Chapter XIX: Preface (10)

The whole dramatic moral of Coriolanus is, that those who have
little shall have less, and that those who have much shall take all
that others have left. The people are poor, therefore they ought to
be starved. They are slaves, therefore they ought to be beaten. They
work hard, therefore they ought to be treated like beasts of burden.
They are ignorant, therefore they ought not to be allowed to feel
that they want food, or clothing, or rest, that they are enslaved,
oppressed, and miserable. This is the logic of the imagination and
the passions; which seek to aggrandize what excites admiration, and
to heap contempt on misery, to raise power into tyranny, and to make
tyranny absolute; to thrust down that which is low still lower, and
to make wretches desperate: to exalt magistrates into kings, kings
into gods; to degrade subjects to the rank of slaves, and slaves to
the condition of brutes. The history of mankind is a romance, a
mask, a tragedy constructed upon the principles of _poetical
justice_; it is a noble or royal hunt, in which what is sport to the
few, is death to the many, and in which the spectators halloo and
encourage the strong to set upon the weak, and cry havoc in the
chase, though they do not share in the spoil. We may depend upon it,
that what men delight to read in books, they will put in practice in
reality.

Mr. Kemble in the part of Coriolanus was as great as ever. Miss
O’Neill as Volumnia was not so great as Mrs. Siddons. There is a
_fleshiness_, if we may so say, about her whole manner, voice, and
person, which does not suit the character of the Roman Matron. One
of the most amusing things in the representation of this play is the
contrast between Kemble and little Simmons. The former seems as if
he would gibbet the latter on his nose, he looks so lofty. The
fidgetting, uneasy, insignificant gestures of Simmons are perhaps a
little caricatured; and Kemble’s supercilious airs and _nonchalance_
remind one of the unaccountable abstracted air, the contracted
eyebrows and suspended chin of a man who is just going to sneeze.

THE MAN OF THE WORLD

_The Examiner._

(_Covent Garden_) _December 29, 1816._

Mr. Henry Johnston (from the Glasgow Theatre) who came out some time
ago in Sir Archy Mac Sarcasm, with much applause, appeared on
Friday, in Sir Pertinax Mac Sycophant. During the first acts, he
went through this highly, but finely coloured part, with great
spirit and force: but in the midst of his account to his son
Egerton, of the manner in which he rose in the world by _booing_,
and by marrying an old dowager, ‘like a surgeon’s skeleton in a
glass-case,’ a certain disapprobation, not of the actor, but of the
sentiments of the character, manifested itself through the house,
which at this season of the year is not of a very refined
composition; and some one cried out from the gallery for ‘another
play.’ So little do the vulgar know of courts and the great world,
that they are even shocked and disgusted at the satirical
representation of them on the stage. This unexpected interruption
given to the actor in the most prominent scene of the play, operated
to damp his spirits considerably, nor did he rally completely again
for the rest of the evening.

This is the second time that we have seen an actor fail in this
character, not by any fault in himself, but by the fault of the
Managers, in bringing them out in this part in the holiday season.
The other was Mr. Bibby last year, certainly not inferior to Mr.
Johnston in the conception or delineation of the sordid, gross, wily
Scotchman: but who was equally or more unsuccessful, from the
unintelligibility of the Scotch dialect and sentiments to the
untutored and ‘unclerkly’ Christmas visitants. Upon the entrance
indeed of Lord Castlereagh and some company of the higher classes,
into the Prince’s box, Mr. Johnston seemed to recover himself a
little, and to appeal with more confidence from the ignorance of the
rabble to these more judicious appreciators of the merits of his
delineation of Macklin’s idea of a modern statesman.

We wonder the Managers of either Theatre ever bring out a comedy
relating to the artificial manners of high life, on occasions like
the present. They ought either to have a tragedy and a pantomime, or
two pantomimes the same evening; or a melo-drama, a puppet-show, and
a pantomime. The common people like that which strikes their senses
or their imagination: they do not like Comedy, because, if it is
genteel, they do not understand the subject matter of which it
treats—and if it relates to low manners and incidents, it has no
novelty to recommend it. They like the dazzling and the wonderful.
One of the objections constantly made by some persons who sat near
us in the pit, to the play of the Man of the World, was, that the
same scene continued through the whole play. This was a great
disappointment to the pantomime appetite for rapid and wonderful
changes of scenery, with which our dramatic novices had come fully
prepared.

The pantomime, with Mr. Grimaldi, soon brought all to rights, and
the audience drank in oblivion of all their grievances with the
first tones of their old friend Joe’s voice, for which indeed he
might be supposed to have a patent. This great man (we really think
him the greatest man we saw at the theatre last night) will not ‘die
and leave the world no copy,’ as Shakespear has it, for his son is
as like him in person as two peas. The new pantomime itself, or the
‘Beggar of Bethnal-green,’ is not a very good one. It has a clever
dog and a rope-dancing monkey in it. The degeneracy of the modern
stage threatens to be shortly redeemed by accomplished recruits from
the four-footed creation. The monkey was hissed and encored, but
this is the fate of all upstart candidates for popular applause, and
we hope that _Monsieur_ will console himself for this partial
ill-will and prejudice manifested against him, by the reflection
that envy is the shadow of merit.—Miss F. Dennett was the Columbine,
and played very prettily as the daughter of the Blind Beggar. But
who shall describe the _pas de trois_ by the three Miss Dennetts,
‘ever charming, ever new,’ and yet just the same as when we saw them
before, and as we always wish to see them? If they were at all
different from what they are, or from one another, it would be for
the worse. The charm is in seeing the same grace, the same looks,
the same motions, in three persons. They are a lovely reflection of
one another. The colours in the rainbow are not more soft and
harmonious; the image of the halcyon reflected on the azure bosom of
the smiling ocean is not more soft and delightful.

