The Mirror of Taste, and Dramatic Censor, Vol. I, No. 3, March 1810
Author: Unknown
Date: 2008-08-03T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Theater -- Periodicals; Drama -- Periodicals

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Title: The Mirror of Taste, and Dramatic Censor, Vol. I, No. 3, March 1810

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Venoni, or, The Novice of St. Mark’s

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THE MIRROR OF TASTE,

AND

DRAMATIC CENSOR.

Vol. I. | MARCH 1810. | No. 3.

HISTORY OF THE STAGE.

CHAPTER III.

SOPHOCLES—EURIPIDES—DIONYSIUS.

Æschylus and Shakspeare have each been styled the father of the drama of his country: yet their claims to this distinction stand on very different grounds. Æschylus laid the plan and foundation of the Grecian tragedy and built upon it; but to his successor belongs the glory of improving upon his invention. Shakspeare raised the drama of his country at once to the utmost degree of perfection: succeeding poets have been able to do nothing more than walk in the path trod by him, at an immense distance, and endeavour to copy but without equalling his perfections.

The general admiration in which Æschylus was held, gave birth to a herd of imitators, among whom were sons and nephews of his own; but as, like most imitators, they could do little more than mimic his defects without reaching his excellencies, they served only as a foil to set off the lustre of his great successor Sophocles, who, while yet his scholar, aspired to be his competitor, and gained the preeminence at the age of twenty-five.

Sophocles was born four hundred and ninety-seven years before the birth of Christ, and at an early age rendered himself, like his master Æschylus, conspicuous by his superior talents in war and in poetry. It happened, when Sophocles was not yet five and twenty, that the remains of Theseus were brought from Scyros to Athens, where festivals and games were made in honour of that heroic monarch, as well as to commemorate the taking of that island: among those a yearly contest was instituted for the palm in tragedy. Sophocles became a candidate, and though there were many competitors, and among them Æschylus himself, he bore away the prize. The fondness of the Greeks for the theatre was so passionately strong, that in order to excite emulation among the poets, they gave rewards to those, who among the competitors, were judged to have the preference; and they entrusted the management of their theatres to none but persons of the most considerable rank and character. Hitherto the prize was disputed by four dramatic pieces only, three of which were tragedies—while the fourth was a comedy; but Sophocles brought about a new arrangement, and by opposing, in all cases, tragedy to tragedy, completely excluded comedy from its pretensions.

Another and an excellent revolution in the drama was brought about by this great man. He added one actor more to the dramatis personæ, and raised the chorus to fifteen persons, introducing them into the main action, and giving to all of them such parts to perform as tended to the carrying on of one uniform, regular plot. Encouraged by the great success of his pieces, the honours conferred upon him, and the deference paid to his opinions, he continued to write with unabated enthusiasm for the stage, and obtained the public prize no less than twenty different times. The admiration and wonder with which his genius was spoken of through all Greece, induced a general opinion that he was specially favoured by heaven, and that he held an intimate communication with the gods. Cicero himself has gone so far as to assert that Hercules had a prodigious esteem for him; and Apollonius1 of Thyana, a Pythagorean philosopher, said in an oration he delivered before the tyrant Domitian, that “Sophocles, the Athenian, could tie up the winds, and stop their fury.”

That Sophocles was a man of transcendant powers of mind, no one has ever doubted, Æschylus himself condescended to visit him at his own house: Aristotle made his works the ground work of his Art of Poetry: The eulogists of Plato compared the advancements made by that great man in philosophy, to those made by Sophocles in tragedy: Cicero gives him the epithet of “the divine”—Virgil decidedly preferred him to all writers of tragedy; and to this day, his works make a part of the course appointed for students in the Greek language in all the great colleges and seminaries of Europe. The great rival of Sophocles was Euripides, who, in their public contentions for the prize, divided with him the applause of the populace. At that time the theatre was held to be an object of the highest magnitude and importance, and made an essential and magnificent part of their pagan worship. The Athenians, therefore, were delighted by the contentions of these two prodigious men: but, as it generally happens in cases of rivalship between public favourites, the people divided into two parties, one of which maintained the superiority of Sophocles, while the other insisted on the preeminence of Euripides. The truth is, that though rivals, and perhaps equals in talent, they could not afford a just subject of comparison. Magis pares quam similes—they were rather equal, than like to each other. In dignity and sublimity Sophocles takes the lead, as Euripides does in tenderness, feeling, and pathetic expression.

For the sake of human nature it is to be lamented that popular applause produced envy, and jealousy between them, and notwithstanding their divine talents, they sunk into the littleness that degrades the lowest of the poets (irritabile genus) and regarded each other with abhorrence. It is said, in vindication of the character of these great men, that they were abused into a mutual dislike merely by the calumnious misrepresentations of pretended friends. Finding, however, that their animosities provoked general ridicule and contempt, and that their quarrels had become the common theme with which the witlings and poetasters of Greece amused the people,2 they judiciously resolved to treat each other with the respect and confidence that became such exalted characters, and became friends again. It should seem that Euripides was the first to make an advance towards reconciliation; as appears from a letter of his, in which he speaks thus: “Inconstancy is not my character. I have retained every friend except Sophocles; though I no longer see him, I do not hate him. Injustice has alienated me from him; justice reproaches me for it. I hope time will cement our reunion. What mortal ill is not caused at times by those wicked spirits who are never so happy as when they sow dissension among those who by nature and reason are meant to promote the felicity of each other.”

A weakness of voice under which Sophocles laboured often prevented his appearing in his own tragedies; but this did not at all injure his fame, for he continued to write into extreme old age with uniformly increasing reputation. It is recorded that he composed one hundred and twenty tragedies, of which not more than seven are extant—namely, Ajax, Electra, Oedipus the Tyrant, Antigone, The Trachiniæ, Philoctetes, and Oedipus at Colonos. The last of those tragedies has been ever marked with particular regard on account of a most interesting circumstance that attended its production, and made it the apex of that great man’s fame and fortune.

Like old Lear, Sophocles was cursed with ungrateful children. Shakspeare’s imagination went no further than TWO ungrateful daughters: Sophocles had in reality four sons, all as ungrateful as those monsters of Shakspeare’s brain. The extreme age and bodily infirmities of their venerable parent, having for sometime inflamed their anxiety to become masters of his possessions, they grew at last impatient and, weary of his living so long, formed a conspiracy against him, and accused him before the Areopagus, of being insane, a driveller incapable of governing his family, or managing his concerns—in short, a fool, a madman. He had fortunately, at that time, just finished his Oedipus at Colonos. When he heard the charge made against him by his ingrate sons, he offered no defence but this tragedy, which he read to the judges, and then with the boldness of conscious superiority demanded of them whether the author of that piece could be taxed with insanity. Heart-struck with the exquisite beauties and sublime sentiments of the piece, and astonished at the vigorous mind, the exalted truth, the profound moral wisdom, the accurate and solid judgment, and the almost divinely persuasive language that pervaded every act of it, they heaped honours along with their acquittal upon his head, dismissed him with a shout of praise, and sent his sons home covered with shame and confusion. If firm reliance can be placed on the authority of Lucian, the sons were, by the Areopagus, voted madmen for having accused their father.

Like Æschylus, Sophocles was a high military character, and was ranked among the foremost defenders of his country. He commanded an army in the war which the Athenians (by the desire of the renowned Pericles, who so willed it at the instance of his mistress Aspasia) waged against the inhabitants of Samos; and he returned from it triumphant.

Great men are seldom let to die like ordinary people: a man like Sophocles of course must be provided with one or more modes of death unlike those which take off other men. Some have said that on the extraordinary success of one of his tragedies, he expired with extreme joy;—an effect rather extreme for one who had for more than sixty years been accustomed to such successes. Others have asserted that he dropped dead in consequence of holding in his breath, while reading his tragedy of Antigonus, so long that the action of his lungs ceased—an event not at all probable. Another (Lucian) says he was choked by a grape-stone. These various rumours destroying each other, not only by their contradiction but by their improbability, leaves the cause of his death in that uncertainty in which it might hitherto, and may forever remain, without any injury to the subject. Men of ninety-five are likely enough to go off suddenly, without violent joy—violent exertion, or even grape-stones. The story of the grape-stone is told also of Anacreon. Perhaps in both cases it was a poetical fiction to mark the love of wine which distinguished these two personages; for Sophocles is accused by Athenæus of licentiousness and debauchery, particularly when he commanded the Athenian army. In like manner it is asserted by Pausanias that Bacchus appeared to Æschylus under the shadow of a vine, and ordered him to write tragedies, thereby figuratively alluding to the well known truth that that poet drank wine excessively, and composed his tragedies while he was drunk.

The public influence of Sophocles was so great that, at his instance, the people of Athens went to the most unbounded expense in the construction and decoration of their theatres. The additional magnificence they derived from him is scarcely credible. In fact the expense was carried so far that it became a reproach to the country, and it was said that the Athenians lavished away more money on the representation of a single play, than on all their wars with the barbarians.

Some of the sons of Sophocles composed tragedy and wrote some lyric poems. But there exist no remains of their works, nor anything particular respecting themselves; some loose anecdotes excepted, which Plutarch has related respecting one of them of the name of Antiphon, who wrote a tragedy by which Dionysius the tyrant obtained a prize, long after he had put the author to death for dispraising his compositions.

Euripides was born at Salamis in the year four hundred and eighty-five before the Christian era, and on the very day on which Themistocles with a handful of Grecians defeated the immense army of Xerxes. He was nobly descended on the maternal side, and was placed in due time under the first preceptors. From Prodicus he learned eloquence; from Socrates, ethics, and under Anaxagoras he studied philosophy. His parents having, before he was born, consulted the oracle of Apollo respecting his fate, were informed that the world should witness his fame, and that he would gain a crown. Of this answer which, like all the responses of the oracle, was constructed with purposed ambiguity, they could come to no decisive explanation: however, thinking it unlikely that the oracle could mean any other than the athletic crown, the father took especial care to fit him for a wrestler, and with such success, that he actually won the athletic crown at the games and festivals celebrated in honour of Ceres.

His original destination was to painting, to the study of which he applied for sometime, and, as tradition informs us, with considerable success. But nature, and the impulse of a vigorous genius, pointed out another road to him. He abandoned the pencil, and devoted his whole labours to the study of morality, philosophy and poetry. The drama being most congenial to his mind, greatly engrossed his attention: he lamented that the tragedies of even Æschylus and Sophocles themselves, contained very little philosophy, and he diligently applied himself to the effecting of a more intimate union between moral philosophy and dramatic representation.

As he possessed the powers for accomplishing this valuable purpose in an eminent degree, his writings became the subject of universal applause and admiration with his countrymen. Indeed the effects that are related to have been produced by his compositions, are so prodigious as almost to stagger belief. His verses were in the mouths of persons in all countries in which the Greek language was spoken; if prisoners pleaded their cause in his words, they were dismissed with freedom; and it is an historical fact that the unfortunate Greeks who had accompanied Nicias in his expedition against Syracuse, and were enslaved in Sicily, obtained their liberty by repeating some appropriate verses taken from one of his tragedies.

Sophocles was the great object first of his imitation, and then of his envy and jealousy. In order to enable himself to contest the palm of superiority with that great poet, Euripides frequently withdrew from the haunts of men, and confined himself in a solitary cave near Salamis, where he composed and finished some of the most excellent of his tragedies. The full vein of philosophy which pervaded his dramatic compositions, obtained for him the name of the philosophic poet, and so loudly did fame proclaim his extraordinary excellence, that Socrates, who never before visited the theatre, went constantly to attend the tragedies of Euripides. Alexander admired him beyond all other writers—Demosthenes confessed that he had learned declamation from his works, and when Cicero was assassinated, the works of Euripides were found clutched in his hands.

Together with this rare and felicitous genius, Euripides enjoyed the blessing of a firm undaunted spirit, a great and bold dignity, and a courage which nothing could shake. During the representation of one of his tragedies, the audience took offence at some lines in the composition and immediately ordered him to strike them out of the piece. Euripides took fire at their presumption, and indignantly advancing forward on the stage told the spectators that “he came there to instruct them, and not to receive instruction.” Another time on the first representation of a new play, the audience expressed great dissatisfaction at a speech in which he called “riches the summum bonum, and the admiration of gods and men.” The poet stepped forward, reproved the audience for their hasty conclusion, and magisterially desired them to listen to the play with the silent attention that was due to it, and they would in the end find their error, as the catastrophe would show them the just punishment which attended the lovers of wealth. The last of these anecdotes is a proof of the moral excellence and chastity, which the Grecian poets were constrained to observe in their public compositions.

Of seventy-five tragedies which this admirable poet wrote and had represented, nineteen only are in existence. The best of those are his Phœnissæ, his Orestes, Medea, Andromache, Electra, Iphigenia in Aulis, Iphigenia in Tauris, Hercules, and the Troades.

Euripides is particularly happy in expressing the passion of love, especially when it is exalted to the most lively, ardent tenderness. His pieces are not so perfect as those of Sophocles, but they are more replete with those exquisite beauties which strike the heart with the electrical fire of poetry, and his language is more soft and persuasive. The drama is on the whole, however, much more indebted to Sophocles, to whom Aristotle, who is certainly the very highest authority, gives the precedence in point of general arrangement, disposition of parts, and characteristic manner, and indeed in style also.

The most obvious point of inferiority in Euripides is the choice of his subjects, which are charged with meanness and effeminacy; while Sophocles and Æschylus chose for theirs the most dignified and noble passions. He has moreover given very disgraceful pictures of the fair sex, making women the contrivers, the agents, and the instruments of the most impure and diabolical machinations. This unjust perversion was attributed to a hatred he had to women, which occasioned him to be called μισογυνης, or the woman-hater; but this he sturdily refuted by insisting that in those bad characters he had faithfully copied the nature of the sex. Notwithstanding this, he was married twice; but was so injudicious in his choice of wives, that he was compelled to divorce both. In his person Euripides was noble and majestic, and in his deportment grave and serious.

No poet ever took more pains than Euripides in polishing and perfecting his tragedies. He composed very slow, and laboured his periods with the greatest care and difficulty; anticipating the valuable instructions long afterwards given by Horace to poets. A wretched author, whose heart was as malicious as his poetry was miserable, once sarcastically observed that he had written a hundred verses in three days, while Euripides had written only three. “True,” replied Euripides, “but there is this difference between your poetry and mine; yours will expire in three days, but mine will live for ages.”

The disputes between Sophocles and our poet, the jealousy and envy of his great fame and endowments, and, as some say, the resentment of the female part of Athens, subjected him to a degree of ridicule and rancorous invective, which induced him to leave Athens; when he went into Macedonia, and lived at the court of king Archelaus, who considered it an honour to patronise such a great poet, bestowing upon him the most conspicuous marks of his friendship and munificence, and even carrying his esteem and admiration so far, as to make him his prime minister. This dignified office Euripides held when he lost his life, in a manner the most cruel and horrible that can be conceived.

In one of his solitary walks, in a wood to which he had been accustomed to repair every evening, for the purpose of uninterrupted contemplation, a pack of dogs belonging to the king set upon him and tore him to pieces in the seventy-eighth year of his age. So extraordinary and deplorable a death naturally gave rise to a multitude of conjectures, and, of course, not very charitable ones. By some, the creatures of Archelaus’s court who hated him as a successful rival, and envied him the high favours bestowed upon him by the king, were suspected of having purposely procured the dogs to be let loose upon, in order to destroy him: a conjecture not at all probable. By others again it has been suggested that he was torn to pieces by women in revenge for his black pictures of the sex: a still more improbable conjecture, and probably borrowed from the fate of Orpheus; but which still serves to show how little kindness he was thought to deserve from the women; while others more rationally concluded that his encountering the dogs and their attacking him, was purely an accidental circumstance; and that having in the abstraction and absence of mind, attendant upon very profound meditation, encroached upon some part of the palace grounds, which the dogs were appointed to guard, he found his mistake too late to escape from their fury.

Sophocles outlived Euripides about a year, leaving behind him no one capable of improving, or even of tolerably supporting the tragic stage of Greece. The hopes of the Grecian drama was buried in the grave along with him. Of those who succeeded him we know nothing; nor should we know that any did succeed, if the history of Aristophanes did not inform us, that there were such, who served only as butts for his malevolent wit.

Never were greater honours conferred by national gratitude and pride than those which were paid by Greece to the memory of Æschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides. Statues were erected to them by public edict, and their works were recorded as matters of state in the archives of the nation. This part of the history is worthy of very particular consideration. That great, wise, and high spirited free nation, who understood man’s nature, and national policy of the best kind, as well as any other people that ever existed, knew the efficacy of the stage in meliorating the morals, the manners, and the opinions of a people, and, therefore, made use of it as a great state engine. Their poets studiously interwove the public events of Greece into their dramatic poetry, and made their tragedies national concerns, which, as such, were sanctioned by law and supported out of the public treasury. Thus the glories of their heroes were registered and rewarded—the influence of their example extended—a lively ambition to excel in valour, virtue, and wisdom was disseminated by the sentiments which the genius and skill of the poets put into the mouths of their leading characters, and young men endeavoured to model themselves by those characters and sentiments.

Dramatic criticism was not left by the Greeks, as it is by the moderns, to operate at random, or yielded up to the will or the caprice of vain, ignorant, presumptuous, or corrupt pretenders. A bench of judges to the number of ten, selected for their learning, integrity, and acknowledged excellence, were appointed by law to preside at theatric representations, and to determine what was fit for the public to hear, and what not. These were sworn to decide impartially, and they were vested with an authority which extended to the infliction of summary punishment on impure, mischievous, or offensive pieces. They had the power to punish with whipping, and were authorised to bestow great rewards for merit. Thus, Sophocles was awarded a dignified and lucrative government for one of his pieces, and an unfortunate comic poet of the name of Evangelus was publicly whipped. This circulated a spirit of correctness, and a chaste and delicate taste through the people, as was evidenced in the case already mentioned, of one of the tragedies of Euripides, which was instantly censured for the introduction of a vitious sentiment in favour of riches. How unlike our playhouse critics of modern times were those Athenians. By them, no regard was paid to private solicitation, to personal partiality, or to national, party, or other prejudice. At these times it is otherwise, at least in Great Britain and America; and the sentence to be passed on the piece or the player, in common with most other popular decisions, too often turns on the great master hinge of party spirit or personal prejudice. Imbecility is bolstered up, and merit blasted by the clamours of an ignorant and corrupt few, who, with roar and ruffian impudence spread their perverted opinions, and at last pass them through the ignorant multitude with the current stamp of public decision.

It would be unpardonable to omit in this part of the history the circumstance of Dionysius, the horrible tyrant of Syracuse, having been a candidate for fame in dramatic poetry. Though utterly destitute of poetical talents, or of any means of obtaining approbation for his writings, save only that of extorting it by terror, and even by the infliction of death, he laboured under the most inveterate passion for poetic honours. By means not known, he got possession of some loose writings and memorandums of Æschylus, and from them patched up some pieces which he vainly endeavoured to pass for his own: but the people were not to be deceived. With a view to extend his fame he despatched his brother Theodorus to Olympia, with orders to repeat there in public, some verses in his name, in competition with some other poets for the poetical prize: the people, however, had too much taste to endure them, and rewarded his muse with groans and hisses. At Athens, however, he had better success; for he obtained the prize there for a composition which he sent in his name, but which was chiefly written by Antiphon, the son of Sophocles, whom he put to death for declining to praise some of his verses. Conscious, as he must have been, that the prize, though awarded to his name, did not belong to himself, he was more overjoyed at obtaining it than at all the victories he had ever obtained in the field of blood. And absurd as it may appear, he had so obstinately set his heart upon being considered a great poet, that he had recourse to the most mean as well as cruel expedients to accomplish it. For this purpose, he endeavoured to suborn a poet who lived under his patronage. The man, whose name was Philoxenus, had lost the favour of the king, and was imprisoned by him for the seduction of one of his female singers. Having written some verses, the tyrant bethought him of establishing their reputation by getting Philoxenus to express publicly his approbation of them, and for that purpose ordered him from his prison: but the poet, too proud and virtuous to purchase his liberty by the sacrifice of truth, refused; in consequence of which, Dionysius ordered him to the quarries to work as a slave. Some time afterwards, being released, he was asked at a public feast, his opinion of some of the king’s verses; upon which, knowing that the inquirers were the tyrant’s agents, he answered, by exclaiming aloud, “Lead me back to the quarries!” His answer had such an effect upon Dionysius that he forgave Philoxenus, and restored him to his favour.

BIOGRAPHY—FOR THE MIRROR.

SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF THE LATE MR. HODGKINSON.

The illustrious lord Verulam, detailing in one of his essays the various motives to envy in the human bosom, says, “men of birth are noted to be envious towards new men—for their distance is altered.” His lordship might with safety have extended the proposition to those whom either wealth, or casualty unconnected with high descent or personal merit, have raised to worldly power and prosperity. Men who have been lifted to the summits of society by the accumulation of money, still more than those who stand there in right of the decayed merit of their ancestry look down with scorn upon their fellow-beings who toil below, and too often view with jealousy and repugnance, the endeavours of those who aspire to that eminence, of which they themselves are so vain and ostentatious. Elevation from an humble condition to conspicuity and rank, bespeaks superior personal merit; and to many of those who figure in, what is called, high life, it is to be feared that the bare mention of personal merit, would look like an indirect reproach.

Not only in that class, however, but in most others of society, there are multitudes who can boast of very different sentiments—men of real worth and discernment, who do not disdain to contemplate the exertions of a powerful mind in its aspirations to dignity, nor turn with contempt from the man whom nature has enriched, though it should have been his lot to come into the world under the depression of a needy or obscure parentage.—Persons of liberal hearts, and luminous minds well know that in the moral world there are natural laws, which like those of gravitation in the physical, oppose the elevation of all whom chance has thrown down to the bottom of life, rendering it difficult or rather indeed utterly impracticable for them to rise, but by means of the most gigantic powers; and therefore consider those who emerge to the top by the fair exercise of their natural talents, as the only valuable levellers—the real and substantial asserters of the equality of men.

No apology therefore can be expected, for offering to the public a short sketch of the life of John Hodgkinson—a man, who, though dropped, at his birth, a darkling, into the world, contrived by the exercise of his personal endowments, without aid, friend, influence, or advantage, save those which nature in her bounty vouchsafed him, to mount to the highest rank in his profession—a profession to excel in which, requires more rich endowments of mind and person jointly, than any of those to which men have recourse for the acquisition of fame or fortune.

There may be some to whom the history of such a man, and the equitable adjudication of applause to such talents as he possessed will not be very palatable. Feeble men, ever jealous, ever envious, sicken at the praise of greatness, and pride will elevate its supercilious brow in disdain, at the eulogy of the lowly born. But the former may set their hearts at rest (if such hearts can have rest) when they are told that in the present instance truth will qualify the praise so richly deserved, with some alloy of censure not less so: and the latter, who affect to despise the stage while they draw from it delight and instruction, will perhaps forgive the man’s endowments in consideration of his calling, and think the sin of his talents atoned by the penance of being a player.

The paternal name of this extraordinary actor was Meadowcroft;—but this he relinquished on a certain necessity that will be mentioned hereafter, taking in its stead, that of his mother’s family, which he continued to retain long after that necessity had ceased to exist, and bore to the day of his death. At the time of his birth his father was an humble husbandman, and lived not far from Manchester; and very near to the mansion-house of —— Harrison, esquire. From this, he moved into the city where he set up a public house well known to several persons now in America, one of whom recollects to have seen young John figuring there in capacity of waiter, or as it is commonly called in England, pot-boy. His father dying, the widow married another husband—and John was put out to an apprenticeship, in some inferior department of the silk trade. Having, from his infancy, disclosed manifestations of that exquisite voice and fine taste for music, which afterwards acquired him such fame as a singer, he was put to sing with the boys in one of the churches of Manchester, where he very soon distinguished himself not only for the power and compass of one of the sweetest countertenor voices in the world, but for a taste and accurate execution uncommon to his age and untutored condition.

While the boy was drinking in, with rapture, the applause bestowed upon his musical talents, his master earnestly deprecated, and violently opposed the cultivation of them. In the contentions between this applause and that opposition—between the charming flattery of the one, and the mortifying severity of the other, the boy took that side which it was natural for him to prefer; and genius, the parent of courage and enterprise, suggested to him from time to time a variety of expedients for baffling all his master’s designs, and eluding his sharpest vigilance. He collected around him a number of boys of about his own age, who by a weekly subscription which they contrived to collect, rented a cellar in an obscure retired alley—provided themselves with musical instruments, and, with paper decorations and patchwork, formed a little theatre, whither they resorted, every moment they could snatch by stealth or pretext, from their parents’ and masters’ control, in order privately to practise music and dancing, to spout and to perform (in their way) plays, operas and farces. At this time the whole amount of the schooling which the boy had received, barely enabled him to read a chapter in the testament, to scrawl a very indifferent manuscript, and to form an indistinct notion of the two or three first rules of vulgar arithmetic. Such was the cunning and address with which these youngsters managed their theatre, that they enjoyed it several months without THE OLD ONES being able to discover where they wasted their time. One answer always served John when questioned by his master—“Where have you been miching now, you young rascal?”—“Nowhere sir!” This NOWHERE (so very indefinite) the master construed into anywhere in the streets, playing at marbles, top, or chuck-farthing; but of the true place he had not the most distant conception. After some time they began to apprehend that their retreat would be discovered either by accident or the vigilance of the old folks, and this had the effect of increasing their caution and sharpening their ingenuity and cunning. They affected to loiter and play in distant streets, and courted detection there, in order to elude any suspicions that might lead to a discovery of their playhouse; and as they never ventured to indulge their ambition by figuring away before any but their own little society, and were the only auditors, as well as the actors of their pieces, they calculated upon being able to carry on their scheme till time should set them free from parental control; provided there should be no treachery among themselves. However, their confidence in one another was great. “Of one only,” said Hodgkinson, to this writer, “we entertained the least doubt, and you will smile to hear the cause of it: it was, because he was the son of an attorney—he was bottom however to the last, and is now as worthy a man as any in society.”

Most of what is here related came to the knowledge of the writer in desultory conversations with Hodgkinson, and two other persons now in America. “I have very often,” said John, “reflected on the success of our stratagems, and could not help inferring from it a truth which moral philosophers have long since laid down; that little cunning is most perfect in weakest minds. I am persuaded that our company could not, when grown up to manhood, have acted with half the minute ingenuity which we displayed on that occasion.” “I had one day, continued he, put on my best clothes for the purpose of rehearsing Lionel. I panted for a suit of black for it, but could not obtain one; so I was fain to put up with one of blue. It was almost new to be sure, but was daubed over with brass buttons, and therefore rather unfit for the clerical Lionel. That, however, I dared not alter. Returning home when our play was over, I descried my master coming towards me, and, convinced that he saw me, I turned into a corner, as if to hide myself, knelt down in order to cover the knees of my small clothes with dust, pulled out my bag of marbles and chalk, which I always carried for the purpose of deception, and daubed my thumbs and fingers, and even my sleeves and waistcoat with chalk, as if I had been playing marbles. “Aha, you young villain, he cried, before he got up to me, you have been playing marbles, have you! I’ll marble you, you rascal.” Having accomplished my purpose, I ran away too fast for him to catch me. That night I heard him say, “One would think the fellow was too old to play marbles, by this time!—I dont know what the d—l to do with him.” In fact (continued Hodgkinson) we were, like birds, in the daily habit of playing a thousand tricks to draw away intruders or suspicion from our nest.”

