path: root/77394-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77394 ***




Transcriber’s Note: Italic text is enclosed in
_underscores_. Small capital text has been changed to all
capital. Additional notes will be found near the end of this
eBook.




                             THE
                           DRURIAD:
                              OR
                          STRICTURES
                            ON THE
                     PRINCIPAL PERFORMERS
                              OF
                     Drury-Lane Theatre:
                     _A SATIRICAL POEM:_
             WITH NOTES CRITICAL AND EXPLANATORY.

                     ═══════════════════

 “_Cuncti adsint, meritæque expectent præmia palmæ:_

                       * * * * * * * *

 “_Tros Tyriusque mihi nullo discrimine habetur._”----VIRG.

                     ═══════════════════

  “My lord, I will use them according to their deserts.”--

  “Godsbodikins, man, better! Use every man after his
  desert, and who shall escape whipping?--Use them after
  your own honour and dignity: the less they deserve, the
  more merit is in your bounty.”----SHAKESPEAR.

                     ═══════════════════

                          _LONDON_:

     PRINTED FOR W. J. AND J. RICHARDSON, UNDER THE ROYAL
                          EXCHANGE.
                            ─────
                            1798.

  ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════




                        ADVERTISEMENT.

                         ────────────


I Cannot think the subject of the following Poem ill chosen,
whatever faults there may be in the manner of its execution.
As some kingdoms are found to be influenced by the good or
bad qualities of the sovereign, so the theatres of this
country may be considered as instruments by which virtue or
vice may be equally propagated: they are universally
frequented; for, who is so high as not to honour them with
an occasional visit, and who is so low as not to deem
himself an expert judge of theatrical merit? That this merit
is on the wane, I fear, cannot be denied; and I think one of
the causes may be traced to that laxity of morals which
pervades all ranks of people. The time was when a vicious or
foolish character, among his brethren behind the curtain,
would have been more dreaded, by an actor of genius, than
the hisses of the multitude before it. “Fuit ista quondam in
hac republica virtus, ut viri fortes acrioribus suppliciis
civem perniciosum quàm acerbessimum hostem coercerent.”
Cicero.

If it be allowed that an actor cannot do complete justice to
his part unless he feel all the energy which the character
is supposed to feel; or if, in other words, moral sensations
and the glow of conscious virtue enhance the player’s
powers; surely those powers must be impaired, if not totally
annihilated, by debauchery and habitual intoxication; an
observation not totally useless to those who, however they
may slight virtue for virtue’s sake, will yet adhere to her
when, like a modern heiress, she brings an ample fortune to
increase her attractions.

I have only to declare that I commit this Poem to the press
blinded by no partiality and influenced by no unworthy
motives; that my pages are stained with no private scandal,
and that, whatever may be the fate of the Poem, I shall
never blush at an undertaking which has for its object the
praise of the meritorious and the ridicule of the
undeserving.

  ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════




                             THE
                         DRURIAD, &c.

                         ────────────


                           AUTHOR.

  Let loftier poets tune their martial lays,
  And sing the patriot’s or the hero’s praise;
  For casual fare, like hackney-coachmen, ply,
  Blame where they can, and, where they cannot,--lie:
  Each Pasquin now may lash his empty brother,
  Or, like thin spiders, prey upon each other:
  Snug in my shell, I shun their watchful fury,
  Laugh at them all, and sing the praise of Drury;
  My careless Muse now hovers round her walls,
  And lifts her dome yet higher than St. Paul’s.

                           FRIEND.

  A wretched simile! of Eastern hue,
  ’Tis neither gaudy, elegant, or new;
  Would you be all that ere poor bard desir’d,
  Be read by parsons, by the fair admir’d,
  To love and Laura tune th’enervate lyre,
  Let hot-press’d paper[1] glow with am’rous fire;
  Ambrosial flow’rs[2] twine round your mood and tense,
  And labour’d nothings take the place of sense.

                           AUTHOR.

  I’m all alive! Muse, plume your tow’ring wings,
  Hush’d be the winds when charming Florio sings.

                           FRIEND.

  The fragrant morn--

                           AUTHOR.

                     Nay, now your pow’r I doubt,
  Each worthless sonnet--

                           FRIEND.

