Chapter IV (3)

We have already remarked that these genii have a meager effect, and have endeavoured to account for it by supposing it to be principally owing to the ill-judged mixture of materials and colours, of which this part of the pile consists. Yet beside this defect, in every view but that from the westward, these figures appear to want grouping and connexion. Seasons, which are blended in their real existence, should probably not be disconnected, nor thrown out of their natural order, in their allegorical representation. No man desires to see the backside of Spring unless Summer follow; and had Summer and Autumn been visible from the principal approach, an association of ideas would have been excited, more genial and more appropriate to the agricultural character of the monument, if not to the _known bounty_ of the late Duke of Bedford, than by the presence of Winter and Spring. By placing the two former behind his Grace, and turning one of them away from the eye of the spectator, the sculptor has even left it so doubtful whether he has or has not taken the liberty of changing the natural course of the seasons in order to effect this, or some other purpose, that we have known some persons mistake--unless we are ourselves mistaken--Summer for Autumn and Autumn for Summer; and others puzzled between Summer and Spring. It is true, the seasons in our climate, are sometimes so strangely disordered and confused, that if Mr. Westmacott should plead that in this part of the design, he has chosen rather to imitate nature than the antique, and English nature rather than the nature of any other climate, we should probably be silenced.

It may also be pleaded with great truth in favour of the artist, that in consequence of the arrangement which he has adopted, there is in every view of the monument, something of merit and importance to gratify public attention. In front, there is the statue itself contrasted by the plainness and simplicity of the unadorned side of the pedestal. On the east side there is the most beautiful of the bas-reliefs: on the west, the most interesting view of the seasons, and what there is behind, God knows. The public are not yet permitted to walk round it.

We will now endeavour to explain the symbols and metaphors which Mr. Westmacott has invented or adopted, as well as we are able, in the order in which they present themselves on the monument. Spring is very properly represented as rising a wreath of blossoms and other early flowers, among which the lily is distinguishable; the genius of Autumn is pouring forth her abundance of English fruits and vegetables (for there is nothing exotic) from a cornucopia; Summer, as far as can be seen from without the enclosed area of Russel-square, has a butterfly perched on his hand, intimating that this is the season when this beautiful insect bursts from its chrysales into new life; and Winter sits shrunk and sheltered by drapery from inclemencies of which, to be strictly correct, it should appear to have been the cause.

The character and style of Mr. Westmacott's boys or genii, are something between that of Fiamingo, and real life. Those of Summer and Autumn especially, possess much of infantile grace; but the genius of Winter appears disproportionably small, and the space left for his chest so small, when compared with his limbs, that the Hibernian punsters will be in some danger of thinking it is meant for a personification of--nobody. What those may be tempted to think of it who are conversant with Dr. Hunter's principal anatomical work, we shall not presume to say.

The bulls heads on the angles have a new and not unpleasing effect, and are executed in a grand style; their horns are short and bound for sacrifice as in the antique. And the frieze which runs round the top of the pedestal is enriched, the East side with two sheep, a lamb, and an ox; the West side with two swine and a cow; and the South side, or front of the monument with a horse, all sculptured in low relief, and in a style partaking partly of the antique, and partly of English nature. Immediately above this frieze on the south side, and in the interval between Winter and Spring, the artist has placed a lamb, which is perfectly in season.

Of the bas-reliefs which adorn the sides of the pedestal, and which are in conception and composition, if not of execution, the finest part of the whole pile, one represents the season of _ploughing_, the other that of _harvest_; and both are so classical in their appearance, and in design so abstracted from localities, that could they have been discovered in Sicily, the cognoscenti would, perhaps, have sworn that Theocritus had seen and studied them when he wrote his Idyllia.

As associated with, and calculated to call up, ideas of humble, innocent and laudable occupation, these sculptured pastorals are of high moral value in such a metropolis as this, where guilty dissimulation and insidiousness so much abound--independent of their merit, and consequent value as works of fine art. Why do we contemplate the innocent occupations of children, and rural life, with sentiments of the purest complacency? Why, but because the soul is revived as it recognises its own nature through the disguise of society, and springs back with ardour toward a state of things on which our ideas of Paradise itself have been rested.

Perhaps no works of art, and no poetry extant, will more forcibly recall what we have read and fancied of the golden age, than these bas-reliefs. They are delightful both in design and execution. To imagine the art as co-existing with these in such an age of happy innocence as is here suggested, raises cold criticism itself almost to rhapsody.

In the first, which occupies the western side of the pedestal, peasants are resting from the labour of the plough; a yoked ox shows the nature of their employment; a ploughman takes a refreshing draught, from his wooden bottle, while a youth blows a horn to call his fellow labourers to an humble repast, which a female is busily engaged in preparing.

----Corydon and Thyrsis met,
Are at their savoury dinner set,
Of herbs, and other country messes,
Which the neat handed Phyllis dresses.