After a concealment protracted to an astonishing length, however, the nest was at last discovered, the poor birds were dispersed, and our hero took his ill-fledged flight to perch upon distant sprays, and to pick his meat from the hand that caters for the sparrow. This was the pivot upon which the whole life of Hodgkinson turned. The irresistible impulse of a vigorous genius would, most probably, under any other circumstances, have sent him ultimately to the goal of his destination; but this event hastened it, most unpropitiously hastened it, and, in an evil hour, cast him forth upon the world, a youth, or rather a boy, ill educated, untutored, unprotected, a precocious adventurer, unprovided with money, and wholly dependant upon God and his own efforts, not only for the food that was to sustain his existence, but for the whole stock of prudence, moral rectitude, and knowledge that were to carry him through life. On this part of the history of Mr. Hodgkinson the candid reader will keep his eye steadily and unalterably fixed. If men who have been brought up with every advantage of excellent education, good breeding, and moral and religious instruction, and who have not been let forth from the hand of guardianship, till their knowledge has been established, and their morals confirmed by habit and good example, are daily seen running headlong into vice, and, with shipwrecked morals, sinking into ruin, can we at all wonder if a poor boy, cast forth into the world in the circumstances of Hodgkinson, and, like a half decked skiff, with lofty rigging and no ballast but its own intrinsic weight, drifted out upon the tempestuous ocean of life, without compass, or chart, or means of keeping reckoning, should have sometimes struck upon those treacherous shelves which lay hidden in the track before him? Is there not rather just cause for wonder that he did not speedily sink to the bottom, but that, on the contrary, he kept afloat, advanced to conspicuity and fame, and would, in all probability, have ultimately come with flying colours to a mooring in the port of honour and happiness, if Death had not unexpectedly arrested him in his progress.

It was a little after the time when Hodgkinson had entered his fifteenth year, that the retreating place of our little company of players and musicians was discovered. They were all lads not only of lively genius but of high mettle, and of vigorous animal spirits. Like master Dick, in Murphy’s farce of the Apprentice, they had their heads stuffed with scraps of plays, with which they interlarded their discourse, cracked their jests, praised their favourites, and satirized their enemies, among which last the very worst, in their opinions, were their parents, guardians, and masters. “The character of Dick,” said Hodgkinson more than once to this writer, “is not overcharged.” Our youngsters were quite pat at stage gabble, and

Fathers have flinty hearts, no tears can move them,
with effusions of a similar tendency, every day resounded from their theatrical cellar, followed by bursts of thoughtless merriment and laughter.

One day our little cellar company were engaged in rehearsing Dibdin’s comic opera of the Padlock. Being the best singer, Hodgkinson had the part of Leander allotted to him, sore against his will, Mungo being at that time his favourite character. As he played the first fiddle he was employed in scratching away an accompaniment to the Mungo of the day, in the song of

Dear heart, dear heart, what a terrible life am I led,
when a noise was heard at the door of a passage that led to the cellar, as if it were a person pushing against it. Interrupted thus unseasonably, master Mungo, in apparent panic, suddenly ceased to sing. “What do you stop for?” said John. “Didst thou not hear a noise?” said the other, assuming the tone, and perhaps feeling the alarm too, of Macbeth, in the dagger-scene. “Bravo, bravo!” cried Hodgkinson, “excellent! You can’t do Mungo half so well. It is I, sir, I that can do Mungo to the very life. Now I say, boys, with what feeling could I pour out from my heart and soul,“Oh cussa heart of my old massa—him damn impudence and his cuss assurance.” This he followed with a spirited twang of “Dear heart” on the violin, accompanying it with the words. Again a noise was heard. “What can it be?” said one. “What can it be?” said another. There was a push at the door. “Oh!” cried Hodgkinson, “it’s only one of the hogs that roam about the alley, who, having more taste than the old ones, is come to hear our mirth and music.” At this moment the door was burst open, and John’s master entered. Before the latter had time to speak, or John to reflect, the boy’s wit got the better of his prudence, and he roared out, in the words of Hamlet, “Oh my prophetic spirit! did I not tell you that it was a hog?” Hitherto the master had never gone so far as to strike him; but now, enraged beyond all control at what he saw and heard, he struck the boy with his fist in the face, wrung the fiddle out of his hand, and smashed it to pieces on his head. John, who could run like a greyhound, and well knew how far he could trust to his heels, no sooner got out of the cellar than he let loose the floodgates of his wrath, and poured forth upon his astonished master a torrent of invective, partly the slang of the mob, and partly supplied from plays and farces by his memory; then assuring “the ugly illnatured hunks” that he never should see him again till he was able to make his thick scull ring with a drubbing, he disappeared, and prepared to leave Manchester.

A few months antecedent to this event, a circumstance occurred to Hodgkinson the relation of which properly comes in here. Two persons, genteelly dressed, coming to his mother’s house, called for a room and some beer, and asked if they could get dinner. It was Sunday, and John, as usual, spent the day at home. He was busily employed in the entry making a bridge for a fiddle, and, as he cut away, accompanied his labour with a song, upon which a person belonging to the house3 chid him angrily or rather very severely for singing on the sabbath. He made no other reply than that of changing from a soft song, which he barely hummed, to the laughing song of Linco in Cymon, which he roared out obstreperously, by way of asserting his independence. A verbal scuffle ensued, which he still interlarded with bursts of song and laughter; the door of the room opened; the two gentlemen interfered, and calling him into the parlour, requested him to sing Linco’s song through for them. He complied; they lavished encomiums on his performance; and one of them said to the other “I’ll be hanged if he does not sing it much better than Wilder,”4 These words John never forgot; and he owned to this writer, about six years ago, that they still tingled in his ear, though, at the time they were uttered, he did not know who was meant by Wilder. The person who said this patted him on the head, stroked down his hair, affectionately, and added “You are a dear boy. May God Almighty bless and prosper you!” The other gave him a crownpiece, and desired him to keep it for his sake. Had he given him a hundred crowns they would have been nothing to the honied words of the former. In truth, the leading foible of Hodgkinson through life, was vanity—the great taproot of all his irregularities and errors. He was quite agog to learn who those two men might be: he asked, but no one knew them—they were strangers. In the afternoon, however, they were joined by some players who were performing in the town; and from one of those he learned that the two strangers were from Ireland—He who gave him the crownpiece being a gentleman of the name of Comerford, a merchant—he who gave him his blessing, a Mr. Dawson, a player of Dublin, who was an acting assistant, and a kind of purveyor for the manager of the theatre in that city, and stepfather to the celebrated William Lewis. The Mr. Wilder alluded to was many years an actor and singer in Dublin and the original Linco and colonel Oldboy of that city.

That crownpiece John had put into the hands of his mother, to keep. Having taken his resolution to leave Manchester, and seek his fortune, he went home, took the crown piece from the place where it was deposited, and getting up before break of day next morning, put on his best clothes, packed up a shirt, and took leave of Manchester. His first notion was to go to sea, to which end he took the road to Bristol, knowing that his master would, by means of the constant intercourse between Manchester and Liverpool, readily detect him if he went that road—an event more terrible to him than death; the penalty for runaway apprentices being very severe and disgraceful. It was on this occasion he dropped the name of Meadowcroft, and adopted the much less elegant one, of Hodgkinson.

Here the reader will naturally pause, in order to reflect upon the very extraordinary picture now presented to him. A boy of little more than fourteen years of age, unschooled; little better than illiterate; destitute of useful knowledge; cut off from parents, friends and connexions; and without any visible means of livelihood, rushing forward into a world of strangers, undismayed at the prospect before him; “full of life, and hope, and joy,” and, like the lark of a summer’s morning, caroling as he winged his way. Any reader who has felt the fears and anxieties of a parent when the dear boy of his heart has been for a short time missing, and remembers the pangs of doubt, the apprehension, the painful forebodings, nay, the despair itself into which an absence protracted beyond custom, and not to be accounted for, has thrown him, will be able, from a retrospect of his reflections on such an occasion, to imagine what must have been the danger of this boy, and what the courage he must have had to encounter it—and will, while pondering with admiration upon his fortitude and manliness, tremble for his fate. This writer once asked him if he was not horror-struck when he found himself in Bristol separated from all his friends, and well remembers his answer.—“No,” said he, “Though I was little instructed and no book-scholar, I was not ignorant. Young as I was, I had formed opinions of life from its pictures in plays and farces, and taken full measure of my situation. I knew that I had nothing to expect in Manchester, or any other place, but from my own exertions, and therefore thought that the sooner I set to work the better. Those whom you call my friends, could do little for me if they were ever so well disposed, and I cannot say much for their disposition. I looked upon them and their purposes respecting me, rather as clogs and fetters, than as aids; and I am convinced I was right. I had no fear, because I had health and strength to do several things to earn my bread, (I could sing if I could do nothing else) and never once lost sight of the persuasion that I should one time or other be something better than a pot-boy or a mechanic. Nor did I meet in my journey anything to discourage me. Some suspected me of being a runaway ’tis true, and looked severely at me; but I minded them not; and one man, a wagoner who carried me a whole night in his wagon, owned that he had taken me in gratuitously, for the purpose of having me delivered up; but that I fairly sung and talked him into a regard for me, during the night. Few charged me anything for what I eat, and I brought more than half my crown into Bristol with me. I had besides a pair of silver buckles in my shoes, and a silver seal to my watch.”

You had a watch then?—

“Yes—value sixpence, one of those they sell at fairs. I had bought it about half a year before—put a nice green riband to it, and a twopenny key.—This it was that got me the silver seal, and I’ll tell you how. The Sunday after I bought it, I stood in the aisle of the church, looked at the great clock, and pompously pulling out my pewter watch, and looking at it as proudly as it were a real one, affected to wind it up and set it, studiously comparing it with the church clock and putting it up to my ear. A Mr. ——,5 a worthy man of some opulence, who lived near us and was in the habit of coming to our house to take his pint, came up to me and, with a serious air, pulling out his old gold watch, with a gold dial plate, gravely said to me, while he inwardly laughed—“Pray sir what is the time of the day by your watch,—let us see, do our watches agree, sir:” I blushed.—“Nay, said he, I do but jest with you my child—you must not be angry with me. Come, come; if you have not a gold watch, you shall have a silver seal to tie to your riband,” saying which he brought me home and, taking one from the drawer of a black inkstand, gave it to me. What had a boy to fear that had three shillings in his pocket, a silver seal hanging to his watch string, and a pair of large silver buckles in his shoes? nothing—at least so I thought at that time.”

(To be continued.)

PORTRAIT OF THE CELEBRATED BETTERTON.

(Continued from page 140.)

Notwithstanding the extraordinary power he showed in blowing Alexander once more into a blaze of admiration, Betterton had so just a sense of what was true or false applause, that I have heard him say, he never thought any kind of it equal to an attentive silence; that there were many ways of deceiving an audience into a loud one; but to keep them hushed and quiet was an applause which only truth and merit could arrive at; of which art there never was an equal master to himself. From these various excellencies, he had so full a possession of the esteem and regard of his auditors, that, upon his entrance into every scene, he seemed to seize upon the eyes and ears of the giddy and inadvertent. To have talked or looked another way would then have been thought insensibility or ignorance. In all his soliloquies of moment, the strong intelligence of his attitude and aspect drew you into such an impatient gaze, and eager expectation, that you almost imbibed the sentiment with your eye, before the ear could reach it.

As Betterton is the centre to which all my observations upon action tend, you will give me leave, under his character, to enlarge upon that head. In the just delivery of poetical numbers, particularly where the sentiments are pathetic, it is scarce credible upon how minute an article of sound depends their greatest beauty or inaffection. The voice of a singer is not more strictly tied to time and tune than that of an actor in theatrical elocution. The least syllable too long, or too slightly dwelt upon in a period, depreciates it to nothing; which very syllable, if rightly touched, shall, like the heightening stroke of light from a master’s pencil, give life and spirit to the whole. I never heard a line in tragedy come from Betterton wherein my judgment, my ear, and my imagination were not fully satisfied, which, since his time I cannot equally say of any one actor whatsoever; not but it is possible to be much his inferior with great excellencies, which I shall observe in another place. Had it been practicable to have tied down the clattering hands of the ill judges who were commonly the majority of an audience, to what amazing perfection might the English theatre have arrived, with so just an actor as Betterton at the head of it! If what was truth only could have been applauded, how many noisy actors had shook their plumes with shame, who, from the injudicious approbation of the multitude, have bawled and strutted in the place of merit! If, therefore, the bare speaking voice has such allurements in it, how much less ought we to wonder, however we may lament, that the sweeter notes of vocal music should so have captivated even the politer world into an apostacy from sense to an idolatry of sound. Let us inquire whence this enchantment rises. I am afraid it may be too naturally accounted for: for when we complain that the finest music, purchased at such vast expense, is so often thrown away upon the most miserable poetry, we seem not to consider that when the movement of the air and the tone of the voice are exquisitely harmonious, though we regard not one word of what we hear, yet the power of the melody is so busy in the heart, that we naturally annex ideas to it of our own creation, and, in some sort, become ourselves the poet to the composer; and what poet is so dull as not to be charmed with the child of his own fancy? So that there is even a kind of language in agreeable sounds, which, like the aspect of beauty, without words, speaks and plays with the imagination. While this taste, therefore, is so naturally prevalent, I doubt, to propose remedies for it were but giving laws to the winds, or advice to inamoratos. And however gravely we may assert that profit ought always to be inseparable from the delight of the theatre; nay, admitting that the pleasure would be heightened by the uniting them, yet, while instruction is so little the concern of the auditor, how can we hope that so choice a commodity will come to a market where there is so seldom a demand for it?

It is not to the actor, therefore, but to the vitiated and low taste of the spectator that the corruptions of the stage, of what kind soever, have been owing. If the public, by whom they must live, had spirit enough to discountenance and declare against all the trash and fopperies they have been so frequently fond of, both the actors and the authors, to the best of their power, must naturally have served their daily table with sound and wholesome diet.—But I have not yet done with my article of elocution.

As we have sometimes great composers of music, who cannot sing, we have as frequently great writers that cannot read; and though, without the nicest ear, no man can be master of poetical numbers; yet the best ear in the world will not always enable him to pronounce them. Of this truth Dryden, our first great master of verse and harmony, was a strong instance. When he brought his play of Amphytrion to the stage, I heard him give it his first reading to the actors, in which, though it is true, he delivered the plain sense of every period; yet the whole was in so cold, so flat, and unaffecting a manner, that I am afraid of not being believed when I affirm it.

On the contrary, Lee, far his inferior in poetry, was so pathetic a reader of his own scenes, that I have been informed by an actor who was present, that while Lee was reading to major Mohun, at a rehearsal, Mohun, in the warmth of his admiration, threw down his part and said, Unless I were able to play it as well as you read it, to what purpose should I undertake it? And yet this very author, whose elocution, raised such admiration in so capital an actor, when he attempted to be an actor himself, soon quitted the stage in an honest despair of ever making any profitable figure there.

From all this I would infer, that let our conception of what we are to speak be ever so just, and the ear ever so true, yet, when we are to deliver it to an audience (I will leave fear out of the question) there must go along with the whole a natural freedom and becoming grace, which is easier to conceive than to describe: for without this inexpressible somewhat, the performance will come out oddly disguised, or somewhere defectively unsurprising to the hearer. Of this defect too, I will give you yet a stranger instance, which you will allow fear could not be the occasion of. If you remember Estcourt, you must have known that he was long enough upon the stage, not to be under the least restraint from fear, in his performance. This man was so amazing and extraordinary a mimic, that no man or woman, from the coquette to the privy-counsellor, ever moved or spoke before him, but he would carry their voice, look, mein, and motion instantly into another company. I have heard him make long harangues, and form various arguments, even in the manner of thinking, of an eminent pleader at the bar, with every the least article and singularity of his utterance so perfectly imitated, that he was the very alter ipse, scarce to be distinguished from his original. Yet more; I have seen upon the margin of the written part of Falstaff, which he acted, his own notes and observations upon almost every speech of it, describing the true spirit of the humour, and with what tone of voice, look, and gesture each of them ought to be delivered; yet, in his execution upon the stage, he seemed to have lost all those just ideas he had formed of it, and almost through the character, laboured under a heavy load of flatness. In a word, with all his skill in mimickry, and knowledge of what ought to be done, he never, upon the stage, could bring it truly into practice, but was upon the whole, a languid unaffecting actor. After I have shown you so many necessary qualifications, not one of which can be spared in true theatrical elocution, and have at the same time proved, that with the assistance of them all united, the whole may still come forth defective, what talents shall we say will infallibly form an actor? This, I confess, is one of Nature’s secrets, too deep for me to dive into. Let us content ourselves, therefore, with affirming, that Genius, which Nature only gives, only can complete him. This genius then was so strong in Betterton, that it shone out in every speech and motion of him. Yet voice and person are such necessary supporters to it, that, by the multitude, they have been preferred to genius itself, or at least often mistaken for it. Betterton had a voice of that kind which gave more spirit to terror than to the softer passions; of more strength than melody. The rage and jealousy of Othello became him better than the sighs and tenderness of Castalio: for though in Castalio he only excelled others, in Othello he excelled himself, which you will easily believe, when you consider, that, in spite of his complexion, Othello has more natural beauties than the best actor can find in all the magazine of poetry, to animate his power and delight his judgment with.

The person of this excellent actor was suitable to his voice, more manly than sweet, not exceeding the middle stature, inclining to the corpulent; of a serious and penetrating aspect; his limbs nearer the athletic than the delicate proportion; yet however formed, there arose from the harmony of the whole a commanding mein of majesty, which the fairer faced, or as Shakspeare calls them, the curled darlings of his time, ever wanted something to be equal masters of. There was some years ago to be had, almost in every print-shop, a mezzotinto, from Kneller, extremely like him.

In all I have said of Betterton, I confine myself to the time of his strength, and highest power in action, that you may make allowances from what he was able to execute at fifty, to what you might have seen of him at past seventy: for though to the last he was without his equal, he might not then be equal to his former self; yet so far was he from being ever overtaken, that for many years after his decease, I seldom saw any of his parts in Shakspeare supplied by others, but it drew from me the lamentation of Ophelia upon Hamlet’s being unlike what she had seen him.

Ah! wo is me!

T’ have seen what I have seen, see what I see!

The last part this great master of his profession acted was Melantius, in the Maid’s Tragedy, for his own benefit, when being suddenly seized by the gout, he submitted, by extraordinary applications, to have his foot so far relieved, that he might be able to walk on the stage, in a slipper, rather than wholly disappoint his auditors. He was observed that day, to have exerted a more than ordinary spirit, and met with suitable applause; but the unhappy consequence of tampering with his distemper was, that it flew into his head, and killed him in three days, I think, in the seventy-fourth year of his age.

That Betterton was as good an actor as ever lived, and that he shone most conspicuously in parts of dignity and fire, is pretty certain; yet his externals were such as would at first sight be thought very unfavourable. The famous Tony Aston, in a work called “A brief Supplement to Colley Cibber,” gives the following picture of Mr. Betterton, the fidelity of which has never been questioned.

“Mr. Betterton though a superlative good actor, laboured under ill figure, being clumsily made, having a great head, a short thick neck, stooped in the shoulders, and had fat short arms, which he rarely lifted higher than his stomach. His left hand frequently lodged in his breast, between his coat and waistcoat, while with his right he prepared his speech. His actions were FEW, BUT JUST. He had little eyes and a broad face, a little pock-frecken, a corpulent body, and thick legs, with large feet. He was better to meet than to follow; for his aspect was serious, venerable and majestic. In his latter time he was a little paralytic. His voice was naturally low and grumbling; yet he could tune it by an artful climax, which enforced universal attention, even from the fops and orange-girls. He was incapable of dancing even in a country dance, as was Mrs. Barry; but their good qualities were more than equal to their deficiencies. Betterton was the most extensive actor from Alexander to sir John Falstaff.”

“His younger cotemporary, Powel, who was only forty, when Betterton was sixty-three, attempted several of Betterton’s parts, as Alexander, Jaffier, &c. but lost his credit, as in Alexander he maintained not the dignity of a king, but out-heroded Herod; and in his poisoned mad scene out-raved all probability, while Betterton kept his passion under, and showed it most, as fume smokes most when stifled. If I was to write of him all day, I should still remember fresh matter in his behalf.”

The following facetious story of Betterton and a country tenant of his is related by Aston.

Mr. Betterton had a small farm near Reading, in Berkshire, and the countryman came, in the time of Bartholomew fair, to pay his rent. Mr. Betterton took him to the fair, and going to one Crawley’s puppet-show, offered two shillings for himself and Roger, his tenant. “No, no, sir,” said Crawley, “we never take money from one another.” This affronted Mr. Betterton, who threw down the money, and they entered. Roger was hugely diverted with Punch, and bred a great noise, saying that he would drink with him, for he was a merry fellow. Mr. Betterton told him he was only a puppet, made up of sticks and rags. However Roger still cried out that he would go and drink with Punch. When Master took him behind where the puppets hung up, he swore he thought Punch had been alive. However, said he, though he be but sticks and rags, I’ll give him sixpence to drink my health. At night Mr. Betterton went to the theatre, when was played the Orphan, Mr. Betterton acting Castalio, Mrs. Barry Monimia. “Well,” said Master, “how dost like this play, Roger?” “Why, I don’t know,” said Roger, “it’s well enough for sticks and rags.”

This anecdote is falsely related of Garrick.

DRAMATIC CENSOR.

I have always considered those combinations which are formed in the playhouse as acts of fraud or cruelty. He that applauds him who does not deserve praise, is endeavouring to deceive the public. He that hisses in malice or in sport is an oppressor and a robber.

Dr. Johnson’s Idler, No. 25.

Master Payne’s performances concluded.

Of the characters represented by this young gentleman, those in which he has evinced greatest powers are Douglas, Tancred, and Romeo, while that in which he is least exceptionable, is Frederick in Lover’s Vows. In his Octavian, which followed next after Douglas, some of the pathetic passages were beautifully expressed. Mrs. Inchbald, in her prefatory remarks to the play of the Mountaineers, says, “This true lover requires such peculiar art, such consummate skill in the delineation, that it is probable his representative may have given an impression of the whole drama unfavourable to the author. Nor is this a reproach to the actor who fails; for such a person as Octavian would never have been created, had not Kemble been born some years before him. But, notwithstanding the difference of their ages, it is likely they will both depart this life at the same time.” While the difficulty of delineating Octavian, and the merit of a living performer of it are such, that it is scarcely possible to think of the play without thinking of Kemble, it has so happened that scarcely any character has been attempted by so many actors of all qualities—nor is there one in which so few have come off with actual disgrace. Men who could scarcely be endured in third or fourth rate parts, have selected Octavian to figure in, on their benefit nights. One man who was laughed at in every other character, was supposed by a misjudging audience to play Octavian well; nay, to our knowledge, was preferred to Hodgkinson and Cooper in it. The reason is plain: to the portraying of madness, the injudicious can imagine no limits. The more a madman raves and roars, the better; rags, slovenliness, and matted hair, and beard too, are the usual associates of awkwardness and vulgarity. Any man, therefore, who can rant and play the extravagant, no matter how ungracefully, may pass with some audiences for a very natural Octavian—an abominable absurdity! For these two reasons, Octavian is a very hazardous part for a performer who aims at substantial fame, to attempt. In Master Payne’s performance of it, there was no extravagance to censure; nothing that had the least tendency to enrol him among the Bedlamite butchers of the character, nor was there, on the other hand, a complete uniform delineation of Octavian to afford him the same rank in that, which criticism willingly allows him in some other characters.

Not so Frederick, his performance of which was one consistent piece of natural, affecting, and indeed skilful acting. In the scenes of filial tenderness with his mother, and in the solemn but spirited remonstrances with the baron Wildenheim, he displayed such equal excellence that criticism might incur the charge of injustice by giving the preference to either. The character, as Master Payne acted it, was made up by him from the two antecedent translations of Mrs. Inchbald and Mr. Thompson;—by a union of both of which this youth has produced a better acting play than either. He lately published it at Baltimore with an advertisement prefixed, written by himself, to which we refer our readers, with a strong recommendation to them to peruse it.

In the characters selected by Master Payne there are but four which we can think judiciously chosen. For the whole selection we should find it difficult to account, if we did not know that they had before been chosen for Master Betty; by thus closely walking in the steps of whom, Master Payne has, in our opinion, wronged himself. It is evident that in choosing characters for the infant Roscius of England, his instructors had it more in view to exhibit the boy as a prodigy, than the characters well acted. The people were to be treated to an anomalous exhibition, and the greater the anomaly the better the treat. What but a determination to inflame public curiosity to the highest pitch by a contrast as absurd as unnatural, could have induced them to put forward a little boy of twelve years old in the formidable tyrant Richard? like modern composers of music, their object was not to produce harmony or natural sweetness, but to execute difficulties. As the actor was a boy loitering on the verge of childhood, the plan, if not correct, was at least politic. But the public do not look on Master Payne in that light, and therefore, he ought to have selected parts more suitable to his time of life and talents. Parts calculated to aid and not depress him. What judicious actor is there now living who would not think it injurious to him to be put forward by a manager in Selim or in Zaphna? The united powers of Mossop in Barbarosa, and Garrick in Selim could barely keep that play alive. We have seen Mossop play it to a house of not ten pound, though aided by the first Zaphira in the world, Mrs. Fitzhenry. From either of those characters Master Payne could not derive the least aid. His Hamlet we put out of the question—we did not see it.

On his Tancred we can dwell with very different sensations. Considering the materials he had to work upon, his delineation of the character was highly creditable to his talents. For the love part, little more can be done by a good actor, than by a good reader;—as poetry, it is soft, and sweet, and flowing; as a practical representation of that passion it is mawkish: yet, in the performance of Master Payne, it was not entirely destitute of interest. In all the rest; in every scene with Siffredi, particularly in his warm expostulations with the honest, but mistaken old statesman; in his subsequent indignation and despair; in his lofty bearing and menaces to Osmond, and thence onward to his death, he was truly excellent, seemed perfect master of the scene, and in depicting the tumult of passions which struggle in the bosom of the lordly Tancred, evinced that he possesses the legitimate genius, and true spirit that should inform the actor.

For his benefit he personified Romeo. The house was so crowded, and in all places that were accessible after the doors were opened, there was so much pressing, confusion, ill-mannered noise and struggle, and rudeness, that few but those who had places taken in the front boxes could see or hear the play out. From the upper gallery, where with difficulty we at last got a seat, we indistinctly saw what passed on the stage, and could hear a little by snatches. What we did hear and see induced us to lament our not hearing and seeing more, and to wish that we may speedily have another opportunity of witnessing a performance respecting which there is but one opinion, and that highly favourable to Master Payne’s reputation.

MR. COOPER.

Scarcely had master Payne disappeared in his transit southward, when Mr. Cooper followed, and, in describing his annual orbit, was seen here for nine nights; during which he performed the following characters.

Friday 29th Dec.—Richard the Third.

Saturday 30th.—Zanga in the Revenge.

Monday 1st Jan.—Leon in Rule a Wife and have a Wife.

