Chapter IV (2)

Hodgkinson followed the manager, and for the first time in his life set his foot on the stage of a public theatre. The actors were rehearsing; and ensconced behind one of the side scenes he looked on, and "_with the very comment of my soul I did observe them_," said he, "and not to conceal anything from you, I thought I could have done a great part of it much better myself! oh that I were but a little bigger and had a beard! said I to myself twenty times while the actors were going through the business." Had they thought of infant Rosciuses at the time, his bread had been buttered on both sides, as the saying is. The rehearsal being over, Mr. K. advanced to him and said, "You wish to be an actor, eh!"--then turning to one of the actors, "Here is a person," continued he, "who desires to go upon the stage, and is content by the way of a beginning, to snuff the candles--humble enough you'll say. But he says he can sing;" then ironically to H. "Now, pray sir, do us the favour to say what song you _can_ sing--you perceive the gentlemen of the band are in the orchestra--or perhaps you would rather accompany yourself, as you say you play the fiddle." Then without giving him time to answer he said to one of the band, "hand this gentleman a fiddle, as he calls it." Hodgkinson took the fiddle, and pitching upon the beautiful _Finale_ at the end of the first act of the farce of the Padlock, he played and sung it not only to the astonishment of them all, but so much to their satisfaction and delight, that Mr. K. after asking him whether he thought he could sing accompanied by the band, and being answered in the affirmative, spoke to the orchestra to go over the Finale with him, and desired H. to sing it again. Emboldened by this mark of approbation, John asked permission to sing another song: Mr. K. assented: the boy then stepped forward to the orchestra and asked the leader whether it would suit him to play one of the songs of Lionel? Certainly, he replied, which of them? "Oh dry those Tears," said our juvenile hero: a murmur escaped them all, as if they thought his vanity was carrying him too far. "Try him, by all means try him," said Mr. K.--The boy sung--their surprise was now raised to astonishment--and Mr. K. patting him on the head, emphatically said to him, "My boy, you'll never be a candle snuffer. For the present, however, you may carry a letter--or something more perhaps." He then interrogated him--"have you ever been about a theatre:--perhaps your parents are?"--"No sir, I never had the sole of my foot on a stage till now." "Where then did you first learn to sing?" "In our church sir." "Your church! where is your church?" Here finding that he had got into a dilemma, he hesitated and blushed: "a number of other boys and I practised music together, sir." "But where?"--then perceiving the boy's distress, Mr. K. shifted the question and said, "So much for your singing, but where, in God's name, did you learn to accompany your singing with such action; which I declare, said he, turning to the people on the stage, wants little to be what I should call perfect for a singer?" "We boys, sir, acted plays together." "And you played--" "Several parts, sir." "You surprise me, boy!" "Well," said he, "call upon this gentleman tomorrow morning betimes, and he will converse with you." He then turned to the person who was acting as prompter, and whispered him, when Hodgkinson, after getting the gentleman's direction, made his bow. As he was going down the passage a lad followed him and told him the manager had sent to let him know that if he pleased he might come on the stage that evening during the performance.

Never before had our adventurer experienced such transporting sensations. To use his own words, his head whirled and sung again with delight. Instead of going straight back to Broad-mead, he walked about the square plunged in a delicious reverie--perfectly insensible of hunger or fatigue he continued on the stride, up the river side and down, then about the square again--then here, then there, in short he knew not whither nor why, wholly forgetful of home, dinner, and every thing till some time after the playhouse opened, when going to the stage-door he was admitted, and when he got behind the scenes, was kindly accosted by some, questioned very impertinently, and curiously by others, and stared at by all. The after-piece for the night was "the Contrivances," which he had never seen or heard of before. He was vastly taken with the song of "Make haste and away my only dear;" and as he passed down from the stage, hummed it to himself; on which one of the gentlemen of the band who was near him accosted him, "Hah, master Henry, is it you?--you have practised every piece on the stage, one would think--and the Contrivances has not escaped you." "My name is not Henry, sir--my name is John." "Well, Master John then, I beg your pardon, but you have been at Rover I see." "No, sir, I never saw or heard of the Contrivances till this night's performance." "You can't say so," said the other, "you have learned that song before, assuredly!" "Upon my word it is a truth, sir; I never heard it before tonight." "Do me the favour to hum it over again for me," said the musician. Hodgkinson complied. "Why you have the words of the song as well as the air." "Of one verse only, sir: but the next time, I shall catch the whole of it." The musician expressed his astonishment, and asked the boy where he lodged; to which John replied, "Off this way, sir," and ran away as fast as he could to Broad-mead, where he was resolved it should not be known, for sometime, at least, that he had any connexion with the theatre.

When he reached his hospitable landlord and family, he found that they had all been in great consternation at his absence. He had that morning spoken to his friend John the ostler, about selling his silver buckles, in order to pay his bill, and the generous souls were all afraid that he was in distress. "Hast thee eat nothing since breakfast," said the good man; "Lauk! why thee must be famished--what bewitched thee to stay away from thy meals, child," cried the wife, "tis very bad for a young thing like thee to fast," said another: and numberless other kind and tender expostulations were uttered by the good people one and all, while ostler John who was more frightened about him than any of them, and could not get the naughty players out of his head, coming in said with affectionate surliness, "Soh! thee'st come back, be thee?--Ecod thee deservst to ha thee jacket trimmed, so thee dost--a young tuoad like thee to stay out, God knows where, to this time o' night?" "Dont be angry John," replied our adventurer, "dont be angry--and as to trimming, John, it is not in thy jacket, to trim my jacket John--so go to your hayloft and dont make a fool of thyself!" In saying this he mimicked John's clownish lingo so nearly that the family burst out laughing, and John went off, growling out that he believed the devil or his imps the player fellers had got possession of the boy.