JANE SHORE

_The Examiner._

(_Drury-Lane_) _January 5, 1817._

Miss Somerville, who gave so interesting a promise of a fine tragic
actress in the part of Imogine in Bertram, last year, appeared the
other evening in Alicia in Jane Shore. We do not think Rowe’s
heroine so well adapted to the display of her powers as that of the
modern poet. Miss Somerville is a very delightful sentimental
actress, but she makes an indifferent scold. Alicia should be a
shrew, and shrill-tongued: but Miss Somerville throws a pensive
repentant tone over her bitterest imprecations against her rival,
and her mode of recitation is one melancholy cadence of the whole
voice, silvered over with sweet gleams of sound, like the moonbeams
playing on the heaving ocean. When she should grow sharp and
virulent, she only becomes more amiable and romantic, and tries in
vain to be disagreeable. Though her voice is out of her controul,
she yet succeeds in putting on a peevish dissatisfied look, which
yet has too much of a mournful, sanctified cast. If Mr. Coleridge
could write a tragedy for her, we should then see the Muse of the
romantic drama exhibited in perfection. The fault of Miss
Somerville, in short, is, that her delivery is too mannered, and her
action without sufficient variety.

Mr. Bengough, as the Duke of Gloster, was in one or two scenes
impressive, in others ridiculous. He has a singular kind of awkward
energy and heavy animation about him. He works himself up
occasionally to considerable force and spirit; and then, as if
frightened at his own efforts, his purpose fails him, and he sinks
into an unaccountable vein of faltering insipidity. The great merit
of Mr. Kean is his thorough decision and self-possession: he always
knows what he means to do, and never flinches from doing it.

THE HUMOROUS LIEUTENANT

_The Examiner._

_January 26, 1817._

The Humorous Lieutenant, brought out on Saturday week at
Covent-Garden, is a bad alteration from one of the most indifferent
of Beaumont and Fletcher’s plays. It went off very ill, and was as
fairly damned as any thing at Covent-Garden could be. They have some
_jus theatricum_ here, which saves things and carries off
appearances. So the play has been brought forward again, and its
first failure attributed to the failure of the actress who played
the part of Celia. That was certainly a failure, and an unexpected
one; for the lady’s accomplishments and attractions had been much
spoken of, and perhaps justly. Of her talents for the stage, we
shall say nothing; for we cannot say a word or syllable in their
favour. Nor shall we say any thing against ‘The Humorous
Lieutenant:’ for it passes under the name of Beaumont and Fletcher,
‘whose utmost skirts of glory we behold gladly, and far off their
steps adore:’ and indeed it is at an immeasurable distance, and by a
prodigious stretch of faith, that we see them at all in the
Covent-Garden _refaccimento_. Mr. Liston plays the heroic Lieutenant
in it; but we shall live to see him in the _mock-heroic_ again!

TWO NEW BALLETS

_The Examiner._

_February 9, 1817._

There have been two new ballets this week, one at each Theatre. That
at Drury-Lane, Patrick’s Return, is one of the prettiest things we
have seen a long time. The dancing and pantomime are very
delightfully adapted to a number of old Irish melodies, which we are
never tired of hearing.—Zephyr and Flora, at Covent-Garden, is too
fine by half for our rude tastes. There are lusty lovers flying in
the air, nests of winged Cupids, that start out of bulrushes, trees
that lift up their branches like arms:—we suppose they will speak
next like Virgil’s wood. But in the midst of all these wonders, we
have a more amiable wonder, the three Miss Dennetts, as nymphs,

‘Whom lovely Venus at a birth
To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore.’

They might represent Love, Hope, and Joy. There is one part in which
they seem to dance on the strings of the harp which plays to them;
the liquid sounds and the motion are the same. These young ladies
put us in mind of Florizel’s praise of Perdita:—

‘When you do dance, I wish you a wave o’ th’ sea,
That you might ever do nothing but that;
Move still, still so, and own no other function.’