In the other relievo, which decorates the eastern side of the pedestal, reapers and other peasantry are conversing and reposing from the toils of the field. The group consists of a mower, a reaper, a harvest man stooping to bind a sheaf, a shepherd and his dog. The principal and central figure is that of a young female laden with corn, and holding a sickle in her right hand, and is a most exquisite, and, we had almost said, unparalleled piece of sculpture in its kind. In truth, the unsophisticated, self-willed, easy, rustic, grace, of this figure, is raised by the art of the sculptor into intellectual existence--

Her form is fresher than the morning rose,
When the dew wets its leaves; a native grace
Sits fair proportion'd on her polish'd limbs,
Veil'd in a simple robe:

and all the characters are simple; yet free from any alloy of grossness, while the grouping and drawing are excellent in a very high degree. Modern art, excepting it be in the principal figure of Barry's Grecian Harvest-home, has produced nothing of the kind, which can be compared with this reaper, or which is so perfectly the vigorous offspring of Poetry and Sculpture, generated in their happiest moments.

Mr. Westmacott has wisely chosen to display the most prominent and distinguished trait of the Duke's character, and to that he has confined himself. He has not frittered attention as a common-minded statuary would have done, by endeavouring to make the subject of his chisel appear to have been every thing that is great and good: he does not compliment the Duke of Bedford, by surrounding him with various virtues, and representing him as having been a great statesman, philosopher, patron of art and literature, orator, agriculturist, &c. &c. but by seizing the principal feature of his mental character, and representing him simply as a great agriculturist, or patron of agriculture, he powerfully impresses one important truth, which no spectator will forget, and all who possess the means, may learn to emulate.

The Duke of Bedford's agricultural, is probably the most permanent, as well as honourable and prominent, feature of his character. In his politics, like a large majority of statesmen, he attached himself too much to persons, and attended too little to the ascertainment of principles. As a politician, he might soon have been forgotten, or have been remembered with little interest, while as an agriculturist, posterity for many a century, may with pleasure view the seasons playing round the foot of his statue.

The statue is in fact as much a monument in honour of agriculture as of the late Duke of Bedford; and, observing the public interest which this excites, we cannot but think it would be well if our public ways were adorned with statues to other noblemen and noble propensities.

To agriculture, undoubtedly, in every country, _the first_ of arts, in point of time, and perhaps of importance, the first honours may be allowed; but we deem that a sufficient portion of the attention of our nobility and great landed proprietors has already been attracted toward this pursuit; and among the various arts and sciences, we should not forget that though the _iron_ arts are more useful, the _golden_ are more precious. A taste for _fine_ art, moreover, has a certain grace of disinterestedness, which does not attach to an agricultural duke or great landed proprietor, constantly employing himself in endeavours to increase the produce of his lands.

Wherefore, though the statue to agriculture and the late Duke of Bedford, be extremely fit and proper in point of moral social influence, it makes other statues or other moral works of art yet more necessary than they were. Britain may boast of many a Cornelia, but where is the monument to the maternal character? Many a Brutus and many a Maecenas, but where are the public enticements to disinterested patriotism and the patronage of art?

* * * * *

O! NEVER LET US MARRY.

"We want no change, and least of all,
Such change as you would bring us."--_Pizarro._

TO ROSA.

If in possession passion die,
And when we marry love deny,
'Tis rapture still to tarry:
If that soft breast must cease to warm,
Those speaking eyes no longer charm,
O never let us marry!

If I shall hang not on thy lip,
Like bees on roses when they sip,
And thence less honey carry;
If I must cease to think it bliss
To breathe my soul in every kiss,
O never let us marry!

* * * * *

THE SABLE APPARITION, OR MYSTERIOUS BELL ROPE.

_An extract from a Manuscript Novel._

"'Twas nothing more, indeed my dear uncle! No, indeed, 'twas nothing more! Dear, dear, how could I suppose it to be any thing more? And yet I even tremble now," exclaimed Miss Godfrey to her astonished uncle, as he entered the house. "For heaven's sake, my beloved Frances what has thus dreadfully alarmed you?" returned the old gentleman. "Tell me I beseech you! I'm on the rack till I know what could possibly have the power of alarming you to this dreadful degree. Come my sweet girl, compose yourself and relate to me this "soul harrowing" tale; for I'm half inclined (seeing you smile) to suppose it some imaginary evil." It is indeed, sir, an imaginary evil, and a very foolish fear: I am very, very angry with myself, and am seriously apprehensive, that in disclosing to you my weakness, I shall draw down your very just animadversion; but if you will give me a patient hearing, and not think me too circumstantial in my narrative, I will give you then the seeming cause for the disorder in which you found me." Do not fear censure from me my dear Frances, we all have our weak moments; and I am convinced, a girl with my Fanny's understanding, could not be so alarmed at a very trifling circumstance; therefore proceed, my love; I will promise not to fall asleep over the recital."

"Sitting in my dressing room at work, I was surprised by a very hasty tap at the door, which I opened, when Monsieur l'Abbe appeared before me, with his hair erect, his eyes starting from their sockets, and his whole frame so convulsed with terror, that I momentarily expected the wax taper which he bore in his hand would make a somerset on my muslin dress. I begged him to inform me if he was ill? whether any thing had alarmed him? if I should ring for his servant? He shook his head in token of disapprobation of my last interrogatory, and in broken and almost inarticulate accents, begged I would indulge him with a moment's hearing. He then, with much difficulty, addressed me as follows:----