"John is thy friend," said the landlord, "he was quite down o' the mouth about thee." "And I love and thank John," said Hodgkinson, "but I could not help making fun of him for his talking of beating me. I accidentally met with a friend who offered to bring me to the play, and I was so glad I never thought of dinner." "Well come now," then said the good man, "pay away upon that beef--lay in dinner and supper at once, my boy, and thee shall have a cann of as good _yeal_ as any in Somersetshire, and moreover than all that it shall cost thee nothing but the trouble of drinking it--so here's to thee, my boy." The worthy man drank, and his wife drank, and son and daughter, and all drank, and H. told them all about the play, and sung, "Make haste and away my only dear," for them, to their great delight. He was then too innocent and too young to direct it to the young lady of the house, or it is more than probable that she would have been more delighted with it, than any of them.

The next morning early he waited on Mr. ----,[B] the prompter, who told him that Mr. K---- desired that he would keep about the theatre, and make himself as useful as he could in anything that might occur, till something could be done for him. He accordingly attended it diligently, examining and watching every thing done and every body that did it, and storing his young mind with useful knowledge of the profession. What his pittance was, he never told this writer, who therefore concludes it must have been very small, particularly as he sold his buckles, and plumed himself upon not parting with the silver seal given him by his old friend at Manchester.

(_To be continued._)

FOOTNOTES:

[A] Upon comparing notes with Hodgkinson, and considering his description, I was convinced that this was no exaggerated picture. Precisely such a man I remember to have seen, but not playing. He was in a strolling company in Ireland, and was admired for his miraculous power of making people merry with tragedy. He was a well-meaning, honest, simple poor man, but even his performance of Jaffier was hardly as comical as the compliments he himself lavished upon it.

_Biographer._

[B] The name is entirely forgotten by the biographer.

BARRY, THE PLAYER.

The following description of the person and acting of the
celebrated BARRY the player is introduced here, to accompany
the life of Hodgkinson, because a clear recollection of the
former in a multitude of characters, a long and scrutinous
investigation of the professional powers of the latter, and
an intimate knowledge of both of them, has long established
in our minds the unalterable opinion that of all the
performers who make up the feeble crowd that have followed
the men of Garrick's day in sad procession, not one so
nearly trod in the footsteps of Barry (_sed heu longo
intervallo_) as Hodgkinson. Whatever may have been said of
his comedy, we never could contemplate it with half the
satisfaction we received from some of his tragic
performances. His Osmond, his De Moor, and his Romeo were
infinitely superior to his Belcour, Ranger, and Ollapod. And
his Jaffier unquestionably stood next to Barry's. We know
nothing of Mr. Young, therefore do not mean to include him
in this position, though seeing and hearing what we every
day see and hear, of the present facility of pleasing in
England, we receive the encomiums of the other side of the
Atlantic on their passing favourites _cum grano salis_. In a
word, we are persuaded that Hodgkinson came nearer to Barry
in Barry's line, than any actor now living does to Garrick,
Barry, or Mossop in theirs. In Faulconbridge, and in it
alone he was perhaps equal to Barry.

Spranger Barry was in his person above five feet eleven inches high, finely formed, and possessing a countenance in which manliness and sweetness of feature were so happily blended, as formed one of the best imitations of the Apollo Belvidere. With this fine commanding figure, he was so much in the free and easy management of his limbs, as never to look encumbered, or present an ungraceful attitude, in all his various movements on the stage. Even his _exits_ and _entrances_ had peculiar graces, from their characteristic ease and simplicity. What must have greatly assisted Barry in the grace and ease of treading the stage, was his skill in dancing and fencing; the first of which he was early in life very fond of; and, on his coming to England, again instructed in, under the care of the celebrated Denoyer, dancing-master to Frederick Prince of Wales's family. This was done at the prince's request after he had seen him play in lord Townley, in the Provoked Husband. In short when he appeared in the scene, grouped with other actors of ordinary size, he appeared as much above them in his various qualifications as in the proud superiority of his figure.

"So, when a well-grac'd actor leaves the stage,
All eyes are idly bent on him who follows next."

To this figure he added a voice so peculiarly musical as very early in life obtained him the character of "the silver-toned Barry," which, in all his love scenes, lighted up by the smiles of such a countenance, was persuasion itself. Indeed, so strongly did he communicate his feelings on these occasions, that whoever observed the expressive countenances of most of the female part of his audience, each seemed to say, in the language of Desdemona,

"Would that Heaven had made me such a man."

Yet, with all this softness, it was capable of the fullest extent of rage, which he often most powerfully exemplified, in several passages of Alexander, Orestes, Othello, &c.

We are aware of Churchill's criticism in the Rosciad standing against us, where he says, "his voice comes forth like Echo from her cell." But however party might have cried up this writer as a poet and a satirist of the first order, Goldsmith had the sense and manliness to tell them what they called satires were but tawdry lampoons, whose turbulence aped the quality of force, whose frenzy that or fire. Beside, Churchill had a stronger motive than prejudice or whim: the great hero of his poem was Garrick; and as Barry was his most formidable rival, he had little scruple to sacrifice him on this occasion.