MR. BOOTH’S DUKE OF GLOSTER

_The Examiner._

(_Covent Garden_) _February 16, 1817._

A Gentleman of the name of Booth, who we understand has been acting
with considerable applause at Worthing and Brighton, came out in
Richard Duke of Gloster, at this Theatre, on Wednesday. We do not
know well what to think of his powers, till we see him in some part
in which he is more himself. His face is adapted to tragic
characters, and his voice wants neither strength nor musical
expression. But almost the whole of his performance was an exact
copy or parody of Mr. Kean’s manner of doing the same part. It was a
complete, but at the same time a successful piece of plagiarism. We
do not think this kind of second-hand reputation can last upon the
London boards for more than a character or two. In the country these
_doubles_ of the best London performers go down very well, for they
are the best they can get, and they have not the originals to make
invidious comparisons with. But it will hardly do to bring out the
same entertainment that we can have as it is first served up at
Drury-Lane, in a hashed state at Covent-Garden. We do not blame Mr.
Booth for borrowing Mr. Kean’s coat and feathers to appear in upon a
first and trying occasion, but if he wishes to gain a permanent
reputation, he must come forward in his own person. He must try to
be original, and not content himself with treading in another’s
steps. We say this the rather, because, as far as we could judge,
Mr. Booth, in point of execution did those passages the best, in
which he now and then took leave of Mr. Kean’s decided and extreme
manner, and became more mild and tractable. Such was his recitation
of the soliloquy on his own ambitious projects, and of that which
occurs the night before the battle. In these he seemed to yield to
the impulse of his own feelings, and to follow the natural tones and
cadence of his voice. They were the best parts of his performance.
The worst were those where he imitated, or rather caricatured Mr.
Kean’s hoarseness of delivery and violence of action, and affected
an energy without seeming to feel it. Such were his repulse of
Buckingham, his exclamation, ‘What does he in the north,’ &c. his
telling the attendants to set down the corse of King Henry, &c. The
scene with Lady Anne, on the contrary, which was of a softer and
more insinuating kind, he was more successful in, and though still a
palpable imitation of Mr. Kean, it had all the originality that
imitation could have, for he seemed to feel it. His manner of saying
‘good night,’ and of answering, when he received the anonymous
paper, ‘A weak invention of the enemy,’ we consider as mere tricks
in the art, which no one but a professed mimic has a right to play.
The dying scene was without effect.—The greatest drawback to Mr.
Booth’s acting is a perpetual strut, and unwieldy swagger in his
ordinary gait and manner, which, though it may pass at Brighton for
_grand, gracious, and magnificent_, even the lowest of the mob will
laugh at in London. This is the third imitation of Mr. Kean we have
seen attempted, and the only one that has not been a complete
failure. The imitation of original genius is the _forlorn hope_ of
the candidates for fame:—its faults are so easily overdone, its
graces are so hard to catch. A Kemble school we can understand: a
Kean school is, we suspect, a contradiction in terms. Art may be
taught, because it is learnt: Nature can neither be taught nor
learnt. The secrets of Art may be said to have a common or _pass_
key to unlock them; the secrets of Nature have but one
master-key—the heart.

_Drury-Lane._

The charming afterpiece of Figaro, or the Follies of a Day, has been
revived here, and revived with all its gloss and lustre. Miss Kelly,
Mrs. Alsop, and Mrs. Orger, were all very happy in it. This play was
written by a man who drank light French wines: in every line you see
the brisk champagne frothing through green glasses. The beads rise
sparkling to the surface and then evaporate. There is nothing in it
to remember, and absolutely nothing to criticise; but it is the
triumph of animal spirits: while you see it, you seem to drink
ether, or to inhale an atmosphere not bred of fogs or sea-coal
fires. This is the secret of the charm of Figaro. It promotes the
circulation of the blood, and assists digestion. We would by all
means advise our readers to go and try the experiment. The best
scene in it, is that in which the Page jumps from his concealment
behind the arm-chair into the arm-chair itself. The beauty of this
is in fact the perfect _heartfelt_ indifference to detection; and so
of the rest.—We never saw Mr. Rae play better.

MR. BOOTH’S IAGO

_The Examiner._

(_Drury-Lane_) _February 23, 1817._

The Managers of Covent-Garden Theatre, after having announced in the
bills, that Mr. Booth’s Richard the Third had met with a success
unprecedented in the annals of histrionic fame, (which, to do them
justice, was not the case), very disinterestedly declined engaging
him at more than two pounds a week, as report speaks. Now we think
they were wrong, either in puffing him so unmercifully, or in
haggling with him so pitifully. It was either trifling with the
public or with the actor. The consequence, as it has turned out, has
been, that Mr. Booth, who was to start as ‘the fell opposite’ of Mr.
Kean, has been taken by the hand by that gentleman, who was an old
fellow-comedian of his in the country, and engaged at Drury-Lane at
a salary of ten pounds per week. So we hear. And it was in evident
allusion to this circumstance, that when Mr. Booth, as Iago, said on
Thursday night, ‘I know my price no less’—John Bull, who has very
sympathetic pockets, gave a loud shout of triumph, which resounded
all along the benches of the pit. We must say that Mr. Booth pleased
us much more in Iago than in Richard. He was, it is true, well
supported by Mr. Kean in Othello, but he also supported him better
in that character than any one else we have seen play with him. The
two rival actors hunt very well in couple. One thing which we did
not expect, and which we think reconciled us to Mr. Booth’s
imitations, was, that they were here performed in the presence, and
as it were with the permission of Mr. Kean. There is no fear of
deception in the case. The original is there in person to answer for
his identity, and ‘give the world assurance of himself.’ The
original and the copy go together, like the substance and the
shadow. But then there neither is nor can be any idea of
competition, and so far we are satisfied. In fact, Mr. Booth’s Iago
was a very close and spirited repetition of Mr. Kean’s manner of
doing that part. It was indeed the most spirited copy we ever saw
upon the stage, considering at the same time the scrupulous
exactness with which he adhered to his model in the most trifling
_minutiæ_. We need only mention as instances of similarity in the
bye-play, Mr. Booth’s mode of delivering the lines, ‘My wit comes
from my brains like birdlime,’ or his significant, and we think
improper pointing to the dead bodies, as he goes out in the last
scene. The same remarks apply to his delivery, that we made last
week. He has two voices; one his own, and the other Mr. Kean’s. His
delineation of Iago is more bustling and animated; Mr. Kean’s is
more close and cool. We suspect that Mr. Booth is not only a
professed and deliberate imitator of Mr. Kean, but that he has in
general the chameleon quality (we do not mean that of living upon
air, as the Covent-Garden Managers supposed, but) of reflecting all
objects that come in contact with him. We occasionally caught the
mellow tones of Mr. Macready rising out of the thorough-bass of Mr.
Kean’s guttural emphasis, and the flaunting, _degagé_ robe of Mr.
Young’s oriental manner, flying off from the tight vest and tunic of
the little ‘bony prizer’ of the Drury-Lane Company.

