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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| 2. | SECOND EPISTLE. [TO FREDERICK J---S] |
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 | Familiar Epistles To Frederick J---s, Esq |  |
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.
| Familiar Epistles To Frederick J---s, Esq | |