Wednesday 3d.—Othello.

Friday 5th.—Macbeth.

Saturday 6th.—Pierre in Venice Preserved.

Monday 8th.—Hamlet.

Wednesday 10th.—Hotspur.

Friday 12th.—Michael Ducas in Adelgitha.

Saturday 13th.—Penruddock—and after it Petruchio.

Of all the actors we have ever seen in the old world or in the new, he who imposes the most difficult task upon the critic is Mr. Cooper. It is scarcely possible to generalize his acting. The great inequality of his performance, the defects of some parts, the doubtfulness of others, and the amazing beauties which he frequently displays, forbid the critic, if he have a due regard to truth, to give to the different parts of any one character Mr. Cooper performs the same measure of praise or disapprobation.

Hardly have our nerves ceased to vibrate, and our hearts to leap in consequence of perhaps a series of electrical strokes of irresistible effect and beauty, when our patience is put to trial by some defect, or our feelings left to grow cold and languid for want of an appropriate continuous excitement. To walk step by step with him through those alternations, and to decide in circumstantial detail upon this gentleman’s title to critical applause, would require a minuteness of description incompatible with the scheme of this publication; yet, since the high rank which he very deservedly holds in his profession renders it important that just opinions should be formed upon the subject of his performances, and that his merits should be as closely as possible canvassed, and as precisely ascertained, it would be inconsistent with the duty of a public critic wholly to decline the task, however difficult and laborious he may find it.

We have now before us a criticism upon Mr. Cooper which once appeared in a periodical publication at Charleston S. C. and in which I find the following passage.

“Nature husbands her gifts so carefully that where equality appears in all the parts of any object, supreme excellence is rarely seen; where great beauties are found, they are generally mixed with some considerable alloy. Of all the actors we have ever seen, Mr. Mossop was the one whom Mr. Cooper, in this respect, most resembles. With him, when it was not a blaze, it was a cloud. No man, not Garrick himself ever equalled his beauties; but his defects were great. The beauties, however, were so far superior in numbers to the defects, and in quality, to the excellencies of all other men, that he obtained from the greatest critic of that day, the tide of the Tragedy Sheet Anchor.” All this is strictly true; but there is this difference between that great actor and Mr. Cooper, Mossop never committed a fault from negligence; studiously, I might almost say superstitiously, devoted to the cultivation of his professional talents, he left nothing undone which industry could accomplish, and whenever he went wrong, failed from an almost pedantic desire to do too much—from a stiffness and stateliness of deportment, and an embarrassment of which he had begun to get rid but a few years before his death. Mr. Cooper labours under no obstruction of this kind.

The natural talents displayed by Mr. Cooper in most of his performances forbid it to be believed that his failures result from incompetency; or that there is any excellence, to which the actors of the present day attain, too great for his grasp, if his industry were nearly equal to his personal endowments. But the honest and zealous critic loses all patience, when he sees first talents supinely contenting themselves with less than first honours. What are the natural or acquired endowments of Kemble or Cooke, whether mental or corporeal? Certainly not superior to those of Mr. Cooper. How do they respectively stand in the records of professional fame? It would be invidious to give the answer.

If one could, with certainty, estimate a player’s actual performance from his untried talents, and were asked what disqualifying circumstance exists to prevent Mr. Cooper from playing Richard, Othello, Zanga or Hotspur as well as any man—we should answer none! But when, having seen him act, we come in the capacity of public critics to adjudge him his rights, we feel the mortifying necessity of speaking other language.

In Othello and Zanga, the inequality of Mr. Cooper’s acting is strikingly conspicuous. Of the great distinction between the colloquial familiarity suitable to ordinary dialogue, and the solemn, dignified, and lofty delivery becoming the orator in a great public assembly, Mr. Cooper seems to have entirely lost sight in the celebrated speech to the senate, the first lines of which may serve as a lesson how the whole should be spoken.

“Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors,

My very worthy and approved good masters.”

The pompous sound of these words, as well as the awfulness of the place, and the august character of the assembly to which they are addressed, sufficiently indicate the manner in which they ought to be uttered. Instead of this Mr. Cooper (no doubt with the view to avoid pomposity and bombast) threw into them an air of familiarity like that of a person narrating a private transaction to an intimate friend or acquaintance: Yet no sooner does he come to the impassioned parts, where strong emotions call forth the manly energies, than he flames up with the character. In the third scene of the second act, he displays much force and dignity in the following lines:

He that stirs next to carve for his own rage,

Holds his soul light; he dies upon his motion.

Silence that dreadful bell, it frights the isle

From her propriety.

And afterwards:

Now by heaven

My blood begins my safer guides to rule;

And passion, having my best judgment collied,

Assays to lead the way: If I once stir

Or do but lift this arm, the best of you

Shall sink in my rebuke, &c. &c.

And indeed through the whole of that scene he was impressive and important: nor, with the exception of those occasional lapses which we have to regret in almost every character he plays, even in his Macbeth, and the liberties he occasionally takes with the text, was there any reason to complain, while every now and then, he emitted some of those splendid scintillations of light which distinguish his acting from that of every competitor in America.

In the last act, his performance was superlatively great. So great indeed, that if all the other parts had been nearly equal to it, we should not at all hesitate to put it in competition with the Othello of any man now living. As it was, we pay it no compliment in saying that it was in every part much superior to that of Pope, the quondam Othello of Covent Garden.

Zanga.

The character of Zanga would at first sight seem to be well calculated for Mr. Cooper’s talents: yet we cannot say that we very much admire him in it. That in his execution of the part Mr. Cooper goes beyond Mr. Kemble is certain, while his conception of it is nearly the same. In the latter, both are deficient. If there ever was a character which only one man in the world could play perfectly, Zanga is that character, and Mossop was that man. In a mixed company some years ago at Mr. Foote’s, the celebrated doctor John Hill lanched out in praise of Mossop. Foote likewise admired him, but could not refrain from ridiculing and mimicking some of that great actor’s stately singularities; upon which Richard Malone said, and Garrick was present, “You must own this one truth, however, because I have it from the highest authority (bowing to Garrick) that Mossop is the only man who was ever known so to act a character that the judgment of a nation has not been able to mark a fault in it.” “I have often said,” replied Garrick, “that Mossop’s Zanga is perfectly faultless—but that is too little to say of it—it is a brilliant without a speck.”

Upon that extraordinary actor’s performance of Zanga, every word and action of which Fancy, while we are writing this, whispers in our ears and figures to our eyes, we build our conception of the character; and, in conformity to that conception, pronounce Mr. Cooper and Mr. Kemble to be both wrong in material points, chiefly in the first part of it. In the year 1800 we saw Kemble attempt the Moor, and endured great pain from his efforts; for not only his reading (as it is called) of the part was erroneous, but his organs were too feeble for the character; a defect of which Mr. Cooper has not to complain.

Of Mossop’s Zanga, there was not one line from the beginning to the end which, while he was uttering it, a spectator would not believe to be the best. In every part the grandeur of Zanga’s character broke through the clouds of horror and humiliation that surrounded him; and in the very first scene the magnanimity of the poet’s Moor, was exalted to something of more than human sublimity, by the player. In the disclosing of his discontent to Isabella, the painting to her of his mental agonies, and the avowal of his hatred to Alonzo, the emotions which Mossop excited in the spectators were too awful and interesting to be imagined by those who have not felt them. The deep and affecting solemnity of his narrative, interrupted by the occasional flashes of passion which burst from him, was in strict congeniality with the dreadful elementary storm in which it is introduced. In the hands of other actors this part makes little impression.

Hear then. ’Tis twice three years since that great man,

(Great let me call him for he conquered me)

Made me the captive of his arm in fight.

The loftiness of the Moor’s nature, and his conscious pride were by the peculiar delivery of the second line, as perfectly unfolded as they could be by volumes. Again:

One day (may that returning day be night,

The stain, the curse, of each succeeding year!)

For something, or for nothing, in his pride

He struck me. (While I tell it do I live?)

He smote me on the cheek.

The words comprehended in parentheses, are occasional starts of digression dictated by rage, and should be uttered passionately, we do not mean loudly, but with vehement indignation! So Mossop uttered them, changing his key and speaking the words with the rapidity expressive of rage—and then, after a struggle, falling down to the solemn level of his narrative again. These, however, Mr. Kemble spoke rather in a tone of whining lamentation. The limited organs of Mr. K. might make it policy in him to do so; but Mr. Cooper has not that plea to offer. Be that as it may, the character is defaced by it. The Moor’s fire is not supposed to be extinguished; it is only covered up, to break out with more terrible fury, when the accomplishment of his purpose will allow it. In going over the sad recital of his woes, to a confidential friend, the poet, in order the more perfectly to unfold his character, makes the hidden fire burst forth in momentary blazes. To sink this is to deprive the character of one of its most essential beauties; to give it the directly opposite expression of piteous lamentation is, indeed, reversing the noble character of the Moor.

One of the wonderful excellencies of Mossop in this part was his artful display of hypocrisy in the words and purpose, while his external port silently asserted his superiority, and the native majesty of his looks and manner bespoke the magnitude of the sacrifice he was making to vengeance, thereby giving a deeper colouring to the inexorable vindictiveness of his nature, and more forcibly illustrating the inflexible firmness of his soul. All other actors that we have ever seen reduce Zanga to a mere slavish croucher in all points; and destroy the very basis of the character by an overacted humiliation, highly improper because too glaring not to excite Alonzo’s suspicions. He must be a dull Alonzo indeed, if he could not look through such flimsy dissimulation.

Yet with all these defects, for which, as well as many other transgressions, the modern crop of young actors are indebted to the example of Mr. Kemble, Mr. Cooper gave us in several places as great satisfaction as with our remembrance of “THE Zanga,” we ever hoped to experience. From the time he avows his villany to Alonzo, on to the end, he deserved unqualified praise; nor can we imagine how any one who had not made up his mind upon the great original, to whom we have alluded, could wish or conceive it to be more happily performed.

Mr. Wood’s Alonzo was an animated and respectable piece of acting.

Richard III.

Mr. Cooper conceives that crookbacked usurper with sufficient accuracy, reads it with tolerable correctness, and acts it with great spirit. In this character he evidently has the greatest model extant [Cooke] in his eye. When first, some five years ago, we saw Mr. Cooper perform Richard, we thought he played it tolerably, but wanted weight. He is much improved in this respect since that time, and has acquired in those few years a sufficiency of the personal importance requisite for the character of Richard.

Venice Preserved.

Pierre is a character admirably suited to Mr. Cooper’s talents. There are but few of his performances to which we sit with more pleasure. Few in which he is so little exceptionable. On this occasion he was supported by his friend Jaffier in a manner that reflects much credit on Mr. Wood. And Mr. Wood is not a little indebted to his Belvidera also. Could we speak as favourably of his Iago, we should have introduced him in the proper place. Mr. Cooper’s grenadier’s cap, added nothing, to say no worse of it, to his appearance.

A fashion has prevailed for some years (introduced by the doctors of the perspective and statuary school of action) which sometimes increases the difficulty of giving verisimility to the scene, or rather destroys it altogether. We allude to the actors, in all possible cases, entering from the back, or near it. This though sometimes right, is peculiarly improper when the entering character is to speak aside as he enters, and is supposed by the cunning of the scene not to be heard by the character who is on the stage before him. It was particularly observable in the performances of Othello and Venice Preserved. In the third scene of the third act, when Othello, followed by Iago, enters to Desdemona, Emilia, and Cassio, (which last takes his leave suddenly on the Moor’s approach) and Iago, in prosecution of his plan, exclaims, so as to be heard by Othello only, “Ha! I like not that,” Mr. Cooper and Mr. Wood entering too far from the stage, rendered it necessary for the latter to utter those words (aside) so loud, that they must necessarily have been heard by all the other characters on the stage.

Again, in Venice Preserved, in the night-scene on the Rialto, Jaffier being on the stage in his proper place, soliloquizing, Pierre enters and says what certainly neither Jaffier nor any but the audience should be presumed to hear. Mossop, Sheridan, Henderson, et id genus omne, entered so near the stage, that the voice of Pierre might be supposed to reach the audience, without passing through Jaffier’s ear. Side speaking ought always to be done in that way. Mr. Cooper, on the contrary, entered from the wing next the back scene, so that Jaffier stood between him and the audience, and must of course be supposed to have heard him, if the audience heard him; as they did, very distinctly too, from the remote end of the stage, say aloud,

“Sure I’ve staid too long:

The clock has struck, and I may lose my proselyte.”

Exclusive of which a great injury to the necessary illusion arises from the side speaker being obliged to speak so high that not only the characters on the stage, but the people in the neighbouring houses must be supposed to be all let into the secret, and he cannot, therefore, be thought to intend to speak aside. In the good old times they were as scrupulously exact in these matters, as they are now most blamably lax.

Hamlet.

Many of Mr. Cooper’s admirers set down his Hamlet as the best of his performances; a proposition to which we can never accede. Some parts of it, no doubt, are excellent, and in the play scene before the court, he is scarcely surpassed by any one. But in our opinion his Hamlet fades from the sight, when put in competition with his

Macbeth,
in which he unquestionably takes the lead of all the actors that have ever appeared in this country; and is in our judgment preferable, in many parts, to either Kemble or Cooke; far, very far, superior to Holman. His dagger-scene is inimitably fine; but by following Mr. Kemble’s idea, he loses much in his return from the scene of murder. Before Mr. Kemble every actor followed the plan of Garrick with more or less success; and from them, viz. Sheridan, Mossop, Reddish, Henderson, all of whom we have seen, we can state the difference between the old and new school in this most trying scene. We have never witnessed the performance of Garrick; but have seen pictures of him in that very part, one particularly by Sir Joshua Reynolds, of which there is an engraving, and which exactly corresponds with the action of all of his whole school, of whom the best was certainly Mr. Sheridan. Just as lady Macbeth, who is waiting his return from the chamber of blood, says, in soliloquy,

“Hark! I laid their daggers ready,

He could not miss them,”

the noise of a hasty foot was heard within, she paused, and then proceeded,

“Had he not resembled

My father as he slept, I had done’t.”

At that moment the door opened and Macbeth appeared, a frightful figure of horror, rushing out sideways with one dagger, and his face in consternation, presented to the door, as if he were pursued, and the other dagger lifted up as if prepared for action. Thus he stood as if transfixed, seeming insensible to every thing but the chamber, unconscious of any presence else, and even to his wife’s address of “my husband.” In this breathless state, he hastily said in a whisper, as if to himself,

“I have done the deed.”

then, after a pause, in a tone of anguish and trepidation, without ever taking his eyes from the chamber, he still whispered in a quick, sharp tone,

“Didst thou not hear a noise?”

Nor did he quit this attitude, but with eyes still fixed upon the chamber door continued to carry on the broken dialogue that follows, in fearful whispers.

“L. M.   Did not you speak?

M.   When?

L. M.   Now.

M.   As I descended?

L. M.   Ay.

M.   Hark!

Who lies in the second chamber.

L. M.   Donaldbain.”

Then for the first time he drew his hands together with the daggers in them, and in the most heart-rending accents exclaimed,

“This is a sorry sight.”

Thus represented by Mr. Sheridan, this scene was perhaps the most interesting in the drama. What then must it have been when done by Garrick. A critic now before us speaking of Garrick and Mrs. Pritchard in this part, says, “His distraction of mind and agonizing horrors were finely contrasted by her apathy, tranquillity, and confidence. The beginning of the scene, after the commission of the murder, was conducted in terrifying whispers. Their looks and action supplied the place of words. The poet here gives only an outline of the consummate actor—“I have done the deed,” &c. “Didst thou not hear,” &c. The dark colouring given by Garrick to these abrupt speeches made the scene tremendous to the auditors. The wonderful expression of heart-felt horror which Garrick felt when he viewed his bloody hands, can only be conceived by those who saw him.” Murphy, who confirms this account by Davies, says that when Garrick reentered the scene with the bloody daggers in his hands, he [Murphy] was absolutely scared out of his senses. It is but fair to add, that the great dramatic censor who wrote in 1770 says “Without any exaggeration of compliment to Mr. Sheridan, we must place him in a very respectable degree of competition with Mr. Garrick in the dagger-scene; and confess a doubt whether any man ever spoke the words “this is a sorry sight,” better.

How vapid, meagre, frigid, and unaffecting has been the performance of this part since Mr. Kemble’s reign. According to his institutes, Macbeth closes the door with the cold unfeeling caution of a practised house-breaker, then listens, in order to be secure, and addresses lady Macbeth as if, in such a conflict, Macbeth could be awake to the suggestions of the lowest kind of cunning.

In his entrance to the witches in the cauldron scene, Mr. Cooper suffers the character to sink. This is one of the parts with which the audience, at one time, used to be most gratified by the powers of their great actors. The critic from whom we have cited above, adverting to Henderson’s Macbeth, which was astonishingly great, says, “In the masterly conjuration of the witches, in the cavern, so idly omitted by Kemble, he was wonderfully impressive.”

Yet there is upon the whole so little exceptionable, and such abundant beauties in Mr. Cooper’s Macbeth, that we think he ought there to plant his standard. Imagination figures to us the magnificent exhibition he might make of it, by studying from the best authorities and descriptions, the various attitudes and action of Garrick in the scenes alluded to, which are recorded not only in several books and portraits, but in the memory of many men living.

Henry iv.

Of Mr. Cooper’s Hotspur we do not wish to speak in depreciation, nor are we prepared greatly to praise it. To compensate, however, for this, to our own wishes, we confess our inability to say too much of his performance of Leon. And we feel pleasure in adding that in

Adelgitha,
he reaped a whole harvest of laurels. His Michael Ducas, being not only a masterly, but an original performance, one which we cannot reasonably hope to see excelled, and which we may in vain, perhaps, expect to see equalled.

We have a long arrear against us on account of the theatre. But we hope to discharge it in regular order and in due time. Meantime we cannot refrain from expressing by forestallment our great satisfaction at the successful run and favourable reception of “The Foundling of the Forest.” If the manager and actors are indebted to the public for the great encouragement and approbation bestowed upon that play, the public are no less indebted to the manager for his zeal, unsparing expense, and judicious arrangements in the casting of the parts, and to the actors, particularly Mr. Wood, for their excellent performance of it. But upon that subject we shall enlarge hereafter.

THEATRICAL INTELLIGENCE.

Mr. Dwyer.

The American stage has received, in the person of Mr. Dwyer, one of the greatest acquisitions that it has ever had to boast of. We have never had the pleasure of seeing this gentleman’s performance; but we have collected from the periodical publications of Great Britain sufficient to convince us that he is an actor of great merit, and, in his line, of the first promise. No man treads so closely on the heels of the inimitable Lewis as Mr. Dwyer. “Light dashing comedy,” says a judicious British critic, “is his forte, and in it he is almost faultless.” In Belcour, Charles Surface, and characters of that cast, he excels, and his Liar is acknowledged to be the first on the British boards.

From a professional gentleman of this city of acknowledged taste and erudition, who saw him in England, we have had a description of Mr. Dwyer. He says that nature has been uncommonly bountiful to this actor. That he is very handsome, has a fine person, and might, in lively, bustling, genteel comedy, be as great as any man, if his industry were equal to his natural endowments.

Mr. Dwyer has played Hamlet and other tragic characters; but the critics we have read seem so intent upon his excellence in the sock, that they forget to say anything particular of his merits in the buskin.

In this dearth of theatrical talents, every lover of the drama will rejoice at this new acquisition to the American theatre. Mr. Dwyer is said to be an Irishman. His name says it for him. No doubt his countrymen will be not a little proud of him; for he is reported to possess, in no common measure, all the recommendations to the eye on which they nationally set such value—stature, bone, muscle, symmetry, and comeliness.

State of the British stage.

Notwithstanding the losses sustained by the death of some actors, and the defection of others, the stock of talents is not likely to be entirely exhausted. Though nothing has for years appeared that has a tendency to fill up the void which succeeded the Augustan age of acting, which ended with the death of Garrick, Barry, and Mossop, still meritorious performers, both male and female, arise, who promise to preserve the stage from sinking into utter disrepute.

Foremost among these is a Mr. Young, who bids fair to outstrip all competitors, as a general actor. The extent of his powers, the versatility of his talents, and the advantages of his face and person are stated by the critics, in the public prints, to be very extraordinary; and we feel great pleasure in having it in our power to say that the opinions of those are amply confirmed by the verbal reports of American gentlemen of taste and discernment, who, in the course of the last year, frequently saw Mr. Young perform. Some think he excels in comedy; the majority prefer his tragedy. Admitting the Stranger to fall under the latter denomination, Mr. Young must stand higher in the buskin than in the sock, since that is allowed to be his most perfect performance. In confirmation of which little more need be advanced than that it is admitted he very seldom, if ever, falls short of the great original, Mr. Kemble, in that character, and sometimes goes beyond him.

In Don Felix, Belcour, Charles Surface, and characters of that cast, he stands conspicuous for ease, elegant hilarity, gayety of manners, and vivacity of action. In tragic characters, not only in the fiery, the impassioned, and the grand, but in those of pomp and solemnity, he is said to be original, great, and striking. On his Hamlet and Macbeth the critics seem to have dwelt with peculiar attention and pleasure.

Speaking of Mr. Y’s Hamlet, a learned and perspicuous critic says “A performance exhibiting stronger marks of genius, finer animation, or happier display of intellect we have seldom witnessed. Mr. Young has studied this masterpiece of Shakspeare with infinite care, not merely as to the text and general scope of the character, but throughout all its shades and gradations, discriminating with the utmost truth and nicety, each particular feature of Hamlet, and presenting a whole so finished and forcible, as to leave the strongest impressions on the mind of his audience.” The same critic enters, with a spirit derived from a lively admiration of his subject, into the whole of Mr. Young’s Hamlet, of which he speaks in a strain of warm eulogy. Adverting to the instructions given by Hamlet to the players, he pays Mr. Y. this elegant compliment: “The instructions to the players could not be better delivered. His own sensible performance was an apposite illustration of the excellent lesson which Shakspeare has in this scene bequeathed to the profession.” And he concludes thus: “He is indeed an acquisition of importance. Of intellectual actors we have very few. Strutters and bellowers we have in abundance. We therefore hail Mr. Young’s appearance with more than usual satisfaction; and the more so, since we hear that his manners are highly estimable in private life. On and off the stage he will thus prove an ornament to his profession.”

Mr. Young has played, besides the characters already named, Rolla, Penruddock, Lothaire, Othello, George Barnwell, Octavian, Osmond (Castle Spectre) Hotspur, Frederick in Lovers Vows, Petruchio, Gondebert, and many others, if not all with equal excellence, at least with so much as to rank him among the first masters of the art.

Mr. Young’s face and person are said to be of a superior order. A good height, his figure is well formed; his features expressive and flexible; his voice, from the lowest note to the top of its compass, excellent, and his action and deportment gentlemanly and graceful.

An actress of as great promise as any that has appeared on the British theatre in the memory of man, has lately come forth at Covent Garden, in the arduous character of Lady Macbeth, in which, if we are to trust the London critics, she at once started to a level with Mrs. Siddons. Her name is Smith. She has, like Mrs. Siddons, been on the stage from childhood, without being noticed by any but the happy few, some of whom augured highly of her from the first, and she has fully accomplished their prognostications. The first impressive trace we find of her in theatrical annals is in an Edinburgh criticism. “As I think most highly of this juvenile performer,” says that writer, “and entertain most sanguine hopes of seeing her soon at the head of her profession, I will not insult her by indiscriminate panegyric or mawkish praise. Her comedy is by no means satisfactory to me. The disadvantage of a petite figure is not, in this department compensated by any high excellencies. Her comedy is generally speaking, rather meagre and unadorned, and in a degree pointless and ineffective.—But her tragedy merits every praise. In richness and variety of tone; in propriety and justness of action and gesture; in picturesque and impressive attitude, in a nervous mellowed modulation; in appropriate deportment—above all in the discriminating delicacy of taste, by which she distinguishes and expresses the feelings and workings of the heart, she is above praise.”

Miss Smith next meets us in London in 1808, playing lady Macbeth at Covent Garden, and is spoken of as follows:

“Macbeth by Mr. Kemble so frequently the subject of remark, and often of well-earned eulogy, affords little occasion for notice at this time; but concerning “his NEW partner of greatness”, as there was much to be admired, it is fit that something should be said. A just personification of lady Macbeth is perhaps the most difficult and dangerous undertaking an actress can enter upon: that silent but efficient aid, derived from the contagion of the gentler affections, from pity, sorrow, love; or even from the turbulent emotions of the mind, from anger, jealousy, revenge, “she must not look to have” in the sympathetic bosoms of hearers or spectators; her only operant power is terror, a frigid and unsocial passion, and hence perhaps it is that no actress, at least in modern times, has been found fully adequate to the task; the according testimony indeed of the best living or recent opinions may warrant a belief that Mrs. Pritchard displayed successfully the portraiture of this singular character; but when we hear a performer of our day, whom the public has long and deservedly applauded, extolled as a perfect representative of lady Macbeth, and find this part held forth and distinguished as the pattern of her excellence, true criticism must reject the fallacy of the assertion, and the injustice it imposes upon that great actress herself, who in many other situations of the drama, sustains an eminence above all rivalship; physical defects may often be lessened or concealed; but they will sometimes be too stubborn for the force of art, and thus, in the language of venal compliment, the poet said “Pritchard’s genteel and Garrick’s six feet high” it cannot be denied that the former was eclipsed by the easy elegance of Mrs. Woffington, and the latter overborne by the majestic stature and deportment of Barry. The first appearance of Miss Smith last night in lady Macbeth, could not fail to conjure up, perversely to our mental view, the comparative superiority of Mrs. Siddons’s person; the effect was strong, but it was momentary; a delicate yet powerful and distinct varied voice, a pure, correct, and exemplary enunciation, guided at once by a sound understanding, a correct ear, and a discriminating taste, a frame and expression of features not inferior to that of Mrs. Siddons herself, with action always just and frequently commanding, soon led us to the forgetfulness of her moderate stature, though oppressed, incidentally, by the towering dignity of her lord: It is the duty of an artist to contemplate the works of a renowned predecessor or contemporary with unaffected reverence, but not with servile devotion, and Miss Smith occasionally varied, and with advantage, from the model that was before her. When Macbeth, incited to the murder of Duncan, interposes—“if we should fail,” Mrs. Siddons with cool promptitude replies “we fail.” The punctuation indeed was suggested by Mr. Steevens; but it appears much too colloquially familiar for the temper and importance of the scene; a failure, which here must be ruin, is an idea that could never be urged with temerity or indifference, and we heard the words with more decorum and much better effect from Miss Smith “we fail?” i.e. is it to be supposed that we, possessing as we do, the power to overcome every obstacle, can miscarry? In the sleeping scene too, we have generally observed that the candlestick was deliberately placed upon the table in order to let the lady act the washing her hands more freely, but Miss Smith contrived to represent this action of a dream more naturally with the light in one hand.

Some faults no doubt were discoverable, the most material of which was an emotion of tenderness at times, and a querulous sensibility not proper to the character of lady Macbeth’s cool, deliberate, and inflexible resolution by which the poet has distinguished her. Great allowance is due for the perturbation of the actress in so perilous and trying a situation, and into these, perhaps, much of the objection just hinted may be resolved: enough however was displayed of power, judgment, and execution to warrant a prediction, that as Miss Smith has already advanced to the first class in her profession, lady Macbeth bids fair to rank among the first of her performances.

