and by the time I reached my company, looked something like a hero. My soldiers, too, had recovered their valour, now that there was no occasion for it-My case always! just when I don't want valour, I am sure to find him at my elbow; but the moment he is wanted, the ungrateful rascal runs away, and leaves me in the lurch. This by the way though!-Not one of my party was missing, save those who were wounded by the fall of the shell; all looked heroes, yet many who now wore most terrific faces smelt confoundedly of the cellar: my nose was too well acquaintedwith the smoke to be in any doubt about the fact; but I wisely held my tongue, and have ever since passed for a man of valour, and been known among my peaceful neighbours by the appellation of the Colonel. G. S. ENGLISH OPERA HOUSE. THE DRAMA. This month has brought with it the usual quantum of what, in the language of the play-bills, is called novelty, but still not that which would be the greatest of all novelties, -a sterling drama. Does the fault lie with authors, managers, or the public? Each party is willing to charge this deficiency to the account of the other, and it is no easy matter to hold the scales steadily between them. On the behalf of managers it has been said that it is their interest to produce good pieces, and that consequently they do produce the best which are offered to their selection allowing the premises, the conclusion by no means follows; for how many circumstances may blind them, as well as other men, to their real interest? Bad taste, personal likings and antipathies, the interference of authority, and all those lesser hindrances which bias the daily current of action, may also act as obstacles with them, and sway them from that which is their real interest to that which is essentially their ruin. If it were not for our abhorrence of all personality, there would be no want of examples to illustrate this maxim,-a maxim so trite and obvious, that its repetition can only be excused by the obstinate folly of those who will not give it credit. On the other hand the public must have some influence in the choice of pieces; what is positively opposed to their taste must of necessity be withdrawn; and if they were decided to receive only good plays, only good plays could be produced: but this is supposing popular opinion to be more active than it really is: once rouse it into action, and its effect is VOL. VI. as prompt as it is conclusive; but, for this, mere mediocrity is not a sufficient stimulus: besides, the mind in time is reconciled to inferiority of any kind, as the ear that has been long accustomed to discord loses all its delicacy of perception. But with all the plausibility of such censures, as applied both to the managers and the public, the great cause of the evil seems to be in the want of some master-spirit to excite and controul the energies of talent, for of that there is no deficiency: but mere talent will not do; it can not create; it is an imitative power, and is either good or bad according to the impulse of its age. One Sir Joshua made many artists, as one Byron has made many poets: it is the peculiar province of genius to call forth the excellence of inferior minds; and we shall seldom, if ever, find that a great man has stood alone at any time-he has rather been the centre of a system. Let one man of real genius appear upon the stage, and a multitude of authors will start up from his example, the least of whom would be a giant in comparison with the best of our present dramatists. He would have many prejudices to conquer, but he would conquer them: in the mean time, all that criticism can do is to keep the way open, that it may not be quite choked up by the weeds of errorto wake the public by occasional stimulus, that they may not fall into a torpid acquiescence with the drama as it is, and fancy it incapable of improvement. Above all, we would have our critics discard the foolish idea of the present age being too level, too uniform in its modes and eircumstances, for the production of 2 E real character; such an opinion has, indeed, been generally accepted, but it is not the less an error: the forms of life may be changed, and the characters of olden times may be utterly extinct; but other varieties have succeeded to them as rich in matter, whether it be for pathos or for ridicule. The fact is, that we do not want originals, but skill to convey them on the canvas: instead of drawing from actual life we give transcripts from the works of others: our authors resemble those young artists who are clever enough to copy the paintings of any master, but who have not sufficient power to take their portraits from nature as she moves before them. Could the master-spirit arise that once originated Falstaff and Othello, it would hardly be lost to us from the want of occasion. A second fatal absurdity, and no less generally received, is the idle dogma, that none can write a play except the inmates of a play-house; this place of necessity draws with it an eternal circle of the same thoughts, the same characters, the same incidents, which, as they lose their effect by repetition, are exaggerated into freshness. It is not within the walls of a theatre that the dramatist should collect his materials, though it is there he must learn the mode of using them when collected. A theatre is