Of Mr. Kean’s Othello we have not room to speak as it deserves, nor
have we the power if we had the room: it is beyond all praise. Any
one who has not seen him in the third act of Othello (and seen him
near) cannot have an idea of perfect tragic acting.

MR. BOOTH’S RICHARD

_The Examiner._

(_Covent Garden_) _March 2, 1817._

This Theatre was a scene of the greatest confusion and uproar we
ever witnessed (not having been present at the O. P. rows) on
Tuesday evening, in consequence of the re-appearance of Mr. Booth
here, after he had entered into an engagement and performed at
Drury-Lane. For our own parts, who are but simple diplomatists,
either in theatricals or politics, the resentment and disapprobation
of the audience appear to us to have been quite well-founded. The
only fault we find with the expression of the public indignation is,
that it was directed solely against Mr. Booth, whereas the Managers
of the Theatre were entitled to the first and fullest share. Mr.
Booth may have been only _their_ dupe: they have wilfully trifled
with the public, and tried to make a contemptible tool of a person
belonging to a profession by which they exist, and from which they
derive all their importance with the public. Their only excuse for
inveigling an actor whom they refused to engage, from another
Theatre where he had been engaged in consequence of such refusal,
is, that by the rules of theatrical proceeding, one theatre has no
right to engage an actor who has been in _treaty_ for an engagement
at the other, within a year after the breaking off of such treaty,
without leave of the Managers. First, it appears that no such
understanding exists, or is acted upon: that the pretext, as a mere
pretext, is not true: secondly, such a mutual understanding, if it
did exist, would be most unjust to the profession, and an insult to
the public. For at this rate, any Manager, by once entering into an
agreement with an actor, may keep him dangling on his good pleasure
for a year certain, may prevent his getting any other engagement, by
saying that they are still in a progress of arrangement, though all
arrangement is broken off, may deprive an ingenious and industrious
man of his bread, and the public of the advantage of his talents,
till the Managers, at the expiration of this probationary year of
non-performance, once more grant him his _Habeas Corpus_, and
release him from the restrictions and obligations of his
non-engagement. The obvious questions for the public to decide are
these: Why, having announced Mr. Booth as a prodigy of success after
his first appearance in Richard, the Managers declined to give Mr.
Booth any but a very paltry salary? In this they either deceived the
town, or acted with injustice to Mr. Booth, because they thought him
in their power. Why, the instant he was engaged at the other Theatre
at a handsome salary, and on his own terms, and had played there
with success, they wanted to have him back, employed threats as it
should seem to induce him to return, and gave him a larger salary
than he had even obtained at Drury-Lane? Whether, if he had not been
engaged at the other theatre, they would have engaged him at their
own upon the terms to which they have agreed to entice him back?
Whether, in short, in the whole proceeding, they have had any regard
either to professional merit, or to public gratification, or to any
thing but their own cunning and self-interest? The questions for Mr.
Booth to answer are, why, after his treatment by the Covent-Garden
Company, he applied to the Drury-Lane Company; and why, after their
liberal behaviour, he deserted back again, on the first overture, to
the company that had discarded him? Why he did not act on Saturday
night, if he was able: or at any rate, state, to prevent the charge
of duplicity, his new engagement with his old benefactors? Whether,
if Mr. Booth had not made this new arrangement, he would not have
acted in spite of indisposition or weak nerves? Lastly, whether the
real motive which led Mr. Booth to fall in so unadvisedly with the
renewed and barefaced proposals of the Covent-Garden Company, was
not the renewed hope dawning in his breast, of still signalising
himself, by dividing the town with Mr. Kean, instead of playing a
second part to him, which is all he could ever hope to do on the
same theatre? But enough of this disagreeable and disgraceful
affair. The only way to make it up with the public would be, as we
are convinced, not by attempts at vindication, but by an open
apology.

_Drury-Lane._

The new farce of Frightened to Death, is the most amusing and
original piece of invention that we have seen for a long time. The
execution might be better, but the idea is good, and as far as we
know, perfectly new. Harley, Jack Phantom, in a drunken bout, is
beaten by the watch, and brought senseless to the house of his
mistress, Mrs. Orger, who, in order to cure him of his frolics,
determines to dress him up in an old wrapping-gown like a shroud,
and persuade him that he is dead. When he awakes, he at first does
not recollect where he is: the first thing he sees is a letter from
his friend to his mistress, giving an account of his sad
catastrophe, and speaking of the manner in which order is to be
taken for his burial. Soon after, his mistress and her maid come in
in mourning, lament over his loss, and as has been agreed
beforehand, take no notice of Phantom, who in vain presents himself
before them, and thus is made to personate his own ghost. The
servant, Mumps (Mr. Knight), who is in the secret, also comes in,
and staggers Phantom’s belief in his own identity still more, by
neither seeing nor hearing him. The same machinery is played off
upon him in a different mood by Munden’s coming in, and taking him
for a ghost. A very laughable dialogue and duet here take place
between the Ghost and the Ghostseer, the latter inquiring of him
with great curiosity about his ancestors in the other world, and
being desirous to cultivate an acquaintance with the living
apparition, in the hope of obtaining some insight into the state of
that state ‘from which no traveller returns.’ There was a foolish
song about ‘Kisses’ at the beginning, which excited some little
displeasure, but the whole went off with great and deserved
applause.

