Chapter VI: The Roman Drama (3)

The _lively device_ upon Mrs. Clarke's seal, which tickled the fancy of the _gallant_ Colonel Mac Mahon, was a _worn out Jack Ass_, mounted by a Cupid, prodding the sides of the animal with an arrow, and the following motto, _Tels sont mes sujets_--"Such are my subjects."

* * * * *

_Gluttony._--A few days since, a flint-digger, on the new Brighton road, undertook, for a trifling wager, to devour four pounds of beef and a sixpenny loaf, and wash all down with two quarts of beer, within half an hour; and this task he actually completed in ten minutes and three seconds, little more than a third of the time allowed!

* * * * *

During the inquiry into the conduct of the commander in chief, Mr. Wilberforce said, that the courtly rebuke of the duke of York, by the chancellor of the exchequer, reminded him of an anecdote of the reign of Charles the second. When that monarch had been guilty of some gross breach of decorum and decency with a loose woman, which attracted the notice of the clergy, it was resolved to reprove him for his incontinence and public transgression. The body of the clergy came to the bottom of the audience room; one of them, of the name of Douglass, persuaded the others to let him go up singly to his majesty, in order that he might rebuke him with greater asperity. He accordingly walked up to the king, but instead of the expected admonition, gravely, and in a low tone of voice, advised his majesty, when he did such a bad thing again, to be sure and close the shutters!

As the public frequently enjoys a laugh at the expense of an Irish jury, it is but fair to allow a little _retaliation_ in the case of a _Yorkshire_ jury, who at the last assizes brought in a verdict of _manslaughter_, although the person so _slaughtered_ was alive; and when recommended to reconsider their verdict, they _mended_ it by pronouncing the prisoner _not guilty_.

* * * * *

_The influence of Bacon and Cabbage._

During the administration of Cardinal Richlieu, a set of strolling players at Paris had such success in low farce, that the other companies became jealous, and wished to have them suppressed. They complained to the cardinal. He, fond of every thing dramatic, sent for them to perform before him in the Palais Royal; and the piece they selected shows that the Cardinal could sometimes be amused with one of the coarsest descriptions of life and manners.

Gros Guillaume, or Fat Will, was a principal droll in the exhibition before the Cardinal. Fat Will is represented as thick as he was long, and often by means of a dress with hoops stretched across, formed himself into the figure of a hogshead. In this farce, he was supposed to be the wife of Turlupin, who, jealous of Garguilla, is going to cut off her head; infuriated with this idea, he seizes her by the hair, with a drawn sabre in his hand, while she, upon her knees, conjures him by every thing that is tender to abate his anger.

She first reminds him of their past loves and courtships--how she rubbed his back when he had the rheumatism, and his stomach when he had the cholic, and how particularly charmed she was with him when he wore his dear little flannel night cap--but all in vain. "Will nothing move thee?" cries this amiable fair one, in a fit of the last despair--"Then O! thou barbarian, think of the _bacon_ and _cabbage_ I fried for thy supper yesterday evening." "Oh, the sorceress!" cried Turlupin--"I can't resist her--she knows how to take me by my foible; the _bacon_, the _bacon_, quite _unmans_ me, and the very fat is now rising in my stomach. Live on then thou charmer--fry cabbage, and be dutiful."

* * * * *

A circumstance has occurred in the neighbourhood of a large town in Hampshire, which has occasioned much amusing conversation. A young lady, 23 years of age, who will inherit a great property at her father's death, was recently discovered by him to be in the family way; and on the enraged parent's demanding who had been her seducer, she, to his utter astonishment, replied it was her maid Harriet. On Harriet's being called before him, an explanation took place, when it appeared the young lady, during a visit last June at a friend's house near town, became acquainted with a handsome youth, who was shop-lad at a circulating library, of whom she became enamoured, and a secret marriage was the consequence; but fearing her father's anger at such an unequal match (the youth being poor) and the idea of being obliged to part with him, gave birth to the following stratagem. The youth assumed the female habit, and accompanied the fair bride to her father's house, where he has until this fortnight figured away as her maid. The old gentleman, however, is now reconciled to the loving couple, and Harry (alias Harriet) is as happy as beauty and money can make him.

* * * * *

An Irish officer of the name of Foster, (now lieut. col. of the 6th West India regiment) of the uncommon stature of six foot eight, made his appearance at the rooms at Bath, when the late haughty princess Amelia was present, she was led from his extraordinary appearance, to inquire his name, family, and pursuits: she received information amongst the answers to her inquiries, that he had been originally intended for the church. "Rather for the steeple," replied the royal humourist.

* * * * *

THE LUCK OF EDENHALL.

