Chapter V: Conclusion of the Greek Drama (2)

"My name being announced," said H. relating to this writer his first interview, "Jemmy Whiteley surveyed me from head to foot with a grinning drollery, that no words can describe; he spat out, according to custom, about a score of times, and after a tittering laugh was proceeding to speak, when he was suddenly called off." "Stay here," said he, "I'll be back in a minute or two." As he was leaving the room he stopped at the door--looked back at me again--pulled up his small clothes, and jeeringly tittered at me in a manner that was enough to provoke a saint, if it were not for the man's well known character. "It will do I see," said my friend, "depend upon it, it will do--dont mind his sayings; but when you come to business, be plain, downright and firm, and you'll have his heart." When W. returned, he again surveyed me from head to foot, and again grinned and tittered. I was almost as tall as I am now, and as thin perhaps as you ever saw any one of the same height. My face too was pale from recent indisposition, and I had no appearance of beard. "So," said he, addressing Mills, "this is the chap about whom you gave me such a platter of stirabout with Ballyhack butter[G] in it yesterday." So far from being vexed or daunted by this first address, the like of which I had never heard before, nor could well understand, the playful, good-natured drollery in his face, and the singularity of his deportment tickled me so, that I could not, if it were to save my life, suppress a smile of merriment, upon which after scrutinizing my face with the eye of a master of his business, he turned to the other and said, "the blackguard has some fun in him I see, though he looks as if a dinner would not come amiss to him--for he's as slim as a starved greyhound;" then casting a comical glance at my clothes which were neat, good, and new--he said, "Why boy, your belly ought to swear its life against your back, for you are killing the one to cover the other." I blushed, but still could not help laughing. "You are mistaken Whiteley," said the other, "there is not a man in your company eats better than John." "Where does he get it?" said W. "he cant have above half a guinea a week for his salary, and the clothes now on his back must cost at least twenty half guineas, or perhaps half a year's pay." "Go on Whiteley," said the other, "discharge all your Irish nonsense upon his head, he has temper to bear it all; in the meantime I'll take a walk, and come back again: but let me know what time you intend to be done, that I may be ready to a minute; for in matters of business Whiteley, you know I like to be punctual." W. understood this sarcasm, and turning to Mills, poured forth such a volley of whim and oddity as I think never fell from the lips of any other man in this world. When he was in this vein of humour, he had, in addition to the comic cast of his countenance, a lisp and a brogue which enhanced his drollery, and at every pause he drew in his breath as if he were sipping out of a teaspoon. He began, "Now you think yourself a very clever fellow after that oration, dont you! you feel aisy I hope Mr. Mills, after throwing that wisp of bullrushes off your stomach! have you made your speech, honey?" Mills laughed and bowed submission. "Pull down your cap then, my dear, and be hanged." Then turning to me, "Take care of yourself, boy, for if you mind what this man says to you, you'll come to the gallows: you stand a chance of that as it is, or I am very much out in my reckoning; but if you follow his advice, you will be hanged as dead as Jack the painter, or my name's not Jemmy Whiteley." "Never in my life before or since," continued H. "was I so astonished, or so diverted. In the midst of all the ribaldry of his mouth and the farce of his countenance, the benevolence of his heart glistened in his eyes;--my nerves were convulsed with a twofold sensation, and actually so enfeebled that, bursting into a fit of laughter I, unbidden, sat down in a large arm chair that stood behind me." "What's this his name is," said he to Mills: "Hodgkinson," replied the other. "I thought that there must be an O or a MAC to his name by the _aisy affability_ with which he helped himself to the great chair. Old Maclaughlin, that blackguard Jew that calls himself Macklin, could not surpass it for _modesty_." I rose. "Och, to the d--l with your manners honey," said he, clapping his two hands on my shoulders and pressing me down into the chair, "stay there since you're in it, and be d----d to you."

"Well, Whiteley," said my friend, "as you think my advice might be fatal to the young man, give him some advice yourself. What do you think he had best do? what do you think fittest for him?" "Any fool can tell him that," returned Whiteley: "the best and the first thing I advise him to do, is to eat a hearty meal, and as I dare say he has not a jingle[H] in his pocket, I advise him to stay here and dine; and you may stay along with him, if you please." "I cant--I'm engaged," said the other. "Then if _you_ dont, the d----l a crust shall _he_ crack here." Upon which, turning to me, he said, "see what you can do with him, boy--if you cant keep him along with you, you dont get a toothful in this house." I looked foolishly at my friend, who said, "Well, if that be the case, I must stay;" upon which W. making me a very low formal bow, gravely said, "I thank you, sir, for the great honour this gentleman does me, in condescending to eat a piece of the best leg of mutton in the north of England."

"W. then sat down, but he overflowed so with oddity, that business was out of the question. Every three minutes produced an explosion of the most extravagant kind--often full of humour, sometimes witty, always coarse. It was in vain that my friend now urged, and now insinuated the subject of the stage; Whiteley baffled him with a joke or a jeer, or a story--and sometimes with a transition so extreme, rapid, and unconnected, that it was impossible to do any thing with him. My singing was adverted to. "Ay," said Whiteley, "I suspected he was one of your squallers; I thought from his chalky face and lank carcase that he was of the Italian breed, and that his story would end in a song. Did you ever see Signor _Tenducci_, boy?" "No sir." "No matter, you are not the worse for that; but I have nothing to do with _Italianos_. I have none but men and women in my company." I then ventured to advert to the English opera and hinted at my old favourite The Padlock. "Why if I were disposed to try you, there is nothing in the Padlock that you could play and I could give you. The part of Ursula is filled by the same old lady who has played it for years in my theatres." The torrent could not be resisted, so we swam along with it, and laughed heartily. "You are too bad Jemmy Whiteley," said Mr. Mills, "by my soul, you're too bad." "Oh I am a very bad fellow to be sure; you'll talk on the other side of your cheek by and by, when you are swallowing my old ale and red port at three and six pence a bottle."