But to leave the criticisms of this literary drawcansir to that oblivion to which they seem to be rapidly hastening, let us examine the merits of Barry in some of those characters in which he was universally allowed to excel; and on this scale we must give the preference to Othello. This was the first character he ever appeared in, the first his inclination prompted him to attempt--and the first without question, that exhibited his genius in the full force and variety of its powers.

In the outset of Othello, when he speaks but a few short sentences, there appears a calmness and dignity in his nature, as evidently show "the noble qualities of the Moor." These sentences we have often heard spoken (and by actors too who have had considerable reputation) as if they had been almost totally overlooked; reserving themselves for the more shining passages with which this tragedy so much abounds: but Barry knew the value of these introductory traits of character, and in his first speech, "_'Tis better as it is_," bespoke such a preeminence of judgment, such a dignified and manly forbearance of temper, as roused the attention of his audience, and led them to expect the fullest gratification of their wishes.

His speech to the senate was a piece of oratory worthy the attention of the critic and the senator. In the recital of his "feats of broils and battles," the courage of the soldier was seen in all the charms of gallantry and heroism; but when he came to those tender ejaculations of Desdemona,

"In faith 'twas strange--'twas passing strange!
'Twas pitiful, 'twas wond'rous pitiful!"

his voice was so melodiously harmonized to the expression, that the sigh of pity communicated itself to the whole house, and all were advocates for the sufferings of the fair heroine.

In the second act, when he meets Desdemona at Cyprus, after being separated in a storm, his rushing into her arms, and repeating that fine speech,

----"Oh! my soul's joy!
If after every tempest come such calms," &c.

was the voice of love itself; describing that passion in so ecstatic a manner as seemingly to justify his fears

"That not another comfort like to this
Succeeds in unknown fate."

Through the whole of the third act, where Iago is working him to jealousy, his breaks of _love_ and _rage_ were masterpieces of nature, and communicated its first sympathies; but in his conference with Desdemona, in the fourth act, where he describes the agonizing state of his mind, and then, looking tenderly on her, exclaims,

"But there, where I had garnered up my heart,
Where either I must live or bear no life,"

the extremes of love and misery were so powerfully painted in his face, and so impressively given in his tones, that the audience seemed to lose the _energies of their hands_, and could only thank him _with their tears_.

We have to lament, that in many of the last acts of some of our best dramatic writers, there wants that degree of finish and grouping equal to the rest. Shakspeare sometimes has this want in common with others; but in this play he has lost none of his force and propriety of character--here all continue to speak the language of their conformation, and lose none of their original importance. Barry was an actor that, in this particular, kept pace with the great poet he represented--he supported Othello throughout with unabating splendor--his ravings over the dead body of the _innocent_ Desdemona, his reconciliation with Cassio, and his dying soliloquy, were all in the full play of varied excellence, and forced from the severest critic the most unqualified applause.

That this our opinion is not exaggerated, we refer to that of Colley Cibber, an unquestionable good judge of his art, and who, with all his partialities to Betterton, yet gave Barry the preference in Othello. In short, it was from first to last a gem of the noblest kind, which can be no otherwise defined than leaving every one at liberty to attach as much excellence to it as he can conceive, and then suppose Barry to have reached that point of perfection.

His other favourite characters were, Jaffier, Orestes, Castalio, Phocias, Varanes, Essex, Alexander, Romeo, &c. In all characters of this stamp, where the lover or hero was to be exhibited, Barry was _unique_; insomuch, that when Mrs. Cibber (whose reputation for love and plaintive tenderness was well known) played with Garrick, she generally represented his _daughter_ or _sister_--with Barry she was always his _mistress_.

He likewise excelled in many parts of genteel comedy; such as lord Townly, Young Belville, &c. &c. The Bastard in King John, was another fine character of his, which Garrick attempted in vain--having neither sufficiency of figure, or heroic jocularity. To that may be added Sir Callaghan O'Brallaghan, in Macklin's farce of Love-a-la-Mode; a part in which he gave such specimens of the gallant simplicity and integrity of the _Irish gentleman_, as were sufficient to establish an independent reputation.

Though his Hamlet, Richard, Lear, Macbeth, &c. were _star height_ above what we see now, he lost by a comparison with Garrick. Here the latter showed the _master_ in an uncommon degree; as he did in all the quick animated parts of tragedy. In the spritely, light kind of gentlemen, Garrick had likewise the advantage; and in the whole range of low comedy he blended such a knowledge of his art with the simplicity of nature as made all the minutiae of the picture complete. Thus his _Abel Drugger_ was as perfect in design and colouring as the miseries and distresses of _Royal Lear_.

In talking of these actors, it is impossible for the _amateurs_ of the stage not to regret their loss with some degree of sensibility--not only as men who contributed to the entertainment and refinement of their youth, but whose death seem to threaten a decay of the profession itself. There are periods when the arts and sciences seem to mourn in sullen silence the departure of those original geniuses, who, for years, improved, exalted and refined them; and, like widows, whose hearts were sincerely pledged to their first lords, will not sacrifice on the altar of affectation to _secondary wooers_. Painting and statuary suffered such a loss in the deaths of Titian, Raphael, and Michael Angelo, that more than two centuries have not been able to supply it; and how long the _present stage_ may want the aid of such powerful supporters as _Garrick_ and _Barry_, the experience of near thirty years holds out but very little hopes of encouragement.