_The ancient seat of Sir William Musgrave, in Cumberland._

In an excursion to the North of England, I was easily prevailed upon, to see the _Luck_ of _Edenhall_, celebrated in an ancient ballad, now exceedingly scarce--the only description I can give you of it is, a very thin bell-mouthed beaker glass, very deep and narrow, ornamented on the outside with fancy work of coloured glass, and may hold something more than a pint. Tradition says that a party of fairies were drinking and making merry round a well near the hall, called St. Cuthbert's Well, but being interrupted by the intrusion of some curious people, they were frightened, and made a hasty retreat, and left the cup in question, one of the last of the fairies screaming out,

"If this cup should break or fall,
Farewell the _Luck_ of _Edenhall_."

The ballad above alluded to, is here inserted. It was written by the duke of Wharton, and is called "The Earl's Defeat," to the tune of Chevy Chace.

"On both sides slaughter and gigantic deeds."

GOD prosper long from being broke,
The _Luck of Edenhall;_
A doleful drinking bout I sing,
There lately did befall.

To chase the spleen with cup and can,
Duke Philip took his way;
Babes yet unborn shall never see
The like of such a day.

The stout and ever thirsty duke
A vow to God did make,
His pleasure within Cumberland,
Three live long nights to take.

Sir Musgrave, too, of Martindale,
A true and worthy knight,
Eftsoons with him a bargain made,
In drinking to delight.

The bumpers swiftly pass'd about,
Six in a hand went round,
And, with their calling for more wine
They made the hall resound.

Now when these merry tidings reach'd
The Earl of Harold's ears,
"And am I (quoth he, with an oath)
Thus slighted by my peers.

"Saddle my steed, bring forth my boots,
I'll be with them and quick;
And, master Sheriff, come you too;
We'll know this scurvy trick,"

"Lo, yonder doth Earl Harold come!"
Did one at table say.
"'Tis well," replied the mettled duke;
"How will he get away?"

When thus the Earl began, "Great duke,
I'll know how this did chance,
Without inviting me! sure this
You did not learn in France.

"One of us two for this offence
Under the board shall lie;
I know thee well, a duke thou art,
So, some years hence shall I.

"But trust me, Wharton, pity 'twere
So much good wine to spill,
As these companions here may drink,
Ere they have had their fill.

"Let thou and I, in bumpers full,
This grand affair decide"--
"Accursed be he," duke Wharton said,
"By whom it is denied."

To Andrews, and to Hotham fair,
Many a pint went round,
And many a gallant gentleman
Lay sick upon the ground.

When, at the last, the duke espied
He had the earl secure,
He plied him with a full pint glass,
Which laid him on the floor.

Who never spoke more words than these
After he downward sunk,
"My worthy friends, revenge my fall,
Duke Wharton sees me drunk."

Then, with a groan, duke Philip took
The sick man by the joint,
And said, "Earl Harold, 'stead of thee,
Would I had drank the pint!

"Alack! my very heart doth bleed,
And doth within me sink
For surely a more sober earl
Did never swallow drink."

With that the Sheriff, in a rage,
To see the earl so smit,
Vowed to revenge the dead-drunk peer
Upon renown'd Sir Kit.

Then stepp'd a gallant 'squire forth,
Of visage thin and pale;
Lloyd was his name, and of Gang-hall,
Fast by the river Swale.

Who said he would not have it told,
Where Eden river ran,
That unconcern'd he should sit by--
"So, Sheriff, I'm your man."

Now when these tidings reach'd the room
Where the duke lay in bed,
How that the squire suddenly
Upon the floor was laid--

"O, heavy tidings!" quoth the duke,
"Cumberland witness be,
I have not any toper more,
Of such account as he."

Like tidings to Earl Thanet came,
Within as short a space,
How that the under sheriff too,
Was fallen from his place.

"Now God be with him," said the earl,
"Sith 'twill no better be;
I trust I have within my town,
As drunken knights as he."

Of all the number that was there,
Sir Bains he scorn'd to yield,
But, with a bumper in his hand,
He staggered o'er the field.

Thus did this dire contention end,
And each man of the slain
Was quickly carried off to bed,
His senses to regain.

God bless the king, the duchess fat,
And keep the land in peace!
And grant that drunkenness henceforth,
'Mong noblemen may cease.

And likewise bless our royal prince,
The nation's other hope,
And give us grace for to defy
The devil and the pope.

* * * * *

"_Cooke's unparalled Excellence!_"

"In characters new, and in characters old,
Cooke must be allow'd a matchless fine fellow;
For, act what he will, we are constantly told,
That in every part he is perfectly mellow!"

* * * * *

_Ambrose and his Dog._

BY W. HOLLOWAY.

The clock had struck the midnight hour,
And all the village slept,
Save Julia, listening to the shower
She, lonely, watch'd and wept.

For, ere the sun peep'd o'er the hill,
To town her Ambrose went;
And sure some unexpected ill
Must his return prevent!

What, though the wood he pass'd beside,
He needed nothing fear,
For honest Dobbin was his guide
And faithful Tray was there.

The heath was wild! the roads were bad;
'Twas dark and dreary too;
'Twas cold, but he was doubly clad,
And well the way he knew.