DOUBLE GALLANT

_The Examiner._

(_Drury-Lane_) _April 13, 1817._

Cibber’s Comedy of the Double Gallant has been revived at this
Theatre with considerable success. Pope did Cibber a great piece of
injustice, when he appointed him to receive the crown of dullness.
It was mere spleen in Pope; and the provocation to it seems to have
been an excess of flippant vivacity in the constitution of Cibber.
That Cibber’s Birth-day Odes were dull, seems to have been the
common fault of the subject, rather than a particular objection to
the poet. In his Apology for his own Life, he is one of the most
amusing of coxcombs; happy in conscious vanity, teeming with animal
spirits, uniting the self-sufficiency of youth with the garrulity of
age; and in his plays he is not less entertaining and agreeably
familiar with the audience. His personal character predominates
indeed over the inventiveness of his muse; but so far from being
dull, he is every where light, fluttering, and airy. We could wish
we had a few more such dull fellows; they would contribute to make
the world pass away more pleasantly! Cibber, in short, though his
name has been handed down to us as a bye-word of impudent pretension
by the classical pen of his rival, who did not admit of any merit
beyond the narrow circle of wit and friendship in which he moved,
was a gentleman and a scholar of the old school; a man of wit and
pleasantry in conversation; an excellent actor; an admirable
dramatic critic; and one of the best comic writers of his age.
Instead of being a _caput mortuum_ of literature, (always excepting
what is always to be excepted, his Birth-day Odes), he had a vast
deal of its spirit, and too much of the froth. But the eye of
ill-nature or prejudice, which is attracted by the shining points of
character in others, generally transposes their good qualities, and
absurdly denies them the very excellences which excite its
chagrin.—Cibber’s Careless Husband is a master-piece of easy gaiety;
and his Double Gallant, though it cannot rank in the first, may take
its place in the second class of comedies. It is full of character,
bustle, and stage-effect. It belongs to the composite style, and
very happily mixes up the comedy of intrigue, such as we see it in
Mrs. Centlivre’s Spanish plots, with a tolerable share of the wit
and sentiment of Congreve and Vanburgh. As there is a good deal of
wit, there is a spice of wickedness in this play, which was the
privilege of the good old style of comedy, when vice, perhaps from
being less common, was less catching than it is at present. It was
formerly a thing more to be wondered at than imitated; and behind
the rigid barriers of religion and morality might be exposed freely,
without the danger of any serious practical consequences; but now
that the safeguards of wholesome prejudices are removed, we seem
afraid to trust our eyes or ears with a single situation or
expression of a loose tendency, as if the mere mention of
licentiousness implied a conscious approbation of it, and the
extreme delicacy of our moral sense would be debauched by the bare
suggestion of the possibility of vice. The luscious vein of the
dialogue in many of the scenes is stopped short in the revived play,
though not before we perceive its object—

——‘In hidden mazes running,
With wanton haste and giddy cunning!’

We noticed more than one of these _double meanings_, which however
passed off without any marks of reprobation, for unless they are
made pretty broad, the audience, from being accustomed to the
cautious purity of the modern drama, are not very expert in
decyphering the equivocal allusion.—All the characters in the Double
Gallant are very well kept up, and they were most of them well
supported in the representation. At-All and Lady Dainty are the two
most prominent characters in the original comedy, and those into
which Cibber has put most of his own nature and genius. They are the
essence of active impertinence and sickly affectation. At-All has
three intrigues upon his hands at once, and manages them all with
the dexterity with which an adept shuffles a pack of cards. His cool
impudence is equal to his wonderful vivacity. He jumps, by mere
volubility of tongue and limbs, under three several names into three
several assignations with three several _incognitas_, whom he meets
at the same house, as they happen to be mutual friends. He would
succeed with them all, but that he is detected by them all round,
and then he can hardly be said to fail, for he carries off the best
of them at last (Mrs. Mardyn), who not being able to seduce him from
her rivals by any other means, resorts to a disguise, and vanquishes
him in love by disarming him in a duel. The scene in which At-All,
who had made love to Clorinda as Colonel Standfast, is introduced to
her by her cousin (who is also in love with him) as Mr. Freeman, and
while he is disowning his personal identity, is surprised by the
arrival of Lady Sadlife, to whom he had been making the same
irresistible overtures, is one of the best _coup d’œils_ of the
theatre we have seen for a long time. Harley acts this character
laughably, but not very judiciously. He bustles through it with the
liveliness of a footman, not with the manners of a gentleman. He
never changes his character with his dress, but still he is a
pleasant fellow in himself, and is so happy in the applause he
receives, that we are sorry to find any fault with him. Mrs. Alsop’s
Lady Dainty was a much better, but a much less agreeable piece of
acting. The affected sensibility, the pretended disorders, the
ridiculous admiration of novelty, and the languid caprices of this
character, were given by the actress with an overpowering truth of
effect. The mixture of folly, affectation, pride, insensibility, and
spleen which constitute the character of the fine lady, as it
existed in the days of Cibber, and is delineated in this comedy, is
hardly to be tolerated in itself, with every advantage of grace,
youth, beauty, dress, and fashion. But Mrs. Alsop gave only the
inherent vice and ridiculous folly of the character, without any
external accomplishments to conceal or adorn it. She has always the
same painful ‘frontlet’ on: the same uneasy expression of face and
person. Her affected distortions seemed to arise from real pain; nor
was her delight in mischief and absurdity counteracted by any
palliating circumstances of elegance or beauty. A character of this
description ought _only_ to appeal to the understanding, and not to
offend the senses. We do not know how to soften this censure; but we
will add, that Mrs. Alsop, in all her characters, shews sense,
humour, and spirit.