"At length dinner was announced, and to tell you the truth, I had much rather have gone without any than sat down to dine. I was at the best very bashful, and Whiteley's coarse insinuation that I wanted a dinner, though jocularly spoken, stuck in my throat, and made me blush heartily when he helped me. But now his manner was changed, and he displayed such unfeigned hospitality, and such an earnest desire that we should enjoy ourselves, showing us himself the example, that before dinner was half over, I was perfectly comfortable. He pressed me to drink, but was greatly pleased at my refusing to comply. In a word, no two men were ever more different than Jemmy Whiteley in the rhodomontade of the morning and Mr. James Whiteley at his own hospitable, respectable board. He and my friend chatted and drank cheerfully. I looked on, listened, and sung two or three songs for them at Mr. W's request. When my friend made a motion to go, the good manager thus addressed me: "look you my good lad, when the waiter of a tavern or the potboy of a porter-house presents me a pot of beer or ale, I always blow off the froth from the top or wait till it subsides, and then bring it to the light and look down carefully through it, lest it should be muddy or foul, or have some dirt such as a candle-snuff, a mouse, a toad, or some trifle of that kind floating in it: in a word, to know what I am about to swallow. Just so I deal with men, when they approach me in a way that seeks connexion: for I dont like changing, and I greatly detest the fallings out and fallings in again which seem to make up the business and pleasure of so many in this life. While I was blackguarding you and you staring and laughing at me, I was looking down through your contents from your frothy powdered head down to the very bottom; and so, if your friend and you will call here tomorrow morning, I will try to bring my tongue down to some serious conversation with you.""

In a word, our youth next day found himself placed with a man of justice, honour, and generosity, with whom he remained till the grave terminated the contract. Whiteley's passions were so lively, and bad habit had so devested him of all control over his tongue that he would d--n and curse his actors, and call them foul names, even during the performance of the stage, and that too so loud that the audience would frequently hear him. Yet he was in substantial concerns a truly excellent man.

The next place in which Hodgkinson can be distinctly traced is the northern line of theatres, then under the management of Whitlock and Munden, viz. Newcastle, Sheffield, Lancaster, Preston, Warrington, and Chester. In the course of his business in this circuit, the extension of his fame more than kept pace with his years, and he was soon looked upon as the most promising actor of his age. At first he was valued chiefly for his musical talents. A gentleman now residing in Philadelphia was present at his first appearance in that circuit at Preston in Lancashire. A valuable actor and singer was put out of the character of Lubin in the Quaker, to make way for H's debut in that character, in which he was not so warmly received as the managers expected, being _encored_ in only one of the songs. His matchless industry, however, grafted on his great talents, soon produced a rich harvest of the most excellent fruits. He became a very useful general actor, played any thing and every thing the managers thought it their interest to appoint him to, whether tragedy, comedy, opera, or farce; and too confident in his own powers to be captious or fastidious, he never reneged an inferior part, when it was the managers' interest he should play it, even when, by the laws of the theatre, he was entitled to the first. Mr. Whitlock told this writer that H. did _with good will_ more work than any two performers they had. "I have known him," said the old gentleman, "after performing in both play and after-piece at Newcastle in Northumberland, set off without taking a moment's rest in a post-chaise, travel all night, and rehearse the next day and perform the next night in play and farce at Preston in Lancashire."

Powerful as were his talents, he would not, in all probability, have risen to acknowledged eminence in his profession for many years, if he had not fallen under the observation of Mrs. Siddons. That extraordinary actress, little less illustrious for private virtues than splendid talents, being engaged one summer in the northern theatres, observed with pleasure and astonishment, a young man of abilities far above the crowd that played with him. To adopt her own words, she at the first glance discerned a rough, uncleansed diamond sparkling in a heap of rubbish that surrounded it, and through the soil with which it still was encrusted emitting brilliant rays of light. It was her delight to stretch forth her mighty hand to raise genius from depression, and resolving to raise Hodgkinson she took the most decisive means to do so. She appointed him to perform the principal characters to her in every play in which she acted and brought him for the purpose along with her to all the provincial theatres in which she was engaged.

(_To be continued._)

FOOTNOTES:

[F] Handsome as H. was, he had a strange defect in his eyes: one of them was smaller than the other, and in his efforts to reduce them to an equality, he sometimes produced a whimsical archness of physiognomy. He did not relish its being noticed, however, and thought the young Irishman very rude.

[G] In the low cant of the Irish, gross adulation is called _the dirty butter of Ballyhack_.

[H] A JINGLE--means a very small piece of coin in the slang of the low Irish.

NOKES.

Colley Cibber has transmitted to us in his apology, the
following character of the greatest of all comedians.