Thus while she ponder'd clamorous came
Poor Tray, with scratch and whine,
The mistress rose, and much to blame
His rudeness did incline.

As gladly she the door unbarr'd,
Her weary man to greet,
The generous dog, with kind regard,
Rush'd fondling round her feet.

He moaned, he howl'd, he seized her gown,
And drew her gently forth;
She follow'd him across the down,
For she had prov'd his worth.

Beside the road the quarries lay,
Capacious, dark, and deep;
The steed had swerv'd one step astray,
And tumbled down the steep.

There lay poor Ambrose, stunn'd and pale,
Unhurt, his beast stands by;
And thither Tray, with frisking tail,
Attracts his mistress' eye.

Nor would he quit his master's side,
Such sympathy he found----
He lick'd his pallid cheek, and tried
To raise him from the ground.

Heaven, and her friends, their aid afford
To Julia's tears and vows,
And soon to life and love restor'd
Her much lamented spouse.

On wintry nights, when beats the storm,
And howling winds prevail,
The children round the brick hearth warm,
Repeat th' affecting tale.

While Tray, outstretch'd, the fire enjoys,
And rests his long white chin
On their soft laps who speak his praise,
And pat his downy skin.

O happy dog! no faithless man,
With prouder gifts endu'd,
Shall ever, share with thee, or scan
The joys of gratitude.

* * * * *

The following fragment of an elegant little ode to music will interest the reader of taste, not only on account of the sweetness of its numbers, diction, and sentiment, but also for that melancholy but sublime anticipation of an affecting truth, that he was not made for a long continuance in this world, which caused him to contemplate the future with heightened satisfaction.

_By Henry Kirk White._

TO MUSIC.

O give me music; for my soul doth faint.
I'm sick of noise and care: and now mine ear
Longs for some air of peace, some dying plaint
That may the spirit from it's cell unsphere.

Hark, how it falls?--And now it steals along,
Like distant bells upon the lake at eve
When all is still--and now it grows more strong,
As when the choral train their dirges weave,

Mellow and many voic'd--where every close
O'er the old minister-roof in wavy echoes flows,
O, I am rapt aloft!--My spirit soars
Beyond the skies, and leaves the stars behind!

Lo, angels lead me to the happy shores,
And floating paeans fill the buoyant wind.
Farewell, base earth farewell.--My soul is freed:
Far from its clayey cell it springs--where music dwells indeed.

* * * * *

_Little things are Best._

A JEU D'ESPRIT.

Addressed to Miss C---- a _little, short_ lady.

_Satis parva res est._ Amphitrion, Act 2, Sce. 2.

When any thing abounds, we find
That nobody will have it,
But when there's _little_ of the kind,
Don't all the people crave it?

If wives are evils, as 'tis known
And woefully confess'd
The man who's wise will surely own
A little one is best.[I]

The god of love's a _little_ wight,
But beautiful as thought;
Thou too art _little_, fair as light,
And every thing--in _short!_[J]

O, happy girl! I think thee so,
For mark the poets'[K] song--
"_Man_ wants but _little_ here below,
Nor wants that little _long!_"

* * * * *

_From Poetical Tales, founded on facts._

On yon tall rock's projecting side,
See where the stripling bends his way,
To hang with rapture o'er the tide,
And tune a sweetly rustic lay.

Say what in sportive youth can move
To dwell on nature's varied hue?
What bids his bosom glow with love
And bathes his azure eye in dew?

What bids him hail the matin strain,
As morn's first blush illumes the vale;
And wake at midnight hour again,
To listen to the nightingale?

O Genius! 'twas thy strong control,
As o'er his cradle, from on high,
Thou way'd thy magnet o'er his soul,
And on his lips breath'd harmony.

Thy magic touch bade fancy rove,
As mind its early charms display'd;
Bade Shakspeare every passion move,
And Homer on his pillow laid.

Thou gav'st that fine perceptive sense,
Which throws o'er ev'ry scene its charm;
To joy will brighter joy dispense,
To grief more exquisite alarm.

Ah! dangerous gift, where bliss appears
But as the morn's first vivid ray,
And grief her mournful aspect rears
Through the long, lingering, weary day!

Yet siren Genius! still to thee
Thy captive pours the grateful strain,
To thee he bends the willing knee,
With all thy joys, with all thy pain.

Would Alwin that pure sense forego,
In tranquil apathy to rove?
'Ah! no,' he cries, 'with all thy woe
O stay and charm me with thy love!'

* * * * *

THE PARSON AND THE NOSE.

'Twas on a shining Summer's day,
As stories quite old fashion'd say,
A sleepy set of sinners--
To church agreed that they would go,
Their zealous piety to show,
When they had ate their dinners.

Scarce had the parson ta'en his text,
When he felt most confounded vext
To see his neighbours nod;
Proceeding with religious lore,
He quickly heard the sleepers snore,
Forgetting him and God.

When lo! descending from his seat,
The parson, full of holy heat,
At losing thus his labour,
Tweak'd one's stout nose, then graceful bow'd,
And said, "good sir, _you snore so loud,_
_I fear you'll wake your neighbour_."

