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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 | Familiar Epistles To Frederick J---s, Esq |  |
TO FREDERICK J---S, Esq. PATENTEE OF THE THEATRE ROYAL.
FIRST EPISTLE.
Hor. A. P
The bill of fare, and play-house bill,
Whose taste all other palates sways
Either in dishes, or in plays,
Come entremets or interlude;
Whose genius never at a loss is
Either for farces, or for sauces,
And regulates with happiest care
An epilogue or a dessert.
You, who with equal judgment sit
The arbiter of wine and wit,
By palate and by patent plac'd
Upon the double throne of taste;
If you, dear Manager, can spare a
Moment from Turbot and Madeira,
You'll find perhaps that my Epistle,
Tho' not so sweet to mouth or whistle,
And flat, in edible respect,
Is savoury to the intellect.
That abrogates our ancient laws,
And like the Gallic revolution,
Subverts old Crow-street's constitution;
Thus Shakespeare, Monarch of the realm
Of plays, his subjects overwhelm,
And mad with rebel fury grown,
Insult, and sentence, and dethrone;—
Thus Fletcher, Jonson, Otway, Rowe,
The nobles of the stage, are low,
Or else dispers'd by barbarous arts,
Are émigrés in foreign parts;
Whilst in their places rise and sit,
The very tiers-etat of wit;
Kotzebue, chief consul of the stage;
Of lineage foreign and obscure,
Of manners harsh, of thought impure;
Bold, brutal, bloody and in few,
Just like his brother of St. Cloud.
In managers, the stage and state
Have to lament as hard a fate;
'Tis no more Barry, or Choiseul,
Fleuri, or Sheridan, that rule,
But Talleyrand and J---s appear,
And Fouché there, and F*ll*m here.
What is our manager's excuse?
What can he urge in his defence,
For want of judgment and of sense?
“He owns,” he says, “the ancient plays
“Are seldom acted now-a-days,
“And modern critics rather choose
“A younger than a grandam muse;
“That 'tis his business to provide
“For people's tastes and not to guide,
“And with the nice and squeamish town,
“That novelties alone go down.”
These novelties for Irish use,
That we to foreign hands must roam,
For goods we us'd to make at home?
Where is the soul of drama fled?
Is genius paralyz'd or dead?
That artless Southerne's native shore,
Produces tragic bards no more.
Shall Farquhar's, Congreve's, native isle
No more with wit peculiar smile?
And can no kindred soul, from death,
Catch Sheridan's expiring breath,
And give the stage, for one life more,
A lease of humour's choicest store?
Does time with niggard hand inspire
Our later age with feebler fire?
Or is it that dramatic genius
In Ireland's a crime so heinous,
Either as player or as poet?—
Heaven ne'er inflicts a mental blight
On all abilities outright;
The rain and wind will ruin corn,
But what can mildew wit unborn,
And blast like barley, wheat or bere
Genius “en ventre de sa mere.”
How comes it then that 'tis by rumour
Alone, we know of Irish humour,
And our dramatic talent all is
Comprized in Atk---on and La---ess? —
Soul of good humour and good nature,
Whose inoffensive gabble runs
Eternal, with eternal puns,
But fit to write a play, no more
Than J---b P---le, or Lord Gl---ore.
Unfit to carry on a plot,
And, as we're ready to confess,
Preserves the unities t' excess;
But for the rest,—the glowing mind,
Terse thought, and dialogue refin'd;
He'll do our country as much honour
As Nelson, Russel, or O'Connor.
The crimes of other men were shed,
And prudent L---less heard secur'd
The hearty hiss that you endur'd,
Whilst in your secret soul you thought
'Twere better hammer pan or pot,
Or e'en with hireling pencil trace
G---n's shape, or K---x's face,
By father'd play and borrow'd name.
Springs from the Manager's neglect;
“For who of common sense,” they say,
“Would write what there are none to play,
“Or venture to entrust his pieces
“To such a company as this is,
“Who seem with equal skill to handle
“Lock and Key, and School for Scandal.
“Holman may carry to our neighbours
“Of Drury Lane, his Irish labours,
“His genius in the Gipsey Prince,
“But bards in gen'ral would be undone
“By the mere journey up to London.
“And thus in Irish durance pent,
“The brightest mind must be content
“To see our thespian murderers maul
“His scenes, or else not write at all.”—
Cannot at present be discuss'd,
But if I find, you take not this ill
I'll weigh it in my next Epistle.
To such of my readers as have the misfortune not to belong to Daly's, or be in habits of eating with the bon vivants of Dublin, it may be necessary to say, that Mr. J---s understands the regulation of a table at least as well as that of a Theatre; which is not surprising, when we consider how much more the former has employed his thoughts and his time.
Our old English authors however despised at home, are in high request abroad, and afford indeed a very ample fund to the French and German plagaries.
Without having any great respect for Kotzebue's moral character, it is but justice to declare, that it is only in his dramatic capacity that I compare him with the worst man of this, or perhaps of any age.
Far be it from me to put those respectable gentlemen, in the same rank with the apostate Talleyrand, or the Septembriser Fouché, in any other than a metaphorical sense; they are the ministers of a revolutionized stage; as such I dislike and oppose their administration: But very unlike other oppositionists, I may be brought over by a change of measures, without a change of men.—If Mr. Windham reads this note, he will pronounce me an egregious blockhead.
Divini ingegni, i quali coi lor belissimi pensieri e noblissimi opere la patria ed età loro adornavano. Tolom: Oraz.
Joseph Atk---on, Esq. M. R. I. A. &c. &c. Author of “Love in a Blaze,” an operatical drama, a strange collection of stupid, and sometimes indecent vulgarisms, upon which Sir John Stevenson threw away some very good music, which it had cost him much trouble to compile.
“Plus d'un spectature bailla.”
L---ess, the author of “Trial's All,” a Comedy, produced not long since at Crow-street. If I remember rightly, the plot was, that a young man, accused of a conspiracy, is brought to trial and acquitted; what could have turned Mr. L---ess's cogitations to such Green-street subjects?
I am told that this noble Peer is a scholar and a man of parts; shall I venture to own, I never could discover in him any resemblance to either. He would make a good Lord of the bed-chamber, but for any thing else—!!!
Can these mean play-house plots and unities?—Mr. L---ess, I am told, has consulted Counsel, with a view of prosecuting my Printer for a libel. Is this then the stuff of which patriots are made? Are those the men who profess themselves friends to the liberty of the press? The very word Press conjures up odd recollections, and they are not recollections of consistency and candour.
This person from being a brazier, metamorphosed himself into a very middling painter, and finally became an indifferent actor, under the title of Mr. Herbert.—He fathered L---ess's play, which before representation was extolled as a miracle of genius, but alas! “Trial's All”—the piece was not so fortunate as its hero. I do not forget to Mr. D---ing, the play he chose for his benefit in a time of sedition and Jacobinism, when even those who in general were incredulous of proverbs, began to fear that ‘Vis unita fortior’ was but too true. I hope Mr. Dowling's error was not intentional, or if it was, that he has come to a sounder way of thinking.
Had these gentlemen not been often publicly assured that they were not beauties, I should not have presumed to have made them the au pis aller, of a painter's aversion.