Dowton and Miss Kelly, as Sir Solomon Sadlife and Wishwell, are two
for a pair. We do not wish to see a better actor or actress. The
effect which both these performers produce, is the best and
strongest that can be, because they never try to produce an effect.
Their style of acting is the reverse of grimace or caricature. They
never overcharge or force any thing, and their humour is so much the
more irresistible in its appeal, as it seems to come from them in
spite of themselves. Instead of wanting to shew their talents to the
audience, they seem hardly conscious of them themselves. All their
excellence is natural, unaffected, involuntary. When the sense of
absurdity is so strong that it cannot be contained any longer, it
bursts out; and the expression of their feelings commands our
sympathy, because they do not appear to court it. Their nature is
downright sturdy, sterling, good old English nature, that is, the
sort of nature that we like best. In the present play, it is hard to
determine which is the best—Miss Kelly’s sulky suppressed abigail
airs as Wishwell, her adroit irony and contemptuous expression of
pity for Sir Solomon’s credulity, or Dowton’s deliberate manner of
digesting his disgraces, chewing the cud of his misfortunes, and
pocketing up his branching horns, in the latter character.
Wishwell’s tingling fingers, uplifted eyes, pouting mouth, bridling
chin, and Sir Solomon’s bronzed face, curling lips, blank looks,
nods, winks, and shrugs, told their own story and kept their own
secret (to themselves), as well as heart could wish. We have a
stronger relish for this kind of dry pungent humour, than we have
for the taste of olives.

The Inn-keeper’s Daughter is a melo-drame founded on Mr. Southey’s
ballad of Mary the Maid of the Inn. The ballad is better than the
melo-drame. The interest of the story is less in the latter, and the
machinery is complicated, and moves slow.

Robinson Crusoe, the new melo-drame at Covent-Garden, is _not_ the
old favourite with the public. It has not the striking incident of
the notched post, nor of the print of a human footstep in the sand;
but there is a poodle dog in it, and innumerable savages, English
and Caribbee.

DON JUAN

_The Examiner._

(_King’s Theatre_) _April 20, 1817._

Mozart’s celebrated Opera of Don Juan has been brought forward at
this Theatre with every attraction, and with all the success which
could be anticipated. The house was crowded to excess on Saturday
week (the day of its being first brought out): on Tuesday it was but
thinly attended. Why was this? Was it because the first
representation did not answer the expectation of the public? No; but
because Saturday is the fashionable day for going to the Opera, and
Tuesday is not. On Saturday, therefore, the English are a musical
public; and on Tuesday they are not a musical public: on Saturday
they are all rapture and enthusiasm; and on Tuesday they are all
coldness and indifference,—impose a periodical penance on themselves
for the plenary indulgence of their last week’s ecstasies, and have
their ears hermetically sealed to the charms of modulated sounds.
Yet the writer of the preface to the translation of Don Juan assures
us, that ‘the people of this country who frequent the Opera, are
inferior to those of no other nation in their taste for fine music.’
That may be so. But still we doubt, if Don Juan, ‘the matchless work
of its immortalized author,’ had been presented to the English
public for the first time on Saturday week, without those wonderful
helps to public taste and discernment, the name and reputation of
the composer, whether it would have met with any better success than
it did in Prague in 1787, or at Paris some years after, and whether
we might not have had to observe of its representation at the King’s
Theatre, as Gerat, the singer, did of its representation at the
_Academie de Musique_; _Don Juan a paru incognito à l’Opera_! The
only convincing proof that the public, either in this country or on
the Continent, are become more alive to ‘the refined and
intellectual music’ of Don Giovanni than they were thirty years ago,
is—that the author is dead.