J. M. L.

* * * * *

_The advantages of solitude for Study._

My garden neat,
Has got a seat
Hid from ev'ry eye sir;
There day and night,
I read and write,
And _nobody's_ the wiser.

* * * * *

_Favourite divertissements in Spain._

The theatres of this country, since the landing of the English, have, among other dramas, called mysteries, frequently represented one entitled _Las profecias des Daniel_ (prophecies of Daniel). No subject can be better adapted than this, for combining a splendid variety of pageantry in one oratorio, or sacred opera. The jubilee of adoration to the golden colossus of Bel, the flaming _auto-de-fe_ for the refractory holy children; the voluptuous dance exhibited during the meal of Belshazzar; the sacrilegious use of the chalices of Jerusalem; the sudden wrath of Heaven; the gloom of the thunder; the shadowy hand writing on the wall, in characters of lurid fire; and the armed irruption of the besiegers to renew a scene of purer triumph; all these form a series of picturesque magnificence, which, says our correspondent, you would enjoy to see some Sunday evening, at Drury-lane. The popularity of this play may be ascribed to the continual allusions of the Spanish patriotic writers to the seizure and supposed profanation of sacramental vessels by the French.

Another new and very singular drama opens with Bonaparte, who soliloquizes about Spain. Allegorical demons stand watching around, and when he has confessed the whole atrocity of his purposes, they seize and carry him off in a fiery car to the place of torment. Next appears Ferdinand VII. a ballet of angels listen to his promises of virtuous sway, and crown him during the dance with wreaths of victory. Finally appears king George the third, who declares his horror for the tyrant, his affection to the virtuous and native monarch; and who is entertained by St. Iago and the virgin Mary, or by figures representing the genius of Spain, and that of Christianity, with a performance in full chorus of "God save the king."

* * * * *

_Longevity._

An extraordinary instance of longevity lately occurred in the island of Jamaica in the person of Joseph Ram, a black man, belonging to Maurice Hall estate, and who died at the advanced age of 140 years. He perfectly remembered the earl of Albemarle who succeeded to the government of the island in 1687. His daughter Grace Martin, an inhabitant of Spanish-town and upwards of 85 years of age, says he had a complete set of new teeth about twenty years ago, which remained sound to the day of his death. His hair had turned quite gray. He retained his sight and memory well, and had all his senses perfect, except that of smelling. He was stout and inclined to corpulence, was never sick but once, and all the physic he ever took in his life was one dose of nut oil. He had twenty-six children by different women. His appetite was always good, and a few days previous to his death, he walked a distance of four miles. His dissolution was gradual, and unattended by pain or sickness: It seemed indeed, to be the mere decay of nature.

* * * * *

"The first step is the only difficulty," is an old proverb. Ce n'est que le premier pas qui coute, said the old facetious duchesse de Rambouillet, when touching on certain extravagancies of a young female. It was oddly enough applied lately by a lady, who hearing a clergyman declare, "That St. Piat, after his head was cut off, walked two entire miles with it under his arm _en chapeau bras_, yes madam, two miles positively." "I do not doubt it" the lady quietly replied: "On such occasions, the first step is the only difficulty."

* * * * *

_A specimen of the antiquity of Irish Bulls!!!_

A wealthy lord of Ireland, had a goodly faire house new-built but the broken bricks, tiles, sand, lime, &c. &c. lay confused in heapes about the building; the lord demanded of his surveyor, wherefore the rubbish was not carried away; the surveyor said he proposed to hyre an hundred carts for the purpose. The lord replied, that the charge of carts might be saved; for a pit might be dug in the ground and bury it. My lord, said the surveyor, I pray you what will wee doe with the earth, which we digge out of the pit? Why you whore-son coxcombe, said the lord, canst thou not dig the pit deepe enough and bury all together?

* * * * *

_Theatre, Ambleside, Winandermere._

Such an incident as the comedy of "The Poor Gentleman" having been represented by _four_ persons, we should imagine not to be paralleled, had we not before our eyes the advertisement of a farce in no better a situation. What such exhibitions are, they only who have witnessed them are able to inform us. The bill is certainly a curiosity, and as you pay particular attention to the theatricals, I am induced to present you with it, for the entertainment of your readers.

T. A. S.

THEATRE.

_White Lion, Ambleside._

On Wednesday evening, September 18.

_Will be presented the much admired new comedy of_

THE POOR GENTLEMAN,

_Or the Love of Argument._

Lieut Worthington, } _Mr. Weile._
Humphrey Dobbins, }

Sir Robert Bramble, }
Corporal Ross, } _Mr. Deans._
Ollapod the Apothecary, }

Stephen Harroby, }
Sir Charles Cropland, } _Mr. Johnston._
Frederick Bramble, }

Miss Lucretia Mac Tab, }
Miss Emily Worthington, } _Mrs. Deans._

_After the play the following Songs, &c._

My Mary's true by Mrs. Deans.