Had these gentlemen not been often publicly assured that they were not beauties, I should not have presumed to have made them the au pis aller, of a painter's aversion.
Holman is now in London, soliciting the acceptation of a piece, written during his stay in Ireland— The play it appears has been damned, but this does not affect my argument: had it been brought out here, it would have been doubly damned, once for its own sake, and again for that of the players.
Tommy M---e. In Ireland we used to shew our admiration of his poetic talents, by asking him to supper; in England they reward him with a commercial, and in some degree legal office—this shows the difference of the national taste;—with us, abilities are dissipated in conviviality, and with them, fettered by the ties of interest and business. Between us, I fancy poor Tom is not likely to be much improved, or even enriched. And I am truly sorry for it; for with about as many faults as other people have, he possesses twice as much genius and agreeability as any body else. I cannot say much for his morality.—
In such hands, if any person were mad enough to write for the Irish stage, I fancy we might say with the French Vaudeville:
L'autre tombe dans la misére;
Rarement on tombe d'accord,
Beaucoup tombent dans la rivière.
On voit quelquesois un amant
Tomber au genoux de ses belles;
Mais ce qui tombe très souvent,
Ce sont nos pièces nouvelles.
The Reader will observe, that this line bears the mark of my original design of publishing by livraisons—let me add, that I have reason to hope Mr. Jones does not take my freedom ill. He is too much a man of the world, to be vexed at a little good humoured raillery on his scientia edendi—I dare say had I even told the story of the ham slewed in Madeira he would have forgiven me.
SECOND EPISTLE. [TO FREDERICK J---S]
Mæstum ac Sollicitum est:
Hor. L. 1. S. 2.
The Crow-street corps in triumph comes,
Fierce in theatric pride, they take
The hostile field for glory's sake,
Their master's honour and their own;
And prove to visual demonstration,
The justice of their reputation.
In person every gallant soul
That nightly drains the tragic bowl;
And all who in the comic strife
Kick up their heels and call it life;
And every son of farce, and all
Who op'ras scrape, or op'ras squall,
Each Leap-Jack that thro' ballets capers,
And all who light and snuff the tapers:
Led on by modest Mc. A---ly;
Who in his ardour of hostility,
Forgets his annual civility,
Which (to the moon as ocean flows)
Comes with his benefit and goes—
Eager for fight, the heroes brandish
Their swords, the box-keeper his standish,
Their truncheons ghosts,—their brooms the witches:
The Mechanists in dire commotion
With storms disturb the earth and ocean,
Blow up their mines, burst rocks in sunder,
And roll, like Jove of yore, the thunder.
Whose labours Kuster's art disgrace,
The place that should contain their brains;
To earn a mean and paltry bribe ill,
And what they cannot answer, libel.
Loose Falsehood, rolling squinting eyes;
And bearing thro' th' embattled field
Foul impudence's changeless shield—
And slanderous serpents hiss around—
With this she speeds her way along,
To fire and animate the throng
Thro' thick and thin, in wrong and right,
To vengeance and eternal fight.
Smooth the brow, and calm the breast,
Vain is your bustle, and your fear
Causeless, no enemy is near.
Private hate, or causeless spleen,
Aims to wound with felon dart,
The feelings of the honest heart—
Whom private interest can bind:
And who with mercenary aim,
Scatters around promiscuous fame,—
Equals to Garrick or to Barry
The Hero of the push and parry;
Discreetly hints that sportive Clive
In Da---d---n is still alive:
That C---ke is equal to Correlli.
Far, far from these my course is drawn
Averse to slander, or to fawn.
To actor I have never spoken,
Nor seen a play on actor's token:
By them ne'er mimick'd or abused,
Nor granted orders or refused;
To private love or private hate.
T' attend the gen'ral that reviews,
“Bear” by my side, “a wary eye,”
And see your regiment pass by.
First T---lb---t comes, the first indeed—
But fated never to succeed
In the discerning eye of those
Who form their taste on Kemble's nose,
And deem that genius a dead loss is
Without dark brows, and long proboscis;
To rival Kemble's sombrous stare,
Or reach that quintessence of charms
With which black Roscius moves his arms.
A trifling air and girlish form,
Ill-fitted to the tragic storm:
A baby face, that sometimes shows
Alike in transports or in woes,
Will ne'er permit him to resemble,
Or soar the tragic flights of Kemble;
Yet in some scenes together plac'd
His greater feeling, equal taste
From a judicious audience draws
As much and as deserv'd applause.
He rules o'er comedy, supreme,
And shows by nature chastly fit
To play the gentleman or wit;
Not Harris's, nor Coleman's boards,
Nor all that Drury-lane affords,
Give so much life to Mirabel;
Or show for light and airy sport,
So exquisite a Doricourt.
Sometimes it seems that thoughts arise,
That cloud his brow, and dim his eyes,—
Buried be such within his breast
There whilst he's acting let them rest;
Nor on his countenance be shown,
Whining mirth and maudlin sun;—
Nor let him, negligent of grace,
Swing his arms and writhe his face,
Nor sway and balance with his form,
Like sailors walking in a storm;
But move the course, by Garrick track'd in,
And act—as if he were not acting;—
Fortune must Crown his toils at last.
Living memento of the tomb;—
Upon her dark unalter'd brow,
Sits one eternal cloud of woe,
And from her throat a voice she heaves
Like winds that moan thro' ruin'd caves;
The trembling stage she passes o'er,
As if she stepp'd knee deep in gore;
And every dismal glance she scowls,
Seems cast at daggers, racks, and bowls.
But this is error;—sternest grief
Bars not the soul from all relief;
And human feelings ne'er remain
Stretch'd on the unceasing rack of pain.—
Poor Shore, some rays of hope beguile,
And Denmark's queen must sometimes smile;
And lives on Lady Randolph's cheeks.—
Short is the beam that breaks the night
Of grief, but thence 'tis doubly bright,
And woe so touching ne'er appears,
As April smiles, thro' showers of tears.
An easier look, and lighter air,
Give more emotion to her face,
And to her shape a varying grace;
With so much feeling, so much sense,
We'd own her claim to eminence—
Confess her easily the queen
Of all that sweep our tragic scene,
And fix her place between, (let's say)
Siddons and W---lst---in, just half way.
This allegorical or rather prophetical commotion, which in the first Edition was only a vision of fancy, has been fully realized.—In vain did the Patentee advise the players not to buy the Book, in vain did he send one copy to the Green-room, to supersede the necessity of general purchase, in vain did he exhort them to say nothing about it, and that it would “die and be forgotten”—all in vain, the pertinaceous Book would not die, and the indiscreet actors took care it should not be forgotten—οι μεν στενα χοντο κατα πτολιν this, with perhaps some little merit in the work, has been the occasion that five hundred copies have been sold in a few days, and the eyes of five hundred people have been directed to a subject of national importance—“nunc” I may say with Tacitus “perfecto spectaculo apertum iter.”—
I did this man the injury to omit his name in my first Edition; his subsequent conduct induces me to rectify my error. His activity to discover the Author of these Letters, has been as constant as unsuccessful, and his criticisms on my Work, aye the deputy Box-keeper's criticisms, have been as daring as ridiculous; a kind of old clothes man of news, he ran about picking up shreds and patches of information, with which he formed a party-colored jacket for the imaginary author.—I did not wish to mention him, but he knows by what imperious means he has forced himself into the honor of “nitching into verse,” but I hope I have gagged him at last, and that henceforward he may be deterred from thinking or speaking of what heaven has set apart from low rank, and mean understandings.
