Familiar Epistles To Frederick J---s, Esq On the Present State of the Irish Stage. Second Edition with Considerable Additions [by J. W. Croker] |
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| 5. | FIFTH EPISTLE. |
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 | Familiar Epistles To Frederick J---s, Esq |  |
FIFTH EPISTLE.
Aen. L. 1.
“I'm gone”—nay, Fred'rick, don't resign us
Nor like a coward sneak away
Just in the middle of the fray.
Take patience, man, resume your courage
And fight it out without demurrage—
Think what a subject of contention,
Should we ev'n one forget to mention
“'Twere better” hark their general call
“Be damned, than noticed not at all,”
For I have oft sat out the play.
And borne without complaints or grudges
Your Archers, Tancreds, Falconbridges,
Nor suffered his t'escape my tongue,
Tho' Phi---ps played, and Li---say sung;
And sure, however hard to bear,
My verses can't be worse than they are.
Who with deputed truncheon rule 'em:
Tower the second in command.
(Thus as old comedies record,
Christophero Sly, became a lord,)—
I own your merit, feel your power.
And from my prudent lips shall flow,
Words as light as flakes of snow:
For should I vex you, well you might
Repay't, by playing every night;
And furnished with most potent engines,
Gubbins or Scrub,—take ample vengeance.
F---ll---m's a very pleasant player;
In knavish craft, and testy age,
Sly mirth, and impotence of rage,
He's still, tho' often harsh and mean,
The evenest actor of our scene.
With humble blushes clothes his cheek;
Seems scarcely bold enough to raise
His eyes indifferent of praise,
And with demeanour mildly proud,
Retires in silence from the crowd.
To him, indeed, one vainly looks
For Kemble's rival, or for Cooke's,
With gleams from talent's purest skies;
And draws the tear, and melts the heart
By careless strokes of happiest art;
Oh! si sic omnia,—but alas!
Those gleams like winter's sunshine pass.
He seems to think a smiling face
And upright posture a disgrace,
And therefore labours to present
His visage cross, his body bent—
As if his sense perceived around,
Unsavoury smell, or dismal sound.
And thus we're left to wonder still
Who plays so well, should play so ill.
Davis plump, and Stuart lank—
O'er Davis, let us draw the veil,
Nor touch, e'er wounds have time to heal.
Let, undisturbed by satire, flow
The sacred stream of private woe,
No mortal hand to touch presume
The widow, weeping o'er the tomb.
Inveterate wedlock in her face,
Than all the preachers of the city:
Poor girl! sufficient torments teize you,
I will not blame, and cannot praise you.—
Are all the coffin-makers here?
Does grating F---t fright the nine?
C---ke play eight instruments together,
Or croaking frogs foretell wet weather?
Or solemn C---yne's pedantic growl?
And Li---say's echoed back by C---yne.
So at the morning's early hours,
One jack-ass tries his tuneful powers;
And quick another's dismal throat
Brays dreadful a responsive note,
It roars thro' cow-house, barn and sty,
Horseponds and ditches loud reply;
The pigs affrighted scamper wild,
And the vexed mother whips her child.
Be Blandford, or O'Trigger still,
But ne'er again attempt a song.
And waves her supplicating hands,
She fears again to be forgotten,
And prays most humbly to be brought in;
Whate'er folks say, the Bard has bowels,
And grants thy wishes gentle H---ls.
That swell a Covent-Garden chorus,
Thy thrilling voice, thy wond'rous taste,
Thy beauteous person—all were waste;
Taught you breathe Hibernian air;
And bad you lead the vocal throng,
Unrivall'd queen of Irish song.
Swept out her father's floor of clay,
Is now by fortune's whim an't please you,
La Principessa di Borghese.
No friend to democratic bustles,
No writer of the Northern Star,
No poet of Marengo's war,
No hater of the regal name,
To free the drama from a thing
So useless and so dull as K---g.
The Public torture and the shame,
Offend our ears and scare our eyes;
Kings, footmen, senators and hags
In ermine, livery, or rags.
Thick in terrific groups, they mix
Like ghosts upon the banks of Styx;
But so self-satisfied, 'tis plain
That they inflict, not suffer pain:
Low and conceited, pert and dull,
Each empty brain, and leaden scull,
Each cross-made shape, and gorgon face
Lay claims to beauty, sense, and grace;—
Stoops not t' admit them, or refuse;
She gives them neither praise or blame
And to the moon consigns each name
(Where connoisseurs collections show
Of all that's lost on earth below,)
There in dark cases let them fit
With O's skill, and V's wit;
S's good temper,—D's truth,
P's pity,—M's pence,
R's time,—and T's sense.
Archers, Tancred's, Falconbridges. Who ever has sat out the plays, in which these characters are, as they have been lately represented, have indeed more than common claims on the Patentee's gratitude. Richard J---s in Archer, was the least exceptionable of the triad and the infant, the most contemptible. Heu miserande Puer!