                         Prithee hear me out.
  The fragrant morn her rosy blushes spreads,
  And o’er the land a dewy influence sheds,
  Scarce has the sun emerg’d from ocean’s tide,
  His beams yet sleeping on yon mountain’s side,
  All nature wakes, life breathes in ev’ry gale,
  The insect-tribe spread forth the mimic sail,
  Aërial songsters chaunt the vocal lay,
  Sport on the wing, and hail returning day.

                           AUTHOR.

  Siste, viator! let me set you right,
  ’Tis not the day! I hail returning night:
  Through lamp and link-boys take my devious way,
  Streets, carts, and “Bill, your honour!” to the play.
  There point my quill, “shoot folly as it flies,
  And catch the living manners as they rise.”[3]
  Sooner shall Gallia cease her hostile fury,
  Sooner shall mighty George frequent old Drury,
  In modern bosoms virtuous ardour burn,
  Or loan-contractors zealous patriots turn,
  Than I forego the critic’s choicest food,
  To lash the worthless and to praise the good.

                           FRIEND.

  But who art thou who thus presum’st to wield
  The weighty arms of Churchill in the field?

                           AUTHOR.

  In life’s low vale, I mean not to aspire
  To Churchill’s honours and poetic fire,
  But merely to divert an idle hour,
  Of Drury’s host to ascertain the pow’r;
  And, with a candid, not ill-judging, spirit,
  Award their different degrees of merit.

                           FRIEND.

  But why alone on Drury “wag your tongue?”[4]
  Why Covent-Garden’s actors leave unsung?

                           AUTHOR.

  Know, with buffoons I cannot condescend
  My page to tarnish and my time to spend:
  Crawford, in age, though not in wisdom, grey,
  Attempts in vain th’allotted part to play;
  Though Abington spreads out her wrinkled arms,
  The Widow Belmour now has lost her charms.
  O tasteless age, in folly how mature,
  Such mad perversion tamely to endure;
  Haste, venerable pair, and leave the stage,
  For “beads and prayer-books are the toys of age.”

     A royal edict issues from the throne,
  O! say what brilliant spectacle is shewn?
  What constellation sheds its brilliant ray?
  Quick is the Georgium Sidus of the play!
  By Reynolds taught,[5] see Lewis frisk and climb,
  And Follett’s carrots[6] grace the pantomime.

                           FRIEND.

  If Covent-Garden’s virtues are unknown,
  Adopt the reigning mode, and praise your own;
  Warton, in Pope, presents us nothing new,
  Pert Boswell brings all Johnson to our view,
  In quarto see the man of star and ribbon
  Sedately usher in the works of Gibbon;
  Erskine, self-fancy’d scourger of the throne,
  Now pleads his client’s cause, and now his own.
  Holman plays Hotspur: Shakespear, with a groan,
  Sees Percy, and scarce knows him for his own!
  Think you for foreign benefit they strive?
  Shakespear is dead, but Holman is alive;[7]
  Self prompts the player, self fills the tedious page,
  Alike or in the closet or the stage.

                           AUTHOR.

  Enough of this! proceed we to our song,
  Attend my lays, and tell me where I’m wrong;
  Hither, my muse, thy wand’ring flight restrain,
  Perch on my quill, and sing of Drury-Lane.

     Siddons,[8] great mistress of each magic art,
  To raise contending passions in the heart,
  When wretched Shore, depress’d with grief and pain,
  Calls upon death, her last resource, in vain;
  Or when, unaw’d by conscience or by fear,
  Macbeth drives on her impious mad career,
  When horrid dreams at length her guilt reveal,
  And on her hand she shews the bloody seal;
  When poor Cordelia, after wars alarms,
  Expires with anguish in her father’s arms;
  In Beverley’s distress and piercing moans;
  In Isabella’s shrieks and dying groans;
  O Siddons! thou alone the soul can’st thrill,
  And melt us down, like Circe, to thy will.

     When Shakespear bids contending passions wage,
  Love, hatred, jealousy, remorse, and rage,
  Or paints the madness of the noble Dane;
  Or fell ambition of the Highland thane;
  Or Richard urges on his blood-stain’d course,
  And madly cries “My kingdom for a horse!”
  Kemble,[9] in scenes like these, can nobly soar,
  And make e’en Garrick’s loss be felt no more.