Knowing Joe among the show folks, by Mr. Johnston.

Comic Songs, by Mr. Weile.

Hipsley's drunken man, by Mr. Johnston.

To conclude with the laughable farce of

BARNABY BRITTLE,

_Or, a Wife at her wits' End._

Barnaby Brittle, _Mr. Deans._

Sir Peter Pride, } _Mr. Weile._
Clodpole, }

Lovemore, } _Mr. Johnston._
Jeremy, }

Mrs. Brittle, }
Damaras, } _Mrs. Deans._

Tickets of admission to be had at the principals inns. Front
seat, 1_s_, back, 6_d_, to begin at 8 o'clock.

FOOTNOTES:

[H] Te teneam moriens, deficiente manu.

[I] See _Josephus_ de Uxoribus--a very ancient and a very _serious_ jest.

[J] Nulla Voluptas _longa_ est. Seneca.

[K] Drs. Goldsmith and Young.

SPORTING INTELLIGENCE.

THE SOLDIER TO HIS HORSE.

_Allusive to a military order for the destruction of the British cavalry horses, during the late retreat in Spain._

The word is giv'n--my officers command,
Fond partner of my danger and my toil,
That thou should'st die by this now trembling hand,
And prostrate lie upon a foreign soil.

Thy ample back in confidence I've strode,
Depended on thee in the hour of flight,
And oft thy wanton tricks of fondness show'd,
Thy master's prowess was thy chief delight.

Urg'd by my will, amidst the hostile ranks,
Hast thou sustained me, in each desperate fray,
And is it thus, my gratitude and thanks,
Thy nobly daring service shall repay.

Brute as thou art, 'tis not for thee to trace,
The cause whence flows the rugged soldier's tear;
And yet thou know's it flows not from disgrace,
For, thou hast borne me thro' the war's career.

When my bright scabbard bounded by thy side,
And shouts of victory our toils repaid,
The stately curvet, and the pacing stride,
None of our troops so gracefully displayed.

When charg'd by treble numbers we have fled,
Oppress'd, and spent, the glance of thy quick eye
Has cheer'd my drooping soul, as if it said,
We'll live together, or together die.

And once (the time to memory is dear)
Plung'd from thy back in the contentious strife,
No brother comrade to assist me near
Thy friendship, brutal friendship, saved my life.

Keen was the frost, the drifting snow fell thick
Upon the plain, where late the battle rag'd.
Benumb'd with cold, my heart was deathly sick,
When my pale looks thy fostering care engag'd,

Thy body thou didst gently bend to earth,
And pressing to my breast its glowing heat.
I felt the vital current gain new birth--
I felt the chilly hand of death retreat.

The memory of that unnerves my hand;
'Tis that enforces the unmanly tear!
To singly charge the foe be their command,
I know a soldier's duty to revere.

If on the "hope forlorn" I am doom'd to go,
Still 'tis my duty, and I'll not repine!
But I must perish, ere forget to know,
Thy body fed the vital spark in mine.

* * * * *

_Colonel O'Kelly's famous horse Dungannon._

This celebrated racer is the sire of many famous horses; he is the son of the famous Eclipse, was foaled in 1780, and bred by colonel O'Kelly himself.

The exploits of this famous racer are still fresh in the memory of all frequenters of the turf; and that his figure may survive with his fame, a most spirited print of him is published in England, in which he is drawn accompanied by a sheep. A story attaches to this curious coalescence, which we think worth relating to our readers.

As a drover was passing by colonel O'Kelly's on his way with a flock of sheep for Smithfield market, one of them became so lame and sore-footed, that it could travel no further. The man wishing to get rid of the impediment, took up the distressed animal, and dropped it over the pales of a paddock belonging to Mr. O'Kelly, where the race-horse was then grazing, and pursued his journey, intending to call for the sheep, upon his return back to the farmer who had employed him, believing the creature after a little rest, would quickly recover. This was the case, and an attachment between the two rangers of the little paddock presently took place, almost to surpass probability. It is related by evidence indisputable, that such was the affection of DUNGANNON for the sheep, that besides sporting with it in various ways, he would sometimes take it in his mouth by the neck with great tenderness, and lift it into the crib where the groom deposited his fodder, as much as to say, though you are not able to reach it, I will help you to the banquet. Besides this, the horse would on all occasions defend his new friend, and suffered no one to offer him the least molestation.

Mr. O'Kelly being made acquainted with these circumstances, resolved to make the sheep his own, bought him of the farmer, and marked the wool with his own initials, D. O'K. and left the two friends in peaceable possession of the paddock and its adjoining shelter.

Mr. Stubbs the painter, being acquainted with these facts when he requested leave to paint Dungannon, also introduced the portrait of the sheep, as a lasting memento of the unusual affection that subsisted between two creatures, so dissimilar in appearances, and so opposite in their pursuits.