The tribe of Shuffletons, because the authors and (where they have omitted it) the actors have, of late, represented all young men of rank or vivacity, with a most disgusting sameness of vulgarity, folly and vice.—“facies omnibus una.
I place those gentlemen near the summit of my climax, because really their éleves, the sea, the rocks, the trees, and the tempests, are the most admired, and indeed the best performers we have. I have more than once seen an unruly audience entirely appeased by a thunder-storm; and a well-timed shower of rain never fails (if sufficiently violent) to produce the most comfortable and tranquilizing effects.
It is a fact, and to my knowledge, that some writers in the public Journals, who are mean enough to flatter the managers and actors, and base enough to revile their opponents, are rewarded with free admissions to the Theatre.—But indeed they are overpaid.
Α ιγιδ' εχουσ' εριτιμον, αγηραον, αθανατην τε
Της εκατον θυσανοι παγχρυσεοι ηερεθονται,
Συν τη παιφασσουσα διεσσυτο λαον )αχαιων
Οτρυνουσ' αλληκτον πολεμιξειν.
Hom. Il. 2.
Nor shall the silly malevolence of their defenders, induce me to add at present, a syllable of censure on any performer.
A very good fencing master perhaps, a very indifferent player most certainly. If Buonaparté ever obtains the dominion of the Irish republic, I hope he will not have the ingratitude to forget him who so pompously displayed the triumphs of Marengo, in the very Theatre Royal of the Capital.—Mr. J---s, Mr. J---s, you permitted it! Is not your name in the red-book Mr. J---s, as one of the Viceroy's household?
I pity this poor girl, who is for ever obtruded on the public in parts very unfit for her; she may, for aught I know, have her own little merits, but they must be in a very different style of character from that she usually plays.
The modest and diffident Mr. T. C---ke, who played on eight different instruments for his own benefit;—I am sure it was neither benefit or pleasure to any one else. This person writes new overtures, to all the operas which are imported to our stage, beginning generally with chords, and ending with an Irish jig, and this he calls composition. The young man however has some merit, and if he went to London, would probably make two or three guineas a week by playing country dances at the winter balls.—Seriously, I wish he could be taught a little science, a little taste, and a little modesty, and he might be a very useful and agreeable fiddler.
Orders, in theatrical language, mean free admissions, with which actors sometimes gratify their friends; tho' I am told they generally expect some remuneration, either in the disposal of tickets for their benefits, or the inditing puffs for the public prints. Damusque, petimusque.—
Tho' I have so fully given my opinion of T---lb---t in verse, let me however add in prose, that I fear he is not quite so great a favourite behind the curtain, as he is before it.—I should wish to see him oftener.
Tullus Aufidius in Coriolanus, and Lisimachus in Alexander, (amongst many other of his parts) are fine specimens of his ability—whether it arises from emulation or chance, I cannot determine; but he certainly plays best, when he plays with Kemble.
Will the reader forgive me for requesting him at this passage and at some others, when truth has given me leave to praise: to turn back to the extracts from the Freeman's Journal, in page 18 of the Preface—well! you have read it—pray what do you think of the Kitchenstuff Gazette, of the literary Ragouts of our modern Mistyllus and Taratalla? I know your answer—
“Quid hoc veneni fœvit in præcordiis?
“Num veperinus his cruor
“Incoctis verbis me fefellit?
Hor. Epo. 3.
Let me not be understood to represent T---lb---t as a perfect comic actor, when I only consider him, as the least distant from excellence, of any that I have lately seen.—Proximus, sed intervallo.
I have seen him play, at least, the two former of those characters at Drury-lane with universal admiration.—Mrs. Jordan (no very bad judge) thinks him, as I am told, the best Mirabel on the stage.
I have seen him play, at least, the two former of those characters at Drury-lane with universal admiration.—Mrs. Jordan (no very bad judge) thinks him, as I am told, the best Mirabel on the stage.
I have seen him play, at least, the two former of those characters at Drury-lane with universal admiration.—Mrs. Jordan (no very bad judge) thinks him, as I am told, the best Mirabel on the stage.
On the subject of the respective merits of Mrs. G---li---do and Miss W---lst---in, I can easily believe, that my adjudication will be disputed by the admirers of the latter, “car la beauté est dangereuse, et il n'y a pas de “venin plus capable de corrompre l'integrité d'une juge.” But I guess the public will be, in general, of my opinion.—Mrs. G---li---do is too lugubre, but she is still a very good actress in her line; and to do her justice, she never makes herself ridiculous, by attempting parts which she is not, in some degree, fitted for.
THIRD EPISTLE.
laudis fuistis, delenda vobis est illa macula.
Cic. pro. L. M.
Or shape the critic coldness warm,
Could gay variety dispense
On every essay, excellenee;
And were we only bound to tell
How much one plays, and not how well;—
A galaxy of praise should shine,
And every word I write upon her,
Should offer eulogy and honour;—
But she whom all pursuits engage,
This female Proteus of the stage,
Who thro' all nature boldly flies,
And in one little fortnight tries
Calista, Yarico, and Nell,
And poor Sir Peter's rural belle,
Cannot, in reason, hope to claim
In all her parts, an equal fame.
I own her feeling, taste and spirit,
Her versatility of merit,
I own that it were hard to find
In one, more excellence combin'd;
The gay, the grave, the great, the small;
And, vainly, prove herself at heart
A kind of Crow-street Bonaparte?
Will no one whisper, that she plays ill
The froward mirth of Lady Teazle;
Or hint that nothing can beguile,
To humour, her sepulchral smile.
Her eye in tragic glances roll'd,
The length'ning nose of Kemble mould,
And chin eternal, must prevent
Her looking archly innocent,
Look'd like Macbeth in masquerade—
And Siddons in her mirth we find
Mixing up Shore with Rosalind;
To follow nature as your guide,
Or—but the candid muse will spare
Comparisons 't were hard to bear!—
Alas! how willingly I'd raise
The song of undiminish'd praise;
If, spite of beauty and of youth,
You were not still less fair than truth,
The spots of error on your fame,
Only in hopes to see it rise,
The unclouded radiance of our skies.
Cravat and cape, and spurs and switches,
Grin and grimace and shrugs and capers,
And affectation, spleen, and vapours?
Prithee give o'er to mouth and mumble;
Stand still, speak plain, and let us hear
What was intended for the ear,
For faith without the timely aid,
Of bills, no parts you've ever played,
Sharper, Stroller, Lounger, Lover,
Could I amidst your mad-cap pother
Ever distinguish from each other.
Lewis 'tis true that jumps and prates,
And mutters and extravagates;
But then it equally as true is
That Mr. J---s! you are not Lewis.
Victorious o'er the frost of years;
Fresh flowers adorn her latest days,
A kind of thespian aloes.—
Blest in each walk of social life,
Unwrung by care, unvexed by strife;
With placid mind and temperate soul
She sees old Time innoxions roll,
And from his favouring pinions shed
Age unoppressive o'er her head.