What inclines us the more to believe that the admiration of Mozart’s
music in this instance is more a thing of rote than the consequence
of any general feeling on the subject, is, that we hear of nothing
but the sublimity and Shakespearian character of Don Juan. Now we
confess that, with the single exception of the Ghost scene, we not
only do not feel any such general character of grand or
strongly-contrasted expression pervading the composition, but we do
not see any opportunity for it. Except the few words put into the
mouth of the great Commander (Don Pedro) either as the horseman
ghost, or the spectre-guest of Don Juan, which break upon the ear
with a sort of awful murmur, like the sound of the last trumpet
ringing in the hollow chambers of the dead, but which yet are so
managed, that ‘airs from heaven’ seem mingled with ‘blasts from
hell,’ the rest of the Opera is scarcely any thing but gaiety,
tenderness, and sweetness, from the first line to the last. To be
sure, the part of the great Commander is a striking and lofty
catastrophe to the piece; he does in some sort assume a voice of
stern authority, which puts an end to the mirth, the dancing, the
love and feasting, and drowns the sounds of the pipe, the lute, and
the guitar, in a burst of rattling thunder; but even this thunder
falls and is caught among its own echoes, that soften while they
redouble the sound, and by its distant and varied accompaniment,
soothes as much as it startles the ear. This short episode, which is
included in four or five sentences printed in capital letters, is
the only part of the opera which aims at the tragic: this part is
not of a pure or unmixed species, but is very properly harmonised
with the rest of the composition, by middle and reflected tones; and
all the other scenes are of one uniform, but exquisite character, a
profusion of delicate airs and graces. Except, then, where the
author reluctantly gives place to the Ghost-statue, or rather
compromises matters with him, this opera is Mozart all over; it is
no more like Shakespear, than Claude Lorraine is like Rubens or
Michael Angelo. It is idle to make the comparison. The personal
character of the composer’s mind, a light, airy, voluptuous spirit,
is infused into every line of it; the intoxication of pleasure, the
sunshine of hope, the dancing of the animal spirits, the bustle of
action, the sinkings of tenderness and pity, are there, but nothing
else. It is a kind of scented music; the ear imbibes an aromatic
flavour from the sounds. It is like the breath of flowers; the
sighing of balmy winds; or Zephyr with Flora playing; or the liquid
notes of the nightingale wafted to the bosom of the bending rose. To
show at once our taste or the want of it, the song of ‘La ci darem’
gives us, we confess, both in itself, and from the manner in which
it is sung by Madame Fodor, more pleasure than all the rest of the
opera put together. We could listen to this air for ever—with
certain intervals: the first notes give a throb of expectation to
the heart, the last linger on the sense. We _encore_ it greedily,
with a sort of childish impatience for new delight, and drink in the
ethereal sounds, like draughts of earthly nectar. The heart is
intoxicated through the ear; and feels in the tremulous accents of
Zerlina’s voice, all the varying emotions of tenderness, of doubt,
of regret, and giddy rapture, as she resigns herself to her new
lover. Madame Fodor’s execution of her part of this duet was
excellent. There is a clear, firm, silvery tone in her voice, like
the reverberation of a tight-strung instrument, which by its
contrast gives a peculiar effect to the more melting and subdued
expression of particular passages, and which accords admirably with
the idea of high health and spirits in the rustic character of
Zerlina. We are tempted to say of her in this character, what
Spenser says of Belphebe,

‘——And when she spake,
Sweet words like dropping honey she did shed,
And ’twixt the pearls and rubies softly brake
A silver sound, that heav’nly music seem’d to make.’

She was less successful in the execution of the song to Massetto
just after, ‘Batte, batte, Massetto:’ for she seemed to sing it as
if she had hardly learned it by heart. To this, however, she gave a
characteristic simplicity of expression; she appeared in the first
part as if she would willingly stand like a lamb, _come agnellina_,
to be beaten by her provoked lover, and afterwards, when she is
reconciled to him, as if she was glad she had escaped a beating. Her
song, _Vedrai carino_, promising him a remedy, when Massetto himself
gets beaten, by offering him her heart, was charming, both from the
execution of the air, and from the action with which she accompanied
it.

Of the other performers we cannot speak so favourably. Signor
Ambrogetti gave considerable life and spirit to the part of Don
Giovanni; but we neither saw the dignified manners of the Spanish
nobleman, nor the insinuating address of the voluptuary. He makes
too free and violent a use of his legs and arms. He sung the air,
_Finche dal vino_, in which he anticipates an addition to his list
of mistresses from the success of his entertainment, with a sort of
jovial turbulent vivacity, but without the least ‘sense of amorous
delight.’ His only object seemed to be, to sing the words as loud
and as fast as possible. Nor do we think he gave to Don Juan’s
serenade, _Deh vieni alla finestra_, any thing like the spirit of
fluttering apprehension and tenderness which characterises the
original music. Signor Ambrogetti’s manner of acting in this scene
was that of the successful and significant intriguer, but not of an
intriguer—in love. Sensibility should be the ground-work of the
expression: the cunning and address are only accessories.

Naldi’s Laporello was much admired, and it was not without its
merits, though we cannot say that it gave us much pleasure. His
humour is coarse and boisterous, and is more that of a buffoon than
a comic actor. He treats the audience with the same easy cavalier
airs that an impudent waiter at a French table-d’hôte does the
guests as they arrive. The gross familiarity of his behaviour to
Donna Elvira, in the song where he makes out the list of his
master’s mistresses, was certainly not in character; nor is there
any thing in the words or the music to justify it. The tone and air
which he should assume are those of pretended sympathy, mixed with
involuntary laughter, not of wanton undisguised insult.

Signor Crivelli and Madame Camporese did not add any particular
prominence to the serious parts of Don Octavio, and Donna Anna.
Signora Hughes’s Donna Elvira was successful beyond what we could
have supposed. This lady at the Italian Opera is respectable: on the
English stage she was formidable. Signor Angrisani _doubles_ the
part of Massetto and the Ghost. In the former, he displayed much
drollery and _naiveté_; and in the latter, he was as solemn,
terrific, and mysterious as a ghost should be. A new translation
accompanies the Opera House edition of Don Giovanni. It is very well
executed. But as it is not in verse, it might have been more
literal, without being less elegant.