the school of the pupil, not the study of the master; and he, who writes plays solely from the mere mechanic skill acquired in his visits before or behind the curtain, may be a decent play-wright, but he never will be a dramatic poet. It seems almost absurd to dwell on a fact so palpable; and yet the greater number of our dramatists talk and write as if it were a perfect mystery: their dexterity of combination stands them in the place of genius; and they never fail because they never venture. In this class of writers we place Mr. Beazley, the author of GRETNA GREEN. He is most assuredly, in the best sense of the word, a man of talent, but he is far removed from genius; and his most popular efforts are only good editions of the works of other authors: the drama does not seem more peculiarly his bias than any other art; poetry is not the vice and virtue of his existence; it is not a part of him; he would be clever in any thing, and to be clever in any thing is to be great in nothing, for genius is not so general as talent: its power is always more concentrated, and it is perhaps this very singleness of object that in some measure constitutes its power. What we have said of the author precludes the necessity of criticism on his piece: the dialogue is lively and elegant, and the plot dexterously put together; but much of its merit must of course be lost in the detail, which we give more in compliance with custom, than with any idea of its utility. A young lady elopes with her lover for Scotland, and is pursued by her guardian, who in his hurry passes them on the road, and, arriving first at Gretna Green, bribes the innkeeper to give him notice of their coming. In the mean time a second couple appear in the persons of a footman and chambermaid, each of whom is deceived into this expedition by the pretended rank and fortune of the other. Unluckily for their schemes, they are recognised by the innkeeper, Mr. Larder,-the gentleman as his fellow servant in the days of his bondage, and the lady as his jilting sweetheart, who had deserted him for a Frenchman: to revenge himself, he betrays them to each other, as Mr. Jenkins and Miss Betty Finnikin, and then leaves them to settle their mutual accounts of deception as they best may, while he hurries off to inform the old guardian that his runaway ward has arrived with her lover, Lord Lovewell. During his absence, a second recognition takes place in Lord Lovewell, Mr. Jenkins discovers a former master, by whom he had been dismissed for certain little acts of appropriation, such as wearing his lordship's clothes, and spending his lordship's money; and to make amends for his past rogueries, he offers to assist him in escap, ing with Emily to the blacksmith. Lord Lovewell accepts the present knavery in payment for the past, and Mr. Jenkins proposes the old and not very probable device of an exchange of dress and character; by means of this, the lovers pass out in the very teeth of the old man, and, by the time he discovers his mistake, they return married from the blacksmith. Miss Kelly played the chambermaid; and, slight as the part is, we feel bound to notice it, because it was played by Miss Kelly. This admirable actress has both gained and lost with us in the last three years: her execution is improved; but the very same practice which has wrought that improvement, has also taken something away from her simplicity; there is more glare in her acting than there used to be,-more of that exaggeration which proceeds from too much studiousness of effect; and though it is partially kept down by her pure taste and masculine understanding, yet still it is a defect in a style that would otherwise be perfect. If, too, we were to descend to particular objections, we should say that her Betty Finnikin was the lady imitating the manners of the chambermaid, not the chambermaid imitating the manners of the lady; but this is perhaps being over-critical, for there is not another actress on the stage who could brook so strict a scrutiny, without material injury to her reputation: but Miss Kelly is a star of the first order, and her light will be visible long after she has set from the theatrical horizon. Mr. Pearman, in Lord Lovewell, seemed to be out of his proper element, if indeed it be fair to criticise the acting of a singer: there is a dash of coarseness in his manner that does not well suit the representative of nobility; and when Miss Carew talked of his lordship, it sounded like a lurking satire. Still, Pearman is the best acting singer on the stage, whatever may be the value of that praise; and his voice is of that sound quality which only wants the aid of science to be really excellent. At a time when vocal talent is so scarce on the English stage-we speak only in reference to the men-a singer of his pretensions deserves encouragement. Mr. Power, a recent importation from the Olympic, was the innkeeper of the piece, and it is only his own fault that he is not a greater favour ite; he would be a good actor, if it were not for his consummate assurance, that shines out on his forehead, like the brass plate on a street door, indicating the name and calling of the inhabitant. At the same time it is no more than justice to state, that he is a clever lively fellow, always in a bustle, and always acting from the impulse of overflowing spirits. A