Nor meanly low, nor brightly great,
She walks the stage's middle course
Without or feebleness or force;
And whatsoe'er she act, our eyes
No faults offend, or powers surprize.
With talents, such as Pope possessed,
They should not take a greater scope,
Or strive to figure more than Pope.
Every part and every day,
The young, the old, coquette, or prude,
Polished dame, or housewife rude—
Till surfeited at last, we feel
The truth of “la pâté d'anguille.”
With face most whimsically gruff,
Aping the careless sons of ocean,
He scorns each fine and easy motion;
Tight to his sides his elbow pins,
And dabbles with his hands like fins;
He slaps his breast, and points his toe;
Is merriment to be expressed,
He points his toe and slaps his breast.
His turns are swings,—his step a jump,
His feelings fits,—his touch a thump;
And violent in all his parts,
He speaks by gusts, and moves by starts.
Foretells the talent of the creature;
Lively and vulgar, low and pert
She plays, au vif, the peasant flirt,
And hits, without the slightest aid
From Art, the saucy chamber-maid.
The flights of her aspiring soul;—
Could she be satisfied with all
The glories of the servants'-hall,
Nor e'er with daring steps presume
To figure in the drawing room;—
With Mincing and not Millamant,
And following nature's humble course,
Decline Bisarre and play Lamorce,
None would have guessed that she had ne'er
Observed what life and manners were,
Nor ever known a circle higher
Than that around the green-room fire.
This kind of “paysanne parvenue”
This Nell in lady's robes arrayed,
This hash of mistress and of maid.
And yet not all the blame attaches
To her,—she naturally snatches,
At spangled gowns, and caps of lace,
To mend her figure and her face—
But why this travesty permitted?
Because we've no one better fitted;
Of right or wrong, our plays are marred;
An useful actress is disgraced,
And insult braves the public taste.
On revising my opinion of this young lady, I find that it is perhaps too favourable—but n'importe, the world always receives a man's commendations of a pretty woman, cum grano salis.
A legal wit said of a brother barrister, that a smile on his countenance was like plating on a coffin. Such is Miss W---lst---in's attempt to look sprightly: She plays the gay parts of Miss Hardy tolerably, because she plays them in a mask. To her success, however, in this character, we are to attribute a good deal of the vanity I complain of, I wish she could get some of her male acquaintance to translate for her use, this excellent precept of Horace:
Ab insolenti temperatam
Lætitiâ.
I have had the misfortune to see this exhibition, truly it was, as Shakespeare says, “most tragical mirth.”
Miss W---lst---in seems to have no more objection to appear in breeches before two or three hundred men, than Mrs. Siddons—tho' they are equal in modesty, they are very unlike in personal attractions, and poor Siddons did least mischief.
I have heard of a lady who wept plentifully throughout the whole of “As you like it,” from an unhappy opinion, that Rosalind was Jane Shore. I am glad to relate the anecdote that so much good tears should not go for nothing.
This youth has a kind of merit, which he greatly overates, but which a little study and some slight efforts at remedying the original defects of education and manners, may improve to perhaps more than respectability. He is almost always lively, never rational, sometimes amusing, seldom intelligible: on a stage nearly barren of merit, it is natural he should be “fêté” inoculus inter cæcos, is a very considerable person. He is almost the “acteur gáté” that Gil Blas describes, “a qui le parterre pardonne tout; on lui marquoit trop le plaisir que l'on prenoit a le voir, aussi en abusait-il; si l'on eût fifflé; au lieu de crier miracle, on lui auroit souvent rendu justice.”—Let me however do justice to his Diddler; the character is luckily as extravagant (I mean metaphorically) as the actor; and both are wonderfully outres and entertaining.
Lewis, has great faults and great beauties; why should not R. J---s be as capable of imitating the latter as the former?—He has undoubtedly no inconsiderable disposition towards making a good actor, and I own I should not have treated him so cavalierly, but that I perceive him to be nearly spoiled by over-praise; my over fastidiousness I am not inclined to deny, and so I should hope a fair estimate may be made of his merit. It is just to add, that he is very correct and very assiduous in his new parts. “Juvat me hoc tribuisse.”
Lewis, Pope, and some others, feeling the absolute necessity of some portion of literature in the composition of a good player, took very considerable trouble in this regard, even after they had been some time on the stage; yet neither of them had been a mere mechanic.—Whilst Mr. J---s should be studying his profession, he is seen walking up and down Damestreet, canvassing salutes from every well dressed man, who will condescend to nod to him: “Good den, Sir Richard,—Gad a mercy, fellow.”
Miss Pope. Le dernier rejetton of the old school, the pupil of the Garricks, the imitator of the Clives, and the best actress that the men of our day ever have seen, or perhaps ever will see. Those who have had the happiness to see her Mrs. Heidleberg with King's Lord Ogleby, and Wewitzers Canton, in the Clandestine Marriage, may form an opinion of “how plays should be acted.”
This is by no means the result of a mis-timed vanity in Mrs. H---ch---ck; it is the necessary consequence of the miserable deficiency of good actresses, with which our drama is afflicted.—The public is rather under obligations to Mrs. H---ch---ck, for the readiness with which she undertakes every thing that she thinks can conduce to their entertainment.
The variety of parts she is obliged by the poverty of the company to study and play, must be very distressing to a person of her age and situation—
Si quæ laborissa est, ad cam curritur
Sin lenis est, ad aliam defertur.
Ter. prol. in Heautontim.
Setting out of the question the absurdity of seeing an old woman (whatever be her vigor and talents) playing girlish parts, I must confess that in theatrical matters “diversité (not novelty, take notice) est ma devise.” La Fontaine, La Pâté d'anguille.
This man plays seconderate characters, with fourth rate abilities—Some of his sailors are very well; and of this he is so satisfied, that knowing where his talent lies, he turns all his parts into sailors. His Crabtree, his Job Thornberry, his Ibrahim, are dismal instances of this amphibious merit.
Retorta tergo brachia.
Format enim natura prius nos intus ad omnem Fortunarum habitum— I am sure nature never intended Mrs. W---ll---ms for a fine lady, or even for a fine gentleman, a character she sometimes attempts. It is really disgraceful, that there should be no actress on the Dublin stage, capable of playing the well bred female characters of our best plays; poor Mrs. W---ll---ms is obliged to give up a line of acting in which she is very respectable, to stop by the most ridiculous efforts, the gaps of the company—this is a heavy misfortune to the audience, but, “en revanche,” 'tis a great saving to the managers—good actresses demand good salaries, and Mrs. W*ll*ms is so much clear gain—
“Nunquam animo pretiis obstantibus.”
FOURTH EPISTLE.
Sub nutrice, velut si luderit insans.
Hor. Epis. ad Aug.
Fixed is each eye and stilled each sound,
Silence on every lip is pressed,
And pleasure throbs in every breast.
What is to come? will Barry rise,
Or Garrick glad our wond'ring eyes?
What miracle is to be wrought
Beyond the common scope of thought?
And lo! Glenalvon, and—Tom Thumb:
Now clapping hands, and loud huzzas
Thunder the rapture of applause,
The very walls are rocked and why—
The hero's only four feet high!