Nokes was an actor of a quite different genius from any I have ever read, heard of, or seen, since or before his time; and yet his general excellence may be comprehended in one article, viz. a plain and palpable simplicity of nature, which was so utterly his own, that he was often as unaccountably diverting in his common speech, as on the stage. I saw him once, giving an account of some table talk, to another actor behind the scenes, which a man of quality accidentally listening to, was so deceived by his manner, that he asked him if that was a new play he was rehearsing? it seems almost amazing, that this simplicity, so easy to Nokes, should never be caught by any one of his successors. Leigh and Underhill have been well copied, though not equalled by others. But not all the mimical skill of Estcourt (famed as he was for it) though he had often seen Nokes, could scarce give us an idea of him. After this perhaps it will be saying less of him, when I own, that though I have still the sound of every line he spoke, in my ear, which used not to be thought a bad one, yet I have often tried, by myself, but in vain, to reach the least distant likeness of the _vis comica_ of Nokes. Though this may seem little to his praise, it may be negatively saying a good deal to it, because I have never seen any one actor, except himself, whom I could not, at least so far imitate, as to give a more than tolerable notion of his manner. But Nokes was so singular a species, and was so formed by nature, for the stage, that I question if, beyond the trouble of getting words by heart, it ever cost him an hour's labour to arrive at that high reputation he had and deserved.

The characters he particularly shone in, were Sir Martin Marrall, Gomez in the Spanish Friar, Sir Nicolas Cully in Love in a Tub, Barnaby Brittle in the Wanton Wife, Sir Davy Dunce in the Soldier's Fortune, Sosia in Amphytrion, &c. &c. To tell you how he acted them, is beyond the reach of criticism: but to tell you what effect his action had upon the spectator, is not impossible: this then is all you will expect from me, and hence I must leave you to guess at him.

He scarce ever made his first entrance in a play, but he was received with an involuntary applause, not of hands only, for those may be, and have often been partially prostituted, and bespoken; but by a general laughter, which the very sight of him provoked, and nature could not resist; yet the louder the laugh, the graver was his look upon it; and sure, the ridiculous solemnity of his features were enough to set a whole bench of bishops into a titter, could he have been honoured (may it be no offence to suppose it) with such grave and right reverend auditors. In the ludicrous distresses, which by the laws of comedy, Folly is often involved in; he sunk into such a mixture of piteous pusillanimity, and a consternation so ruefully ridiculous and inconsolable, that when he had shook you, to a fatigue of laughter, it became a moot point, whether you ought not to have pitied him. When he debated any matter by himself, he would shut up his mouth with a dumb studious pout, and roll his full eye into such a vacant amazement, such a palpable ignorance of what to think of it, that his silent perplexity (which would sometimes hold him several minutes) gave your imagination as full content, as the most absurd thing he could say upon it. In the character of Sir Martin Marrall, who is always committing blunders to the prejudice of his own interest, when he had brought himself to a dilemma in his affairs, by vainly proceeding upon his own head, and was afterwards afraid to look his governing servant and counsellor in the face; what a copious, and distressful harangue have I seen him make with his looks, while the house has been in one continued roar for several minutes, before he could prevail with his courage to speak a word to him! then might you have, at once, read in his face _vexation_--that his own measures, which he had piqued himself upon, had failed. _Envy_--of his servant's superior wit--_distress_--to retrieve, the occasion he had lost. _Shame_--to confess his folly; and yet a sullen desire, to be reconciled and better advised for the future! what tragedy ever showed us such a tumult of passions rising at once in one bosom! or what buskined hero standing under the load of them, could have more effectually moved his spectators, by the most pathetic speech, than poor miserable Nokes did, by this silent eloquence, and piteous plight of his features?

His person was of the middle size, his voice clear and audible; his natural countenance grave and sober; but the moment he spoke, the settled seriousness of his features was utterly discharged, and a dry, drolling, or laughing levity took such full possession of him, that I can only refer the idea of him to your imagination. In some of his low characters, that became it, he had a shuffling shamble in his gait, with so contented an ignorance in his aspect, and an awkward absurdity in his gesture, that had you not known him, you could not have believed, that naturally he could have had a grain of common sense. In a word, I am tempted to sum up the character of Nokes, as a comedian, in a parody of what Shakspeare's _Mark Antony_ says of _Brutus_ as a hero.

His life was laughter, and the ludicrous
So mix'd, in him, that nature might stand up,
And say to all the world--this was an _actor_.

MISCELLANY.

THEOBALDUS SECUNDUS, OR SHAKSPEARE AS HE SHOULD BE.

NO. IV.

_Hamlet Prince of Denmark, continued._

Latin and Greek are the only tongues in which departed spirits can be addressed, for this reason they are denominated the _dead_ languages. The nonappearance of these supernatural beings in the present day, may be fairly ascribed to the decay of the learned languages. COBBET, with all his volubility, has not a word to throw at a ghost. Johnson says:

When Learning's triumph o'er her barbarous foes,
First rear'd the stage, immortal Shakspeare rose.