more intimate acquaintance with a London audience will render him a useful acquisition to the summer theatres; and if our remarks induce him to give fair play to his talents, he will have some reason to thank us for their severity. The next piece on the list is THE FAIR GABRIELLE, a translation, or, as our modern authors phrase it, an adaptation from the French. It is an elegant trifle in one act; but the subject of it is by no means new to the English stage, and the plot is hardly worth repetition:-The soldiers of the League lie in wait for Henri, in one of his visits to the fair Gabrielle ; and Eloi, to save his master, assumes his name and habits. He is accordingly taken prisoner, and conducted to the castle of D'Estrées, the father of Gabrielle, but opposed in principle to the royal lover. On the other hand the king is received for Eloi, by the young man's intended bride, and the rest of the piece is made up of this poetical mistake. The submission of the Leaguers to Henri brings the whole to a happy conclusion. HAYMARKET THEATRE. The pieces at this theatre flit along like the royal shadows in the cave of the witches; and at each fresh appearance, we are inclined to cry out with Macbeth, "Why do you show me this?" to which Mr. Morris would no doubt answer, "To fill my treasury;" and Mr. Morris is right, for these things do fill his treasury, though they leave the memories of his audience as barren as they found them. The argumentum aureum is the strongest species of the argumentum ad hominem, and one to which there is no replying: all that we regret in the business is, that the judgments of the critic and the treasurer cannot be reconciled, and that the very same thing which meets the approbation of the one is always sure to be disagreeable to the other. The new Opera of Morning, Noon, and Night, is written expressly for the treasurer; and, indeed, Mr. T. Dibdin seldom writes for any other critic, though he has talents for a higher vocation, if his ambition were only equal to his powers. As it is, he has contrived to manufacture a very tolerable entertainment out of his old materials, and the work seems to be done by the same sort of process that regenerates silver of an antiquated fashion; the material is in either case flung into the melting pot, and, being recast in a new mould, comes out itself a perfect novelty, though the substance remains the same: there is, however, some slight difference in the result of the operation; the silver grows purer from each melting, while in the dramatic process the dregs are generally taken up, and the finer parts deposited. On the present occasion this is more peculiarly the fact; the Opera of Morning, Noon, and Night, is nothing more than the residue of some half a dozen former plays that have been melted down for the purpose, and remoulded. It is a piece of live ly absurdity, often whimsical, and never dull, dulness being by no means a vice of Mr. Dibdin; his nonsense is always gay and sparkling, and from that circumstance alone is superior to the meaning of many writers, who make good sense so abominably tedious, that its company is scarcely tolerable. There is a moral in the cap and bells of Folly, as full of wit as it is of wisdom, which, like the soul of the Licentiate in Gil Blas, is well worth digging for; he who once obtains it, will find himself an acceptable companion in all society. The scene of the new piece is laid on the sea-coast, near the mansion of Sir Simon Saveall, a second sort of Sheva, avaricious to himself, that he may be bountiful to others; the only difference is in the object of their charity: Cumberland's Jew relieved the distressed, while Sir Simon's liberality is directed towards the wreckers, a set of miscreants whose occupation is plunder of the worst kind; the plunder of those whom the storm has delivered over to them bound and naked from the waters. To wean them from this horrible pursuit, he gives a salvage for the lives and fortunes of the shipwrecked; but, it should seem, to little purpose. This is precisely that sort of improbable virtue which, like the feats of Jack the Giant Killer, is most agrecable to ignorant minds; and accordingly such characters are always favourites with the multitude, though, in fact, they as little belong to earth as Ariel or Titania: heroism that does not conquer impossibilities, or benevolence that is only reasonable, are mere every-day occurrenees, and not worth accepting; there is nothing in them to excite, nothing to stimulate the fancy; virtue must be more than virtuous, or it will not pass muster with the many. As a companion to Sir Simon, there is a Mr. Shark, who unites in himself the opposite professions of pickpocket and fisherman, smuggler and penitent, wrecker and moralist. This pleasant compound, by virtue of the moral part of his character, saves a Mrs. Sanguine and her two children from the murderous avarice of his brother wreckers; and having thus balanced accounts with his conscience, turns his thoughts to matrimony with this view, he lays claim to the hand of Fanny Grampus, the daughter of an old friend and brother in iniquity, who has lately established himself as an inn-keeper; but neither the lady nor her pious parent seems disposed to acquiesce in his pretensions, though he enforces them rather strongly by hinting at certain delicate