To this admirable description as true as it is eloquent, we subjoin the following extracts from the old Dramatic Censor of England.

* * * * *

Speaking of Castalio in _The Orphan_, he says, "His circumstances give great scope for the exertion of various capital powers, which were amazingly well supplied in the elegant figure, bewitching voice, and excellent acting of Mr. Barry; who, in this part, defied the severest criticism, and justly claimed what he always obtained, the warmest applause that enchanted feelings could bestow."

_Antony in Julius Caesar._

Mr. Barry beyond doubt stands foremost in our approbation for this part, as possessing an adequate figure, an harmonious voice, and all the plausibility of insinuation that Shakspeare meant; however, we think that critic an enthusiastic admirer, who, speaking of him in the Rostrum, exclaimed that Paul never preached so well at Athens.[C] It is certain, nature in this, as well as in all his dramatic undertakings, furnished him with irresistible recommendations.

_Varanes in Theodosius, or the Force of Love._

Varanes, who was most the object of our author's attention, is an odd medley of love and pride; now he will, then will not; tender, impatient; in short a romantic madman; yet notwithstanding inconsistencies of a glaring nature, he is a dramatic personage highly interesting. Mr. Barry must, in imagination, to those who are at all acquainted with his performance, fill up every idea of excellence in this character: his love was enchanting, his rage alarming, his grief melting: even now, though overtaken by time, and impaired in constitution, he has not the shadow of a competitor. The rheumatic stiffness of his joints has been industriously trumpeted forth, and every mean art made use of to lower him in public opinion; yet true it is that _if he hobbled upon stilts_, he would be better than many persons, in his style, upon their best legs. A gentleman of acknowledged judgment lately made the following just and striking similitude: that Mr. Barry was like the time-worn ruins of Palmyra and Balbec, which even in a fallen state show more dignity and real beauty, than the most complete productions of modern architecture.[D]

_In Altamont in The Fair Penitent._

After observing that this character lies a dead weight upon the play, this great critic says, "We remember Mr. Barry, by exertion of singular merit, making Altamont as respectable as any other character in the piece, though Mr. Garrick did _Lothario_ and Mr. Sheridan _Horatio_ on the same occasion. Indeed he so much outfigured all competitors and illustrated so beautifully a character scarce known before, that he appeared to great advantage."

_Othello._

"If any performer ever was born for one part in particular it must have been Mr. Barry for the Moor: his figure was a good apology for Desdemona's attachment, and the harmony of his voice to tell such a tale as he describes, must have raised favourable prejudice in any one who had an ear, or a heart to feel. There is a length of periods and an extravagance of passion in this part, not to be found in any other for so many successive scenes, to which Mr. Barry appeared peculiarly suitable. He happily exhibited the hero, the lover, and the distracted husband; he rose through all the passions to the utmost extent of critical imagination, yet still appeared to leave an unexhausted fund of expression behind; his rage and tenderness were equally interesting, but when he uttered the words "rude am I in my speech," in tones as _soft as feathered snow that melted as they fell_, we could by no means allow the sound an echo to the sense."

To these extracts we will add one from the life of the celebrated John Palmer, already mentioned, in the Thespian dictionary.

"The following summer he (Palmer) was engaged at the Haymarket, when Mr. Barry was also engaged. The part of Iago was given to Mr. Palmer to study, but at rehearsal he was so awed at the presence of Mr. Barry, that in spite of all that gentleman's encouragement, he could not subdue his terrors, and was obliged to resign his part to Mr. Lee."

Yet there was a suavity and familiar frankness in his manner, particularly if he had a point of interest or pleasure to carry, which won young and old--man and woman. A British merchant having occasion to go to Dublin when Barry and Mossop headed the rival theatres, was commissioned to collect some debts, and among others two owing by those celebrated men. When he returned to London his constituent asked him, "Well, have you got the actors to pay you?" "Mossop has paid," he replied, "Barry, not." "How comes that?" "To tell you the truth," answered our merchant, "I called on Mr. Barry several times, but he delighted me so much with his talk, and his kindness, that I swear, I could not ask him for money, or do anything to hurt his feelings. When I went from him to Mossop, he looked so stern, that I was overawed and cowed, and so told him, that as I wished to _oblige_ him, I would let the matter lie over; and what do you think was his answer? In a voice that made me tremble, he said, disdainfully, "_You_ oblige ME, sir!--and pray sir, who are _you_ that presume to offer to oblige me?--call tomorrow, sir, on my treasurer, and the pelf shall be paid to you, sir." And as I went down stairs I could hear him say to himself several times, "Oblige ME indeed, ha, ha, hah!--_you_ oblige ME!!" In a word I got the money from him, but never saw him after." "You saw Barry, though?" "Oh yes, he gave me a general order to the house, introduced me to Mrs. Barry,--and always smiled and spoke so kindly, squeezed my hand too whenever I saw him, that I never thought of money. It dont signify talking, but I verily believe, that he could wheedle the birds off the trees with that sweet voice of his, and his good-natured look. I would rather be put off by Barry, than paid by Mossop." In this simple anecdote, which is a fact, the private characters of Barry and Mossop are clearly and faithfully illustrated.