"You know Miss Godfrey, I am the last man in the world to be frightened at bugbears, or in other words, superstition and I were ever sworn enemies: I think, then, after reprobating this weakness in others for fifty years, I have this evening become its victim; for to that alone must I ascribe my fears. Listen then to the cause of this weakness in me. I was deeply immersed in Horace, when I heard a knocking against the partition that separates the rooms. I paid little or no attention to it at first, when a second time the knocks were repeated with more violence. I then arose, and proceeded to the room where the noise issued; and directing my eyes towards the bed, to my infinite surprise I perceived the bell-rope making rapid and extensive strides from one side of the partition to the other. After viewing it for a moment, I thought I would take the liberty of stopping the marble breasted gentleman's progress; I grasped the bell-rope, it yielded to my embrace, and became quiescent; I sat a moment to observe it; it remained quiet, and I returned to my studies. The instant I was seated, the same noise was repeated with increased violence; I entered the room a second time, and a second time saw the bell-rope in rapid motion. I then examined every corner of the room, without discovering the least trace by which I might elucidate this singular appearance. I again grasped the rope, and again it was motionless: I sat two or three minutes in the room, I believe, during which every thing was perfectly quiet. I returned to my room, when scarcely had I seated myself, ere the same noise met my ear, with a sort of hard breathing. This was more than even my philosophy could bear at that moment, and must plead my excuse for appearing before you in the disordered state which you have just witnessed." "You must pardon me, my good sir, for smiling," I remarked, but I really have scarcely had patience to hear you out, so anxious am I to be introduced to this ghost in the shape of a bell-rope! lead me to the haunted room, and you will gratify me beyond measure!"

"Magnanimous courage! exclaimed Monsieur, with such a guide, I'd face e'en Beelzebub himself;" when each embracing our taper, we proceeded to the mysterious room. My eager eye sought the bell-rope; but no sooner did I perceive its motion (for it was moving as Monsieur had described) than all my boasted philosophy forsook me. Ashamed to confess as much, I begged my companion to once more stop its progress, and suppressing my emotions, I assisted Monsieur in searching the room. Nothing, however, which possessed animation could we discover, (ourselves excepted) and indeed we could scarcely be said to possess it. Monsieur prevailed on me to retire to his sitting room, when perhaps, he observed, we should hear the noise repeated. I acquiesced, when to my inexpressible horror our ears were assailed by a tremendous knocking, accompanied by a terrific scream. This was more than human nature could bear. I rang the bell with unusual violence, which brought up two of the female servants. Without communicating my fears, I requested that the groom might be called: he came, and thus, in a body we once more ventured to enter this terror striking room, every corner of which was searched without success; when the groom accidentally moving the bed, out sprung our--black cat! She had so completely concealed herself in the head curtain of the bed, that all our endeavours to discover anything were fruitless; and each time we left the room, she amused herself with patting the pull of the bell, which occasioned its motion to the infinite terror of a French philosopher, and an heroic maiden.

"The 'terrific scream,' was a faint groan, proceeding from a servant who was ill in the house."

COMMUNICATIONS.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE DRAMATIC MISCELLANY.

Sir,

I send you herewith the first number of a series of Papers, the continuance of which will probably depend upon your opinion of their tendency to amuse or gratify your readers.

That they may not be tried by too rigid rules of criticism--and that more may not be expected from the writer than he means to perform, I deem it necessary to premise that the future numbers, like the present, are intended to consist of such anecdotes respecting the drama and dramatic writers, as I have heretofore, or hereafter may meet with in the course of a very desultory course of reading--of such information of that description, as I have collected in my progress through life--and of such remarks and reflections as they may excite in my mind.

With sincere wishes for the success of your undertaking, I am,
Yours, &c.
DRAMATICUS.

_Every One has his Fault._

Among the best dramatic performances that have appeared during the last half of the eighteenth century, I have no hesitation in giving this admirable comedy, by Mrs. Inchbald, a conspicuous place. For strongly marked characters, interesting incidents, correct sentiments, and chaste language, I know none to be preferred to it. It appeared here, at the opening of the New Theatre in 1793, under as much advantage, as if the authoress had actually studied the force of the company, and written the parts for the respective performers. I was somewhat dissatisfied at first with one particular character, lord Norland. I thought it hardly possible such a being could have been drawn from nature. A further view of mankind, has convinced me that I was in error. I annex the dramatis personae, and leave the reader to judge whether a higher dramatic feast can probably be found at Covent Garden or Drury Lane.

Lord Norland, Mr. Whitlock,
Capt. Irwin, Mr. Fennel,
Sir Robert Ramble, Mr. Chalmers,
Mr. Placid, Mr. Moreton,
Harmony, Mr. Bates,
Solus, Mr. Morris,
Edward, Mrs. Marshal.
Lady Erwin, Mrs. Whitlock,
Mrs. Placid, Mrs. Shaw,
Miss Woburn, Mrs. Morris,
Miss Spinster, Mrs. Bates.

It may be heresy and schism to institute the most distant comparison between any modern writer and Shakspeare. But if so, I cannot help being a heretic and schismatic, for I believe that the scene between lord Norland, lady Irwin, and Edward, in which the latter abandons his grandfather, and flies into the arms of his mother, then newly discovered to him, is actually equal, for pathos and interest, to any scene ever represented in the English or any other language. Mrs. Inchbald, it is said, intended this drama for a tragedy, and made captain Irwin suffer death: but by the advice of her friends converted it into a comedy.