secrets which may hang his intended father-in-law, in case of noncompliance. This altercation is cut short by Grampus being called away to attend on a fresh arrival, when Shark, suspecting this sudden absence may conceal some purpose of treachery, absconds through the window, with a protest, that if any one is to have the benefit of turning King's evidence it shall be himself. The new-comer proves to be Captain Sanguine, the husband of the shipwrecked lady, who had been separated from her in the night of their common disaster. He is attended by that indispensable Haymarket character, an Irish servant, of course very brave, very faithful, very sentimental, a desperate manufacturer of bulls, and a decided enemy to bailiffs. These guests are dutifully received by the righteous Mr. Grampus in his quality of landlord; the smuggler and wrecker being put off when he puts on the apron: he informs them that their companion in the next room, meaning Shark,-is neither more nor less than a highwayman, an intimation which he generously gives them on the Bow-street principle of "Take care of your pockets, gentle men. A second traveller now appears in the person of Lord Scribbleton, a whimsical being, who fancies that life is conducted on the plan of Mrs. Radcliffe's romances, with the proper proportion of ghosts, murder, and mystery; and is always on the look out for some horror for his next new novel. It is in this romantic spirit that he takes on him the name of Mr. Mystic, proposing in this disguise to visit Miss Lydia Saveall ;-(what a horrid name for a young lady! and a mistress to boot!)-for, according to the schemes of Sir Simon and his old friend, the Earl of Avadavat, she is destined to be his Lordship's bride. The communicative Mr. Grampus, in return for some secrets entrusted to him by his Lordship's French valet, does not hesitate to inform him that he has a highwayman in his house, pointing to the room in which Shark should be, but where Captain Sanguine is; the valet of course repeats, this to his master; as a natural consequence, the two travellers mutually mistake each other for a highwayman, and, in the very moment when this error could not escape being cleared up, Captain Sanguine is driven from the field by the arrival of a bailiff, who, not to be without his share in the catalogue of blunders, makes a caption of his Lordship. In the mean time chance leads Captain Sanguine to the castle of Sir Simon, and he, having been warned by the Earl of his son's intended incognito, mistakes the soldier for the nobleman. It is in vain that the man of arms protests, against any such title; Sir Simon is inflexible in his belief; and the young lady, Miss Emily Saveall, not to be behind-hand with her supposed lover, appears before him as her own Scotch cousin, while the real Lord Scribble ton arrives at the castle with his bailiffs, in the hope of proving his identity by the evidence of Sir Simon. The old gentleman, however, having one Lord in his house already, refuses to acknowledge a second; and the Captain, by a continuation of his error at the inn, declares the stranger to be a highwayman; thus concluding the list of blunders; and a pretty long one it is too. Truly, since Shakspeare's sexton, of equivocating memory, no one has more " quarrelled with occasion" than Mr. Dibdin. Upon the declaration of Captain Sanguine, his Lordship is confined in a cellar below the Castle, and the bailiffs are imprisoned with him, though with what purpose is not very evident: as the county bailiffs, they must have been too well known. to pass for robbers; and, if they were intended as guards on the sup-, posed criminal, the novelty of the contrivance deserves more praise than the utility. Below the said cellar is a vault, in which vault Shark places Mrs. Sanguine and her children, after having a second time saved them from the wreckers, who had waylaid them on the road, with the intention of robbery, if not of murder. By another blunder, - we thought the list had been concluded, he mistakes Lord Scribbleton for the Captain, when the arrival of the Earl puts an end to these equivocations, by giving his own title to each person, and thus brings the whole to a felicitous conclusion. All this, it must be owned, is not very rational; but, at the same time, it is very amusing, and evinces no slight degree of that nameless quality which, without being actually either wit or humour, is every jot as laughable. There is, besides, a continual bustle of plot, a continual change from grave to gay, from dialogue to action, and from both to music; the attention is not suffered to dwell upon any one thing long enough to grow weary of it; and the story, though intricate, is so well put together, and the web of it so artfully unfolded, that the mind is never distracted by its variety. As to character, such as it actually exists in life, or in the fancy of the poet, that must not be expected from our author, for his world is within the narrow circle of a theatre; his portraits are nothing more than theatrical traditions put freshly on the canvas, but coloured and exaggerated by a happy talent for caricature, that is sure to excite a laugh, in defiance of rule and reason. Take him for all in all, he is one of our best farce writers-of the living, be it understood: Oh, we should have a heavy miss of thee |