Master Payne.

From some English papers now in our possession, we find that the fame of this young gentleman has already reached Europe; in such sort too, as in all probability will ensure him a very favourable reception there, if he should be disposed to try the experiment. Even at this time, the intercourse between the two countries is such that nothing worthy of notice passes in one, without being soon known in the other. English gentlemen, who were lately in America, spoke, on their return to London, in such terms of Master Payne’s performances, as if they thought he would eclipse young Betty. However, we hope that the justice of his own country will prevent the necessity of merit such as his seeking encouragement in strange and distant lands.

MISCELLANY.

THEOBALDUS SECUNDUS,

OR

SHAKSPEARE AS HE SHOULD BE.

NO. II.

Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.

When the celebrated Nat Lee was reproached with writing like a madman, his answer was, “It is very difficult to write like a madman, but very easy to write like a fool.” This sentence involves two assertions; the former is proved to be true by the play now under consideration, and the latter by the numerous commentators it has produced. Doctor Farmer has obligingly exhausted all his learning to prove that Shakspeare had none. “Animasque in vulnere ponunt.” And Mr. Malone has thought it necessary to borrow queen Elizabeth’s ruff, and eat beef-steaks with her maids of honour, in order, by living that age over again, to qualify himself to decypher the local allusions of our great bard. Poor Malone! if he had ever heard the old adage, that “none but a poet should edit a poet,” he would have saved his midnight oil, and solicited a ray from Phœbus. Now, I take the road to poetry to be just as plain as the road to Clapham. In the latter journey you have nothing to do but to invoke Rowland Hill, and in the former to invoke the sacred nine, and your business is done. You are dubbed one of the elect from that time forth, and nothing but Bedlam or the mint can invalidate your title. For myself, I can attribute my profound knowledge of the real text of my author, to no other than the following cause. On turning accidentally to volume I, page 409, of cunning little Isaac’s edition, I happened to alight upon certain antique instructions, “how a gallant should behave himself in a playhouse.” This code of dramatic laws I found ushered in by the following sentence: “The theatre is your poet’s exchange, upon which their Muses (that are now turned to merchants) meeting, barter away that light commodity of words, for a lighter ware than words, plaudities, and the breath of the great beast, which, like the threatenings of two cowards, vanish all into air.” This great beast I take to be, “The many headed monster of the pit,” mentioned in after times by Pope, and the renowned John Bull, celebrated by me, Theobaldus Secundus, in my dedication of last month. Be that however, as it may, I read the treatise through, and was so smitten with the accurate view it exhibited of the theatres of these days, that I immediately determined to transport myself, as well as I could, to the golden times of the beheader of Mary Queen of Scots. I instantly ran to the water-side, bartered for a garret, purchased the wares of a strolling company at a bargain, and I now pen this dissertation reclining on clean straw, on a stage of my own construction, and smoking a pipe of Maryland tobacco, according to the authority above quoted. “By spreading your body on the stage, and by being a justice in examining plaies, you shall put yourself into such a true scænical authority, that some poet shall not dare to present his Muse rudely before your eyes, without having first unmasked her, rifled her, and discovered all her bare and most mystical parts before you at a taverne, when you, most knightly, shall for his paines, pay for both their suppers.” If all these paines do not produce a proportionate modicum of inspiration, then know I nothing of Parnassus. Let us now proceed to business.

In the very first scene of this celebrated tragedy, I find matter of discussion.

Bernardo. Who’s there?

Francisco. Nay, answer me—stand and unfold yourself.

This word has never (mirabile dictu) excited a single comment; but in my opinion it implies that Bernardo enters with his arms folded. The judicious player will remember this, and when thus accosted will immediately throw back his arms, and discover his under vestments, like the “Am I a beef-eater now?” in the critic.

Bernardo. Long live the king.

Francisco. Bernardo?

Bernardo. He.

Mr. Malone merely observes that this sentence appears to have been the watchword. So it was; but, in my mind, the watchword of rebellion. The times, as Hamlet afterwards observes, were out of joint, and the ambitious Bernardo, as it appears to me, was desirous of mounting the throne, having doubtless as good a right to do so, as the murderer Claudius. The answer of Francisco favours my construction. If the loyal exclamation had been pointed at king Claudius, Francisco would have said Amen; instead of which he says, “Bernardo,” signifying, What! you king? and Bernardo cooly answers, “He,” signifying “Yes, I.” Francisco contents himself with replying, “You come most carefully upon your hour,” and the rejoinder of the future monarch puts my reading out of all doubt.

Bernardo. ’Tis now struck twelve, get thee to bed Francisco.

This so exactly resembles the charge of the usurper, Macbeth, to his torch-bearing domestic,

Go bid thy mistress when my drink is ready

She strike upon the bell—get thee to bed.

Thus the guilt of Bernardo is proved by all laws of analogy. Here then we have two beef-eaters in disguise. Ay, beef-eaters! and I’ll prove it by the next sentence.

Francisco. For this relief much thanks: ’tis bitter cold

And I am sick at heart.

Thus all the editors, without a single comment—Oh the blockheads! Listen to my reading.

Francisco. For this good beef much thanks: ’tis better cold, &c.

Bernardo should in this place present an edge-bone to his friend, who should courteously accept it, like a good natured visiter, who bolts into the dining-room when dinner is half over and endeavours to avert the frowns of the lady of the house, by saying “O! make no apologies—it’s my own fault—I like it better cold, &c. Let the property man, when this play is next acted, remember the beef. In the same scene Bernardo inquires “Is Horatio here?” who answers “A piece of him.” Warburton, that bow-wow, “dog in forehead,” says this signifies his hand, which direction should be marked. But how if his hand be not marked? It is not every player who has committed manslaughter on anybody but his author. In my opinion, an actor who scorns to be a mannerist will take it to signify his leg, which is quite as good a piece of him, as his hand, and, if he be a dancer, a much better. My interpretation of this passage is strengthened by the usage of the clown in the dramatic entertainment entitled Mother Goose. When the late Mr. Lewis Bologna, as Pantaloon, proffered his hand in token of amity and forgiveness, Mr. Joseph Grimaldi protruded his foot into his master’s palm. His reading was certainly the right one.

In the course of conversation, Horatio asks, “What! has this thing appeared again to night?” which is both irreverent and nonsensical. A ghost is not a thing. Macbeth says to that of Banquo, “Unreal mockery, hence!” The passage should be “Has this king appeared?”

Bernardo. Sit down a while

And let us once again assail your ears,

That are so fortified against our story,

What we two nights have seen.

This allusion to fortified ears, implies that the parties wore helmets that covered these organs. For we two nights, therefore, read “we two knights.” Knights were at that time soldiers. So Joppa in his prophecy of the year 1790.

The knight now, his helmet on,

The spear and falchion handles;

But knights then, as thick as hops,

In bushy bobs shall keep their shops,

And deal, good lack! in figs and tripe,

And soap, and tallow candles.

The ghost now enters, and retreats like lord Burleigh, in the critic.

Bernardo. See, it stalks away.

Walks, if you please, Mr. Bernardo. I have heard of stalking horses indeed, and that of Troy made many ghosts. But ghosts themselves walk. In speaking to it afterwards, Horatio says, “You spirits oft walk,” “He durst as soon have met the devil in fight,” as have said “stalk.” The shades of difference in the meaning of these two words were nicely marked in a pantomime song of the late Mr. Edwin, in which he courteously applied the word “walk” to the softer sex,

Then ma’am will you walk in, sing folderol liddle,

And sir, will you stalk in, sing folderol liddle, &c.

The following letter received from an unknown correspondent at Boston, was intended to be placed in the biographical part of the number, by way of supplement to the life of Mrs. Warren. Having been omitted, we offer it to our readers in the Miscellany.

To the editor of the Dramatic Censor.

Sir,

In No. II, of the Dramatic Censor, I notice with pleasure a biography of Mrs. Warren, in which, however, all mention of her appearance in Boston is omitted. That she excited enlightened admiration there, the following lines may evince, which were published there soon after her decease, and in which her voice is not unhappily commended. I transcribe them, that you may hereafter insert them or not, according to your opinion of their intrinsic merit.

LINES, ON THE DEATH OF MRS. WARREN, FORMERLY MRS. MERRY, OF THE LONDON THEATRE.

Shall Belvidera’s voice no more

Lend to the Muse its peerless aid,

That erst on Albion’s ingrate shore

Sooth’d Otway’s discontented shade?

She—to no single soil confin’d,

Sought in our climes extended fame;

The wreaths of either world entwin’d,

And taught both continents her name.

Nor, of those strains that crowds have hail’d,

Small is the praise, or light the gain;

Clio can boast such sounds prevail’d,

When faith and freedom pray’d in vain.

Such notes the Mantuan minstrel owns

Long lur’d her Trojan from the main:

And bleeding Arria, in such tones,

Assur’d her lord she “felt not pain.”

Such notes, in Rome’s delirious days,

Could liberty and laws restore;

Could bid “be still” sedition’s waves,

And faction’s whirlwind cease to roar

’Twas by such suasive sounds inspir’d,

The matrons press’d the hostile field;

The Volscian hosts, amaz’d, retir’d;

The proud Patrician learn’d to yield.

Such powers, oh had Calphurnia known,

Great Julius all unarm’d had stood!

No senate walls beheld his doom,

Nor Pompey’s marble drank his blood!

For thee—though born to happier times,

And gentler tasks than these endur’d,

Thy voice might oft prevent those crimes,

Which e’en thy voice could scarce have cur’d.

Although no civic aim was there,

Yet not in vain that voice was given,

Which, often as it bless’d the air,

Inform’d us what was heard in heaven.

Sure, when renew’d thy powers shall rise,

To hymn before th’ empyreal throne,

Angels shall start in wild surprise,

To hear a note so like their own!

They appeared in a paper of limited circulation and would now possess to most readers the charm of novelty. The English of these lines seems to the writer of this to fall upon the ear with hardly less mellifluence than the fine latinity of Wranghams’s.

Your humble servant,
A FRIEND TO YOUR WORK.

Boston, March 1810.

ANECDOTES OF MACKLIN.

One night sitting at the back of the front boxes with a gentleman of his acquaintance, (before the alterations at Covent Garden theatre took place) one of the under-bred box-lobby loungers, so like some of this city of the present day, stood up immediately before him, and his person being rather large, covered the sight of the stage from him. Macklin took fire at this; but managing himself with more temper than usual, patted him gently on the shoulder with his cane, and with much seeming civility, requested of him, “when he saw or heard anything that was entertaining on the stage, to let him and the gentleman with him know of it: for you see, my dear sir,” added the veteran, “that at present we must totally depend on your kindness.” This had the desired effect, and the lounger walked off.

Talking of the caution necessary to be used in conversation among a mixed company, Macklin observed, Sir, I have experienced to my cost, that a man in any situation should never be off his guard—a Scotchman never is; he never lives a moment extempore, and that is one great reason of their success in life.

A COMPARISON BETWEEN MILTON AND SHAKSPEARE.

Among the compositions of our own country, Comus certainly stands unrivalled for its affluence in poetic imagery and diction; and, as an effort of the creative power, it can be paralleled only by the Muse of Shakspeare, by whom, in this respect, it is possibly exceeded.

With Shakspeare, the whole, with exception to some rude outlines or suggestions of the story, is the immediate emanation of his own mind: but Milton’s erudition prohibited him from this extreme originality, and was perpetually supplying him with thoughts which would sometimes obtain the preference from his judgment, and would sometimes be mistaken for her own property by his invention. Original, however, he is; and of all the sons of song inferior, in this requisite of genius, only to Shakspeare. Neither of these wonderful men was so far privileged above his species as to possess other means of acquiring knowledge than through the inlets of the senses, and the subsequent operations of the mind on this first mass of ideas. The most exalted of human intelligences cannot form one mental phantasm uncompounded of this visible world. Neither Shakspeare nor Milton could conceive a sixth corporal sense, or a creature absolutely distinct from the inhabitants of this world. A Caliban, or an Ariel; a devil, or an angel, are only several compositions and modifications of our animal creation; and heaven and hell can be built with nothing more than our terrestrial elements newly arranged and variously combined. The distinction, therefore, between one human intelligence and another must be occasioned solely by the different degrees of clearness, force, and quickness, with which it perceives, retains, and combines. On the superiority in these mental faculties it would be difficult to decide between those extraordinary men who are the immediate subjects of our remark: for, if we are astonished at that power, which, from a single spot as it were, could collect sufficient materials for the construction of a world of its own, we cannot gaze without wonder at that proud magnificence of intellect, which, rushing like some mighty river, through extended lakes, and receiving into its bosom the contributary waters of a thousand regions, preserves its course its name, and its character, entire. With Milton, from whatever mine the ore may originally be derived, the coin issues from his own mint with his own image and superscription, and passes into currency with a value peculiar to itself. To speak accurately, the mind of Shakspeare could not create; and that of Milton invented with equal, or nearly equal, power and effect. If we admit, in the Tempest, or the Midsummer’s Nights Dream, a higher flight of the inventive faculty, we must allow a less interrupted stretch of it in the Comus: in this poem there may be something, which might have been corrected by the revising judgment of its author; but its errors in thought and language, are so few and trivial that they must be regarded as the inequality of the plumage, and not the depression or unsteadiness of the wing. The most splendid results of Shakspeare’s poetry are still separated by some interposing defect; but the poetry of Comus may be contemplated as a series of gems strung on golden wire, where the sparkle shoots along the line with scarcely the intervention of one opake spot.

KEMBLE AND COOKE COMPARED.

A German gentleman of the name of Goede, after having travelled in different parts of the world, arrived in England in 1802, where he resided for two years. On his return to Germany, he communicated his observations to his countrymen in five volumes, from which translations have been made and given to the world under the name of “The Stranger in England.” His remarks are deemed in general just. He has particularly expatiated at some length on the English stage, which he thinks on the decline, and, in his strictures, has shown great knowledge of the subject, and exemplary liberality. Of Cooke and Kemble he speaks thus in one place; “The countenance of Kemble is the most noble and refined; but the muscles are not so much at command as those of Cooke, who is also a first rate comedian; but Kemble almost wholly rejects the comic muse. Both are excellent in the gradual changes of the countenance; in which the inward emotions of the soul are depicted and interwoven as they flow from the mind. In this excellence I cannot compare any German actors with them, unless it be Issland and Christ. Among French tragedians even Talma and Lafond are far inferior to them.”

Again—“Kemble has a very graceful manly figure, is perfectly well made, and his naturally commanding stature appears extremely dignified in every picturesque position, which he studies most assiduously. His face is one of the noblest I ever saw on any stage, being a fine oval, exhibiting a handsome Roman nose, and a well-formed and closed mouth; his fiery and somewhat romantic eyes retreat as it were, and are shadowed by bushy eyebrows; his front is open and little vaulted; his chin prominent and rather pointed, and his features so softly interwoven that no deeply marked line is perceptible. His physiognomy, indeed, commands at first sight; since it denotes in the most expressive manner, a man of refined sentiment, enlightened mind, and correct judgment. Without the romantic look in his eyes, the face of Kemble would be that of a well-bred, cold, and selfish man of the world; but this look from which an ardent fancy emanates, softens the point of the chin and the closeness of the mouth. His voice is pleasing, but feeble; of small compass but extreme depth. This is, as has been previously observed, the greatest natural impediment with which he, to whom nature has been thus bountiful, has still to contend.

“Cooke does not possess the elegant figure of Kemble; but his countenance beams with great expression. The most prominent features in the physiognomy of Cooke are a long and somewhat hooked nose, a pair of fiery and expressive eyes, a lofty and somewhat broad front, and the lines of his muscles which move the lips are pointedly marked. His countenance is certainly not so dignified as that of Kemble, but it discovers greater passion; and few actors are, perhaps, capable of delineating, in such glowing colours the storm of a violent passion, as Cooke. His voice is powerful and of great compass; a preeminence he possesses over Kemble, of which he skilfully avails himself. His exterior movements are by far inferior in the picturesque to those of Kemble.”

GERMAN THEATRE.

It has for a considerable time been fashionable to declaim against the theatrical performances translated from the German. They are pretty generally charged with having corrupted the English dramatic taste, and been the means of introducing the ribaldry and nonsense which, particularly in the form of songs, have so frequently appeared of late, and disgraced the London audiences, who countenanced such trash. This charge is more than insinuated in the first number of this miscellany, page 97, and by way of illustration, the sublime, refined, and admirable song of Alderman Gobble is introduced.

On this point I hold an opinion diametrically opposite, and hope to convince the reader that the allegations against the German writers are entirely groundless. In no German play that I have ever seen is there to be found any thing of this species. The true character of the German theatre is the very antipodes to this. Strong bold sentiment—incidents numerous and interesting—a dramatis personæ of the boldest and most finished kind—and in fact every thing that can command the most marked and pointed attention of the reader or spectator. And all this notwithstanding the disadvantages of appearing in foreign dress; for it hardly need be stated how wretchedly many of the translations have been executed.

That many of the German plays are highly exceptionable in their tendency is equally lamentable as it is undeniable. And when they are adapted for representation here, they ought to be altered and modified to suit the taste, the manners, and the state of society in this country. I allude to the Stranger, Lovers’ Vows, and others of this cast.

But the depravation of taste of which such loud complaints are now made, and which is so freely charged to the account of the German theatres, existed on the London stage before any of the German plays were translated. I have not in my possession at this moment means of deciding with certainty when the first made its appearance. But from an examination of a small history of the stage, which now lies before me, I am inclined to believe that the Stranger was among the earliest of them, and that its first appearance was in the year 1798. One thing, however, is absolutely certain, that not one of them was acted previous to the year 1788: as “Egerton’s Theatrical Remembrancer,” published in that year, and containing “a complete list of all the dramatic performances in the English language,” makes no mention of them. If I prove that this depraved taste existed anterior to 1788, it therefore finally decides the question.

This, I presume, is tolerably plain and clear. I now proceed to fix a much earlier origin for those vile slang songs. To O’Keefe they may be fairly traced. His motley productions contained many of them, and paved the way for the deluge of them that has since followed; for his successful example has been too frequently copied since by other writers.

“The Castle of Andalusia” was performed in 1782, and contains a song6 which, I think, fully proves my position. An audience who could not only tolerate but applaud such rank nonsense and folly as that song, richly deserves to be regaled even to surfeiting with Tom Gobble, and Jem Gabble, and ribaldry of the like kind. It would indeed be “throwing pearls before swine” to offer them such delicate effusions as are to be found in Love in a Village, Lionel and Clarissa, the Maid of the Mill, and the Duenna. It is hardly possible for sublimity and elegance to be relished by persons of so depraved a taste as is necessary to hear such trash without disgust. Were I to be called upon to make a choice, and pronounce between O’Keefe’s Galloping Dreary Dun, and Alderman Gobble, I should give a preference to the latter without hesitation: for, notwithstanding the detestable St. Giles’s slang it contains, it has the merit of containing something of a delineation of a character too common, I mean that of an epicure. Whereas, “Draggle Tail Dreary Dun” has no such recommendation to rescue it from universal execration.

DRAMATICUS.

DESCENT INTO ELYSIUM, FOR A STAGE POET.

Suggested by a scene in Aristophanes.

It is necessary to mention that this was written when Mr. Sheridan was in office, and before Mr. Colman had written his best piece, the Africans. Nothing however has occurred to alter the author’s opinions.

The idea was suggested by a scene in the frogs of Aristophanes. It is a dialogue between Hercules and Bacchus. Bacchus asking Hercules the way to the infernal regions, is naturally interrogated as to his reasons for going. He answers he is going for a poet. On this a short dialogue ensues concerning the living poets of Athens, in which Aristophanes takes occasion to satirize some of his brother dramatists.

Comic Muse, and Porter of Elysium.

Porter. Who knocks so loud and frequent at this gate?

Comic Muse. ’Tis I—the laughing muse of comedy.

P.

What? with that mournful melancholy face?

Why sure—thou’st wandered through Trophonius’ cave.

C. M.

I’ve cause for grief: I’m scorn’d despis’d, neglected,

A vulgar muse, got by some Grub-street bard,

On obscure Ignorance, in gaol or stews,

Usurps my place, and arrogates my honours.

P.

’Tis sad:—but wherefore bend this way thy steps?

C. M.

I come to seek some high and gifted bard,

Whose fiery genius with just judgment temper’d,

May vindicate my rights; and with strong satire

Whip the vile ignorant triflers from the stage.

P.

What! is there none alive of power sufficient?

Lives not the attic wit of Sheridan?

C. M.

He lives: but, oh, disgrace to letters! long

Has left me for the sweets of dissipation,

Left me whose hand had crowned his head with honours,

And still would crown,—to join the noisy band

Of brawling, jangling, patriot politicians.

At length his wonderful deserts have raised him7

To the top of office; and the quondam play-wright.

Ungrateful scorning fair Thalia’s favours,

Courts the green Naiades of Somerset.

P.

But have you not the classic Cumberland?8

C. M.

He still exists: but ah! how chang’d from him

Whose gen’rous Belcour touch’d all hearts with rapture,

Whose honest Major charm’d with native humour,

Whose Charlotte, pleasant, frank and open hearted,

Call’d forth our tears of pleasure—April showers!

His pages now, stuff’d with false maudlin sentiment,

Scarce please our whimpering-girls and driveling ensigns:

P.

But laughing Colman9 lives, a son of humour.

C. M.

’Tis true—his dashes of coarse fun and drollery,

Might smooth the wrinkles of a pedant’s brow,

And loose a stoic’s muscles: and sometimes

Beneath his various merry-andrew coat

I’ve thought I spied the stamp of manly genius,

Some vestige of his father’s purest wit.

But ah! I fear ’twas a false light betray’d me.

Let him write farce; but let him not presume

To jumble fun and opera, grave and comic,

In one vile mess—then call the mixture Shakspeare.

No more of him: my hopes are all evanish’d,

For “Hexham’s battle,” slew him: “The Iron Chest”

Sunk him to Shadwell’s bathos; and “John Bull”

Drove off in wild affright the polish’d muse.

P.

Sure there are more, whose names have not yet reach’d me.

C. M.

Why should I rescue from oblivion’s flood,

Such names as Morton, Reynolds, Dibdin, Cherry.

Morton a melancholy wight, whose muse,

Now sighs and sobs, like newly bottled ale,

Now splits her ugly mouth with grinning.10

Reynolds,11 whose muse most monstrous and misshapen,

Outvies the hideous form that Horace drew.

Dibdin12 a ballad monger—and for Cherry—

But Cherry has no character at all.

P.

Who is the favour’d bard you come to seek?

C. M.

For sterling wit and manly sense combin’d,

Where, Congreve, shall I find thy parallel?

For charming ease, who equals polish’d Vanbrugh?

Where shall we see such graceful pleasantry

As Farquhar’s muse with lavish bounty scatters?

But yet, ye great triumvirate—I fear

To call you back to earth, for ye debas’d

With vile impurities the comic muse,

And made her delicate mouth pronounce such things

As would disgust a Wilmot in full blood,

Or shock an Atheist roaring o’er his cups13

O shameful profligate abuse of powers,

Indulg’d to you for higher, nobler purposes,

Than to pollute the sacred fount of virtue,

Which, plac’d by heaven, springs in each human breast.

P.

Too true your words. But what of Massinger?14

C. M.

O how I love his independent genius,

As vigorous as the youthful eagle’s pinion.

With admiration and with joy I view

The master-touches of his powerful hand.

But, oh! I fear his muse too grand and weighty,

For this less manly, though more elegant age.15

P.

Then choose the milder song of gentle Fletcher.

C. M.

’Tis true, ’tis mild as notes of dying swans,16

But I’d have something of a loftier strain,

Which sweeps with manlier cadence o’er the strings.

P.

The page austere of learned Jonson17 suits you.

C. M.

Yes—’tis a noble and a virtuous muse,

But still her range is rugged and confined.

No. I’ll have one who conquers all—’tis Shakspeare,18

Whose genius now with rapid wing sublime,

Soars with strong course, like generous Massinger;

Now warbles forth her “native wood notes wild,”

In tones more sweet than Fletcher’s tender lays.

Now with strong arrows steeped in caustic wit,

Like Jonson, stabs the follies of the times,

Deep in the “heart’s core:” He’s the bard I seek,

He always joy’d in me, and I in him.

He will revive the glory of the stage.

Then all the puny bards of modern days,

Scar’d at his looks, shall fly; as birds of night,

Shun the full blaze of heaven’s refulgent orb.

MUSIC.

Reviews of late publications.

Respecting the overture to the opera of Il don Giovanni lately published, and the manner in which it was composed, the following singular anecdote is related. The celebrated Mozart had completed the whole of the opera, with the exception of the overture, and as the performance was to take place in a few days, the managers began to be alarmed, lest in his usual habit of procrastination, he should leave his task incomplete, and thus disappoint the public.

For of old

Mozart’s virtue, we are told

Often with a bumper glow’d

And with social rapture flow’d. —Francis’s Horace.

Messengers were sent to remind him of the shortness of the time, and urge him to finish the undertaking—but in vain; Mozart was nowhere to be found. At length he was discovered in a billiard-room, half intoxicated, earnestly engaged in a critical part of this very fascinating game. The person who came in search of him, aware of Mozart’s passionate fondness for this amusement, contrived to remove the queues out of the way, and refused to let the game proceed till the overture was written. Mozart, therefore, called for music-paper, &c. and in the state of mind we have described (the agitation of which must have been considerably increased by the vexation of being interrupted in his favourite game) actually completed the overture while leaning over the billiard-table. After this wonderful effort of genius (for such it must be called) he resumed his game as if nothing had happened—

What cannot wine perform? it brings to light

The secret soul; it bids the coward fight—

Gives being to our hopes; and from our hearts

Drives the dull sorrow, and inspires new arts.

Whom hath not an inspiring bumper taught

A flow of words, and loftiness of thought.

Where shall the lover rest, the song of I. Eustane, from Scott’s Marmion, has been set to music by three different composers—but that of sir John Stephenson is preferred far before the others—the melody being tasteful and elegant—the words judiciously distributed, and the passages well adapted to the different voices allotted to perform them. The accompaniment is ingenious and expressive, and the symphonies tasteful and much in the style of Moore.

A duet composed by V. Rauzzini, and sung at the Bath concerts by Mrs. Billington and Signora Cimador, has deservedly received the greatest approbation. It is called “Care luci inamorati”—the style is truly Italian; being simple, natural, and of course pleasing.

Sweet Ellen, Sorrows Child, a ballad set to music by Rauzzini also, is spoken of with great applause. The ballad itself is censured as being too long, it consisting of four verses, which produces a slight monotony, notwithstanding that the composer has displayed vast ingenuity in varying the accompaniment to each verse. The most beautiful melody is generally found to become tiresome after a third repetition. The present is sweetly plaintive and well adapted to the words.

The Sigh and the Tear, a duet—the words by Cumberland, the music by Hawes, is very particularly recommended by the reviewers of music. The words are excellent, the music well adapted and finely impressive. The melody, particularly of the first movement, elegant, pathetic and graceful—the harmonies scientific, and the accompaniments varied and appropriate. “We recommend it,” say the reviewers, “to our fair readers as one of the most pleasing duets we have met with for a long time.”