* * * * *

On Friday the 10th of April a very extraordinary wager was decided upon the road between Cambridge and Huntingdon. A gentleman of the former place, had betted a considerable sum of money, that he would go a yard from the ground, upon stilts, the distance of twelve miles within the space of four hours and a half: no stoppage was to be allowed, except merely the time taken up in exchanging one pair of stilts for another; and even then his feet were not to touch the ground. He started at the second mile-stone from Cambridge on the Huntingford road, to go 6 miles out and 6 miles in: the first he performed in one hour and fifty minutes, and did the distance back in two hours and three minutes, so that he went the whole in three hours and fifty three minutes, having thirty-seven minutes to spare beyond the time allowed him; he appeared a good deal fatigued, and his hands, we understand, were much blistered from the continual pressure upon one part. This, we believe, is the first performance of the kind ever attempted; but as novelty appears to attract, as well as direct, the manners of the age, _stilting_ may possibly become as fashionable in these, as _tilting_ formerly was in better times.

DRAMATICUS.

No. II.

_Edward and Eleonora._

This excellent and interesting tragedy, the production of the admired author of the Seasons, was, for some reason not easily discoverable, prohibited from representation by the Lord Chamberlain,[L] with whose dictatorial power over dramatic performances the world is well acquainted. Many of the scenes are most exquisitely tender and pathetic, and for the effects they produce on hearts of sensibility, are equal (with due deference be it said) to any in the English or perhaps any other language.

* * * * *

SOUTHERN.

Previous to the era of Southern's writing for the stage, the authors of dramatic pieces had only the emoluments of the third night of representation[M]. He deserves the gratitude of all succeeding dramatists, for successfully contending with the managers, for the proceeds of every third night of the run of a new play. The vast increase of advantage from a very successful drama, produced by this arrangement, holds out a great additional inducement to the exertions of the talents of dramatists. Southern cleared, according to Baker, seven hundred pounds sterling by one play--which, I presume, must have been Oronoko.

* * * * *

OTWAY.

The manner of this unfortunate writer's death is variously stated by various writers. I wish some of the correspondents of the Dramatic Censor would elucidate this point. I hope the general opinion is not true, that, being almost famished, he began so ravenously to devour a loaf which was given him for charity, that the first mouthful choaked him, and put a period to his existence.

Few dramatic performances require the pruning knife so much, and would so amply repay the trouble, as some of those of Otway. In the Orphan there are some passages as gross and offensive as are to be found, probably in any tragedy whatever. There is moreover too much of horror in it. The stage, it has been justly remarked, is made a mere slaughter-house. These objections, both of which are very strong, might be easily removed--and if they were, the tragedy would be excellent. After writing these lines I have doubted whether I should not erase them. The incestuous connexion of Polydore and Monimia, on which the chief interest of the performance turns, is revolting, and incapable of being eradicated without destroying the piece.

The error of judgment in Venice Preserved is equally conspicuous. Less alteration would be necessary to render this tragedy, which is now to the last degree exceptionable, a _chef d'oeuvre_. Had the tyranny and oppression of the senators been made prominent and conspicuous--had the conspirators been animated with the glorious spirit that fired a Bruce, a Wallace, a Gustavus Vasa, a Hampden, a Sydney, a William Tell, or a Washington--then angels might have bowed down to hear the language of a Pierre deploring the miseries of his oppressed countrymen. But when, instead of glorying in the risk they ran, and the sacrifice they made for their country, their whole object clearly appears to be rapine and murder, the liberal mind turns with horror from such a prostitution of the writer's talents, which, had they been under the government of a sound judgment and correct principles, would have reflected high honour on the age and country in which they flourished.

* * * * *

_Candour and Modesty._

Henry Metayer, author of a tragedy called the Perfidious Brother, committed it to Theobald, of Dunciad memory, for examination and correction. The latter had the monstrous effrontery, after having made a few verbal alterations in it, to have it acted and printed as his own.[N] Metayer, incensed at this piratical proceeding, appealed to the public, and had his own work printed. The literary thief excited the contempt and detestation such a base procedure merited.

* * * * *

_Charles Macklin._

This actor has the credit of having checked a nefarious practice, which has prevailed to a certain degree in almost every theatre, and of which Philadelphia and New-York have exhibited some striking instances. I mean the practice of certain meanspirited wretches, who bear malice towards particular performers, and make parties to hiss them off the stage. It is not easy to conceive of a greater degree of baseness, turpitude, and cowardice, than is manifested by this conduct. The object of their malice is unable to defend himself from their attacks. This, to a generous mind, would be an aegis, and protect the person who could make such a plea, as completely as her sex protects a woman. But with the persons here contemplated, the impunity they expect is the very incitement to their inglorious warfare.

Some of these ruffians having in this mode assailed Macklin, he singled out as many of them as he could identify by the deposition of competent witnesses. Against these offenders he commenced a prosecution[O] in which they were found guilty, and exemplarily punished. The salutary effects of this spirited procedure, I am informed, are still perceptible in the London theatres.

