends into those recesses where dangerous terrors were wantonly inflicted.

HANDEL'S DECEASE

Occurred on the 6th of April, 1759. As this eminent composer may justly be said to have formed a new æra of musick in England, and to have established the Opera, and the fame of his Oratorios perhaps for centuries to come; a sketch of his life from his arrival in this Island cannot be altogether unacceptable, particularly as it must contain a general history of those amusements with which he became connected. Handel was born at Hall in Upper Saxony February 24, 1684, but did not visit England till he had attained his 26th year, and when perfect master of his profession. The stranger, though only upon leave of absence from the Court of Hanover, where he received a pension of 1500 crowns _per annum_, and held the place of Master of the Elector's chapel, was presented to Queen Anne, and favourably received; thus honoured, Handel soon enjoyed the patronage of her courtiers, and immediately commenced his career by correcting the errors of the _Italian_ Opera, if that could be so called which had been translated into the _English_ language. As this celebrated composer found it, the most pathetic parts of the Italian musick frequently fell upon words expressive of anger, and _vice versâ_; he therefore composed Rossi's Rinaldo, written after an outline by Aaron Hill, who favoured the publick with an English version of it.

When Handel had remained here one year, the full term of his leave of absence, he returned to Hanover, but promised to re-visit the Queen at the first convenient opportunity: that occurred in 1712, and he composed his _Te Deum_ and _Jubilate_ after the signing of the peace of Utrecht. Queen Anne, highly gratified with his exertions, granted him a pension of 200_l._ for life, and added her commands to the solicitations of the Nobility, that he should assume the management of the Opera-house. This he complied with, and violated in consequence an engagement he was under to return to the Elector's Court. When that Prince ascended the British throne, Handel, conscious of his offence, dared not venture into his presence; and his friends even thought stratagem preferable to intercession in restoring him to favour. To accomplish this, Baron Kilmanseck and several of the English nobility engaged the King in a party of pleasure upon the Thames: at that hour of relaxation the King was surprized with those grand movements yet known as Handel's Water-piece, which were composed expressly for the occasion, and performed under his direction in a boat attendant on the Monarch. The scheme was successful beyond expectation; and from that hour the fortunate musician received both honours and rewards from George I. The Earl of Burlington and the Duke of Chandos were his warmest patrons and admirers: the latter indeed retained him at Canons as master of his splendid choral establishment for the offices of religion; and as Buononcini and Attilio were then composers for the Opera, he did not frequently interfere with their province.

At length the period arrived destined to rouse the powers of Handel as a composer and a tyrant. Several persons of distinction had determined to found an Academy of Musick in the Haymarket, in order to insure a constant supply of Operas from the pen of the unrivalled Saxon, which they intended should be performed under his direction. The subscription for this purpose amounted to 50,000_l._; and they procured the King's name for 1000_l._ to grace the head of the list. Thus authorised and enabled, Handel went to Dresden for performers of celebrity, and engaged Senesino and Duristanti, with whom he returned to England, when they acted his Opera of Radamisto to a most crowded audience, which honoured him with the loudest plaudits. From that day the powerful partizans of Buononcini, and those of Handel, became irreconcileable enemies; though their enmity was so far controuled as to permit an agreement between them, that the rival masters should alternately compose the acts of Mutius Scævola, and thus afford a criterion by which their superiority was to be determined. Handel conquered; and, his reputation firmly established, he reigned sole monarch of the Academy for nine years. At the close of that period Senesino accused Handel of oppression, and Handel treated Senesino as a rebel against his authority; the publick immediately divided on this important question; and, to complete their vexation, Faustina and Cuzzoni quarrelled. Harmony ceased in every point of view, and the Academy was dissolved; but Handel maintained his post at the Haymarket, where he soon discovered that with Senesino he had dismissed the majority of his audiences. In this dilemma he entered into an agreement with the celebrated Heidegger to perform Operas on their own account; they accordingly engaged several new performers; but the Nobility, exasperated at the Saxon's tyrannical conduct, entered into a subscription, with which they opened the Theatre in Lincoln's-inn-fields, countermatching his Italians with the incomparable Farinelli. The contest was continued three years in conjunction with Heidegger; and Handel persisted one year after his partner retired: he then left the Haymarket to his rivals.