This is converting learning into a bricklayer, and would have come with a better grace from Ben Jonson than from Sam. But however that may be, under such an architect, ghosts would naturally be enrolled in the company. Dr. Farmer may say what he pleases, but I firmly believe Shakspeare had Latin enough to talk to his own ghosts; though I doubt whether I can express the same belief as to certain modern writers, who, by reviving ghosts to squeal and gibber on the London stages, have taken the same liberties as Shakspeare, without taking the same talents--"we have no cold beef sir," said the landlady at Glastonbury to a hungry traveller; "but we have excellent mustard!" All this however is foreign to the Prince of Denmark,

_Horatio._ ----I have heard,
The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn,
Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat
Awake the god of day.

Doctor Fungus will have it, that cock should be clock, and ground his opinions upon the situation of St. Paul's clock. But this would spoil the poetry of the whole passage. What an accurate picture does the creative pencil of our great poet present to the _mind's eye_! The epithet _lofty_ has fallen through the sieves of all the commentators excepting Theobaldus Secundus. It obviously alludes to the high roosting perch of that valiant bird; nor is the mythological imagery in this sentence to be passed by without its merited eulogium. Lingo, by way of _agreeable surprise_, informs us that the cock is the bird of Pallas--Pallas is the goddess of wisdom, and of course an early riser----

Early to bed, and early to rise, &c.

Her favourite bird undoubtedly awoke her with his shrill note, and at the same time roused the slumbering fop Phoebus, who answered in the words of Dr. Watts----

"You have wak'd me too soon, I must slumber again."

and being the god of wit, when he rubbed his own eyes, doubtless vented an imprecation on those of Minerva.

"Thus wit and judgment ever are at strife."--_Pope._

The moral is obvious;--they who, like Mr. Sheridan, aim only to be men of wit, lie a bed; while they who, like Sir Isaac Newton, Mr. Burke, and a very few others, aspire to be men of wisdom, rise with the lark. Horatio in continuation--

"The extravagant and erring spirit hies
To his confine."

"The extravagant i. e. got out of his bounds"--_Warburton_--Bravo! old Hurlo-thumbo! got out of his depth, Warburton, you mean. Extra-vagant certainly may be construed out of bounds; we need no ghost with a mouthful of Syntax to tell us that; but Shakspeare had too much taste to adopt such an absurd Latinism. I have no doubt that the late king was a man of expensive habits, and is here compared to a prisoner within the rules of the king's bench, who must return to quod at a given moment or compliment the marshal with the debt and costs. At the crowing of the cock, the extravagant and erring spirit (that is, the spendthrift of a defendant) whether he be drinking arrack punch at Vauxhall, champaigne at the Mount, or brandy and water at the Eccentries, must kick off his glass-slipper, and hobble back to St. George's Fields, like the lame bottle-conjuror of Le Sage.

But look, the morn in russet mantle clad,
Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill.

_Russet mantle!_ what sorry attire for a goddess! I wish the critics would settle, once for all, the costume of Aurora; at present she has clothes, fingers, feet, bosom, and hair, of as many colours as the roquelaure of Joseph. Homer styles her----

[Greek: Rododaktylos Eos].--Rosy-finger'd morn.

This is more like an old washerwoman than a young goddess. Ovid calls her rutilis Aurora capillis. And again--

Ut solet aer
Purpureus fieri, primum Aurora movetur.

I translate "purpureus fieri," a fiery purple. What says Virgil of that particoloured damsel----

Tithoni croceum liquens Aurora cubile.

A golden bed, by the way, is but a poor atonement for a leaden old spouse snoring in it.

Lucia thinks happiness consists in state,
She weds an ideot, but she eats off plate.

The moderns have been equally fanciful in describing Aurora. An old song says----

The morning was up gray as a rat,
The clock struck something, faith I can't tell what.

And Rosina now says, "see the rosy morn appearing;" and now "the morn returns in saffron dress'd."--Selim in Blue Beard, sings, "Gray-eyed morn begins to peep," his is no compliment to the beauty of the goddess. If she had changed colours with the magician, it would have been well; a _gray beard_ is fit for an old man, and _blue eyes_ for a young woman.

And now, reader, "_make way for the speaker_."--The scene draws, and discovers a room of state, containing, the King, Queen, Hamlet, Polonius, Laertes, Voltimand, Cornelius, Lords, and Attendants. This is the first appearance of Hamlet.--Here, then, we must suppose a clapping of hands, and a cry of hats off--down--down--you will therefore fancy to yourself a young gentleman, arrayed in black velvet, with a plume of sable feathers in his bonnet, big enough for the fore-horse of Ophelia's hearse. But as in a certain assembly, if a member, however elevated in rank, rise to speak late in the evening, he sets his hearers coughing, there being no pectoral lozenge equal to an early harangue; and, as touching the Lord Hamlet in that manner, would be touching the honour of a prince, I shall keep his royal highness as a _bonne bouche_ to open my next dissertation.

(_To be Continued._)

* * * * *

DR. JOHN HILL, an author, who to great learning, judgment, sagacity, and luminous fancy, joined unparalleled industry, gratified the British public for a long time with a diurnal paper wholly from his own pen, called "the Inspector." In the course of this work he gave some of the most admirable strictures upon the plays and players of his day. From that work we intend to give some select passages. The following is deserving of particular attention for the truth and accuracy of the parallels it presents to our view.