FOOTNOTES:

[C] Our readers will partly judge what the powers of that roan must have been, who could beguile an erudite critic into such an enthusiastic, rapturous expression of approbation.

[D] The late John Palmer had one of the finest persons and faces in Great Britain. I remember to have seen him, handsome Brereton, and manly F. Aitkin, when in the prime of life on the stage at the same time with Barry, when he was labouring under old age, and so miserably infirm that he walked with difficulty. Yet neither I nor any one of the spectators ever noticed the others, so lost were they to the sight under the towering superiority of Barry. _Editor._

MISCELLANY.

THEOBALDUS SECUNDUS, OR SHAKSPEARE AS HE SHOULD BE.

NO. III.

_Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, continued._

Marcellus invokes the ghost almost in the words of Charon, who, too charitable to suffer a man to go to the devil in his own way, thus addressed the son of Anchises:

Quisquis es armatus qui nostra ad flumina tendis,
Fare age venias: jam isthinc et comprime gressum.

The sybil in Virgil gives a civil answer to a civil question, and narrates the birth, parentage, and education of her protege. Not so "the buried majesty of Denmark." Disdaining to be tried by any but his peers, he withholds all parlance till he commences with his son, and having entered O. P. (signifying "O Patience," to the inquisitive spectator) makes his exit P. S. (signifying poor spirit). Marcellus, hereupon, moralizes after the following fashion:

_Mar._ Thus twice before, and _jump_ at this _dead_ hour,
With martial stalk hath he gone by our watch.

Why this dead hour? hours never die. In Ovid they are employed as grooms in harnessing Apollo's steeds, and if there be any faith in _tempus fugit_, how can the dead fly? to be sure, Marcellus was a sentinel, whose duty it is to kill time: but I prefer _dread_ hour! Now for jump--Mr. Malone says, that in Shakspeare's time, jump and just were synonimous terms. So they are in our time. Two men of sympathetic sentiments are said to jump in a judgment. We have also a sect of just men in Wales called jumpers. Strange that the same motion that carries a man to heaven should carry a Kangaroo to Botany Bay!

----multi
Committunt eadem diverso crimina fato
Ille crucem pretium sceleris tulit, hic diadema.--_Juv._

I do not think that the modern actors who personate the ghost, pay a proper attention to the text. It is evident from the above passage, that the ghost in crossing between the speakers and the audience, should give a jump, taking special care to avoid both traps and lamps, otherwise he may "fast in fires," a little too fast. "Gone by our watch," should be divided thus, "Gone--by our watch;" meaning at this hour, as we compute the time. Marcellus should here pull out his watch. A man will never make an actor unless he is particular in these little matters. Horatio continues thus:

_Hor._ But in the _gross_ and _scope_ of mine opinion,
This bodes some strange _eruption_ to our state.

Johnson will have it that "gross and scope," mean general thoughts and tendency at large. Alas! that all the scope of his gross frame should contain so small a meaning! I prefer _guess_ and skip of my opinion; that is a random notion hastily entertained.

As for the eruption in the state, the reader will bear in mind the jump of the ghost, and coupling it with the aforesaid eruption, will no longer wonder that a modern writer couples the word jump with the Norman invasion:

Hop, step, and jump,
Here they came plump,
And they kick'd up a dust in the island.

O'Keefe has a character in his farce of _The Farmer_, called Jemmy Jumps, but I cannot with all my diligence, discover that he takes his name from a love of jumping. Molly Maybush, indeed, gives us a hint of his fondness for that recreation in the following distich:

Go hop my pretty pet along,
And down the dance lead Bet along.

But if his own evidence is to be believed, (and according to some recent suggestions, that is the only evidence which ought to be received) he has no penchant for it. The farmer asks him to join the village dance, whereupon he indignantly exclaims, "What! I sport a toe among such a set of rustics!" Upon the whole I am inclined to believe that as a manufacturer of stays he takes his name from a part of those modish ligatures called jumps.

A figure of the very first water and magnitude, now makes his _entre_--the ghost of the late king! and here I must digress awhile, and like a raw notary's clerk, enter my feeble protest against the tame and unimpressive manner in which that supernatural personage is permitted to make his appearance. It should seem that our managers reserve all their decorations for the inexplicable dumb show of the Wood Daemon (that diphthong is my delight), the Castle Spectre, &c. &c. The Bleeding Nun in Raymond and Agnes is ushered in with a pre-_scent_-iment of blue flame and brimstone. Angela's mother advances in a minuet step, to soft music, like Goldsmith's bear, and is absolutely enveloped in flames--none but a salamander, or Messrs. Shadrach and company can enact the part with safety. But when we are presented with a dead Hamlet, Banquo, or lady Anne, those impressive non-naturals of the poet of Nature, they walk in as quiet and unadorned as at a morning rehearsal; marching like a vender of clumsy Italian images, "with all their imperfections on their head," and an additional load attributable to the imperfect head of the manager. Remember the lines of the poet:

Another Eschylus appears--prepare
For new abortions, all ye pregnant fair,
In flame like Semele be brought to bed,
Whilst opening hell spouts wildfire at your head.