_Prostitution of the Theatre._

Those who do not look beyond the mere surface of things, are prone to censure managers with great severity, when Theatres, which ought to be held sacred for exhibiting the grandest effusions of the human mind, are prostituted to puppet-shows, rope dancing, pantomimes and exhibitions of elephants, &c. Whatever of censure is due to this preposterous perversion, attaches elsewhere. It falls on those who frequent theatres. Dr. Johnson, in a prologue which he wrote for Garrick, places this idea in the strongest point of light.

"Ah! let not censure term our fate our choice:
The stage but echoes back the public voice.
The drama's laws the drama's patrons give:
For _those who live to please, must please to live_."

And therefore if Romeo and Juliet, the Clandestine Marriage, the West Indian, the Gamester, Every one has his fault, and other dramatic works of this order, fail to afford attractions equal to Mother Goose, Cinderilla, the Forty thieves, an elephant, or a band of Indians, can it be a subject of surprise if the managers furnish those bills of fare, which possess the greatest gratification for that public on whom they depend?

_Samuel Foote._

It is an old and trite maxim that ridicule is by no means a test of truth--and yet it is an equally ancient remark, that many a serious truth has been put out of countenance by ridicule, and that ridicule unsupported by wit or humour.

In a song sung by Mrs. Cibber, there was this line--

"The roses will bloom when there's peace in the breast."

Of the justice of which no man can entertain a doubt. The wicked wit Foote parodied the line, thus

"The turtles will coo when there's pease in their craws,"

And actually destroyed the popularity of the song.

_A spirited manager._

The latter part of the following interesting anecdote of Garrick is unaccountably omitted in his life, by his biographer, Arthur Murphy.

In the year 1755, the English Roscius expended large sums of money in preparing what he termed a Chinese Festival, a grand spectacle, on a most magnificent scale. He imported a large number of Swiss and Italians to appear in it, which excited considerable jealousy among the London populace, as a French war had then begun, and all foreigners were indiscriminately regarded as Frenchmen. There was considerable opposition made the first and second nights of its being exhibited--and the 3d night, November 18, there was a large party formed, who were determined to have it suppressed. Violent riots took place--"the rioters tore up the benches, broke the lustres, threw down the partitions of the boxes, and mounting the stage, demolished the Chinese scenery." The injury sustained by the manager was very considerable, and required several days, and a very large sum of money to repair.

Some nights after, Garrick appeared on the stage in the character of Archer, and was imperiously and unjustly called upon to beg pardon of the audience. At this, his indignation was enkindled, and he advanced resolutely forward, stating the injury his property had sustained, and assuring them that "he was above want, superior to insult, and unless he was that night permitted to perform his duty to the best of his abilities, he would never--never appear upon the stage again." The audience were struck with the justice and propriety of what he said--felt ashamed of the vile scenes that had taken place, and of the indignity that had been offered to an old, a tried, and a deserving favourite; and by an instantaneous burst of applause, bore a strong testimony against the rioters and in favour of the respectable manager.

_Moody._

The preceding anecdote leads me to give another of the same description, respecting Moody, a very valuable performer, one of Garrick's company.

In the beginning of the year 1763, very considerable riots took place in Drury-Lane, in consequence of an effort on the part of Garrick to abolish a shabby practice that had prevailed in London from time immemorial. This was, to admit persons into the theatre after the third act, at half price. Great devastation was committed on every thing that could be destroyed in the theatre. A wicked villain took a light, and was deliberately setting fire to the scenes, which might have caused the death of a portion of the misguided agents in this disgraceful outrage. Moody fortunately perceived him, resolutely interposed, and prevented the perpetration of his nefarious design. The next night that he appeared, he was instantly called upon to beg pardon, for an act which merited the highest gratitude. Moody addressed the audience--"Gentlemen, if by hindering the house from being burned, and saving many of your lives, I have given you cause of displeasure, I ask your pardon." This exasperated them still further, and there was an universal outcry that he should beg pardon on his knees. Moody had too much spirit, and too high a sense of his own dignity, to comply--and resolutely addressed them once more--"Gentlemen, I will not degrade myself so low, even in your opinion. By such an act, I should be an abject wretch, unfit ever to appear before you again." This said, and having made his bow, he retired. Garrick "received him with open arms," and applauded him for his spirited conduct. The riot still continued, and the manager being called for, he went before the audience, and a loud clamour having been made to dismiss Moody for what was unjustly styled his insolence, Garrick assured them that he should not perform on that stage while he remained under their displeasure. He then went behind the scenes; and, once more embracing Moody, pledged himself to pay his salary, notwithstanding his temporary exile.

_Theatrical Licenses._

Although it is generally known that no new dramatic performance can be introduced on the stage in England, without the previous license of the Lord Chamberlain, it is not by any means equally well known to what cause this regulation owes its origin. Henry Fielding composed a theatrical representation to which he gave the name of Pasquin, the object of which was to satirize some of the most conspicuous characters in England, and among the number were the minister and many of his friends. This satirical performance became very popular, and was exhibited to crowded audiences for fifty successive nights. The exasperated minister, Robert Walpole, was determined to repress the licentiousness of the stage, and accordingly had a bill brought into parliament to prohibit the representation of any dramatic performance whatever, unless it had received the permission of the Lord chamberlain. This act, which was carried in spite of the utmost opposition, took from the crown the power of licensing any more theatres, and inflicted considerable penalties on those who should violate its restrictions.[E]

_Mrs. Centlivre. The Busy Body._

The theatrical history affords numberless instances of the fallacy and folly of dogmatic decisions, and premature judgments. It were endless to relate the cases of dramatic performances, which, previous to their being acted, were regarded by managers and actors as execrable, and certain of condemnation--and yet have lived a century beyond the existence of their judges. And the instances are at least as numerous of managers forming the most flattering anticipations of the success, and the consequent emoluments of performances which were, to use the technical term of the theatre, damned by the unanimous consent of the audience.