While I admire in Barry the quick conception, the strong expression, and the fine taste of Julio Romano; while I hang upon the expression of his eyes, when tenderness is the passion to be described by them, and while in the several parts of a history, or through the varied scenes of an interesting tragedy, I am at once surprised and charmed with the choice of attitudes in both, I cannot be blind to the defects that stain as well the painting as the scene: there was always what the judges call a dryness, a hardness in the painter, and the same foible now and then discloses itself in the less guarded moments of the player: neither the one nor the other seem to have been perfect masters of the doctrine of lights and shadows, and both are therefore sometimes extravagant, and not always graceful: this happy difference, however, appears between them, that while the arrogance of the painter esteemed his faults as excellencies, the player, equally capable of giving advice to himself, and of receiving it from others, will soon scandalize all criticism by annihilating the foibles that gave it origin.

The genius, the soul of Titian, is revived in Garrick; both give us not resemblances, but realities: they do not represent but create, upon the canvass or upon the scene; and what from others we would admire as representations, we read in these as actions. There is in the performance of this player, all the delicacy of taste, and all the dignity of expression that we reverence in the painter: his figures, where the subject gives him scope, are noble almost beyond imagination, his attitudes the most strictly appropriated to the sensations that inspire them, and his colouring, to borrow a metaphor from the sister art to express an excellence for which the other has yet no word of its own, is the greatest that we ever did or ever must expect to see. With all the sweetness and delicacy of his imagery, there is a glow of fire and freedom that at once surprises and charms his audience, and, like his brother artist, he excels all men who have ever been eminent, in the peculiar distinguishing touches which separate passion from passion; and thence give at once the greatest spirit and the strictest truth to the representation. I shall hardly venture to affirm that there is no foible in any of the pieces given us by either of these artists; but there is a blaze of majesty and beauty, throughout the works of both, that at once engages the whole eye, and with its superior lustre dims what may be less worthy praise till it becomes indiscernible.

While Bellamy assumes the piety, the tenderness, and the sorrows of a Cordelia, or heightens the repentance of a Shore, we own that a Tintoret has done some pictures equal to Corregio. The first of these is the painter to whom I would resemble this rising actress, the latter only breathes in Cibber. No woman ever excelled Miss Bellamy in the requisites from nature, and were but her love to the profession, her application to its necessary studies, and her patience in going through the difficulties that lie in the road to eminence in it, equal to her abilities, she would have few equals. The outlines of her figures are sometimes faulty, but the colouring always pleases.

All that Corregio executed by the pencil we see in real life from Mrs. Cibber; the strength of lights and shadows, of the glaring and the obscure, are equal in the representations of both, but were never equalled by any other in either art. The dignity of sorrow, and natural and unaffected graces which that artist gives to his Madonas, this lady diffuses over the whole figure in the tragic scene that requires it; we are equally struck by both: we see nothing like either: and we admire the execution while we have no conception of the manner in which it is performed. The strength and heightening are alike admirable in each, and the consummate sweetness only to be rivalled by the expressive strength of the colouring. In the conduct and finish of their pieces, both have done wonders; and as the pictures of Corregio are so equal in their several parts, that, though the labour of years, they seem to have been finished in one day, so that the longest characters of this actress are so uniform throughout, that it is evident there are no careless absences, no false extravagances in any part, but that the whole is the resemblance of one temper actuated, though under various circumstances, by one passion.

In Mrs. Pritchard one sees revived the extensive powers of Hannibal Carrache: while we pursue her through the varied forms she assumes we cannot but acknowledge the character of Corregio, the fire of Titian, and the dignity of Raphael; this lady, of all the players, as that master of all the painters, comes nearest the character of a universal genius.

Woodward strikes the judicious eye with a strong resemblance of Paul Veronese: he has all the vivacity and ease of that great painter, and fully equals him in his fancy for the singular and the shining in his draperies; but, as he shares his beauties, he is not without his faults. His composition is sometimes improper, and his design always incorrect; but with these blemishes, however, his colouring is so well calculated to catch the eye, that he never fails to strike at first sight, and makes so happy an impression on the generality of an audience, that they never perceive what is deficient.

Though the last, not the least in my esteem, Macklin shall be produced; nor must those who judge superficially, be surprized when they see me call forth for his parallel Michael Angelo. It must be confessed of this great painter, that the choice of his attitudes was, though never unjust, not always pleasing: that his taste in design was not the most minutely fine, nor his outlines the most elegant; that he was sometimes extravagant in his conceptions, and bold even to rashness in his execution: perhaps the player of the parallel inherits some tincture of these faults; but to compensate, he has all his excellencies. He knows the foundation of the art better than them all: he designs, if less beautifully than some, more accurately than any: he better understands nature of the human frame, and the situation and power of its muscles than any man who ever played, nor has any man ever understood it like him as a science: there is an air of truth in all his figures, a greatness and severity in many of them that demand the utmost praise: and in the whole, if nature has qualified him less for shining in some of the most conspicuous parts than many, none has fewer faults.

* * * * *

_King Lear._

A correspondent has in a former number made some remarks on the corruptions, or, as they are called, alterations and adaptations of the plays of Shakspeare. As he has not prosecuted the subject, I will, with your permission, say a word or two on that vilest and most infamous of literary treasons, Tate's burlesque of king Lear.