Of “A grand Sonata” for the piano-forte, composed by J. B. Cramer, fame speaks largely. An eminent connoisseur and reviewer speaks of it in these words: “We here recognise the genuine style of J. B. Cramer—this is really a grand sonata. It consists of three different movements, each so excellent in its kind, that it is difficult to decide which is best!

“The first is expressive and majestic, in which are introduced several novel and ingenious ideas. One hand takes the chord of the 6-4, and the other the chord of the 7th, and by a very quick alternation an effect is produced similar to a triple shake.

“The passage at the beginning of page 5 is exceedingly beautiful—the whole movement will require considerable practice from the most expert performers.

“The second movement is an adagio, which for beauty and originality we think equal to any thing of the kind that Mr. Cramer has written. The change of time to triple, at the part marked scherzando is unexpected and strikingly original. This idea is carried on till near the conclusion, when the movement again resumes the majestic character with which it commences.

“Upon the whole we think this sonata superior to any Mr. Cramer has published since those he dedicated to Haydn.”

Irish music is quite the ton now in England. Corri the composer has published “The Feast of Erin, a fantasy for the piano-forte,” in which the original Irish airs of ‘Flanerty Drury,’ ‘The Summer is Coming,’ ‘Erin go Bragh,’ and ‘Fly not Yet’ are introduced. Mr. C. (says the reviewer) has displayed some judgment in the selection of these airs, particularly in Erin go Bragh, which is one of the most expressive and pathetic melodies ever written. We are sorry we cannot bestow equal praise on the manner in which he has arranged them. We candidly confess that we would rather hear the original airs performed with a tasteful simplicity, than with the embellishments and episodes of Mr. Corri.

Lays of Erin, arranged as rondeaus for the piano-forte, by the most eminent composers.

Of this publication the reviewers speak thus:

“We are happy to find a work commenced which will render more familiar to the English ear, the beautiful melodies of the sister kingdom.

“The air selected on this occasion is “St. Patrick’s Day,” and the manner in which Mr. Logier has arranged it, is such as to give us a very favourable opinion of his abilities. The little imitation introduced at bar 9, page 1, discovers considerable ingenuity. The return to the subject in the key of F, is well arranged. The minor is uncommonly spirited, and the conclusion playful and striking.”

Under the head “Music” in a former number, allusion was made to the airs of the celebrated bard of Ireland, Carolan—particularly to one called Gracey Nugent, the music of which is published with accompaniments by sir John Stephenson and Mr. Moore. The following translation of that song from the original Irish is done by Miss Brooke.

SONG

FOR GRACEY NUGENT—BY CAROLAN.

Of Gracey’s charms enraptur’d will I sing!

Fragrant and fair, as blossoms of the spring;

To her sweet manners and accomplished mind;

Each rival fair the palm of love resign’d.

How blest her sweet society to share!

To mark the ringlets of her flowing hair;19

Her gentle accents—her complacent mien!—

Supreme in charms, she looks—she reigns a queen!

That alabaster form—that graceful neck

How do the cygnets down and whiteness deck?—

How does that aspect shame the cheer of day;

When summer suns their brightest beams display.

Blest is the youth whom fav’ring fates ordain

The treasures of her love, and charms to gain!

The fragrant branch with curling tendrils bound,

With breathing odours—blooming beauty crown’d.

Sweet is the cheer her sprightly wit supplies!

Bright is the sparkling azure of her eyes!

Soft o’er her neck her lovely tresses flow!

Warm in her praise the tongues of rapture glow!

Here is the voice—tun’d by harmonious love,

Soft as the songs that warble through the grove!

Oh! sweeter joys her converse can impart!

Sweet to the sense, and grateful to the heart!

Gay pleasures dance where’er her footsteps bend,

And smiles and rapture round the fair attend:

Wit forms her speech, and wisdom fills her mind,

And sight and soul in her their object find.

Her pearly teeth, in beauteous order plac’d;

Her neck with bright, and curling tresses grac’d.

But ah, so fair!—in wit and charms supreme,

Unequal song must quit its darling theme.

Here break I off;—let sparkling goblets flow,

And my full heart its cordial wishes show:

To her dear health this friendly draught I pour.

Long be her life, and blest its every hour.

SPORTING INTELLIGENCE.

Remarks on modern pedestrianism.

“They leap, exulting, like the bounding roe.”

Many of our modern gentlemen seem to take infinite delight in reversing the original order of things; for instance, placing the heels where the head should be, as nothing possibly can confer so much honour upon a gentleman, as being able to vie with a Venetian running footman of former times, who would post at the rate of some eight miles an hour, with a dozen, pounds weight of lead clapped in each pocket, by way of expediting his progress. In these remarks, however, I do not intend to level the least sarcasm at pedestrianism, which, if properly attended to, may, in the lapse of time, render the properties of the canine race of no utility whatsoever; nor, indeed, does it at all signify how the game be caught, for a troop of Mercury-heeled puppies would do just as well as a full pack of hounds. To be sure I am at a loss on the score of scent, and the nose is confessedly a most material point to be considered, unless to this leg exercise we allow the man to possess the keen sight of the greyhound, which will remove the objection, though the odds are much against him, as he makes so little use of his eyes as never to see that which he ought to do.

But in order the better to establish a running system, I shall have recourse to the Classics, to prove, that the pursuit will confer honour upon its practitioners; for instance, has not Ovid recorded the gallopings of the lovely Atalanta, who, being determined to live in a state of celibacy, positively ran away from the male sex? This establishes the vast antiquity of running, and nothing can possibly stand the test of inquiry, which has not such a voucher as antiquity to bear it out against the growlings of scepticism.

Athletic exercises have, in all ages, been considered conducive to the health, strength, and perfection, of youthful citizens, and consequently to the welfare of the state. In this point of view, the feats of our pedestrian candidates for fame who run against old Time himself, are certainly entitled to popular applause; and should the passion for running become general, we may soon expect to behold an exhibition, unparalleled even at the Olympic games formerly celebrated in Greece. The art of running is, like that of dancing, acquirable from a master; but gracefulness of motion is not essential to the perfection of the runner, swiftness being the principal requisite. Hence, whether the performer display his agility by bounding along on the light fantastic toe, or waddling with the zig-zag respectability of a corpulent alderman, if he can first reach the destined goal within a given period of time, he is rewarded, not with a civic crown—but a purse of gold.

Captain Barclay has obtained much notoriety, by an exhibition of his personal agility; he seems, from his attainments, eminently qualified to fill the office of running footman—an establishment, the revival of which would give permanence to this gymnastic exercise; but it is to be hoped that he will find few imitators in the British army. Celerity of movement might, indeed, be very advantageous in the field of battle, and a column, advancing at the rate of ten miles an hour, might attack the artillery of the enemy with success; but should a sudden panic on any occasion seize the troops, they might prove their agility by running away, to the great disgrace of our national honour. The introduction of Captain Barclay’s improvement in the motion of legs and feet into the army, might therefore be attended with disastrous consequences.

This excellent art, however, will probably supersede equestrian performances on the turf. The horse will no longer be tortured for the amusement of man; but fellow bipeds, equipped in querpo, will start for the prize, and, with the fleetness of a North-American Indian, bound along the lists, amid the acclamations and cheers of admiring multitudes. The competition between man and man in the modern foot-race is certainly fair; but, for the better regulation of the movements of public runners, it might be expedient that an amateur, mounted on an ass, should keep pace with the performers, and, by the judicious application of a whip, prevent any of the tricks belonging to the turf, such as crossing and jostling, that gamesters might have a fair chance for their money. As for those gymnastic heroes, who, like captain Barclay, merely run against old Time, they are, indeed, unentitled to the fame they pant for. It may be thought ungenerous to oppose youthful agility to the hobbling pace of the old gentleman, yet, as he is well known to be sound in wind, he probably will run the briskest of them down at last.

The art of running only requires the sanction of some man of quality, to establish it at the head of all our modern amusements. There is a certain sameness in other divertisements, which must become irksome to the spectator. But in the noble exhibitions of the foot-race there will be no danger of satiety, for the art of running may be diversified by such innumerable modifications, that it will appear “ever charming, ever new.” For instance, let the competitors for fame in the celerity of motion always be selected according to the strictest laws of decorum, consequently a lord and a lady cannot, without great impropriety, start against each other.

But if persons of rank and respectability choose to take an airing on their own legs, instead of an equestrian exhibition, for the amusement of the public, there is no necessity that they should be of equal size and weight. Every individual must be the best judge of his own muscular powers; and if the duke of Lumber should think proper to challenge my lord Lath, to run four times round the canal in St. James’s Park, for 10,000l. the contrast in their figure would only render the diversion more entertaining to the admiring spectators.

As the ladies have ever been emulous to distinguish themselves, and their proficiency in dancing is an excellent preparative to running, we may soon hope to see them exhibit themselves in the gymnastic lists, as candidates for that public admiration which seems to be the great business of their lives. The disparity between the competitors will doubtless be very amusing, as well as edifying.—When we behold the fat duchess of ——, with a face like Cynthia in all her glory, boldly approach the promenade in Kensington Gardens, in open defiance of public decorum, and, unzoned and divested of superfluous drapery, prepare for the race, in opposition to a slim vestal from ———, how shall we be able to restrain our risibility? The running ladies will, however, labour under one great disadvantage. Their muscular exertions must affect the lungs, and, in a great degree, suspend the exercise of their blandiloquence, not only during the race, but for some minutes after its termination.

On a general view of the national utility resulting from this modern amusement, it appears admirably well calculated for the exercise of the legs of our nobility, gentry, and merchants, and may operate as an efficacious remedy for indolence, alias laziness. It will also be conducive to the benefit of those ingenious individuals who devote their talents to the fabrication of ornaments; and we may soon expect to see, in the advertisements of mantuamakers, milliners, hosiers, and tailors, a list of patent bounding corsets, Atalanta robes, and winged bonnets, for the equipment of female adventurers in the lists of gymnastic glory; while flying trowsers, elastic jackets, and feathered buskins, fit for Mercury himself, will contribute at once to the adornment, the swiftness, and the reputation, of our noble and ignoble racers.

BACKSWORD PLAYING—MIDDLESEX PASTIME.

At Wilsden Green, a hat, and a purse of twenty shillings, were played for at backsword, and, as an encouragement for young players, five shillings were given to the winner of every head, and two shillings to the loser. On the umpire’s proclaiming the game, a hat was thrown into the ring (being the ancient mode of defiance) another soon followed, and the owners entered and played several bouts with much good humour, till the blood trickled down the head of the least fortunate. Other gamesters followed, to the number of seventeen, affording most excellent sport to a numerous and well-dressed field. The prize was won by a Dorsetshire lad, who, by breaking four heads proved himself to be the best man.

CURIOUS PEDESTRIANISM.

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

Twenty-four gamesters contended manfully at Harrow-on-the-Hill for a prize of a hat and purse, at the right valiant game of backsword. Many a crown was cracked and many a heavy blow was given with right good will, and received with true humour. Much skill also in assault and defence in this game (the most lively picture of war) was evinced. Jack Martin of Harrow played the best stick among the Harrow lads—but the prize, alas was actually borne away by—a London tailor. Fourteen broken heads graced the ring.

On Monday the 19th inst. a large audience assembled at the theatre with the expectation of seeing the Foundling of the Forest performed for the benefit of Mr. Cone. Unfortunately, Mr. Wood, whose performance of De Valmont constitutes the principal attraction in the representation of that play, was suddenly seized with an indisposition so very severe as to demand medical assistance, and confine him to his room. It was then too late to issue new bills or advertisements, and nothing was left to Mr. Cone but to throw himself on the good nature of his audience, and to request their acceptance of another play: with some opposition on the part of a discontented few, “the Way to get Married” was accepted as a substitute for that which was promised.

Influenced by a laudable zeal for the discharge of his duty, Mr. Wood, though still very feeble, ventured to promise himself to the public for the character of De Valmont on Friday. As soon as his name appeared in the bills, a report was circulated through the city that he was to be assaulted: that is to say that he had so highly offended that high and mighty body of gentlemen apprentices and else who swagger in good broadcloth clothes and brass buttons in the theatre, by not leaving his bed of sickness for the amusement of their high mightinesses, that they had resolved to hiss and drive him off the stage. Those who were most prompt to condemn the insolence and indecency of the band alluded to, thought that such a design would be an outrage too unjust, too stupid even for such persons as their high mightinesses; and, therefore, refused to give it credit. In this, however, they very much underrated the modesty and good nature of their “high mightinesses,” since half the barbers in the city were amused with the threats uttered by those doughty champions of what they would do to Mr. Wood. The consequence was that that gentleman felt it necessary to humiliate himself with an apology, in order to escape the wrath of a set of obscure chaps, not one of whom perhaps could reasonably aspire to sit in his company.

The private character of Mr. Wood is almost as well known as his professional: by the most respectable part of the community he is highly valued for his personal worth. No one could suspect him of wilfully neglecting his duty, or acting the part of dishonour. Indeed, what motive could he have to injure Mr. Cone? He cannot, surely, look upon that gentleman as a rival. But, if he could harbour such a wish, his moral and intellectual character stands too high, to allow a suspicion of his employing such means—means so base and so bungling, that it may well be wondered at how even their high mightinesses could think of them. The truth is, no such thing was imagined—the whole had its root in causes which more deeply concern the public than Mr. Wood or Mr. Cone. A set of ignorant self-conceited young despots have erected themselves into a body of riot, for the purpose of controling the theatre, and bullying, not only the actors but the audience. Mr. Cone has really no more to do with it than Mr. Cooke or Mr. Kemble; but these fellows use him as drunken Irishmen in fairs are known to use their great coats. These champions of the real cudgel draw their great coats along with the skirts trailing on the ground, and keeping their eyes fixed upon them, cry, in order to kick up a riot, “Who dare tread upon my coat.”

It behoves the citizens in general to interfere in some way and prevent those shameful outrages upon their rights and feelings. Places of amusement ought to be resorts of good-humour and peace—not rendezvous for swaggering petulant bullies. The law ought to be called in to prevent a repetition of such offences. For certainly there are legal provisions to answer the purpose. If not, it were better to shut up the playhouse at once than have it open, a school of riot and impertinence.

If these men be really the friends of Mr. Cone, they certainly take the very worst way to show it. Mr. Cone’s own talents and the unbiassed judgment of the public are more substantial grounds for him to rely upon, than all that the whole body of Hectors could do for his support or advancement. They have long been the pest of the playhouse, and always the worst enemies of those whose cause they have officiously assumed to espouse. It is but justice to Mr. Cone to declare our firm persuasion that he has too much sense, and too much honour to wish for the interference of men whose pretended friendship cannot fail to subject any person who is its object to public odium and to the dislike and suspicion of every wise, honest and respectable gentleman in the community.

Mr. Lewis, the player, on his late retirement from the stage, reminded the public that he had been six and thirty years playing to them, and had never once received the slightest disapprobation. Had a fragment of the ignorant mob of London been permitted to rule the theatre he would have been hissed a thousand times, if it were for nothing else but his superior merit. This we can affirm, that Mr. Wood is at least as inoffensive as Mr. Lewis.

Footnotes

1. This was the same Apollonius, who while one day vehemently haranguing the populace at Ephesus, suddenly broke off and exclaimed—Strike the tyrant, strike him!—the blow is given!—he is wounded—he is fallen—he dies! And at that very moment the emperor Domitian had been stabbed at Rome.

2. Aristophanes ridiculed them both on the stage with great humour and success.

3. I believe it was the man his mother married; but he never told me so, being retentive on that subject. —Biog.

4. There are many people in America who remember Hodgkinson’s excellence in singing the famous laughing song “Now’s the time for mirth and glee.”

5. The writer laments that he has forgot this person’s name.

6. That nonsensical song called Galloping Dreary Dun.

7. I congratulate Mr. S. on his promotion to office. Certainly a person of his rigid economy will discharge the duties of treasurer of the navy, with the utmost precision; nor could a properer man be fixed on to manage public business of a pecuniary nature, than he who administers his own affairs with such care and frugality. Heaven forefend then, I should object to the propriety of his election to that office.—I only join with the muse in lamenting his dereliction from her service.

8. It is with regret that I animadvert on such a veteran in literature as Mr. Cumberland. I admire his abilities and attainments. I have read his Observer, particularly the papers relating to Greek comedy, with the highest pleasure; but I think it a disgrace to him to have carried his admiration and fondness for that witty profligate Aristophanes to such a length as to attempt to raise his character on the ruins of the brightest ornament of the Heathen world, the wise and virtuous Socrates. As to his account in his “Memoirs” of Bentley’s Manuscripts, credat judæus.

9. Mr. Colman cannot plead that, like Shakspeare, he wishes to humour the age. This would be to insult the acknowledged taste of many thousands of the present day. But if he is sunk so low, as to prefer the noisy applause of the “groundlings,” or rather of the “gods,” to the approbation of the judicious, who are now “not a few,” then the case is hopeless, and he must be content to be despised by those whose esteem alone is worth having.

10. I allude to such characters as the blubbering droll Tyke.

11. Reynolds’s characters are as faithful copies of nature as Woodward’s caricatures of men with heads ten times bigger than their bodies. How could Mr. Surr, in a late well written novel, offer any apology for him? But friendship is as blind as love, in spite of Horace’s opinion.

12. Though I call Dibdin a ballad-monger, I do not think him by any means equal to the other songster, sans-souci Dibdin.

13. It is a melancholy thing, that men of the first abilities have frequently lent their aid to the cause of vice. Better be dull as Cobb, or Hoare, than so to abuse great talents.

14. The age are under great obligations to Mr. Gifford for his very excellent edition of Massinger. I wish he had not been so severe on poor Mason and Coxeter. Their inaccuracies certainly warranted a few expressions of spleen, but not such harsh language as Mr. Gifford uses; but alas! his Persian fist cannot hit a gentle blow. Like his author, whom he has so successfully translated, whenever he attacks, “instat, insultat, jugulat.” —Scal. de Satira.

15. I am not one of those who think the age degenerate: but certainly the rigid manly character of old times is melted into one of elegance and comparative softness. Perhaps the change is for the better, as I think no virtue has been lost in the transfusion. Be that as it may, there is something in the tone of Massinger not altogether suited to the general taste of the present time. I wish it was.

16. Fletcher is an amiable writer; but the general effect of his tragedies appears to me languid. His comedies, however, are exceedingly entertaining.

17. Jonson’s genius and learning shine to advantage in his Volpone, Alchymist, Silent Woman, and Every Man in his Humour. It is to be lamented his characters are not more general.

18. Let me join my voice to the universal chorus of praise to Shakspeare, “si quid loquar audiendum.” It is merely a testimony of gratitude; nor presumes to add to that fame which has been celebrated, not to mention a thousand others, by the nervous prose of Johnson and the rapturous poetry of Gray. O “Magnum et memorabile nomen!”

19. Hair is a favourite object with all the Irish poets, and endless is the variety of their description: “Soft misty curls;” “Thick branching tresses of bright redundance;” “Locks of fair waving beauty;” “Tresses flowing on the wind like the bright waving flame of an inverted torch.” They even appear to inspire it with expression: as, “Locks of gentle lustre;” “Tresses of tender beauty;” “The maid with the mildly flowing hair,” &c. &c.

The printed book contained the six Numbers of Volume I with their appended plays. The Index (unpaginated) originally appeared at the beginning of the volume. Pages 189-268 refer to the present Number; pages 1-108 are in Number 1 (e-text 22488). Index references are linked to the appropriate page. Other Numbers (in preparation as of July 2008) cover the remaining pages:

Volume I, Number 1: pp. 1-108
I.2: pp. 109-188
I.3: pp. 189-268
I.4: pp. 269-348
I.5: pp. 349-430
I.6: pp. 431-510

The six plays were printed as a group and are not included in this pagination.

INDEX.

A

Actors, animadversion on

Wood,
in Rapid, 62

Rolla, 65

Reuben Glenroy, 67

Harry Dornton, 73

Bob Handy, 76

Alonzo, 229, 337

Jaffier, 337

Copper Captain, 339

Prince of Wales, 339.

Cone,

Alonzo, 65

Henry, 76.

Warren,

Las Casas, 65

Abel Handy, 76

Falstaff, 344

Cacafogo, 344.

Jefferson,

Frank Oatland, 62

Orozimbo, 65

Cosey, 67

Goldfinch, 73

Farmer Ashfield, 75.

M‘Kenzie,

Sir Hubert Stanley, 62

Pizarro, 65

Old Norval, 155.

Francis,

Vortex, 62

Trot, 68.

Mrs. Wood,

Jessy Oatland, 62

Cora, 66.

Mrs. Francis,

Mrs. Vortex, 62

Dame Ashfield, 76.

Mrs. Seymour, 62.

Payne,
in Douglas, 145

Octavian, 220

Frederick, 221

Zaphna and Selim, 222

Tancred, 222

Romeo, 223.

Cooper,

Othello, 225

Zanga, 227

Richard, 230

Pierre, 230

Hamlet, 231

Macbeth, 231

Hotspur, 234

Michael Ducas, 234

Alexander, 422

Antony, Jul. Cæs. 420.

West, 68, bis.

Dwyer,

Belcour, 425

Tangent, 427

Ranger, 427

Vapid, 427

Liar, 427

Rapid, 427

Sir Charles Racket, 427.

Advice to conductors of magazines, 402

Æschylus, 114, 189

Alleyn, the player, account of, 45

Anecdotes and good things

Dick the Hunter, 92

Dr. Young, 181

Othello burlesqued, 181

Voltaire, 184

Louis XIV. 184

Mara and Florio, 185

Macklin, 247, 248, 397, 408, 409

Mozart, the composer, 257

Old Wignell, 343

Macklin and Foote, 397

Impertinent Petit Maitre, 406

Curious Slip Slop, 406

Specific for blindness, 407

Kemble and a stage tyro, 407

Kemble’s bon mot on Sydney playhouse, 407

Irish forgery, 407

Woman and country magistrate, 408

French dramatic, 481

Bacon and cabbage, 485.

Apparition, sable or mysterious bell-rope, 325

Aristophanes, 269

Authors’ benefits
see Southern, 502

B

Barry, the great player, account of, 298

Bedford, duke of, monument, 317

Betterton, the great actor, 133, 213

Biography, 24, 118, 202, 357

Bull, a dramatic one, 505

C

Carlisle, countess of, opinion of drama, 398

Catalani, madam, 96

Cibber, Colley, his merit, 506

Coffee and Chocolate, account of, 311

Cone, see actors

Cooper, life of, 28

Cooper, see actors

Cooper, account of his acting, 223

Correspondence
on abuses of the Theatre, 103, 104

——, from Baltimore on Theatricals, 157

——, from New-York, ditto, 414

D

Dramatic Censor, 49, 141, 220, 337, 414

Drama, Grecian, 109, 189, 269, 350

——, lady Carlisle’s opinion on, 398

Dwyer, actor, 235

——, see actors.

Dramaticus, 251, 328, 502

Dungannon, famous horse, 500

E

Edenhall, luck of, old ballad, 487

Edward and Eleonora, remarks on, 502

English, parallel between English men and English mastiffs, by cardinal Ximenes, 88

Epilogues, humorous ones after tragedies censured, 400

Euripides, 195

F

Francis, see actors

——, Mrs., ibid.

Fullerton, actor, driven to suicide, 504

G

German Theatre, vindication of, by Dramaticus, 251

Gifford, Wm. life of, 357, 447

Greek drama, 109, 189, 269, 350

H

History of the stage, 9, 109, 189, 269, 350, 431

High Life below Stairs, account of, 506

Hodgkinson, biography of, 202, 283, 368, 457

I

Irish bulls, specimen of, 455

Jefferson, see actors

L

Lear, essay on the alterations of it, 391

Le Kain, the French actor, account of, 438

Lewis, his retirement from the stage, 185

Literary World, what is it? 406

Longevity, instance of, 496

Lover general, a rhapsody, 399

M

Macklin checked practice of hissing, 504

Man and Wife, a comedy, 188

Menander, 350

Metayer Henry, anecdote of with Theobald, 503

M‘Kenzie, see actors

Milton and Shakspeare, comparison between, 248

Miscellany, 96, 173, 241, 307, 384, 467

Music, 81, 257

——, Oh think not my spirits are always as light, a song by Anacreon Moore, 83

——, Irish, 161

Musical performance, expectation of a grand one, 428

N

New-York reviewers impeached, 505

Nokes, comedian, 381

O

O’Kelly’s horse Dungannon, 500

Originality in writing, Voltaire’s idea of, 184

Otway, observations on, 502

P

Payne, American young Roscius, criticised on, 141, 220, 241

——, see actors

Pedestrianism, humorous essay on, 262

Players celebrated compared with celebrated painters, 387

Plays, names of, attached to each No.

Foundling of the Forest, No. I

Man and Wife, No. II

Venoni, No. III

New Way to pay Old Debts, No. IV

Alfonso, king of Castile, No. V

The Free Knights, No. VI.

Plays criticised in the Censor

Cure for the Heart-ach, 59

Pizarro, 62

Town and Country, 66

Ella Rosenberg, 69

Wood Demon, 71

Abaellino, 73

Road to Ruin, 73

Speed the Plough, 74

Man and Wife, 188

Foundling of the Forest, 80, 345

Africans, 418.

Poetry

Tom Gobble, 97

English bards and Scotch reviewers, extract from, 98

Occasional prologue on the first appearance of Miss Brunton, afterwards Merry and Warren, at Bath, 121

Latin verses on do. and translation, 124

Prologue on first appearance, of the same lady in London, by A. Murphy, 126

Duck shooting, 172

A true story, 183

Lewis’s address on taking leave of Ireland, 187

On the death of Mrs. Warren, 246

Descent into Elisium, 253

Gracy Nugent, by Carolan, 261

O never let us marry, 324

Epilogue by Sheridan, censuring humourous ones after tragedies, 401

Logical poem on chesnut horse and horse chesnut, 404

Quin, an anecdote in verse, 409

Luck of Edenhall, 487

The parson and the nose, 495

Solitude, advantages of for study, 495

Soldier to his horse, 499.

Prospectus, 1

R

Reviews of New-York impeached, 505

S

Seymour, Mrs. see actors

She would and she would not, merit of, 506

Southern, 502

Socrates, death of, 280

Sophocles, 189

Sporting, 85, 164, 262, 410, 499

Spain, divertissements in, 495

Strolling Player, a week’s journal of, 396

Stage, history of, 8, 9, 109, 189, 269, 350

T

Taylor, Billy, critique on ballad, 467

Thespis, account of, 113

Theobaldus Secundus, 173, 241, 307, 384

Theatre, misbehaviour there, 267

Theobald, his theft from Metayer, 503

Theatrical contest, Barry and Garrick, in Romeo, 507

Thornton, Col. his removal from York to Wilts, 164

V

Voltaire, his idea of originality in writing, 184

W

Warren, Mrs. life of, 118

Warren, actor, see actors

West, see actors

Wit, pedigree of, by Addison, 406

Wife, essay on the choice of, 477

Wood, actor, see actors

——, Mrs., ibid.

Y

Young, celebrated actor, 236

Z

Zengis, so unintelligible audience not understand it, 507

See the HTML code for an alternative Index located here.

VENONI,

OR THE

NOVICE OF ST. MARK’S.

A DRAMA, IN THREE ACTS.