And let us in future see Shakspeare's ghosts adorned with the proper paraphernalia and (impernalia) of thunder, hautboys, and brimstone. But to return--For "eruption to our state;" some people prefer reading corruption, alleging that most states are corrupt (England, as one of the present company, of course excepted) but that eruptions are confined to the towns that border on Mount Vesuvius. But surely, allowing the observation its full swing, eruption is here the right reading. The ghost, in a subsequent scene, expressly informs us that he is "confined to fast in fires," and from his underground repetition of the word "swear," it is clear that those fires were immediately under Hamlet's feet. Yes, sir, this identical ghost was the Guy Faukes of Denmark, and but for the vent he discovered in a cranny near Elsinore enabling him to take a peep at the "glimpses of the moon," would doubtless have blown the crown prince, and all his court into the air, and thus have rendered unnecessary our late expedition for that purpose.

I find nothing upon which to animadvert till the re-entry of the ghost. He has evidently something upon his mind, which he wishes to communicate; but with the heart of a lion shows that he also possesses the fears of that royal beast, for upon the crowing of the cock (a sound most injudiciously omitted, since the death of the bantam Roscius) the spirit evaporates as quickly as from a glass of champagne, in the drinking of a health.

_Mar._ Shall I strike at it with my _partisan_?

Here performers, who move like blind asses in the manager's mill, usually raise the right arm, as though partisan meant the instrument in their grasp. O lame and impotent! As if a little bit of a truncheon could bruise a ghost! What says Ossian, speaking of a ghost? "The dim stars twinkled through his form." A plain proof of his want of substance. So of Pope's sylph:

Fate urg'd the shears and cut the sylph in twain;
But airy substance soon unites again.

Some fanciful persons will have it that partisan signifies companion, as though Marcellus should say, "shall I strike at it with the assistance of Bernardo?" Listen to the real original meaning:

_Mar._ Shall I strike at it with my _parmesan_?

In plain English, "shall I throw a cheese at its head?" This agrees with what was before advanced relative to beef, and shows that the sentinels of those days antedating the couplet in the Bath Guide,

He that would fortify the mind,
The belly first must fill,--

never mounted guard without a havresack well stuffed with eatables.

* * * * *

_Coffee and Chocolate._

Coffee is the seed of a tree or shrub of the jessamine species, originally a native of Arabia, but now thriving in the West Indies, where it is become an important article of English commerce.

The flower is yellow, and the berry juicy, containing two seeds: these when gathered have a ferinaceous bitter taste, but are wholly without that peculiar smell and flavour imparted to them by fire, and for which an infusion or decoction of them is so much admired.

This fashionable beverage, almost a necessary of life to the merchant, the politician, and the author, on its first introduction in Asia, caused a violent religious schism among the Mahometan doctors, almost as early as the thirteenth century, although it was not till towards the middle of the sixteenth, that a coffee-house properly so called, was established at Constantinople: its discovery was announced by a miraculous legend which each sect relates in its own way.

A dervise, says a certain heterodox rational mussulman, if such there be, "a dervise overflowing with zeal or with bile, was sorely troubled on observing that his brethren were not animated by a spirit active as his own: he saw, with concern, that they were listless and drowsy in the performance of their religious exercises, their ecstasies, their howlings, their whirlings round, their vertigoes, their bellowings, and laborious breathings.

"The dissatisfied dervise, taking a solitary walk to sooth his disturbed spirits, or cool his heated imagination, observed that the cattle became suddenly and remarkably playsome and lively, after feeding on a certain leaf; judging, by analogy, that the same effect might be produced on _other animals_, he gave his companions a strong infusion of it; their heaviness and torpor were almost instantly removed, and they performed the parts allotted to them with exemplary activity and vigour; the leaf so powerful in its effects proved to be the shrub from which coffee berries afterwards were gathered."

"Listen not to such profane heresies," says an orthodox doctor of Mecca, "it was in the six hundred and sixty-sixth year of the Hegira (about the middle of the thirteenth century of the Christian era) that Abouhasan Scazali, on a pilgrimage to the tomb of our most holy prophet, sinking under fatigue, extreme heat, and old age, called unto him Omar, a venerable Scheick, his friend and companion, and thus addressed him:

"Teacher of the faithful! the angel of death hath laid his hand upon me; cleansed from my corruptions in the waters of Paradise, I hope soon to be in the presence of our prophet; but I cannot depart in peace, till I have done justice to thy zeal, thy faith, and thy friendship; persevere in the path thou hast so long trod, and rely on him, who drove the infidels like sheep before him, to extricate thee from all thy difficulties: farewell, sometimes think of Abouhasan, pity his errors, and do justice to his good name:" he would have spoken further, but his breath failed, his eyes became dim, and pressing that hand he was to press no more, he expired without a groan.

"Having performed the last office of friendship, Omar pursued his way: but, a few days after, lost in devout contemplation, or overwhelmed with sorrow, he wandered from his associates in the caravan, and was not sensible of his situation, till involved in one of those whirlwinds, which, raising into the air the sandy soil of that country, generally prove destructive. Falling on his face, the fury of the blast, and the thick cloud of sand passed over him: almost suffocated with dust, notwithstanding the precaution he had taken, separated from the companions of his journey, without water to moisten his parched mouth, and fainting for want of sustenance, he gave himself up for a lost man, the stream of life was propelled with difficulty, perception and sensation began to fail, and believing himself in the agonies of death, he poured forth a mental ejaculation to Allah.