Chagrined and disappointed, he endeavoured to establish himself at Lincoln's-inn-fields, and afterwards became a partner with Mr. Rich at Covent-garden Theatre, where he found, to his great mortification, that his musick, however sublime, was not a match for Farinelli's voice; yet he persisted till he had almost ruined his fortune, and actually deranged his faculties, besides causing a paralytic stroke, which deprived him of the use of his right arm: he was however recovered from the latter calamities by using the baths of Aix-la-chapelle about the year 1736.

Fortunately for Handel the publick were pleased with the performance of his Alexander's Feast at Covent-garden Theatre soon after his return; and, to add to his good fortune, he was solicited to compose two Italian Operas for Lord Middlesex, who had been compelled to take the direction of this difficult concern upon himself, to preserve it from total ruin. His success on this occasion operated powerfully with the multitude; and a benefit produced him 1500_l._ in the year 1738. An opportunity thus offered to effect a complete reconciliation with his former employers; but that asperity of temper and impatience of controul which always marked his character induced him to reject every proposal connected with subscriptions. After several unsuccessful attempts to establish the Opera at Covent-garden Theatre, he turned his attention to the composition of Oratorios, which he intended should have been _acted_ and sung; but the popular opinion, that such representations from Scripture would be a profanation of religion, deterred him from the design; and he caused them to be sung only as they are at present.

Similar to most human inventions, the Oratorio was of little service to the _Author_: posterity, according to custom, has had the honour of rewarding Handel's _memory_; and if an Angel composed new ones, they would certainly not succeed, till he had fled from the earth half a century, and till Handel has had _his_ day.

The Irish nation received our great musician and his oratorios with complacency; and as he gave the produce of the first performance of his Messiah in Dublin to the City prison, he soon secured their patronage. After considerably improving his circumstances, he returned to England, where his oratorios recovered from their previous depression, and received that approbation which a dread of having lost them probably excited. Handel gave the profits of an annual performance of the Messiah to the Foundling Hospital; and attended their oratorios regularly long after he had lost his sight by a _gutta serena_, and till within eight days of his death.

His present Majesty is passionately fond of Handel's musick; and that the publick are not less so, may be inferred by the eternal repetition of his Oratorios during the season of Lent; by which means, I shall be excused in observing, modern musical genius is depressed, and the pockets of conductors more readily filled. Hence the tiresome selections upon festivals and at concerts, where, if the audience is surprised by _a new_ movement, they exclaim, "Ah! this is _not like_ Handel's strains:"--True, but may they not be equally delightful?

The first _description_ of an Opera which I have met with is in the eleventh number of the Theatre, for November 18, 1758. As the writer appears to have entered into the subject with more than usual spirit, its insertion may possibly prove acceptable to the reader; but he will immediately discover that even our Theatres for pantomime now rival the antient Opera.

"King's Theatre. On Saturday the 18th instant was performed a new Opera called _Attalo_, with new decorations and dances. I have already thrown out a few loose hints with regard to the abovementioned performance; and as in this place I propose speaking of it a little more at large, I shall begin with observing, that an Opera has in one particular a manifest advantage over almost every theatrical entertainment, by admitting of that kind of shew and decoration, which if not absolutely rejected by the other daughters of the Drama, is at least, generally speaking, forced upon them: that is to say, though we sometimes see triumphs and processions in a few of our tragedies and comedies, yet the best judges have always looked on them as childish and ridiculous: whereas, the only design of an Opera being to delight, that gay finery which looks so unbecoming and out of character upon her two elder sisters, is a necessary part of her dress; and as nobody understands the method of placing those ornaments better than Mr. Vaneschi, so in the present case I think he has taken all the care imaginable to set off _Attalo_ to the best advantage.