     Next Jordan[10] comes, Thalia’s fav’rite child,
  And charms with naïveté and humour wild;
  Miss Peggy, Prissy Tomboy, or Miss Prue,
  Oh! who can play so charmingly, so true?
  But, in the name of ev’ry thing that’s strange,
  Why suffer her in Farren’s walk to range?
  Why call her Lady Teazle, Lady Belle?
  Still it is Jordan finely dress’d--as Nell.
  Farren had reach’d the summit of renown,
  And who like her shall charm the partial town?
  Ah! who shall now portray the modish wife,
  When will another Farren spring to life!
  But Lady Teazle, Lady Townly too,
  Bisarre, and Estifania,--all adieu!

     Decamp[11] approaches! born to tread the stage,
  At once the pride and pleasure of the age;
  Whether in tragic stole or comic vest,
  In each her pow’rs superior are confess’d;
  And when she warbles Ariel’s plaintive airs,
  ’Tis like the music of the tuneful spheres;
  In ev’ry scene new beauties stand confess’d,
  And the last character is still the best.
  But, oh! what pen with equal skill can trace
  Th’expressive passions varying in her face?
  A face uniting elegance and ease,
  Prompt to delight, and emulous to please,
  Still changing as the vary’d passions move,
  And sure in all to fix esteem and love.
  Ye erring critics! will ye still deplore
  That wit is fled and genius is no more?
  That modern acting no more boasts the art
  “To raise the genius and to mend the heart?”
  Attend submissive to the voice of truth,
  For, see, array’d in all the pride of youth,
  Unconscious of her own pre-eminence,
  In graceful action, and in native sense,
  Decamp approaches! Envy hides her head,
  And foul Detraction sinks among the dead!
  Each charm’d spectator instant homage pays,
  And all is lost in universal praise.

     The tragic Muse, by various evils cross’d,
  Some future day, shall mourn her Siddons lost!
  Yet one remains, and critics must confess,
  Powell shall serve to make that loss the less;
  Expressive beauties mantle in her face;
  Yet is her gaudy action void of grace.
  But, when she paints Almeria’s tender woes,
  Each sympathetic heart with pity glows;
  Nay more, would she discard the tricks of art,
  The outspread arms, shrill voice, and measur’d start;
  Would she converse in nature’s artless strain,
  Nor deign to walk in imitation’s train;
  Her native pow’rs would fairest fame engage,
  And a new Siddons might adorn the stage.

     Old Churchill spoke in terms of warmest praise
  Of Pope, the lively, in her youthful days:
  Though sixty summers o’er her head have flown,
  Thalia claims this fav’rite for her own:
  In Alscrip, Malaprop, and Mistress Page,
  She stands without a rival on the stage;
  And of her lasting charms, so wide the scope,
  All the domestic virtues shine in Pope!

     Palmer’s rough tones no sympathy impart,
  Yet the man walks majestic through his part;
  His voice, his action, and his person, good,
  His author always clearly understood;
  Firm as the Trojan chief, of form divine,
  Whose mother-goddess made his temples shine;
  ’Twas his, (but not in our degen’rate days,)
  ’Twas his to mix the myrtle with the bays;
  Through five long acts alert and gay to dance,
  And realize the fictions of romance.
  But now, alas! those fairy scenes are fled,
  The myrtle, and the bays, both droop the head!
  In modern scenes solicitous to please,
  He acts the gentleman with studious ease;
  And in some parts I see both sense and spirit,
  In Stukely and Iago sterling merit,
  With genuine Nature strive:--one part remains
  To crown his merit and reward his pains.
  See Packer, whom his dress in vain disguises,
  Seems half-seas over ere the curtain rises;
  Tott’ring beneath the weight of plumes and age,
  He speaks _memento mori_ to the stage.[12]
  Haste, Palmer! haste! disrobe the royal knave,
  Assert your claims, and Drury’s credit save;
  Study the part, make Claudius all your own,
  And drive the driv’ller from the Danish throne.

     Old King,[13] with ev’ry requisite to please,
  Strong sense, dry humour, wit, and comic ease,
  Unrivall’d reigns, on Drury’s classic boards,
  In crusty crabbed sires and testy lords.

     See Charles,[14] a brother of the Kemble race,
  With youthful figure and expressive face,
  In ardent Malcolm admiration draws,
  And claims in luckless Barnwell loud applause;
  He, urging onward in the path of fame,
  The native honours of his house to claim,
  Shall gain the steep ascent, by Siddons led,
  While wreaths of living laurel grace his head.