THE CONQUEST OF TARANTO

_The Examiner._

(_Covent Garden_) _April 27, 1817._

The Conquest of Taranto continues to be acted here with a success
proportionate to its merits. It is from the pen of Mr. Dimond, whose
productions are well known to the public, and which have so strong a
family-likeness, that from having seen any one of them, we may form
a tolerably correct idea of the rest. _Ex uno omnes._ His pieces
have upon the whole been exceedingly popular, and we think
deservedly so; for they have all the merit that belongs to the style
of the drama to which he has devoted his talents,—a style which is a
great favourite with an immense majority of the play-going public.
This style may be called the _purely romantic_; there is little or
nothing classical in it. The author does not profess to provide a
public entertainment at his own entire expense, and from his own
proper funds, but contracts with the managers to get up a striking
and impressive exhibition in conjunction with the scene-painter, the
scene-shifter, the musical composer, the orchestra, the choruses on
the stage, and the _lungs_ of the actors! It is a kind of _pic-nic_
contribution, to which we sit down with a good appetite, and from
which we come away quite satisfied, though our attention is somewhat
distracted in the multitude of objects to which our gratitude is due
for the pleasure we have received. The art of the romantic dramatist
seems to be, to put ordinary characters in extraordinary situations,
and to blend commonplace sentiments with picturesque scenery. The
highest pathos is ushered in, and the mind prepared to indulge in
all the luxury of woe, by the chaunting of music behind the scenes,
as the blowing up of a mine of gunpowder gives the finishing stroke
to the progress of the passions. The approach of a hero is announced
by a blast of trumpets; the flute and flageolet breathe out the
whole soul of the lover. Mr. Dimond is by no means jealous of the
exclusive honours of the Tragic Muse; he is not at all disposed to
make a monopoly of wit, genius, or reputation: he minds little but
the conducting of his story to the end of the third act, and loses
no opportunity of playing the game into the hands of his theatrical
associates, so that they may supply his deficiencies, and all
together produce a perfect piece. In the Conquest of Taranto the
scene lies almost the whole time upon the beautiful sea-coast of
Spain, and we do not feel the lack of descriptive poetry, while the
eye is regaled with one continued panorama. In a word, the author
resembles those painters of history who pay more attention to their
back-ground than their figures, to costume and drapery than to the
expression of thought and sentiment.

The romantic drama, such as we have here described it, admits of
various gradations, from the point where it unites with the pure
tragic down to the melo-drame, and speaking pantomime, nor do we
think that as it descends lower in its pretensions, its interest
necessarily grows less. Where the regular drama studiously avails
itself of the assistance of other arts, as painting and music, where
the dialogue becomes the vehicle for connecting scenery, pantomime,
and song in one dazzling and overpowering appeal to all our
different faculties and senses, we are satisfied if the _tout
ensemble_ produces its effect, and do not enquire whether the work
of the author alone, in a literary point of view, is proof against
criticism. He is supposed to write for the stage ‘with all
appliances and means to boot,’ not for the loneliness of the closet,
and is little more than the ballet-master of the scene. He is not to
enter into a competition with his assistants in the several
departments of his art, but to avail himself of their resources. In
the division of labour it is ridiculous to expect the same person to
do the whole work. This would be double toil and trouble, and would,
besides, answer no end. An appeal to the understanding or the
imagination is superfluous, where the senses are assailed on all
sides. What is the use of painting a landscape twice—to the ear as
well as to the eye? What signify ‘the golden cadences of verse,’
when only employed to usher in a song? The gleams of wit or fancy
glimmer but feebly on a stage blazing with phosphorus; and surely
the Tragic Muse need not strain her voice so deep or high, while a
poodle dog is barking fit to break his heart, in the most affecting
part of the performance. We cannot attend to sounding epithets while
a castle is tumbling about our ears, and it is sufficiently alarming
to see an infant thrown from a precipice or hanging bridge into the
foaming waves—reflections apart. Commonplace poetry is good enough
as an accompaniment to all this; as very indifferent words are
equally well set to the finest tunes.—So far then from joining in
the common cry against Mr. Dimond’s poetry as not rising above
mediocrity, we should be sorry if he wrote better than he does. And
what confirms us in this sentiment is, that those who have tried to
do better have succeeded worse. The most ambitious writers of the
modern romantic drama are Mr. Coleridge and Mr. Maturin. But in the
Remorse of the one, all Mr. Coleridge’s metaphysics are lost in
moonshine; and in Bertram and Don Manuel, the genius of poetry
crowned with faded flowers, and seated on the top of some high
Gothic battlement, in vain breathes its votive accents amidst the
sighing of the forest gale and the vespers of midnight monks. But
enough of this.

There is considerable interest in the outline of the present play,
and the events are ingeniously and impressively connected together,
so as to excite and keep alive curiosity, and to produce striking
situations. But to this production of external effect, character and
probability are repeatedly sacrificed, and the actions which the
different persons are made to perform, like stage-puppets, have no
adequate motives. For instance, it is quite out of our common
calculation of human nature, that Valencia (Mr. Macready) should
betray his country to an enemy, because he is jealous of a rival in
love; nor is there any thing in the previous character of Valencia
to lead us to expect such an extreme violation of common sense and
decency. Again, Rinaldo is betrayed to his dishonour, by acting
contrary to orders and to his duty as a knight, at the first
insidious suggestion of Valencia. The entrance of the Moors through
the subterranean passage, and the blowing up of the palace while the
court are preparing to give a sort of _fête champêtre_ in the middle
of a siege, is not only surprising but ridiculous. Great praise is
due to Mr. Young as Aben Hamet, to Mr. Macready as Valencia, and to
Mr. Booth as Rinaldo, for the force of their action, and the
audibleness of their delivery:—perhaps for something more.—Miss
Stephens, as Oriana’s maid, sang several songs very prettily.

THE TOUCH-STONE

_The Examiner._

(_Drury-Lane_) _May 11, 1817._