BY M. G. LEWIS.

PRINTED FOR BRADFORD AND INSKEEP, NO. 4, SOUTH THIRD-STREET,
PHILADELPHIA; INSKEEP AND BRADFORD, NEW-YORK;
AND WILLIAM M‘ILHENNY, BOSTON,

BY SMITH AND MAXWELL.

VENONI; OR, THE NOVICE OF ST. MARK’S.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

The Viceroy of Sicily.

The Marquis Caprara.

Father Cœlestino, prior of St. Mark’s.

Carlo,
Pietro,
Giovanni,

servants.

Venoni.
Lodovico.

Fishermen.

Jeronymo,
Michael,
Anastasio,
Nicolo,

gray friars.

Hortensia, marchioness Caprara.

Veronica.
Josepha.
Teresa.

Benedetto. | | Sister Lucia.

The scene lies in Sicily.

The name “Veronica” is abbreviated to “Ve.”, while “Venoni” is always written out.

ACT I.

SCENE I.—The port of Messina—on one side the viceroy’s palace.

Benedetto, Teresa, Carlo, Pietro, Giovanni, and servants are discovered.

Ben. Bless my heart! bless my heart! no signs of them yet! tis past mid-day, and yet not coming? surely some misfortune has happened, or they must have been in sight ere this.

Teresa. Your impatience makes the time seem long, Benedetto; else you’d know, that on these great occasions it wouldn’t be for the viceroy’s dignity to move with more expedition. Besides, all the grandees of Messina are gone out to receive and conduct him to his palace; and with such a crowd of gallies and gondolas, take what care they may, I’m sure, twill be a mercy, if half the good company dont get tumbled into the water.

Ben. Well, well, Teresa, perhaps you’re in the right; but no wonder, that every minute appears an age, till I once more embrace the knees of my excellent master. However, I’ll be calm, Teresa, I’ll be calm; I’ll wait quietly for the arrival of the gondolas without uttering a single impatient word. Only, my good Carlo, do just run up the leads of the palace, and try whether you can’t see the gallies coming at a distance.

Carlo. That I’ll do with all my heart, master steward, and I’ll make what speed I can.

Ben. Oh, I’m not at all impatient; I assure you, I can wait very contentedly for your return: so pray dont hurry yourself; only my dear good fellow, do just make as much haste as you can.

[Exit Carlo.

Ben. Bless my heart! what an agitation I am in! oh, how happy will Sicily be under this good man’s government! how happy too will it make the poor marchioness, when after an absence of four long years she again embraces her invaluable brother.

Teresa. The poor marchioness indeed! well, Benedetto, for my part I feel no pity for misfortunes which people bring upon themselves. Why did not the marchioness take her daughter with her to the court of Naples? why did a mother ever consent to trust her daughter out of her sight! but forsooth she must be left behind in a convent, where soon afterwards an epidemic complaint attacks the sisterhood, and Josepha, abandoned to the care of strangers, sinks into an untimely grave, the victim of her mother’s neglect and imprudence.

Ben. But the dangers of the voyage—Her confessor had so often assured her that Josepha would be more safe in the convent—

Teresa. More safe? more safe indeed: where can a daughter be more safe than in the arms of her mother? and then as to her confessor—

Pietro. What, the prior of St. Mark’s? he with that humble hypocritical air—who speaks so softly and bows so low—

Teresa. Ay, ay; the same—oh, I can’t bear the sight of him!

Pietro. Nor I.

Giovanni. Nor I.

Ben. Stop, stop! not so violent, my good friends, not so violent; for as to the prior, you must permit me to tell you that for my part, I can’t say I like him any better than yourself. And yet, signor Venoni, who is a man of great sense, believes that since the world was a world, there never was such a saint as this father Cœlestino!

Teresa. Ah! poor signor Venoni! where is he now, Benedetto?

Ben. Still in St. Mark’s monastery, whither he fled in despair on losing his destined bride, the lady Josepha.

Pietro. And his senses—are they right again?

Ben. Why, as he believes father Cœlestino to be a saint, I should rather suppose, that they must still be very wrong indeed.

Pietro. Perhaps that friar, who twice this morning has inquired at the palace whether the viceroy was arrived, is the bearer of some message from Venoni?

Ben. Very likely, very likely! and therefore, Pietro, should that friar call again——

Carlo. (appearing at the balcony of the palace) Benedetto, Benedetto! the gallies, the gallies!

Ben. Indeed! are you sure? yes, yes, yes, I hear the music! (shouting without) and hark, Teresa! hark! the mob are huzzaing like——bless my heart, I shall certainly expire at his feet for joy! they come! oh! look, look, look!

[A marine procession arrives—the viceroy lands from the state-galley, accompanied by the grandees of Messina, who conduct him to the palace gate, and take their leaves of him respectfully. While the grandees, &c. retire, Benedetto and the servants pay their homage to the viceroy, who receives them graciously. Teresa and the rest then busy themselves in taking charge of the baggage, and retire into the palace. The viceroy motions to Benedetto to remain.]

Viceroy. (to the servants, as they go off) Farewell, my friends, and for your own sakes take good care of yonder chests; part of their contents will convince you, that during my absence your fidelity and attachment have still been present to my recollection. Exeunt Teresa and servants.

Ben. Ay! ay! just the same kind master! ever attentive to others!

Vice. And without the attention of others, how could I exist myself? good Benedetto, in imparting pleasure we receive it in return: to make ourselves beloved is to make ourselves happy; and never can others love that man, who is not capable himself of loving others.

Ben. My dear, dear lord!

Vice. But inform me, Benedetto; my sister?—

Ben. The marchioness, my lord, is still inconsolable; and in truth, she has good cause to be so. The marquis wished his daughter to be married immediately; my lady chose to defer it for a year, and my lady was obstinate. The marquis wished to take his daughter with him to Naples; my lady chose she should remain in a convent; and my lady was obstinate. Her daughter fell ill there, and died; my lady says, that she shall never recover her death, and it is but fair that my lady should be now as obstinate on this point, as she has formerly been on every other.

Vice. Beloved unfortunate Josepha!—and Venoni——?

Ben. Good lack, poor gentleman! he was absent, when this sad event took place: for you must know, my lord, that when after the departure of her parents he went to visit his betrothed at the convent-grate, the sour-faced old abbess would’nt suffer him to see the lady Josepha. Nay, what is the strangest circumstance of all, she produced a letter from the marchioness commanding positively, that during her absence no person whatever should have access to her daughter.

Vice. Most unaccountable!

Ben. The poor signor was almost frantic with surprise and grief: away he flew for Naples; contrary winds for awhile delayed his arrival; but at length he did arrive, and hastened to plead his cause to the parents of his mistress.

Vice. And was the marquis aware of his lady’s strange orders to the abbess?

Ben. Oh, no! and Venoni returned to Messina, authorized to see Josepha as often and for as long as he pleased. Alas, he was destined never to see her more! the report had reached me, that a contagious disorder had broken out in the Ursuline convent. I hastened thither. I inquired for the dear lady; “she was ill!” I implored permission to see her; the marchioness’s commands excluded me. I returned the next day; “she was worse.” Another four-and-twenty hours elapsed and—merciful heaven! she was dead!

Vice. (concealing his tears) Josepha! thou wert dear to me as my own child, Josepha! (after a moment’s silence, recovering himself) And where is Venoni now?

Ben. In the monastery of St. Mark, of which your sister’s confessor is now the superior.

Vice. What! the father Cœlestino?

Ben. Even he—Venoni’s grief brought him to the brink of the grave. They say, that his senses were disordered for a time. But it is certain that he only exchanged the bed of sickness for a cell in St. Mark’s monastery, where he shortly means to pronounce his vows.

Vice. What! so early in life will he quit the world? his immense wealth too——

Ben. His wealth? ah, my good lord, I suspect tis that very wealth which has proved the cause of his seclusion from the world. The prior Cœlestino knew of his riches, and kindly came to comfort him in his distress. He talked to him—he soothed him—he flattered him—he is as subtle as a serpent, and as smooth and slippery as an eel! he wormed himself into Venoni’s very heart; the deluded youth threw himself into his arms, and the seducer bore him to the convent.

Vice. Benedetto, he shall not long remain there. My sister’s afflictions claim my first visit; but that duty paid, I’ll hasten to St. Mark’s, dissipate the illusions by which Venoni’s judgment is obscured, and tell him plainly that the man commits a crime, who is virtuous like him, and denies mankind the use and example of his virtues. Venoni has youth, wealth, power, abilities: let him not tell me, that he quits the world, because it contains for him nothing but sufferings; he must remain in it, to preserve others from suffering like himself. Let him not tell me, that his own prospects are forever closed; the noblest is still entirely open to him, that of brightening the prospects of others!—oh! shame on the selfish being who looks upon life as worthless, while it gives him the power to impart comfort, or to relieve distress; who, because happiness is dead to himself, forgets that for others it still exists; and who loses not the sense of his own heart’s anguish while contemplating benefits with which his own hand’s bounty has blest his fellow creatures! Exit.

Ben. Ah! very true, my good master! all very true! but lord, lord, lord! it is really mighty difficult to forget one’s own dear self. Heaven knows, poor sinner that I am, a few twinges of the gout are always enough to make me as hard-hearted as a rock of adamant; and even when dear lady Josepha died, I’m almost afraid I should have felt very little for any body but myself, if just at that time I had happened to have a touch of the toothach! ah! we are all poor weak creatures! poor weak creatures! poor weak creatures! (going)

Father Michael enters hastily.

Michael. Friend! hist! friend!

Ben. (returning) Well, friend! hey a monk? I beg your pardon then; well, father!

Mich. The viceroy is at length arrived?

Ben. He is.

Mich. Conduct me to him: I must speak with him instantly.

Ben. Stop, stop! no hurry—the viceroy is already gone out.

Mich. Unfortunate! my business is of such importance——

Ben. Well, well! I dare say, some few hours hence——

Mich. My superior knows not that I am absent; I have ventured here without permission, I dare not stay, and perhaps my return may be impossible!

Ben. Indeed! that’s a pity! and is your superior then so rigid, that he would’nt excuse— (looking at his habit) ha, ha! I see now how it is. Is not your superior the prior Cœlestino?

Mich. The same! and— (looking round anxiously, and lowering his voice) and I am no favourite with him.

Ben. No? that’s very much to your credit.

Mich. (acquiring confidence) Nor am I partial to him.

Ben. Nor I neither, heaven knows! there’s my hand upon it. Father, you’re a very sensible honest man.

Mich. You appear to be well acquainted with the prior’s character: but for heaven’s sake do not betray me!

Ben. I betray you? to be sure one ought not to wish one’s neighbour ill. But if the fire, which lately consumed a wing of your convent, had consumed in it—you understand me, I wont say no more: but if a certain event had taken place, I dont believe I should have broken my heart for grief, father.

Mich. The prior was absent at the time of the conflagration; he ran no danger; but that accident may be the source of other dangers to him, of which at present he little dreams.

Ben. Indeed! as how, pray, as how? as how? dear, I shall be mighty glad to hear how.

Mich. I dare not explain myself except to your lord. But tell me, good old man, is not the viceroy greatly interested in the fate of young Venoni?

Ben. Extremely.

Mich. Is he aware, that tomorrow Venoni will pronounce his vows?

Ben. Bless my heart! so soon!

Mich. The victim of despair, looking on the world with horror and disgust, considering as the only good left for him on earth, the permission to inhabit an asylum contiguous to that which contains the ashes of his beloved. (mysteriously) For you are aware, that our monastery is only separated from the Ursuline convent by a party-wall.

Ben. Indeed? the Ursuline convent? it was there, that Josepha breathed her last—if I remember rightly, it is under father Cœlestino’s direction?

Mich. (expressively) Under his direction? you are right! yes! it is under his direction; and who says that, says every thing.

Ben. Well, father; and so Venoni—?

Mich. (with energy) Assists the superior’s views, and languishes till the hour arrives when he must sacrifice his liberty for ever: when, renouncing the world and himself, he will become subject to the insolent caprice, to the arbitrary commands, to the tyrannical hatred of a man frequently unjust, never to be appeased; and who is himself the prey of all those worldly passions, which he secretly and dearly cherishes in his own heart, but whose slightest indulgence he punishes without mercy upon others.

Ben. Well, father, this at least I must say for you, you seem to be perfectly well acquainted with the moral characters of your fellows. Dear, dear! and so then it is tomorrow, that this poor gentleman, so amiable—with talents so brilliant, with a heart so generous and so good—

Mich. His talents? his heart? those perhaps are still unknown to our superior:—but Venoni is immoderately wealthy, and of that the prior was perfectly well informed. But the viceroy returns not, and I dare not tarry longer!—good old man, give your lord this letter; say that my seeing him before tomorrow is of the utmost importance to Venoni—to himself!

Ben. You will return then?

Mich. Alas! that will be impossible? entreat, that for heaven’s love, the viceroy would deign to visit me at my convent. He must inquire for father Michael.

Benedetto. For father Michael? I’ll not forget; and he shall have this letter immediately.

Mich. I thank you—as to the manner in which I have spoken of my superior, the most profound secrecy——

Ben. Oh! mum’s the word.

Mich. Should it reach his knowledge—blessed saints, protect me! Jeronymo, the prior’s confidant, comes this way! (drawing his cowl over his face in great agitation) should he observe me—my liberty—perhaps my life—friend, farewell! (going.)

Ben. (opening a side door in the palace) Stay, stay! go down this passage; at the end of it, turn to the left—it leads to the garden; traverse it, and you will find a little door unlocked, which will let you out unseen within a bow-shot of your monastery.

Mich. Heaven’s blessing be with you! a thousand, thousand thanks! Exit hastily.

Ben. (calling after him) That’s right! a little further! take care, there are two or three steps. To the left, to the left!—that’s it—your most obedient servant— (with a low bow; after which he turns from the palace) and now—mum, mum!

Enter father Jeronymo.

Jer. Bless you, son!

Ben. Save you, father!

Jer. Was not a friar of our order here even now?

Ben. Not that I saw— (aside) there’s a good round lie now!

Jer. I suppose, then, I was mistaken.

Ben. I suppose you were: I can’t conceive any thing more likely.

Jer. (aside) I could have sworn, that father Michael—this shall be inquired into further—salve, son! Exit.

Ben. (bowing) Your sanctity’s most obedient.—And this is the prior’s confidant? then the prior’s confidant is as ill-looking a hang-dog, as I’ve set my eyes upon this many a day!

Enter Fishermen.

Ben. Now lads, now! why, you look busily.

1st fish. Well we may, signor: the viceroy entertains all the grandees of Messina this evening, and our fish will bear a treble price. Come, come, look to the nets, lads, (they go to their boats)

Ben. Ay, ay! good luck to you! and now I’ll seek my lord with this letter. So, so, my reverend father Cœlestino!—a convent of nuns under your direction! only separated by a party-wall!—ha, ha! that looks to me very much as if—hush, hush, signor Benedetto! what you are saying is not quite so charitable as it should be! bless my heart, bless my heart, how naturally is a man disposed to think the worst he can of his neighbours! ah, fy upon you, Benedetto; fy upon you! Exit.

1st fish. (in the boat) Now, lads, are you ready?

2d fish. Ay, ay! pull away!

1st fish. Off we go then.

All. Huzza!

GLEE.

Ply the oar, brother, and speed the boat;

Swift o’er the glittering waves we’ll float;

Then home as swiftly we’ll haste again,

Loaded with wealth of the plundered main.

Pull away, pull away! row, boys, row

A long pull, a strong pull, and off we go.

Hark how the neighbouring convent bell!

Throws o’er the waves its vesper swell;

Sullen it bomes from shore to shore,

Blending its chime with the dash of the oar.

Pull away, pull away! row, boys, row!

A long pull, a strong pull, and off we go.

SCENE II.—An apartment in the Caprara palace.

The viceroy enters, followed by Hortensia and the Marquis; a servant attending.

Hor. Nay, but in truth, my dear brother, this is carrying your prejudice too far. What! refuse to endure, for a single half hour, father Cœlestino in your presence, merely because his countenance and manner happen not to be exactly to your taste?

Vic. His conversation is as little to my taste as his manner and countenance: he uses too much honey to please my palate!—surely, if there is one thing more odious than another, tis your eternal maker of compliments; one who lies in wait for opportunities of thrusting down your throat his undesired applause; and who compels you to bow in return for his nauseous civilities, till he makes your neck feel almost as supple as his own.

Hor. You know no ill of him.——

Vic. I know him to be a flatterer: what would you more?

Hor. Well, I protest, it never struck me that he flattered.

Vic. Very likely; and yet my good sister, it’s possible that he might be flattering, while to you he appeared so be speaking the pure simple truth.

Hor. However, if not for his own sake, at least endure him for mine. He is my friend; you are now the chief person in the island; and should you compel me to reject his offered visit, such a mark of contempt from the viceroy of Sicily might injure the good prior in the world’s opinion.

Vic. If the good prior be in fact as good as you assert, the contempt of the viceroy of Sicily or of any other viceroy, must be to him a matter of the most absolute indifference. However, be it as you please.

Hor. I thank you; (to the servant) the prior’s visit will be welcome. Servant bows, and Exit.

Hor. Ah! did you but know the good man’s heart as well as I do, this unreasonable dislike——

Vic. Unreasonable? ah! Hortensia; have we not all then reasons but too strong for abhorring the sight of this Cœlestino? was it not his advice, which induced you to place Josepha in that fatal convent?

Mar. Right, right, Benvolio; twas his advice, twas his alone.

Hor. I do not deny it; but I appeal to yourself, marquis, whether he gave not good reasons for that advice? the dangers of the voyage—the inclement season—ah! had Josepha lived, perhaps the example of that holy sisterhood might have weaned her heart from worldly follies, and inspired——

Mar. (surprised) How, Hortensia! I hope that in placing your daughter in that convent, no views concealed from me—(Hortensia looks confused)

The servant ushers in the prior, and retires.

Pri. Humbly I bend in salutation to this illustrious company! will the lady marchioness deign to confirm my hopes, that at length she begins to bear her afflictions with some serenity?

Hor. Thanks to your pious exhortations, father, I am at least resigned; more shall I never answer—for my heart is broken.

Pri. Little as I dare flatter myself, that a poor monk’s congratulations can be acceptable to your excellency, I cannot refrain from expressing my joy at your newly acquired dignity. But it is not the count Benvolio, whom I congratulate on being appointed governor of Sicily; tis Sicily, on being governed by the count Benvolio.

Vic. I am perfectly aware, reverend sir, that the high-flown elegance of that compliment can only be equalled by its sincerity; believe me no less sincere, when I assure you on my honour, that my gratitude for your approbation bears an exact proportion to the pleasure experienced by yourself at my appointment.

Pri. (bowing) More can I not desire. Yet must I excuse myself for intruding into your presence at a moment when fraternal attachment must needs make you wish to be undisturbed: but the claims of compassion admit of no delay, and my heart is ever too weak to resist the entreaties of a sufferer. My noble lord and lady, I bring to you the request of an unfortunate youth—of Venoni.

All. (eagerly) Venoni?

Pri. His noviciate is nearly expired; tomorrow he will pronounce his vows.

Mar. Unhappy youth!

Vic. Tomorrow?

Pri. But ere he renounces the world for ever, he intreats permission to take leave of those dear and illustrious persons, who once did not disdain to look upon him as their son.

Hor. (greatly agitated) No, no! I cannot—I dare not——

Vic. (seriously) Sister—Venoni must not be refused.

Pri. Reflect, dear lady; the ear of true piety is never closed against the sighs of the wretched. The poor youth is already in the palace, and—

Vic. (eagerly) Already here?—where, where is he?

Mar. Who waits? (servant enters) signor Venoni—conduct him hither instantly, away! Exit servant.

Pri. (observing the viceroy’s emotion) Ah! my good lord, what a heart have you for friendship! happy, thrice happy he whose worth or whose misfortunes can inspire you with such interest and such zeal! (The viceroy answers by a gesture of contemptuous impatience)

[Venoni, in the habit of a novice, pale, wild, and haggard, enters, conducted by the servant, who retires.

Vice.

together.

My friend!

Mar.

My son!
(hastening to receive him)

Venoni. (embracing them with a melancholy smile) I am permitted then to see you once more—you, whom I have ever loved so truly—you, the only ones who are still dear to me in the world! (he sees Hortensia; his countenance becomes disturbed, and he shudders: then recovering himself, he bows humbly, but with a look of gloom, and addresses her in a lowered voice, with much respect) noble lady, can you pardon this intrusion? I fear the sight of one so lost, so wretched—

Hor. (embarrassed) Venoni can never be unwelcome. I have not forgotten—I never shall forget—that there was a time when—that had I not hoped to make my child adopt—

Pri. (interrupting her hastily) Dear lady, compose yourself: your extreme sensibility overpowers you.

Vice. But answer me, Venoni; why is it that I see you in this habit?

Mar. Wherefore renounce the world? wherefore adopt a resolution so desperate, so extreme? your country has a right to your services, and—

Pri. My noble lords, when the voice of religion calls an unfortunate to her bosom—

Venoni. The voice of religion! no, father, no! the voice which has called me, is the voice of despair, my friends. I have lost every thing, every thing! and what then have I to do with the world? they who would serve their country, must possess strength of mind and health of body: mine have both yielded to the pressure of calamity! they who would serve their country, must possess their reason in full force and clearness: my reason—it is gone, quite gone! despairing passion has deranged all my ideas, has ruined all my faculties—I now have left but one sentiment, one feeling, one instinct—and that one is love!

Pri. What say you my son?

Venoni. (passionately) I say, that one is love! and I say the truth! father, I have engaged to renounce the world, to descend alive into the tomb; but I have not engaged to forget that I had, that I still have, a heart; that that heart is broken; that it burns, and will burn till it ceases to beat, with a passion which heaven cannot blame, since it was an angel who inspired it! I have told you, that her image would accompany me even to the altar’s foot; I have told you that I would give up the world, but would never give up her; her who exists no longer except in this sad heart, this heart, where she shall never cease to exist—till I do!

Vice. Dear unfortunate youth!

Venoni. Unfortunate, say you? oh, no! the day of misfortune, the day of despair was that when I heard the death-bell sound, and they told me—twas for her! when I asked for whom was that funeral bier, and they told me—twas for her! but from that hour I ceased to suffer. It’s true, my heart—all there is a devouring fire—my brain—all there is confusion and clouds: but that fire, it was she who first kindled it! but among these gloomy clouds, she is the only object which I still perceive distinctly—she is there, near me, always there; I see her, I speak to her, she replies to me—oh! judge then, my friend, whether with justice I can be called unfortunate! (sinking into the viceroy’s arms)

Mar. Two victims! Hortensia, two victims! one has already perished, and the other—

Hor. (greatly affected) Oh! spare me, my husband! could I have forseen—never, never shall I cease to reproach myself—

Pri. My daughter, this trial is too severe for sensibility like yours. Let me entreat you, retire, and compose your mind!

Hor. You are right, father; you shall be obeyed. Venoni—farewell, Venoni! (going)

Venoni. (starting forward with a frantic look, and grasping her by the arm) Hold! you must not leave me yet! first tell me, why was the marriage so long delayed? why were your orders given, that Josepha should not see me at the convent? answer me—I will be answered!

Pri. My son, my son! you will make me repent that I allowed this interview—let us retire!

Venoni. (violently) No, no, no! I will stay here—here (with affection, and embracing the marquis) with my father. (returning to Hortensia) Answer me!

Hor. (terrified) Venoni! for heaven’s sake! have mercy!

Venoni. (furious) Mercy? had you mercy upon me?

Pri. Venoni! follow me this instant! I command you!

Venoni. (violently but firmly) Tomorrow I will obey you; today I am still free! (to Hortensia) Answer, or— (turning suddenly to the marquis, while he releases Hortensia, who throws herself on a couch, and weeps) You know it well, my father, she was inexorable! you, you pitied me; but your wife saw my anguish, and her eye was still dry, and her heart was still marble! she opposed your granting me permission to see Josepha; she even insisted on your resuming that permission; but I rushed from her presence—I hastened to Messina—to the Ursuline convent—as I approached it, the death-bell tolled! the sound echoed to the very bottom of my soul, every stroke seemed to fall upon my heart! I trembled, my blood ran cold— (in a faltering voice) “who is dead?” (with a loud burst of agony) She, she! your daughter; my betrothed! my brain whirled round and round—I rushed into the chapel—a bier—a coffin—it inclosed your daughter! my betrothed, my happiness, my life! I sprang towards it—I extended my arms to clasp it, what followed I know not; I was at peace, I was happy, I had ceased to feel: but oh! the barbarians, they restored me to sense, and twas only to the sense of misery! (he falls weeping upon the viceroy’s neck)

Hor. Every word he utters—seems a dagger to my heart!

Pri. (aside) Ah! how I repent!

Venoni. (recovering, and looking round) Twas here—in this very room—that I have passed so many happy, happy hours? twas here that I received your sanction to our union; twas in yon alcove, that I endeavoured to transmit to canvas Josepha’s features—features impressed upon my heart indelibly! love guided my pencil—that portrait—tis there! tis she! tis Josepha! (he suddenly draws away the curtain, and discovers a picture of Josepha at full length—the prior stands forward on the scene, his hands tremble with passion, and his countenance expresses extreme vexation and stifled rage—on the picture’s being discovered, Hortensia springs forward, sinks on her knees, and extends her arms towards, it—the marquis turns away from the picture, towards which his left hand points, while he hides his face on the viceroy’s bosom; the viceroy stands in an attitude of grief with his arms extended towards the picture; he and the marquis are rather behind the other persons—Venoni stands before the picture, which is to the left of the audience, and gazes upon it with rapture)

Hor. My child! my child!

Mar. My Josepha!

Pri. (aside) Oh rage!

Hor. I expire! (Venoni on hearing Hortensia’s last exclamation, turns round, hastens to raise her from her kneeling attitude, places her on the couch, and throws himself at her feet)

Venoni. You weep? you repent?—ah! then my resentment is over, and I find my mother once more! (kissing her hand affectionately, and in the gentlest voice) Look on me, my mother! cast on me one kind look; twill be the last; you will never see the wretched frantic youth again—tomorrow—oh! Hortensia, before we part for ever, tell me that you forgive me—tell me, that you do not hate me for having thus wounded your feelings—for having inflicted on you this unnecessary pain!

Hor. (embracing him passionately as he kneels) Forgive you? yes, yes my son! my beloved son! I pardon you——heaven knows, I pardon you—and oh! in return may heaven and you pardon me!

Pri. (aside) Ah! how I suffer!

Venoni. I thank you! tis enough! now then I have no more to do with the world! (to the prior) good father, your pardon: I offended you even now; I remember it well.

Prior. (embracing him with dissembled affection) And I, my son, had already forgotten it—but tis time for us to retire—come!

Venoni. Yes, yes! let us away—farewell, my friends! my mother, farewell! I shall never see you more; but you will never cease to be dear to me; never, never!—and you too, my Josepha—farewell! for a little while farewell! whom death hath divided, death shall soon re-unite—come, father, come!—farewell! bless you, bless you: oh! come, come, come! (during this speech, his voice grows fainter; he leans on the prior, who conducts him slowly towards the door; at the end of the speech he sinks totally exhausted on the bosom of the prior, who conveys him away; while the viceroy and marquis lead off Hortensia on the other side).