     Wroughton’s[15] a useful player and a just,
  And faithful to his manageric trust,
  In some few characters, to give his due,
  He acts with feeling and with judgement too.
  What pity then to see the man presume
  To torture and burlesque poor Captain Plume!
  “And never was a story of more woe,”
  Than Wroughton croaking love-sick Romeo.

     With shaggy wig, stiff knees, and lengthen’d stride,
  Pedantic tone, and arms expanded wide,
  Unmeaning emphasis, theatric roar,
  ’Tis an automaton, or Barrymore![16]
  Dramatic Proteus! who, strange to tell!
  Plays ev’ry thing by turns, and nothing well!
  Long has he stood, nor chang’d his first degree,
  Fix’d at the freezing point of apathy;
  And much I fear, that time, which, join’d with sense,
  Exalts true genius into excellence,
  Will ne’er promote the man, whose sole renown
  Heads a banditti or assaults a town.

     Suett comes next:--alas! and “Woe is me!
  “T’have seen what I have seen, see what I see!”
  In some low scenes of Colman’s motley stuff,[17]
  Suett is sometimes laughable enough;
  But genuine humour, comic wit, and grace,
  Are chang’d by him to mum’ry and grimace.
  Poor Foresight, skill’d in astrologic lore,
  When Parsons died, you fell to rise no more!
  For ever clos’d, Burgoyne, is thy chaste page,
  And Gripe and Moneytrap must quit the stage.

     With figure neat, and pretty lifeless face,
  Goodall, alas! appears of stoic race!
  Nor joy, nor grief, affect her lifeless frame,
  Inanimate and gentle, mild and tame:
  Yet, would she call expression to her aid,
  Speak up, and cry, with Kecksey, “Who’s afraid?”[18]
  Her Rosalind would charm, and, in her cause,
  All Drury’s dome might ring with loud applause.

     When Bannister in Walter’s part appears,
  Who can deny the tributary tears?
  And, of his real merits, not to baulk ye,
  He’s excellent in Gubbins, Scrub, and Gawkey:
  But when, forgetting nature, form, and make,
  He tries t’assume the gentleman and rake;
  Or when in Tom with lively Lewis vies;
  Heav’ns! how disgusting to our ears and eyes!
  Yet few comedians, of the present age,
  Appear so well, acquainted with the stage;
  And, spite of ev’ry fault, the truth to own,
  He has the art of pleasing all the town.

     When Shakespear’s magic Tempest awes the soul,
  When light’nings dart, waves dash, and thunders roll;
  Let beauteous Miller, diffident and fair,
  Assume Miranda’s wild angelic air:
  Pale with affright, she bends beneath the storm,
  While the rude winds unveil her lovely form;
  “Poor souls! they perish!” cries the maid distress’d,
  “Poor souls! they perish!” echoes ev’ry breast.

     Dowton, in Cumberland’s romantic Jew,
  Portrays with feeling what the author drew;
  In Scrub, or grave-digger, might gain renown:
  Why are the corners of his mouth drawn down?
  When merit fails, and nature’s sober grace,
  Buffoonery but ill supplies their place.

     Packer aspires to Denmark’s regal chair,
  “O Hamlet! what a falling off was there!”
  Palmer’s the king for Gertrude’s bridal feast,
  And Packer,--he should play the churlish priest.

     When vulgar Heidelberg assumes her airs,
  Deaf to her brother’s threats, her niece’s tears,
  Wallcott comes forth, with squabby shape and mien,
  Equal to Mesdames Hopkins, Webb, and Green.

     O popular applause! how short thy date!
  Crouch sinks beneath the hand of time and fate!
  Hard is the task the slight remains to trace
  Of what was Phillips’ elegance and grace.

     Old Bannister, in tones of deepest bass,
  In Caliban displays his ugly face;
  And critics must allow, upon the whole,
  Some share of merit to his Mother Cole;
  Then let him pass, the social bowl allow,
  Applauded once, we well may suffer now.

     With lisping voice, and action full of bustle,
  In Fribble shines the Margate hero Russell;
  In Sparkish decent, and in Surface mean,[19]
  The worst Sir Lucius that the stage has seen!