F---ll---m is the acting manager, and we are not therefore to be surprised at finding his own characters in the front of every bill; it is natural, and I should be well content, but that with an unhappy, tho' not uncommon fatality, his favourite parts are those which he plays worst;—His Scrub is execrable, and his Gubbins very indifferent.
I was much perplexed in forming an opinion of Mr. Hargrave's dramatic merit, as he is really one of the most uneven actors I ever saw. Had his private character been the subject of consideration, I should not have hesitated a moment to say, that it is one of the most respectable I have heard of.
I had much to say of this lady, but at this moment praise would be lost to her, and censure would be cruel—
The time which has elapsed since the first note was written, might perhaps authorize a little explanation at present, but I am charitable, and shall say nothing.
This little woman, under the name of Miss Griffiths, played for some time with considerable applause, for which she was indebted principally to a lively manner, and a pretty shape—
Deperdit aliquid semper, et fulget minus
Nec illa Venus est.
Her. Oet.
Her beauty (if it can be so called) is common to our eyes, and worn so threadbare, that it no longer covers her multitude of sins; and her liveliness she has completely lost with her pucellage—far be it from me, to guess whence the alteration proceeds; but it is visible and really afflicting. ‘Omne animal’—the proverb is somewhat musty— She was a tolerable Ariel, and was admired in some other light characters—but at this moment she is fit for nothing, but bearing Juliet's or Ophelia's pall.
For this gentleman's appearance on this stage, he has to thank his own and Mr. T. C---ke's indiscretion—they will understand me—if they should not, Mr. G*li*do may assist their memories.
This person is heroically indignant, at my not liking his verses! Que je suis à plaindre! I must not only read bad productions, but must praise them also.—But that cannot be; I too have an unlucky disposition to represent things as they are; and I must therefore repeat, that I think this agreeable writer's verses are even worse than his friend's music. But why should he complain? I dislike his verses—he abuses mine;—are we not even?
The never-sufficiently-to-be-extolled leader of the band, whom I have so often mentioned—it occurs to me, that he committed the dissonance alluded to; that, from doing so much in one evening, he might have leave ever after to retire at the end of the fourth act of the play, and abandon the ballet and farces to the guidance of his underlings.—Messrs. Salomon, Weischel, Cramer, or Shaw, who are, in some degree, Mr. C---ke's equals, never presumed to take such liberty; and I beg Mr. C---ke will consider whether it is decorous or respectful to the Public or his Employer.
This person is the only actor of Irish characters, now on the Irish stage, and the last we had was a Welchman. This is one of our practical bulls.—Li---say is, however, not only the Denis Brulgruddery, and the Sir Lucius O'Trigger of Dublin, but is also, poor man! one of our principal vocal performers. Mr. C---yne enacts the dignified and elegant Sir Philip Blandford, and the plain Steadfast, and even sometimes the mad Octavian; but he nevertheless condescends to officiate “invito Apollone,” as one of the tuneful train. To both those gentlemen, we may, without exaggeration, apply the ancient epigram,
Δημοφιλος, θνησκει κ' αυτος νυκτικοραξ.
Ανθολ. Δευτ. XXV.
An. 7.
In Ireland, the custom in cases of vexation and terror, is different from that of the Romans, as those who know any thing of the Irish cottager's manners can testify. I hope I have however preserved the spirit of the famous passage I allude to.This young lady was omitted in the first Edition; whether she will be satisfied with the mention made of her, I cannot say.—To characterize that, which had no character, was impossible; and to give force and variety to what is neither impressive or versatile, is beyond my powers.
The sister of the renowned Corsican, who now trembles on the throne of France, becoming, by the lucky death of a rapacious husband, the mistress of a large fortune, she thought she could not lay it out to greater advantage, than in getting a little quality into her family; and she accordingly bought herself a husband in Il generoso ed excellentissimo Principe di Borghese.
This person, who might truly be called king of the Gypsies, is an unlucky poor creature, whom the Managers continually expose to the derision of the Public, in the characters of lovers, heroes, and fine gentlemen. Horace's jest is much to the same purpose:
Oro qui Reges consuesti tollere cur non
Hunc Regem jugulas? operum hoc, mihi crede, tuorum est.
One person however, not especially mentioned, I must distinguish from this general judgment.—Mr. Waylett—of whom I have seen too little to be able to applaud him, and too much to pass him over in utter silence. He played Sir Oliver Surface one night, with a plain simplicity and ease, that made a very favourable impression—I hope it may not be defaced.
Matres atq; viri, desunctaque corpora vitâ
Magnanimûm heroum, pueri, innuptæque puellæ.
Aen. 6.
The resemblance lies, not in their numbers or appearances alone, but, in the “defuncta corpora vitâ” also. | Familiar Epistles To Frederick J---s, Esq | |