* * * * *

_Richard Fullerton._

While I am writing on this topic, I may be allowed to drop a tear to the memory of this unfortunate victim to the brutal system I have referred to in the preceding paragraphs. That he was hunted to suicide, I could, if necessary, establish by indisputable testimony. A very worthy man, of the most strict veracity, now residing in Baltimore, informed me that he was in a corner of the green-room, in the theatre of this city one night when Fullerton was actually hissed off the stage. When the poor persecuted actor came into the green-room, he did not perceive the gentleman, and clenching his fists, struck his forehead, and swore with a most desperate oath, that the ruffians would be the death of him. His sensibility to outrage and insult overpowered and unmanned him. A few days afterwards he consigned himself to the waves of the Delaware, to escape from the fury of his remorseless persecutors.

What is here stated, was asserted in a cotemporaneous pamphlet, published in this city on the occasion. The New-York reviewers, grossly violating every principle of decency, propriety and justice, assailed the writer, as if he had been guilty of a base fabrication, and had invented this hideous charge, to dishonour the Philadelphia audience. Without any fair opportunity of investigating the facts, they had the decency and modesty to pronounce sentence with an assumption of oracular infallibility. Probably the annals of literature can hardly produce a more unfair attack upon any writer than the review to which I here allude.

* * * * *

_A Dramatic Bull._

In a sorry tragedy, called the Fall of Tarquin, written by one Hunt, there is a description of a forest, in which the author has this ludicrous line--

And the tall trees stood _circling_ in a _row._[P]

* * * * *

_She would and she would not_--_or the kind Impostor._

The humour of this comedy, in many of the scenes, has hardly ever been exceeded by any writer in any language. The dialogue between Don Manuel and Don Philip, in which the former undertakes to "bamboozle" the son of his friend, whom he conceives to be an arrant impostor, is absolutely a masterpiece of humour. There are several other scenes of nearly equal merit. It is difficult even at this day, to form a correct judgement of Cibber--as the disgrace attached to him by Pope in the Dunciad excited against him a prejudice which at this distance of time continues to operate on the mind of the reader.

* * * * *

_High life below Stairs._

It is generally known, I believe, that the livery servants, a very numerous and formidable body, formed a combination to suppress this elegant and humorous satire on their vices and follies, the first night it was performed. But fortunately for good taste and good sense, these heroes of the epaulette were suppressed, and the piece had much more success than it probably would have had, but for this ill-judged attempt.

It is not, however, so generally known that this after piece owes its origin to one of the papers in the Spectator, in which a number of servants of the nobility are introduced, aping the manners, the airs, and graces of their masters. The perusal of this essay suggested the idea which has been so felicitously expanded in High life below Stairs.

* * * * *

_A hard fought theatrical battle._

No person in the smallest degree acquainted with theatrical affairs, can be ignorant of the strong spirit of rivalship that exists between Drury Lane and Covent Garden, and that has prevailed since the first establishment of those theatres. The anecdote I am going to relate, affords probably the strongest instance of this spirit that is on record.

When Garrick's celebrity was at its highest pinnacle of glory, Rich, the manager of Covent Garden, engaged Barry and Mrs. Cibber, performers of very great talents, and high reputation, and entered the lists with Garrick in the tragedy of Romeo and Juliet. Barry performed the young Montague, and Mrs. Cibber the delicate and elegant Juliet. Garrick produced the celebrated, but frail and unfortunate Mrs. Bellamy in Juliet, while he played Romeo. Every exertion within the compass of human powers was made by both parties, and the public opinion was held for a time divided between the rivals. The warfare was continued for twenty nights successively. At length Rich, growing tired of the contest, abandoned Romeo and Juliet; and Garrick in triumph had it represented one night more. The constant repetition of the same play disgusted the public, and gave rise to the following epigram, which was published in the papers of the day--

"What play tonight?" says angry Ned,
As from his bed he rouses.
"Romeo again!" he shakes his head--
"A pox on both your houses."[Q]

* * * * *

_What is it about?_

However incredible the following story may appear, it stands on the very respectable authority of Arthur Murphy[R] and David Erskine Baker[S]. A tragedy, called Zingis, written by Alexander Dow, was so totally unintelligible that the audience were continually asking each other--What is it about? What is it about?--That such nonsense should be written is not so very marvellous, as that the miserable farrago should have had a run of nine nights, which has been frequently denied to works of first rate merit.

FOOTNOTES:

[L] Baker's Play-house Companion, vol. 1.

[M] Idem, 426.

[N] Baker's Play-house Companion, vol. 1. 312.

[O] Idem, 292.

[P] Baker's Play-house Companion, vol 1. p. 250.

[Q] Murphy's life of Garrick, Dublin Edition, p 125.

[R] Idem, page 294.

[S] Play-house Companion, Vol. 2. p. 417.

LITERARY INTELLIGENCE.

SHAW'S POEMS.

"... Not unknown to me the glow,
The warmth divine that poets know."