     O mortals! vain and wayward, ever prone
  To vilify all merit but your own;
  Deaf to reproof, to public sarcasms blind,
  Ye quit the proper sphere by fate assign’d:
  Each stripling risks some daring enterprize,
  And, giant-like, would rush into the skies.

     The youth, whose pow’rs are neither good nor bad,
  In humble merit’s sober mantle clad;
  Whose mighty task extends to “Good, my liege!”
  Secure or in a chorus or a siege;
  Whose modest tongue, unknown to wisdom’s lore,
  Speaks what his author wrote, and speaks no more;
  Who marks the present hour, recalls the past,
  And makes each night a critic on the last;
  Him shall applauses greet where numbers pour,
  Wentworth or Davis, Webb or Phillimore.
  But, when I see some forward youngster stalk,
  Smit with the rage of tragedy and talk,
  O’erleap each fence of modesty and fear,
  And boldly mount to Shakespear’s radiant sphere,
  Indignant, then, I spurn compassion’s call;
  Contempt and laughter wait upon his fall:
  The hapless elf lies humbled in the dust,
  While scoffing crowds confess the sentence just.

     But, hark! a plaintive voice amid the gale,
  In numbers sweet, breathes out a tender tale;
  Sure ’tis some minstrel of the fairy band,
  ’Tis more than mortal!--No, ’tis little Bland.

     With voice mellifluous, though somewhat weak,
  And often husky, view the warbler Leak.
  On Margaretta’s simple artless lays
  She builds a monument of lasting praise;
  And, oh! ’twould melt the sternest heart to pity
  To hear her sing her “lowly plaintive ditty.”

     See Biggs, a candidate for London fame,
  In Drury’s annals now records her name:
  Dauntless she enters on the classic ground,
  With universal praise and plaudits crown’d.

     Aikin, with feeling and good sense endu’d,
  Can act the parent prudent, firm, and good;
  The British merchant, gen’rous, open, just;
  And the old steward, faithful to his trust.

     Patient and simple, Drury’s weakest tool,
  With too much folly e’en to play the fool;
  With awkward form, and vague quiescent face,
  Wretched buffoonery, and low grimace;
  Lo! Wathen tumbles in, by folly led,
  And quick compulsive gravity of head.
  Alas, alas! poor shifting weather-cock!
  Why didst thou change the halberd for the sock?
  Thy lagging purse and wit could ill afford
  The festive joys of Wargrave and her lord!
  Small bounds divide the idler and the player;
  The soldier turns an actor in despair.
  See lovely Rose, whom circling crowds adore,
  Ne’er felt for Bullock half the shame before.[20]
  Heav’ns, what a contrast! View the motley feast;
  ’Tis Pan and Venus, beauty and the beast.
  Not Farquhar’s wit could force thy friends to stay,
  Though Dibdin’s song ek’d out the murder’d play.
  While shows like these can Britain’s care engage,
  I spurn such folly, and renounce the stage;
  Calm and remote, neglect the passing scene,
  Nor quit my roof for Wathen and the spleen.

     Who has not oft beguil’d his ev’ning hours,
  Charm’d with the melody of Kelly’s pow’rs?
  Aided by him, still Arne enchants the town,
  And Kelly adds new gems to Handel’s crown.
  Oft have we heard, well pleas’d, yet mourn’d the while,
  His tones melodious, but his action vile:
  Our eyes must weep at what our ears rejoice;
  So spare the man, in pity to his voice!

     Bob Palmer can a drunken story tell,
  His Jeremy and Trip are passing well;
  But, for the airy fops of Farquhar’s age,
  When will another Dodd adorn the stage?

     For Hollingsworth we have not far to look,[21]
  What is the part he plays?--Oh! Jacob Cook!

     Badd’ley, thy loss must Drury still deplore,
  Thy Moses set the audience in a roar:
  Now Wewitzer the usurer assumes,
  And struts a magpie in the peacock’s plumes.

     In Mellon’s face what gay good humour lies,
  How archly roll her sparkling gipsy eyes!
  And when their fire she darts in Lydia Languish,
  O lovely nymph! I cry, assuage my anguish!

     Sedgwick, in Woodley, stands to public view,
  Or the brave captain of a smuggling crew:
  And Dignum’s voice harmonious, soft, and clear,
  Though far from pow’rful, charms the list’ning ear.