The Busy Body, by Mrs. Centlivre, is a very remarkable case in point. It was decried before its appearance by all the players--Mr. Wilkes, the Garrick of his day, for a time absolutely refused to take a part in it--And the audience went to the theatre, so far prejudiced against it, as to contemplate its condemnation. Yet it was so favourably received, that it had a run of thirteen nights; and, after a lapse of an entire century, for it was first represented in 1709, it is still received with applause, and ranks deservedly high among the stock plays.

_Gay.----Beggar's opera._

There is a still more striking illustration of the position I laid down in the preceding paragraph, than that afforded by the Busy Body. The Beggar's opera was offered to Cibber and the other managers of Drurylane theatre, and after examination was rejected by them, as not likely to prove successful. The managers of the other theatre had a more correct anticipation of the issue of this production, and hailed it with joy and gladness. The event justified their opinion--for never was there a more extraordinary degree of success than attended this rejected performance. It had the unprecedented run of fifty three nights, I believe successively, the first season in London--It spread into every town in the three kingdoms, where there was a theatre, and was every where received with unbounded applause. The songs were printed on ladies' fans--and Miss Fenton, who performed the part of Polly, and who, previous to her appearance in that character was in an inferior grade, became a first rate favourite, and was so high in the public opinion, that she was finally married to a peer of the realm. Gay's profits by this piece were above two thousand pounds sterling, or nearly nine thousand dollars.[F]

_A Wine merchant._

Garrick, soon after his arrival in London, went into partnership with his brother Peter, in the wine trade. Their circumstances were very moderate. Foote, with whom it was a universal rule, never to spoil a good story by a scrupulous adherence to truth; very often, at a subsequent period, excited merriment at the expense of the modern Roscius, by the narrative of his adventures at that era of his life. He used to amuse his companions by telling them, that he remembered the time when little Davy lived in Durham court, with three quarts of _vinegar_ in his cellar, and took upon himself the style and title of a wine merchant.

_Garrick once more._

It is mortifying to reflect how the fairest fame may be destroyed, and the best character be travestied in the public estimation, by a jest, a bon mot, or an epigram, which contains any very pointed allusion. The story tells to advantage. It is no diminution of its chance of progress, that it is in the very last degree void of even the shadow of foundation. Its wit, its humour, or its malignity embalms it, and saves it from destruction. It enlivens social circles--It spreads abroad, and gathers strength as it goes: It is received as complete evidence almost as if it had been judicially established.

These ideas are excited by the excellent and revered character, whose name I have prefixed to this sketch. Of his avarice Foote circulated some droll stories, which have had considerable currency, and found their way into most of the jest books that have been published for these thirty years. And it has been in consequence pretty generally believed that Garrick was a miserable, narrow-souled creature, whom the _auri sacra fames_ would lead to any kind of meanness, and who was incapable of a liberal or munificent action. Of him I acknowledge I had formed this opinion: and such has been the opinion of most of my acquaintances. It gives me great pleasure to find that the charge is totally groundless; and that few men ever made a better use of their wealth--none were more ready with their purse on every occasion where distress or misfortune petitioned for assistance, or when any public spirited undertaking had a fair claim upon private liberality.

Malone's sketch of his life, and Boswell's life of Johnson, contain numberless illustrious instances of his beneficence. Johnson, who was much in the habit of collecting money among his friends for the relief of persons in distress or embarrassment, repeatedly declared, that Garrick was always ready on these occasions, and that his contributions exceeded those of other persons in equal circumstances.

Garrick's liberality in the establishment of the fund for the relief of superannuated actors, would alone be sufficient to rescue him from the charge of avarice. He gave a benefit play yearly for that purpose, in which he always acted a leading character. He bestowed on the association two houses for the meetings of the managers;--and when the latter resolved to sell them, as unnecessary, Garrick bought them at the valuation which was set upon them. He afterwards bequeathed them by his will to the increase of the fund.

_As it was damned._

One of Henry Fielding's farces having been hissed from the stage, the author, when he published it, instead of the usual annunciation, "as it was performed at the theatre royal," &c. substituted a more correct reading, "_as it was damned_ at the theatre royal, Drury Lane." This laudable example of candor has never since been copied by any of the bards whose performances have experienced the same awful fate.

_Vindication of Lord Rochester._

A miscreant of the name of Fishbourne in the reign of Charles II. published a vile play, called Sodom, so detestably obscene, that the earl of Rochester, then in the full career of licentiousness and debauchery, finding it ascribed to him, thought it necessary publicly to disclaim the infamy of the authorship. This circumstance, coupled with the gross tendency of most of even the best plays of that time, must convey to the reader a tolerably correct idea how far the wretched author had outstripped his companions in the career of turpitude.