End of Act I.

ACT II.

SCENE I.—The gardens of St. Mark—in the background is a gothic chapel, to which is a flight of steps; adjoining is the cemetery of the Ursuline convent, and several tombs are visible through a large iron gate.

[Vespers are performing in the chapel; the last words are chanted, while the curtain rises—the organ plays a voluntary, while the prior and his monks, descend from the chapel in procession. Father Jeronymo enters hastily, and accosts the prior, who comes forward; he starts at the information given him, and hastily bestows his benediction on the monks, who go off.]

Prior. Father Michael, say you? he wishes to see father Michael?

Jeronymo. Wishes? nay, he insists upon seeing him.

Prior. What business can he have with father Michael? what connexion can possibly subsist between them? how should it be even known to the viceroy, that such a being as father Michael exists?

Jer. On these points I can give you no information—yet now I recollect, that this very morning I observed a friar, whose air greatly resembled father Michael’s loitering about the viceroy’s palace.

Prior. Indeed! Jeronymo, I have long suspected this Michael to be a false brother; there is an affectation of rigid principles about him—of philosophical abstinence—of reserve respecting his own conduct and of vigilance respecting that of others, which make me look on him as a dangerous inmate of our house. However, he has not yet encountered the viceroy?

Jer. Fortunately, it was to me that count Benvolio expressed his wish to see this friar. I promised to go in search of him, and instantly commanded father Michael, in your name, not to presume till further orders to set his foot beyond the precincts of his cell. I then returned, to inform the viceroy, with pretended regret, that the person whom he desired to see was not at that time to be found in the monastery.

Prior. Good!

Jer. He appeared much disappointed, and announced his intention of waiting the friar’s return. I was compelled to promise, that as soon as he should re-enter these walls, father Michael should be sent to him.

Prior. The viceroy then is still here?

Jer. He is: I left him in the garden parlour adjoining the refectory.

Prior. No matter: night approaches, and then he will be compelled to withdraw. Yet that he should rather desire to see father Michael than Venoni—that, I own, appears to me unaccountable. I was prepared for his endeavouring to obtain another sight of his friend, and using every possible means to disgust him with the idea of renouncing the world for ever. Secure of my influence over Venoni, absolute master of his understanding, and feeling my own strength in the knowledge of his weakness, I meant not to object to their interviews; and would have suffered count Benvolio to exert all his efforts freely, convinced that all his efforts would have been exerted in vain.

Jer. And in acting thus, you would have done wisely: else, if the viceroy had been denied admittance to his friend, he might have spread abroad, that you feared lest his arguments should dispel Venoni’s illusion.

Prior. True; therefore should he demand to see our novice, even let his wish be gratified—this hated youth is ours beyond reprieve, this Venoni whom Josepha preferred to me, this Venoni to whom alone I impute my disappointment. I had worked upon the superstition and enthusiasm of the weak-minded Hortensia; I had persuaded her, that happiness and virtue existed not, except within the walls of a convent; already she saw in fancy her daughter’s head encircled with a wreath of sainted glory, and she placed her in the Ursuline convent, in hopes that the example of the nuns might induce her to join their sisterhood—Josepha was in my power defenceless!

Jer. And yet she defeated your views!

Prior. She did, oh, rage! though snares were laid for her at every step, though where’er she turned, her eye met seductions of such enchanting power, as might have thawed the frozen bosom of chastity herself! but virtuous love already occupied Josepha’s whole heart; and no room was left for impurer passions: or if for a moment she felt her wavering senses too forcibly assailed, she only pronounced the name of Venoni, and turned with disgust from every thought of pleasure, whose enjoyment would have made her less worthy of his love. But the hour of my revenge approaches! Venoni——

Jer. His last abode is prepared: his wealth once secured to our monastery, the donor shall be soon disposed of.

Prior. I hear a noise—tis Venoni: ever about this hour he comes to bathe yonder grating with his tears. Let us retire: solitude and the ideas which Josepha’s tomb suggests, can but increase the confusion of his mind, and rivet the chains which bind him in our power. He is here: follow me in silence. Exeunt.

[As they go off on one side, Venoni enters on the other: he walks slowly; his arms are folded, and his head reclines on his shoulder.

Venoni. It was no mistake! oh, man, man! frail and inconstant! yes; for an instant I felt pleasure, and yet Josepha is no more; but the dream was of thee, my beloved, and oh! it was so fair, so lovely! however it is gone, and I am myself again; again am fit for the dead, and I hasten to thee my Josepha! (turning to the grate) I salute ye, cruel bars, which separate my beloved and me: another day has past, and again I mourn beside you! ye are cold: (kissing them) so is Josepha’s heart; so too will mine be shortly. (rapidly) Yet while still that heart shall palpitate, while one spark of that fire still lives in it which was kindled by her eyes, still will I mourn beside you, cruel bars; still kneel and mourn beside you! (kneeling, and resting his head against the grate)

The viceroy enters.

Viceroy. That plaintive voice—I cannot be mistaken. Tis he! tis Venoni! my friend!

Venoni. (starting) Benvolio! you within these walls! ah, did I not entreat—I told you, I repeat it now, I’m dead to the world. I exist for no one—for nothing—but grief and the memory of Josepha. Leave me! leave me! (he resumes his despondent attitude)

Vice. Not till I have obtained one last, last interview. Venoni, I claim it in the name of that paternal friendship which I have borne you for so many years, and which even now I feel for you as strong as ever. I claim it in the name of that sacred union, once so near connecting us by the most tender ties: I claim it in the name of her, who while living was alike the darling of both our hearts, and in whose grave the affection of both our hearts alike lies buried—Venoni, I claim it in the name of Josepha.

Venoni. (quitting the grate) Of Josepha? say on you shall be heard.

Vice. Tell me then, cruel friend, what is your present object? why bury yourself in this abode of regret and sorrow, of repentance and despair? what reason, nay, what right have you to deprive society of talents, bestowed on you by Nature to employ for the benefit of mankind? and what excuse can you make for resigning into the hands of strangers that wealth which it is your sacred duty to distribute with your own? heaven has endowed you with talents capable of making your own existence useful; and your ungrateful neglect renders the gift of no avail: heaven has bestowed on you wealth, capable of making the existence of others happy; and your selfish indolence declines an office which the saints covet, and for which even the angels contend!

Venoni. Friend! Benvolio! in pity!

Vice. You are neither weak nor credulous: vulgar prejudices, superstitious terrors, enthusiastic dreams have never subjugated a mind whose innate purity can have left you nothing to fear, and whose genuine piety must have made you feel, that every thing is yours to hope. Why then do I find you in this seclusion? what good is to arise from this servile renunciation of yourself, this forgetfulness of the dignity of human nature, this disgraceful sinking under afflictions which are the common lot of all mankind? tis but too frequently the fate of man to encounter calamity; but to bear it with resignation is always his duty. Now speak, Venoni, and say, what arguments can defend your present conduct.

Venoni. (weakly and despondingly) Benvolio—I am wretched! I have lost every thing; my strength of mind is broken; my heart is the prey of despair.

Vice. Of despair? oh, blush to own it! true, you have met with sorrows; and who then is exempt from them? true, your hopes have been deceived; accident has dissolved your dream of happiness; death has deprived you of the mistress of your choice: but you are a man and a citizen; you have a country which requires your services, and yet, oh shame! you resign yourself to despair, Venoni, where is your fortitude?

Venoni. Fortitude? oh! I have none—none but to sue for death at the hand of heaven: had I possessed less fortitude, my own hand would have given me what I sue for long since!

Vice. And say, that death be the only blessing left yourself to wish for; is it then only for yourself, that you wish for blessing? say, that your heart be dead to pleasure, ought it not still to live for virtue? your prospects of happiness may indeed be closed, but the field of your duties remains still open. Mark me, Venoni; life may become to man but one long scene of misery; yet surely the spirit of benevolence should never perish but with life.

Venoni. Nor shall mine perish even then, Benvolio. In the hands of those virtuous men to whom I shall confide my treasures, they will become the patrimony of the widow and the orphan, of the wanderer in a foreign land, and of him on whom the hand of sickness lies heavy. When my bones shall be whitened by time, still shall my riches feed the fainting beggar. When this heart, itself so heavy, shall be mouldered away into dust, my bounty shall still make light the heavy hearts of my fellow-sufferers! yes; even in his grave, Venoni shall still make others happy!

Vice. And how can you hope that these friars will perform that duty hereafter, which you now through indolence refuse to perform yourself? you, who decline the task of distributing your wealth to advantage, how can you expect to find in strangers the spirit of benevolence more active?—would you have your fortune well administered, at least set yourself an example to your heirs: summon your fortitude, return to the world once more, and——

Venoni. I cannot! tis impossible! I am here!—here I must remain. My understanding impaired—a wretched creature, quite alone in the wide, wide, world—a feeble reed, crushed and broken by the tempest—I required support—I require it still—the superior of this house—the good man regrets my beloved, and mingles his tears with mine. I have found no one but him whose heart was open to my affliction—who would listen to my complaints unwearied—who would talk to me of Josepha. I am here—and Josepha—she is here too! nothing separates us except those bars. I am near her grave—I am near her—I live near her—I will die near her! (leaning against the grate)

Vice. The superior of this house? and are you sure you know his real character? mark me, unfortunate! yet should we be overheard——

Venoni. We are alone—proceed.

Vice. Know you a friar, called in this monastery by the name of Michael?

Venoni. I have seen the man; and now it strikes me that unusual care has been always taken to prevent our being left alone.

Vice. This Michael has written to me—but I know not if I ought—Venoni, should you betray——

Venoni. How, Benvolio? you doubt——

Vice. I doubt the soundness of your head, not the sentiments of your heart—yet it must be risked—Venoni, I came hither in search of father Michael—I heard your voice, and hastened to embrace you once more. Doubtless, I shall not be permitted to see this friar; be that your care. He writes, that what he has to disclose is of extreme importance; that it concerns—but you shall hear his letter— (reading) “I have secrets to divulge of consequence too great to be confided to paper. Suffice it, that your friend Venoni is in danger; totally in the power of his most cruel enemy——”

[At this moment the prior enters; the viceroy hastily conceals the letter in his bosom.]

Prior. (in an humble voice) I heard that your excellence was in the convent, and was unwilling to deprive you of an uninterrupted interview with your friend. But the hour is come, when our rules enjoin us solitude; pardon me then, when my duty compels me to observe——

Vice. I understand you, father; it is time that I should retire: yet surely your rules are not so strict as to prohibit my conversing with Venoni for one half hour more?

Prior. It grieves me to inform your excellence, that I have already in some degree infringed upon the scrupulous observance of our regulations. It may not be.

Venoni. How, father? a single half hour surely——

Prior. Ah, what do you request of me, my son? the viceroy’s visit aims at depriving me of my dearest friend; of that friend whom I have selected from all mankind; and shall I not oppose the perseverance of his efforts? I know well the count Benvolio’s influence over your mind, and tremble at the power of his persuasions. I cannot, and I ought not to abandon you to the tender anxious insinuations of generous but misjudging friendship; and I must not permit your eyes to dwell too long upon the deceitful pleasures of that world, which you have quitted with so much reason, and to which with such mistaken kindness your friends would force you back.

Vice. Father, this eagerness——

Prior. You have promised to be my brother, to be that which is far dearer, my friend: and shall I renounce a treasure so invaluable at the very moment, which ought to make it mine forever? No, no! Venoni, nor will I fear your exacting from me so great a sacrifice. He whose tears I have dried, whose sorrows I have shared—who has told me a thousand times that I was his only consolation, and that my sympathy shed the only gleam over his days of mourning. No! never will I believe that he will now reward my friendship with caprice, with desertion, with ingratitude so cruel, so cutting, so unlooked for!

Venoni. Oh, good father—I know not how——

Vice. You talk, sir, much of your friendship? I too profess to feel for Venoni no moderate share of that sentiment; and I think, that I prove my friendship best, when I advise him not to renounce a world, to which he owes the service of his talents and the example of his virtues. Yes, sir, yes! I advise Venoni to return into the world—and at least in giving that advice, I am certain that no one will suspect me of having views upon his fortune.

Pri. (to Venoni) You hear this accusation, my son! you hear it, and are silent! you, who are acquainted with my whole heart; you who know well how little I regard your wealth; that wealth, which perhaps I might desire without a crime, since it would only be placed in my hands, in order that it might pass into those of the unfortunate: that wealth which you would aid me yourself to distribute, and which—you turn away your eyes? you are afraid to encounter mine? the blow is then struck. I see—I feel too well that my friend is lost to me!

Venoni. (eagerly) Oh, no, no, no! never shall I forget the share which you have taken in my misfortunes; never shall I forget how much I owe to your consoling attentions, to your sympathy and pity. But yet—I confess—Benvolio’s remonstrances—the duties which he has recalled to my contemplation—my country’s claims upon my services——

Vice. (embracing him) Courage, my friend! proceed! dare to become a man once more, and restore to your native land that most precious treasure, a virtuous citizen!

Pri. (with assumed gentleness) I have no more to say: since such is your choice, return to the world, my son; I oppose it no longer. Undoubtedly you will there meet with pleasures and indulgences, such as the sad and silent cloister could little hope to offer you. Perhaps you act wisely; perhaps in the tumult of society, surrounded by gay and fascinating objects who will spare no pains to charm and please you, at length you may succeed in forgetting the unfortunate, to whose remembrance you once were prepared to sacrifice every thing.

Venoni. (starting in horror at the idea) I! I forget her! forget Josepha!

Pri. And in fact—why renounce all the delights of life for one who cannot know the sacrifice—who now is nothing more than an unconscious heap of ashes——

Venoni. Josepha!

Pri. No more will you kneel at yonder grate; no more will that tomb——

Venoni. Josepha!

Vice. (indignant at the prior’s success) This artifice—this insidious language——

Pri. (pressing his point) Yes, yes! I see how it will be! she, whom heaven scarcely balanced in your heart, soon abandoned, soon forgotten, soon replaced——

Venoni. (almost frantic) Never, never!

Vice. Rash youth! pronounce not——

Pri. You have sworn a thousand times to live near her, to die near her——

Venoni. (in the most violent agitation) I have! I have sworn it! I will keep my vow, and—hark! (the bell strikes nine; at the first sound Venoni starts, and utters a dreadful shriek; the blood seems to curdle in his veins, and he remains in an attitude of horror like one petrified.)

Pri. (triumphant) Ah, listen to that bell! twas at this very hour, that Josepha’s eye-lids closed for ever! twas at this very hour, that— (the bell ceases to strike; Venoni recovers animation)

Venoni. Josepha! oh, my Josepha! (he rushes towards the grate, sinks on his knees, and extends his arms through the bars towards the tomb.)

Venoni. (after a short pause starts up, comes forward, and embraces the viceroy in a hurried manner) Farewell! I am grateful for your zeal; but my fate is irrevocable!

Vice. Cruel youth! yet hear——

Venoni. No more, no more! I am dead to the world! yet forget not, that while I lived, I lived to love you. Farewell, Benvolio—farewell for ever! Breaks from him, and exit.

(The viceroy remains in an attitude of profound grief; the prior surveys him in silence with a look of malignant joy; at length he advances towards him)

Pri. (in a hypocritical tone) May I without offence represent to your excellence, that qnight approaches? it must be near the time, when our rules require, that the monastery gates should be closed.

Vice. I read your soul, and your inhuman joy bursts out in spite of your hypocrisy. Exult; but your triumph will be short. I have eyes—they are fixed upon you!—tremble! Exit.

Pri. (fiercely) And you who talk so loudly and so high—tremble for yourself! vain man, you little dream to what heights I can extend my vengeance!

(Father Jeronymo enters with a dark lantern.)

(During the following scene, night comes on, and the moon rises)

Jer. Even now I encountered Venoni, his eyes wild, his lips pale, his whole frame trembling with agitation. I almost dread to inquire the issue of this interview. Say, what result——

Pri. Jeronymo, there was one dreadful moment, when I gave up all for lost—Venoni was on the point of escaping from my power.

Jer. What! the viceroy’s arguments——

Pri. Spoke but too forcibly to Venoni’s heart. He talked to him of his duties; he painted the world as a spacious field for the exercise of virtue, and Venoni no longer looked upon the world with disgust.

Jer. But surely his love—his despair—the shock which his understanding has received—

Pri. Right: tis to them that we are indebted for retaining our captive in his chains. His resolution was shaken; the viceroy already triumphed; but I pronounced Josepha’s name, and instantly he forgot all but her. He is ours once more; tomorrow will see him resign his wealth and liberty in my hands; and much time shall not elapse, ere that first sacrifice is followed by a second.

Jer. And does then this count Benvolio inspire you with no apprehensions? As viceroy of Messina his power is great; and how to escape the vigilance of his suspicious eye—

Pri. And by what means then have I veiled from every eye the fate of the wretched Lodovico, who for twenty years has expiated in the gloom of our subterraneous cells the crime of having revealed our convent secrets; and yet who on earth suspects, that he has not long since sought the grave, the victim of an accidental malady? Jeronymo, fear nothing; give me but time, and the success of my design is certain.

Jer. I would fain believe it so—yet forget not, that father Michael—

Pri. His fate is decided. It’s true, I as yet accuse him only on suspicions, but these suspicions are enough. I will not live in fear, and tomorrow—some one approaches.

Jer. As well as the moonlight enables me to discern, tis Venoni—perhaps he returns hither, hoping that the viceroy may not be yet departed.

Pri. Let us retire. I have still much to say to you—summon our friends to my cell, that our proceedings may be finally arranged. Afterwards we will rejoin Venoni, and spare no pains to confirm him in that resolution, which secures at once his destruction and my revenge. Silence! he is here! Exeunt.

Venoni enters hastily.

Venoni. Benvolio! friend! he is gone! how abruptly did I quit him! how ungratefully have I repaid his kindness! ah, whither is my reason fled! he said—I was in danger! in danger? and what then have I left to fear? what have I still left to lose? my life? oh, I were happy—too, too happy—if the moment of parting with it were even now arrived!

Enter father Michael, with a dark lantern; which he afterwards just opens to observe Venoni, and having ascertained his person, closes it again looking round cautiously.

Mi. (in a low, hurried voice) That voice could be none but his. Venoni! answer! is it thou, Venoni?

Venoni. Who speaks? ha! father Michael?

Mi. (closing the lantern) I sought you—I must speak with you—I must save you!

Venoni. Save me?

Mi. The viceroy has been here: was he admitted?

Venoni. He was—I saw him.

Mi. Mentioned he a letter?

Venoni. He did.

Mi. I was not suffered to see him: they suspect me, and confined me in my cell a prisoner, till he had left the monastery. I am compelled then to address myself to you; but I must be speedy: one moment only is allowed me, while the prior and his confederates are engaged in their secret councils. Venoni, collect your powers of mind; summon up all your strength; this is a moment which demands courage and resolution—your Josepha is lost to you—

Venoni. For ever!

Mi. And know you the man who tore her from your arms? know you the man who—murdered her?

Venoni. Murdered her? almighty powers! what mean you? whom mean you?

Mi. Your rival! your friend! the man who today possesses most influence over your mind, and who tomorrow will become despotic master of your destiny: the tiger whose tongue submissively licks your hand today, and whose talons will tear out your heart tomorrow.

Venoni. Whom, whom?

Mi. The father Cœlestino.

Venoni. (in the greatest horror) He? the prior? powers of mercy!— (then with decision) away! it cannot be.

Mi. You doubt me? be convinced then. Some months are past since a tremendous fire broke out in this convent at midnight. The prior was absent; his apartment was in flames; I burst the door, and rescued such articles as appeared to be of most importance; a crucifix of value; his casket; his papers—

Venoni. Go on, go on!

Mi. Among these papers one letter was half open: unintentionally the first words caught my eye, and their import compelled me to read the rest. It was from the abbess of the Ursulines, whose chapel is only separated from ours by a party-wall. It informed me, that a communication exists between the two convents, unknown to all but the prior and his confidants; that the most scandalous abuses—

Venoni. (frantic with impatience) Josepha, Josepha—oh! speak to me of Josepha!

Mi. Other letters leave no doubt, that the prior’s motive for secluding her in the Ursuline convent was a licentious passion for your bride. In that convent every art was employed to corrupt her heart, but every art was employed in vain. She endeavoured to escape; she was watched and closely confined. Your return was expected daily—Josepha threatened her tyrants with disclosure of this atrocious secret—the prior and his accomplice stood on the brink of an abyss, and, to prevent it, she was precipitated into an untimely grave.

Venoni. (leaning against a tree) My brain turns around.

Mi. Nay, sink not beneath the blow; think upon Josepha’s murder, and hasten to avenge it—think upon the dreadful fate which awaits yourself. I come hither to rescue you, and—

Venoni. Stay, stay! my brain—my ideas—oh, God! oh, God! can there be men so cruel—can there be hearts so hard! he, he who supported my aching head on his bosom—who wept with me—who pitied me—rage! distraction!—but no! (shuddering) this crime is too horrible, nature revolts at it, this crime is impossible!

Mi. Impossible? then read this. (taking out a letter) I have seen the prior show you notes from the abbess, in which she affected to pity your situation, and lament the loss of Josepha—you recollect her writing?

Venoni. Recollect it? oh heaven, too well!—let me look on the letter! (father Michael opens the lantern and throws a light upon the paper, at the same time shading it with his habit to prevent its being observed at the convent) Yes, this is her hand; I should know it among a thousand others.

Mi. Read! read, and be convinced.

Venoni. (reading, while emotion frequently chokes his voice) “We are undone, Cœlestino; her parents have written to me; and in a few days we must expect Venoni’s return. The incensed Josepha threatens to reveal all that has past; prayers and menaces have been tried in vain; she has determined on our destruction, and nothing can preserve us but her removal from the world. You must decide immediately; answer me but one word, and before three days are elapsed, Josepha and this dangerous secret shall be buried together, and for ever!” (he sinks upon a bank of turf, as if stupified, and sits there in an attitude of motionless despair)

Mi. Josepha’s death, which happened within three days after this letter’s date, declares but too plainly, what was the villain’s answer. You are now master of the whole plot. Tis evident, that your life also is aimed at: you are a rival, whom the prior abhors; and whom it was first necessary to deceive, before he could gratify his vengeance. Your vows once pronounced—your wealth secured—separated from your friends—deprived of all assistance; then it is that the storm of revenge and malice will burst in all its horrors on your devoted head. You will be dead to all the rest of nature, but you will still exist for Cœlestino; will exist to feel the whole extent of his barbarity, to experience every refinement of torture and every species of agony; without being really permitted to expire, daily to suffer a thousand and a thousand deaths. You answer not? you move not?—rouse, rouse, Venoni; let us hasten from this dangerous abode: my fate is no less certain than your own, and flight alone can save me. It’s true, the gates are locked, but I possess the key to a private door of the garden. We are yet unobserved; rise then and let us hence.

Venoni. (recovering from his stupor, and suddenly starting up) Where is he? where does the monster hide himself? I will revenge her! I will punish her murderers!

Mi. (violently alarmed) What would you do? whither would you go?

Venoni. Whither? whither? to revenge Josepha!

Mi. For mercy’s sake, recollect yourself! this way; let us fly.

Venoni. (raving) What? fly? and leave her unavenged? never! I will die, I will die! but I will punish her assassins!

Mi. Silence, silence! these shrieks—we shall be betrayed: you destroy yourself, Venoni! yourself and me!

Venoni. (with frantic screams) Josepha! Josepha!

Mi. (endeavouring to force him away) I must be gone! follow me, or you are lost! hark! holy saints they are at hand! wretched youth, they bring the death warrant of us both! come, come! for heaven’s sake come!

Venoni. (without heeding him) The miscreant! the monster! oh, Josepha!

Mi. (in despair releasing him) Remain, then, madman, since thou wilt have it so! remain, and perish! Exit hastily.

Venoni. (alone, and wandering about the garden with a distracted air) Where shall I direct—where seek—a cloud obscures my eyes—despair, rage, powers of vengeance! powers of fury! guide me, desert me not; give me strength to—my limbs refuse to bear me: I faint, I die! (he falls upon the ground)

The prior, the fathers Jeronymo, Anastasio, and Nicolo, and other monks enter with torches.

Pri. (speaking without) What clamours make the garden resound? who thus disturbs the hallowed silence which——how? Venoni! alone! stretched on the earth! he is insensible; yet sure there was some one with him! speak, Jeronymo; heard you not?—

Jer. Two voices certainly seemed to mingle, and the dispute was earnest.

Ana. Whoever was here, cannot have gone far. Let us seek.

Pri. Lose not a moment: be Nicolo your companion. Exeunt Anastasio and Nicolo.

Pri. Meanwhile, be it our care to restore Venoni to himself: his fortune is not yet in our possession. (he kneels and supports Venoni in his arms) My son! Venoni! look up, Venoni.

Venoni. (reviving) Who names me? who speaks to me?

Pri. One whom your situation cuts to the very heart. What has produced this new distress? tell me, my son?

Venoni. (whom the prior has assisted to rise, casts round him a wild unconscious look, and unable to support himself reclines his head on the prior’s bosom) What has happened? where am I?

Pri. In the arms of that tender friend whose sympathy—

Venoni. (struck by the voice, and recollecting himself, raises his head, fixes his eyes on the prior, and repulses him with a look of extreme horror) Thou? thou? oh, eternal justice!

Pri. (astonished) How is this? you drive me from you; and does then the sight of me inspire you with disgust?

Venoni. (shuddering) Disgust?

Pri. In what have I offended? what is my crime?

Venoni. (exasperated beyond bounds) And still dare you ask? inhuman! still dare you ask—what is your crime? oh, monstrous hypocrisy! oh, guilt beyond belief! she is dead! and still dare you ask—in what have you offended?

Enter father Anastasio and father Nicolo.

Ana. Tis in vain that—

Pri. Silence! (with calm dignity) hear me, Venoni! tis plain that your senses are disordered, and I therefore listen to these insults without resentment: these insults which I have so little deserved from you. But I know well that your injustice proceeds not from your heart; and when this paroxysm of delirium is past—

Venoni. Delirium? no, no! do not hope it! excess of misery—desire of vengeance have restored my reason: I feel but too well, both for myself and you, that my senses are right again, and tremble thou to hear they are so! I see you now in your true colours, in all the horrors of your atrocious guilt! your hour is arrived; your cup is full; and the abyss already yawns beneath your feet, which within an hour shall bury you in its womb for ever! farewell! (going)

Pri. Yet stay, Venoni! you must not—you shall not leave me thus. What means this talk of guilt, of vengeance? declare at once what troubles you! I boldly challenge an immediate explanation.

Venoni. (furious) What? you brave me? ha! read! read, then, monster! (gives him the letter, which he received from father Michael: but immediately afterwards, becoming aware of his imprudence, he endeavours to regain it) merciful heavens, what have I done!

Pri. (after examining the letter turns to the monks, and says in a calm decided tone) Every thing is discovered—we are betrayed.

Jer. How? how?

Ana. What must be done? we are lost!

Jer. But one moment is still ours.

Ni. There is but one chance of escape—

Pri. Silence! (during these speeches he seems to have been collecting his thoughts; he advances to Venoni, and says in a firm decided tone) those words, in which you threatened my destruction, assured your own— (in a voice of thunder) die! die, and be our dangerous secret buried for ever in your grave! (to Jeronymo) unclose the chapel door and raise the secret stone.