The noise redoubles,—we are told
The hero's only twelve years old!
The raptures of the critic mind
To tell, could we our Douglas call,
But two years old, and two feet tall!!!
No wonder Randolph should be jealous,
He such a charming little fellow's,
See how he steps in stately pride
At least six inches every stride,
See how he swells with lordly rage
Altho' no higher than a page;—
The little Grildrig strive to daunt,
O'er both he triumphs, and alack!
Slays one;—Oh giant-killing Jack!!!
For loud applause and houses great,
The Roscius, this whose radiance bright,
Should dim the ineffectual light
Of every size and every age?—
A pitying Public to befool,
A baby victim, to atone
For all the faults of folks full grown:
As for the people's sins, of old
They slew the firstling of the fold,
Those who should sacrifice a lamb.
Thy talents far beyond thy years,
Thy simple tones untuned by art,
Would melt to praise the critic heart,
Were praise not ruin;—if you now
To plain advice refuse to bow,
And rather lay thy boyish claim
To gusts of praise, than lasting fame;—
And then, poor child,—farewell for ever.”
But to thy studies hence again—
Turn the page, and guide the pen;
Leave to the fribble and the fool,
To scorn the seasoning of the school.
In History's magic glass, descry
How sages live, and heroes die,
Import their manners and costume,
Weigh all thy parts with learned care,
Be first a critic, then a player;—
Shall give thy shape its manly prime,
And thought and study have resin'd,
And stored with classic taste thy mind;
Then to the scene return, and claim
Thy well-earned mead,—perennial fame.
The poet's critic song is due;
Ne'er formed thee for the loud and bold—
To rule with haughty Margaret's air,
To shriek Alicia's mad despair,
To pour with Constance, hatred's flood,
Or grasp the daggers steeped in blood.
It meant thee for the gentler parts
Of moistened eyes, and melting hearts;
The humble sympathetic friend,
Prompt to weep—to bear—to bend,
The duteous child, submissive wife,
And all the softer shades of life.
But sad reverse—the face and form
Which art might animate and warm,
Have never known the care of art.
And thus the choicest gifts are lost,
Torpor your calm,—your mildness frost;
Untouched you smile,—unmoved you weep,—
Your voice a dream—your silence sleep.
The atlas of our vocal state,
Who of all Crow-street's sons alone,
Can read a note or swell a tone,
Comes smirking Ph---ips full of graces,
Tottering in his girlish paces,
(Where taste has done, what taste can do.)
But of his pipe so vain withal,
That faith he never sings at all—
That folks should think he'd act Leander—
But if you give the part of Braham,
Perhaps he'll condescend to play 'em;
Or if you beg it, will attack a
Bravura, Arriette, Polacca,
But to sing every common air,
Is more than gentlemen can bear.
Tho' heaven bestowed the vocal strain—
All but yourself can see your cursed
To sing the best, and act the worst.
A child of the name of Beatty, a native of Belfast, has been very lately added to the force of the company, “mercy on us, a bearne; a very pretty bearne” indeed—but so young, as even in the part of Douglas, to throw an appearance of ridicule and fantocinity over the whole performance. This folly of exhibiting children, is not quite modern. “There is, Sir,” says Rosincrantz to Hamlet “an aiery of young children little eyases, that cry out on the top of question, and are most tyrannically clapped for it.—These are now the fashion”—but I believe it never was, before this year, the fashion to introduce one infant to play the first characters among men and women—oh! 'tis a dainty device to attract an audience, Daly's poney races were not much worse.
Though I only take notice of this part, it is meet to set it down, that the infant played Romeo to Mrs. Kni---ton's Juliet, and that they looked like an overgrown girl and her doll. I should not be much amazed to see him advertised for Henry the VIII. or Sir John Falstaffe.—He has also played Prince Arthur: this was as it should be, mirabile dictu!—Since the first part of this note was written, this ill-fated Baby has been exhibited in Hamlet!!!—Absurdity, cruelty, and contempt, could have devised nothing more insulting to good sense, humanity, and the Public.
The victory of Beatty over Hargrave, (Infelix puer atque impar congressus Achilli) was like the battles in Mother Goose's tales, in which fairies never fail to overcome giants; but the wonder is not greater than that one individual should subdue the good sense of a whole city, into a thraldom.
This was the modest title under which the “little eyase,” was announced “ad captandum vulgus,” and it did its office with a vengeance. I heard some of my brethren of the pit discoursing, “who this Roscius could be;” one learned gentleman asserted, that it was one Garrick's christian name; but the general opinion seemed to be, that he was a French actor, who had been guillotined in the early days of the revolution. Those critics I observed to be particularly loud and judicious in their applauses, as might be supposed.
Children have ever been an engine of pity and pardon;
Perhaps thy childishness will move them more
Than our reason ------
La quale (dispositione) accompagnata del' ajuto ordinario delle forze umane, può un giorno, rendere quel giovine de sommo talento. Vit. de Sisto. V.
I do not deny the boy's abilities, but I protest against turning the stage into a nursery; and I lament that a promising child should be deprived “del' ajuto ordinario,” which might make him an useful man, to be converted into a source of theatrical revenue, and public ridicule.—“Young men,” says Bacon, “should be learners, while men grown up are actors:”—This is true in every sense.
The number of good actors who were not men of education is very small: but now a days we imagine that all talents come by inspiration, and that great abilities are the result of the temporary exertion of what are called, our energies.—“Tout est bien, sortant des mains de l'auteur des choses, tout dégénère entre les mains de l'homme.” Many persons seem to have read no farther in Emile than the first sentence, which is the most false and sophistical in the whole work—et c'est beau-coup dire.
Were it not for some men of education who, luckily for the pleasures of the world, became managers and actors, we should still have Cato played in a full-bottomed wig, and Coriolanus en habit galonné, and peruque a la reine—
Sinks the last actor in a tawdry load.
Booth enters;—hark! the universal peal!
“But has he spoken?”—not a syllable,
“What shook the stage and made the people stare?”
Cato's long wig, flower'd gown, and lacquer'd chair.
Pope.
“Il portait,” says Scarron of M. Destin, des chausses troussées a bas d'attache comme celles des comediens quand ils reprèsentent un héros de l'antiquité.”
I have given, perhaps, to Beatty more than his share of attention, but I shall not lament my trouble, if I should have any influence in dissuading him from persisting, at present, in his dramatic pursuits, and in restoring him to the lessons of his masters 'till he can say with the son of Ulysses:—
Νυν δ' οτε δη μεγας ειμι, και αλλων μυθον ακουων
Πυνθανομαι, και δη μοι αεξεται ενδοθι θυμος,
Πειρησω.------
This lady has some neglected capabilities about her, but she is one of the most inanimate actresses I have ever seen.
In heroic soubrettes, the Annas, the Cleones, and the Cephisas, Mrs. Kn---ton might be very respectable. We could wish to see her name substituted in general, for that of Mrs. Chal---ers, who is by no means fit even for the parts she plays.
It is very agreeable to me to be able to say, that in some passages of the character of Amelrosa, Mrs. Kn---ton was an exception to herself—she was animated and affecting.