"But a dry and circumstantial description of these matters would not only fall very short of what is meant to give an idea of, but also be tedious to the readers: for this reason therefore I shall hardly attempt to do any thing more in the present essay than to assure them that the finest scenes, the finest pantomime hitherto invented, even by that father of pantomimes himself, the manager of Covent-garden playhouse, are considerably inferior to those in the Opera of _Attalo_; but particularly, in the first act, where Semiramis enters in a triumphal car, supported by Medean and Bactrian slaves, and surrounded by a number of Assyrian soldiers who carry the spoils and trophies of an enemy which she is supposed lately to have conquered, we are presented with the scene of a square; not a dead piece of painted canvass, but one in which the prospective is executed in so masterly a manner, that one would almost swear it was something more than a mere _deceptio visûs_; to which, by the way, a pedestrian statue, which is elevated in the centre of the buildings, does not a little contribute.

"Scenes of this kind are seldom if ever to be seen in a common Theatre, where the other charges are so large and numerous, as well as the price so confined, that the profits of such a pompous apparatus would by no means answer the expence: the place in our English plays also is too often varied to allow of it; besides, the business of these stages is, properly speaking, to provide the understanding with substantial food, not to treat it with conserves and sweatmeats; and from this reason it proceeds that dances, which at the playhouses are only made use of as a garnish, are at the Opera (which may not unaptly be compared to a dessert or a collation) one of the principal parts of the entertainment.

"I should be extremely glad were it in my power to oblige the readers even with a faint idea of these: they all know, I believe, that Signior Galini is universally allowed to be one of the finest dancers in Europe; but at the King's Theatre, where he at present performs, he not only gives us the strongest proofs of his executive powers, but also of his skill in designing, by having composed three of the prettiest ballets I ever saw; and for plot, movement, humour, and, if I may make use of the expression, gesticulated wit, they are equal, I believe, to any, even of those which Lewis the Fourteenth himself was so fond of.

"In the first dance, the scene of which, by the way, may more properly be called an emulation than a copy of nature, being that of a forest half cut down, where the trees are represented in the liveliest manner, and the prospect of clouds and blue mountains extended to an amazing distance; Forti and Bononi, in the characters of a woodman and his wife, carry the grotesque to a most entertaining degree of extravagance. Bononi is allowed to excel in this way every one who has gone before her; for Galini, as his genius is very different, so it is greatly preferable to this. His dancing indeed may be considered as a kind of dumb musick, since there is hardly a note which he does not express by some significant gesture. Carlini, his partner, is pretty much in the same mode, and when they appear after the second act in a very extensive plain, interspersed with villages, there cannot perhaps be imagined two more agreeable figures. But the third and last ballet, in which the four principal dancers come out together, surpasses all the rest. The prospect is that of a rock, which being open in two or three different places, discovers a wide river, and, in appearance, at least half a mile long, the transparency of the water is so well imitated, that we see the shadows of several flags and bullrushes, which grow upon it; nor is a distant village, which appears at one side, a small addition to the beauty of the view: down this rock come the figure dancers, who are met at the door of a cottage by Signior Galini and his friends; it is a kind of rural feast, and the music is so antic and lively, that that alone would be sufficient, I should think, to put an audience into a good humour.

"I had forgot to mention a scene in this Opera which is remarkably beautiful; I am told it was painted by the celebrated Salvandoni, and is the representation of a magnificent hall, adorned with arms and trophies. There was a full house; and the spectators expressed their approbation by unanimous applause."

The Oratorio of Judas Maccabæus was performed on the 18th of January 1760 at the Music-room in Dean-street, Soho, which was the first night of subscription. The pit seats were 10_s._ 6_d._ and the gallery 5_s._; the performers Signora Passerini, Miss Frederick, Mr. Hudson, and Mr. Champness; and the chorus contained the best singers of the Chapel Royal and St. Paul's. The music-room is now Christie's Auction-room for furniture, and seems in a state of ruin.

WHITE CONDUIT HOUSE[224:A].

_And to_ White Conduit _House
We will go, will go, will go_.

Grub-street Register.