     For walking gentlemen, and trailing lords,
  Grac’d with becoming paucity of words;
  Or, for the bleeding captain in Macbeth,
  Who talks of honour, murder, scars, and death;
  Or of conspirators to make a cluster;
  Holland and Caulfield here may well pass muster.

     Maddocks and Phillimore, ye brilliant pair!
  Let Banquo’s bloody murder be your care:
  While Trueman cries, aghast, in fearful mood,
  “Methought, my lord, I saw a moving wood!”

     Let black-ey’d Heard, and Stuart tattling fast,
  Of vixen chambermaids divide the cast:
  And Tidswell tall, with Booth, the ancient crone,
  Lead in the queen, or stand behind the throne.

                           FRIEND.

     Enough! enough! now let the curtain fall,
  Here cease your song, and bid good night to all.

                           AUTHOR.

     The Muse now rests, her purpos’d labours o’er,
  Safe from her toil, and landed on the shore:
  Each actor view’d in Fancy’s magic glass,
  Walks o’er her page like royal Banquo’s race.
  Oh! would kind Fate, like his, her offspring bless,
  Exalt with favour, and with smiles caress,
  Her moral page should circling crowds delight,
  And added vigour aid her tow’ring flight.

     Genius of Shakespear, from thy heav’nly sphere,
  Look down with pity on thy vot’ries here:
  See pantomimic jargon, ev’ry season,
  Usurp the place of common sense and reason.
  Some rising poet, O great Bard! inspire,
  With one bright spark of thy immortal fire,
  Reclaim the taste of this degen’rate age,
  And reign once more triumphant o’er the stage.

    ──────────────────────────────────────────────────────

  [1] See this absurd and pernicious custom well ridiculed
  in “The Pursuits of Literature.” A work which strongly and
  properly reprobates the practice of those, whose learning,
  “like a rich armour worn in heat of day,” only serves to
  encumber the wearer. It is not our business to criticize
  the temper or motives of the author of that elaborate
  performance. He may possibly, to use the words of a modern
  poet, be “shrouded in a mist of moral spleen;” or he may
  be influenced by the purest intentions. The work is of
  extensive utility; and, as such, is entitled to our
  thanks.

  [2] Such is the _celestial_ phrase of Henry James Pye,
  Esq. “O’er June’s ambrosial flow’rs.”--This gentleman in
  his ardent devotion to the Muses seems totally to have
  forgotten the Graces; else, why the pompous repetition of
  the same turgid compound epithets that encumber without
  adorning his odes? We acknowledge that Poet Laureates are
  placed in a dangerous situation; like the pictures hung up
  in the Forum, they are exposed to the indiscriminate
  criticism of the multitude. Cibber, smarting under the
  lash of Pope, says “a lick at the Laureate” has ever been
  the fashion. I am sorry to observe, that the present bard
  cannot claim an exemption. I would recommend to his
  observation the following lines of Pope, speaking of
  Blackmore:

   What, like Sir Richard, rumbling rough and hoarse,
   With arms, and George, and Brunswick, crowd the verse;
   Burst, with tremendous din, your ears asunder,
   With gun, drum, trumpet, blunderbuss, and thunder.

  [3] Pope.

  [4] Hamlet.

  [5] By Reynolds taught.--The speaking pantomimes of this
  gentleman, called by courtesy comedies, are at present
  generally known; but, as in all probability they will be
  soon forgotten, it was thought necessary to mention them
  here.

  [6] As posterity may be puzzled to understand the meaning
  of these words, know, all men, by these presents, that the
  joke consists in Mr. Follett, the clown, coming forward
  and sitting down in the front of the stage, with a basket
  containing three or four immense carrots; which, assisted
  by some intro-susceptive power in the vegetable, he has
  the appearance of devouring whole, to the great delight of
  the British audience.

   Indocti stolidique et depugnare parati
   Si discordet eques, media inter carmina poscunt
   Aut _ursum_, aut _pugiles_; hic nam plebecula gaudet.
   Verum equitis quoque jam migravit ab _aure_ voluptas
   Omnis ad _incertos oculos_, et gaudia vana.

  [7] _Holman._--This is one of those actors who should
  receive a hint to pay more attention to their author and
  less to themselves. Cibber wrote as well as acted for the
  stage, and succeeded: Holman has written too; but, “haud
  passibus æquis!”