Phi---ips has some merit as a singer;—his voice is, however, better adapted to a room, than to a theatre—and to the accompaniment of a forte-piano, than of an orchestra—but he is, as I am informed, so intolerably vain, that it is sometimes difficult to induce him to play. Singers have ever been remarked for their capriciousness, but even he whom Horace ridicules for that folly, did not, as would seem, presume to carry it farther than his own private circle.
“Omnibus hoc vitium est cantoribus, inter amicos Ut nunquam inducant animum cantare rogati.” Tigellius would never, I dare swear, disappoint the public. Poor Mr. Phi---ps, who, like other fine gentlemen, is rather nervous, has been prodigiously disconcerted at this mention of him; but to do him justice, I think he will take care not to deserve a repetition of my notice, and that I shall have the pleasure of reclaiming him from lounging Dame-street, and founding clubs.
To bring them back to reason and the shop.
Mr. Phi---ips is reported to have refused the part of Leander in the Padlock, as below his mark; and still more wonderful to relate, they had no one to supply his place, Mr. Phi---ips being the only professed singer at present on the Irish stage, except Messrs. Co---e and Li---say, who, I suppose, declined the character also. I should have been much pleased to have seen either of those latter gentlemen attempt it, “it would be argument for a week, laughter for a month, and a good jest for ever.”
Mr. Phi---ips, I am told, piques himself on being much of a gentleman, I am exceedingly glad of it; and as it is now become quite vulgar to be indisposed, we hope he will get entirely well of those sudden and periodic colds that so often affect him, and deprive us of the pleasure of hearing him. Is Mr. Phi---ips ashamed of a title which the first Lord of the Treasury boasts of, that of a servant of the Public?
At present I shall say no more of this muscadinsongster—but
Quæ proferentur post, si perget tædere.
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.Téngon l'anime triste di coloro
Che visser sanza infamia e sanza lodo.
Dant. Infern. C. 3.
Whether these letters be initial or final, whether they signify names, or indeed whether they mean any thing at all, I must be excused from disclosing.
If they have no signification, why should I betray my own nonsense? and if they be typical, it belongs to the Public to make the application.
SIXTH EPISTLE.
Breathe on encomiastic Pye,
And deck his periodic lays
With honied trope and flowery phrase;
Deign on your suppliant bard to shower
The gentlest influence of your power,
And teach my voice to celebrate
The glories of the Thespian state;
This labour o'er from verse I rest—
Besides my lays to J---s belong,
What muse to J---s denies a song.
Fair Eulogy is far away,
Teaching young Preachers to disclose
The beauties of poetic prose,
Flights of prosaic poetry.
Dame Censure to my closet comes;
Of journals floats her patchwork gown,
Post, Courier, Chronicle and Sun,
And, to supply the 'kerchief's ends,
A Cobbett from her sides depends;
Instead of attar, round her head
Steams of tea their incense shed—
Her ears two figur'd serpents deck,
And beads of black-beans twine her neck,
Wreathed o'er her forehead nettles nod,
In place of fan, a wormwood rod
Churchill in miniature expressed.
“These are my subjects, this my hour:
“Thalia and Melpomene
“Their kingdoms abdicate to me,
“And all distinctions I o'erwhelm
“By union of my double realm.—
“Of yore there was a bound between
“The tragic and the comic scene.
“Smirking features—tripping gait
“Ne'er troubled the severer state;
“Nor hollow voice, nor formal stalk
“E'er trespassed on the comic walk,
“Peculiar gait, and natural face.
“But now confounded, melted, mix'd,
“No frontier barrier betwixt,
“Our actors different changes try
“The tragic grin, the comic cry.
“Each face so severed into halves,
“That one side weeps while t'other laughs:
“Mix'd scenes of frolic and of fray;
“And at their funerals and wakes,
“Close by the coffin laughter shakes.
“Or thus in prints, you think you've got
“The features of a jolly sot:
“But look again, and you behold
“The furious visage of a scold.
“For Otway's pathos, Congreve's wit,
“They in such dramas hope to tower,
“As suit their heteroclite power.
“For spirit, and for pathos canting,
“Blustering for sorrow, oaths for sighs,
“For vigour, rage and blasphemies:
“Meanly low, or madly high,
“And bedlam-nature stalks or flutters.
“Either on stilts or in the gutters.—
“But ill supply the want of wit,
“And all the incident consists
“In active heels, and brawny fists;
“Where polished heroes nothing say
“But “zounds keep moving, what's to pay?”
“To mending coats, and breaking busts.—
“—In operas where lovers come
“To dulcet sound of bass and drum,
“Trombone and trumpet obligato,
“Where harmony's accordant choir
“Is lost in crash of wood and wire,
“And he o'er all his peers is proudest,
“Who roars the longest and the loudest.”
“The modern theatre is mine;
“There every night supreme I sit
“O'er boxes, gallery and pit:
“There in my fetters, kingly J---s
“Utters his unavailing groans,
“His suffering kingdoms from my reign,
“A brave unmutilated host—
“'Till Hamlet lead his danish force,
“And English Richard take to horse—
“'Till Dunsinane send forth its lord,
“And Martius wave his Roman sword—
“'Till to his aid the tragic band
“Of every time, from every land,
“And chain down conquest to his car.”
“In safety o'er the Public tide,
“To buffet every gale that blows,
“And sweep the sea of all his foes;
“First-rates none, but one o' th' second,
“And all the rest—his bold defenders
“Are frigates, luggers, hulks, and tenders.”
“His weakness is my strength and pride,
“I die if he plucks up a spirit,
“For Censure lives on want of merit.”
Vapours arose of acrid fume.—
Thus when a ghost his mission ends,
And thro' the yawning trap descends,
Sulphureous smell of brimstone fires.
Rest she for ever with the dead;
Ne'er may her features, sour and cramp,
‘Visit the glimpses of our lamp,
Making night hideous;’ ne'er again
With bitter taunt and cynic mein,
May she invade the sacred bound
That fences bard and players round;
But let us lay this worse than ghost,
And send her to the red-sea coast
In the due forms of magic school,
And exorcise the fiend by rule.
Th' Avonian talismanic wand,
And summon here on their allegiance
The powers that pay to it obedience;—
And merry Robin sportive sprite;
Titania, Oberon and all
That hear the fairy monarch's call,
Theirs be the region of the airs,
And constant watch etherial, theirs.
Chaunting the Muses' sacred strain,
In robes of ceremony dressed,
With sacerdotal stole and vest,
The priests and rubrick of the stage.
Such as our Thespian faith requires,
Not begging monks and wandering friars.
Throw Reynold's and Morton's plays,
Each page of Allingham's and Cobbe's,
And heavy Boaden's clumsy jobs;
The insane verse, and madder prose
Of Lewis, Coleman's puppet-shows—
And all the trash the Germans send here
Thro' Thomson, Noeden, Plumtree, Render,
Be all on the buzaglo placed,
Pacts with the demon of false-taste.
The tears down Pity's cheeks that roll,
That from the riven bosom flow,
Touch'd by the wand of tragic woe;
Scatter the blessed drops around,
And sanctify the holy ground;
No envious fiends their footsteps set
On earth that Pity's tear has wet.
And Censure's in the ocean laid.