"Wish'd Sunday's come--mirth brightens ev'ry face,
And paints the rose upon the house-maid's cheek,
Harriot, or Moll, more ruddy. Now the heart
Of prentice resident in ample street,
Or alley kennel-wash'd, Cheapside, Cornhill,
Or Cranborne, thee for calcuments renown'd,
With joy distends. His meal meridian o'er,
With switch in hand, he to the White Conduit House
Hies merry-hearted. Human beings here
In couples multitudinous assemble,
Forming the drollest groupe that ever trod
Fair Islingtonian plains. Male after male,
Dog after dog succeeding--husbands--wives--
Fathers and mothers--brothers--sisters--friends
And pretty little boys and girls. Around,
Across, along, the garden's shrubby maze,
They walk, they sit, they stand. What crowds press on
Eager to mount the stairs, eager to catch
First vacant bench or chair in long-room plac'd!
Here prig with prig holds conference polite,
And indiscriminate the gaudy beau
And sloven mix. Here he, who all the week
Took bearded mortals by the nose, or sat
Weaving dead hairs, and whistling wretched strain--
And eke the sturdy youth, whose trade it is
Stout oxen to contund,--with gold-bound hat
And silken stocking strut. The red-arm'd belle
Here shews her tasty gown, proud to be thought
The butterfly of fashion: and forsooth
Her haughty mistress deigns for once to tread
The same unhallow'd floor--'Tis hurry all
And rattling cups and saucers. Waiter here,
And waiter there, and waiter here and there,
At once is call'd--Joe--Joe--Joe--Joe--Joe--
Joe on the right--and Joe upon the left,
For ev'ry vocal pipe re-echoes Joe.
Alas, poor Joe! Like Francis in the Play
He stands confounded, anxious how to please
The many-headed throng. But should I paint
The language, humours, custom of the place,
Together with all curt'sies, lowly bow,
And compliments extern, 'twould swell my page
Beyond its limits due. Suffice it then
For my prophetic Muse to say, 'So long
As Fashion rides upon the wing of Time,
While tea and cream and butter'd rolls can please,
While rival beaux and jealous belles exist,
So long, White-conduit house, shall be thy fame.'

W. WOTY."

One of the entertainments of 1760 was the performance on goblets containing water at different heights, which, rubbed on the rims by a wet finger, produces very sweet sounds, and when rapidly combined will make complete musick. Mr. Puckeridge was celebrated for performances of this description, which were much admired for some time, but are now nearly out of fashion.

One of the characteristicks of our various Theatres is the benefits, or, more properly speaking, the plays which are acted at the close of each season for the individual profit of the several performers. When an actor takes a benefit, he pays all the expences of the evening, and incurs the risk of great charges and small profits. Under the dread of losing, he exerts every nerve to fill the Theatre, and frequently lays heavy contributions on tradesmen, who, through some existing circumstances, think themselves bound to take tickets, and dispose of them as they can to their friends: and he solicits the wealthy without risking the imputation of mendicacy, because they know the actor has from 10_l._ to 20_l. per_ week salary. The benefit-night at length arrives, and the doors are besieged at an early hour by crowds determined not to lose the entertainment they have unwillingly paid for; in due time they rush forward, clamour prevails, and the quiet casual spectator is entirely deprived of hearing the play[227:A]. Mrs. Clive, the justly celebrated comic actress, has enabled me to illustrate this subject by the following spirited letter, addressed to "the Author of the Daily Gazetteer," concerning her benefit, and printed in April 1761. If the reader should wish still further illustrations, I beg leave to refer him to the various _apologies_ for theatrical lives which have been published by Cibber, Bellamy, Wilkinson, &c. &c.

"SIR, As I never read your paper, I did not hear of the
malicious letter you had published against my benefit, till
the very day, when it was too late to endeavour to prevent
the mischief it might do me, as it was most artfully put in
your paper the day before, as well as the day of my play. It
is dated from George's Coffee-house; but your correspondent
must excuse me for not believing it came from thence, as
I have always heard that Coffee-house was frequented by
gentlemen, not one of whom, I am confident, would have done
me an undeserved mischief. I could not possibly suppose Mr.
Shuter was capable of asking any body to write such a letter
for him, as I never did him, or any performer, the least
injury; on the contrary, I have had the greatest pleasure
when it has been in my power to serve them in their benefits,
from the highest class of actors down to the very lowest.
But though he was not concerned in the writing of it (as
he has declared he was not), it is too palpable to admit
of the least doubt, that it must be wrote by some of his
acquaintance, in order to serve his benefit by destroying
mine.--That indeed was not quite in their power, as I had
the honour to have a most noble and splendid appearance of
persons of the first distinction that night at my play; who
have been constant in their goodness and favour to me, and
who were not to be influenced by a wretched Letter-writer.
The loss I most certainly sustained by it I should have
submitted to in silence, as it is with the utmost diffidence
and reluctance I appear before the public in this light:
but there is a most malicious and wicked insinuation in his
letter, which I think myself under an absolute necessity to
reply to.