             Scribimus indocti doctique.--HOR.

  [8] The great and unrivalled talents of this lady in
  tragedy are such as would justly subject us to the
  imputation of vanity and folly, were we to attempt to
  enumerate them. With such a distinguished favourite of
  Melpomene before our eyes, it is painful to think that
  tragedy should be in this nation overlooked and neglected,
  as is evinced by the cold manner in which the productions
  of our best dramatic writers are received upon the stage,
  though aided by the magic powers of her, who carries us
  into whatever regions the fiction of the poet places in
  our view.

   Irritat, mulcet, falsis terroribus implet,
   Ut magus; et modo me Thebis modo ponit Athenis.--HOR.

  Let not poets any longer arrogate immortality to their
  works, when we see the productions of Dryden, Otway,
  Southern, and even Shakespear himself, placed upon the
  shelf: And for what? To please the taste of a public,
  vitiated by the unseemly trash, issuing from the pen of
  O’Keefe, Reynolds, Morton, &c. &c.

     Whose happy arts attention can command
     When fancy flags, and sense is at a stand.--POPE.

  [9] We think it sufficient to observe of this gentleman,
  (whose talents as an actor are too well known to require
  commendation here,) that his Coriolanus and Macbeth are
  noble instances of his powers, and that he has brought
  Hamlet to the achme of perfection.

  [10] Who, that has witnessed the admiral efforts of Mrs.
  Jordan in low comedy, does not regret to see her attempt
  such parts as Lady Teazle and Estifania? After these
  extraordinary undertakings, we shall soon expect to see
  Mr. Bannister, jun. in Richard III. and Mr. Suett in
  Beverley or Macbeth. As Mrs. Amlet says in the
  Confederacy, “We are all for appearing above what we are,
  and that is what ruins every body.”

  [11] The satirist, averse to exhibiting scenes of folly,
  fixes with delight on beauty and excellence: as the
  traveller, weary of the uniformity of a dusky heath,
  wanders with joy over fertile plains and enamelled
  meadows. Seldom have we received more various and rational
  pleasure than from the truly excellent performances of
  Miss Decamp. With a face well adapted to express the
  sentiments of the soul, an elegant and graceful person,
  appropriate action, and a knowledge of her author’s
  meaning, which good understanding alone can give, this
  young lady bids fair to obtain general and unrivalled
  approbation. But, as the human mind, however variously
  gifted by nature, has still some single object in which it
  is peculiarly fated to figure, some cast of character
  which is exclusively its province, we would strongly
  recommend it to this young lady to study Mrs. Jordan’s
  comic characters, without meaning to preclude her from
  those occasional variations, which no one can undergo with
  more justice and versatility than herself.

        “Reddere personæ scit convenientia cuique.”

  [12] It is surprising that the Manager should remain
  ignorant of the most important part of his office, namely,
  an appropriate distribution of parts. Packer, some thirty
  years ago, might have been a tolerable actor; but surely
  he has had time to “strut and fret his hour upon the
  stage,” and should now be “heard no more.” The character
  of the Danish usurper, in his hands, is deprived of all
  its interest, by losing that crafty, yet daring, villany
  which Shakespear intended to portray. The fine soliloquy,
  “O my offence is rank!” &c. is entirely omitted, in pity,
  we suppose, to this old man’s infirmities: but, it is time
  to inform Mr. Packer, that, when he attempts parts like
  these, “O my offence is rank!” would be no improper
  exclamation.

  [13] In the veteran King we see an actor of sterling
  excellence and merit. He possesses real humour
  unadulterated with buffoonery; a most rare quality in the
  present state of the stage! But “Vitæ summa brevis, spem
  nos vetat inchoare longam.” Mr. King’s infirmities are now
  growing fast upon him;

         --------------------“His way of life
         Is fallen into the sear, the yellow leaf!”

  And it is with infinite regret that we look forward to the
  time when he shall retire from that stage, of which he has
  so long been a distinguished ornament.

  [14] Mr. Charles Kemble’s powers are daily expanding into
  excellence; and we look forward with pleasure to the
  future eminence of this young actor.

       Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way,
       Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate.--GRAY.