"An angel of light immediately stood before him, waving his hand thrice towards the holy city, and pronouncing deliberately three mysterious words; a limpid stream suddenly gushed from the ground, and a luxuriant shrub sprung forth from the barren sand of the desert; bathing the temples, the eyes, and the lips of Omar, with the refreshing fluid, the celestial messenger disappeared.

"The cool stream, and the berries plucked from the miraculous tree, soon recovered the sinking man; he poured forth his soul in thanksgiving, and sunk into a deep sleep, from which he awoke in full vigour and spirits.

"Omar, with renewed strength, soon rejoined the caravan, and relating the supernatural circumstance, a mosque was erected on the spot, by the zeal and contributions of true believers; coffee, that wonderful shrub, the peculiar gift of our prophet, and more particularly the produce of his favourite country, still continues the solace, cordial, and comforter of his devoted followers."

This singular specimen of Turkish superstition, in which the Mahometan appears to have encroached on the prerogatives of the Vatican, is taken from a curious book, which, previous to the Gallic revolution, was in the library of the king of France, and presented to Louis the fifteenth, by Said, an ambassador from the Porte to the court of Versailles.

It is called in the title page, Dgihan Numa, that is, a description of the world, and was printed at Constantinople, in seventeen hundred and thirty-one, adorned with plates and illustrated by maps; the author, or rather the compiler, was Keatib Cheleli, a learned doctor of the Turkish law.

"Coffee," says this enlightened mussulman, who shaking off the stupidity and indolence of his countrymen, assumes the character of a medical inquirer, after he had quitted that of an implicit believer, "coffee is a rejoicer of the heart, an enlivener of conversation, a sovereign restorative after the fatigues of study, of labour or of love; its peculiar characteristic is, to comfort the stomach, nourish the nerves, and to protect the frame against the debilitating effects of a hot climate and a fiery atmosphere.

"Taken an hour after dinner, it prevents an accumulation of crudities in the first passages, is an infallible remedy for the horrors of indigestion, and the megrims."

It was not probable that so wholesome and agreeable an article of diet would be long confined to Asia; it is said to have been introduced to the fashionable circles of Paris by Thevenot, in 1669, but had been made use of in London as an exotic luxury before that time.

The first coffee-house opened in the British metropolis, was in George-yard, Lombard-street, by Rosqua, the Greek servant of a Turkey merchant, in the year 1652; its flavour was considered so delicate, and it was thought by the statesmen of those days (no very reputable characters) to promote society and political conversation so much, that a duty of fourpence was laid on every gallon made and sold.

But Anthony Wood earnestly insists, that there was a house, for selling coffee, at Oxford, two years before Rosqua commenced the trade in London; "that those who delighted in novelty, drank it at the sign of the angel, in that university, a house kept by an outlandish Jew."

In another part of his works, he says that Nathaniel Conapius, a native of Crete, and a fugitive from Constantinople, but residing in the year 1648, at Baliol college, Oxford, made, and drank every morning, a drink called coffey, the first ever made use of in that ancient university.

This popular beverage is mentioned in a tract published by judge Rumsey, in 1659, entitled "Organum Salutis, or an instrument to cleanse the stomach; together with divers new experiments on the virtues of tobacco and coffee."

It is observed in this work, by a correspondent of the author, "that apprentices, clerks and others, formerly used to take their morning draught in ale, beer or wine, which, by the dizziness they cause in the brain, make many unfit for business; but that now they may safely play the good fellow, in this wakeful civil drink, for the introduction of which first in London the respect of the whole nation is due to Mr. Muddiford."

* * * * *

Chocolate, then, is a preparation from the seeds of a small American tree, called by botanists _Cacao Guatimalensis_, bearing a large red fruit in the shape of a cucumber, which generally contains twenty or thirty of the nuts, boiled and prepared according to art.

This highly nutritious, agreeable, and, to many, wholesome drink, became on its first introduction, a subject of strong agitation, and warm contest, with many conscientious and scrupulous catholics.

Approaching in its original form, and in its alimentary properties, so nearly to solid diet, it was doubted by the timid and the devout, whether enjoying so delicious and invigorating a luxury in Lent, and other seasons appointed by the church for fasts, was not violating or eluding a sacred and indispensable ordinance.

That party which was unwilling to resign their chocolate, quoted the words of St. Thomas, who repeatedly asserts, that it is by solid food only that a fast can be properly said to be broken; that if it is unlawful to drink this liquor on fast days, because of the portion of solid cocoa contained in it; by the same rule, wine and beer, which on these occasions have never been interdicted, might be forbidden, as the first contains a large proportion of the saccharine substance of the grape, and the latter suspends rather than dissolves the whole of the farina of the grain.

The chocolate drinkers were opposed by a powerful party of rigid disciplinarians, and austere devotees; a Spanish physician wrote a Latin treatise, expressly against what appeared to him so impious a practice on a fast day; his book, entitled "Tribunal Medico-Magicum," exhibits much zeal and some learning; that he was strongly attached to the luxury against which he declaims, is a strong presumption in favour of his sincerity.