_An elegant translation._

One Gordon (not Thomas Gordon, the translator of Tacitus) translated Terence in the year 1752, and rendered the words, _ignarum artis meretricis_, "_quite a stranger to the trade of these b----s._"

_Beware of a too free use of the bottle._

One Henry Higden, a dramatic writer about the close of the seventeenth century, wrote a comedy, called the _Wary Widow_, in which he introduced so many drinking scenes, that the actors were completely drunk before the end of the third act, and being therefore unable to proceed with the play, they dismissed the audience.

FOOTNOTES:

[E] See Baker's companion to the playhouse. Vol. I, page 21, 2.

[F] See Baker, Vol. I. page 185.

DRAMATIC CENSOR.

I have always considered those combinations which are formed
in the playhouse as acts of fraud or cruelty. He that
applauds him who does not deserve praise, is endeavouring to
deceive the public. He that hisses in malice or in sport is
an oppressor and a robber.

_Dr. Johnson's Idler, No. 25._

_DOMESTIC CRITICISM._

In dramatic criticism the leading characters of the play, and the actors who perform them, lay claim to the first and most particular investigation. Those upon whom the more enlightened part of the public have bestowed the greatest approbation, require the most severe scrutiny, since they only can affect the public taste. Birds of passage too who like Mr. Cooper and Master Payne "_come like shadows, so depart_," are entitled to priority of attention; we therefore in our last number, travelled with Mr. Cooper through the characters he performed on his first visit to Philadelphia, without adverting to the other performers, except in a few instances, in which the sterling merit of Mr. Wood impressed itself so strongly on our minds, that we could not resist our desire to do it justice, and his characters were so closely connected with those of Mr. Cooper, that we thought they could not well be separated. It would indeed be difficult to discuss Mr. Cooper's merits in Zanga or Pierre, without dwelling upon the able support he received in them, from Mr. Wood's _Alonzo_ and _Jaffier_. We cannot, however, drop Mr. Wood there, since we rather glanced at, than reviewed his performances. The public no doubt expect something more from us on that gentleman's subject: the rapid advances he makes to professional excellence, and the large space he now fills in public estimation, leave to the critic no discretion. Such as the actor is, he must be shown. It is a duty which we could not evade if we would; and we should be sorry to be so deficient in taste, as not to discharge it with pleasure.

Of no actor with whom we are acquainted can it with more truth be said than it may of Mr. Wood, that he never performs a character positively ill. A judgment clear, sound, and in general severely correct, with exemplary labour and industry, secure him completely, even in those characters for which he is least fitted, from offending the taste of his auditors, or rendering his performance ridiculous; an assertion we would hazard on the head of very few if any actors in America. This is to put our opinion of him at once at the lowest: yet even that would appear something to any one who could conceive the disgust with which it often falls to our lot to turn from the scene before us.

There is not in the whole catalogue of acting plays a character more disadvantageous to an actor, than that of Alonzo. A compound of imbecility and baseness, yet an object of commiseration: an unmanly, blubbering, lovesick, querulous creature; a soldier, whining, piping and besprent with tears, destitute of any good quality to gain esteem, or any brilliant trait or interesting circumstance to relieve an actor under the weight of representing him. In addition to this, there are so many abrupt variations and different transitions that it requires great talents in an actor to get through it, without incurring a share of the contempt due to the character. Viewing him in this way, we could not help regretting that it should devolve upon a young actor, who could scarcely expect to escape unhurt in it. Our surprise was great, nor was our pleasure less, to find in Mr. Wood's performance, a pleasing marked delineation of the best features of Alonzo, with the worst considerably softened and relieved. Seldom is a character so indebted to the aid of an actor as this to the judgment of Mr. Wood. Dr. Young's muse flags most dolefully in this part, and Mr. Wood did more than could be expected to bear her up. We could not help wishing upon the occasion that Alonzo could have bartered a portion of his judgment for a share of the physical powers of Zanga; both would profit by the exchange.

In the Copper Captain Mr. Wood had a character very favourable to the actor, and well suited to his powers and talents. Michael, however, is one of those vigorous productions of the old comic muse in which a player incurs the danger of overshooting the mark in his efforts not to fall short of it. One in which while the judicious actor luxuriates, and gives a force to his whole comic powers, he finds it difficult to observe very strictly the _ne quid nimis_ of the critic. The correct and chaste judgment of Mr. Wood kept the bridle so firm on his performance of it, that we do not think he once "o'erstepped the modesty of nature."

In his performance of Iago we thought Mr. Wood inferior to himself. How could he or any actor be expected to get through his business under the circumstances of the theatre on that evening. A band of drunken butchers had got into two of the front boxes, and converted them into a grog-shop!

In the prince of Wales in Henry IV. Mr. Wood displayed the versatility of his talents. In the gay, thoughtless, trifling rake, the "madcap" prince, he was spirited, and playful without puerility; in the serious parts, whether as the penitent apologizing son, or the martial hero, he was judicious, impressive, and not deficient in military importance.