This tragedy, as written by Shakspeare, is in my opinion the very noblest of our author's works; and by the generality of critics, I believe, none of his plays are absolutely preferred to it, except Macbeth. It is inconceivable how any one could think such a play required an alteration beyond the omission of the fool's character; and still more so, how Tate's transformation of it could have been at first endured by the nation: but that it should have been constantly represented at our national theatres for nearly one hundred and thirty years to the total exclusion of Shakspeare's divine drama, would be a circumstance totally incredible, were it not verified by experience, that the majority of an audience are very little troubled with a spirit of inquiry, and are no doubt ignorant of the vast difference between the two dramas. The play, as now performed "has the upper gallery on its side;" whose members, being unacquainted with Shakspeare's tragedy, are enchanted by the mad scenes, mangled as they are, and by all that it is retained of the original, and therefore they applaud the whole, and witness its repetition. But it never could be inferred from their applauses, that even these spectators prefer Tate's play to Shakspeare's; there is no comparison in the case: they applaud the one, because they are pleased with it, not because they are displeased with the other, which they never saw, and of which they know nothing. Let the classical manager of ---- ---- theatre make a trial; it will be worthy his ambition to introduce a reformation, which even Garrick overlooked; and he may be assured, that the event will not only add to his reputation, but what is a more important consideration with our managers, will add to his profits also. Let Shakspeare and Tate have a fair struggle; and who can doubt the final triumph of Shakspeare.[I]

Dr. Johnson is the advocate of Tate's alteration; but Addison, whose opinion is countenanced by Steevens, declares, that "the tragedy has lost half its beauty." Dr. Johnson is in part excusable for maintaining so erroneous an opinion; but at the same time his sentiments ought to have no weight with others; for we know, that in the present case he has formed his judgment, not with that solidity of taste which generally distinguishes his criticism, but with all the nervous agitation of a hypochondriac. But why should he defend his opinion by arguments at once unfair and untrue? it is not true, that "in the present case the public has decided" in favour of the altered play: "Cordelia," says the critic, "from the time of Tate has always retired with victory and felicity:" but does he mean to assert, that the original drama, before Tate's corruption, was not well received by the public? he cannot assert this, because he could not make good such an assertion. The fact is, as stated by Steevens, that "the managers of the theatres-royal have decided, and the public has been obliged to acquiesce in their decision."

Of the alterations introduced by this reformer of Shakspeare, the first and most obvious is the change of the catastrophe. King Lear and Cordelia, instead of dying as in the original, are finally triumphant, and _live very happy after_. Here is improvement, here is poetical justice, here is every thing that can be desired to the perfection of a drama. "Since all reasonable beings," says doctor Johnson, "naturally love justice, I cannot easily be persuaded, that the observation of justice makes a play worse; or that, if other excellencies are equal, the audience will not always rise better pleased from the final triumph of persecuted virtue." This reasoning is just; but the critic has unfortunately advanced a sentence, which must be a perpetual stumbling-block to every advocate of Tate, viz. "_if other excellencies are equal_," &c. Had Shakspeare chosen, according to the "faith of chronicles," to represent Cordelia triumphant; had he adorned the scenes of poetical justice with his peculiar spirit, and nature, and poetry; then indeed the excellencies of the drama, though different in kind, would probably have been equal in magnitude: though I think it very doubtful, whether even then the change of the catastrophe would not have been a deformity, rather than an improvement. Unquestionably our affection for persecuted virtue is strengthened by the very distresses in which it is involved. The triumph of Cordelia would certainly draw from us an instantaneous acknowledgment of satisfaction: but the impression could not be lasting; while her fall is fixed more deeply on the attention, and raises a more permanent feeling of pity for her sufferings, and indignation against her persecutors. Shakspeare must have thought so, when he chose, in violation of the truth of history, to deprive her of poetical justice. To conclude the question relative to the catastrophe, it is utterly impossible that the mind of Lear should be capable of surviving so violent a change of circumstances. In the original, he is very naturally represented by Shakspeare as bending under the weight of his calamities, and expiring of a broken heart.

"_Enter Lear, with Cordelia dead in his arms._

"_Lear._ Howl, howl, howl, howl!--O, you are men of stones;
Had I your tongues and eyes, I'd use them so
That heaven's vault should crack:--O, she is gone forever!--
I know, when one is dead, and when one lives;
She's dead as earth.----

"Cordelia, Cordelia, stay a little. Ha!
What is't thou says't?--Her voice was ever soft,
Gentle, and low; an excellent thing in woman:--
I kill'd the slave that was a hanging thee.
And my poor fool is hang'd! No, no, no life:
Why should a dog, a horse, a rat have life,
And thou no breath at all? O, thou wilt come no more,
Never, never, never, never, never!--

"Pray you, undo this button: Thank you sir.--
Do you see this?--Look on her,--look,--her lips,--
Look there,--look there!-- [_He dies._"

What a "luxury of wo" does this exquisite scene afford? What can Tate produce to counterbalance its value?

The next material alteration is the intrusion of love.[J] Cordelia is in love with Edgar. Why, of what an abominable taste must that man have been possessed, who in his sober senses could think of thus corrupting the noble simplicity of Cordelia's character. As for the language of love here introduced, it is about equal to what might be looked for from such a man. Take for a specimen an exquisitely pithy scene of about ten lines in the commencement of the play, in which Edgar follows Cordelia across the stage with the following pathetic stuff:

"Cordelia, royal fair, turn yet once more,
And ere successful Burgundy receive
The tribute of thy beauties from the king."--

It is too sickening: I cannot go on. Cordelia the amiable and sensible Cordelia, in love with such a whining milk-and-water fool as this! It need not be mentioned, that of course they have several unaccountable interviews, and at the conclusion of the play, Cordelia, all overjoyed at the restoration of her father, marries Edgar!