Shaw's M.S.

We find that proposals have been issued for publishing by subscription the Poems of the late Doctor John Shaw of Baltimore. This is one of the few occasions on which every man who pretends to revere virtue and personal excellence, to admire talents, and to respect erudition, will, feel himself imperiously urged to step forward with something more than empty professions, and by practically interesting himself in the advancement of this subscription, to pay a posthumous tribute to the memory, and as the editor of the proposed work elegantly expresses it, "_the living remains_" of a gentleman in whom those qualities were conspicuously united. The pleasure we have often received from the writings of Doctor Shaw--the high and ample space he filled in the opinion of the country, particularly of those who best knew him, and the honourable testimony which one of the most enlightened personages who in this age have done honour to the peerage of Great Britain (lord Selkirk) has borne to his talents and virtues, would prompt us to enlarge upon this theme, if we did not feel that it would be injuring the matter to take it out of the hands of the editor, J. E. Hall, Esq. whose words, as being much preferable to any thing we could offer, we take the liberty of transcribing.

"The Poems which are now offered to the patronage of the public, were composed by a gentleman whose extensive endowments and excellent qualities commanded the respect, and won the esteem of all who knew him. Those who remember the communications of ITHACUS, in the earlier volumes of the _Port Folio_, will not condemn the taste which deems them worthy of republication in the form that is now proposed: and the many who lament the untimely blow which deprived them of a friend, and society of a useful and brilliant ornament, will liberally aid an attempt to give "a local habitation" to the memorials of his genius.

"Some months previous to his demise, Dr. Shaw communicated to a friend his intention of publishing a volume of poetry, and they devoted several evenings to the task of preparing them for the press. But the idea of establishing a Medical College, in this city, which he conceived about that time, and the cares of an increasing family, so much engrossed his attention, that his literary project was abandoned for more important pursuits.

"For most of the pieces therefore, which shall appear in the proposed collection, the editor may plead the sanction of their author: and, in the choice of others, he will not neglect the duty that is due to the fame of his deceased friend.

"It is the intention of the Editor to prefix some account of the life of Mr. Shaw. From his letters and memoranda written during his residence on the coast of Barbary, his probationary studies at Edinburgh, and his wanderings with Lord Selkirk in Upper Canada, it is probable that something may be gleaned to interest a reader. It is proper, however, not to excite any extravagant expectations, as the Editor may not be successful in the collection of sufficient materials for the execution of so pleasing a duty.

"It is deemed not improper to intimate, that this publication is undertaken as well to preserve the memory of the deceased, as to promote the comfort of his "living remains." Thus, while an opportunity is offered for the gratification of the taste of some, the virtue of all may be rewarded by those sensations which arise from the performance of a benevolent action."

From every circumstance that now appears, we augur the success of the work, and a brimming subscription for it. The promised sketch of Dr. Shaw's life ought of itself to ensure the publisher abundant support. Of the execution of that part it may be sufficient to state that it comes from the author of "The Life of Anacreon," and other compositions which have enriched the pages of the Port Folio: and who is he so dull, for whom biography has not charms?--On this last topic we beg leave to borrow, for this once, the expressions of a writer, whose delicacy we should offend, by speaking of him as we think, and to whom the taste and literature of this country are more indebted than any but the wise and learned are competent to understand, or any but the honest and generous are willing to confess.

"In the harmonious family of literature," says Dennie, "History and Biography are sisters. They are twins: and both are beautiful. The port of the one is stately and martial, but the air of the other, if less dignified, is more alluring. One generally _commands_ us to repair to the cabinet or the camp, while the other _beckons_ us to the bower. History has respectful and stanch friends, but Biography has passionate lovers. There are some who are indifferent to the charms of the first, but there are none who do not admire the winning grace and sensible conversation of the latter."[T]

DR. SHAW'S POEMS are to be published by Coale and Thomas of Baltimore, who receive subscriptions for the work.

FOOTNOTES:

[T] See Preface to the American edition of the Life of Pitt.

THE FREE KNIGHTS, OR THE EDICT OF CHARLEMAGNE:

A DRAMA IN THREE ACTS,

INTERSPERSED WITH SONGS.

BY FREDERICK REYNOLDS.

PHILADELPHIA:

PUBLISHED BY BRADFORD AND INSKEEP; INSKEEP AND BRADFORD, NEW-YORK; AND WILLIAM M'ILHENNY, BOSTON.

_Smith & M'Kenzie, printers._ 1810.

THE FREE KNIGHTS.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

Prince Palatine,
The Abbot of Corbey,
Baron Ravensburg,
Count Roland,
Ravensburg,
Prisoner,
Bernardo,
St. Clair,
Everard,
Zastrow,
Walbourg,
Christopher,
Oliver,
First Falconer,
Second Falconer,
Free knights, Crusaders, Soldiers, Falconers.

Countess Roland,
Ulrica,
Agnes.

Dancers, Attendants.

_Scene--Westphalia._