Collect, dear J---s, your scenic powers;
Not mere allies that play a score
Of nights, “and then are heard no more,”
To darkness give us up again;
Not mummers fit to please the gallery,
Collected at a five pound salary;—
Not Poucets to say parts by rote,—
Not fingers who can't sing a note.
Drive from your stage all foreign nonsense,
And shows that only please at one sense—
Mad farce and maudlin melodrame.
Throw off the trammels of the mode,
A shifting yet a ponderous load;
Nor let your native sense and taste
By others follies be disgraced,
Give to your liberal soul full wings,
The stages golden age restore,
And Censure shall return no more.
I at this moment, when my Printer is going to shut up his Press, learn from one of the newspapers, that the mimæ and balatrones are about to publish answers to these Epistles.—Who the disinterested champions of the Manager's propriety, and his servants talents are; whether in prose ‘Respondere parant sue condunt amabile carmen,’ I have no means of knowing, nor reason for caring. I am not desirous of controversy; but if any further exertion in the defence of common sense, decency, and the drama, should become necessary, I shall, perhaps, request the Public indulgence for a continuation of these Epistles; but if, on the contrary, I find that the Patentee and the actors persevere in admitting the justice of my remaks, by a renunciation of the errors which occasioned them, I shall calmly bear in triumphant silence, all the efforts of Kitchenstuff Answerers and Gazetteers. Saturday, March 24, 1804. POSTSCRIPT. My business does not permit me to bestow my time so totally on this little Book, as to enable me to say, that this second Edition contains no typical or substantial errors: but I have exerted all convenient diligence, in making it correct both in matter and form—In both perhaps, I have failed, yet I should hope that I may be permitted to say,
Quæ legis, hic aliter nonfit, avite liber.
Pauca meo Gallo------
------ neget quis carmina Gallo.
Virg. Ecl. X.
This is not a random rhyme. I exceedingly lament the foolim and indecent style of oratory, which so often makes the sacred chair, the “tinsel throne of glittering nonsense;” the serious disposition of thought which our admirable church-service is so calculated to inspire, is either put to shame or to flight, by the wild and feigned declamation which, as a critic, I despise, and as a Christian detest. I would recommend it to those reverend young Poets, to indulge their taste for the Muses, in reading Cowper's description of a petit-maitre clergyman, and to recollect the advice of Boileau:
Du Dieu de vérité fair un Dieu de mensonges.
Since the days of the universal Garrick, every stroller thinks he can play every thing; tragedy, comedy, farce, and pantomime.—Actors seem now to think it quite disgraceful to be excellent in one line alone:
“Can never be a mouse of any soul.”
In this respect the Audience frequently imitates them—I have seldom seen more merry faces, than at a German tragedy—a German tragedy, is a kind of “Tragedy for warm weather,” and a German comedy also approaches so nearly to the standard of that celebrated piece, that there is no longer any distinction between the species of the drama: to the modern we may apply what Tacitus says of the ancient Germans “Genus spectaculorum unum et in omni cœtu idem.”—I can easily imagine, that many a German Dramatist has completed his piece, before he resolved whether it should be a Tragedy or a Comedy. Those gentlemen seem to possess the power, that Mercury, in Plautus, humourously ascribes to himself, when he observed the Spectators vexed (as modern Audiences often are) at finding their comedy was in truth a tragedy:—
Dixi futuram hanc, Deus sum, commeutavero
Eadam hanc si vultis faciam ex tragœdia
Comœdia------
Prol. in Amphitruorum.
“Audiences are now drawn together by the translated trash of some foreign novelty—they wait the appearance of a ghost or a goblin; they hope to be roused from their weary lethargy, into hysterical laughter, or hysterical tears, by the farcical or the horrid—they swallow with gaping wonder, the eccentric flights, the profane rants, the illuminated morality, the bombastic diction of imported patchwork from their German favourites.” Preston's Reflec. on the Germ. Style, p. 59. Every one who is acquainted with German literature, well knows that not one of their dramas (Germania quos horrida parturit Fœtus) deserves to be excepted from this general censure. The English reader I refer to all the plays of Schiller and Kotzebue, which have been translated into our language. He will not find one piece undisgraced by vice or folly: some indeed excel in folly, others in vice, but in general “they are as like one another as half-pence, each seeming monstrous 'till its fellow come to match it.” As you like it.
What would Longinus have thought of such passion and sublimity, as the following passages (taken at random from Schiller) exhibit: “Now let the storm rage, tho' it should swell me up to the throat” Robbers. “O. Moor. I am no spirit—but living as thou art—oh! life of wretchedness. “Y. Moor. What, wast thou not buried? “O. Moor. That is, a dead hound lies in the grave of my father.” Robbers. “What, talk you of nobility in Genoa? (indignantly) let them all throw their ancestry and honors into the scale, and one hair from the white beard of my old uncle, shall make it kick the beam.” Fiesco. Schiller. Of these effusion, for the faithful translation of the two first of which I am accountable, Longinus would say, as he does of those of the water-poet of his day, ποιητου τινος τω οντι ουχι νηφοντος εστι. Sec. XXXII. or he would have referred them βακχεια τινι των λογων. to a certain drunkenness of expression, which was sometimes objected to Plato.
“The public appetite began to be sated with non-sense, which now required to be reinforced with practical jokes, and corporal activity.” Preston's Reflec. p. 65.
These are specimens of the phraseology of our new comic school, taken from “a Cure for the Heart-ache,” and some other farrago of folly, of which I, happily, forget every thing but the cant word that I have quoted.
On the important incidents of a tailor's mending his own coat, and a sharper breaking a cracked china figure, two modern pieces entirely turn.
Here let me say a word or two on the state of our ‘corps d'opera’ (opera inanis!) The three female singers, Misses Howells and Davidson, and Mrs. Stewart, are on every account incapable of playing even secondary parts, and indeed seem to me to be only fit to lengthen the procession in Alphonso, or swell the choruses of the Castle Spectre. We have no professed male singer but Mr. Phillips, and thus the whole of our musical department depends on his slender pipe. Now as it happens that, from some cause or other, this gentleman cannot conveniently play all the parts, both male and female, of an opera on one night, it is evident that it were unreasonable to expect any musical entertainment at the Dublin theatre. But that we should not have to complain of a total want of this species of amusement, recourse has been had to a most brilliant expedient, which for its singular ingenuity, I shall relate in detail: Some one had heard, that a distressed country company had once played Hamlet with the omission of Hamlet's character, and it therefore occurred to them, that a musical entertainment, with the music omitted, would be in the present posture of affairs the most satisfactory extrication which could be devised.—The scheme was, it seems, adopted, and the Battle of Hexham had the honor to be selected for the experiment. The aforesaid Misses H. and D. were to sing all the choruses, and Mr. Phillips's name appeared in the front of the bills as principal in the glees. Night after night did Mr. Phillips's non-appearance disappoint the weary audiences, 'till at last Messrs. Jeffery and Dyke, who usually enact waiters, senators, and such folk, kindly consented to make themselves ridiculous, by singing the first and bass parts in such time and tune, as it should please God. So far all was prosperous. But here another unforeseen accident occurred, for it was by some means or other discovered, that the first and third would be useless without a second. Necessity, says the Proverb, is the mother of invention, and necessity took a violon-cello-teacher, dressed him in a fine brown jerkin, equipped him by the assistance of a burned cork with most terrific moustachios, and finally turned him out upon the stage a finished second, in whom nothing was forgotten or omitted, but a voice to sing—and after this manner the musical drama of the Battle of Hexham was said and sung by his Majesty's servants!!! “ex uno disce omnes.”