The last remarkable corruption is in the introduction of a curious piece of stage-machinery, ycleped a confidant, who, loving her mistress more than herself, like a good servant, accompanies her through wind and rain, and every other stage-horror, in a dark night, on a wild-goose chase, without any adequate or apparent object. This confidant is like every other stage-confidant.

How such a wretched jumble of inconsistencies, absurdity, and insipidity, can have been suffered ever to be performed, is a subject at once of wonder and regret. It is surprising, that Garrick never remedied the evil; a man, who had an ardent veneration for Shakspeare, and by his acting and management went some way towards doing him justice. It is rather inconsistent, that he could suffer this play to be performed instead of Shakspeare's, and yet in one of his prologues make the following assertion:

"'Tis my chief wish, my joy, my only plan,
To lose no drop of that immortal man."

_Prologue to Catherine and Petruchio._

These lines too are quoted by Mr. Kemble, and prefixed as a motto to his alteration of one of Shakspeare's plays. Is Mr. Kemble not aware, how many drops of Shakspeare are lost, and how much false wine obtruded in their place, in this metamorphosis? It would be an endless task to point out all the beautiful and sublime passages omitted by Tate: but to point out all the absurdities he has introduced, would be more endless. As Mr. Kemble professes, however, such a wish, I will just remind him, before I conclude, of what perhaps he has forgotten, that the present stage-representation of Shakspeare is a disgrace to his memory; that many of his best plays are never performed; that those which are performed are exhibited in so mangled a state, as to be totally unlike Shakspeare; and that not one of his dramas is now exhibited pure and unadulterated.

I am, Mr. Editor, your's, &c.

A SHAKSPEARIAN.

* * * * *

_A week's journal of a strolling player._

_Monday._ We opened the house with the tragedy of the _distressed mother_; I played _Orestes_. Our dresses and scenery rather out of repair, which gave some gentleman occasion to remark; that it would have been more _apropos_, had we advertised the play by the title of the _distressed family_.

_Tuesday._ Played George Barnwell. Part of the audience wanted me hanged: Afterwards did the watchman, and the bailiff in the _Apprentice_.--Shared thirteen pence three farthings.

_Wednesday._ Played _Jachimo_ in _Cymbeline_. My arms almost broken by being put into too small a chest. The farce the _Register-office_--played _Gulwell_.--Shared one shilling.

_Thursday._ Doubled the _Ghost_ and _Rosencrantz_ in _Hamlet_, and afterwards played _Mogs_ in the _Devil of a Duke_. A gentleman affronted me by saying I was _the devil of a conjuror_. Shared one shilling and six pence, and for the first time took my two bits of candles.

_Friday._ I played _Macduff_, and two or three other parts in _Macbeth_, one of the witches being drunk, we were obliged to make shift with two. The farce _Miss in her teens_: I was Fribble; and the house barber having gone off in a pet, because I could not pay him his week's bill, I was obliged to go on without my hair being dressed.--Shared ten pence and a candle.

_Saturday. The Orphan._ The manager had taken _Castalio_ himself, and insisted on my playing _Acasto_. An ignorant country fellow introduced it only to support Acasto in the third act, stands on the stage, when I asked "where are all my friends?" answered, "sir, they are at the George over a mug of ale." We afterwards had the _Padlock_ without music. I played _Mungo_ and never felt any thing half so much as the favourite air, "I wish to my heart me was dead."

* * * * *

_Macklin and Foote._

Macklin once left the stage and set up a tavern and Coffee-house on a new plan in the piazza, Covent garden. At his dinners every thing was done by the waiters, on signs made to them by Macklin himself who acted as chief waiter. One night, being at supper with Foote and some others at the Bedford, one of the company praised Macklin for the great regularity of his ordinary, and in particular his manner of directing his waiters _by signals_. Ay, sir, says Macklin, I knew it would do, and where do you think I picked up this hint?--well sir, I'll tell you, I picked it up from no less a man than James Duke of York, who you know sir, first invented signals for the fleet. Very apropos indeed, said Foote, and good poetical justice, as _from the fleet_ they were taken, _so to the fleet_ both master and signals are likely to return.

Macklin afterwards failed.

Another time Macklin delivered public lectures. One night as he was preparing to begin, he heard a buz in the room, and spied Foote in a corner talking and laughing immoderately. This he thought a safe time to rebuke that wicked wit, as he had begun his lecture and consequently could not be subject to any criticism: he therefore cried out with some authority "well sir, you seem to be very merry there, but do you know what I am going to say now?" "No sir says Foote, pray _do_ you?" This ready reply and the laughter it occasioned silenced Macklin, and so embarrassed him that he could not get on, till called upon by the general voice of the company.