Where we see so much merit, merit so entirely his own, we advert to faults with great reluctance. But it is our duty and we must do it. Of the contagious nature of the KEMBLE PLAGUE in acting we cannot adduce a more lamentable proof than that it sometimes taints even this very judicious performer. How has it been endured by the British public, how can it be reconciled to common sense, that players who are supposed to represent human beings, and who assume to speak and act as men in real existence, speak and act in the commerce of the world, should constantly utter the lines set down for them, in such a manner as no rational creature in real life ever yet did utter them, or ever will? Does it give force, interest or dignity to the lines of a speech to take up twice or thrice as much time in speaking them as the most formal, deliberate, or pompous prig of an orator would employ upon them? Why will not actors condescend to speak "_like the folks of this world_," particularly as they pretend to imitate them? We never were at a royal levee--but we have been at the pains to ask several persons who have been, whether any king, or prince, or peer spoke there, as Mr. Kemble or as Mr. Holman, or Mr. Pope after him, speak in Hamlet, Richard, Macbeth, &c. and the uniform answer has been that the great men at court speak just like all gentlemen in private society. As to public orators, we can say that Mr. Kemble and his disciples occupy one third, or at least one fourth more time in delivering any given number of words than ever the stately William Pitt in his most slow and solemn exordiums. Yet this they call speaking naturally--imitating the conduct of men.

We do not allude to proper _pauses_, in the duration of which the actor may be allowed some little license--and an extension of which is frequently a beauty. Thus when _Balthazar_ informs _Romeo_ of _Juliet's_ death, Mr. Cooper maintained a pause of great length with the most felicitous effect. He stood overwhelmed, stupified, and bereft of speech with horror and astonishment, then said

"Is it even so?--then I defy you stars!"

and paused again. Here like a great artist he filled up the picture of which Shakspeare only gave the outlines: but when, afterwards he expostulated with the apothecary, we could see no reason why he should deliver out the lines syllable by syllable like drops of blood reluctantly given from the heart.

Art--thou--so--bare--and--full--of--wretchedness
And--fear'st--to--die?

To us the last appeared as ludicrous as the former was beautiful and affecting. But, "in the name of all the gods at once," why this? Though Mr. Wood sometimes falls into this error, a few of the first lines of his Jaffier smacked of it wofully. We should find no apprehension of laying any sum upon it, if the thing could possibly be ascertained, that in pronouncing the words

Not hear me! by my sufferings but you shall!
My lord--my lord! I'm not that abject wretch
You think me.

he occupied full double the time that Barry did, or even the late Hodgkinson, whose good fortune it was not to have studied, or seen, or drawn one drop of his professional sap from the great root of these abuses. It is said by some of Mr. Kemble's advocates that he speaks in that manner from necessity--that he does it to nurse his voice in the beginning, which else would flag before the end of a long performance. If this were a sufficient excuse for Mr. K. we should not disallow it in the case of any other gentleman who labours under the disadvantage of a weak voice. But we think it is not; it would be infinitely better for the audience to compound with the actor and allow him resting between the speech times. The majestic Spranger Barry when we last saw him was not only so decrepit that he hobbled along the stage, and so bent in the middle that his body formed an angle with his lower limbs, almost as acute as that of a mounted telescope, but was so encumbered by infirmity and high living that upon any violent exertion of the lungs he puffed very painfully; yet even in that state we have heard him speak the part of _Rhadamistus_ in _Zenobia_, with all the fire, rapidity, and animation of youth, his fine person all the time raised erect for the purpose: but as soon as the speech was over, down he sunk again to his angle, and puffed and blowed, while the audience, with emotions mixed up of admiration and grief gazed in a kind of melancholy delight on the finest ruin that ever time made in the works of nature: thunders and shouts of plaudits filled the house; every female was seen gazing upon the wonderful man as if her eyes were nailed upon their axes, and were melting away with floods of tears, while he, from a face of almost divine sweetness, gave back their love and their indulgence with interest. He was allowed to take his own time--not in the speeches, but between them.

Though these remarks are introduced in a part of our criticism dedicated to the performances of Mr. Wood, we by no means would have it understood that it applies exclusively, or even particularly to him. There is no performer on the American stage, perhaps, to whom they less frequently apply; but we have started the subject with him purposely to point out by an instance _a fortiori_ how dangerous it is to a young actor, not to guard against a great imperfection. When he whose sound judgment and industry may reasonably be supposed to secure him from such errors, insensibly falls into them, actors of inferior capacity and less industry will see, or at least ought to see the necessity of standing upon a more vigilant guard.

Since the subject is started we will proceed with it, though perhaps to the exclusion from this number of some other matter originally intended for it. Can those, who, loving the drama, and feeling its beauties with a true classic spirit, wish to see the public taste won over to the tragic muse, hope that it can be accomplished, or can they be surprised that on the contrary, tragedy so often excites merriment when they reflect upon the way dramatic poetry is often delivered upon the stage. Let the first three men who pass by the playhouse door be called in, one of them taken from the highest order of life, a second from the middle order, and the third from the very lowest class--let them hear a tragedy through, or even some parts of a comedy, and let them then give their verdict as on oath, whether what they heard, resembled anything they had ever heard before out of a playhouse, or perchance a madhouse, and they must answer in the negative or perjure themselves.

This was one of the evils which Garrick had the glory of eradicating. Just before him, actors spoke in the ti-tum-ti monotonous sing-song way of the new school. Old Macklin some years ago, assured the writer of this, that except in some few declamatory speeches, or in the ghost of Hamlet, QUIN would not be endured at that time in tragedy: and what said this Quin himself when he was prevailed upon to go to Goodman's Fields to see Garrick for the first time? "I dont know what to say," he replied to one who asked his opinion of the young actor, "but if he be right, _we have all been wrong_." Quin's integrity would not let him deny a truth which his judgment told him in the very teeth of his prejudices.