I find from the admonitions of the Kitchen-stuff Gazette, that I have been, in the foregoing note, guilty of a most wicked and diabolical mistake, by inserting the name of Mr. Dyke, instead of that of Mr. Denman, who really sung the third, and who, to use Taratalla's own words, “is one of the best and most scientific bass singers living, on or off the stage”—“O Terque quaterque beatus! I am ‘au desespoir’ at the disgrace into which this error has thrown me; Dyke or Denman, Denman or Dyke, I beg pardon of either, of both, or neither of the gentlemen, as they please; I have an equal respect for each, and tho' I have not the happiness of their acquaintance, they are, I am ready to believe
“Et cantare pares ------”
Pausanias, in his account of the Cadmean family, (Bœot. c. 5.) says, that Harmony was the daughter of Mars and Venus. Could I suspect any of our composers of being, ‘litterulis græcis imbutus’ I should guess that, from this passage, he derived the elegant notion of accompanying love-songs with horns, triangles, kettle-drums, and other martial instruments—so that now-a-days,
N'est que du bruit et du fracas
Pour peindre la mélancholie
Oh offre le bruit des combats
Pour peindre la paix, l'innocence,
On prend trombonnes et clarions
Pour accompagner la romance
Bientot on prendra du canon!!!—
Marant.
Whenever it shall please his great and good friends, the potentates of Germany, to send the excellent Kotzebue to the world of spirits, I make no doubt that Shakespeare will address him, as Menander did Philemon.—The fame of Menander no person is ignorant of, and if we may judge of his works by the imitations which we have of them, his great reputation was not above his merits. Of Philemon, the Kotzebue of his day, we only know, that he was the rival and conqueror of Menander, who, with the amiable frankness and honest confidence of Genius, asked his successful competitor—“Quæso Philemo bona venia dic mihi quum me vinces non crubescis?—” A.G. Noct Att li. 17. c. 4.
The following specimen of a theatrical Lloyd's List, will give a tolerable recapitulation of my opinions of the Crow-street company:
Moor's-head, Jan. 23, 1804.“Admiral Jones in spite of the very hard weather still continues to keep his station off the Bagnio-slip. If the Peter-street squadron should attempt to put to sea, we are confident the gallant Admiral will give a good account of them. His force is as follows:”
- Montague 74 Talbot
- Veteran 50 Hitchcock (Mrs.)
- Charon 44 Vice Ad. Fullam
- Assurance 44 R. Jones
- Gorgon 44 Galindo (Mrs.)
- L'Entreprenante 44 Walstein
- Le Modeste 38 Hargrave
- Alligator 36 Williams
- Tartar 32 Williams (Mrs.)
- Fairy 16 Stewart (Mrs.)
- Bittern 16 Lindsay
- Borer 12 Coyne
Ships. Guns. Commanders.
“Remains in port, La Musette (en slûte) Phillips.”
“We are sorry to observe, that the Favourite—Cres-well—and the Insolent—Stewart, have parted company in the late breezes”—
Tantâ mole viri turritis puppibus instant!!!
If the foregoing scale be correct, he has none either of the first or second-rates, and but one of the third.
The anxiety which so many persons exhibited for the discovery of my name, surprized me at first; but I now find, many of them did so out of mere orthodoxy, and in obedience to the “editto del S. offizio” an extract of which I shall add as a specimen of the enlightened liberality of the year 1802:
“Tutte persone così ecclesiastica come secolare debbono revelare e notificare tutti e ciascuno di quelli de' quali sappono e abbiano avieto o avranno notizia—che si siano ingeriti o s'ingeriscano in far experimenti di negromanzia o di qualsivoglia altra sorte di magia!!!”
Dat. dal S. Offizio di Pezaro questo dé 26 Aprile 1802.
Should not one think, that 1802 was put by an error of the Press for 1302.
Sebastian Michaelis was not much madder than “S. Tomaso Francisco Roncalli, maestro di S. Teologia” in the nineteenth century—poor human nature!
The learned Reader will perceive some incongruities in this exorcism, que je me garderai bien d'annoncer aux ignorans.
A procession of priests chaunting high mass, is sometimes of wonderful efficacy against ghosts and goblins, who, whatever profession they might have followed when alive, have, after their corporeal death, as great an aversion to high mass and all Church ceremonies as any Calvinist in Scotland.
Les exorcistes imposerent silence aux diables, on jetta dans le feu les pactes les uns après les autres. Hist du proces d'Urb. Grand. This liberal and enlightened operation was performed in presence of some of the chief men of the Church and of the Law, in the year 1631, in the now atheist land of France.
Of the supposed effects of lustration no one can be ignorant—I hope ours is conducted dans les formes.
I had rather never see a good actor on our stage than see him only for a few nights, which only serve to throw the rest of the season into a deeper night—
Imperavit (Marcus Antoninus) etiam scenicas donationes, jubens ut quinos aureos scenici acciperent. Jul. Cap. in Vit. M.A. Mr. Jones in this point imitates the Roman Emperor with a scrupulous accuracy, as he never gives a higher salary than 5l. per week. In London they give 10l. 15l. and 20l.—Surely it would be (as the tradesmen say) worth his while to give two or three good Actors here, as much as they can get elsewhere.
I am not one of those rigid fanatics who dislike all kinds of childish gaiety, and therefore, I say nothing about Mr. Jones's Ballets, and the four interesting little girls that try to dance in them. I own I should be better pleased that the stage was not made absolutely a dancing school, and a place of practice for embryo Parisots; but as the children are always neatly dressed, and generally contrive to keep time, in the present state of the scenic art, we have no reason to complain.—Let me add a strange anecdote which I have heard, tho' I can hardly believe:—A person with a very good sounding honest Irish name, something like M'Donough, or M'Swiney, or O'Flanagan, was desirous of setting up in this city as a dancing master, and obtaining an engagement as ballet dancer at the Theatre—“What, with such a name?” impossible! my good friend, go, go and get another.”—The Milesian was wise enough to take the hint, and Signior (I shall not mention his new appellation) afterwaads danced ‘mutato nomine’ with great success at Crow-street, and now teaches, as I am told, in the highest circles in Dublin.
Mr. Jones's liberality is a favourite topic of expatiation amongst his friends, and I believe not unjustly; but I intreat him to exercise it in procuring a few good Players for the Theatre Royal, an expedient of generosity which he has not yet practised to any considerable extent.
Gentle Reader who hast travelled these six heavy stages thro' with me, accept my thanks for the patience, with which you have borne the roughness of the road, and the mistakes and wanderings of our course, “beggar that I am, I'm poor even in thanks,” and have no other reward to offer, than, that I assure you, I shall not again trespass on your kindness and good nature—valete, and if you can plaudite.
| Familiar Epistles To Frederick J---s, Esq | |