Another time Macklin undertook to show the causes of duelling in Ireland, and why it was much more the practice of that nation than any other. In order to do this, he began with the earliest part of the Irish history, and, getting as far as queen Elizabeth, he was proceeding when Foote spoke to order. "Well sir, what have you to say on the subject?" said Macklin, "only to crave a little attention sir," said Foote, with much seeming modesty, "when I think I can settle this point in a few words."--"Well sir, go on."--"Why then, sir," says Foote, "to begin, what o'clock is it?"--"O'clock" said Macklin, "what has the clock to do with a dissertation on duelling?" "Pray sir," said Foote, "be pleased to answer my question." Macklin on this, pulled out his watch and reported the hour to be past ten.--"Very well," said Foote, "about this time of the night, every gentleman in Ireland that can afford it, is in his third bottle of claret, consequently is in a fair way of getting drunk; from drunkenness proceeds quarrelling, and from quarrelling, duelling, and so there's an end of the chapter." The company seemed perfectly satisfied with this abridgment, and Macklin shut up his lecture for that evening in great dudgeon.

* * * * *

_Countess of Carlisle's opinion of the Drama, taken from her maxims to young ladies._

When you fix your mind on the scenes before you, when the eye shall not wander to, nor the heart flutter at the surrounding objects of the spectacle, you will return home instructed and improved.

The great utilities you may reap from well acted tragedy are the exciting your compassion to real sufferings, the suppressing of your vanity in prosperity, and the inspiring you with heroic patience in adversity.

In comedy you will receive continual correction, delicately applied to your errors and foibles; be impartial in the application, divide it humbly with your acquaintance and friends, and even with your enemies.

* * * * *

_The general lover--An Ovidian rhapsody._

JAQUES. The worst fault you have is to be in love.

ORLANDO. It is a fault I would not change for your best virtue.

Though I may be inconstant to _Elizabeth, Betty, and Bess_, I am never inconstant to love. But I will not defend myself. No, if it would do any good to confess, I own my fault, and will say that I hate myself for it; but I must add, that though I wish it, I cannot be otherwise than what I hate. I am borne along like a vessel in a rapid current, impelled by wind and tide--I know not what form delights me most, therefore the causes are endless, why I can never cease to love.

If modest the nymph, with her eyes in her lap,
Her blushing's enough, I am caught in the trap.

If she is high spirited I am won, because she is not rustic.--Is she austere,--I think her willing, but an admirable dissembler.

If learned, than riches I prize it above,
If not, sweet simplicity, O, how I love!

Is there one who prefers my writings to those of the salacious warbler, the wanton lacivious little Moore? She to whom I am pleasing is ever pleasing to me. If she hates both me and my works, I long to give her reason to think differently of both. This fair one walks with grace, her graces captivate me; that sings, and her voice flows like honey from her lips; I pant to kiss the hive from which such honey flows. Her brilliant fingers sweep the chords: Who can but love such well-instructed fingers?--To love in every shape I bend my knees.

Though her figure heroic would fill the whole bed,
For me there'd be room where I'd lay my fond head.

If she is little and short I am equally glad, for then I can never have _too much_ of her. Light hair how lovely!--Brown, I think it auburn--Black, how beautiful when hanging in ringlets on her snowy neck! Is it red--what so red as gold?--Youth warms my heart and later age I love; this pleases by its form, that by its conduct.--Is she a slut--how saving!--Is she delicate--how delightful!--Is she my wife--I _must_ love her--Is she my friend's--how can I help it!--The fatter, the warmer; the thinner, she is less subject, _perhaps_, to the frailty of the _flesh_.--Is she lame--how domestic!--Is she deaf--'tis well.--Is she blind--'tis better.--Is she dumb--O, 'tis too much!

* * * * *

_Humorous Epilogues after Tragedies._

The custom of introducing humorous epilogue, farce, and buffoonery, after the mind has been agitated, softened, or sublimed by tragic scenes, has been often objected to.

It hath been said in its favour, that five long acts is a portion of time sufficiently long to keep the attention fixed on melancholy objects; that human life has enough of real, without calling in the aid of artificial distress; that it is cruel to send home an audience with all the affecting impressions of a deep tragedy in their minds.

In reply, it has been observed, that it is degrading and untrue to describe the human species as incapable of receiving gratification only from comic scenes; that "_there is a luxury in wo_," independent of its purifying the bosom and suppressing the more ignoble passions.

The supporters of this opinion have also added, that there is a species of depravity in endeavouring by ludicrous mummery to efface the salutary effects of pathetic, virtuous, and vigorous sentiments; that it is sporting with the sympathies of our nature, repugnant to correct taste, and counteracting moral utility.

This violation of the law of gentle and gradual contrasts, has been felt and complained of by most frequenters of a modern theatre, and well-authenticated instances have been produced of guilty men retiring from a well-written and well-acted play to repentance and melioration.

An epilogue has been composed by Mr. Sheridan in support of these opinions, superior in pathos, poetry and practical deduction, to any I ever read. It was originally spoken by Mrs. Yates, after the performance of Semiramis, a tragedy translated from the French.

Dishevell'd still, like Asia's bleeding queen,
Shall I, with jests deride the tragic scene?
No, beauteous mourners! from whose downcast eyes
The Muse has drawn her noblest sacrifice;
Whose gentle bosoms, Pity's altars, bear
The chrystal incense of each falling tear!
There lives the poet's praise; no critic art
Can match the comment of a feeling heart!

When general plaudits speak the fable o'er,
Which mute attention had approv'd before;
Though under spirits love th' accustomed jest,
Which chases sorrow from the vulgar breast;
Still hearts refin'd their sadden'd tints retain--
The sigh gives pleasure and the jest is pain:
Scarce have they smiles to honour grace or wit,
Though Roscius spoke the verse himself had writ.