Absurd and _unnatural_ as this miserable mode of speech is, it is very difficult to be got rid of, when it once becomes habitual to an actor; a memorable instance of which was old MR. WIGNELL of Covent garden, the father of our late manager. He was one of the Quin school, and if now alive and able to act, would once more hitch in very handsomely with the recitativers of the new academy of acting, for, says the author of the Thespian dictionary, "_He possessed the singular talent of imparting stateliness to comic dialogues, and merriment to tragic scenes._" Of this gentleman many anecdotes are recorded, curious in themselves, and well deserving the consideration of young actors.

Upon the revival of the tragedy of Cato in London (Cato by Sheridan) Mr. Wignell was put forward in his old established part of Portius. In the first scene he stepped forward in his accustomed strut and began

The dawn is overcast, the morning low'rs
And heavily with clouds brings on the day.

At this moment the audience began to vociferate "prologue, prologue, prologue," when Wignell finding them resolute without moving from the spot, without pausing, or changing his tone of voice, but in all the pomposity of tragedy, went on as if it were part of the play.

"Ladies and gentlemen, there has been no
Prologue spoken to this play these twenty years--
The great, the important day, big with the fate
Of Cato and of Rome."----

This wonderful effusion put the audience in good humour--they laughed incontinently--clapped and shouted _bravo_, and Wignell proceeded with his usual stateliness, self-complacency, and composure.

Mr. Wignell's biographer above mentioned relates the following anecdote. "During a rehearsal of _the suspicious husband_, Mr. Garrick exclaimed "pray Mr. Wignell, why cannot you enter and say, "_Mr. Strictland, sir, your coach is ready_", without all the declamatory pomp of Booth or Quin?"--"Upon my soul, Mr. Garrick," replied poor Wignell, "_I thought I had kept the sentiment down as much as possible._"" When Macklin performed _Macbeth_ Wignell played the _doctor_, and in this serious character provoked loud fits of laughter.

The above facts contain a valuable lesson to actors, some of whom can, no more than Mr. Wignell, _get the sentiment down_, when they have an event of such importance to announce as _the coach being ready_. In serious truth we are persuaded that the fulsome, bombastical ridiculous stateliness of some actors, tends to bring tragedy into disrepute, to deprive it of its high preeminence, and must ultimately disgust the multitude with some of the noblest productions of the human mind.

Two other characters of the tragedies already alluded to, demand from the justice of criticism the most full and unmixed praise. _Falstaff_ in Henry IV. and _Cacafogo_ in Rule a Wife and have a Wife, had in Mr. Warren a most able representative. Having seen several--the select ones of the last five and thirty years--we can truly say, without entering into nice comparisons, that if we were to sit to those two plays a hundred times in America or Great Britain, we could be well contented with just such a Falstaff and just such a Cacafogo as Mr. Warren.

_The Foundling of the Forest._

In our first number we made a few observations on this comedy. They were not very favourable to it; and, notwithstanding its great success in representation, we are not at all disposed to retract any of them, because our opinion of the intrinsic value of the piece is not in the least altered. In representation it is all--in the closet nothing. This arises from the conduct of the plot, which indeed constitutes the whole of its merit. In Europe, as in America, the judgment of every critic is at variance with the decision of the multitude upon it, for while at the Lyceum it has been applauded by "the million," it has been lashed by the judicious, in various respectable publications.

The time has been, nor has it long passed by, when that body in the community who decided the fate of every literary performance, far from being contented with EFFECT upon the stage, condemned it, if it were not produced by an adequate CAUSE in nature. To that body the Farrago of Melodrame, written spectacle, and mysterious agency, would have been objects of ridicule or disapprobation, and the just influence of their opinions upon the public would have driven back the German muse with all her paraphernalia of tempests, castles, dungeons, and murderers, to rave on her native ground: except in their proper place (farce or pantomime) they would not have been tolerated. To write only to the passions, to expose human beings to circumstances that cannot in the natural course of life occur, and release them by means which outrage all probability, and to those ends to urge vice and virtue beyond all possible bounds, and fabricate extreme characters such as have rarely or never existed, characters either better than saints, or worse than devils, for the mere purpose of producing horror and astonishment, and hanging up the feelings of the multitude on the tenterhooks of fearful suspense and painful apprehension--to violate all the rules prescribed by nature and experience, and place heroes and heroines in situations so far out of the course of human conduct, that the poet cannot get them out again by rational, feasible means, but is compelled to leave their fate to the guess of the spectators by picturesque grouping and dropping the curtain. What is this but to reverse the very nature of the drama, "Whose end," says its father Shakspeare, "both at the first and now, was and is, to hold as 'twere the mirror up to Nature, to show Virtue her own feature, Scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the Time his form and pressure."

By such miserable expedients as these, the fascinating effects of the Foundling of the Forest are produced. But in the management of those materials, the author has displayed unparalleled skill. The story in its original outline is certainly interesting, and the plot is not only skilfully developed but artfully contrived as a vehicle for stage effect--for such merely, has the author evidently intended it; his arrangement of the machinery, such as it is, demands warm praise for its perspicuity and just order, and if the alarming and horrific be legitimate objects for a dramatist, Mr. Dimond has succeeded most marvellously.