  [15] The power of managers to obtrude themselves upon the
  public in what characters they please must often be
  abused, by laying them open to the attacks of vanity;
  while, from their high situation in the theatre, we
  presume the real truth is not likely to offend their ears.
  The humorous author of the Connoisseur hints at a reverend
  bishop, who kept his chaplains in a state of such extreme
  servility, that it was their custom to ask him at the
  conclusion of every deal at whist what his lordship would
  please to have for trumps? Mr. Wroughton may not perhaps
  be so highly pampered as the above-mentioned bishop, but
  it was thought necessary to enlarge upon the frequent
  absurdity of his conduct, that future managers may profit
  by his evil example.

 “Bonum est fugienda aspicere alieno in malo.”--PUBL. SYR.

  [16] Barrymore is one of those personages, to make use of
  Pope’s words, “Who never changed his principles or
  wig.”--As his action and voice are uniform, so is his wig;
  as his gigantic method of uttering trivial sentiments is
  uniform, so is his wig: pity the wig is not a better one!

  [17] The dramatic productions of Mr. Colman have a real
  claim to the title of motley. As a proof of this
  assertion, we beg leave to refer our readers to the
  Mountaineers and the Iron Chest, in both of which plays
  are lines not unworthy of a Congreve or a Rowe; but these
  are debased most miserably by others, which are beneath
  the notice of criticism. Upon the whole, it appears, that
  the genius of this gentleman is happily adapted to the
  size of his theatre:

       Humano capiti cervicem pictor equinam
       Jungere si velit, et varias inducere plumas
       Undique collatis membris; aut turpitur atrum
       Desinat in piscem mulier fermosa superne
       Spectatum admissi risum teneatis, amici?--HOR.

  It may be worth inquiry, why the public should permit the
  performance of the Iron Chest at the Haymarket, after the
  decided sentence pronounced upon it at Drury-Lane; as it
  must be obvious to the most ignorant spectator, that the
  play was cast with much greater force at the
  last-mentioned theatre; for, while we respect the talents
  of Mr. Elliston, we hold it something like blasphemy to
  place him in competition with Mr. Kemble, the first
  tragedian of the age; and how must the broad farcical
  humour of Fawcett suffer in comparison with the acting of
  the late excellent Dodd! Perhaps it may be urged, that
  Fawcett stood next to Dodd in the personification of such
  characters as Adam Winterton: if so, it must certainly be,
  as Virgil expresses it, “Proximus, sed longo intervallo.”

  [18] We wish that Mrs. Goodall would avail herself of our
  friendly hints; she might certainly become an actress of
  some merit: at present she gives us an idea of a
  well-constructed automaton.

  [19] Strange that so few actors can play the
  gentleman!--As to Mr. Russell,--but it would be a waste of
  time to expatiate on his demerits. All our astonishment is
  to think that he should _attempt_ such characters as
  Charles Surface; especially as the excellence of Smith is
  still fresh in the minds of the public.

       ----------Quid enim contendat hirundo
       Cycnis?                               LUCRET.

  [20] The part of Bullock was performed, by Mr. Wathen, not
  for the public benefit, but his own. The good nature of a
  British audience was never better exemplified than in the
  above instance.--Surely there never was such an age of
  toleration!--Dibdin’s song of the _Waggoner_ was also sung
  by our hero, to exhibit his talents in another point of
  view. To say the execution was intolerable is far from
  sufficient, and yet we have neither time nor patience to
  say more.--All was hushed! for, at least half the audience
  was asleep.

       Somno positi sub nocte silenti
       Lenibant curas et corda oblita laborum.--VIRG.

  [21] We are astonished to see this man figuring away in
  such characters as the Baron of Oakland, Mr. Hardy, and
  Sir Francis Wronghead.--When will managers learn their
  duty to the public? and when distinguish between
  unaffected humour and unnatural buffoonery?--To
  Hollingsworth we may apply the lines of Peter Pindar:

           “Of acting I have seen enough,
           “Most vile, most execrable, stuff;
         “But none so bad as thine, I vow to God!”


                           THE END.




                     Transcriber’s Notes


New original cover art included with this eBook is granted
to the public domain.

The original text used the long s. This has been changed
to the regular s.

The footnotes have been renumbered and moved to the end of
the book.

A few obvious typographical errors have been silently
corrected. Archaic and irregular spellings have been
retained.
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77394 ***