"The Letter-writer, with great ease, desires the Publick not
to go to my benefit, notwithstanding I had taken infinite
pains to endeavour to entertain them the whole season
through; his reason for that extraordinary request is, that
I was to have a French farce, wrote by a poor wretched
author, translated into English, and called _The Island of
Slaves_:--and then, with great art and malice, he jumbles
together some popular words, as, _French Farce_, _English
Liberty_, _Island of Slaves_! 'What can Englishmen have to
do in the _Island of Slaves_?' Poor wretched insinuation! Is
it possible for any body to suppose, if there had been one
syllable in the piece that had the least tendency to sneer
at, or affront, the liberties of this country, that the
managers would have suffered it to have been acted; or that
the Lord Chamberlain would have given his sanction; or that I
could have been such a fool as to dare to affront the publick
with such a performance on my own benefit-night? I hope I may
be indulged (though a woman) to say I have always despised
the French Politicks; but I never yet heard that we were at
war with their Wit.

"It is imputed to _me_, by the author of the letter, as a
crime, that I should have a piece taken from the French
for my benefit; when at the same time I believe one part
in three of the Comedies and little pieces, that are now
acting at both the Theatres, are acknowledged to be taken
from the French; besides those that both antient and modern
authors have sneaked into the Theatres without confessing
from whence they came. I shall take the liberty to mention
two that are known translations: _The Confederacy_, by Sir
John Vanbrugh, one of our best Comedies, revived about two
years ago, and acted to crowded houses with great applause;
_The Guardian_, another French piece, brought on about
the same time, and received with the highest approbation:
both these performances acted at a time when we were at war
with France, as we are now. 'Ay,' but says the good-natured
Letter-writer, '_The Island of Slaves_ (tremendous title!)'
I think I have made his malice appear pretty plain; I shall
not have the least difficulty in making his ignorance full as
conspicuous. It does not seem, by the style of his letter,
that he is very intimately acquainted with his own language,
but it is evident he knows nothing of the French; for if
he had been capable of reading Mons. Marivaux's _Isle des
Esclaves_, he could not have been quite so clumsy a critick,
as to say he is a poor paltry author, when he is acknowledged
by all people of taste and judgment to be one of the very
best writers the French have. Then, as to his malicious
insinuation, _The Island of Slaves_ is so very far from being
a satire upon English liberty, that there is the highest
compliment paid to it: the people of that island having
quitted their native country (Athens) because 'they would not
be Slaves,' and established themselves in an island, where,
when their passions have subsided, and they begin to forget
the injuries they received in their own country, they make
the most noble, humane, sensible laws. I cannot pretend to
give an account of the whole piece in this letter; but I may
with great truth say, there was not any thing in it that
was exceptionable; great spirit and humour in two of the
characters, and fine sentiments throughout the whole; some
part, perhaps, too grave for what is generally expected in
pieces after a play. I shall beg leave to insert a few lines
(not a translation) which concluded the piece: after Philo
(one of the Islanders) has convinced the Athenians, who are
then in his power, of their follies, he promises to provide
them ships to send them into their own country; Cleanthe (one
of the characters) says:

'We are all equally obliged to you, most amiable
Philo, for your goodness to us; and if we should be
so fortunate to arrive safe at Athens, I hope we
shall have influence enough to prevail with them,
when we recount our adventures, to imitate the
incomparable laws of this ever happy Island.'

"I have done with your Correspondent: now, Mr. Gazetteer, I
must say two or three words to you. I desire you would let
me know who was the author of that letter; or it is possible
I may convince you, I am so truly an English woman, and so
little inclined to be a _slave_, as not to suffer any one to
do me an injury with impunity.

"I am informed, you have more than once drawn yourself into
scrapes, by the delicacy of your paper. If you comply with
this request, in giving up your author, I shall think you
intend to reform your manners; and in that case you will
stand a chance of being read by your humble servant,