The Spaniard's book was answered, by a cardinal of the catholic church in a candid and agreeable way; it was the opinion of the ecclesiastic, supported, indeed by reason and experience, that neither chocolate nor wine taken in moderation could, strictly speaking, be construed into breaking a fast; yet, he hoped, that such a concession, would not be made a pretext by sensuality and wickedness, for using them to excess, by which some of our greatest blessings are converted into curses; as whatever tempts or occasions us to overstep the bounds of nature and of temperance, can never be defended by the canons of the church.

The Roman prelate concludes his rational and truly pious book, written in Latin, not unworthy of the Augustan age, with the following words, which ought to be written in letters of gold, in some conspicuous part of every eating-room in Europe:

"The infidel and voluptuary may ridicule the idea of the Almighty Creator of the universe, being pleased, or displeased, with a man for having a full or an empty stomach; but whatever tends directly or remotely, to subdue rebellious passions, and subject a creature like man to the restraints of reason and religion, cannot fail being a matter of the highest importance to our well-doing, and our everlasting destiny hereafter."

* * * * *

MONUMENT IN HONOUR OF THE LATE DUKE OF BEDFORD.

ERECTED IN RUSSELL SQUARE, BY R. WESTMACOTT, ASSOCIATE OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY.

This monument consists principally of a colossal statue of the late Duke of Bedford, habited in his parliamentary robes. At the feet of his statue, or rather around the fragment of rock on which it stands, are "the seasons personified by genii, or children in playful attitudes."

"This group surmounts a pedestal composed of granite; the sides of which are embellished by _bassi-relievi_ of pastoral subjects. On the angles are bulls heads; the intermediate friezes being occupied by _bassi-relievi_ of groups of cattle. The whole composition is about twenty-five feet in height."

The latter part of this general description, which we have marked as quotation, is taken from Mr. Westmacott's own modest account of his work, in the 'Academic Annals.'

The whole forms an imposing, and, in some degree, magnificent pile of sculpture, and seems the worthy ornament of a great metropolis; yet it has such defects as inform us that it has not fallen from Heaven. The statue is doubtless meant to be stable, manly, easy, and dignified; yet it is not perfectly these, though perhaps no other words could be so nearly used with propriety in describing its first bold impression on the mind of the beholder, as he approaches from Bloomsbury square along Bedford-place.

A noble and sedate simplicity characterizes the general style of Mr. Westmacott's sculpture, and is conspicuous in the _tout ensemble_ of the pile before us. The proportions of the statue and its ornamental accompaniments, to the pedestal and double plinth basement, are well regulated, and are the evident and successful result of study. The bronze, of which the statue and bas-reliefs are composed, being covered with a fine green patina (which has apparently been superinduced), would have assimilated very well with the sort of grave, negative colour of the Scotch granite, of which the pedestal is formed, had the rock on which the Duke stands been of bronze, as well as the statue and personifications of the seasons which are designed to group with it. This rock ought certainly not to have been of Scotch granite. The pedestal alone should have been of this material, and all that surmounts it of bronze. Beside that real rock is almost as unscientific in this place, as would have been the real ermine on the Duke of Bedford's robes, or a real wig on his head; it is almost as destructive too of the chastity of sculpturesque effect. It gives a meager effect to the seasons, while it mars the simplicity of what would else have appeared a grand connected mass of imitative art. The granite and green bronze, if kept in broad and distinct masses, would have harmonized extremely well with the verdure of the pleasure ground in which it is placed; yet, as it is, the whole composition, when viewed from any station near the south end of Bedford-place, detaches with effect from the air-tint of the distant country, excites a classic and elevated feeling, and invites the steps of the tasteful to a nearer view.

The figure of the Duke, in allusion, presumptively, to the firmness of his character, stands on a rock, with his right foot somewhat advanced. His right hand is also advanced, and rests on the shaft of the plough, while his left arm, which is somewhat too short for the figure, hangs perpendicularly, forming a line exactly parallel to the outline of the drapery on this left side of the statue. One side of the figure is thus perfectly tranquil, while the other is in gentle action. What the sculptor may conceive he has gained in effect, by _thus_ contrasting one side of his statue to the other, he appears to us to have lost, in losing that more easy contrast and graceful equilibrium which distinguishes the best single figures of the ancients, and which should not, we think, be absent from those of the moderns. If, however, grandeur by these means be substituted for gracefulness, art and the public are amply compensated, and the sculptor should be honoured for a successful deviation from ancient authority and established principle. We are only sorry to add, that in our opinion it is not.

The features of the Duke's face are very judiciously generalised, or _idealised_ (as is the phrase among artists) to that degree which raises the mental character of the head, and while it retains all those peculiarities which are essential to portraiture, renders an individual countenance more fit for the purpose of the sculptor, and perhaps impresses a likeness more forcibly than minute finishing, especially at a height of eighteen or twenty feet from the eye of the spectator. The neck is increased in thickness, so as to give an Herculean air and character to the bust: which yet, on the whole, so strongly resembles that of the original, that it is immediately recognised by all who remember the Duke of Bedford's person.

Of the drapery, the general style is broad, square, and masterly. The peculiarities of the English ducal robes are sufficiently attended to, and sufficiently simplified; but the ermined part we esteem unfortunate (as much of it at least as is seen in the front view of the figure) as it disturbs the contour of the folds, and has a clumsy and unsculpturesque appearance.

Proceeding downward in our remarks, we now arrive at Mr. Westmacott's personification of the seasons, where we find he has departed in some measure from former analogies, without, in every instance, substituting better.