Jeronymo enters the chapel.

Pri. Seize him!

Venoni. (who during the above speeches has remained in silent consternation, on being seized by father Anastasio, &c. bursts out into the most passionate exclamations) What, barbarians! do you dare?—

Pri. Bear him to the chapel!

Venoni. (struggling) Inhuman monsters! the vengeance of heaven—my friends—my cries—help—save me!

Pri. Stifle his shrieks! away with him! (the monks surround him—a handkerchief is thrown over his face, and he sinks into their arms exhausted—the scene drops, as they are conveying him towards the chapel, the prior being the last who follows, pointing to him with a look of triumphant vengeance)

End of Act. II.

ACT III.

SCENE I.—A dungeon with a concealed door on one side, a tomb on the other, and a gallery above—a grated door in the back.

Lod. (with an iron bar in one hand and lamp in the other, comes feebly from the concealed door) My efforts are unavailing! wretched, wretched Lodovico, the hopes of escape, which thou hast so long indulged, must at length be abandoned forever! in vain has the labour of twenty years forced me a passage from my own cell into this adjoining dungeon: in vain has my persevering vigilance at length succeeded in discovering yonder private door, whose artful concealment during whole years eluded my inquiries—the upper portal—its massive bars—its inflexible locks: increasing age—increasing weakness. Farewell, hope! I will make the attempt no more, (he throws down the iron bar) Oh, faint—faint! my efforts have quite exhausted me—now, even were the means of flight mine, weakness would forbid—I will regain my own cell, sink on my couch of straw, pardon my enemies, and expire! let me see! yes! twas about this spot that I made the opening, and these stones removed—

Pri. (above) For a few moments wait above: you, Jeronymo, precede me with the torch.

Lod. Heavens! tis the prior! twenty years have elapsed since I heard it; but too well do I remember that dreadful voice, which pronounced on me the sentence of separation from the world forever. What business—perhaps, my death—alas, alas! I fear it! wretched as my existence is, frail as is the fibre by which I am attached to life, still the moment is awful, which must sever it for ever; whither shall I turn—how avoid—I dare not regain my prison—this cell too will doubtless be searched— (a light flashes across the gallery) he comes! tis to this very dungeon that his steps are addrest—where then, oh, where shall I drag my fainting limbs—ha! perhaps, that secret passage may be unknown even to the prior—perhaps it may awhile conceal—it must be tried—see, see! he is here! away, away! Exit, and closes the door after him.

Enter the prior and Jeronymo, with torches.

Pri. I tell you this dungeon is impenetrable: in vain will our enemies seek its entrance.

Jer. But still the viceroy’s suspicions aided by his authority. Besides, is not father Michael fled?

Pri. Father Michael! absurd! and how then, is it in his power to betray us? we reposed in him no confidence; he has never been initiated into our mysteries, and can have no possible reason for suspecting even the existence of this dungeon.

Jer. Yet still I cannot but fear—

Pri. Your fears are groundless—I am aware that Venoni will be inquired after; but how plausible will be the answer? “he has escaped from us in the night, and whither delirium may have led the wanderer, we are ignorant.” Say that the viceroy insists that Venoni is still within these walls! we have no objection to his searching through the whole monastery, perfectly secure that his search must be of no avail. Tis already midnight. Place the lamp upon yonder tomb; place too that dagger near it, the only mercy which my hatred can allow him;—then when despair shall reach its height, when he feels that hope is lost to him, and that existence is a curse, then if he has courage let him grasp that weapon, and thank the clemency of Cœlestino. Come! all is prepared!

Enter Anastasio and Nicolo, with Venoni, whom they throw upon the floor.

Pri. Object of everlasting hate! object of never to be sated vengeance, lie thou there! live to feel the pangs of dying with every moment of the day, that day whose light thou never shalt behold again. Follow me! Exeunt prior, &c.

Lodovico appears at the private door.

Lod. They are gone; their victim remains—oh, let but his escape be effected through my aid, and then how soon this old weak frame ceases to feel, I care not! (he descends)

Venoni. Where am I? have they left me? the mist which obscures my sight allows me to distinguish nothing; the objects which surround me seem all confused; a thousand wild distorted images distract my brain—I must give way.

Lod. Alas, poor youth! on the ground? I’ll hasten to pour upon his wounded heart the balm of consolation—yet hold! may they not return! yet a few moments—

Venoni. (rising) The clouds disperse. I am alone—they are gone—doubtless are gone for ever! what? and shall then the barbarian triumph? shall then Josepha die unavenged? she must, she must! then farewell, liberty; farewell hope! despair, despair! ha, what glitters—a dagger? a tomb? doubtless designed for me—tis there that all sorrows terminate! tis there, that I shall dread no more the treachery and crimes of man, his perfidious friendship, his dissembled spite, his infernal thirst for vengeance! ha, and if all this indeed be so—why not this instant seize a blessing within my grasp? why not at once defeat the malice of my jailors? it shall be so, and thus— (going to stab himself, when Lodovico arrests his arm)

Lod. Hold, hold! ungrateful!

Venoni. Ha! a stranger?

Lod. Short-sighted mortal! blush to have attempted that impious act! you despaired of succour; you doubted the goodness of Providence; and at that very moment heaven had commissioned me to comfort and preserve you.

Venoni. What are you? what mean you? speak, oh, speak!

Lod. Like yourself, I am the object of Cœlestino’s hatred; like yourself was I condemned to descend alive into the tomb. Mark me, young man. I knew well, that between these vaults and those belonging to the adjoining convent there existed various private communications—the faint hope of discovering one of them formed the only amusement of my solitary hours: I sought it—I persevered—youth, I have found it—

Venoni. Have found it? go on, for heaven’s sake.

Lod. Have found it here; found it, where its existence is probably unknown even to the prior, since he selected this dungeon for your confinement—observe this private door— (opening it) this passage leads to a closed portal; its fastnings are massy—I endeavoured but in vain to force them; that bar, which I wrenched from my dungeon door—

Venoni. That bar? tis mine! I have it! come father, come! to the portal!

Lod. Alas, my son! the ponderous fastenings—the bolts—the bars will resist!

Venoni. Oh, talk not to me of resistance! what force can oppose the efforts of a lover, a frantic desperate lover! father, there was a maiden—how fair she was, nothing but thought can imagine—how I adored her, nothing but this heart can feel! father, this maiden—they tore her from me, they murdered her—murdered her barbarously—tis for her sake that I wish for liberty! tis to avenge her murder that I go to labour; and can you doubt my success? no, no! that thought will turn my blood into consuming fire, will harden every nerve into iron, will endow every limb, every joint, every muscle with vigour and strength and powers herculean—come, father, come.

Lod. Oh! that I could! but age—but infirmity—go, go, my son, I will remain, and pray for you.

Venoni. What? go, and leave you still in the power of your foe! never, never!

Lod. Dear generous youth, you must! I should but impede your flight; I should but mar your exertions. Away then! effect your own escape—then return, and rescue me, if possible—but should you find me dead, oh! believe, that it will have sweetened the bitter hour to think, that my existence lasted long enough to preserve yours.

Venoni. Thou good old man—

Lod. Yet one word! should you force the portal, and reach the interior of the Ursuline convent in safety, shape your course towards the garden: the wall is low—to scale it is easy and—

Venoni. Enough! and now— (going)

Lod. And when you are free—when smiling, friends surround you—when all for you is liberty, and peace and happiness, do not—oh! do not quite forget, that a poor captive, languishing in his solitary cell—

Venoni. Forget you? never! by that life which you now give me, never; I swear it! once at liberty, my first care shall be to effect your rescue, my second to secure your happiness. Oh! surely if aught in life is sweet it is when the heart overflows with gratitude, and the hand has the power to perform what that grateful heart dictates and desires: oh? surely if there is aught which gives mortals a foretaste of the bliss of angels, it is when affection brings a smile upon the furrowed cheeks of those to whom we are indebted for our existence. Tis to you that I owe that gift; and while I have life, never will I forget that it is to you I owe it. Now then away! one embrace: one blessing: then pray for me, father, pray for me, and farewell! Exit with the lamp.

Lod. (alone) Spirits who favour virtue oh! strengthen his arms! aid him! support him! hark he is at the door! I hear him! again, and again! repeat the blow! hark, hark, it breaks, it shivers! and see—

Venoni, appearing above with the lamp.

Venoni. Freedom, freedom, freedom, friend, farewell! I speed to rescue you. Exit.

Lod. Fly, fly! you bear with you my blessing! (kneeling) Heaven, I adore and thank you! I have preserved a fellow creature’s life.

[The scene closes.

SCENE II.—an anti-chamber in the viceroy’s palace.

Enter Benedetto, Carlo, Pietro, &c.

Ben. Here, Pietro! Carlo! where are you all? they call for more iced water! the supper-room is not half lighted—and Carlo, Carlo, bless my heart! I had almost forgotten! Carlo, take three of your fellows, and help to bring out the fat countess of Calpi, who has just fainted away in the ball room. Exeunt servants.

What heat! what a crowd! nay, for that matter the fat countess of Calpi is a crowd of herself, and though it were the depth of winter, her presence would raise the thermometer to “boiling water.” Well! I must say, it’s mighty inconsiderate in corpulent people to come abroad in sultry weather; and if I were a senator, I’d make it high treason for persons above a certain weight to squeeze themselves into public places after the first of May.

Enter Teresa.

So, Teresa! gay doings! lord bless their elbows, how the fiddlers are shaking them away in the ball room.

Te. Gay in truth. But good-lack! it only serves to make me melancholy by reminding me, how the dear lady Josepha would have ornamented such an entertainment! I see the marchioness is here: well! how she can find spirits to enter scenes of gayety—

Ben. Nay, nay, Teresa, the viceroy insisted on her coming; but though the scene around her is gay, that her heart is sad is but too evident.

Te. Ah! and well it may be sad—after shutting her daughter up in the convent where she caught that fatal malady—

Ben. Could she foresee that? and why lay all the blame upon the marchioness? surely the marquis is almost as culpable for consenting that—

Te. By no means, Benedetto, by no means; the marquis only did what every sensible man ought to do; he obeyed his wife—but as for the marchioness—oh! I have no patience with her!

Ben. So it appears, Teresa; and shall I tell you why? because the marchioness is a woman, and you are a woman too: now I’ve always observed that when a female has done wrong, she ever meets with least indulgence from persons of her own sex; and whenever I want to hear the foibles of one woman properly cut up, I never fail to ask another woman what she thinks of them.

Ser. (without) Benedetto, Benedetto!

Ben. Coming, coming! .Exit.

Te. Well, there is one thing that seems to me very strange; Benedetto has certainly an excellent understanding—and yet he isn’t always of my opinion—now that appears to me quite unaccountable. (going)

Father Michael rushes in out of breath.

Mi. Heaven be praised! then I am arrived at last.

Te. A friar! your business, father?

Mi. Tis with the viceroy; good daughter, lead me to him this instant.

Te. This instant? oh, mercy on me, you can’t see him tonight, if you’d give your eyes.

Mi. I must, I tell you! I must! my business is of such importance, that—

Enter Benedetto.

Ben. Why, Teresa! dawdling here, while the maids— Exit Teresa.

Mi. Tis the same! how fortunate!—worthy old man—

Ben. Is it you, father? why, you were out, when his excellence went this evening to—

Mi. I was at home—but the prior’s suspicions—I was a prisoner; and—but this is no time for explanation—lead me to your lord! away.

Ben. Impossible, father! all the grandees of Messina—a banquet, a ball—dont you hear the music? but doubtless tomorrow—

Mi. Tomorrow will be too late! alas! perhaps it is too late already! perhaps at this very moment Venoni is no more!

Ben. No more. Venoni? follow me, father, follow me this instant—stay, stay! as I live, here comes his excellence himself.

Enter the Viceroy and Hortensia.

Vice. Nay, dear Hortensia—how now? what would you, father?

Mi. Pardon my intrusion, noble sir, but my business will not brook delay—I am that friar whose letter this morning—

Vice. Father Michael? speak! come you from Venoni?

Mi. He is in danger—perhaps is already no more! oh, speed for his aid! rescue him, if possible; if too late, avenge him! if he still lives, I suspect the place of his confinement, and can guide you thither: if this bloody deed is already accomplished, at least let us punish the crimes of his assassin, the monster Cœlestino!

Vice. His assassin!

Hor. Cœlestino? stay, brother, stay! will you on the word of an unknown believe that a man whose whole course of life has been so pure, so pious—

Mi. Nay, lady, for heaven’s love delay us not; these moments are precious, are dreadful! these moments decide the life or death of a human being—come, come, my lord! let the prior be seized; terror will doubtless compel him to confess my charge! secure, too, the abbess of the Ursulines; she can confirm my story; she well knows that the prior’s licentious love for your niece, for the murdered Josepha—

Hor. Murdered? my child?

Vice. Horror crowds on horror! within there! my servants! my guards! away to the monastery; if there denied admittance, we’ll force the gates!—Venoni, thou shalt be preserved, or avenged most dreadfully. On, on, good friar! away! Exeunt.

Hor. (alone) Can it be? Cœlestino—the abbess—he, whom I ever thought so holy—she, in whom I reposed such fatal confidence?—distracting doubts, I must be satisfied;—yes! I’ll hasten to the Ursulines; I’ll interrogate the abbess myself! I’ll question—I’ll threaten; and if I find her guilty—oh! then if her heart possesses but one feeling fibre, it will surely writhe with agony, when she hears the groans, when she sees the anguish of a despairing, of a childless mother! Exit.

SCENE III.—An apartment in the Ursuline convent decorated for a festival—the back part is filled up by a dark-coloured curtain—night.

The prior enters preceded by a friar with a torch, and followed by Veronica.

Ve. Yet hear me, Cœlestino!

Pri. Idle remonstrances! what! shall I have plunged into guilt, and reap no fruits from it but the danger? abbess, Josepha must be mine: remember my power, and obey me!

Ve. You have been obeyed; your victim is even now conducting hither; the banquet—the lights—the choral harmony—every thing is prepared, that can seduce her senses; but all these temptations she has already resisted—she will resist them still: then spare me the odious—the unavailing office—

Pri. Perform it well, and it will not be unavailing. For twelve long months cut off from all society—deprived of every joy, of every comfort, even deprived of light—then, when suddenly the radience of a thousand torches blazes upon her wondering eye, when music swells upon her ear and, still more melting still more melodious, when the voice of affection speaks touchingly to her heart; nay, if she then prefers her gloomy cell to liberty and pleasure, Josepha’s virtue must be more than human.

Ve. But should it prove so—oh! then at least forbear to persecute the unfortunate! let her swear never to divulge our secrets—let some well imagined tale account for her reported death, and—

Pri. How? and dare you, the creature of my will, whose life depends but upon my breath—

Ve. While you speak, forget not also that my fate involves your own; I too can divulge—

Pri. Speak but such another threatening word, and the whole measure of your offences shall be made public throughout Messina—my mind is resolved; my resolutions are taken: I can dare every thing; but you—weak, trembling, doubting woman—dare you die!

Ve. O! no, no, no! you know but too well, I dare not.

Pri. No more, then, but obey me. Tonight be it your care to fascinate Josepha’s senses and inflame her heart. Tomorrow I will once more present myself before her and prove, whether virtue and Venoni can counterbalance at once the allurements of present pleasure, and the apprehension of future pain. You have heard my will; obey it! should Josepha escape, I swear, that my vengeance shall drag you to the scaffold, even though I ascend it with you myself, (to the friar) Lead to the monastery. Exeunt.

Ve. I struggle in vain to escape; the snares of guilt are wound too closely round me. Hark! she comes! tis Josepha! I heard the plaintive murmur of that voice, so sweet, so tender, so touching! I dare not meet her yet—oh! Josepha, gladly would I share thy gloomy dungeon, could I but share with it thy uncorrupted heart. Exeunt.

A nun enters with a lamp followed by sister Lucia, who conducts Josepha blind-folded.

Jo. Oh! why is this mysterious silence? for what purpose have you taken me from my prison? who are you, and whither have you brought me? have mercy on my agony! see, how this silence terrifies me: see how I kneel at your feet; see how I kiss them and bathe them with my tears. Answer me—in pity answer. Still no reply? still no kind consoling sound? (Lucia motions to leave her) oh! no, no, no! do not leave me! even though you speak not, stay, oh, stay! let me at least be conscious, that there is a human being near me—that I am not the only thing within these mournful walls, which possesses life and feeling! stay, stay, in charity! (the nun breaks from her and exit) they leave me—they are gone! hark! a door closes! I hear their retiring footsteps! alas! alas! even in the noise of that closing door, even in the echo of those departing steps, there was some little comfort: they at least betokened the existence of a human being. I am alone—let me remove the bandage, and examine. Dark! dark! all dark! still all silence, still all gloom! where am I? I dare not advance lest some abyss—oh! light, light! glorious light! shall I then never see thee more? any thing but this dead and hollow silence! any thing but this sepulchral, this dreadful, this heart-oppressing gloom.

Chorus within, very full and sweet.

—“O! love! sweet love!”—

Jo. Hark! voices! I heard them! I am sure I heard them! it was music! melody! enchantment—hark! hark! again.

CHORUS.

“Love rules the court, the camp, the grove.

For love is heaven, and heaven is love.”

During this chorus, the curtain rolls up, and discovers a banquet splendidly illuminated; large folding doors are in the centre; chandeliers descend, and the stage becomes as light as possible—Veronica and nuns are in the front.

Jos. See! see! all bright! all brilliant; a dream—a fairy vision—the blaze overpowers me, my eyes are dazzled; my brain grows dizzy: I cannot support the rapture— (sinks against a pillar)

Ve. Josepha!

Jos. (starting) Surely that voice—the abbess, what can mean—

Ve. How? not speak to me, my child? not look upon your mother)

Jos. Mother? child? oh! it is long since I heard those dear, dear names—my heart—my feelings— (throwing herself into her arms) oh! if I am your child, then mother, mother! be to me a mother indeed!

Ve. And do I not prove myself one, my Josepha, when now, in spite of all your past perverseness, I again clasp you to my bosom, I again put it in your own choice to live in liberty, in society, in delight? look round you, my daughter! see how every countenance smiles to welcome you; see, how every heart springs towards you; see, how—

Jos. (starting away from her, exclaims with energy) Ha! now I understand it all! the mystery is cleared! the web is unravelled! yes, yes, the meaning bursts at once upon me, all in the broad blaze of its daring villany, in all the hypocrisy of its deep-laid odious art!

Ve. What art? what villany? when kindly I woo you to—

Jos. Speak not! proceed not! let not the unholy words pass through your lips, as you value your own soul! I guess your meaning; oh! then pronounce it not; great as are your crimes let me save you from committing one so monstrous as this! the lessons of vice from any lips appear disgusting; but when a woman gives them breath—tis horrible! tis dreadful! tis unnatural!

Ve. (aside) Oh! if I dared—no, no! it cannot be.

Jos. Ah! you melt? oh! then behold me kneeling before you; see my anguish, my fears, my hopes. I have none but in you! remember your sex, your habit, your former affection for me. You loved me once! even now you called me your child, often have you prest me to your heart with all a mother’s tenderness—oh! then by that tender name I charge you, I implore you, tempt me not to vice; rather aid me to persevere in virtue. Let me depart; restore me to my parents; I will never divulge your dreadful secret. It’s true I once threatned you; I would fain have terrified you into penitence, but you know my heart, all merciful; you know, that I would not willingly hurt even a worm!—she weeps! she pities me! blessings on you, eternal blessings! oh, let me hasten— (going, Veronica starts in terror: the nuns opposes her progress)

Ve. Hold! detain her! Josepha, that I suffer—that I feel for you—it were fruitless to deny; but alas! unfortunate, your fate is decided; your fate and mine! the prior—the unrelenting prior—oh, so guilty as I am, I dare not look on death. Yield, then, Josepha, yield! all hope is lost to you—

Jose. Nay, not so, lady! strong as are my fetters, heaven may one day break them; but robbed of innocence, then, indeed, not heaven itself could save me. When rains beat heavy, the rose for awhile may droop its head oppressed; but the clouds will disperse, and the sun will burst forth, and the reviving flower will raise its blushing cup again; but all the flames of the sun and all the zephyrs of the south can never restore its fragrance and its health to the once-gather’d lily.

Ve. Alas, alas! to protect you is beyond my power! you will be plunged once more alive into the grave—will be deprived of every comfort—

Jose. No, lady, no! even in the depth of your subterraneous dungeon, one comfort still is mine, and never will forsake me: tis the consciousness that my sufferings are transitory, but that my reward will be eternal; tis the consciousness of an hereafter! tis this which supports me during all my daily sorrows; tis this which irradiates all my nightly dreams. Then this poor wretched globe with all its crimes and all its follies rolls away from before me: then all seems fair, and pure, and glorious: cherubs shed the roseate lustre of their smiles upon my stony couch, and guardian saints encourage me to suffer with patience, to hope, and to adore!—such are my dreams: now, lady, paint if you dare, the visions which you behold in your own.

Ve. She tortures my heart; her reproaches fire my brain—I can endure them no longer—remove her! away!

Jose. (kneeling) Oh! drive me not from you! pity me! protect me! save me!—

Ve. I cannot! I dare not! take her from my sight, and—and for ever!

Jose. (rising) For ever? no, cruel woman; do not hope it! listen to these sighs; look upon these tears! in your gayest happiest moments, such sighs shall scare away delight; when you lift to your lips the cup of pleasure, you shall find the draught embittered by such tears; and when that hour arrives which you dread so justly, a form like mine shall stand beside your pillow and a voice like mine shall shriek in your ear—“Welcome, murderess! welcome, to that grave, to which you sent me!”

Ve. Insupportable! away with her! she kills me!

Jose. Oh! let me stay yet a few moments more! let me gaze but a little longer on the lovely, friendly, blessed light! let me still hear a human voice, even though it threaten me; let me still look upon a human face, even though it be the face of an enemy; (the nuns endeavour to force her away) mercy! mercy! help me—aid me!

Venoni rushes in by a side door.

Venoni. Who shrieks for help—for mercy! I—I will give them! (Veronica and nuns utter a cry of surprise)

Ve. Ah! a stranger?

Jose. (bursting from the nuns with a violent effort) Tis he! tis he himself! save me, Venoni! oh! save me, save me! (she rushes to throw herself into his arms, and sinks fainting at his feet.)

Ve. Venoni, betrayed, undone! Lucia! (she whispers Lucia.)

Venoni. She knows me! look up, look up, unfortunate! I will protect you! I will preserve you, and—Josepha! tis Josepha! speak to me, Josepha! oh! speak to your Venoni!

Ve. But one moment is still ours— (to Lucia) fly! hasten! (Lucia goes off by the door through which Venoni enters.)

Venoni. The monsters! the barbarians! oh! my beloved, how have the wretches made you suffer.

Jose. Suffer! oh say but that you love me still, all, all will be forgotten.

Venoni. Do I love thee? oh, heaven! thou, my soul! my life! best half of my existence! but come, let us quit this hated place—let us away, and— (to Veronica) nay, lady, shrink not at my approach: how you may answer to the viceroy, be that your care; but dread no reproaches from me! I shall respect that sacred habit, though you have felt for it so little reverence; I shall still remember your sex, though you seem yourself to have forgotten it. Give me the means to quit the convent—furnish me with the portal key—

Ve. (confused) My lord—the keys—they shall be produced—I have sent for them—even now you saw a sister leave the chamber—she returns—I hear her—speak!

Lucia returns.

Ve. Have you found them?

Lu. I have.

Venoni. And where are they?

The prior rushes in followed by monks.

Pri. Here! art thou found again, my fugitive?—seize him.

Jose. Venoni! oh, Venoni!

Pri. Tear them asunder.

Jose. No, no! I will never leave him! while I have life, thus thus will I cling to him; if I must die, it shall be at his feet. (they are forced asunder) oh! cruel, cruel men! (she sinks into the arms of the nuns—Veronica is in the greatest agitation)

Pri. Away with him! (he precedes; the monks, bearing Venoni, follow him) Venoni, your death-hour has struck!

Father Michael rushes in followed by the Viceroy, &c. and grasps the prior’s arm.

Mi. Tyrant, no; twas for thyself it sounded.

The monks release Venoni, and the nuns Josepha; the lovers fall into each other’s arms—at the same time the folding-doors are burst open, and the marquis, Hortensia, &c. enter.

Hor. (speaking without) Where is she? where is the abbess?

Jose. My mother’s voice? here, here! my mother, behold your Josepha at your feet.

Hor. Powers of mercy! she lives, she lives! my Josepha! my joy my treasure! oh, can you forget—

Jose. Every thing, every thing—except that I am still dear to you.

Vice. Officers, you know your prisoners! remove them, their sight is painful, (the prior is conducted away by the guards; Veronica is leading off when Josepha addresses her)

Jose. Lady—you felt for me—you pitied me; I too can pity and feel for you—if I have influence, you shall find mercy.

Ve. Josepha!—angel, your prayers—oh! pray for me: pray for me! Exit with guards.

Venoni. My joy—my amazement—but oh! let me fly to rescue—follow me, my friends—there is a poor old man—a captive.——

Vice. Be calm, dear youth; Lodovico is in safety: in guiding us to your dungeon, this worthy friar discovered and released him.

Venoni. My friend, my preserver! how can I reward——

Vice. If my power—if my whole fortune can recompense——

Mi. I have preserved innocence, I have detected vice, I have served the cause of humanity: I find a sufficient reward in the feelings of my own heart. But, my good lords, let us quit this scene of horror: suffer me, my son, to unite your hand with Josepha’s at the altar; then retiring to some more virtuous fraternity——

Vice. What, father? after such experience of a convent’s interior will you again——

Mi. Ah! forbear, my lord, nor brand a whole profession with disgrace, because some few of its professors have been faulty—tis not the habit but the heart; tis not the name he bears but the principles he has imbibed, which makes man the blessing or reproach of human nature. Virtue and vice reside equally in courts and convents; and a heart may beat as purely and as nobly beneath the monk’s scapulary, as beneath the ermine of the judge, or the breast-plate of the warrior.

Venoni. The good friar says right, my friend; then let us scorn to bow beneath the force of vulgar prejudice, and fold to our hearts as brethren in one large embrace men of all ranks, all faiths, and all professions. The monk and the soldier, the protestant and the papist, the mendicant and the prince; let us believe them all alike to be virtuous till we know them to be criminal; and engrave on our hearts, as the first and noblest rule of mortal duty and of human justice, those blessed words.

“BE TOLERANT!”

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MIRROR OF TASTE, AND DRAMATIC CENSOR, VOL. I, NO. 3, MARCH 1810 ***

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Table of Contents

- THE MIRROR OF TASTE,

- DRAMATIC CENSOR.

- HISTORY OF THE STAGE.

- DRAMATIC CENSOR.

- MR. COOPER.

- THEATRICAL INTELLIGENCE.

- MISCELLANY.

- THEOBALDUS SECUNDUS,

- NO. II.

- MUSIC.

- SPORTING INTELLIGENCE.

- Footnotes

- INDEX.

- VENONI,

- NOVICE OF ST. MARK’S.

- VENONI; OR, THE NOVICE OF ST. MARK’S.

- ACT I.

- ACT II.

- ACT III.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE