Title: The Mirror of Taste, and Dramatic Censor - Volume I, Number 1
Author: Carpenter, S. C. (Stephen Cullen), d. ca. 1820 [Editor]
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.


*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Mirror of Taste, and Dramatic Censor - Volume I, Number 1" ***


  [Transcriber's Note:

  Typographical errors are listed at the end of the text. No attempt
  was made to regularize the use of quotation marks.

  The printed book contained the six Numbers of Volume I with their
  appended plays. The Index originally appeared at the beginning of
  the volume; it has been relocated to the end of the journal text,
  before the play. Pages 1-108 refer to the present Number.]



THE MIRROR OF TASTE,

AND

DRAMATIC CENSOR.


  Neque mala vel bona quæ vulgus putet. --_Tacitus._



PROSPECTUS.


The advantages of a correct judgment and refined taste in all matters
connected with literature, are much greater than men in general imagine.
The hateful passions have no greater enemies than a delicate taste and a
discerning judgment, which give the possessor an interest in the virtues
and perfections of others, and prompt him to admire, to cherish, and
make them known to the world. Criticism, the parent of these qualities,
therefore, mends the heart, while it improves the understanding. The
influence of critical knowledge is felt in every department of social
life, as it supplies elegant subjects for conversation, and enlarges the
scope, and extends the duration of intellectual enjoyment. Without it,
the pleasures we derive from the fine arts would be transient and
imperfect; and poetry, painting, music, and that admirable epitome of
life, the stage, would afford nothing more than a fugitive, useless,
pastime, if not aided by the interposition of the judgment, and sent
home, by the delightful process of criticism, to the memory, there to
exercise the mind to the last of life, to be the amusement of our
declining years, and, when all the other faculties for receiving
pleasure are impaired by old age and infirmity, to cast the sunshine of
delight over the last moments of our existence.

In no age or country has the improvement of the intellectual powers of
man made a larger share of the business of life than in these in which
we live. In the promotion of this spirit the stage has been an
instrument of considerable efficacy, and, as such, lays claim to a full
share of critical examination; yet, owing to some cause, which it seems
impossible to discover, that very important subject has been little
attended to in this great commonwealth; and in Philadelphia, the
principal city of the union, has been almost totally neglected. No
apology, therefore, can be thought necessary for offering the present
work to the public.

The utility of miscellanies of this kind has been sometimes called in
question; nor are those wanting who condemn the whole tribe of light
periodical productions, as detrimental to the advancement of solid
science and erudition: yet, in the most learned and enlightened nations
of Europe, magazines and periodical compilations have, for more than a
century, been circulated with vast success, and, within the last twenty
years, increased in price as well as number, to an extent that shows how
essentially the public opinion, in that quarter of the world differs
from that of the persons who condemn them.

Taking that decision as a decree without appeal, in favour of such
works, the editors think themselves authorized in offering the present
without any formal apology. If the perusal of such productions had a
tendency to prevent the youth of the country from aspiring to deep and
solid erudition, or to divert men of talents from the prosecution of
more important studies, the editors would be among the last to make any
addition to the stock already in circulation; but, convinced that, on
the contrary, works of that kind promote the advancement of general
knowledge, they have no scruple whatever in offering this to the
American people; and so firm do they feel in the conviction of its
utility, that they let it go into the world, unaided by any of those
arts, or specious professions which are sometimes employed, in similar
cases, to excite the attention, enlist the partialities, and seduce the
judgment of the public.

Of those who possess at once the talents, the leisure, and the
inclination to hunt erudition into its deepest recesses, the number must
ever be inconsiderable; and of that number the portion must be small
indeed, who could be diverted from that pursuit by the casual perusal of
light fugitive pieces. On the other hand, the great majority of mankind
would be left without inducement to read, if they were not supplied, by
publications of the kind proposed, with matter adapted to their
circumstances, to their capacities, and their various turns of fancy;
matter accessible to them by its conciseness and perspicuity, attractive
by its variety and lightness, and useful by its easy adaptation to the
familiar intercourse of life, and its fitness to enter into the
conversation of rational society. Men whose time and labour are chiefly
engrossed by the common occupations of life, have little leisure to
read, none for what is called study. In books they do not search for
deep learning, but for amusement accompanied with information on general
topics, conveyed with brevity; happy if, in seeking relaxation from the
drudgery of business, they can pick up some new particles of knowledge.
For this most useful and numerous portion of society, some adequate
intellectual provision ought to be made. Nor should it be imagined that,
in supplying them, the general interests of literature are deserted. The
frequent perusal of well collated miscellanies imparts to youth an
appetite for diligent reading; by slow but certain gradation, stores the
young mind with valuable ideas; accumulates in it a large stock of
useful knowledge; and imperceptibly insinuates a correct and refined
taste. Nor is this all. It may serve, as it often has, to rouse the
indolent from the gratification of complexional sloth, and recall the
unthinking and irregular from the haunts of dissipation and vice to the
blessings of serious reflection.

Few things have more tended to inflame the general passion for
literature in Great Britain than the practice of uniting the plan of the
reviews with that of the magazines, and making them jointly vehicles of
dramatic criticism. Multitudes at this day know the character of books,
and form a general conception of their subjects, who, but for the light
periodical publications, would never have known that such books existed:
many who would not otherwise have extended their reading beyond the
columns of a newspaper, are led by the pleasures of a represented play,
to read the critic's strictures upon it, and thence, by a natural
transition, to peruse attentively the various other subjects which
surround those strictures in the magazines. This is the reason why
hundreds read the Monthly Mirror and similar productions of London, for
one who reads the Rambler.

For the passionate love of books, and the rapid advancement of
literature which distinguish her from all young countries, America is
greatly indebted to her periodical publications. Those, though small in
number, and, unfortunately, too often shortlived, have been read in
their respective times and circles with great avidity, and produced a
correspondent effect. THE PORT FOLIO alone raised, long ago, a spirit in
the country which malicious Dulness itself will never be able to lay.
Yet the disproportion in number of those miscellanies which have
succeeded in America, to those which enrich the republic of letters in
England, is astonishing, considering the comparative population of the
two countries. London boasts of several periodical publications founded
on the DRAMA alone; and though the other magazines occasionally contain
short strictures on that subject, those have the greatest circulation
which are most exclusively devoted to the stage.

IN AMERICA THERE HAS NOT YET BEEN ONE OF THAT DESCRIPTION.

To supply this defect, and raise the United States one step higher in
laudable emulation with Great Britain, the editors have planned the
present work, of which, (though not to the total exclusion of other
matter) the basis will be

THE DRAMA.


The first and by far the larger share will be allotted to the stage, and
dramatic productions. The residue to miscellaneous articles, most of
them connected with the fashionable amusements, and designed to correct
the abuses, which intemperate ignorance, and Licentiousness, running
riot for want of critical control, have introduced into the public
diversions of this opulent and luxurious city.

In the composition of the several parts of this work, care will be taken
to furnish the public with new and interesting matter, and to select
from the current productions of the British metropolis such topics as
will best tend to promote the cultivation of an elegant taste for
knowledge and letters, and, at the same time, repay the reader for the
trouble of perusal, with amusement and delight. Abstracts from the most
popular publications will be given, accompanied with short critical
remarks upon them, and, whatever appears most interesting in the
periodical productions of Great Britain will be transferred into this;
pruned if they be prolix, and illustrated by explanatory notes, whenever
they may be found obscured by local or personal allusion.

As the leading object of the work is, not to infuse a passion, but to
inculcate a just and sober taste for dramatic poetry and acting, the
editors propose to give, _seriatim_, a history of the drama from its
origin, with strictures on dramatic poesy, and portraits of the best
dramatic poets of antiquity. To this will succeed the history of the
British stage, with portraits of the most celebrated poets, authors, and
actors who have flourished on it, and strictures on the professional
talents of the latter, illustrated by parallels and comparisons with
those who have been most noted for excellence on the American boards.

From that history the reader will be able to deduce a proper conviction
of the advantages of the stage, and the importance, if not the
necessity, of putting the actors and the audience on a more proper
footing with each other than that in which they now stand. Actors must
lay their account with being told their faults. They owe their whole
industry and attention to those who attend their performance; but the
editors hold that critic to have forfeited his right to correct the
stage, and to be much more deserving of reprehension than those he
censures, who, in the discharge of his duty, forgets that the actor has
his rights and privileges also; that he has the same rights which every
other gentleman possesses, and of which his profession has not even the
remotest tendency to deprive him, to be treated with politeness and
respect; that he has the same right as every other man in society, as
the merchant, the mechanic, or the farmer, to prosecute his business
unmolested; shielded by the same laws which protect them from the
attacks of malicious libellers out of the theatre, and the insults of
capricious Ignorance or stupid Malevolence within. "Reproof," says Dr.
Johnson, "should not exhaust its power upon petty failings;" and "the
care of the critic should be to distinguish error from inability, faults
of inexperience from defects of nature. On this principle the editors
will unalterably act. And, since they have cited the great moralist's
maxim as a direction for critics, they, even in this their first step
into public view, beg leave to offer a few sentiments from the same high
source, for the guidance of AUDITORS. "HE THAT APPLAUDS HIM WHO DOES NOT
DESERVE PRAISE IS ENDEAVOURING TO DECEIVE THE PUBLIC; HE THAT HISSES IN
MALICE OR IN SPORT IS AN OPPRESSOR AND A ROBBER.[1]"

  [Footnote 1: Johnson's Idler, No. 25.]

This work, therefore, will contain a regular journal of all, worthy of
notice, that passes in the theatre of Philadelphia, and an account of
each night's performances, accompanied with a critical analysis of the
play and after-piece, and remarks upon the merits of the actors. Nor
shall the management of the stage, in any particular, escape
observation. Thus the public will know what they owe to the manager and
to the leader of each department, and those again what they owe to the
public. To make THE MIRROR OF TASTE AND DRAMATIC CENSOR, as far as
possible a general national work, measures have been taken to obtain
from the capital cities, of the other states, a regular account of their
theatrical transactions. To this will be added a register of the other
public exhibitions, and, in general, of all the fashionable amusements
of this city, and, from time to time, the sporting intelligence of the
new and old country.

To the first part, which will be entitled "The Domestic Dramatic
Censor," will succeed the "Foreign Dramatic Censor." This will contain a
general account of all that passes in the theatres of Great Britain,
likely to interest the fashionable world and _amateurs_ of America, viz.
the new pieces, whether play, farce, or interlude, with their prologues
and epilogues, together with their character and reception there, and
critiques on the acting, collected from the various opinions of the best
critics, together with the amusing occurrences, anecdotes, bon-mots, and
greenroom chitchat, scattered through the various periodical
publications of England, Ireland, and Scotland.

The next head will be Stage Biography, under which the reader will find
the lives and characters of the leading actors of both countries.

These will be followed by a miscellany collated from the foreign
productions, catalogues of the best books and best compositions in
music, published or preparing for publication in Europe or America, with
concise reviews of such as have already appeared.

Poetry, of course, will be introduced; not, as usual, under one head,
but scattered in detached pieces through the whole.



TERMS.


_The price of the Mirror will be eight dollars per annum, payable on the
delivery of the sixth number._

_A number will be issued every month, forming two volumes in the year._

_To each number will be added, by way of appendix, an entire play or
after-piece, printed in a small elegant type, and paged so as to be
collected, at the end of each year, into a separate volume._

_The work will be embellished with elegant engravings by the first
artists._



THE MIRROR OF TASTE,

AND

DRAMATIC CENSOR.


Vol. I.  JANUARY 1810.  No. 1.



HISTORY OF THE STAGE.


  Segnius irritant animos demissa per aurem
  Quam quæ sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus, et quæ
  Ipse sibi tradit spectator.[2]  _Hor. de Arte Poetica._

  [Footnote 2:
                         What we _hear_
    With weaker passion will affect the heart
    Than when the faithful eye beholds the part. --_Francis._ ]



CHAPTER I.

OBJECTIONS TO THE STAGE CONSIDERED AND REFUTED.


That amusement is necessary to man, the most superficial observation of
his conduct and pursuits may convince us. The Creator never implanted in
the hearts of all his intelligent creatures one common universal
appetite without some corresponding necessity; and that he has given
them an instinctive appetite for amusements as strong as any other which
we labour to gratify, may be clearly perceived in the efforts of
infancy, in the exertions of youth, in the pursuits of manhood, in the
feeble endeavours of old age, and in the pastimes which human creatures,
even the uninstructed savage nations themselves, have invented for their
relaxation and delight. This appetite evinces a necessity for its
gratification as much as hunger, thirst, and weariness, intimate the
necessity of bodily refection by eating, drinking, and sleeping; and not
to yield obedience to that necessity, would be to counteract the
intentions of Providence, who would not have furnished us so bountifully
as he has with faculties for the perception of pleasure, if he had not
intended us to enjoy it. Had the Creator so willed it, the process
necessary to the support of existence here below might have been carried
on without the least enjoyment on our part: the daily waste of the body
might be repaired without the sweet sensations which attend eating and
drinking; we might have had the sense of hearing without the delight we
derive from sweet sounds; and that of smelling without the capability of
enjoying the fragrance of the rose: but He whose wisdom and beneficence
are above all comprehension, has ordained in another and a better
manner, and annexed the most lively sensations of pleasure to every
operation he has made necessary to our support, thereby making the
enjoyment of pleasure one of the conditions of our existence. This is an
unanswerable refutation of one of the most abominable doctrines of the
atheists--the overbalance of evil; and as such, that wise and amiable
divine, doctor Paley, has made use of it in his Natural Theology. It is
true, that yielding to the tendency of our frail, overweening nature to
push enjoyment of every kind to its utmost verge, men too often
overshoot the mark, and frustrate the object they have most at heart, by
eagerness to accomplish it. For though to a reasonable extent and in
certain circumstances, all enjoyments are harmless, they degenerate into
crimes, when excessively indulged, and particularly when the imagination
is overstrained to improve their zest, or to refine or exalt them beyond
the limits which Nature and sobriety prescribe. But this can no more be
alledged as a reason for renouncing the moderate use of the enjoyment,
than the excesses of the drunkard or glutton for the rejection of food
and drink.

That man must have amusement of some kind, "Nature speaks aloud." He,
therefore, who supplies society with entertainment unadulterated by
vice, who contributes to the pleasure without impairing the innocence of
his fellow-beings, and above all, who instructs while he delights, may
justly be ranked among the benefactors of mankind, and lays claim to the
gratitude and respect of the society he serves. To that gratitude and
respect the dramatic poet, and those who contribute to give effect to
his works, are richly entitled. Accordingly history informs us that in
all recorded ages theatrical exhibitions have been not only held in high
estimation by the most wise, learned, and virtuous men, but sedulously
cultivated and encouraged by legislators as matters of high public
importance, particularly in those nations that have been most renowned
for freedom and science.

In the multitude and diversity of conflicting opinions which divide
mankind upon all, even the most manifest truths, we find some upon this
subject. Many well-meaning, sincere christians have waged war against
the enjoyment of pleasure, as if it were the will of God that we should
go weeping and sorrowing through life. The learned bishop of Rochester,
speaking of a religious sect which carries this principle as far as it
will go, says: "their error is not heterodoxy, but excessive, overheated
zeal." Thus we find that the stage has ever been with many well-meaning
though mistaken men, a constant object of censure. Of those, a vast
number express themselves with the sober, calm tenderness which comports
with the character of christians, while others again have so far lost
their temper as to discard in a great measure from their hearts the
first of all christian attributes--charity. We hope, for the honour of
christianity, that there are but few of the latter description. There
are men however of a very different mould--men respectable for piety and
for learning, who have suffered themselves to be betrayed into opinions
hostile to the drama upon other grounds: these will even read plays, and
profess to admire the poetry, the language, and the genius of the
dramatic poet; but still make war upon scenic representations,
considering them as stimulants to vice--as a kind of moral cantharides
which serves to inflame the passions and break down the ramparts behind
which religion and prudence entrench the human heart. Some there are
again, who entertain scruples of a different kind, and turn from a play
because it is a fiction; while there are others, and they are most
worthy of argument, who think that theatres add more than their share to
the aggregate mass of luxury, voluptuousness, and dissipation, which
brings nations to vitious refinement, enervation and decay.

In all reasoning of this kind, authority goes a great way, and therefore
before we proceed any further, we will enrol under the banners of our
argument a few high personages, whose names on such an occasion are of
weight to stand against the world, and enumerate some great nations who
reverenced and systematically encouraged the drama. If it can be shown
that some of the most exalted men that ever lived--men eminent for
virtue, high in power and distinction, and illustrious for talents, in
different countries and at different times, have countenanced the stage
and even written for it; nay, that some of that description have
themselves been actors, further argument may well be thought
superfluous: yet we will not rest the matter there, but taking those
along with us as authorities, go on and probe the error to which we
allude, even to the very bone.

It might not be difficult to prove by inference from a multitude of
facts scattered through the history of the world, that a passion for the
dramatic art is inherent in the nature of man. How else should it happen
that in every age and nation of the world, vestiges remain of something
resembling theatrical amusements. It is asserted that the people of
China full three thousand years ago had something of the kind and
presented on a public stage, in spectacle, dialogue and action, living
pictures of men and manners, for the suppression of vice, and the
circulation of virtue and morality. Even the Gymnosophists, severe as
they were, encouraged dramatic representation. The Bramins, whose
austerity in religious and moral concerns almost surpasses belief, were
in the constant habit of enforcing religious truths by dramatic fictions
represented in public. The great and good PILPAY the fabulist, is said
to have used that kind of exhibition as a medium for conveying political
instruction to a despotic prince, his master, to whom he dared not to
utter the dictates of truth, in any other garb. In the obscurity of
those remote ages, the evidences of particular facts are too faintly
discernible to be relied upon: All that can be assumed as certain,
therefore, is that the elementary parts of the dramatic art had then
been conceived and rudely practised. But the first _regular_ play was
produced in Greece, where the great Eschylus, whose works are handed
down to us, flourished not only as a dramatist, but as an illustrious
statesman and warrior.

Without dwelling on the many other examples afforded by Greece, we
proceed to as high authority as can be found among men: we mean Roscius
the Roman actor. That extraordinary man's name is immortalized by
Cicero, who has in various parts of his works panegyrized him no less
for his virtues than for his talents. Of him, that great orator,
philosopher and moralist has recorded, that he was a being so perfect
that any person who excelled in any art was usually called A
ROSCIUS--that he knew better than any other man how to inculcate virtue,
and that he was more pure in his private life than any man in Rome.

In the Roman catholic countries the priesthood shut out as far as they
could from the people the instruction of the stage. For ages the fire of
the HOLY inquisition kept works of genius of every kind in suppression
all over the south of Europe. In France the monarch supported the stage
against its enemies; but though he was able to support the actors in
life, he had not power or influence sufficient to obtain for them
consolation in death; the rights of the church and christian burial
being refused to them by the clergy.

In England, where the clouds of religious intolerance were first broken
and dispersed by the reformation, the stage has flourished, and
exhibited a mass of excellence and a constellation of genius
unparalleled in the annals of the world. There it has been encouraged
and admired by men whose authority, as persons deeply versed in
christian theology and learned as it is given to human creatures to be,
we do not scruple to prefer to that of the persons who raise their
voices against the stage. Milton, Pope, Addison, Johnson, Warburton,
bishop of Gloucester, and many others have given their labours to the
stage. In many of his elegant periodical papers Mr. ADDISON has left
testimonies of his veneration for it, and of his personal respect for
players; nay, he wrote several pieces for the stage, in comedy as well
as tragedy; yet we believe it will not be doubted that he was an
orthodox christian. The illustrious POPE, in a prologue which he wrote
for one of Mr. Addison's plays--the tragedy of Cato--speaks his opinion
of the stage in the following lines:

  To wake the soul by tender strokes of art,
  To raise the genius, and to mend the heart,
  To make mankind in conscious virtue bold,
  Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold:
  For this the tragic Muse first trod the stage,
  Commanding tears to stream through every age.
  Tyrants no more their savage nature kept,
  And foes to virtue wondered how they wept.

Warburton, the friend of Pope, a divine of the highest rank, wrote notes
to Shakspeare. And an infinite number of the christian clergy of as
orthodox piety as any that ever lived, have admired and loved plays and
players. If in religion doctor Johnson had a fault, it certainly was
excessive zeal--and assuredly his morality cannot be called in question.
What his idea of the stage was, may be inferred from his labours, and
from his private friendships. His preface to Shakspeare--his
illustrations and characters of the bard's plays--his tragedy of
Irene, of which he diligently superintended the rehearsal and
representation--his friendship for Garrick and for Murphy--his letters
in the Idler and Rambler, from one of which we have taken our motto for
the Dramatic Censor, and his constant attendance on the theatre, loudly
proclaim his opinion of the stage. To him who would persist to think
sinful that which the scrupulous Johnson constantly did, we can only say
in the words of one of Shakspeare's clowns--"God comfort thy capacity."

One example more. Whatever his political errors may have been, the
present old king of England can never be suspected of coldness in
matters of divinity, or of heterodoxy in religion. His fault in that way
leans to the other side--for it is doubted by the most intelligent men
in England whether his zeal does not border on excess. He has all his
life too taken counsel from those he thought the best divines; yet he
has done much to encourage the stage, and greatly delighted in scenic
representations--particularly in comedy. But as a much stronger proof of
his esteem for the drama, we will barely mention one fact: When his
majesty first read Arthur Murphy's tragedy of the Orphan of China, he
sent the poet a present of a thousand guineas.

The notion that the theatre should be avoided as a stimulant to the
passions deserves some respect on account of its antiquity; for it is as
old as the great grand-mother of the oldest man living. In good times of
yore, when ladies were not so squeamish as they are now about words,
because they did not know their meaning, but were more cautious of
facts, because the meaning of facts cannot be misunderstood, young men
had a refuge from the temptations of the stage in the reserved
deportment and full clothing of domestic society, we cannot wonder that
the good old ladies who abhorred the slightest immodesty in dress
little, if at all less than they abhorred actual vice, should urge to
their sons the necessity of keeping aloof from the allurements of the
theatre. If at that time the costume of the stage differed essentially
from that of private life, and was the reverse of modest, or if the
actresses indulged in meretricious airs which dared not be shown in
domestic society, there was a very just pretence, or rather indeed there
was the most cogent reason for preaching against the theatre. But at
this day, no hypothesis of the kind can be allowed. That beautiful young
women ornamented with every decoration which art can lend to enhance
their charms will perhaps excite admiration and licentious desires, is
true; but that those arts are more generally practised, or those
incitements more strongly or frequently played off on the boards of the
theatre than in respectable private life, our eyes forbid us to believe.
He who looks from the ladies on the stage to those seated on the
benches, and compares their dress and artificial allurements must have
either very strong nerves or very bad sight, if he persist in saying
that there is more danger to be apprehended from the former than the
latter. He knows very little of modern manners and must be a very
suckling in the ways of the world who imagines that a young man has any
thing to fear from the actresses on the stage, who has gone through the
ordeal of a common ball-room, or even walked of a fine day through our
streets. The ladies of London, Dublin, New-York, Philadelphia and
Baltimore, have thrown those of the stage quite into the back ground in
the arts of the toilet. Nor is this qualification confined to those of
the _haut-ton_, but has descended to tradesmen's wives and daughters; to
chambermaids, laundresses, and wenches of the kitchen white, yellow, and
black, coloured and uncoloured.

Familiarity with impressive objects soon robs them of their influence;
and if our natural disgust and anger at the shameful innovations in the
female costume for which Great Britain and America stand indebted to the
_virtues_ of France, be blunted by the constant obtrusion of them on our
sight, it is to be hoped that the pernicious influence of them upon
public morals will be diminished also. In those regions where a tropical
sun renders clothing cumbersome, and the costume of the ladies of
necessity exceeds a little that of ears in transparency and scantiness,
familiarity renders it harmless; little or nothing is left for the
imagination to feed upon; cheapened by their obviousness, the female
charms are rejected by the fancy which loves to dwell on what it only
guesses at, or has but rarely seen, and the youthful heart finds its
ultimate safety in the apparent excess of its danger. Thus the stage, if
it ever possessed, has lost its vitious allurements, as a bucket of
water is lost in the ocean. To test this reasoning by matter of fact we
appeal to the general feeling, and have no fear of being contradicted
when we assert that, with reference to their comparative numbers, more
mischievous throbs have been excited in every theatre in London,
New-York, and Philadelphia for some years past before, than behind the
curtain.

We are aware that there are some who will object, as a thing taken for
granted, the greater licentiousness of a player's life; but this, before
it can be admitted in argument, must be proved, and the proof of it
would be very difficult indeed. From a long and attentive consideration
of the subject, founded upon a perfect knowledge of the private
characters of the stage, and the general complexion of society off of
it, we are persuaded that in point of intrinsic virtue the players stand
exactly on a par with the general mass of society. That there are
offenders against the laws of morality and religion among them is
certain; but it must be remembered that they labour in this respect
under great disadvantages, from the publicity of their situation. There,
they stand exhibited to public view, every turn of their conduct,
private and public, becomes a subject of general scrutiny. Ten thousand
eyes are rivetted upon them, for one that is fixed upon individuals in
private life. And though it often happens that some of them are
suspected whose lives are perfectly pure, none who have deviated from
the paths of virtue can long keep their fall concealed. Can the same be
said of the other departments of life? No. Now and then indiscretion,
accident, or a total abandonment of decency brings to light the
misconduct of an individual; but in general the irregularities of
private life either escape detection or are hushed up by pride.
Sometimes indeed one vitious purpose occasions the detection of another,
and family disgrace is revealed to pave the way to a divorce, with a
view to another marriage, and perhaps to another divorce. Were the
private conduct of individuals in other stations as well known as that
of the people of the stage, the former would have no cause to exult at
the superiority of their morals; and in truth if a candid review be
taken individually of the actresses of the English stage, by which we
mean every stage where the English language is spoken, it will appear
that, with few exceptions, they stand highly respectable for private
worth and pure moral character. In England, Scotland and still more in
Ireland, an unblemished reputation is necessary to a lady's success on
the stage. In some instances, the greatest favourites of the public have
been driven for a time from the stage, for trespasses upon virtue, and
when permitted to return were never after much more than endured. To
these instances we shall have occasion to advert in the course of this
work.

While we assert, on the best grounds, that the theatre may be made, by
proper established regulations, a school of virtue and manners, we do
not wish to conceal our persuasion that there is nothing more potent to
debase and corrupt the minds of a people than a licentious stage. But it
may be averred with equal truth, that the abuses of every other
institution are fraught with no less mischief to the public. At this
very moment the abuse of the pulpit is the parent of more public
mischief in Great Britain and America than the stage ever produced in
its most prolific days of vice; and it is deplorable to reflect that the
former is rapidly increasing, while the vitiation of the latter has been
for a century on the decline. The licentiousness of the stage in the
reign of Charles II was enormous: but it was a licentiousness which the
theatre in common with the whole nation derived from the court, and from
a most flagitious monarch whose example made vice fashionable. In
servile compliance with the reigning taste, the greatest poets of the
day abandoned true fame, and discarded much of their literary merit:
Otway and Dryden sunk into the most mean and criminal slavery to it--the
former with the greatest powers for the pathetic ever possessed by any
man, Shakspeare excepted, has left behind him plays which in an almost
equal degree excite our admiration and contempt, our indignation and our
pity. It is charitable to suppose that "his poverty and not his will
consented." But Dryden had no such excuse to plead for his base
subserviency to pecuniary advantage, or for the detestable
licentiousness of his comedies. He who will take the pains to turn to
that admirable tragedy, Venice Preserved, by Otway, will find in the
scenes between Aquileia and the old senator Antonio enough to disgust
the taste of any one not callous to all sense of delicacy. But had
Juvenal lived at that period, he would have scourged Dryden out of
society. To those we might add Wycherly. Congreve and other cotemporary
authors succeeded: but the offences committed by those men can no more
be alleged as a ground of general condemnation of the stage, than the
works of lord Rochester can be set up as a reason for condemning Milton,
Pope, Thomson, Goldsmith, and all our other poets, or the innumerable
murders committed by unprincipled quacks, be alleged as a cause for
abolishing the whole practice of medicine.

Exasperated by the outrages of the dramatic poets, on virtue and
decency, Jeremy Collier, a non-juring clergyman, attacked the stage. His
charge against the authors was unquestionably right; but his attack upon
the stage itself, exhibited a disposition splenetic almost to
misanthropy, and an austerity of principle urged to unsocial ferocity.
In his fury he renounced the idea of reforming the stage; he was for
abolishing it entirely. He attacked the poets with "unconquerable
pertinacity, with wit in the highest degree keen and sarcastic, and with
all those powers exalted and invigorated by just confidence in his
cause."[3] Thus arose a controversy which lasted ten years, during which
time authors found it necessary to become more discreet. "Comedy (says
Dr. Johnson) grew more modest; and Collier lived to see the reformation
of the stage." Colley Cibber, who was one of those whose plays Collier
attacked, candidly says, "It must be granted that his calling our
dramatic writers to this account had a very wholesome effect upon those
who writ after his time. Indecencies were no longer wit; and by degrees
the fair sex came again to fill the boxes on the first day of a new
comedy, without fear or censure."

  [Footnote 3: Dr. Johnson.]

Such a licentious stage as is here described well deserved the severest
attacks: but what is there to justify severity now? at this day not only
the success of every new play so much depends upon its purity, but so
scrupulously correct in that particular is the public taste, and so
abstinent from every the slightest indelicacy are the authors of plays
and even farces, that not a word is uttered upon the stage from which
the most timid _real_ modesty would shrink. In conformity to this happy
state of the general taste and morals, all the old plays that retain
possession of the stage, have been cleared of their pollution, and all
the offensive passages in them have been expunged; some have been
entirely thrown out as incapable of amendment, and in truth, purity of
sentiment, and delicacy of expression, have become so prevalent, that it
is very much to be doubted whether if it were proposed to act one of
Wycherly's, Dryden's, or Otway's offensive plays in its original state,
a set of players could be found who would prostitute themselves so far
as to perform it.

From the offences of mankind arise despotic restrictions and penal laws
of every kind. From the licentiousness of the stage in England, arose
the licensing law which still continues to hold a heavy hand over all
the dramatic productions that are acted; and which has too often been
perverted to corrupt purposes.

But if the abuses of the stage in the times alluded to, serve to show
its power to do mischief, the general reformation in the public taste,
which followed that of the dramatic writings, equally show its
competency to effectuate good. Rousseau, who had little less dislike to
plays and players than Jeremy Collier, says, in a letter to D'Alembert,
"Let us not attribute to the stage the power of changing opinions or
manners, when it has only that of following and heightening them. An
author who offends the general taste may as well cease to write, for
nobody will read his works. When Moliere reformed the stage he attacked
modes and ridiculous customs, but he did not insult the public taste; he
either followed or explained it." So far Rousseau was right. It is the
public that gives the stage its bias--necessarily preceding it in taste
and opinion, and pointing out the direction to its object. In return the
stage gives the public a stronger impulse in morals and manners.
Wherever the stage is found corrupted with bad morals, it may be taken
for granted that the nation has been corrupted before it; when it
labours under the evils of a bad taste, it may safely be concluded that
that of the public has been previously vitiated. The truth is evident in
the wretched state of dramatic taste in England at this moment, where,
corrupted by the spectacles and mummery of the Italian opera, by the
rage for preternatural agency acquired from the reading of ghost novels
and romances, and by the introduction of German plays or translations,
the people can relish nothing but melo-drame, show, extravagant
incident, stage effect and situation--goblins, demons, fiddling,
capering and pantomime, and the managers, in order to live, are
compelled to gratify the deluded tasteless multitude at an incalculable
expense.

What the advantages are which could be derived from abolishing the stage
can only be judged from a view of the moral state of those countries in
which the drama has been for ages discouraged and held in disrepute,
compared with that of countries where it has been supported and
cultivated. Spain comes nearest to a total want of a regular drama of
any Christian country in Europe; and if there be any person who prefers
the moral state of that country to the moral state of Great Britain or
America, we wish him joy of his opinion, and assure him that we admire
neither his taste, his argument, nor his inference.

We have thus far entered into a vindication of the stage, not with the
slightest hope of changing the opinion of its enemies, nor with the
least desire to increase the admiration of its friends; but to awaken
public opinion to a sense of its vast importance, and of the advantages
which society may derive from giving full and salutary effect to its
agency, by generous encouragement, and vigilant control--by directing
its operations into proper channels, and fostering it by approbation in
every thing that has a tendency to promote virtue, to improve the
intellectual powers, and to correct and refine the taste, and the
manners of society. This desirable end can only be attained by making it
respectable, and sheltering its professors from the insult and
oppression of the ignorant, the base-minded, and the illiberal. None
will profit by the precepts of those whom they contemn; and the youth of
the country will be very unlikely to yield to the authority of the
instructor whom they see subjected to the sneers and affronts of the
very rabble they themselves despise. Besides, if actors were to be
treated with injustice and contumely, young gentlemen of talents and
virtue would be deterred from entering into the profession; and the
stage would soon become as bad as it is falsely described to be by
fanatics--a sink of vice and corruption: but the wisdom and liberality
of the British nation, after the example of old Rome, having, on the
contrary, given to the gentlemen of the stage their merited rank in
society, and raised actors and actresses of irreproachable private
character, to associate with the families of peers, statesmen,
legislators, and men of the highest rank in the nation, the profession
is filled with persons eminently respectable for talents, learning and
morals, and estimable as those of other classes in social
life--estimable as husbands, fathers, children, friends and companions.
But in Great Britain, they have a twofold protection--that of the
audience and that of the law--from the insults and injustice of
capricious, saucy, or malignant individuals. There, the line that
separates the rights of the actor from those of the auditor has been
exactly defined by the highest judicial authority.[4] And if an
individual assaults a performer by hissing[5] without carrying the
audience, or a large majority of it, along with him, the performer has
his action against his malicious assailant, and is adjudged damages as
certainly as persons of any of the other professions or trades recover
for an assault, a calumny, or a libel. Hence the stage is looked up to
as a great school, and the eminent actors are universally looked to as
the best instructors in action, elocution, orthoepy, and the component
parts of oratory. By following the same liberal and wise system with
respect to OUR stage, we may reasonably hope soon to bring it to a
reputable state of competition with that of Great Britain, and in that
as in most other parts of the elegancies of life, not very long hence,
to place the new on a complete footing with the old country.

  [Footnote 4: By Lord Mansfield in the King's Bench, in the case of
  Macklin against Sparks, Miles, Reddish, and others.]

  [Footnote 5: The audience, whenever an individual hisses against the
  sense of the house, always silence the offender by crying, "there's
  a goose in the pit (or wherever it is) turn him out," and if he
  persists they expel him by force. It is to be hoped our audiences
  would follow the example. It is frequently necessary.]



BIOGRAPHY--FOR THE MIRROR.


The passion for inquiring into the lives of conspicuous men is so
universally felt, that we cannot help indulging it in cases where not
only the person is unknown, but where his actions are so remote, that we
can neither form a picture of the one, nor any possible way be affected
by the other. The delight with which children themselves read the
histories of remarkable characters, and the avidity with which, at every
period of life, we read biography, are proofs that this passion has it
source in nature, abstracted from any connexion imagined to exist
between the object and our own heart. It is, however, more lively when
the object lives in our time, and when his actions are the subject of
daily conversation in our hearing, or when we have ourselves been
witnesses of them; and still more so, when the person being still in
existence has found means by the force of his talents to agitate a whole
people, to rouse general curiosity and admiration, and to form, as it
were, a landmark in any interesting department of civilized life.

That mankind, in general, derive greater pleasure from biography than
from most other kinds of writing is universally acknowledged. One of the
greatest moral philosophers of Britain justly observes, that of all the
various kinds of narrative writing, that which is read with the greatest
eagerness, and may with the greatest facility and effect be applied to
the purposes of life is biography; and the accomplished and sagacious
Montaigne, speaking in raptures, upon the same subject, says "Plutarch
is the writer after my own heart, and Suetonius is another, the like of
whom we shall never see."

As a master key to the study of the human heart, the biographical
account of particular individuals is infinitely superior to history.
History, in fact, is not a just picture of man and nature, but a
registry of prominent actions which derive conspicuity from their name,
place, and date, while the inward nature of the agent, the secret
springs, the slow and silent causes of those actions, being left
unnoticed and undistinguished, remain forever unknown. The man himself
is seen only here and there, and now and then, and lies hidden from
view, except in those points in which his conduct is connected with
those actions. But biography follows him from his public exhibition into
his private retreat, haunts him in his closet concealments, accompanies
him through his house, where his desires, passions, irregularities,
vices, virtues, foibles, and follies take their full swing--sits by his
fireside--watches for his unsuspecting, unguarded moments,--catches and
lays up all the ebullitions of his heart, when it is freed from all
restraint by domestic confidence--scans all his expressions when he is
mixing in free social converse with his friends and family, and thus
penetrates into his heart--detects every secret emotion of the man's
soul, even when he thinks himself most effectually concealed, and in
every glance of his eye, every whisper, every unpremeditated act and
expression, dives to the very bottom of his designs and brings up his
real character.

In the regulation of life, therefore, or the improvement of moral
sentiment, little benefit is to be derived from a knowledge of the
events of history, the subjects of which are so far removed from the
ordinary business of the world, that they seldom address a salutary
example to the heart or understanding--seldom present an action in any
way applicable to the ordinary transactions of the world, or which men
in general can hope or wish to imitate, and which are therefore read
with comparative indifference, and passed by without improvement, while
biography conveys the best instruction for the conduct of life, by a
happy mixture of precept and example.

Doctor Johnson has, in some of his writings, given it as his opinion
that "a life has rarely passed, of which a judicious and faithful
narrative would not be useful; for not only, says he, every man has, in
the mighty mass of the world, great numbers in the same condition with
himself, to whom his mistakes and miscarriages, escapes and expedients
would be of immediate and apparent use; but there is such a uniformity
in the state of man considered apart from adventitious and separable
decoration and disguises, that there is scarce any possibility of good
or ill but is common to human kind." How much more beneficial as a mass
of precept and example, and how much more captivating as a narrative
must be the biography of any person who has held a conspicuous place for
any length of time in the eye of the world, particularly if, by the
industrious exercise of vigorous or brilliant talents, he has
contributed more than his share to the happiness, the improvement, or
the innocent pleasure of society. In that case a mixed sentiment of
admiration and gratitude insensibly fills the public mind, from which
there arises a lively interest in all that concerns the person and an
eager curiosity to learn his origin, his early education, private
opinions and habits, the fortunes and incidents of his life, and, above
all, the singularities of his temper, and the peculiarities of his
manners and deportment. Few men in society stand so much in the public
eye, or have such opportunities to engage popular interest and personal
admiration as celebrated actors. In the general account current of life,
casting up the debtor and creditor between individual and individual,
the balance between the auditor and actor will be found largely in
favour of the latter. There are few, we know, to whom this assertion
will not appear paradoxical, because few have given themselves time to
consider that there is no place where a person, having an hour or two to
bestow on relaxation, can obtain so much delight and improvement with so
little concurrence of his own efforts as at the theatre. "At all other
assemblies," says Dr. Johnson, "he that comes to receive delight will be
expected to give it; but in the theatre nothing is necessary to the
amusement of two hours but to sit down and be willing to be pleased."
Where the private deportment and moral character of a celebrated actor,
therefore, are not at great variance with the general feelings, he
becomes by the very nature of his profession and talents an object of
general interest, and his life, character, and every circumstance
belonging to him are inquired into with earnest curiosity and
solicitude.

He who fairly considers the requisites indispensable to a tolerable
actor, will allow that the professors of that art must be persons of
intellectual capacity and personal endowments much superior to the
common herd of mankind. The vivid intelligence, the high animal spirits,
the aspiring temper, and the resolute intrepidity, which impel them to
the stage and support them under its difficulties, are generally
associated with an eccentricity of character and a giddy disregard of
prudential considerations, which generate adventure and chequer their
lives with a greater variety of incidents and whimsical intercourse with
the world than falls to the lot of men of other professions. Hence it
follows that the stage presents the most ample field for the biographer;
and that whether he writes for the instruction or the entertainment of
his readers, he will not be able to find in any other department of
society men whose lives comprise such an interesting variety as the
actors.

In selecting the persons with whose lives it is intended to enrich this
work, the editors find it necessary in the very first instance to depart
from the rule which their original purpose and strict justice, as well
as a due regard to priority, had prescribed to them. The biography of
the deceased Mr. Hallam, as the father of the American stage, no doubt
lays claim to the first place. There were others too, whose priority to
Mr. Cooper cannot be contested; but, as the materials were not to be
immediately had they have been obliged to postpone them.



LIFE OF MR. COOPER.


Mr. Thomas Abthorpe Cooper is the descendant of a very respectable Irish
family, though he was, himself, born in England. His father, doctor
Cooper--a gentleman universally known, and not more known than beloved
and respected by all who have had any intercourse with East Indian
affairs, was a native of Ireland, and after having served his time to
one of the most eminent surgeons in that kingdom, with the reputation of
a young man of genius and great promise, went over to England, in order
to acquire, in the London hospitals, more perfect practical skill in his
business, and to avail himself of the lectures of the principal
professors of surgery and medicine in that metropolis; intending to
return to his native country again, and there practise for life. It
happened with the doctor however, precisely as it does with the greater
part of young Irish gentlemen, who have their fortunes to raise chiefly
by their own efforts. London gradually unfolded to his view all her
irresistible charms; the ligaments which tied him to his native home,
grew every day more and more slender and weak: the dictates of common
sense and prudence, in this one instance at least enforced by the
attractions of pleasure, pointed out the vast superiority of England to
the oppressed, impoverished country which he had left, as a field for
genius and industry to work upon. Having a prepossessing face and
person, and manners frank, conciliating and firm, he soon extended his
acquaintance to a wide circle of friends, whose advice conspired with
his own taste to bring him to a determination, in consequence of which
he settled near the metropolis, and became a practitioner in surgery and
physic. While he was successfully engaged in this career, he was
introduced to some of the great men of Leadenhall-street, by whom he was
appointed to the lucrative office of inspecting-surgeon of the recruits
destined for the service of the East India Company. In the discharge of
this duty it fell to his share to visit the ships preparing for a voyage
to India, and of course to mingle with the company's servants of all
ranks and conditions, by whom he was in no common degree beloved and
respected--by the higher order for his agreeable and manly
deportment--by the lower for his tenderness and humanity. Though he
lived in England, he viewed his own country with a laudable fond
partiality; and being constitutionally benevolent, and having a heart
"open to melting Charity," and a hand prompt to indulge it, it may
reasonably be conjectured that in his office of inspecting-surgeon he
was exposed to many sharp attacks upon his feelings; the far greater
part of the recruits who came under his inspection being unfortunate
Irish youths who had thrown themselves upon a strange world, destitute
of every thing but health, youth, and bodily vigor. By such objects, the
sympathy of such a warm heart as that which beat in doctor Cooper's
bosom, could not fail to be strongly excited, and it was pretty
generally believed that his family had less reason than his unfortunate
countrymen to exult at the goodness of his nature. Nor was his
philanthropy confined to those wretched children of misfortune, the
recruits; many young Irish gentlemen who were going to India as cadets,
experienced his kindness also, but in another form. He had many friends,
and considering his rank, very extraordinary interest with the high
officers and commanders in the company's service. This he never failed
to exert in favour of such of his young countrymen as he considered
deserving of it: and in short strained his powers in every way to
increase their comfort and accommodation during that trying ordeal,
their passage to India, and to procure them friends when they got there.

His son Thomas, the subject of this paper, was born in the year 1777,
and received an early liberal education. As doctor Cooper's interest lay
wholly with the East India company, his children were sent to that
emporium of wealth, Bengal, as soon as their ages fitted them for
admission into the world. Had he lived till our hero was of a suitable
age the probability is that the American stage would at this day want
one of its greatest ornaments; and that the hand which now wields the
truncheon of Macbeth, Richard, and Coriolanus on the American boards,
would be grasping a sword or driving a quill in the service of the East
India company in Bengal, whither doctor Cooper at last went himself,
being promoted to a respectable rank on the medical staff of that
settlement, and where at length he died to the deep regret of all who
knew him, and to the irretrievable loss of an amiable family. To the
last will and testament of the generous man there is seldom any great
trouble in administering--doctor Cooper made a great deal of money; but
retained little of it. We do not mention this as a feature in that
worthy man's character to be imitated. On the contrary we wish it, so
far as it goes, to operate as a warning against the indulgence of a
spirit, which, though it be a virtue of the highest order when kept
under the control of discretion, does, like every other virtue,
degenerate into a foible, when carried to excess. Fortunately for that
member of doctor Cooper's family of whom we are writing, he found, when
his youth wanted it, a sincere friend. Mr. Godwin, whose name is well
known in the republic of letters, particularly as the author of a work
the name of which we will not put upon the same page with this
honourable instance of posthumous friendship to doctor Cooper, took the
youth to his own care; adopted, educated, and, as some say, intended him
for an author; a scheme too absurd in our opinion, to be meditated by a
person of Mr. Godwin's sagacity, who would at least postpone such a
project till the genius of the young man should unfold itself in full
maturity. Such, however, is said to have been the plan, which, whether
the story be true or false, there is cause to rejoice was frustrated. At
this distance it would be hopeless, if indeed it were very desirable, to
trace that strange report to its origin, but we think it not at all a
forced conclusion that it arose from the nature of the education which
Mr. Godwin bestowed upon the youth. Hence without knowing the amount of
Mr. Cooper's literary attainments, we think it may be fairly inferred
from the existence of such a report, that his education was a learned
one, and that he was early grounded in the dead as well as the most
useful modern languages. Mr. Godwin cannot be suspected of intending for
an author by trade, a youth from whom he had withheld the Greek and
Latin classics.

It is not necessary to recur to the instructions of Mr. Godwin for the
fervid partiality which Mr. Cooper early disclosed for the French
revolution. In that feeling he partook in common with men who as
radically, substantially, and essentially differed in principle from Mr.
Godwin, as light from darkness, or heat from cold. Several high
statesmen in England, who afterwards deplored it, at first viewed that
extraordinary event with a favourable eye, as likely to better the
condition of twenty millions of people. So, Mr. Dundas, now lord
Melville, for himself and his colleague Pitt, openly avowed in
parliament. And even Burke himself, whose penetrating eye discerned from
the outset, and foretold all the mischiefs that lurked under that event,
complimented a young Irish gentleman of reputable birth, upon his having
fought as a volunteer with Dumourier, at the battle of Jamappe; adding,
that he gloried in every instance in which he found his young countrymen
disclosing an enthusiastic love of freedom. Nay, he did not scruple to
declare very frequently that, considering the plausible appearance of
the revolution, he should entertain but a very poor opinion of a youth
who was not enamoured with it. With such an authority to warrant us, we
feel no hesitation in stating it as an honourable trait in the character
of Mr. Cooper, that he was delighted with the French revolution, and
that in his enthusiastic admiration of that event, he resolved to
abandon his literary pursuits to give his young arm (he being then not
above seventeen years of age) to the defence of the new republic and, as
he thought, the cause of liberty. He had scarcely taken this resolution,
and made preparations to go to the continent and join the army of the
French republic, when the war broke out between England and France, and
totally overset his purpose and his hopes of military promotion,
rendering that which before would have been lawful if not laudable, an
act of treason to his country, of the bare contemplation of which, it is
fair to believe, he was incapable.

It was on occasion of this disappointment and check to his military
ambition, that Mr. Cooper turned his thoughts to the stage. Young as he
was, he made a full and accurate estimate of his situation. Too proud by
nature to be dependant, his feelings suggested the necessity of
immediately doing something for his own support and advancement. He
boldly resolved to be the architect of his own fame and fortune, and it
is probable had too much common sense to take the author's pen either as
a material or an instrument in constructing the edifice. Having made up
his mind to try his fortune on the stage, he imparted his intention to
Mr. Godwin, who received the communication with deep regret, and
encountered it with the most decided disapprobation, and with every
argument and dissuasive which ingenuity and a perfect knowledge of the
subject could lend to friendship. It was in vain every topic was urged
which could serve to dissuade, to deter, or to disgust: Mr. Cooper
firmly adhered to his purpose, and Mr. Godwin perceiving him immovable,
yielded to what he could not overcome, and resolved, since he could not
divert him from the stage, to do all he could to set him forward on it
to the best advantage. To this end, Mr. Holcroft, the friend of Mr.
Godwin, was called in; and he gave the young man some preparatory
lessons, a task for which he was exceedingly well qualified uniting in
himself the several talents of actor, author, and critic.

To procure admission on the stage in England is not always an easy task.
In the present instance it seemed to Mr. Holcroft and Mr. Godwin a
matter of serious consideration to whom an application should be made
for the purpose, and what theatre would be most likely to receive him
with least disadvantage. At length application being made to Mr. Stephen
Kemble he agreed, without seeing the young gentleman, to take him under
his auspices; and to that end Mr. Cooper repaired to Edinburgh. Of his
reception by Mr. Kemble the most ludicrous description has been given;
a description, which, as biographers, we should not think of introducing
on the present occasion, if it had not already appeared in public,
accompanied with an assertion that it came from Mr. Cooper himself. "The
writer of this sketch (says the publisher of that account) has heard
Cooper himself describe with great pleasantry his first interview with
the Scotch manager; he was at that time a raw country youth of
seventeen. On his arrival in Edinburgh, little conscious of his
appearance and incompetency, he waited on Mr. Kemble, made up in the
extreme of rustic foppery, proud of his talents, and little doubting his
success. When he mentioned his name and errand, Mr. Kemble's countenance
changed from a polite smile to a stare of disappointment: Cooper had
been prepared for young Norval; but he was obliged to exchange all his
expected eclat for a few cold excuses from the manager, and the chagrin
of seeing some nights after, his part filled by an old man and a bad
player. During the remainder of the season he continued with Stephen
Kemble, without at all appearing on the stage. From Edinburgh he went
with the company to Newcastle-upon-Tyne, there he lived as dependent,
inactive, and undistinguished as before, till, owing to the want of a
person to fill the part of Malcolm in Macbeth, he was cast to that
humble character. In so inferior a sphere did he begin to move who is
now become one of the brightest luminaries of the theatrical hemisphere.
His debut was even less flattering than his reception from the manager
had been. Till the last scene he passed through tolerably well, but when
he came to the lines which conclude the play--

  "So thanks to all at once, and to each one,
  Whom we invite to see us crown'd at Scone."

After stretching out his hands and assuming the attitude and smile of
thankfulness, a slight embarrassment checked him, and he paused, still
keeping his posture and his look--the prompter made himself heard by
every one but the bewildered Malcolm, who still continued mute, every
instant of his silence naturally increasing ten-fold his
perplexity--Macduff whispered the words in his ear--Macbeth who lay
slaughtered at his feet, broke the bonds of death to assist his dumb
successor, the prompter spoke almost to vociferation. Each thane dead or
alive joined his voice--but this was only "confusion worse
confounded"--if he could have spoken the amazed prince might with great
justice have said, "So thanks to all at once"--but his utterance was
gone "_vox faucibus hæsit_"--a hiss presently broke out in the pit, the
clamor soon became general, and the curtain went down, amid a universal
condemnation."

No part of biography is so interesting, or affecting as that which
brings before us the struggles of unassisted vigour and genius with the
obstructions which accident, or the ignorance or malice of vulgar souls
throw in their way, and their ultimate triumph over adversity. Few men
have enjoyed that triumph more than Mr. Cooper, for few have in their
outset met with a more mortifying repulse, or more discouraging
difficulties. There are not many whose resolution could have outlived
such a cruel discomfiture as that at Edinburgh: but on him it seemed to
have the happy effect of steeling his natural fortitude, and sending his
spirit forward in its career with increased impetuosity.

Disappointed and chagrined, but not humiliated, he returned back to
London, more determinately than ever resolved to persevere till he had
mastered fortune and established a footing on the stage--exhibiting a
degree of confidence which generally inheres in genius, and which his
ultimate success well justified. Far from being depressed or obscured by
his Edinburgh adventure, his talents had so much unfolded themselves and
been so visibly improved, that his friends Godwin and Holcroft felt
convinced he had not mistaken or overrated his powers; but, on the
contrary, possessed qualifications, which, if diligently and judiciously
cultivated, would raise him to a rank with the most eminent actors then
living. The great bar to his advancement was that diffidence which
occasioned his discomfiture in Edinburgh: but his friends knew enough of
the human heart and powers to be assured that that very diffidence is so
universally the concomitant of sterling merit, that where it
superabounds wise men give credit for much excellence, and bestow their
partiality with a liberal hand; while the want of it is generally
suspected of denoting a great deficiency in merit: and they were right;
for the young person who wants modesty wants every thing. Fraught with
these considerations, those discerning men and steady friends thought
that they would best consult their _protegé's_ interest by putting him
into training in some obscure company, and took measures to introduce
him into a routine of acting in the country theatres, from which
novitiate they expected he would soon emerge well practised in stage
business, and fully qualified to give out the whole force of his natural
powers on some of the stages of the metropolis.

The country managers, however, seemed to think very differently from
Messrs. Godwin and Holcroft of Mr. Cooper's capabilities. If they had
not the genius, the discernment, or the "spirits learned in human
dealings" of our hero's patrons, they had self-sufficiency and obstinacy
in abundance, and what was more unfortunate, they had the power in their
hands; a power which in such persons is rarely softened in its exercise
by liberality or candor. These, notwithstanding the authority of Godwin
and Holcroft's opinion, considered or affected to consider Mr. Cooper as
a poor juvenile adventurer, who had no one requisite for the profession.
"Their hands, they said, were already full--(of trash no doubt they
were) every character even the lowest was engaged. To show their
deference, however, to the high opinion of the young man's friends, they
would endeavour to think of something for him to perform." In conformity
to the dictates of this _generous_ spirit, they vouchsafed him some
inferior parts: but every one knows, who knows any thing at all of
theatrical affairs, that the coldness of a manager to a young performer,
creates at least, distrust in the audience--that the young candidate who
is set forward in humiliation, is forbidden to rise; as he who is thrust
into characters far beyond the reach of his powers will, for a time, get
credit for talents which he does not possess: for discerning and
despotic as the multitude think themselves, they are still the dupes or
the submissive slaves of dexterous leaders in every department of life.
By the error, the ignorance, or the churlishness of the country
managers, Mr. Cooper was excluded from any fair opportunity to redeem
the credit he had lost in Edinburgh--they considered, or affected to
consider him as wholly incompetent to any character of consequence:
those which were vouchsafed him were of so inferior a rank that they
denied scope to the exercise of his yet latent powers; for such a genius
as that of Cooper could no more dilate in a meagre character, than
Eclipse or Flying Childers could lay themselves out at full speed in a
city building lot; and it is reasonable to suppose that, notwithstanding
all his fortitude, the spirits of the youth were depressed, and his
faculties chilled by such humiliating neglect, and such reiterated
disappointments. Who is he that would not, under such circumstances,
sink into languor? It cannot be doubted that dejection every day
detracted from his powers, and that by a kind of irresistible
gravitation, he descended like a falling body in the physical world,
with accelerated velocity, till at last he reached the very bottom of
the profession. Reader, behold--and refrain from regret if you
can--behold COOPER, on whom crowded theatres have since gazed with
astonishment and delight, reduced to the condition of a mere deliverer
of letters and messages upon the stage of a low country theatre. The
writer of this cannot help picturing to himself the feelings of a
multitude of great and worthy personages in Great Britain and India, and
particularly the feelings of a sister, the lovely inheritress of her
family's virtues, if they had known at the time, that which our hero's
manly pride concealed, that the son of doctor Cooper, whose goodness of
heart had often been the refuge of the distressed, was for months
languishing under the chill of public neglect, and dragging on existence
upon a miserable pittance which scarcely afforded him physical support;
or if they had seen him in his unaccommodated removal from that
situation, walking on foot to the metropolis.

The repulses of a mistaken and unworthy few, and the neglect of a world
very little better, had no other effect upon Mr. Cooper's friends Godwin
and Holcroft, than to quicken their sensibility and inflame their ardour
to serve him. It is more than probable those mortifications tended to
increase the conviction of the former that his _eleve_ had made a
deplorable choice of profession, but did not at all shake the opinion
which both, and particularly the latter, entertained that he had great
capabilities for the profession. The youth had now waded in so far, that
to go back might be worse than to go forward; Mr. Holcroft therefore
again took him in hand; read Shakspeare with him, and accompanied their
reading with practical commentaries upon the force of that author's
meaning, marked out to him those parts where the character was to depend
for its interest and impression, on the actor's exertions; heard him
over and over again repeat the most difficult speeches, and instructed
him how to adapt his action, looks, and utterance to the passion which
the author designed to exhibit, so as to excite appropriate feelings in
the auditor. Though Shakspeare is above all others the poet of Nature,
his meaning frequently eludes the dim or vulgar mind, and to be
intelligibly elicited from the stiffness and obscurity which sometimes
injures his language, requires profound consideration. For the minute
investigation requisite for this purpose few men were better qualified
than Mr. Holcroft--few men much more equal to the task of bringing forth
from the rich mine where they lay and purify of their dross the talents
of Mr. Cooper. With an earnestness and indefatigable zeal proportioned
to the object, and which nothing but the most generous friendship could
impel him to employ, Mr. Holcroft gave those powers to the instruction
of our hero, and with such speedy and felicitous effect, that the young
gentleman was, in the course of a few months, considered by his two
friends as perfectly qualified to appear before a London audience in
some of Shakspeare's most important characters. Having been for some
time a successful dramatic writer, Mr. H. enjoyed the ear and confidence
of the managers, and arranged with those of Covent Garden for his
pupil's appearance on that stage. And now the time arrived when his
fortitude was to be rewarded, his sufferings compensated, and his
talents to find their proper levels. His first appearance was in Hamlet,
in which he received unbounded applause. In two or three nights after he
performed the very arduous part of Macbeth to a house so very full as to
occasion an overflow. It is but justice to the Edinburgh and other
provincial managers to observe, that when Mr. Cooper appeared on the
London boards he was greatly improved in his externals. His person had
grown more into masculine bulk and manly shape; his face had become more
marked and expressive, and his voice had swelled into a more full deep
tenor.

The friendship of Mr. Holcroft caused Mr. Cooper to be universally
misjudged. The opposition prints represented him in the most extravagant
terms of eulogy. The government prints ran into the opposite extreme,
and he became at once the idol and the victim of party spirit. Yet such
a reception, by a London audience, was a sufficient pledge of future
success. He was still young, had much to learn in order to reach the
first rank of that profession, and if a real, well-grounded, just fame
had been his object, he ought to have felt that it could only be
attained by perseverance, and by the customary natural gradations. The
London managers offered him an engagement, which, though allowed to have
been liberal, seems not to have come up to his own estimate of his
deserts. Playing two or three or four characters well is a very
different thing from sustaining a whole line of acting, to which long
practice and great constitutional force are as necessary as any other
requisite. In this view of the matter, as well as because managers
neither desire nor will be permitted in England to supersede established
favourite servants of the public, it will not appear surprising that the
first rate rank of characters to which Mr. Cooper aspired, was refused
to him by the managers, who thought that they better consulted the
public feeling, their own interest, and even the young gentleman's fame
and ultimate prosperity, by placing him in a secondary general line, in
which he might improve himself by playing with and observing the best
models, and in regular gradation make his way to the first, as Kemble,
Cooke, and others had done before him. This however was too unpalatable
for his ambition to swallow. The first he would be, or none. There is
not a sentiment of Julius Cæsar's that is thought so censurable and
unworthy of his great mind as that which he uttered when, pointing to a
small town, he said, "I would rather be the first man in that village
than the second in Rome." This has been justly called perverted
ambition, and Milton stamped it with terrible condemnation when he put
into the mouth of his arch fiend the sentiment--"better to reign in hell
than serve in heaven." The passions of youth extenuate those errors
which in ripened manhood are criminal; and it is not improbable that Mr.
Cooper's own opinion at this day concurs with ours when we say that his
refusal of the manager's offer seems to us to have been very
injudicious. From Plautus, with whom we dare say he had long before had
an intimacy, he might have taken this profitable lesson,

  Viam qui nescit quâ deveniat ad mare
  Eum oportet amnem quærere comitem sibi.

Had he not rejected that offer he would long ere this have had permanent
possession of the rank to which he too prematurely aspired. His refusal
was followed by a retreat into the country, where, with the perseverance
of Demosthenes, he laboured in fitting himself for a more successful
effort; resolved to force his way if possible to the high object of his
ambition.

During his retirement intimations of his success crossed the Atlantic.
Mr. Tyler, some time since the manager of the New-York theatre, received
the intelligence from a friend in England: "Prepare yourself for
astonishment," said his correspondent, "that identical Mr. Cooper who,
a few months ago, was playing the very underling characters at our
theatre, and who appeared so extremely incompetent, is now performing
Hamlet with applause in London." Sometime after this the agent of the
Philadelphia manager in England made proposals to Mr. Cooper, who
exulting in the thoughts of obtaining in America that rank which he was
refused in London, closed with the offer, and soon after passed over to
America. In Philadelphia, however, he found that his object was not
altogether so attainable as he imagined. In no place does favouritism
flourish with much more rank luxuriance than in that city--in no place
do personal prepossessions more frequently operate to the overthrow of
judgment, to the exclusion of merit, and to the fostering of incapacity.
The multitude had their favourites whose merit touched the highest
standard of their conceptions--any thing beyond that was hid in an
intellectual mist. The taste of the many was formed upon the kind of
merit which they so much admired in their favourites, and little did it
relish that of Mr. Cooper. It is astonishing how constantly fond
overweening prejudice deceives itself. The philosopher who told the
powerful despot, his sovereign, that there was no royal way to
mathematics, was believed, because the despot had common sense--but a
headstrong multitude can never be persuaded that a person can be
incompetent to any one thing, if they only _will_ him to be great in it:
and thus it has happened not infrequently, in all cities as well as
Philadelphia, that splendid talents have stood behind as lackeys, while
doleful incapacity has feasted upon public favour.

The abilities of Mr. Cooper gave great uneasiness, for they every day
forced a passage for themselves to some share of approbation, in the
very teeth of favouritism and prejudice. Some there were who could
discern no merit at all in him; some who industriously employed
themselves in depreciating and denying the little which others allowed
him. At last his vigorous struggles made it necessary to call in a
_corps de reserve_ which he little suspected; his private life was
impeached, and the careless, irregular habits of youth--habits, by the
by, in which no youth indulge more than our own, were arrayed against
him. Unjust as this was, it produced the desired effect; for when his
benefit was announced, very few seats were taken in the boxes. And here
we have to record a feature in that gentleman's character which marks
his honest pride and magnanimity in deep impression. The manager was
bound by his contract to make up to a certain stated amount, the
proceeds of Mr. C.'s benefit. To such an advantage Mr. C. disdained to
have recourse. At the same time his pride shrunk from the thoughts of
playing to empty boxes at his benefit. He resolved to have a full house,
and hit upon an expedient which showed that, young as he was, he knew
something of the human heart, and that, though a stranger, he had made a
very shrewd estimate of the public taste, for which he had the skill to
cater more appropriately and successfully than he could by merely
dishing up a play of Shakspeare's in his own rough cookery. Fortunately
for his purpose there had lately arrived in Philadelphia an actor of
great weight and merit, a native of India, of whose immense and popular
talents he resolved to avail himself; this was an elephant, which for
the trifling _douceur_ of sixty dollars, that is, near twice as much as
the best actor in the city now gets for one week's labour, he prevailed
upon to _press the boards_ of the theatre for that one time only, and be
the chief performer and great attraction of the night. This was what a
seaman would call hitting the public between wind and water: Mr. Cooper
therefore poured in a whole broadside of printed notices, which were put
into every hand, and a huge playbill, which glared at the corner of
every street in letters of elephantine size, informing the public that
the distinguished performer already mentioned, had kindly consented to
act a principal part in the entertainment of the evening. No sooner was
this announced than the whole city was in one hubbub of curiosity--one
twitter of delight; and Mr. Cooper had so many _friends_ who were all at
once intent upon giving him their dollar at his benefit, that the house
was crammed, and there was as great an overflow from every part of it as
if the renowned master Betty himself were to have occupied the place of
the elephant.

Very different was Mr. Cooper's reception at New-York, whither he went
when the theatre of Philadelphia closed for the season. On his very
first appearance he established himself in the public opinion as a first
rate actor. The New-York stage might about that time vie for actors in
number and quality with the best provincial company that ever played in
England. Hodgkinson, Cooper, Fennell, Jefferson, Harwood, Bernard, Mrs.
Morris, and Mrs. Hodgkinson, besides two or three admirable comedians.
Pierre is well adapted to Mr. Cooper's talents and style of acting, and
he evinced his judgment in selecting it for his first appearance.
Through the whole play the ball was well tossed to him by the other
actors; the consequence was that the impression he made has never been
erased. The opinion entertained of him was more substantially evinced
than by mere applause. There was a unanimous desire that he should leave
the Philadelphia theatre and engage at New-York; but to this it was
objected, that he was bound by his contract with the manager of the
former, to play for a certain time under a penalty of two thousand
dollars; this objection, however, was soon superseded by a subscription
raised among the gentlemen of New-York to pay off that sum if the
manager should be able to enforce it. Thus honourably was Mr. Cooper
planted in the city which he contrived to make his head-quarters till
the beginning of the year 1803, when he passed over to England. During
that period he paid a professional visit to Philadelphia, where he was
so justly appreciated that he had no further occasion for the aid of the
elephant.

It happened that Mr. John Kemble the chief actor, and once the acting
manager of Drury Lane theatre, had in the year 1802, a misunderstanding
with the proprietors, in consequence of which he left it, and visited
the continent, leaving the first line of character very inadequately
filled. Intelligence of this secession having reached America in the
latter end of 1802, Mr. Cooper, who was invited, as it is said, by the
proprietors of Drury Lane, to take Mr. Kemble's place, if his reception
by the town would warrant them in retaining him, crossed the Atlantic,
and once more appeared in London. His success was by no means equal to
the expectations of his New-York friends. Those however who were better
acquainted with the general subject and the state of the stage in
England, who were aware how much actors of the greatest talents profit
by constantly playing with men of equal standing with themselves, and
how much they lose by the want of great models either to emulate or
follow, were far from being so sanguine in their expectations. By the
London audience he was handsomely received, and greeted with the
applause and kindness due to a stranger of respectable powers: but in
efficient benefit to the house and to himself he failed; wherefore,
passing on to Liverpool, he played a few nights in that town with great
applause, then took shipping and returned to America, where he was
received with open arms.

After his departure the theatre of New-York fell into a state of decline
for want of a proper manager and proper company. The deceased Hodgkinson
having been joined in the management of the Charleston theatre, and
brought along with him some of the best performers, it was resolved by
the proprietors of the New-York theatre, to give it upon encouraging
terms to a manager of sufficient qualifications to conduct the business
of it successfully. Hodgkinson was elected to the management of it
almost unanimously; but soon after died of the yellow fever. Mr. Cooper
then undertook it--bought the theatre at a vast expense--improved and
embellished the house, and was amply remunerated by the immense receipts
of the first season; at the end of which he sold out his property in it
to another gentleman, who we believe now owns and manages it.

No actor ever made so much money in America as Mr. Cooper. By a skilful
distribution of his time and exertions, he takes care never to stay so
long in one place as to satiate the public appetite. Regardless of the
fatigues of travelling, and always supplied with the best cattle, he
flies from city to city over this extended union, like a comet; one day
he is seen at New-York, the very next he performs in Philadelphia. A few
days after, we have an account of his playing at Boston, and perhaps
before a month elapses we again have intelligence of his acting at
Charleston, (S.C.) in each of which places he receives an enormous
salary, and always has a full benefit. Thus if he possesses the gift of
retention as he does that of gaining, he must necessarily become very
rich. There are modes of getting rid of money, however, to which gossip
Fame, we regret to say it, whispers he is much addicted. That he may be
more extravagant than he ought to be, we can suppose without injury to
his moral character. Whether he be so or not is not our business to
discuss--but it is our duty to relate those things which may be set down
as a counterpoise to the blamable disregard of economy of which he is
impeached by many who are perhaps little capable of estimating his means
or his motives. He is one of the most dutiful and generous of sons to an
amiable mother, whose old age he cheers with punctual bounty, and by the
most constant and pious filial reverence and affection.

Mr. Cooper has a sister, or at least had one, a lady of high personal
endowments and great goodness. She was early married to Mr. Perreau of
Calcutta, a gentleman who stands as high in the opinion of the world as
any man in India.

Of the merit of Mr. Cooper as an actor we shall have occasion to speak
in another part of this work.



LIFE OF ALLEYN, THE PLAYER.


Mr. Edward Alleyn, who though an actor, is ranked among "the British
Worthies," was born in London in 1566, and trained at an early period to
the stage, for which he was naturally qualified by a stately port and
aspect, corporal agility, flexible genius, lively temper, retentive
memory, and fluent elocution. Before the year 1592 he seems to have
acquired a very considerable degree of popularity in his profession; he
was one of the original actors in the plays of Shakespeare, and a
principal performer in some of those of Jonson; but it does not now
appear what were the characters which he personated. They were probably
the most dignified and majestic, for to these the portly and graceful
figure of his person was well adapted. At length he became master of a
company of players, and the proprietor of a playhouse called the
Fortune, which he erected at his own expense, near Whitecross-street;
and he was also joint proprietor and master of the Royal Bear-Garden, on
the Bank side, in Southwark. By the profits accruing from these
occupations, added to his paternal inheritance, and to the dowries of
his two wives, by whom he had no children, he amassed a considerable
property, which he bestowed in a manner that has redounded more to his
honour than his professional merit. The wealth thus acquired enabled him
to lay the foundation of a college, for the maintenance of aged people,
and the education of children, at Dulwich in Surrey, which institution,
called "The College of God's Gift," subsists at this time in an improved
and prosperous state. The liberal founder, before he was forty-eight
years of age, began this building after the design, and under the
direction of Inigo Jones: and it is presumed that he expended eight or
ten thousand pounds upon the college, chapel, &c. before the buildings
and gardens were finished, which was about the year 1617.

Alleyn had long been regarded by all the great and good people of
England, including the sovereign Elizabeth, with admiration and respect.
This charitable endowment presented him to the world in a new and
grander attitude. But still as he was a player, the vulgar and
superstitious were unable to account for this act which would have done
honour to a king or a saint, by any other than diabolical influence. It
was therefore reported, and by the ignorant multitude was believed, that
Mr. Alleyn, "playing a demon with six others in one of Shakspeare's
plays, was in the midst of the play surprised by the apparition of the
devil, which so worked on his fancy, that he made a vow, which he
performed at this place." This most laughable story is handed down
seriously in a book written by a person of the name of Aubrey. Tradition
says that it was from Alleyn's acting and conversation Shakspeare wrote
his admirable instructions to players which he has put into the mouth of
Hamlet.

After the founder had built this college, he met with difficulties in
obtaining a charter for settling his lands in mortmain, that he might
endow it, as he proposed, with 800_l._ per annum, for the support and
maintenance of one master, one warden, and four fellows, three of whom
were to be ecclesiastics, and the other a skilful organist; also six
poor children, as many women, and twelve poor boys, who were to be
maintained and educated till the age of fourteen or sixteen years, and
then put out to honest trades and callings. The master and warden were
to be unmarried, and always to be of the name of Allen or Alleyn. At
length the opposition of the lord chancellor Bacon was overcome, and
Alleyn's benefaction obtained the royal license, and he had full power
granted him to establish his foundation, by his majesty's letters patent
under the great seal, bearing date June 21, 1619. When the college was
finished, the founder and his wife resided in it and conformed in every
respect to the regulations established for the government of his
almoners. Having by his will liberally provided for his widow, and for
founding twenty almshouses, ten in the parish of St. Botolp, without
Bishopgate, in which he was born, and ten in St. Saviour's parish,
Southwark, and bequeathed several small legacies to his relations and
friends, he appropriated the residue of his property to the use of the
college. He died in 1626, in the sixty-first year of his age, and was
buried in the chapel of his own college. The chapel, master's
apartments, &c. are in the front of this building, and the lodgings of
the other inhabitants, &c. in the two wings, of which that on the east
side was handsomely new built, in 1739, at the expense of the college.
They have a small library of books and a gallery of pictures with that
of the founder at full length. The inscription over the door concludes
with these words: _abi tu et fac similiter_--go thou and do likewise.



INTRODUCTION

TO

THE DRAMATIC CENSOR.

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

  _Dr. Johnson's Idler, No. 25._


The establishment of a regular and permanent work of dramatic criticism,
and of censorship upon the public amusements of this city has often been
attempted. The uniform failure of these efforts renders it natural to
apprehend that the proposition now submitted to the public will incur
the charge of presumption, and perhaps experience, for a time, the
coldness and discouragement with which the majority of mankind are
always inclined to treat even laudable exertions, if they in any degree
militate against the dictates of common prudence, and are not
recommended by a certainty of public approbation. Taking their auspices
of the present undertaking from the fate of those hasty productions on
the same subject, which have been brought forth and expired within the
compass of their short season, there are too many, who, instead of
applauding the hazardous boldness of the measure, and for the sake of
its public utility standing forward in its encouragement and support,
will endeavour to damp it by premature censure, ascribe the undertaking
to vanity, or unworthiness, and if it should fail, be ready to aggravate
the disappointment of the projectors with the galling imputation of
temerity, impudence, or overweening self-conceit. The sympathy which
mankind in general think it handsome to feel for unassuming merit,
stumbling in its way through life by incautiously venturing upon ground
untrodden before, will be gladly withheld from persons who are supposed
wilfully to rush forward into error, with the warning monitions of
example before their eyes--who obstinately persist in an unadvised and
hopeless enterprise, in defiance of manifold and recent experience, and
whom the imprudence and misfortunes of others have been incapable of
rendering cautious or discreet.

With encountering these, and many other objections (the offspring of
indistinct conception and cold hearts) the projectors of the present
work lay their account; yet, since nothing honourable or arduous would
ever be accomplished, if hope were to be extinguished by partial defeat,
and a generous enterprise were to be abandoned, because it had before
been tried without success, the work now proposed is undertaken, with
the most firm conviction of its utility and the most unequivocal
confidence of success. Let their difficulties be what they may, however,
the editors are prepared to meet them, not only without fear, but with
satisfaction; since they know that nothing but impossibility will be
refused to undismayed perseverance and unremitting industry, and that in
the work they are entering upon, they labour for the promotion of a
purpose which, whatever the amount of their pecuniary advantage may be,
will entitle them to public respect and to the gratitude of the rising
generation. Before such proud hopes, all the little obstructions they
anticipate--the cavils of the scrupulous, the doubts of the sceptical,
the reluctance of the timid, the resistance of the refractory and
incorrigible, and the sneers, the censures, and the sarcasms of the
curious and the malignant vanish, as the gloomy chills and shades of the
night recede before the glorious luminary of the morning.

That the drama is a most powerful moral agent in society has been
admitted by men of learning and wisdom in all ages of its existence.
Whether its effects be, on the whole, injurious or not, will long be a
subject of contest; but be they what they may, it can have very little
influence of any kind beyond that of harmless amusement, on the wise,
the pious, the learned and the experienced. Were those alone to visit
theatres and be exposed to its allurements, the task of the dramatic
censor might without injury be dispensed with: but since it is the
young, the idle, the thoughtless, and the ignorant, on whom the drama
can be supposed to operate as a lesson for conduct, an aid to experience
and a guide through life, and since such persons are generally
unfurnished with ideas and undefended by principles, prompt to receive
first impressions, and easily susceptible of false opinions and
pernicious sentiments, it becomes a matter of great importance to the
commonwealth that this very powerful engine, (acting as it does upon our
youth through the delightful medium of amusement, and by the
instrumentality of every circumstance that can lay hold of the fancy,
and through the senses fascinate the heart) should be kept under the
control of a systematic, a vigilant and a severe, but a just criticism.

To the formation of that rare compound "a finished man" there belong,
besides the higher requisites of moral character, an infinite number of
minor accomplishments, which are materially affected either for the
better or the worse, by a frequent and studious attendance on dramatic
representations. MANNERS, which constitute so important a part of the
character of every people, are considerably fashioned by a constant
observation of the pictures of human life exhibited in the theatre: on
the action, the utterance and the general deportment, the effects of the
stage have ever been materially felt and are unequivocally acknowledged.
The most eloquent men of antiquity, and the most eloquent men in
England, have owned themselves indebted to actors for perfecting them in
oratory. Roscius, the actor of Rome, is immortalized by Cicero, and
Garrick by lord Chatham and Edmund Burke. If then the stage has been
felt to produce such weighty effects in the more arduous part of human
improvement, how ponderous in its operation must it not of necessity be,
on the other hand, in the promotion of evil, if it exhibit to the
growing generation corrupt examples and defective models, not only
unrestrained and uncensured, but sanctioned with the applause of an
uninstructed and misjudging multitude. Every plaudit which a vitious
play, or a bad actor receives is a blow to the public morals, and the
public taste. Man is an imitative animal, and insensibly conforms to the
models and examples before him. Young men who excessively admire a
favourite actor, will insensibly imitate him, without scanning the man's
merits or defects; and without ever reflecting upon the ultimate
influence which their partiality, if it should be misplaced, may have
upon their lives, fortunes and characters, will adopt his manner, his
action, his enunciation, nay, his worst defects, and in short every
thing that is imitable about him.

Those who dissent from us on other propositions, will agree with us at
least in this, that the highest degree of attention ought to be paid to
the morals, the manners, the address and the language of youth; and that
nothing which has a tendency to mislead them, in any of those
essentials, should be submitted to their eyes or ears; but that on the
contrary, every thing should be done, as a great moral philosopher has
instructed us, "to secure them from unjust prejudices, from perverse
opinions, and from incongruous combinations of images." Let it be kept
in mind that we are not now discussing the question whether the stage be
beneficial to society or not. Though it be a fair subject of inquiry,
and will hereafter engage a share of our attention, we have no use for
it, at present; since be our opinions or those of our readers what they
may, the stage exists, and will continue to exist and attract the
regards of mankind. The true point of consideration, therefore, is, not
how far it is beneficial or how far injurious; but in what way its
benefits may be enhanced, and its mischiefs, if any, be abated. He who
should demonstrate that it has a pernicious tendency, would but the more
strongly enforce our propositions; since he would thereby show the
expediency of diminishing that tendency and of mitigating that evil
which the public will forbids to be entirely prevented.

It is not merely on account of its effects upon the audience, but on
that of the actors themselves, that the theatre calls loudly for a
strict critical regimen. An actor resigned to his own opinion, and
committed to the unrestrained licentious exercise of his own judgment,
if he be not one in a million, sinks into negligence, becomes wilful,
and if, as is nine times in ten the case, he should obtain the casual
applause of a few stupid and injudicious spectators, becomes headstrong,
refractory, and incorrigibly hardened in error. If by means of the
oversight of critical judges, or the false adjudication of applause, an
actor insensibly slides into popularity, he is erected into a standard
of taste, by those who have not seen better; instead of being himself
tested by sound principles of criticism and estimated by comparison,
with the best models, he becomes gradually absolved from submission to
all authority, is held up as a criterion for determining the merit of
other actors, and dubbed the Roscius of his little theatre by a number
of confident pretenders who know just as much about dramatic character
and acting, and on the very same grounds too, as the poor islander of
St. Kilda did of architecture, when he sagaciously concluded that the
great church of Glasgow was excavated out of a rock, because he had
never before seen an edifice made of hewn stone and mortar. Thus not
only a false taste is circulated among the youth at large, but the very
fountain of taste is itself polluted. This is an evil which nothing but
a well-regulated body of competent critical authority can prevent. In
the prosecution of the intended work, an occasion will occur of pointing
out eras during which, even in the great metropolitan seat of the
English drama, the public taste suffered years of vitiation from
defective models being at the head of the stage. Till Garrick, led on by
Nature herself, introduced her school, the theatre presented a stage on
which scarce a vestige of the human character as it really existed, was
to be seen. But pompous monotony of speech held the highest praise, and
"DECLAMATION ROARED WHILE PASSION SLEPT."

Hitherto the theatre of Philadelphia has been too much resigned to the
licentiousness of bold, and blind opinion. Men of letters, with which
the city abounds, and who in every society are the natural guardians of
the public taste and morals, seem to have deserted this important trust.
Applause which ought to be measured out with scrupulous justice,
correctness and precision, has been by admiring ignorance, poured forth
in a torrent roar of uncouth and obstreperous _glee_ on the buffoon,
"the clown that says more than is set down for him," and on "the
robustious perriwig-pated fellow, who tears a passion all to rags,"
while chaste merit and propriety have often gone unrewarded by a smile.

If critical judgment were a matter of physical force or numerical
calculation, then indeed the roar of the multitude would be as
conclusive in reason, as it too often is in practical effect; but
criticism is a matter of intellectual estimate; and many acquirements go
to the composition of a well-qualified dramatic critic, to any one of
which, but a small number of the auditors of a play can, in the nature
of things, have the smallest pretensions. If indeed any man under the
assumption of the critic's name should attempt dogmatically to impose
his _dictum_ as a law upon the public, he would deserve to be repelled
with indignity and rebuke. All the genuine critic will attempt to do, is
to hold out those lights, with which his own study, experience, and
observation have supplied him, in order to enable the public to discern
more clearly what in the play or the actor is worthy of censure or
applause--of rejection or adoption. In the common operations of human
life, every man is compelled by the necessity of his nature to take
succedaneous aid from others. The mechanic in erecting the poorest
building, or forming the most simple machine, is indebted for his means
to the practical geometrician, and instrument maker, and the latter
again, to the master of the science of mathematics. The practical
surveyor or navigator finds it his interest to be governed by rules
supplied by those whom study has furnished with the great elementary
principles of science, and is contented to stand indebted to them for
his means of determining, the area of his land, or the latitude and
longitude at sea, without impugning the rights of those studious men who
have given him the compendious rules and the tables by which he works.
It is so with dramatic criticism. The legitimate source of judgment lies
with those who have by deep study made themselves masters of the first
principles of the science; and from them the people at large, who are
too much otherwise and certainly better employed, to learn those
principles, must be content to take the rules and laws by which they
judge. The most infatuated self-devotee would be ashamed to contest this
point, if he were at all apprised of the various acquirements requisite
for forming an accurate judgment of the business of the theatre,
interwoven, as the dramatic art is, with some of the highest departments
of literature, and the multifarious operations of the human heart. The
vainest being who cajoles himself into the notion that a man either
unlettered or inexperienced can form a just judgment of a play and
actors, must at once be convinced of his error by reflecting that "the
drama is an exhibition of the real state of sublunary nature;" and that
"to instruct life, and for that purpose to copy what passes in it, is
the business of the stage."[6] To understand this well, demands not only
some book-learning, but that experience which, though books improve,
they cannot impart, and which never can be attained by seclusion or
solitary study, but must be derived from intercourse with men in all
their forms of conduct, from converse with society, and from an
attentive and accurate examination of that complex miscellany, the
living world. To know the drama we must know men; and "if we would know
men (says Rousseau) it is necessary that we should see them act." It is
equally necessary too that we should lift the veil which time has thrown
over the past, and see how men have thought and acted through the lapse
of ages upon the uniform principles of human passion, which ever have
been and ever will be the same, and by that means distinguish that which
is natural, innate and permanent in man, from that which is adventitious
and acquired. He whose knowledge of the world is circumscribed within
the narrow limits of one generation or one society can know man only as
he appears in the superficial colouring and peculiar modification of
personal habit, derived from the fashions, the modes, and the capricious
changes of that time, and that society, while the great body of human
nature remains buried from his sight. "The accidental compositions of
heterogeneous modes (says the gigantic critic Johnson) are dissolved by
the chance which combined them, but the uniform simplicity of primitive
qualities neither admits increase nor suffers decay." And assuredly
there was never an age in which man so masked his nature under modish
innovations as he does in the present.

  [Footnote 6: Dr. Johnson.]

The works of the ancients, says a great writer, are the mines from which
alone the treasures of true criticism are to be dug up--the pure sources
of that penetration which enables us to distinguish legitimate
excellence from spurious pretensions to it. He, therefore, who would get
at the true principles of dramatic criticism ought to read the poetry
and criticism of the two great ancient languages, and to have formed
some acquaintance with those authors, whether ancient or modern, who
have furnished the world with the great leading principles upon which
dramatic poetry is constructed. Doctor Johnson has informed us that
before the time of Dryden, the structure of dramatic poetry was not
generally understood; and what was the consequence? "AUDIENCES,"
continues the doctor, "APPLAUDED BY INSTINCT, AND POETS OFTEN PLEASED BY
CHANCE."[7]

  [Footnote 7: See Johnson's Life of Dryden.]

Without calling in the aid of such high authority, no risk of
contradiction can be incurred by asserting that he must be radically
deficient in the requisites of a dramatic critic, who is not
sufficiently versed in philological literature to discriminate between
the various qualities of diction--to distinguish the language of the
schools from that of the multitude--the polished diction of refinement
from the coarse style of household colloquy--the splendid, figurative,
and impressive combination of terms adapted to poetry, from those plain
and familiar expressions suited to the sobriety of prose; and finally,
to form a just estimate of a poet's pretensions to that delicacy in the
selection of words which constitutes what is called beauty in style. Nor
is this all, he should be perfectly competent to form a judgment of the
fable and its contrivance, to determine according to the canons of
criticism laid down by the greatest professors of the art, whether the
scheme of a piece be obscured by unnatural complexity or rendered jejune
and uninteresting by extreme simplicity, and familiarity of
design--whether description be bloated, or overcharged, or imagery
misplaced or extravagant; and lastly, whether the performance be on the
whole deficient in, or replete with moral institution.

The editors are free to confess that while they enumerate the requisites
necessary to a critic, they tremble for their own incompetency. Labour
however shall not be spared---and they cherish the most sanguine hopes
of supplying their general deficiency by candour and integrity; being
determined while they endeavour with encouragement and applause to
foster the rising genius and growing merit of the stage, to rescue it
from the encroachment of sturdy incapacity, and while they sit in
judgment for the security of the public taste, to be as far as the
canons of dramatic criticism will allow, the strenuous advocates of the
valuable man and unassuming actor--still keeping in sight that
impressive truth contained in the motto: "HE THAT APPLAUDS HIM WHO DOES
NOT DESERVE PRAISE, IS ENDEAVOURING TO DECEIVE THE PUBLIC; HE THAT
HISSES IN MALICE OR IN SPORT IS AN OPPRESSOR AND A ROBBER."

The editors have said thus much merely to explain their motives, and to
smooth their way to the discharge of a task, in the performance of which
they will necessarily be exposed to many invidious remarks from the
misconceptions of presumptuous ignorance. Having done so they fearlessly
commit the subject to the public judgment, and proceed to the execution
of their duty.



DRAMATIC CENSOR.


_The Philadelphia Theatre opened on Monday the 20th of November, with_

"A CURE FOR THE HEART-ACH."

It has been said by a great moral philosopher that fashion supplies the
place of reason. On superficial consideration the assertion will appear
paradoxical; but there is much truth in it, and much biting satire too,
upon the absurdities of the world. Fashion could not supply the place of
reason, if reason were not absent; and most irrational and unaccountable
indeed are all her ladyship's ways. Her capriciousness is proverbial,
and her agency is generally illustrated by comparison with the most
unsteady elements of the physical world. We say "Fashion that
_fluctuating_ lady," alluding to the ebbing and flowing of the tide--and
"Fashion that weathercock," implying that she veers about with every
puff of wind. There are some few cases, however, on the other hand, in
which she may be compared to a rock, because she stands immovably fixt
to her seat; supplying, according to the idea of the philosopher
abovementioned, the place of reason, who stands self-exiled forever. It
would seem as if fashion never could take repose but in supreme
irrationality. There and there alone she is firm. Whoever will take the
trouble (or rather the pleasure) to read "Browne's Vulgar Errors," will
see how much deeper root absurd notions strike in "the brain of this
foolish compounded clay man," than those that belong to sound sense and
reason. The insignia of fashion, therefore, may be considered in
relation to the human head, as the notification on the door of an empty
house, signifying that the family has removed to another tenement. Hence
no one of common sense expects any caprice of that lady to be accounted
for on rational grounds. There is one of her freaks, however, which we
have endeavoured to trace to its source in the wilds of luxuriant
absurdity, and have never been able to succeed. Nay, we venture to
affirm that if the most sagacious man in America were asked, why it was
considered a violation of the laws of fashion for a lady to attend the
theatre on the opening night of a season, he would be puzzled for any
other reply than that it was permanently fashionable, because it was
prodigiously absurd. On the opening of our theatre this season the house
was full of MEN. The audience presented one dark tissue of drab and
brown, and black and blue woolen drapery, with here and there a solitary
exception of cheering female attire. Had there been a heavy fall of
snow, the ladies would have been sleighing--had there been a public ball
the darkness of the streets would have been broken by multitudes of
attractive meteors in muslin, either "hanging on the cheek of night," or
hurried along like gossamer through the air. But fashion has so ordained
it: and a good play and after-piece were well represented to a house
which, from the little intermixture of the lovely sex, somewhat
resembled the auditory of a surgeon's dissecting theatre.

Mr. Morton's comedy "A Cure for the Heart Ach," is by this time so well
known that to relate the fable of it here, would be uselessly to
encumber the work. Of the quality of this production it would be
difficult for criticism to speak candidly, without adverting to the
present miserable state of dramatic poetry in England, which from the
days of Sam Foote has been gradually descending to its present
deplorable condition. The body of dramatic writers of the last thirty
years first corrupted the public taste, and now thrive by that
corruption. By hasty sketches, not of Nature as she appears in all times
and places, but of particular and eccentric manners and characters, the
excressences of overloaded society, they have made a short cut to the
favour of the public, and inundated the stage with a torrent of
ephemeral productions, to the depravation of public taste, and in
defiance of classical criticism: their highest praise that they do no
moral mischief, and that if they possess not the bold outline and
faithful colouring of nature which distinguished the productions of
their mighty predecessors, they are no less exempt from the obscenity
and immoral effects of those authors. As bad writing is infinitely
easier than good, the pens of our living dramatic writers in general
teem with an inconceivable fertility--and the purlieus of London are
beat over in every direction to hunt up game suitable to the genius of
their weak-winged muse; in short, to find out new modifications of
character, attractive not by its consonance to man's general nature, but
by its eccentricity and departure from the ordinary tracks of human
conduct.

Having thus insulated this class of comedies, and put them apart from
the old stock, to which, with the exception of the Honey Moon, there is
no modern production comparable, criticism may weigh the merits of each
piece as compared with its class, and perhaps find something to praise.
We consider some of the comedies of Mr. Morton, however, as raised high
above the throng. The Cure for the Heart Ach has much in it to commend.
The moral tendency of many parts of it is good, while the incidents are
exceedingly laughable. _Old Rapid_ continually betraying his trade by
stuffing his conversation with the technical terms of the taylor--his
son's distress at it--the honest rusticity of _Frank Oatland_--the
baseness, vanity and folly of _Vortex_ the nabob--the insolence and
amorousness of _Miss Vortex_ his daughter, and the whimsical incidents
arising from their various designs, mistakes, detections and
disappointments, form altogether a _melange_ of pleasantry highly
provocative of laughter, yet by no means so low as to reduce the piece
to the rank of farce, which some austere critics in London have
assigned it.

Of the performance generally, we repeat that it was good. Young Rapid
afforded criticism much satisfaction in the person of Mr. Wood, who in
many parts persuaded us that he had seen Mr. Lewis in that character,
and seen him with profit. Mr. Wood's walk is not unlike that of the
great original in London--a nasal tone of voice too is common to both.
These, if they did not create, certainly increased the resemblance
between those two gentlemen, which, however remote, was yet discernible.
In _Sir Hubert Stanley_, as in every other character in which we have
seen him, Mr. M'Kenzie deserved warm applause--he was dignified,
pathetic and interesting. Mr. Francis gave a strong colouring to Vortex;
and to say that Frank Oatland was all that the author could wish, we
need only to state that he fell to the share of Mr. Jefferson. After
all, we are doubtful whether old Rapid was not as well off in the hands
of Mr. Warren as any other character in the play.

We were greatly interested and indeed delighted by Mrs. Wood in Jesse
Oatland. Mrs. Francis was abundantly droll in Mrs. Vortex; and Mrs.
Seymour was entitled to the marks of approbation she received.


  _November 22._

PIZARRO and the Review composed the bill of fare for this evening.
Although in the attack and defence of Pizarro criticism has worn down
the edges of its weapons to very dulness, we cannot forbear taking this
opportunity of recording our opinions of that extraordinary production.

No play that has appeared during the last century, possesses the power
of agitating the passions, and interesting the feelings in an equal
degree to Pizarro. From a child of the brain of Kotzebue, trained and
corrected by Sheridan, much might be expected. And the piece before us
is worthy of the talents of such men.

In any contest between _oppressed_ and _oppressors_ the heart takes in
an instant, a decided and a warm part. If the crime of _oppression_ is
aggravated by other guilt in the _oppressor_, and the object of it is
rendered more lovely and respectable by the most exalted virtues, pity
for the one rises to respect and affection--indignation against the
other becomes exasperated to hatred, to abhorrence, and disgust; without
the intervention of the will, but merely from the spontaneous movements
of the heart, we sympathise, we silently pray for the one--we recoil
from, we execrate the other. We are pressed by our very nature into the
service of virtue; our souls are up in arms against vice and improbity,
and thus we receive lasting impressions, which, when our hearts are not
very corrupt, must forever after have a favourable influence on our
moral conduct.

To elucidate and confirm our opinions on this subject, we beg leave to
ask, what is that play in which there is such a mass of virtue and
simplicity, and such a number of amiable personages, opposed to such a
mass of villany, subtlety, fraudful avarice, and sensual vice, as in
Pizarro? Not one. The lofty moral sentiments of Rolla, his exquisite
feelings and exalted notions as the patriot, the friend, the lover, are
unequalled. He exists out of himself, and lives but for others: for his
country, his king, his friend, and the dearest object of his love, of
whom being bereft by that very friend, he becomes their brother--their
protector--devotes his life to death to save the man--escaping that,
devotes it again to save their offspring. How much worse, if worse could
be, than a satanic soul must that man have, who could be insensible to
such a character! Who is there whose heart beats in harmony with heroic
virtue and humanity, that would not accept such a death, to have lived
such a life? Need we say more then of Pizarro than to contrast him with
such a character. The only gleam of light that breaks in upon that black
_Erebus_, his heart, is his conduct to Rolla when the latter throws
aside his dagger; and this the poet (Sheridan) has artfully contrived
for the purpose of heightening the lustre of such virtue, by showing
that even that monster could not be insensible to it.

Let us add that in the true liberal spirit of Christian piety, tolerance
and humanity displayed by Las Casas, a popish Spanish priest; in the
noble indignation, the inflexible fortitude, and the intrepid patriotism
and virtue of Orozimbo; in the valour, the beneficent wisdom, and the,
ardent connubial fidelity and affection of the young Alonzo, in the
tenderness, the simplicity, the conjugal and maternal virtues of Cora,
and in the artless display of vivid patriotism in the old blind man and
his boy--there is, exclusive of Rolla's glorious qualities, a mass of
excellence sufficient to make the character of any two plays, and put
each out of the reach of competition with any other that we can
immediately think of.

Such as we have described are the emotions which are always produced by
the play now under consideration, when it happens to be properly
represented. Fortunately or unfortunately as it may happen, the play is
so constructed that almost every part in it contributes largely,
according to its kind, to the interest of the piece. Every person of the
_oppressed_--the Peruvians, even down to the blind man and the little
boy, are made by the poet to produce a large share of the general
effect. For this reason it is a piece which taxes a manager highly,
calling for a variety of excellent talents in the actors. It is not one
of those plays which satisfy the mind and from which we come home
contented, if two or three characters are well done. The play of Pizarro
is a lifeless body when compared with what it ought to be, if _all_ the
high Peruvians at least, are not well performed. In the movement of a
watch every small wheel and every little rivet is as necessary to the
general effect as the mainspring. So Las Casas, Orozimbo, the blind man,
and the blind man's boy, are as necessary not perhaps to the mean
progress of the fable (but to that effect, that necromantic influence
upon the feelings, that penetrating moral which alone can render a play
useful as well as delightful) as is the character of Rolla.

It may appear a singular avowal, yet being truth we will not withhold
it, that having witnessed the performance of this play many times in
England and America, we have never yet seen it performed to our
_perfect_ satisfaction. Kemble was great in Rolla, but the feebleness of
his voice was severely felt by the audience in the celebrated speech of
the Peruvian to his soldiers. That speech has been the stumbling block
of most actors we have seen. Hodgkinson, who in other respects was
unexceptionable, rather failed in it. Throughout the whole character,
Mr. Wood preserved a very equable tenor of acting. He had neither the
rich beauties nor the striking defects of others. He evinced
considerable judgment, but at times powers were evidently wanting.

Mr. M'Kenzie supported Pizarro well, and showed that he possesses
abilities to support it better. It appears to us that this gentleman's
physical powers are sometimes subdued by an over-scrupulous chasteness.
In his answers to Elvira's solicitations on behalf of the unhappy
Alonzo, he did not, we think, sufficiently mark all the feeling and
emotions of the tyrant. Pizarro is stung with jealousy as well as rage;
not so much the jealousy of love as of infernal pride; but both rage and
jealousy are mastered by triumphant insolence and contempt. The
utterance therefore of his laconic decisive sentence, "He dies," should
be marked with a triumphant sneer as well as malice.

Mr. Warren did ample justice to the venerable Las Casas.

Mr. Cone who, though labouring under the disadvantages of a voice
radically, and we fear, incurably monotonous, gives promise of being a
useful actor, displayed considerable spirit in Alonzo. To the praise of
diligence and attention to his business Mr. C. is entitled, and those
rarely fail in any department to insure respectability and success. Mr.
Cone's personal appearance is very much in his favour.

The only part in the play on which we can justly bestow _unqualified_
applause was Mr. Jefferson's Orozimbo. It is seldom that criticism has
such a repast, a repast in which there was no fault but that of the poet
in making it too short.

Elvira is not one of the characters in which Mrs. Barret appears to
advantage.

Had Mrs. Wood the requisite talent of singing, we should have been much
pleased with her Cora. Certainly so far as that lady was able to go, we
know no person on this stage who could be substituted in her place with
advantage to the character. But the omission of Cora's exquisitely
beautiful, wild, and pathetic song, was a great drawback from the effect
of the part.


_December 21._--TOWN AND COUNTRY, by Morton--Village Lawyer. Some of the
British critics rank Mr. Morton with the farce-writers of the day,
others again pronounce his comedies to be the best which the age has
produced, and say that they will be selected by posterity from the
perishable trash of the day. We agree with neither, thinking it likely
they may remain for a _few_ years among the stock of acting plays. To
say that they will be admired by posterity is praise as hyperbolical and
unjust, as ranking them in farce is calumnious and untrue.

The comedy before us is a very pleasing production. The plot is well
imagined, and the author has contrived to condense into it more bustle
and incident than can readily be found in a piece of the same length.
Reuben Gleuroy, the hero, is a noble character, possessed of the most
exalted virtues, which are continually brought into active exercise for
the good of his fellow beings. He preaches little and does a great deal,
and displays a generosity and greatness of mind touching, as the world
now goes, upon the chivalrous. But that which makes him more
conspicuously amiable and interesting is that while he takes the most
ardent and active concern in the happiness of mankind, he is himself
reduced by the wickedness of others to a state of misery almost of
distraction, which awakens the most poignant sympathy for his situation.
Deserted, as he imagines, by the object of his dearest affections,
Rosalie Summers, who is supposed to have eloped with a villain of high
rank of the name of Plastic, he goes to London and finds his brother in
the last stage of ruin and despair by gambling, and stops his hand just
at the moment he is attempting suicide. In the end he reforms the
brother, discovers his Rosalie, and finds that she is innocent and
faithful; and by a series of those events, which whether likely or not,
modern dramatists without scruple press into their service, is made
perfectly happy. The colouring of this admirable portrait is not a
little heightened in its effect by a tinge of eccentricity caught from a
life of rural retirement in the romantic mountainous country of Wales.
On this character and that of old Mr. Cosey, a philanthropic, wealthy,
and munificent stock-broker, whose cash, always at the disposal of his
friends, enables Reuben to accomplish his purposes, the author seems to
have dwelt _con amore_. The comic dialogue of the piece arises chiefly
from the contrasted feelings of Mr. Cosey and Mr. Trot. Cosey admires
the city, and is miserable in Wales, while Trot, a wealthy
cotton-spinner, rejoices at the loss of a large share of his property
because it furnishes him with a pretext for returning to the country and
leaving the _abominable_ city to which he was hurried away by the vanity
of his wife.

Mr. Wood displayed in Reuben, much ability, sound sense, and fine
feeling. No person that we know on the stage discloses in his
performances so little of the mere actor. That indefinable something,
which though obvious to perception cannot be described, but is
understood by the term "plain gentleman," tinctures all he says and does
upon the stage. Whether this be detrimental to him as a general actor,
we have not yet seen this gentleman often enough to determine: but this
we will say, that while it stands a perpetual security against his being
positively disagreeable in any character he may be obliged to act, it
throws a charm over all those for which he is best fitted by nature.

The amiable, the inimitable Cosey, never was, nor ever can be more
perfectly at home than in the person of Mr. Jefferson. Were the author
to see the performance and to observe the correspondence of the actor's
physiognomy as well as action and utterance, with the sentiments of the
character, he would from his heart exclaim in the words of Cosey
himself, "NOW THIS IS WHAT I CALL COMFORTABLE."

It would be great injustice not to acknowledge the pleasure we received
from Mr. Francis in the character of Trot, which he conceived and
executed with great humour and spirit.

A Mr. West from the southward made his appearance in the Yorkshire
rustic Hawbuck. His face and person are well adapted to a certain class
of low comedy; his voice still more so. If he will but avoid that bane
of comedians, the effort to raise laughter by spurious humour and low
trick, he will thrive in his department.

In the drawing of the female parts there is nothing sufficiently
striking to call forth the powers of an actress. What was to be done was
sufficiently well done by Mrs. Wood and Mrs. Wilmot. But, were they well
cast? or, should they not change sides?


_FARCES FOR THE FIRST WEEK._

_November 20._ OF AGE TOMORROW.

Every character tolerably well played.


_November 22._ WAGS OF WINDSOR.

Hardinge, an old favourite of the town in Irish characters, appeared the
first time for four years in Looney M'Twoulter. His return to this stage
was hailed with thunders of applause; and all his songs were
_encored_.--We have not seen Caleb Quotem better performed in England,
nor so well by a great deal in America as this night by
Jefferson.--Wilmot is a true child of nature and simplicity in all such
characters as John Lump.


_November 24._ VILLAGE LAWYER.

We abhor this farce. Scout, from whom it takes its name, is too
detestable a picture of human meanness and depravity to be fit for
farce, the proper effects of which, however nonsensical it may be, ought
to be to enliven and not create disgust. We cannot bear to see a
respectable actor in it. Blisset, a favourite son of Momus, played the
Sheepstealer. Mr. West, whom we have mentioned in Hawbuck, played Old
Snarl with great humour, which his audience, and indeed himself, seemed
heartily to enjoy. In characters of low humour, particularly crabbed old
men, Mr. West would be very pleasing, if he would aim less at raising
gallery laughter by spurious means. And all that could be done for Mrs.
Scout was done by Mrs. Francis.


_November 27._

ELLA ROZENBERG.--WOOD DEMON.

Ella Rozenberg, a melo-drame, by Mr. Kenny, was brought out for the
first time at Drury Lane in 1807, and has ever since maintained its
ground in the public opinion. It is extremely interesting, and though
there is nothing new or singular in the plot or incidents is calculated
to lay fast hold on the imagination and feelings. At the opening of the
piece, the scene of which is laid near a Prussian camp, the heroine
_Ella Rosenberg_ reduced by the disappearance of her husband to a state
of poverty, is living under the protection of captain _Storm_,
a crippled old officer of invalids, and the friend of her deceased
father. Here she has concealed herself for two years, when she is
discovered by colonel _Mountfort_, who having conceived a criminal
passion for her, had in order to gratify that passion, purposely
provoked her husband to draw his sword upon him, in consequence of which
apprehending the severity of the military law, the latter had set off to
the capital to appeal to the electoral prince, but was no more heard of.
The colonel, who is a finished master of intrigue, enters Storm's house
in disguise, and attempts with the help of a band of his soldiers to
carry off Ella by force. In this he is opposed by the good and gallant
old officer, who, sword in hand, beats off the soldiers, tears the
colonel's sash from him, and in a rage tramples it under foot, in
consequence of which Storm is made prisoner, and Ella left unprotected,
is borne away by the soldiers. The elector, who has just returned
victorious from the war, appears considering a petition from old Storm
on behalf of Ella, which interests him so much, that he resolves to
visit her incognito. Mountfort, who is a favourite of the elector's and
has just arrived to congratulate him, is alarmed, endeavours to dissuade
him from going to Ella, and in the meantime to secure himself from
detection orders the immediate trial of Storm, who is found guilty and
sentenced to die. Ella escapes and reaches Storm, her old protector,
just as he is on his way to execution. He does all he can to keep his
fate concealed from her; but it being betrayed, she is torn from him in
a state of distraction and anguish, and being consigned by her generous
protector to the care of a brother officer who commands the guard, is
conducted to a solitary inn by a soldier. The elector appears at night
passing in disguise to visit the cottage of Storm, and is encountered by
Rosenberg, who appears in the most wretched state, flying from his
pursuers, and supplicates him for the means to procure shelter. Without
disclosing who he is, Rosenberg informs the elector that he (Rosenberg)
has been secretly and violently imprisoned. The elector directs him to
the house to which Ella is carried by the soldiers, and promises to meet
him there in the morning and assist him. Rosenberg reaches the inn
whither Ella too is brought in a state of insensibility, and placed in a
separate apartment. Mountfort arrives alone, and not knowing Rosenberg
engages him to guard Ella, while he goes to seek a conveyance for her.
Rosenberg now finds the cause of his imprisonment--an interesting
discovery takes place between him and Ella--but he is detected by one of
his pursuers, and is again in the hands of his enemies, when the elector
enters, and obtaining the most perfect conviction of the villany of
Mountfort, disgraces him, restores the young couple to rank and
happiness, and the brave and virtuous old Storm to life, liberty and
joy.

The plot of this melo-drame is wrought up with uncommon skill: the
interest rising by a progressive climax which keeps the heart in a warm
glow of feeling from the first scene to the last. Old Storm is worth a
whole army of what are called heroes, and the elector is a model of
justice and humanity for princes to imitate.

According to the London casting Rosenberg would have fallen to the share
of the first player in the house: but we had no reason to complain of
Mr. Cone. Mr. Warren discharged the high office of elector with dignity;
and Mr. M'Kenzie was an excellent representative of the old
cut-and-thrust-colonel. Such characters as Ella are always interesting
when played by Mrs. Wood.

The tasteful amateur must have been roused and delighted by the music,
particularly the overture.


Ella Rosenberg was followed by one of the most monstrous productions,
the mind of man ever groaned withal. Never did melancholy madman
labouring under the horrors of an inflammation of the brain--never did a
wretch fevered with gluttony and intemperance, and writhing under the
pressure of the night-mare, dream of more horrible circumstances than
those which Mr. Lewis has offered in this prodigious melo-drame, for the
ENTERTAINMENT of the British nation. Where will the taste of England
stop in its descent? Where will the impositions on it by bastard genius
end? Yet since this monster has produced a powerful effect, and is
managed with such perverted skill as to excite a strong interest, and
since whole audiences condescend to club tastes with the scarecrow old
women of the heath and the mountain, and to play "look at the bugabow,"
with the nurselings of the lap, we should be sorry to be deficient in
curtesy, or when so many good and wise people drivel not to drivel a
little too; we bend therefore with stiff and painful obedience to our
duty, and offer our readers a short summary of the fable.

To clear the way then, be it in the first place known, that Mr. Matthew
Lewis has found out a new kind of infernal agent--a demon who delights
in human sacrifices, and lives in the woods. Perhaps it is because we
are poorly versed in demonology that we do not recollect to have heard
of this particular infernal before. Be that as it may, _Count
Hardyknute_ of Holstein, having been sent into the world deformed in
person and poor in circumstances, and being resolved to sell his soul to
damnation for the bettering of his body, makes a contract with the
demon, in condition of his being made handsome and powerful, to
sacrifice to him a human victim on a particular day in each year; in
failure of which he is to become the prey of the demon, who is very
handsomely named _Sangrida_. The count has sacrificed nine victims
before the opening of the piece, and is meditating with himself with
what fat offering he shall next glut the maw of Sangrida, in anniversary
punctuality. _Leolyn_, a dumb boy, the rightful heir of the estate and
title which Hardyknute had usurped, has been secretly bred up by
_Clotilda_ as her own, but Hardyknute discovers him by the mark of a
bloody arrow on his wrist, and determines to help Sangrida to his little
body. _Una_, a beautiful young lady, to whom the count pays his
addresses, is selected by the guardian spirit of Holstein to be the
preserver of the intended victim. The time approaches for the fulfilment
of the agreement. By a process of the most horrible kind of enchantment
Una is enabled to remove the boy so as to elude the count, and gets
possession of the key of an enchanted place on which the boy is chained.
She gets him down from it--the clock is seen just near the stroke of
one--she resolves to push the hand forward--Hardyknute seizes and is
about despatching her, when Leolyn with difficulty mounts to the clock,
pushes forward the hand and it strikes one--the demon appears, seizes
the count in his claws--the earth opens, and the demon carries him down,
in the same manner that an alligator or shark carries down a puppy dog,
to devour him in comfort.

Such is the piece, and such the depravity of a nation's taste. It is no
wonder that the tasteful, the learned and the judicious, should wage an
open war of wit and satire upon such things. On this subject we refer
our readers to a piece signed THEOBALDUS SECUNDUS, which will appear in
our next number.


SECOND WEEK.

_November 29._ RECONCILIATION, OR FRATERNAL DISCORD, _with_ FALSE AND
TRUE.

It would be superfluous to say any thing of a play so well known and so
justly admired.


_December 1._ ABAELLINO, OR THE GREAT BANDIT, _with the_ LADY OF THE
ROCK.

The Great Bandit is one of those extraordinary productions which
distinguish the present dramatic writers of Germany from those of all
ages and all countries. There are but few topics connected with the
stage which deserve more serious discussion than this of the German
drama. A proper investigation of it would require more room than we can
at present spare: but we shall not so far desert our duty as to decline
it when we can devote to it the deliberation it deserves. A future, and
not far distant number will contain such reflections as occur to us on
the subject.


_December 2._ ROAD TO RUIN--DON JUAN.

Mr. Wood in _Harry Dornton_ was very successful. It is a line of acting
for which he is well calculated. The character of _Goldfinch_ was better
performed by Mr. Jefferson than it could be in any other person in this
theatre. But we received less pleasure from it than from any other we
have seen him play, _Scout_ excepted.


_FARCES FOR THIS WEEK._

The Wood Demon, though used as an after-piece, demanded observation of a
more serious kind than is due to farce, and has therefore received it in
pages 71 and 72.


The farce of "False and True" is a wretched thing. To speak
Johnsonically it is a congeries of inexplicable nonsense. An Irishman,
who, after having committed the _very probable_ blunder of going to
Naples instead of Dublin, mistakes Vesuvius for the hill of Hoath, is
the most laughable character of the piece. What could be done for it
Hardinge did. A song of his was spoiled by the neglect of the band,
whose conduct deserved reprehension from the manager.


The Lady of the Rock is the production of Holcroft. Had he not himself
given it to the world as his own, we should have thought it a libel upon
his understanding to ascribe it to his pen.


No pantomime has ever made so deep and so universal an impression as Don
Juan. The merit of the original belongs to the celebrated Moliere.
Averse on principle to pantomime, we have often felt ourselves indebted
to it for relief from the drowsiness induced by some modern plays; but
that perhaps was more owing to the badness of the play than the value of
the pantomime. Of all pantomimes Don Juan is the most blamable. It is
good in its kind, but the kind _is bad_.


THIRD WEEK.

_Monday, Dec._ 4. SPEED THE PLOUGH--ELLA ROSENBERG.

The comedy of Speed the Plough is deservedly reckoned among the best of
the modern stock, and considered as reflecting great credit upon the
muse of Mr. Morton. The plot is very skilfully mixed up, notwithstanding
the difficulty that always must attend carrying on, in connection with
each other, two interests of a totally distinct and opposite nature,
connecting two contradictory agencies without either encroaching on the
other, and conducting an alternation of serious and comic scenes to one
end, without making them clash. This Mr. Morton has, to a considerable
degree, successfully accomplished; making that which occasions the
difficulty subservient to one of the most desirable but arduous ends in
dramatic writing, that of concealing the final unravelling or
denouement, as it is called, of the plot.

A striking beauty in this play, and the more striking because seldom met
with, is the fidelity with which some of the characters are drawn from
life; not as it is found in a solitary individual, but as it appears in
a whole numerous class. Such is farmer Ashfield--such is dame Ashfield.
Yet the characters in general are not very impressive, and there are
some inconsistencies in them as well as in the arrangement of the
incidents. A young lady's suddenly, and at first sight, falling in love
with a peasant boy, though it may have happened, is an occurrence too
singular to be perfectly natural; and as a dramatic incident, it is a
coarseness which cannot well be reconciled to the characteristic
delicacy of such a young lady, even by the _ex post facto_ discovery
that the object of her love was in reality a person of condition. We do
not think that love at first sight, which is in reality nothing more
than Forwardness indulging itself in the airs of Romance, and Prurience
calling in Fate to sanction its indelicacy, ought to be clothed in such
a respectable and captivating dress as our author has bestowed upon it
in this play.

Yet with these defects to counterbalance them, Speed the Plough is
replete with beauties--the dialogue is neat, spirited, and forcible; and
there are many delicate touches of the pathetic, and much excellent
moral sentiment to recommend it.

The best character, beyond all comparison, is that of Farmer Ashfield.
It is a picture of real life, originals of which are found in multitudes
in England--plain, honest, benevolent, and under a rustic garb,
possessing a heart alive to the noblest feelings. No man that we know in
this country possesses such happy requisites for exhibiting the farmer
in the true colours of nature as Mr. Jefferson. In the rustic deportment
and dialect--in the artless effusions of benignity and undisguised
truth--and in those masterly strokes of pathos and simplicity with which
the author has finished this inimitable picture Mr. Jefferson showed
uniform excellence: and as in the humorous parts his comic powers
produced their customary effect on our risibility, so in the serious
overflowings of the farmer's honest nature the mellow, deep, impressive
tone of the actor's voice vibrated to the heart, and excited the most
exquisite sensations.

Mr. Wood performed Bob Handy. He was given out in the bills for sir
Philip Blandford; but was, by a casualty, obliged to take the part of
Bob: a change which, on more accounts than one, the audience had no
cause to regret. Nor in our opinion, had either Bob or sir Philip any
cause to lament it. Mr. Wood is at home in light comedy, while Mr.
M'Kenzie, whose merits seem not to be sufficiently appreciated, is well
calculated for such characters as Philip Blandford.

The judgment of Mr. Warren enables him to perform any character he
undertakes with propriety--but there are some parts in comedy for which
he seems admirably qualified by nature and knowledge of stage business.
We could enumerate several; but this is not the place for doing so--his
representation of sir Abel Handy was uncommonly humorous and
appropriate.

Mr. Cone's Henry was pleasing. This young actor promises well. Though,
to adopt the cant of the turf, he will never be first, there is no fear
of his being distanced, unless he carries too great weight.

Dame Ashfield in the performance of Mrs. Francis would be admired by
Mrs. Grundy herself; and to express our opinion of Mrs. Wood's Susan
would be only to repeat what we have already said of her on more
occasions than one.


It gives us infinite regret to be compelled, just as we put our foot
upon the threshold of the critic's office, to animadvert upon some
errors and defects in pronunciation, of which we could not have imagined
the persons concerned to be capable. Our purpose is to persuade the
people to encourage the stage upon principles honourable to it; not as a
place of mere barren pastime; but as a school of improvement. But how
shall we be able to bring the public mind to that habitual respect for
the stage without which it must lose all useful effect, if the actors
show themselves unfit for conveying instruction. Were this to be the
case, and were mere pastime the object of theatres, Astley's
horse-riders, the tumblers and rope-dancers of Sadlers-Wells, nay, the
PUNCH of a puppet-show, would be as useful and respectable as Garrick,
Barry, Cooke, or Kemble, and the circus might successfully batter its
head against the walls of that building in Chesnut-street which the
sculptor has enriched with the wooden proxies of Melpomene and Thalia.
But criticism will not allow this. For the sake of the stage it will
exert all its might to support the actors--and for the sake of the stage
it will hold them in admonition. If the established principles of
literature be violated by the actors, the very ground upon which the
critic would support them, is blown up by a mine of their own
construction, and not only they must sink, but the critic must, for the
maintenance of a just cause, put his hand to their heads and give them a
lanch. The theatre is a school for elocution or it is nothing. In Great
Britain it has time immemorial been attended to, not as authority for
innovations, but as an organ of conveyance of the authorised
pronunciation, to which the growing youth of the country were to look
for accurate information of what was correct, as settled and considered
by their superiors, that is, by high learned men and statesmen. If the
actors, therefore, run counter to authority, and thereby endanger the
cause which they are presumed to aid, the mischief is too general and
extensive in its operation to be neglected or endured. There is nothing
belonging to the stage which demands such strict discipline as its
orthoepy, because there is none in which it can so immediately and
powerfully affect the public. On this point therefore we are determined
to sacrifice nothing to ceremony; being convinced that debasing the
language is essentially as injurious, though legally not so punishable,
as defacing the current coin of a country.

Without pointing to individuals by name, we request the ladies and
gentlemen of the green-room to consult all the acknowledged authorities
for the pronunciation of the words: true, rude, brute, shrewd, rule, in
which the u is by some of them sounded very improperly; _true_ so as to
rhyme to _few_, _new_, &c. _rule_ as if it were to rhyme to _mule_, and
so on; whereas true ought to be pronounced as if it were spelled _troo_,
and rhymed to _do_; rule as if spelled _rool_, and so on; and thus they
will find them in the dictionaries of acknowledged authority.

Since we are on the subject we will now advert to some other words which
are often most lamentably mispronounced, not only contrary to the
pronunciation established by all learned men and orators in Great
Britain, but exactly in that way in which skilful actors often pronounce
them in Europe when they wish to mimic the most low and ignorant classes
of society. Of this description is the pronunciation of the word
"sacrifice." For these words we refer all whom it may concern to the
dictionaries of the best orthoepists, by which they will be instructed
that it is not pronounced say-crifice but sac-rifize. If the former be
really the pronunciation, the old ladies who smoke short pipes in the
chimney corners of English and Irish cottages, are right, and Burke,
Fox, Pitt, Windham, Curran, Grattan, Sheridan, and in short every man
who speaks in a public assembly in England or Ireland, are wrong. We are
not sure whether Mr. Kemble, who, as an excellent critic has observed,
is always seeking for novelty and always running into error, may not
lately have added that patch to his motley garb of new readings; but his
authority is disallowed. Even Garrick, whose claims were of a very
superior kind, when he attempted to render the English language, already
too unstable, more so, by his innovations, was repelled with helpless
contempt.

This is a point to which it is the manager's duty to attend, because it
is not a matter of doubt, nor subject to discretionary opinion. What
must that part of our youth who attend to these things from a laudable
desire for improvement, think, when they hear the same word differently
pronounced in the same scene by different actors. Upon one night
particularly, Mr. M'Kenzie several times returned the mispronounced
word, pronounced as it should be, with an emphasis which could not be
misunderstood: yet the mispronunciation was persisted in.

Before we drop this subject we must observe that the pronunciation of
the last syllable of the word sacrifice is sometimes as erroneously
pronounced as the first, indeed worse, as the sound given to it
approximates to one which conveys an offensive idea. Properly pronounced
it rhymes to the verbs _advise_, _rise_, and not to mice, spice, &c.


Having brought our critical journal up to the appearance of that
phenomenon of the stage of this new world, Master Payne, we find
ourselves constrained, by the limits of this number, to postpone our
observations upon the plays in which that extraordinary boy, for so many
nights, astonished and delighted crowded houses, and far beyond our
expectations, made good his title to the partiality of every city in
which he has performed.



CRITICISM.

THE FOUNDLING OF THE FOREST--A PLAY.


This production which we have annexed to our first number, not on
account of its superior merit, but because it was the most recently
published of any that has yet come to our hands, will, on the most
superficial reading, be discerned to be of the true German cast. The old
trick of grouping the characters at the end of a scene, and dropping the
curtain upon them, by way of leaving it to the general conception of the
audience to guess the rest, as is done in the Stranger, and all others
of that breed, is here twice put in practice. Those who like such drugs
mixed up with a _quantum sufficit_ of horror, and all the tenterhook
interest, hair-breadth escapes, and incident so forced as to stagger
belief, which make up the hotchpotch romances whether narrative or
dramatic of the present day, will like this. Mr. Dimond has in this
piece certainly shown great skill in working up that kind of materials
to the production of stage effect; since to those who can be interested
or affected by the marvellous and mysterious, and who love to step for
amusement out of the precincts of nature, and the conduct of "the folks
of the world" the Foundling of the Forest will be interesting and
affecting. Viewing it with a strict critical eye, not only the plot is
faulty, but the composition is in many places extremely bad. If the
production of original character was the author's design, he has
succeeded to his heart's content in that of Florian, which we believe
has never had a prototype in this world. In this _hero_ who is sometimes
as bombastical as ancient Pistol, and sometimes as ridiculous as a
buffoon, the author attempts to be droll, and

  Aims at wit--but levell'd in the dark,
  The random arrow never hits the mark.

A London critic remarking with just severity upon the strange way in
which the divinity is addressed in this piece, says, "This blot defaces
almost all the modern things called dramas or plays. In the farcical
comedies we have low vulgar swearing unworthy even the refuse of
society; while in the _comedies larmoyantes_ (_weeping comedies_) and
tragedies, we have eternal imprecations of the deity, indicative only of
madness in literature." To this observation as well as that which
follows from the same critic we heartily subscribe. "It is interspersed
with songs, to one of which we direct[8] the reader, to remind the
author of what Pope says:

  Want of decency shows want of sense.

  [Footnote 8: _See the Duett between Rosabelle and L'Eclair, Act.
  III, scene I, page 16._]

"Among _soi-disant_ jolly fellows revelling in senseless ribaldry and
inebriety (continues the reviewer) this song might be deemed very fine;
but we shrewdly suspect that if the lines had been spoken at the theatre
instead of being sung, the audience would have resented the insult."

It would be injustice not to add that the concluding speech of count
Valmont, and many other parts scattered through the piece, must be
admired as specimens of very fine composition.



MUSIC.


The lovers of poetry and music have lately been highly gratified by the
publication of "A Selection of Irish Melodies, with Symphonies and
Accompaniments, by Sir JOHN STEVENSON, Doctor of Music, and
Characteristic Words, by THOMAS MOORE, Esq. the first number of which
was published in London and Dublin in the month of February of the last
year, the reviewers spoke with decided approbation. To the second
number, published in April, they are no less favourable. These melodies
have been for some time anxiously expected--it being pretty generally
understood that that fascinating poet, Moore, was employed in the
pursuit of them. He had promised them for sometime. "It is intended,
says the editor, to form a collection of the best Irish melodies, with
characteristic symphonies and accompaniments, and with words containing
as frequently as possible, allusions to the manners and history of the
country;" and in a letter of Mr. Moore's which appears in the
publication, he says, "I feel very anxious that a work of this kind
should be undertaken. We have too long neglected the only talent for
which our English neighbours ever deign to allow us any credit. While
the composers of the continent have enriched their operas and sonatas
with melodies borrowed from Ireland, very often without even the honesty
of acknowledgment, we have left these treasures in a great degree
unclaimed and fugitive. Thus our airs, like too many of our countrymen,
for want of protection at home, have passed into the service of
foreigners. But we are come I hope to a better period both of politics
and music: and how much they are connected, in Ireland at least, appears
too plainly in the tone of sorrow and depression which characterizes
most of our early songs. The task which you propose to me of adapting
words to these airs, is by no means easy. The poet who would follow the
various sentiments which they express, must feel and understand that
rapid fluctuation of spirits, that unaccountable mixture of gloom and
levity which composes the character of my countrymen, and has deeply
tinged their music. Even in their liveliest strains we find some
melancholy note inhere, some minor third or flat seventh which throws
its shade as it passes, and makes even mirth interesting. If BURNS had
been an Irishman (and I would willingly give up all our claims upon
Ossian for him) his heart would have been proud of such music, and his
genius would have made it immortal."

A London reviewer speaking of the first number, says, "the idea is
excellent, and the twelve vocal airs which this first number of the work
contains, are tastefully arrayed by sir John Stevenson, and happily
provided with language by Mr. Moore.

"We are happy (continues the reviewer) to find that even where Mr.
Moore's subject is amatory, his poetry is very little in the style of
those baneful effusions which are undergoing so rigorous an examination.
His verse is here fanciful and gentlemanly, full of his subject, and, as
far as our English souls can judge, faithfully expressing it. Nothing
can be more pathetic than "Oh! breathe not his name;" nothing more
brilliant than "Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour;" and nothing more
poetical than "As a beam o'er the face of the waters may glow." We must
be indulged in quoting one of those effusions of Mr. Moore's genius; and
we can find none more elegant or natural than the following:

_SONG._

  Oh! think not my spirits are always as light,
    And as free from a pang as they seem to you now,
  Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of tonight,
    Will return with tomorrow to brighten my brow.

  No, Life is a waste of wearisome flowers,
    Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns;
  And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers,
    Is always the first to be touch'd by the thorns.

  But send round the bowl, and be happy awhile;
    May we never meet worse in our pilgrimage here
  Than the tear that Enjoyment can gild with a smile,
    And the smile that Compassion can turn to a tear.

  The thread of our life would be dark, heaven knows!
    If it were not with friendship and love intertwined;
  And I care not how soon I may sink to repose,
    When these blessings shall cease to be dear to my mind!

  But they who have lov'd the fondest, the purest,
    Too often have wept o'er the dream they've believed;
  And the heart that has slumber'd in friendship securest,
    Is happy indeed if 'twas never deceiv'd.

  But send round the bowl; while a relic of truth
    Is in man or in woman, this pray'r shall be mine,
  That the sunshine of love may illumine our youth,
    And the moonlight of friendship console our decline.

"The airs of the first number are excessively beautiful in
themselves--particularly those of the well known "Gramachree," "Plausty
Kelly," and the "Summer is Coming," and the duets of "The Maid of the
Valley," and the "Brown Maid," are very delightful. "The latter (says
the London reviewer) is a perfect specimen of the genius of duet, each
part taking up the other alternately. The publication of these Irish
airs fully discovers the source of Mr. Moore's musical compositions."

Speaking of the second number, the reviewer says it is by no means
inferior to the first either in music or in poetry. The air "Oh! weep
for the hour" ("The Pretty Girl of Derby O!") is harmonized in a style
of great elegance; and that, and "The Red Fox," "The Black Joke," and
"My Lodging is on the Cold Ground," have particularly pleased us in
their arrangement. The song which Mr. Moore has written to "The Black
Joke," is both poetical and political, and though the affairs of Spain
have now rendered it, as to that country, an _old newspaper_, yet it is
still good in the cause of Ireland."



SPORTING INTELLIGENCE.


The coterie of old ladies in the British parliament, the _chairwoman_ of
which was the late sir Richard Hill, have failed in all their attempts
to tie up the hands of the people from their old sports. They have
declaimed in parliament, and they have declaimed in print, against all
the gymnastic exercises which time immemorial have been the pride and
the pastime of the hardy natives of the British islands. Never did
Robespierre weep such unfeigned tears over "sweet bleeding humanity," as
those good souls have shed over the broken heads, and black eyes, and
bloody noses of the Bull family, who, obstinate dogs, will still go on
and laugh at their ladyships. Indeed Bonaparte himself, whose interest
it really is, could not more anxiously desire the abolition of those
gymnastic exercises.

The sports of England are horse-racing; fox, hare, and stag-hunting;
coursing with greyhounds; shooting, fishing, bull-baiting, wrestling,
single stick, pugilism, pedestrianism, cricket, &c. These are practised
by all ranks and on national accounts, are encouraged by all the wise
and patriotic men of the country; some few, and those mostly fanaticks,
excepted. To those games they add, in Ireland, the noble sport of
hurling, in which that vigorous race exhibit such prodigies of strength
and activity as induced the celebrated Arthur Young to speak to this
effect in his Tour through Ireland: "In their hurlings, which I would
call the cricket of savages, they perform feats of agility that would
not do discredit to Sadler's Wells."

The gymnastic games have been long carried on so systematically that
they make as regular a part of the public intelligence as any that finds
its way into the public papers, and have, like the theatre, their
appropriated periodical publications.[9] On this subject we would say
much more, as we mean to present our readers with such things as appear
curious or extraordinary in those publications; but by way of a
beginning, and to pave the road for the reception of this part of our
work by the public, we beg leave to offer, not to their hasty perusal,
but their profound consideration, the following defence of pugilism,
written, it is said, by that profound statesman, patriot, and scholar,
William Windham, whose eloquence and wit caused sir R. Hill's
bull-baiting bill to be laughed out of the House of Commons.

  [Footnote 9: The Sporting Magazine for one.]

"I lay it down as a principle, that in every state of society, men,
particularly those of the lower ranks, will ever require some means of
venting their passions and redressing personal affronts, independently
of those which the laws of their country might afford them; and that it
is of more benefit to the community that these personal contests should
be under such regulations as place bounds to resentment, than that they
should be left to the unrestrained indulgence of revenge and ferocity.
In most countries on the northern continent of Europe, bodily strength
exclusively decides the contest; hands, feet, teeth, and nails are all
employed, and the strongest gratifies his resentment by biting, kicking,
and trampling upon his prostrate adversary.[10] In the south the appeal
is usually to the stiletto, and a _colpo dicoltello_ is so common at
Naples, that there is hardly a lazarone who has not the marks of it on
some parts of his body; not a year passes in which there are not
hundreds of assassinations in this city. Now, observe the different
effects of a different principle: A sailor, some time since, at
Nottingham, lent an aeronaut his assistance in preparing the ascent of
his balloon; when receiving a blow from one of the by-standers while he
held a knife in his hand--"You scoundrel," exclaims the tar, "you have
taken the advantage by striking me because you knew that, as I held a
knife I could not strike you again." Under similar circumstances, what
would have been the conduct of a Genoese or a Neapolitan?

  [Footnote 10: He might have added gouging, as practised in the
  southern States of this Union.]

Boxing, as it is conducted in this country, is a remnant of the ancient
tilt and tournament, conducted on the principles of honour and equity;
a contest of courage, strength, and dexterity, where every thing like an
unfair and ungenerous advantage, is proscribed and abhorred. It is a
custom peculiarly our own, and to which probably we are not only
indebted for the infrequency of murder and assassination, but also for
the victories of Maida, and Trafalgar.

Some persons are willing to allow these effects, provided the practice
was confined to casual contests, and not extended to public combats and
stage fights. These, they say, induce the laborious men to quit their
occupations, and serve as a rendezvous for the disorderly and the
profligate; but is not the same objection to be made to all amusements
in which the lower orders are peculiarly interested, and where else
would men of this description practically learn, that the gratification
of their personal resentments must be limited by the laws of honour and
forbearance? Had Crib struck Gregson after the decision of the contest
in his favour, what would have been the indignant feelings of the
surrounding multitude, and what would he not have experienced from their
resentment? And are these feelings not worth inculcating? will they not
characterise a nation, and are they not the genuine sources of
generosity and honour? If it be admitted, which I think cannot be
denied, that any advantage be derived to society from individuals in
these combats being restrained from giving full scope to ferocity and
revenge, these advantages must be exclusively ascribed to the custom of
public exhibitions. It is from these that all regulations and
restrictions originate--it is from these they are propagated, and with
these they will be extinguished.

"I am not without apprehension, that from abhorrence of what some call
brutal and vulgar pursuits, the noble science of attack and defence
should be in future proscribed at the seminaries of Eton, Winchester,
and Westminster, and that little master should be enjoined by his mama,
in case of an affront, to resort to his master for redress and
protection. To the custom, indeed, as it now prevails, the English youth
are, in a great measure indebted for their nobleness and manliness of
character. Two boys quarrel, they agree to box it out--they begin and
they end by shaking hands; the enmity terminates with the contest--And
what is this but a lesson of courage, magnanimity, and forgiveness? the
principles of which are thus indelibly impressed on the mind of the boy,
and must ever after influence the character of the man.

"Away then with this effeminate cant about maintaining order and
decorum, by the suppression of the public exhibitions of manly
exercises. To them the individual Englishman owes his superiority to the
individual of every other country, in courage, strength, and agility:
and as a country is composed of individuals, to what other causes can
England more reasonably impute her proud preeminence among nations which
she now enjoys, and which she will ever maintain till this spirit is
tamed into servility, under the pretence of applying salutary
restrictions to the licentiousness of the people."


After the foregoing essay, a parallel drawn between English men and
English mastiffs by the celebrated cardinal Ximenes comes not
unappropriately in this place.

The cardinal, who was minister to one of the French monarchs, observed
that the English, like their native mastiffs, lived in a state of
internal hostility. "The cause," said he, "which creates a canine
uproar, every one knows, is a bone; whence among the English, every
statistical elevation, as well as other causes of contest, is called A
BONE OF CONTENTION. During the time of profound peace, these island dogs
are always growling, snapping at, and tearing each other; but the moment
the barking of foreign dogs is heard, the contention about bones ceases,
the whole species become friends, and with one heart and mind they join
their teeth to defend their kennels against foreign enemies."

The following extraordinary circumstances are selected from the British
sporting intelligence of the last year.


"A herdsman lately met a fox in the morning, on a mountain in the
neighbourhood of Ballycastle (Ireland). On his approach, the animal did
not offer to avoid him, but allowed him to come close up, when he struck
it with a stick and killed it. On examination the fox was found to be
completely destitute of teeth, and is supposed to have been blind with
age.


"A fox lately turned out at Fisherwick-park, the hunting seat of the
marquis of Donnegal, being hard pressed, forced his way into the window
of a farm house, and took shelter under the bed of the farmer's wife who
had not an hour before lain in. The feelings of all parties may easier
be imagined than described. The good woman, however, suffered no
material injury by Reynard's unexpected visit, who was taken and
reserved for the sport of another day.


"On Wednesday last, about six o'clock, a covey of partridges were seen
to pitch in the middle of the CIRCUS, Bath, supposed to have taken
refuge there, after having escaped from the aim of some distant gunner.
Under the effects of fright and fatigue six were easily caught by three
servants, and strange as it may appear the three servants of three
eminent physicians who reside in that elegant pile. Doctor F.'s man
secured three; doctor P.'s two, and doctor G.'s the other bird.
A _consultation_ afterwards took place respecting the fate of these poor
tremblers, when it was humanely determined that they should be taken in
a basket to some distance, and liberated, which was accordingly done.
A keen sportsman would not approve of this forbearance; but perhaps none
of the doctors had taken out a license to kill--GAME.


"A male and female hare were put together by lord Ribblesdale for one
year, when the offspring amounted to sixty-eight. A pair of rabbits
inclosed for the same time produced above three hundred. The value of
rabbits' wool used annually in the manufacture of hats in England is two
hundred and fifty thousand pounds.


"A few days ago a hare was observed lying before a door in
Manchester-street, London. The poor animal was immediately pursued, and
in less than a minute the street was crowded: she succeeded in making
her way down through Duke-street, followed by an immense mob. The
novelty of a hunt in such a place caused every person in the surrounding
streets to join in the chase. Notwithstanding her numerous pursuers she
made her way down Oxford-street and into Stratford-place, where she got
into the corner next to the duke of St. Alban's house, and remained
quietly until she was taken alive by the duke's porter in the presence
of an immense concourse of spectators.


"On the twenty-ninth of October last, in the afternoon, a fox was seen
crossing the fields of Camptown in Bedfordshire, followed by a
shepherd's dog. The fox first made his way into the grounds of the
reverend Mr. Davies's boarding-school, at Campton, where the boys were
at play. Reynard was no sooner in the midst of this juvenile assembly
than a tumultuous uproar assailed him, from which he fled with all speed
through a border plantation into the road, and crossing to the house of
the reverend Mr. Williamson the minister of the parish, he bolted
through the glass into the library. Here a female servant was cleaning
the room, who by the sudden and unexpected appearance of this new
visitor was thrown into fits. The family running into the apartment
found the fox skulking in a corner, and the poor girl lying extended on
the floor. With some difficulty she was recovered, and master Reynard
was bagged for a future chase. Nobody can tell where the chase
commenced, but the dog is known to belong to a shepherd at Meppershall,
the adjoining parish to Campton.


"The Cranborne chase pack had one of the finest runs ever known in the
western part of the kingdom. They unkennelled at Punpernwood, four miles
east of Blandford. The fox went off immediately for "the chase," and
having taken a round in the West-walk, broke off over Iwern hills, and
entered the vale of Blackmore, leaving the parish of Shooten to the
left, making his play towards Duncliffwood near Shaston; but having been
headed, he bent his course to the river Stow, which he boldly crossed in
defiance of the flood, and after running the vale many miles passed
through Piddleswood towards Okeford, Fitzpaine, but the hounds pressing
him hard he was obliged to return to the cover, where having taken a
turn or two he broke on the opposite side near the town of Shirminster,
and crossed the commons to Mr. Brunes's seat at Plumber, where he
entered a summer-house, passed through the chimney flue, and entered a
drain, whence being bolted, he was run into and killed at Fifehide
Neville, fourteen miles straight from the place where he was found,
after a chase of two hours and ten minutes.


BACKGAMMON.

"It appears from the glossary to the Welch Laws that the game of
backgammon was invented in Wales, sometime before the reign of Canute
the Great, and that it derived its name from _Back_, which in the welch
language meant _little_, and _Cammon_, which in the same language
signified _Bottle_.


"A blacksmith of Winchester in Hampshire, undertook, for a wager, to
shoe six horses, and make the shoes and nails himself complete in _seven
hours_. He accomplished it in twenty-five minutes less than the time.


"Mr. Brewer of the Crown inn, Nothingham, undertook for a wager of forty
guineas to go with a mare belonging to him in a cart, to Newark and back
again, being a distance of _forty miles, in four hours_. He performed it
in twelve minutes less than the given time. Considerable bets were laid
against the performance. The mare is under fourteen hands high.


DICK THE HUNTER.

"A poor fellow, half an ideot, has by his singularity got himself so
noticed by the sporting gentlemen at Newmarket, that his picture has
been painted by Mr. Chalon, and engravings from it have been published.
He was intended for a blacksmith, but being untractable, was allowed to
follow his own inclination. Being always fond of hunting he soon
attracted the attention of the gentlemen of the chase, and never failed
joining the hounds whenever they made their appearance. Dick is such an
amazing swift runner that he keeps in with the hounds for many miles
together, to the surprise of all the gentlemen, who confess him to be a
very useful man among them, as he instantly discovers the track of a
fox, and is very clever at finding a hare sitting, and who therefore
support him. He never goes out without carrying a knife, a fork, a spoon
and a spur, which are all of his own making, a performance that shows
him not to be destitute of ingenuity, as they are not separately made,
but contained in one, and with these he is at once equipped either for
sporting or eating. The spur he uses for pricking himself, which he
fancies enables him to keep up with the hounds. He frequently uses it to
the no small amusement of the spectators. His dress is quite as singular
as his mode of life, for he always wears a long surtout coat,
a hunting-cap, a boot on one leg and a shoe on the foot of the
other--and thus equipped he runs with the speed of a hunting-horse,
clearing with ease all the ditches and fences the riders do.


"One of the best packs of hounds in England was most completely beat
lately by a fox. The latter was turned out before them near Wold Newton,
in Yorkshire, and after running rings for sometime, went off for
Scarborough, near which place the hounds were so completely knocked up
that he beat them in view, for the huntsman could not get them a yard
further--a number of riders lost their horses in the cars, and were seen
wading up to their necks to catch them again. The fox ran upwards of
twenty miles.


"In the discussions which have arisen in and out of parliament in
England about the abolition of the Briton's old favourite sports, it was
conceded by all but a few, that from the custom of boxing, singlestick
and backsword playing, wrestling, &c. arose the good temper which
distinguishes that people--Englishmen being less subject to violent fits
of anger than the people of any other nation in the world. In the
compass of eighteen pages of a work now before us we have details of no
less than two grand matches of singlestick, one Wiltshire against
Somersetshire, and the other Somersetshire against all England, for
large purses. In both cases the champions of Somerset county beat; and
what must astonish those who hear it, the victors (though men in the
lowest classes of life in one case) shared the prize with the
vanquished. In the former, Somerset gave nine broken heads and received
seven--in the latter, gave eight and received six. The Wiltshire men
went to Trowbridge in Somersetshire, the appointed place of meeting,
attended by some of the leading gentry of Wiltshire, and the gentleman
who was appointed by them to preside, bore public testimony to the
liberal and kind treatment his countrymen experienced.

"Any person who has seen the farce of Hob in the Well, performed, will
remember to have seen a specimen of this kind of prize fighting, for
which as well as wrestling, the people of Somersetshire have for ages
been renowned. In Scotland they excel at the backsword--the Irish too
are admirable hands--but neither have the temper of the English;
"Oppression makes a wise man mad;" what should it do then with a poor
peasantry? The tempers of the English have not had that to irritate
them. We will close this subject with a letter from an intelligent
Londoner, who was travelling through Hampshire.


"Passing, sometime since, through Rapley Dean, Hants, my attention being
attracted by a crowd of rustics on a little green near the road I turned
my horse thither, and arrived in the time when a lame elderly man, who I
afterwards found was the knight marshal of the field, from the middle of
a ring made by ropes, proclaimed, that "a hat worth one guinea was to be
played for at backsword; the breaker of most heads to bear away the hat
and honour," and inviting the youth there to contend for it. A little
after, a young fellow threw his hat into the ring and followed, when the
lame umpire called out "a challenge," and proceeded to equip the
challenger for the game. His coat and waiscoat were taken off, his left
hand tied by a handkerchief to his left thigh, and a stick, with basket
hilt, put into his hand; he then walked round the ring till a second hat
was thrown in, and the umpire called out, "the challenge is answered."

"As soon as prepared, the knights met, measured weapons, shook hands,
walked once round, turned and began the contest. In about a minute, the
umpire called out "About," when they dropped the points of their weapons
and walked round, and this calling I observed, was repeated as often as
the umpire judged either distressed. After some twenty minutes play,
some blood trickled down the challenger's head; the umpire called
"Blood;" and declared the other to have won a head.

"When both left the ring another hat was thrown in, and the challenge
again accepted, and played off in the like manner, till the umpire
announced there were four winners of heads, and proceeded to call the
ties, that is, he called on the winners of the first two heads to play
together, and afterwards on the winners of the third and fourth heads;
after which the winners of two heads each played for the hat, and the
proud victor (Morgan) thus to earn it, broke three heads. I was much
struck with the amazing temper with which the game was played: not a
particle of ill-will was shown, two young fellows, who played together
forty-five minutes, and in the course of it gave each other many severe
blows, one alone of which would have satisfied the most unconscionable
taylor or man-milliner breathing, drank frequently together between the
bouts, shaking hands as often as the weight of the blows given seemed to
require it of their good-nature. Indeed it appeared to be a rule with
each pair that played, to drink together after the contest, and a
general spirit of harmony seemed to prevail. This game is certainly of
great antiquity, and the only relick (with the exception of wrestling)
of the ancient tournament. The knight defied with throwing down his hat
or gauntlet--the rustic gamester does the same, and is equally courteous
with the knight towards his opponent: nor were there in this instance
village dames or damsels wanting, to animate the prowess of the youth.

"It has been asserted, that these exhibitions engender a ferocious
spirit; but were I to judge from what I saw, and from the inquiries I
made into the characters of the players at Ropley Dean, from the farmers
on my right and left, I should pronounce quite the contrary; and think
that as long as the sword is used by our cavalry and navy, and as long
as we wish to entertain in the nation a fearless, generous, martial
spirit, we should encourage the like pastimes at our fairs and revels."



MISCELLANY.


A general sense seems to pervade all the most intelligent men of Great
Britain that a reformation is wanting in almost every department of life
in that country. The corruption of public taste in dramatic literature
and acting, and in most of the fashionable amusements of the high flyers
cries aloud, no less than that of the state, for a heavy-handed scourge
and receives it. Among other things, the _musico-mania_ is attacked as
having reached the highest acmé of absurdity. The Covent Garden
proprietors are very roughly handled, but not more roughly than they
deserve, for hiring Madam Catalani at the enormous salary of four
thousand pounds sterling and a free benefit for the season, with a
provision annexed, which is thought insolent, degrading, and unjust; no
less than that of her French husband putting what fiddlers he pleases
into the orchestra. The public prints are filled with remonstrances to
the people, whose attention is directed to the storm which was raised on
a similar occasion in 1755 and 1756, and which burst with such
tremendous mischief on the head of Garrick. One writer thus vehemently
expresses himself: "Shall a judge of the land be required to exercise
the faculties of his vigorous mind, which have been cultivated and
matured by an expensive education and the most laborious study; shall he
be continually employed in discriminating between right and wrong, in
the adjustment of individual differences, and in protecting the persons
and properties of the honest and peaceable part of his majesty's
subjects from the assaults of violence and the stratagems of fraud;
shall his sensibility be wounded, and his heart pierced by the painful
necessity to which he is frequently reduced of passing on his fellow-man
those awful sentences which the nature of their crimes, and the voice of
Justice imperiously demand; shall he, in short, be compelled to
discharge the duties of an office which necessarily renders his nights
anxious and restless, and subjects him in the day to the most irksome
fatigue--and shall he, for all this fatigue of body and unremitting
solicitude of mind, receive a salary scarcely exceeding _half_ the sum
given to an ITALIAN CANTATRICE for the display of her vocal powers for a
few nights?"

The fact is that the robust and vigorous appetite of the English has
been worn down by the intemperate use of German dramas, and is so
vitiated and enfeebled that it can swallow nothing but hot spiced trash,
or water gruel spoon-meat. Are the French wrong in calling John Bull
_stupide barbare_ when they see him pouring thousands into the laps of
foreign singers--and for what?--why, to sing such songs as this:

  Tom Gobble was a grocer's son,
      Heigho! says Gobble;
  He gave a ven'son dinner for _fun_,
  And he had a belly as big as a _tun_,
    _With his handy dandy, bacon and gravy_,
      Ah, hah, says alderman Gobble.

  The servants ushered the company in,
      Heigho! says Gobble;
  The dinner is ready, quoth Tom, with a grin,
  So he tucked a napkin under his chin,
    With his handy dandy, bacon and gravy,
      Ah, hah, says alderman Gobble,

  Then Betty the cook-maid she gave a squall,
      Heigho! says Gobble;
  Poor John the footman has had a fall,
  And down stairs tumbled, ven'son and all,
    With his handy dandy, bacon and gravy,
      Alas! says alderman Gobble.

  So down the alderman ran in a fright,
      Heigho! says Gobble;
  And there sat John in a terrible plight
  Astride on the ven'son _bolt upright_,
    With his handy dandy, bacon and gravy,
      Dear me! says alderman Gobble.

  Was ever man so cruelly put on,
      Heigho! says Gobble;
  Get off the meat you rascally glutton,
  You've made my ven'son a saddle of mutton,
    With your handy dandy, bacon and gravy,
      Good lack, says alderman Gobble.

  Lord, sir, says Betty, what a _splash_,
      Heigho! says Gobble;
  'Tis a monstrous bad _rumbistical_ crash,
  But tomorrow I'll tickle it up in a hash,
    With your handy dandy, bacon and gravy,
      Ay, do! says alderman Gobble.

This vile, low, degrading farrago is taken from an opera called the
Russian Impostor, or Siege of Sloremskho.

After such trash it will be delightful to turn to some lines, written by
lord Byron on this general subject of complaint. They are extracted from
an excellent poem entitled "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers,
a Satire," with notes by the author.

  Now to the DRAMA turn--oh, motley sight!
  What precious scenes the wondering eyes invite!
  Puns, and a prince within a _barrel_ pent,[11]
  And Dibdin's nonsense yield complete content.
  Though now, thank heaven! the _Roscio mania's_ o'er,
  And full-grown actors are endured once more;
  Yet, what avails their vain attempts to please,
  While British critics suffer scenes like these;
  While Reynolds vents his '_dammes_, _poohs_' and '_zounds_'[12]
  And common place, and common sense confounds?
  While Kenny's World just suffered to proceed,
  Proclaims the audience very kind indeed?
  And Beaumont's pilfer'd Caratach affords
  A tragedy complete in all but words?[13]
  Who but must mourn while these are all the rage,
  The degradation of our vaunted stage?
  Heavens! is all sense of shame and talent gone?
  Have we no living bard of merit?--none?
  Awake, George Colman! --Cumberland, awake!
  Ring the alarum bell, let Folly quake!
  Oh, Sheridan! if aught can move thy pen,
  Let Comedy resume her throne again,
  Abjure the mummery of German schools,
  Leave new Pizarros to translating fools;
  Give, as thy last memorial to the age,
  One classic drama, and reform the stage.
  Gods! o'er those boards shall Folly rear her head,
  Where Garrick trod, and Kemble lives to tread?
  On those shall Farce display Buffoonery's mask,
  And Hook conceal his heroes in a _cask_?
  Shall sapient managers new scenes produce
  From Cherry, Skeffington, and Mother Goose?
  While Shakspeare, Otway, Massinger, forgot,
  On stalls must moulder, or in closets rot?
  Lo! with what pomp the daily prints proclaim,
  The rival candidates for attic fame!
  In grim array though Lewis'[14] spectres rise,
  Still Skeffington and Goose divide the prize.
  And sure _great_ Skeffington must claim our praise,
  For skirtless coats and skeletons of plays
  Renowned alike; whose Genius ne'er confines
  Her flight to garnish Greenwood's gay designs;[15]
  Nor sleeps with 'Sleeping Beauties,' but anon
  In five facetious acts comes thundering on,[16]
  While poor John Bull, bewildered with the scene,
  Keeps wondering what the devil it can mean;
  But as some hands applaud, a venal few!
  Rather than sleep, why John applauds it too.
    Such are we now, ah! wherefore should we turn
  To what our fathers were, unless to mourn?
  Degenerate Britons! are ye dead to shame,
  Or, kind to dulness, do you fear to blame?
  Well may the Nobles of our present race
  Watch each distortion of a Naldi's face;
  Well may they smile on Italy's buffoons,
  And worship Catalani's pantaloons,[17]
  Since their own drama yields no fairer trace
  Of wit than puns, of humour than grimace.
    Then let Ausonia, skill'd in ev'ry art
  To soften manners, but corrupt the heart,
  Pour her exotic follies o'er the town,
  To sanction Vice and hunt Decorum down:
  Let wedded strumpets languish o'er Deshayes,
  And bless the promise which his form displays;
  While Gayton bounds before the enraptured looks
  Of hoary marquises and stripling dukes:
  Let high-born lechers eye the lively Presle
  Twirl her light limbs that spurn the needless veil;
  Let Angiolini bare her breast of snow,
  Wave the white arm and point the pliant toe;
  Collini trill her love-inspiring song,
  Strain her fair neck and charm the listening throng!

  [Footnote 11: In the melo-drama of Tekeli, that heroic prince is
  clapt into a barrel on the stage: a new asylum for distressed
  heroes!]

  [Footnote 12: All these are favourite expressions of Mr. R. and
  prominent in his comedies, living and defunct.]

  [Footnote 13: Mr. T. Sheridan, the new manager of Drury Lane
  Theatre, stripped the tragedy of Bonduca of the Dialogue, and
  exhibited the scenes as the spectacle of Caractacus. Was this worthy
  of his sire, or of himself?]

  [Footnote 14:
    Oh, wonder-working Lewis! monk, or bard,
    Who fain would make Parnassus a church-yard!
    Lo! wreaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy brow,
    Thy Muse a sprite, Apollo's sexton thou!
    Whether on ancient tombs thou tak'st thy stand,
    By gibbering spectres hail'd, thy kindred band;
    Or tracest chaste descriptions on thy page,
    To please the females of our modest age.
    All hail, M.P.![a] from whose infernal brain
    Thin sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train;
    At whose command, "grim women" throng in crowds,
    And kings of fire, of water, and of clouds,
    With "small gray men," "wild yagers," and what not,
    To crown with honour thee and Walter Scott:
    Again, all hail! if tales like thine may please,
    [b]St. Luke's alone can vanquish the disease;
    Even Satan's self with thee might dread to dwell,
    And in thy skull discern a deeper hell.

    [Footnote 14a: See a poem to Mr. Lewis, in the Statesman, supposed
    to be written by Mr. Jekyll.]

    [Footnote 14b: St. Luke's is an hospital for lunatics in London.
    _Editor of the Mirror._] ]

  [Footnote 15: Mr. Greenwood is, we believe, scene-painter to Drury
  Lane Theatre--as such, Mr. S. is much indebted to him.]

  [Footnote 16: Mr. S. is the illustrious author of the "Sleeping
  Beauty" and some Comedies, particularly "Maids and Bachelors."
  _Baculaurii Baculo magis quam lauro digni._]

  [Footnote 17: Naldi and Catalani require little notice--for the
  visage of the one and the salary of the other, will enable us long
  to recollect these amusing vagabonds; besides, we are still black
  and blue from the squeeze on the first night of the lady's
  appearance in trowsers.]

A London critic adds the following pertinent observations: "Thus far our
author concerning the stage, to which we add an observation or two of
our own. We certainly think the _barrel_ a curious asylum for a
distressed prince; but when we reflect on what kind of princes and
heroes the modern stage and modern authors exhibit, (the seige of St.
Quintin for instance, by the same author, Mr. Hook) we cannot help
exclaiming (no plagiarism, we hope)

  We with the sentence are indeed content,
  To see _such_ princes in _such_ barrels pent.

And as a barrel is described by our best lexicographers to be "any thing
hollow," what vehicle more appropriate could be found? The ingenious
author, was surely a favourite of the barrel, and well acquainted with
the virtues of a _cask_; although according to sir Walter Raleigh, "some
are so ill-seasoned and conditioned that a great part of the contents is
ever lost and cast away."

Respecting Mr. Reynolds's indulgence of himself, in perpetual repetition
of his vocables,[18] we should be glad to have it in our power to affirm
that the _beef and mutton_[19] author was the only one who disgraced
himself by such contemptible degradation; but, alas! the pages of our
work have too often exhibited similar complaints against the majority of
our great playwrights--many of these _gentlemen_ being reduced to
silence, without their auxiliary _dammes_!

  [Footnote 18: Damme, pooh, zounds, &c.]

  [Footnote 19: "Authors have lived and still live who write for
  what they call _fame_! --For my part I write for more substantial
  food--_beef_ and _mutton_ are the objects of my ambition."
    --_Reynold's Preface to Begone Dull Care._]

We differ widely from our author respecting Mr. T. Sheridan's
_stripping_ of Bonduca--for we really think it worthy the son of that
poet, who, neglecting his own genius and the duties of a regular
practitioner, condescends to turn quack, and bedizen that high German
doctor Pizarro, in an English dress!!

Apropos of awaking George Colman! --We beg the noble lord's pardon; but
we are not in such a violent hurry to disturb this gentleman; for if,
when awake, he should not acquit himself better than in his last
production of the Africans, we think the sounder he sleeps the more
solid will be his reputation. Therefore,

  Sleep on, George Colman! prithee, don't awake!
  Nor let the alarum bell thy slumbers shake!
  Lest jokes like _Mugg's_[20] should make our senses quake!

  [Footnote 20: One of Mr. Colman's witty characters in the
  _Africans_.]

Why our author has coupled John Kemble's name with that of Garrick we
cannot conceive; but that there appears more rhyme than reason in it, we
can safely aver. We have somewhere heard that "a live ass is better than
a dead lion," which we quote, not as individually applicable, but as a
general adage; for we disclaim personalities, and well know that J. K.
is an eminent actor, and one whom we have not niggardly praised. Yet we
will not disparage departed excellence for any person existing; and
therefore cannot avoid wishing our young author had seen Garrick, and
bearing in his "mind's eye" his natural acting of Lear, Hamlet, Macbeth,
Richard, &c.--he might then go and witness the performances of Mr.
Kemble--and judge!



CORRESPONDENCE.


The conductors of the Mirror of Taste, and Dramatic Censor, have already
to make acknowledgments to correspondents. Scarcely had their intention
been promulgated when they were favoured with a letter, which, in less
than a week afterwards was followed by two more, all of them upon the
same subject, though evidently written by different persons. It had
before been the intention of the conductors to call the public attention
very soon to that very point to which these letters are intended to
direct them; and conceiving that a fairer occasion for doing so can
hardly occur than these letters afford them, they hasten to lay the
contents of them before the public.

"_To the Conductors of the Dramatic Work to be published by Messrs.
Bradford and Inskeep._

_November 27._

"Sirs,

"From what I can learn about your intended publication I like the idea,
and have no doubt it may be of great use. I have often said that such a
thing was much wanting, for I look upon a playhouse to be a very good
thing, often keeping young men from worse places, and young women from
worse employment. But if our playhouse goes on as it does, it will soon
be a worse place to go to than any I allude to. Last evening I brought
my family to see the play, and I assure you, I often wished we were all
away again, the scandalous talk in the gallery was so bad. The noise was
so great that there was no hearing any thing else. The players' voices
were ten or a dozen times interrupted so that they could not be heard,
and two or three fellows in the gallery were particularly scandalous.
Above all the rest there was one, a finished vagabond, who spoke smut
and roared it out loud, directing it to the ladies in the boxes. If any
of you was there, gentlemen, you must have noticed it; if not, I can't
write such filthy words as was spoken the whole evening. My wife begged
me to come away on our little girl's account who was with us. It is not
the players you ought to criticise, they behave themselves--but it is
those vagabonds that think they have a right to disturb the house
because they pay their half dollar a piece. I think it your duty to take
notice of this, and I beg you will.

A CITIZEN."

N.B. They in the pit were bad enough, and so was some in the boxes.


_To the Editors of the Mirror, &c._

"Gentlemen,

"As your intended publication is to come out monthly, I am doubtful
whether I should trouble you on the present occasion; more particularly
as you may probably think of the matter yourselves without a hint
from me. Besides, I am not sure whether it is not the duty of the
editors of the daily papers rather than yours. For my part, I think it
is the duty of all people who regard the credit of the city, or tender
the peaceableness and comfort of society. Our theatre, gentlemen, has
sunk to the worst state imaginable of licentiousness and savage riot.
Don't mistake me--I don't mean behind the curtain; but before it. While
we hold ourselves so proudly to the world, what must those foreigners
think of us who visit our theatre. From a place of rational recreation,
and improvement, it has become a mere bear-garden. The play is
interrupted, and all enjoyment, save that of riot and brawling, killed
in various ways. The very boxes themselves are no sanctuary from
ruffianish incivility; while the ears are stunned, and the cheek of
Decency crimsoned with the profaneness, obscenity, and senseless brawl
of barbarians in the gallery, the sight is intercepted, and all comfort
destroyed by the unmannerly and unjust conduct of intruders in the boxes
and pit, who think they have a right to push in and even stand up before
another who has been previously seated, provided they have bodily
strength to make good their violence. I say, gentlemen, this ought to be
stopped. The spirit of the manager at New-York, backed by the laws, has
put an end to it there, so far, that no theatre in Europe precedes it in
order and decency. The same power exists here and ought to be exercised.
These things disgrace the city as well as annoy our audiences, and I
think our daily editors on both sides would evince their regard for the
public by giving a few lines every day to the reform of this evil till
it shall be abated. The proprietors and manager ought to call a meeting,
invoke the aid of the magistrates and the people, and come to some
decisive resolutions on the subject.

Forensis."



COMMUNICATION.

_For the Mirror, &c._

"The manager, or the magistrates, or somebody is greatly to blame about
the playhouse. I brought my family to the pit to see that great actor,
Cooper, play Zanga. We sat in the pit the whole time the blackguards
were throwing down various kinds of things upon our heads. Scraps of
apples, nutshells in handfulls, and what is worse something I can't well
name--some about me said that brandy or strong grog was thrown down--it
might be so once;--but it was not exactly that which fell on me and my
family. Since then, I went to see him in Macbeth, and left my wife and
daughter at home for fear; and the fellows above were as bad as
before--and had not I luckily kept my hat on I should once have got my
head broke with a hard heavy hiccory-nut that was thrown with all the
force and spitefulness as if the person wanted to hurt somebody very
severely."


We agree with our correspondents that some prompt and effectual remedy
ought to be applied to the evils of which they complain: and we are
surprised it has not yet been done, because every person with whom any
of us converses, makes pretty nearly the same complaint, and expresses
the very same wish.

In every country there exist multitudes as well disposed as those now
alluded to, to disturb the playhouse, and bring brutal riot within its
walls--but they will not be allowed. Any one who reads Colquhoun's
account of London and its rabble, will perceive that there are people
enough there ready to do offensive offices for the pure sake of offence
and savageness; but not only the magistrates, but the audience
themselves will not put up with it. The latter generally abate the
nuisance in a summary way--they turn out the offender; and the law
warrants, and if necessary aids them. If our audience suffer these
encroachments what will be the fair conclusion, but that they concur
with the offenders.

It was but a few nights ago, a company (of perhaps ten,) converted the
boxes into a grog shop--brought jug and bottle, and glass, and tumbler
into the front seats, and there caroused, laughing, talking aloud, and
swearing aloud, even during the performance. On the night the Revenge
was performed, even while Mr. Cooper was engaged in a most interesting
scene, a boy, not in mean clothes either, stood up at the front corner
of the gallery, roaring out and speaking as loud as he could to some one
on the opposite side. Yet this, were it not for the time it happened,
was to the surrounding tumult, as a dying sigh to the roar of a
northwester.

It cannot be doubted that in a civilized society like this, some legal
means must exist to put an end to these grievances. There are other
grievances, however, that cannot be so _immediately_ made the subject of
redress by the magistrate, but which, nevertheless, require correction,
and would never occur if every one who can afford to wear such a coat as
gentlemen wear, could imitate the manners of gentlemen as well as they
can ape their dress. By a number of _well-coated_ persons of this kind,
the time immemorial privileges of the theatre are violated, and its
customary rights denied. Provided they think themselves able to scuffle
it out by bodily strength they will indulge themselves at the expense of
others--one of those will sit before a lady and refuse to take off his
hat--another coming late will force his way contrary to all right and
usage, before a person who has an hour before taken his seat--and if
spoken to, utter surly defiance. Against every such unmannered intruder,
the whole audience ought, for the establishment of the general right and
the good old custom, to make common cause, and thrust him out by force.
No doubt there are drawcansirs enough to push this offence as far as it
will go. Let them know that there have been and still are drawcansirs in
England, Ireland and Scotland--that Dublin particularly was once full of
them; but that they were soon brought to manners by the just resentment
of the audience--the gripe of the constable, and the contempt of every
body.



INDEX.


  A
  Actors, animadversion on
    WOOD,
      in Rapid, 62
      Rolla, 65
      Reuben Glenroy, 67
      Harry Dornton, 73
      Bob Handy, 76
      Alonzo, 229, 337
      Jaffier, 337
      Copper Captain, 339
      Prince of Wales, 339
    CONE,
      Alonzo, 65
      Henry, 76
    WARREN,
      Las Casas, 65
      Abel Handy, 76
      Falstaff, 344
      Cacafogo, 344
    JEFFERSON,
      Frank Oatland, 62
      Orozimbo, 65
      Cosey, 67
      Goldfinch, 73
      Farmer Ashfield, 75
    M'KENZIE,
      Sir Hubert Stanley, 62
      Pizarro, 65
      Old Norval, 155
    FRANCIS,
      Vortex, 62
      Trot, 68
    Mrs. WOOD,
      Jessy Oatland, 62
      Cora, 66
    Mrs. FRANCIS,
      Mrs. Vortex, 62
      Dame Ashfield, 76
    Mrs. SEYMOUR, 62
    PAYNE,
      in Douglas, 145
      Octavian, 220
      Frederick, 221
      Zaphna and Selim, 222
      Tancred, 222
      Romeo, 223
    COOPER,
      Othello, 225
      Zanga, 227
      Richard, 230
      Pierre, 230
      Hamlet, 231
      Macbeth, 231
      Hotspur, 234
      Michael Ducas, 234
      Alexander, 422
      Antony, Jul. Cæs. 420
    WEST, 68, bis
    DWYER,
      Belcour, 425
      Tangent, 427
      Ranger, 427
      Vapid, 427
      Liar, 427
      Rapid, 427
      Sir Charles Racket, 427
  Advice to conductors of magazines, 402
  Æschylus, 114, 189
  Alleyn, the player, account of, 45
  Anecdotes and good things
    Dick the Hunter, 92
    Dr. Young, 181
    Othello burlesqued, 181
    Voltaire, 184
    Louis XIV. 184
    Mara and Florio, 185
    Macklin, 247, 248, 397, 408, 409
    Mozart, the composer, 257
    Old Wignell, 343
    Macklin and Foote, 397
    Impertinent _Petit Maitre_, 406
    Curious Slip Slop, 406
    Specific for blindness, 407
    Kemble and a stage tyro, 407
    Kemble's bon mot on Sydney playhouse, 407
    Irish forgery, 407
    Woman and country magistrate, 408
    French dramatic, 481
    Bacon and cabbage, 485
  Apparition, sable or mysterious bell-rope, 325
  Aristophanes, 269
  Authors' benefits
    see Southern, 502

  B
  Barry, the great player, account of, 298
  Bedford, duke of, monument, 317
  Betterton, the great actor, 133, 213
  Biography, 24, 118, 202, 357
  Bull, a dramatic one, 505

  C
  Carlisle, countess of, opinion of drama, 398
  Catalani, madam, 96
  Cibber, Colley, his merit, 506
  Coffee and Chocolate, account of, 311
  Cone, see actors
  Cooper, life of, 28
  Cooper, see actors
  Cooper, account of his acting, 223
  Correspondence
    on abuses of the Theatre, 103, 104
  ----, from Baltimore on Theatricals, 157
  ----, from New-York, ditto, 414

  D
  Dramatic Censor, 49, 141, 220, 337, 414
  Drama, Grecian, 109, 189, 269, 350
  ----, lady Carlisle's opinion on, 398
  Dwyer, actor, 235
  ----, see actors.
  Dramaticus, 251, 328, 502
  Dungannon, famous horse, 500

  E
  Edenhall, luck of, old ballad, 487
  Edward and Eleonora, remarks on, 502
  English, parallel between English men and English mastiffs,
      by cardinal Ximenes, 88
  Epilogues, humorous ones after tragedies censured, 400
  Euripides, 195

  F
  Francis, see actors
  ----, Mrs., ibid.
  Fullerton, actor, driven to suicide, 504

  G
  German Theatre, vindication of, by Dramaticus, 251
  Gifford, Wm. life of, 357, 447
  Greek drama, 109, 189, 269, 350

  H
  History of the stage, 9, 109, 189, 269, 350, 431
  High Life below Stairs, account of, 506
  Hodgkinson, biography of, 202, 283, 368, 457

  I
  Irish bulls, specimen of, 455
  Jefferson, see actors

  L
  Lear, essay on the alterations of it, 391
  Le Kain, the French actor, account of, 438
  Lewis, his retirement from the stage, 185
  Literary World, what is it? 406
  Longevity, instance of, 496
  Lover general, a rhapsody, 399

  M
  Macklin checked practice of hissing, 504
  Man and Wife, a comedy, 188
  Menander, 350
  Metayer Henry, anecdote of with Theobald, 503
  M'Kenzie, see actors
  Milton and Shakspeare, comparison between, 248
  Miscellany, 96, 173, 241, 307, 384, 467
  Music, 81, 257
  ----, Oh think not my spirits are always as light,
      a song by Anacreon Moore, 83
  ----, Irish, 161
  Musical performance, expectation of a grand one, 428

  N
  New-York reviewers impeached, 505
  Nokes, comedian, 381

  O
  O'Kelly's horse Dungannon, 500
  Originality in writing, Voltaire's idea of, 184
  Otway, observations on, 502

  P
  Payne, American young Roscius, criticised on, 141, 220, 241
  ----, see actors
  Pedestrianism, humorous essay on, 262
  Players celebrated compared with celebrated painters, 387
  Plays, names of, attached to each No.
    Foundling of the Forest, No. I
    Man and Wife, No. II
    Venoni, No. III
    New Way to pay Old Debts, No. IV
    Alfonso, king of Castile, No. V
    The Free Knights, No. VI
  Plays criticised in the Censor
    Cure for the Heart-ach, 59
    Pizarro, 62
    Town and Country, 66
    Ella Rosenberg, 69
    Wood Demon, 71
    Abaellino, 73
    Road to Ruin, 73
    Speed the Plough, 74
    Man and Wife, 188
    Foundling of the Forest, 80, 345
    Africans, 418
  Poetry
    Tom Gobble, 97
    English bards and Scotch reviewers, extract from, 98
    Occasional prologue on the first appearance of Miss Brunton,
      afterwards Merry and Warren, at Bath, 121
    Latin verses on do. and translation, 124
    Prologue on first appearance, of the same lady in London,
      by A. Murphy, 126
    Duck shooting, 172
    A true story, 183
    Lewis's address on taking leave of Ireland, 187
    On the death of Mrs. Warren, 246
    Descent into Elisium, 253
    Gracy Nugent, by Carolan, 261
    O never let us marry, 324
    Epilogue by Sheridan, censuring humourous ones after tragedies, 401
    Logical poem on chesnut horse and horse chesnut, 404
    Quin, an anecdote in verse, 409
    Luck of Edenhall, 487
    The parson and the nose, 495
    Solitude, advantages of for study, 495
    Soldier to his horse, 499
  Prospectus, 1

  R
  Reviews of New-York impeached, 505

  S
  Seymour, Mrs. see actors
  She would and she would not, merit of, 506
  Southern, 502
  Socrates, death of, 280
  Sophocles, 189
  SPORTING, 85, 164, 262, 410, 499
  Spain, divertissements in, 495
  Strolling Player, a week's journal of, 396
  Stage, history of, 8, 9, 109, 189, 269, 350

  T
  Taylor, Billy, critique on ballad, 467
  Thespis, account of, 113
  Theobaldus Secundus, 173, 241, 307, 384
  Theatre, misbehaviour there, 267
  Theobald, his theft from Metayer, 503
  Theatrical contest, Barry and Garrick, in Romeo, 507
  Thornton, Col. his removal from York to Wilts, 164

  V
  Voltaire, his idea of originality in writing, 184

  W
  Warren, Mrs. life of, 118
  Warren, actor, see actors
  West, see actors
  Wit, pedigree of, by Addison, 406
  Wife, essay on the choice of, 477
  Wood, actor, see actors
  ----, Mrs., ibid.

  Y
  Young, celebrated actor, 236

  Z
  Zengis, so unintelligible audience not understand it, 507


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

Errors and Inconsistencies: The Mirror of Taste

  Spellings were changed only when there was an unambiguous error,
  or the word occurred elsewhere with the expected spelling.

_Unchanged:_
  But this can no more be alledged
  Congreve and other cotemporary authors
  melo-drame  [most common spelling for this publication]
  the excressences of overloaded society
  Ella Rozenberg
    [this spelling is used in the header and first citation; later
    references use "Rosenberg"]
  put his hand to their heads and give them a lanch
  A poor fellow, half an ideot
  His coat and waiscoat were taken off

_Corrected:_
  From Edinburgh he went with the company  [Edinburg]
  notwithstanding the difficulty  [dfficulty]
  the reviewers spoke with decided approbation  [appprobation]
  Is happy indeed if 'twas never deceiv'd
  in the adjustment of individual differences  [idividual]
  While Reynolds vents his '_dammes_, _poohs_' and '_zounds_'[12]
    [word "and" italicized]

_Index_:
  Missing or inconsistent punctuation has been silently regularized.

  _Poetry_
    Soldier to his horse, 499  [tohis]
  Zengis, so unintelligible audience not understand it
    [word missing in original]


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *


  THE
  FOUNDLING OF THE FOREST:

  A PLAY.


  By WILLIAM DIMOND, Esq.

  Author of "Adrian and Orrila," "Hero of the North,"
  "Hunter of the Alps," &c. &c.


  "And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy." _Beattie._


  Published by Bradford and Inskeep, Philadelphia;
  Inskeep and Bradford, New-York; and William
  M'ilhennny, Boston.

  Smith and Maxwell, Printers.

  1810.



THE FOUNDLING OF THE FOREST.



DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

  Count De Valmont.
  Baron Longueville.
  Florian, _a foundling adopted by De Valmont_.
  Bertrand, _valet to Longueville_.
  L'Eclair, _valet to Florian_.
  Gaspard, _an old domestic_.
  Sanguine, } _bravoes in the pay of Longueville_.
  Lenoire,  }

  Geraldine, _niece to De Valmont_.
  Rosabelle, _her woman_.
  Monica, _an old woman_.
  Unknown Female.
  _Domestics, Peasants, Dancers, &c. &c._


  SCENE--_The Chateau de Valmont and its environs, situate in the
  upper Alsace, near the River Rhine._



ACT I.


  SCENE I.--_A hall in the Chateau de Valmont._

    Enter _Bertrand_, in agitation, followed by _Longueville_.

_Ber._ Forbear, my lord! to urge me further.--Would you tempt me to
insure perdition?--my soul is heavy enough with weight of crimes
already.

_Long._ Hypocrite! You, whom I have known in childhood--a villain, even
from the cradle--committing crimes as pastimes--has your hand been
exercised thus long in blood, to shake with conscience, and desert me
now?

_Ber._ I have, indeed, deserved reproaches, but not from your lips,
my lord! Remember, for you it was this hand was first defiled with
blood--remember, too--

_Long._ Yes, villain! I do remember, that my misplaced bounty once gave
you back a forfeit life. Twenty years past, when, as a deserter, you
were sentenced, by the regiment under my command, to death, your fate
was inevitable, had not I vouchsafed a pardon. Traitor! you, too, had
best remember a solemn oath at that same period passed your lips, which
bound you, soul and body, to my service ever--unscrupling to perform my
pleasures, whether good or ill, and still to hold my secrets fast from
earthly ears, though unabsolving priests renounced you on the death-bed.

_Ber._ (_shuddering_) Ay! ay! it was an oath of horror, and if you
command, it must be kept. Well, then--the young, the brave, the good,
kindhearted Florian--yes--he dies!

_Long._ Then only may your master be esteemed to live.

_Ber._ But whence this hatred to an unoffending youth?--one, whose form
delights all eyes, and whose virtues are the theme of every tongue?

_Long._ Fool! that person and those virtues of which you vaunt, are
with me his worst offences--they have undone my love and marred my
fortunes--the easy heart of Geraldine is captivated by the stripling's
specious outside, while his talents and achievements secure him with the
uncle undivided favour.

_Bert._ Can nothing but his blood appease your enmity?

_Long._ Nothing--for now my worst suspicions stand confirmed. I have
declared to De Valmont my passion for his niece, and the sullen
visionary has denied my suit--nay, insolently told me "Geraldine's
affections are another's right." --Curses on that minion's head!--'tis
for Florian De Valmont's heiress is reserved--and shall I suffer this
vile foundling, this child of charity, to lord it over those estates,
for which my impatient soul has paid a dreadful earnest! No, by heavens!
never!

_Bert._ Fatal avarice! already have we bartered for those curst estates
our everlasting peace!--for those did midnight flames surprise the sleep
of innocence--for those did the sacrificed Eugenia with her shrieking
babe--

_Long._ Wretch! dare not repeat those names! Now, mark me: this night
Florian returns a triumpher from his campaign--two of my trusty
blood-hounds watch the road to give me timely note of his approach. One
only follower attends the youth. In the thick woods 'twixt the chateau
and Huningen, an ambush safely laid, may end my rival and my fears
forever. In the west avenue, at sunset, I command your presence. Mark
me! I command you by your oath.  [_Exit._

_Bert._ Miserable man! I am indeed a slave, soul and body--both are in
the thrall! I know the fiend I serve. If I attempt to fly, his vengeful
agency pursues me to the world's limit. No--my doom is fixed--I must
remain the very wretch I am for life--and after life--Oh! let me not
think of that!

    Enter _Rosabelle_ behind, who taps his shoulder.

_Ros._ Talking to yourself, Mr. Bertrand? that's not polite in a lady's
company.

_Bert._ (_starting_) Ah! Rosabelle--good lass!--how art, Rosabelle?

_Ros._ Why, Mr. Bertrand, how pale you look, and your limbs quite
tremble--I fear me you are ill.

_Bert._ Oh, no--I am well--quite well--never better.

_Ros._ Then you are out of spirits.

_Bert._ You mistake--I am all happiness--ha! ha!--all joy!

_Ros._ What! because the wars are over, and chevalier Florian returns to
us?--'tis a blest hearing, truly--after all the hardships and dangers he
has passed to see him once again in safety--

_Bert._ (_involuntarily_) Ah! would to heaven we might!

_Ros._ Can there be any doubt? He reaches the chateau this night--will
he not be in safety then?

_Bert._ Yes, yes, with this night every danger certainly will cease.

_Ros._ Bertrand! why do you rub your hand before your eyes?--surely you
are weeping.

_Bert._ No, 'tis a momentary pain that--but 'twill leave me soon. At
night, Rosabelle, you shall see me jovial--joyous!--we'll dance
together, wench--ay, and sing--then--ha! ha! ha!--then who so mirthful,
who so mad, as Bertrand.  [_Exit._

_Ros._ What new spleen has bewitched the man? he is ever in some sullen
mood, with scowling brows, or else in a cross-arm'd fit of melancholy;
but I never marked such wildness in his looks and words before.

    [_Geraldine_ speaks without.

_Ger._ Rosabelle.

_Ros._ Here, my lady, in the hall.

    Enter _Geraldine_.

_Ger._ Girl! I have cause to chide you; my toilette must be changed--you
have dressed me vilely--here! remove these knots--I hate their fashion.

_Ros._ Yet they are the same your ladyship commended yesterday.

_Ger._ Then 'tis the colour of my robe offends me--these ornaments are a
false match to it--either all the mirrors in the house have warped since
yesterday, or never did I look so ill before.

_Ros._ Now, in my poor judgment, you rarely have looked better.

_Ger._ Out! fool; you have no judgment.

_Ros._ Well, fool or not, there's one upon the road who holds faith with
me, or I'm a heretic. Your charms will shine bright enough, lady, to
dazzle a soldier's eye.

_Ger._ Ah! no, Rosabelle--you would deceive your mistress. Florian
returns not as he left us; his travelled eyes have gazed on beauties of
the polished court--and now he will despise the wild untutored
Geraldine.

_Ros._ Will he? Let him beware he shows not his contempt before me.
What! my own beautiful and high-born mistress; the greatest heiress in
all Alsace; to be despised by a foundling, picked up in a forest, and
reared upon her uncle's charity?

_Ger._ Hush!--the mystery of my Florian's birth is his misfortune, but
cannot be his reproach. Our countrymen may dispute his title to command,
but our enemies have confessed his power to conquer; and trust me, girl,
the brave man's laurel blooms with as fresh an honour in the poor
peasant's cap as when it circles princely brows; nay, Justice deems it
of a nobler growth, for Flattery often twines the laurel round a
coronet, but Truth alone bestows it on the unknown head.

_Ros._ I confess the Chevalier is a proper gallant for any woman. Ay,
and so is the Chevalier's man. I warrant me, that knave, L'Eclair, when
he returns, will follow me about, wheedling and whining, to recollect
certain promises. Well, well, let but the soldiers return with whole
hearts from the war, and your ladyship and myself know how to reward
fidelity. In sooth, the chateau has been but a doleful residence in
their absence; the count never suffered his dwelling to be a merry one;
but of late his strange humours have so increased, that the household
might as well have lodged in purgatory.

_Ger._ Hold! I must not hear my uncle's name pronounced with levity. An
angel at his birth, mingled the divine spirit with less than human
frailty; but fiends have since defaced the noble work with more than
human trials. That fatal night, when the fierce Huguenots fired his
castle, and buried both his wife and infant in the blazing ruin; that
night of horrors has to his shocked and shrinking fancy still been ever
present; there still it broods--settled, perpetual and alone! Ah!
Rosabelle! the petulancies of misfortune claim our pity, not resentment.
My dear uncle is a recluse, but not a misanthrope; he rejects the
society of mankind, yet is he solicitous for their happiness; and while
his own heart breaks in silence under a weight of undivided sorrows,
does he not seek incessantly to alleviate the burthen of his complaining
brethren?

_Ros._ I know the count has an excellent heart; but surely his temper
has its flaws.

_Ger._ And shall we deem the sun that cheers the season less gracious in
its course, because a cloud at intervals may hide or chill its beams?
(_A bell rings_). Hark! 'tis the bell of his chamber. Perhaps he will
admit me now; for four days past I have applied at the door in vain. Ah
me!--these constant growing maladies sometimes make me tremble for his
life. Girl! if from the turret-top at distance you espy the hastening
travellers, turn, swift as thought, and call me to partake your watch!
  [_Exit._

_Ros._ If they arrive before sun-set, I'm sure I shall know L'Eclair a
mile off by the saucy toss of his head: before that rogue went on the
campaign, he certainly extorted some awkward kind of promises from me.
As a woman of honour, I'm afraid it must be kept; I don't want a
husband--oh! no, positively--to be sure, winter is coming on, my chamber
faces the north, and when the nights are long, and dark, and cold, when
the wind blusters, and the hail patters at the casement, then a solitary
woman is apt to have strange fancies, and sometimes to wish that--well,
well, my promise must be kept at all events.

SONG.--_Rosabelle._

  Oh! come away! my soldier boy,
    From war to peace incline thee;
  Thy laurel, Time shall ne'er destroy.
    But Love with roses twine thee.
        Come, come away,
        Love chides thy stay,
  Oh! prithee come my soldier!

  Let fife and drum preserve their place,
    While softer sounds delight thee;
  The fiddle shall our wedding grace,
    But _horns_ shall never fright thee.
        Come, come away,
        Love chides thy stay,
  Oh! prithee come my soldier!

    [Exit.


  SCENE II.--_A saloon: a large window is open and discovers the
  gardens: the noise of song and dance is heard immediately below the
  window._

CHORUS.

  Sing farewell labour,
  Blow pipe and beat tabor,
    Fly care far away;
  In light band advancing,
  Let music and dancing
    Proclaim holyday.

    _De Valmont_ opens the door of an inner chamber, and crosses the
    stage with a quick petulant step, to ring a bell in the saloon:
    no answer is immediately given, and he repeats the ring with
    increased fretfulness.

    Enter _Gaspard_.

_De Val._ So! am I heard! old man! to what strange dwelling have I been
borne while sleeping? and who is your new master?

_Gas._ Alack! your lordship is in your own fair castle, nor other master
than yourself do I, or any of my fellows serve--a kind and noble master.

_De Val._ You tell me wonders; I thought the master in his house had
borne command among his people, but here it seems, each groom is more
absolute in his humours than the lord; how is't? do I clothe and feed a
pampered herd, but to increase my torments? when I would muse in
privacy, must I be baited still, and stunned with crowds and clamours?
knave! drive the rabble from my gate, and rid my ears of discord.

_Gas._ Well-a-day! who could have foreseen this anger? my good lord 'tis
but your tenantry rejoicing: this morning, I distributed your lordship's
bounty among them to celebrate chevalier Florian's return; and now the
honest grateful souls would fain thank their benefactor by the song that
tells him they are happy.

_De Val._ Their thanks are hateful to me; ungenerous wretches! is it not
enough that they are happy whilst I am miserable, but they must mock my
anguish by a saucy pageant of their joys, and force my shrinking senses
more keenly to remark the contrast of our fates? (_Tabors, &c.
without._) Quick! quick! begone and drive them from my gate (_stamps
imperatively_).

_Gas._ (_frighted_) I am gone, my lord! --I am gone.

_De Val._ Hold! another word--perhaps the unthinking creatures might
design this torture kindly, and I would not punish the mistakes of
ignorance. Do not dismiss them harshly--I would have them indulge their
gayety, but I cannot bear to be a witness of it. Gaspard, this house is
Melancholy's chosen home; and its devoted master's heart, like a
night-bird that abhors the animating sun, has been so long familiarized
to misery, it sickens and recoils at the approach of mirth.

_Gas._ (_pressing his hand_) My kind, unfortunate, my beloved master!

_De Val._ (_snatching it from him_) Pshaw! I loathe pity-- (_shouts_)
--hark! again! go, go, send them from the gate, but not harshly.

  [Exit _Gaspard_.

_De Val._ All hearts rejoicing; mine only miserable! every peasant
yielding to delight, their lord alone devoted to despair; a subtle, slow
despair that, drop by drop, congeals the blood of life, yet will not bid
the creeping current quite forbear to flow; that has borne its victim
just to the sepulchre 's tempting edge, but holds him there to envy, not
partake its slumbers. Well, well, your own appointed hour, just
heavens!--if it be the infirmity of man to repine here, it is the
Christian's hope to rejoice hereafter.

    Re-enter _Gaspard_.

_Gas._ I've sent them hence; they'll not be heard again; but since they
may not thank, they are gone to pray for you--Mass! I had nigh
forgotten--young Madam Geraldine is in the anti-room, and waits to see
your lordship.

_De Val._ Admit her! (_Exit_ Gaspard) My gentle one! my desolate, orphan
maid, if any softening drop were yet permitted in my cup of bitters,
I think the affectionate hand of Geraldine would mingle and prepare it
for my lip.

    Enter _Geraldine_.

_Ger._ (_Tenderly embracing him_) Ah! my dear, dear uncle! how am I
rejoiced by a permission to visit you again; for four long days you have
secluded yourself, and indeed I have been so distressed--but I will not
speak of past anxieties now; war restores its hero to our vows; Florian
returns to us--are not you quite happy, uncle?

_De Val._ Happy? I? my good child--do not mock me.

_Ger._ Nay, could I intend--

_De Val._ Well! let it pass; you it seems, my Geraldine, are really
happy; your lips confess much, but your eyes still betray more--niece,
you love my adopted Florian.

_Ger._ Love! fy, uncle--Oh yes, yes, I do certainly love him like a
brother.

_De Val._ Something better.--Suppose I should offer this Florian to you
as a husband

_Ger._ (_looking down demurely._) I never presume to dispute my dear
uncle's commands.

_De Val._ Little equivocator! answer me strictly: do you not wish to
become his wife?

_Ger._ Indeed, I never yet have asked my heart that question.

_De Val._ But if Florian married any other woman, would you not hate the
object of his preference?

_Ger._ (_throwing herself upon his neck._) Ah! uncle, you have my
secret: no, I would not hate my fortunate rival--I would pray for her
happiness, but my heart would break while it breathed that prayer!

_De Val._ My excellent ingenuous child, indulge the virtuous emotions of
your heart without disguise--Florian and Geraldine are destined for each
other.

_Ger._ Generous benefactor! what delightful dazzling visions your words
conjure up to my imagination; the universe will concentrate within the
fairy circle of our hearth; a waking consciousness of bliss will ever
freshly dress our day in flowers, and at nights, fancy will gild our
pillow with the dream that merrily anticipates the future.

_De Val._ Enthusiast! you contemplate the ocean in a calm, nor dream how
frightfully a tempest may reverse the picture.

_Ger._ Ambitious pride may tremble at the storm, but true love, uncle,
never can be wrecked; its constancy is strengthened, not impaired by
trials, and when adversity divorces us from common friendships, the
chosen partners of each other's hearts a second time are married, and
with dearer rites.

_De Val._ (_averting his face with a look of anguish_) Girl!

_Ger._ (_unnoticing his emotion_) Then if they have children, how
surpassing is the bliss, while their own gay prime is mellowly subsiding
into age, to trace the features and the virtues they adored in youth,
renewed before their eyes, and feel themselves the proud and grateful
authors of each other's joy--Ah! trust me, uncle! such a destiny is
beyond the reach of fortune's malice; 'tis the anti-type of heaven.

_De Val._ (_Grasping her hand suddenly, convulsed with agitation._) 'Tis
the distracting mockery of hell that cheats us with an hour's ecstatic
dream to torture us eternally: girl! girl! wouldst thou find happiness,
die! seek it in the grave, only in the grave--a watchful fiend destroys
it upon earth! Prat'st thou of love? Connubial and parental love? Ah!
dear-lov'd objects of my soul! what are ye now--ashes, ashes, darkly
scattering to the midnight winds. God! the flames yet blaze--here,
here--my brain's on fire!  [_Rushes out._

_Ger._ Uncle! listen to your Geraldine! --Ah! ingrate that I am! the
vulture that gnaws his generous heart, had slumbered for a moment, and I
have waked it to renew its cruelty! my fault was unawares, yet I could
chide it like a crime; my mounting spirits fall from their giddy height
at once. Oh! uncle! noble, suffering uncle! would that my tears could
wash away the recollection of my words.  [_Weeps._

    _De Valmont_ suddenly returns and embraces _Geraldine_.

_De Val._ Geraldine! dear child, forgive me! my violence has terrified
your gentle nature. I would not pain you, love, for worlds; but I am not
always master of myself, and my passions will sometimes break forth
rebellious to my reason; pity and forgive the infirmities of grief.

_Ger._ Ah! Sir. (_Attempts to kneel._)

_De Val._ (_Preventing her, and kissing her forehead._) Bless you, my
good and innocent child; nay, do not speak to me, my happiness is lost
forever, but I can pray for yours. Bless you, my child! bless you ever.
[_Breaks from her, and exit.

_Ger._ My happiness! ah! if the exalted virtues of a soul like yours, my
uncle, despair of the capricious boon, how shall the undeserving
Geraldine presume to hope?

    Enter _Rosabelle_.

_Ros._ Oh! my lady, such news, he's arrived, he's in the hall.

_Ger._ My Florian?

_Ros._ No, lady, not your Florian, but my L'Eclair, not quite so great a
hero as his master to be sure, but yet a real, proper, mettlesome
soldier every inch; he looks about him among the men so fierce and so
warlike; then with the women, he's so impudent, and so audacious;--oh!
he's a special fellow.

    _L'Eclair_ speaks without.

_L'Ec._ Here's a set of rascals! no discipline? no subordination in the
house! eh! look to the baggage, curry down my charger! hem! ha!

    Enter _L'Eclair_.

Your ladyship's devoted servant, ever in the foremost rank! never did a
nine-pounder traverse the enemy's line with more promptitude than I,
Phillippe L'Eclair, unworthy private of the fifth hussars, now fly to
cast my poor person at your ladyship's gracious feet.

_Ger._ You are very welcome from the wars, L'Eclair, Fame has spoken of
you in your absence.

_L'Ec._ Fy! my lady, you disorder me at the first charge,--a pestilence
now upon that wicked, impertinent gossip, Fame,--will not her
everlasting tongue suffer even so poor a fellow as L'Eclair, to escape?
'tis insufferable; may I presume to inquire then, what rumours have
reached your ladyship's ear?

_Ger._ To a soldier's credit, trust me.--But your master, L'Eclair,
where is he?

_L'Ec._ Ah! poor gentleman, he's in the rearguard, I left him four
leagues off, at the fortress of Huningen, unexpectedly confined by----

_Ger._ Confined! heavens! by what complaint?

_L'Ec._ Only the complaint of old age; the general commissioned my
master upon his route to deliver some instructions to the superannuated
commandant of the fortress; now the old gentleman proving somewhat dull
of apprehension, my master though dying of impatience, was constrained
to a delay of some extra hours, despatching me, his humble ambassador,
forward, to prevent alarms, and promise his arrival at the chateau
before midnight.

_Ger._ Midnight! so late?--four leagues to travel--alone--his road
through an intricate forest, and the sky already seeming to predict a
tempest.

_L'Ec._ Why, as your ladyship remarks, the clouds seem making a sort of
forced march over our heads; but a storm is the mere trifling of nature
in a soldier's estimation; my master and his humble servant have faced a
cannon-ball too frequently, to be disconcerted by a hail-stone.

_Ger._ Then you have often been employed upon dangerous service,
L'Eclair?

_L'Ec._ Hay, I protest, your ladyship must excuse me there; a man has so
much the appearance of boasting, when he becomes the reporter of his own
achievements; I beg leave to refer your ladyship to the gazettes, though
I confess the gazettes do but afford a soup-maigre, whip-syllabub sort
of narrative, accurate enough, perhaps in the main, but plaguily
incommunicative of particulars: for instance, in the recent affair at
Nordlingen, I can defy you to find any mention in the gazette, that the
chevalier Florian charged through a whole regiment of the enemy's
grenadiers, drawn up in a hollow square, that Phillipe L'Eclair, singly
followed the chevalier, and rode over all those his master had not time
to decapitate, how a masked battery suddenly opened with twelve pieces
of heavy ordnance, firing red-hot balls; how the chevalier's horse
reared; how L'Eclair's neighed; but how both officer and private,
neither a whit discouraged at this dilemma, galloped their chargers
gracefully up to the flaming mouth of the danger; cleared a chevaux de
frise of fifteen feet at a flying leap; then dismounting; carried the
battery by a coup de main; spiked the guns; muzzled the gunners with
their own linstocks; and, finally compelled the principal engineer to
turn cook, and grill a calf's head at his own furnace, for the dinner of
his conquerors! Now this affair which had no small influence in
determining the fortune of the day, with many parallel traits, our
gazetteers have unaccountably neglected to publish. My memory, perhaps,
might remedy their deficiencies to any curious ear, but alas! an
insurmountable modesty renders the task so painful, that I cast myself
upon your ladyship's compassion, and beseech you to forbear from further
inquiry.

_Ger._ Ha! ha! your sensitive delicacy shall be respected L'Eclair;
Rosabelle, be it your care to make the defender of his country
welcome--at midnight then.--Oh! hasten on your flight, dark-wing'd
hours! through your close shadows once disclose my Florian, then if ye
list, be motionless, and still retard the day.  [_Exit._

_L'Ec._ There, you hear young woman!--you are to make the defender of
his country welcome.

_Ros._ I'll do my best towards your pleasure,--what service can I lend
you first.

_L'Ec._ Dress my wounds.

_Ros._ Wounds! gramercy! I never should have guessed you had any.

_L'Ec._ Deep, dangerous, desperate,--here! (_affectedly pressing his
heart_) here, Rosabelle! here's the malady; 'tis an old hurt, I took it
'ere I went on my campaign; time and absence had clapped an awkward sort
of plaster on't; but now--oh! those eyes!--the wound breaks out
afresh;--must I expire?--Rosabelle! prithee, be my surgeon.

_Ros._ I have not the skill to prescribe, but I could administer a
remedy by directions; what salve will you try first.

_L'Ec._ Lip-salve, you gipsy! (_Kisses her furiously._)

_Ros._ Now, shame upon your manners, master soldier, was this a trick
taught you by the wars?

_L'Ec._ Yes, faith! saluting is one of the first lessons in a soldier's
trade, so my dear, tempting, provoking. (_Catches her round._)

_Ros._ Hay, keep your hands off, you have taught me enough of the manual
exercise already; but say now, were you indeed so great a hero in the
battle as you told my lady?

_L'Ec._ Pshaw! I did'nt tell her half, my modesty forbade, but for thee,
my pretty Rosabelle--

_Ros._ Ay, with me, I'm certain your modesty will be no obstacle.

_L'Ec._ None, for while I gaze upon the face of an angel, the devil
himself can't put me out of countenance.

DUETTO.--_Rosabelle and L'Eclair._

  _Ros._ Tell, soldier, tell! and mark you tell me truly,
  How oft in battle have you slain a foe?

  _L'Ec._ Go, count the leaves when winds are heard unruly,
  In autumn that from mighty forests blow.

  _Ros._ Did e'er a captain, worth a costly ransom,
  Own you his conqueror in the deadly broil?

  _L'Ec._ I've twigg'd field-marshals, pickings snug and handsome,
  Twelve waggons now are loaded with my spoil.

  _Both._ Oh! loudly, proudly, sound the soldier's fame!
  Oh! flashy, dashy, flaunt the soldier's dame!

  _Ros._ Tell, soldier, tell! and mark, you tell me truly,
  Did foreign maids ne'er win your roving vow?

  _L'Ec._ O! blood and fire! --I swear I can't speak coolly,
  By Mars! to you, and only you, I bow.

  _Ros._ Say, shall love's chain of blossoms hold for ever?
  Nor time, nor absence, bid its bloom depart?

  _L'Ec._ Not sword, or gun, such magic links can sever,
  Or rend from Rosabelle her hero's heart.

  _Both._ O! loudly, proudly, &c.


  SCENE III.--_A front wood, stage very dark, thunder and lightning._

    Enter _Longueville_ and _Bertrand_, the latter disguised and
    masqued.

_Long._ Come, sir, to your post! what! a coward even to the last? you
tremble.

_Bert._ I do indeed, the storm is terrible, it seems as if heaven's own
voice were clamoring to forbid the deed.  [_Thunder._

_Long._ This tumult of the night assists our enterprise; its thunders
will drown your victim's dying groan. Where have you placed the bravoes?

_Bert._ Hard by--just where the horse-road sinks into a hollow dell, and
over-spreading branches almost choke the pass, there we may rush upon
the wretched youth securely, and there our poniards--

_Long._ Hush!--a footstep!--who passes there?

    Enter _1st Bravo_.

_1st Br._ Sanguine!

_Long._ Wherefore are you here, and parted from your fellow?

_1st Br._ I left him lurking in the hollow, while I sought you out to
ask advice. Just now, a horse without a rider, burst furiously through
the thicket where we lay; the lightning flashed brightly at the time,
and I plainly marked the steed to be the very same young Florian rode,
when we dogged him from the last inn, at sunset.

_Bert._ (_involuntarily_) merciful God! then thou hast preserved him.

_Long._ Villain! you may find your transports premature; perchance he
has dismounted to seek on foot some shelter from the increasing fury of
the storm; but 'tis impossible he should escape; one only path conducts
to the chateau. Quick! bestow yourselves on either side, and your
victim's fate is certain. I must return to avoid suspicion.

_Bert._ (_catching his arm._) Yet, my lord, once more reflect.

_Long._ (_throwing him off._) Recollect your oath.

_Bert._ (_desperately._) Yes, yes, it must be written on my memory in
characters of blood. [_Exeunt separately._


  SCENE IV.--_Another part of the forest more entangled and intricate,
  the tempest becomes violent, and the stage appears alternately
  illumined by the lightning, and enveloped in utter darkness. Florian
  is seen advancing cautiously through the thickets from a distance._

_Flor._ A plague upon all dark nights, foul ways, and runaway horses!
a mettlesome madcap, to start at the lightning and plunge with me head
over heels in the brushwood; in scrambling out of that thicket,
I certainly turned wrong, and have missed my road--how to regain it?
'sdeath! I could as soon compose an almanac as and a clue to this
puzzle. Well, I was found in a wood when a baby, and have just lived to
years of discretion to be lost in a wood again! Fortune! Fortune! thou
spiteful gipsy! was this an honest trick to pass upon a faithful
servant, who has worn thy livery from his cradle, and taken off thy
hands a thousand knocks and buffetings without a murmur? Just at this
moment too, when hope and fancy were dancing merrily, and had made the
prettiest ball-room of my heart--just too when the image of my
Geraldine-- (_rain, storm increases_) but a truce with meditation, this
pelting shower rather advises action-- (_turns to an opening_) --No;
that can't be the path; which ever way I turn I may only get farther
entangled; then there are pit-falls, wolves, bears--yes! I've the
prospect of a delectable night before me; what if I exercise my lungs
and call for help? oh! there's scarcely a chance of being heard; well,
'tis my forlorn hope and shall e'en have a trial. Holloa! Holloa!
Holloa! [_a whistle answers from the right_] Huzza! somebody whistles
from the right! kind lady Fortune! never will I call thee names again.
[_another whistle from the opposite side._] Ha! answered from the left
too! --Lucky fellow!--where are you my dear boys--where are you?

    _Florian_ runs toward the right--a very vivid flash of lightning
    at that instant gleams upon the path before him, and displays the
    figure of a masqued bravo, _Sanguine_, with an unsheathed poniard
    advancing between the trees, _Florian_ recoils.

_Flor._ Ha! a man armed and masqued!--perhaps some ruffian!--'sdeath!
I am defenceless, my pistols were left in the saddle!

_Sanguine._ (_advancing_) Who called?

_Flor._ If I return no answer in the darkness I may retreat unseen.

    [He creeps silently to the left as the bravo advances.

_San._ Speak! where are you?

    [2d bravo emerges from the gloom and directly crosses the path by
    which _Florian_ is about to escape.

_Len._ Here!  [_Thunder._

    [_Florian_ at the second voice discovers himself to be exactly
    between the ruffians, and stops.

_Flor._ God!

    [He recedes a single step, and strikes his hand against a tree
    immediately behind him, the trunk of which is hollowed by time,
    and open towards the audience.

Ha! a tree!

    [By his touch he discovers the aperture, and glides into the
    hollow, at the very instant the two bravoes stepping forward
    quickly from either side of the tree, encounter each other's
    extended hands in front.

_San._ (_raising his poniard_) Die!

_Len._ Hold! 'tis I--your comrade!

_San._ Why did you not answer before, I took you for--hark?

    [_Bertrand_ comes through the trees from the top of the stage.]

_Bert._ Hist! Sanguine?--Lenoire?

_San._ Here!--both of us.

_Bert._ (_coming forward_) Why did you whistle?

_San._ In answer to your call--you hallooed to us.

_Bert._ When?

_San._ But now--a minute back.

_Bert._ I never spoke.

_San._ I'll swear I heard a voice--no doubt then but 'twas he that--

_Bert._ From what quarter did the cry proceed?

_San._ I thought it sounded hereabouts, but the storm kept such a
confounded patter at the time--

_Bert._ Well--let us take the left-hand path; and if we hear the call
repeated--

_San._ Ay!--our daggers meet all questions with a keen reply.

    [Exeunt to the left.

_Flor._ (_extricating himself cautiously from the tree._) Eternal
Providence, what have I heard! Murderers then are upon the watch for me!
no, no--not for _me_. _I_ cannot be the destined victim. I never yet
offended a human being, and fiends themselves would not destroy without
a cause for hatred. Heaven guard the threatened one, whoe'er he be!
Well, Prudence at least admonishes me to avoid the left-hand path; faith
any turn but that must prove the right for _me_. Ha! unless my eyes are
cheated by a Will-o'-th'-Wisp, a friendly light now peeps out through
yonder coppice. (_looking out_) Perhaps some woodman's hut, with a fresh
faggot just crackling on the hearth. Oh, for a seat in such a chimney
corner. (_Whistle again at a distance_) I hear you, gentlemen,
a pleasant ramble to you. Adieu, Messieurs! space be between us! yours
is a left-handed destiny; I'll seek mine to the right. [_Exit._


  SCENE V.--_The outside of a cottage in the wood; a light burning in
  a casement._

    Enter _Monica_, supporting herself on a crutch, and carrying a
    basket of flax.

_Mon._ Praise to the virgin! my old limbs have reached their resting
place at last: what a tempest! my new cardinal is quite drenched. Well,
I've kept the flax dry, however, that's some comfort, (_strikes against
the door._) Ho, there, within--open quickly.

    [The door opens, and a female wildly dressed, appears; she catches
    Monica's hand with affection, and kisses it.]

_Mon._ Ah, my poor Silence! thou hast watched and fretted for me
preciously, I'll warrant: but the road from Brisac is long, and this
rough night half crippled me.

    [The female feels her damp garments, and seems with quick
    tenderness to invite her into the house.]

Well, well, never fright thyself, if I shiver now, a cup of warm Rhenish
will soon make me glow again: 'faith I am weary though; wilt lend an arm
to an old woman?

    [The female embraces and supports her.]

Ah, there's my kind Silence.

    [Exeunt into the cottage.

    Enter _Florian_ running and out of breath, from the left hand.

_Flor._ I'm right, by all the household gods! 'Twas no goblin of the fen
that twinkled to deceive, but a real substantial weatherproof tenement
shining with invitation to benighted travellers. Oh, blessings on its
hospitable threshold; my heart luxuriates already by anticipation, and
pants for a fireside, a supper, and a bed. Hold though--just now I was
on the point of shaking hands with a cutthroat; who knows but here I may
introduce myself upon visiting terms with his family? 'faith I'll
reconnoitre the position before I establish my quarters. This casement
is commodiously low. (_Steps to the casement on tiptoe._) I protest,
a vastly neat, creditable sort of mansion! Yes--it will do! on one side
blazes an excellent fire; in the middle stands a table ready covered;
that's for supper: then just opposite is a door left ajar; ay, that must
lead to a bed. Ha! now the door opens; who comes forward? by all my
hopes a woman! Enough; here will I pitch my tent. Whenever doubts and
fears perplex a man, the form of woman strikes upon his troubled spirit
like the rainbow stealing out of clouds--the type of beauty and the sign
of hope! (_he knocks_) Now Venus send her with a kindly smile!--she
comes--she comes.

    [The female opens the door, but on seeing _Florian_ recoils with
    trepidation--he catches her hand, and forcibly detains her.]

_Flor._ My dear madam! no alarm, for Heaven's sake. You have thieves in
your neighbourhood, but, upon my soul, I don't belong to their
fraternity. No, madam, I'm an unlucky fellow, but with the best morals
in the world: the fact is, I have lost myself in the forest; the storm
rages--and as I am no knight-errant to court unnecessary hardships,
respectfully I entreat the hospitality of this roof for the remainder of
the night.

    [The female surveys his figure with suspicion and timidity.]

_Flor._ I fear 'tis my misfortune to be disbelieved; nay then, let my
dress declare my character! (_he releases her hand to throw open his
riding-cloak, and discovers the regimental under it._) Behold! I am a
soldier.

    [The female shrieks violently; for an instant she covers her eyes
    with both hands shudderingly, and then with the look and action
    of sudden insanity, darts away into the thicket of the wood.]

_Flor._ (_calling after her._) Madam! my dear madam! only hear me,
madam! she's gone! absolutely vanished! I wish I had a looking-glass;
certainly I must have changed my face when I lost my road--no scare-crow
could have terrified the poor woman more. What's to be done? If I follow
her, I shall but increase her terrors and my own difficulties. Shall I
enter the cottage and wait her return? the door stands most invitingly
open, and to a wet and weary wanderer, that fire sparkles so
provokingly--'faith, I can't resist the temptation--Adventure seems the
goddess of the night, and I'll e'en worship the divinity at a blazing
shrine!  [_Exit into the house._


  SCENE VI.--_The interior of the cottage--the entrance, door, and
  casements are on one side--opposite is the fireplace--and a
  staircase in the back scene conducts to an upper chamber--a table
  with a lamp burning, and a frugal supper stands in the middle of the
  stage.--Florian is discovered when the scene draws, kneeling at the
  hearth and chaffing his hands before the fire._

_Flor._ Eternal praise to the architect who first invented
chimney-corners? the man who built the pyramids was a dunce by
comparison. [_rises and looks round him._] All solitary and silent:
faith, my situation here is somewhat whimsical. Well, I am left in
undisturbed possession, and that's a title in law, if not in equity.
[_he takes off his cloak and hangs it on a chair_] Yes, this shall be my
barrack for the night. What an unsocial spirit must the fair mistress of
this cottage possess. Egad, she seemed to think it necessary, like the
man and woman in the weather-house, that one sex should turn forth into
the storm, so soon as the other sought a shelter from its peltings:
a plague on such punctilio.

    [_Monica_ enters down the staircase from her chamber.]

_Mon._ [_speaking as she descends._] There, my garments are changed, and
we may now enjoy our supper.

_Flor._ Ha! another woman! but old, by the mother of the Graces!

_Mon._ A stranger!

_Flor._ Not an impertinent one, I trust. One, who in the darkness of the
storm has missed his road, despairs of regaining it till morning, and
craves of your benevolence a shelter for the night. You shall be soon
convinced I am no dangerous guest.

_Mon._ [_with a voluble civility._] Nay, young gentleman, never trouble
yourself to inform me of your rank; you have told me your necessity, and
that's a sufficient claim to every comfort my little cabin can afford;
pray, sir, take a seat: I am much honoured by your presence: we have a
little supper toward; you must partake it, sir: here! my good Silence!
come hither. Ah! I do not see--[_looking anxiously round the cottage._]

_Flor._ I am afraid, my good madam, you miss one of your family.

_Mon._ I do, indeed, sir; and--

_Flo._ It was my misfortune to drive a female out of your house at the
moment I entered it.

_Mon._ Sir!

_Flor._ But not intentionally, I protest. The fact is, though I have
always esteemed myself as a well-manufactured person, yet something in
my appearance so terrified the lady that--

_Mon._ Ah, I comprehend; you wear the habit of a soldier, sir, and my
poor Silence never can abide to look upon that dress.

_Flor._ Indeed! that's rather a singular antipathy for a female. May I
inquire--is she a daughter of yours?

_Mon._ Not by blood, sir; but she is the child of misfortune, and as
such may claim a parent in every heart that has itself experienced
sorrow; but come, sir, take a seat, I beseech you; my alarm ceases now I
know the cause of her absence. She is accustomed to wander in the woods
by night when any thing disturbs her mind. She'll return to me anon calm
and passive as before: I have known it with her often thus. You look
fatigued, sir; let me recommend this flask of Rhenish: pray drink, sir;
it will do you good; it always does me good.

_Flor._ Madam, since you are so pressing, my best services to you--a
very companionable sort of old gentlewoman this (_aside_); I protest,
madam, I feel myself interested for this unfortunate under your
protection; there was a wild and melancholy sweetness in her eye that
touched me at our first exchange of looks with awe and pity; is her
history a secret?

_Mon._ Oh, no--not a secret, but quite a mystery, you know nearly as
much of it as I do; but since we are on the subject--another draught of
wine, sir!

_Flor._ Madam, you will pledge me. And now for the mystery.

_Mon._ Well, sir, about sixteen years ago when I lived in Languedoc, for
you must know I am but newly settled _here_, a stranger in Alsace, ay!
about sixteen or seventeen years ago, there came a rumour to our
village, of a _wild woman_, that had been caught by some peasants in the
woods near _Albi_, following quite a savage and unchristian life;
gathering fruits and berries for her food by day, and sleeping in the
mossy hollows of a rock at night. She was brought round the country as a
show. All the world in our parts went to look upon the prodigy, and you
may be sure _I_ made one among the crowd. Well, sir, this wild woman was
the very creature you beheld but now. At that time she was in truth a
piteous object; her form was meagre and wasted, and her wretched garment
hung over it in filthy tatters; her fine hair fell in matted heaps, and
the sun and the wind together had changed her skin like an Indian's. Yet
even in the midst of all this misery, there was a something so noble and
so gentle in her air, that the moment I looked upon her, my curiosity
was lost at once in pity and respect. The people by whom she was
surrounded, were stunning her with coarse and vulgar questions, but
never an answer did she deign to give, though some wheedled and some
threatened; still 'twas to all alike: so most persons concluded she was
dumb.

_Flor._ And a very natural conclusion it was, when a female remained
silent, who had so excellent an opportunity of exercising her tongue.

_Mon._ Well, Sir, presently _my_ turn came to approach her, when somehow
my heart swelled quite painfully, to see the gracious image of our Maker
degraded, and one's own fellow creature treated like the brutes of the
field, so, that when I touched her, my tears started unawares and fell
upon her trembling hand. Would you believe it, sir? the poor desolate
statue felt the trickling drops, and reason was rekindled by the warmth
of pity. Suddenly her eyes, so lately dull and vacant, flashed with
recovered brightness. She cast herself at my feet--clasped my knees--and
cried out, in tones that might have moved a heart of rock--"Angel of
compassion! save me from disgrace?" All present started as if a miracle
were worked. "Will you preserve me?" cried the suppliant. I was a
widowed and a childless woman; in an instant I raised the forlorn one to
my arms, as a companion, as an adopted daughter. Her keepers were
ignorant men, but not cruel; their hearts were softened by the scene,
and they yielded their claims to my entreaties. I led the unfortune to
my dwelling; from that moment, she has shared my mat and partaken of my
morsel. I love her with the affection of a real parent, and were I now
to lose her, I think my heart would break upon the grave that robbed it
of its darling.

_Flor._ By heavens, I reverence your feelings! in truth 'tis a
melancholy story.

_Mon._ Yes, sir; and melancholy stories make people dry, so let me
recommend another cup of wine.

_Flor._ Madam, I can't refuse the challenge-- (_aside_) the old lady
certainly designs to send me under the table. But pray, madam, have you
never discovered the cause of that distress, from which you first
relieved this suffering woman?

_Mon._ Never. On the subject of her early adventures she remains
inflexibly silent. I have often tried to win the secret from her, but
though she is mild and rational enough upon all other themes, yet, let
but a hint remind her of her former wretchedness, her wits directly
start into disorder, and for whole hours, nay, sometimes days together,
she remains a lunatic. I do not even know her name, but call her
Silence, because her voice is heard so very rarely. I think her
dejection has increased since we quitted Languedoc, for about two months
since, a kinsman of mine died, and bequeathed me this cottage with some
land here in Alsace; 'tis a lone house, and the thick woods about I fear
remind my poor Silence too much of her former way of life, sometimes she
wanders in them half the night.

_Flo._ Are you not fearful of her safety? these woods are full of
danger; within this half hour, I myself have encountered three ruffians
lurking for their prey.

_Mon._ Ruffians! young gentleman. Blessed Mary save us!--'tis true, I am
a stranger in these parts, but never did I hear of such neighbours.
Well, well, I fear not for my child, she has no wealth to tempt a
plunderer. Poverty is the mother of ills, but her offspring generally
respect each other. Come, sir, finish the flask; and now let me prepare
your chamber for the night. (_rises._)

_Flor._ Kind hostess! I am bounden to you ever. (_rises and fills his
glass_) Here's woman! beauteous, generous woman! _admired_ when we are
happy, but in our adversity _adored_! (_drinks._)

_Mon._ (_curtseying_) Sweet sir, down to the very ground I return your
gallantry.

_Flor._ Hist!--don't I hear footsteps in the wood?

_Mon._ (_listening_) Ah, yes, perhaps my child returns to us.

    [The casement is thrust open, and _Bertrand_ with the two bravoes
    look into the cottage.]

_Mon._ Ah! men in masks!

_Bert._'Tis he! (_they disappear from the casement._)

_Flor._ Swift! help me swift to bar the door!

_Mon._ Ah! 'tis forced already! (_noise at door._)

    [The door is burst, the two bravoes instantly spring upon
    _Florian_ and grapple with him. _Bertrand_ seizes the woman.]

_Mon._ Murder! murder!

_Bert._ Silence, or you die!

    [_Florian_ struggles towards the centre of the stage in front, and
    is there forced down upon one knee.]

_Flo._ Is it plunder that you seek? what is your purpose with me? speak!

_San._ Learn it by this! (_raises his dagger._)

_Bert._ Hold! not _here_, drag him into the wood, despatch him _there_!

_Flo._ Inhuman villains! by your soul's best hope--I charge you--I
implore you--

_Bert._ (_stamping furiously, and casting Monica from him_) Toward the
wood! --Follow me!

    [_Bertrand_ turns to the door, and the bravoes struggle to force
    _Florian_ after him, at that instant, the unknown female enters
    from the wood, and pauses in the door-way exactly opposite to
    _Bertrand_, his advanced arm falls back nerveless by his side, his
    limbs shake with strong convulsion, and he reels backwards.]

_Bert._ Support me, ah! save me, or I die!

    [The bravoes release _Florian_ to fly towards _Bertrand_, who
    sinks in their arms. The female, with a light and rapid step
    crosses in front of the group to the middle of the stage where
    _Florian_ remains kneeling, she spreads her wild drapery before
    the victim, and places herself between him and the ruffians in
    the attitude of protection.]

_Bert._ (_pursuing her with his eye deliriously_) Look! look! she rises
from the grave! she blasts me with her frown! away! away! heaven itself
forbids the deed!

    [The ruffians rush forth into the wood again. _Florian_ and
    _Monica_ catch the hands of the unknown to their lips in
    transport, and the curtain falls suddenly upon the scene.]


    End of act I.



ACT II.


  SCENE I.--_A gallery in the chateau._

    Enter _Longueville_ and _Bertrand_.

_Long._ Traitor! infamous, unblushing traitor! Florian has arrived,
arrived in safety: every way I have been betrayed; and now to screen
your perfidy from punishment, you dare insult my ear with forgeries too
monstrous and too gross for patience.

_Bert._ Hear me, my lord! as I have life, as I have a soul, so have I
spoken truly, the grave yawned asunder to forbid the blow, it was no
vision of my cowardice--I saw--distinctly saw-it was _Eugenia_! as in
her days of nature, entire and undecayed, the spectre-form stood
terribly before me, it moved--it gazed--it frowned me into madness!

_Long._ Villain! still would you deceive me!

_Bert._ Ah, my lord, you would deceive yourself. I swear it was Eugenia,
her shadowy arms were stretched between the lifted dagger and the
prostrate youth; while her swift dark eye flashed on mine with
brightness insupportable: such was her dreadful look, when, with her
bleeding infant clinging to her breast, she sprang into the flames,
and--

_Long._ Hush! [_the doors of an inner chamber open, and De Valmont
appears conversing with Florian and Geraldine._] We are interrupted;
quick! change those ruffled features into smiles, quick! mark me,
wretch!

_De Val._ (_coming forward_) My boy, your preservation was indeed a
miracle. Ascribe not to the vague results of chance, that which belongs
to Providence alone. Ah, here is my kinsman--one, whose anxious fears on
your account, have held him a sleepless watcher through the night.

_Long._ (_with affected fervency_) Florian! a thousand welcomes: the
return of friends at all times is a joy, but when they come through
dangers to our arms, there's transport in the meeting. Tell me--what
strange tale is this I catch imperfectly from every lip? can it be
possible you were assailed last night by ruffians in the wood?

_Flor._ Yes, my dear baron, yes! but morning has chased away night, and
I am out of the wood now; therefore let us banish gloomy retrospections,
and yield the present hour to bliss without alloy.

_De Val._ Not so: in this your friends must claim an interest dearer
than your own: these men of blood shall be pursued to justice, if Alsace
yet hold them.

_Long._ Be that my task. (_to Flor._) Should you recognize their
persons?

_Flo._ Positively no--their disguises were impenetrable.

_Ger._ But their voices, Florian, you heard them speak?

_Flo._ True, sweet Geraldine, a few broken sentences; but their accents
were not framed like thine, to touch the ear but once, yet vibrate on
the memory forever.

_Long._ Indulge my curiosity, how were you preserved?

_Flo._ Well, baron, since you will force me to act the hero in my own
drama, thus runs my story: I was defenceless, helpless, hopeless: two
sturdy knaves had mastered my struggling arms, and the dagger of a third
gleamed against my throat, when suddenly a female form appeared before
us; in an instant, as if by magic, the murderers relaxed their hold,
shuddered, recoiled, uttered cries, and fled the spot, the female mute
and motionless remained.

_Bert._ (_aside to Longueville._) You mark.

_Long._ (_repulsing him._) Silence!

_Flo._ Cowardice is ever found the mate of Cruelty: this stranger was
doubtless regarded by the villains as a preternatural agent, she proved
however, a mere mortal, frail and palpable as ourselves.

_Bert._ (_listening with tremulous attention._) God! living!

_Long._ (_not regarding Bertrand, who has drawn behind._) Whence came
this woman? What was she?

_Flo._ Alas! the most pitiable object in nature--an unhappy maniac; she
resides at the same cottage where I found shelter from the storm.

_Bert._ (_as if electrified by a sudden thought._) Direct me, heaven!

    [He glides silently out of the gallery unobserved by all.]

_Long._ Were not any other circumstances linked with this adventure?

_Flo._ None of consequence: but I suspect one of the ruffians was known
to this wretched woman; her incoherent words implied that she recognized
in him an ancient enemy; but her frail remains of intellect, were, for a
time, quite unsettled by the terror of the scene; she fled from me to
her chamber in dismay, and at daybreak I left the cottage without a
second interview.

_Long._ Florian! it is necessary this woman should be interrogated
further-- (_with much emotion_) not a moment must be lost--dear count,
excuse me for an hour, my anxiety admits not of delay. I will myself
visit this cottage instantly. [_Exit._

_Ger._ (_half aside to De Valmont_) Uncle, if the baron tarries beyond
the hour, we must not wait for his return, recollect it is to be at noon
exactly.

_Flo._ (_overhearing._) And what at noon, dear Geraldine?

_De Val._ (_smiling_) Florian, you are destined to be our hero in peace
as well as war--my niece has planned a little fête in compliment to the
conquerors of Nordlingen.

_Ger._ Fy, uncle, Florian was not to have known of it till the moment,
you have betrayed my secret, now as a due punishment for the treason,
I impose upon you to appear at our fête in person.

_De Val._ What a demand! --I, who never--

_Ger._ Nay, if it be only for a minute, positively you must come among
us--nay, I will not be denied.

_De Val._ Well, you reign a fairy sovereign for the day, and if it be
your will to play the despot, your subjects, though they murmur, must
obey.

_Ger._ (_embracing him_) There's my kindest uncle! thanks! Florian I
warn you not to stir towards the terrace till I summon you, beware of
disobedience, I have the power to punish.

_Flor._ And to reward also.

_Ger._ Ah! at least I have the inclination, it will be your own fault if
ever my actions and my wishes dissociate, or Geraldine refuse a boon
when Florian is the suitor.  [_Exit._

_Flor._ (_looking after her_) Geraldine! too kind, too lovely Geraldine,
ah! sir, is she not admirable?

_De Val._ She has been accounted so by many in your absence. I cannot
estimate her beauty, but I know her virtue; and the last fond wish left
clinging to this heart is Geraldine's felicity. I shall endeavour to
secure it, by uniting her in marriage with a worthy object.

_Flor._ Sir!--marriage did you say? Gracious heaven! Marriage!

_De Val._ What is it that surprizes you? I can assure you, Geraldine
already has been addressed by lovers.

_Flor._ To doubt it were a blasphemy against perfection. Oh! Sir, it is
not that--oh! no.

_De Val._ Wherefore, my dear Florian, so much emotion? Does the idea of
Geraldine's marriage afflict you?

_Flor._ I am not such an ingrate--her happiness is the prayer of my soul
to heaven, and I would perish to insure it.

_De Val._ (_after a pause, during which he regards the agitated Florian
with tender earnestness._) Young man, I have long since determined to
address you with a brief recital of circumstances necessary to your
future decisions in life. Every word of that recital must draw with it a
life-drop from my heart, for I shall speak to you of the past, and
recollection to me is agony. The trial we once have considered as
inevitable, it is fruitless to defer. Draw yourself a seat, and afford
me for a few minutes your fixt attention.

    (_Florian_ presents a chair to the _Count_, and then seats
    himself.)

_De Val._ Florian, you now behold me, such as I have seemed, even from
your infancy--a suffering, querulous, cheerless, hopeless,
broken-hearted man--one who has buried all the energies of his nature,
and only preserves a few of its charities tremblingly alive. It was not
with me always thus--I once possessed a mind and a body vigorously
moulded, a heart for enterprize, and an arm for achievement. Grief, not
time, has palsied those endowments. Born to exalted rank, and
luxuriously bread, like the new-fledged eaglet rushing from his nest at
once against the sun, eager, elate, and confident, I entered upon life.

_Flor._ Ah! that malignant clouds should obscure so bright a dawn!

_De Val._ My spirit panted for a career of arms--civil war then
desolated France, and, at the age of twenty, I embraced the cause of my
religion and my king. Fortune, prodigal of her flatteries, twined my
brow with clustering laurels, and at the close of my first campaign, my
sovereign's favor and the people's love already hailed me by a hero's
title. Fatigued with glory--then--ah! Florian! then it was I welcom'd
love!--a first, a last, an only and eternal passion! (_Pauses with
emotion._)

_Flor._ Nay, sir, desist--these recollections shake your mind too
strongly.

_De Val._ No, no--let me proceed. I can command myself--Florian! I wooed
and won an angel for my bride--my expression is not a lover's
rhapsody--at this distant period, seriously I pronounce it--Eugenia
approached as closely to perfection as the Creator has permitted to his
creature! Such as she was, to say I loved her were imperfect phrase! my
passion was enthusiasm--was idolatry! Our marriage-bed was early blessed
with increase--and as my lip greeted with a father's kiss the infant, my
heart bounded with a new transport towards its mother.--My felicity
seemed perfect! Now, Florian, mark! My country a second time called me
to her battles; I left my kinsman, Longueville, to guard the dear-ones
of my soul at home, then sped to join our army in a distant province.
I was wounded and made prisoner by the enemy. When I recovered health
and liberty, I found a rumour of my death had in the interval prevailed
through France. I trembled lest Eugenia should receive the tale, and
flew in person to prevent her terrors. It was evening when I reached the
hills of Languedoc, and looked impatiently towards my cheerful home
beneath. I looked--the last sunbeam glared redly upon smoking ruins! Oh!
oh! the blood now chills and curdles round my heart--the wolves of war
had rushed by night upon my slumbering fold--fire and sword had
desolated all. I called upon my wife and my infant. I trembled on their
ashes while I called! (_he sinks back exhausted in his chair._)

_Flo._ Tremendous hour! so dire a shock might well have paralized a
Roman firmness.

_De Val._ (_resuming faintly._) Florian, there is a grief that never
found its image yet in words. I prayed for death--nay, madness! but
heaven, for its own best purposes, denied me either boon. I was ordained
still to live, and still be conscious of my misery. For many weeks I
wandered through the country, silent, sullen, stupified! My people
watched, but dared not comfort me. Abjuring social life, I plunged into
the deepest solitudes, to shun all commerce with my kind. 'Twas at the
close of a sultry day, the last of August, that I entered a forest at
the foot of the Cevennes, and worn with long fatigue and misery,
stretched myself upon the moss for momentary rest. On the sudden,
a faint and feeble moan pierced my ear; instinctively I moved the
branches at my side, and at the foot of a rude stone-cross beheld a
desolate infant, unnaturally left to perish in the wilderness! It was
famishing--expiring. I raised it to my breast, and its little arms
twined feebly round my neck Florian! thou wert heaven's gracious
instrument to reclaim a truant to his duties! Welcome! I cried to thee,
young brother in adversity!--"thou art deserted by thy mortal parents,
and my heavenly father has forsaken me!" From that moment I felt I had a
motive left to cherish life, since my existence could be useful to a
fellow-being--my wanderings finished, and I settled in Alsace. Eighteen
years have followed that event; but I shall not comment on their course.

_Flor._ (_with energy._) Yet, sir, those years must not, shall not pass
forgotten. Deeds of generous charity have made them sacred, and an
orphan's blessing wafts their eulogy to heaven--_he casts himself at De
Valmont's feet_). Friend! protector! more than parent! the beings who
had called me into life denied my claim, and you performed the duties
nature had renounced. Ah! sir, I am thoughtless, volatile, my manners
wild--but, from my inmost soul, I love, I reverence, I bless my
benefactor!

_De Val._ Rise young man! your virtues have repaid my cares. Here let us
dismiss the past, and advert to the future. Geraldine is my heiress; my
niece and my vassals must receive the same master: both are objects of
my care, and I would confide them only to a man of honor. Florian! let
Geraldine become your wife--be you hereafter the protector of my people.

_Flor._ Merciful powers! what is it that I hear? I?--the child of
accident and mystery: a wretched foundling: I?

_De Val._ Young man, your sentiments and your actions have proved
themselves the legitimate offspring of honor, and I require no pedigree
for limbs and features. Fortune forbade you to inherit a name, but she
has granted you a prouder boast: you have founded one. Common men vaunt
of the actions of their forefathers, but the superior spirit declares
his own! Nay, no reply--I never form or break a resolution lightly.
I know your heart: I am acquainted with Geraldine's; they beat
responsive to each other--your passion has my consent: your marriage
shall receive my blessing. Farewell. [_He exits suddenly, and prevents
Florian by his action from any reply._]

_Flor._ Heard I aright? Yes, he pronounced it--"Geraldine is thine."
Earth's gross substantial touch is felt no more: I mount in air, and
rest on sunbeams! Oh! if I dream now--royal Mab! abuse me ever with thy
dear deceits; for in serious wakeful hours, truth ne'er can touch my
senses with a joy so bright. O! I could sing, dance, laugh, shout; and
yet methinks, had I a woman's privilege, I'd rather weep; for tears are
pleasure's oracles as well as grief's.

    Enter _L'Eclair_.

_L'Ec._ So, Captain! you are well encountered. I have sad forebodings
that our shining course of arms is threatened with eclipse. If I may use
the boldness to advise, we shall strike our tents, and file off in quick
march without beat of drum. Our laurels are in more danger here than in
the midst of the enemy's lines.

_Flor._ How now! my doughty 'squire: what may be our present jeopardy?

_L'Ec._ Ah! captain, the sex--the dear seductive sex; this house is the
modern Capua, and we are the Hannibals of France, toying away our severe
virtues amid its voluptuousness. One damsel throws forward the prettiest
ancle in anatomy, and cries, "Mr. L'Eclair, I'm your's for a Waltz":
a second languishes upon me from large blue melting eyes, and whispers,
"Mr. L'Eclair, will you take a stroll by moonlight in the grove?" while
a third, in all the ripe round plumpness of uneasy health, calls the
modest blood to my fingers' ends, by requesting me "to adjust some error
in the pinning of her 'kerchief." O! captain, captain, heros are but
men, men but flesh, and flesh is but weakness; therefore, let us briefly
put on a Parthian valor, and strive to conquer by a flight!

_Flor._ Knave! prate of deserting these dear precious scenes again, and
I'll finish your career myself by a coup-de-main. No, no; change
churlish dreams and braving trumpets to mellifluous flutes. I am to be
married. Varlet, wish me joy.

_L'Ec._ Certainly, captain, I _do_ wish you joy; when a man has once
determined upon matrimony he acts wisely to collect the congratulations
of his friends beforehand, for heaven only knows, whether there may be
any opportunity for them afterwards. May I take the freedom to inquire
the lady?

_Flor._ 'Tis _she_--L'Eclair, 'tis _she_, the only she, the peerless,
priceless Geraldine.

_L'Ec._ "_Peerless_" I grant the lady, but as to her being
"_priceless_," I should think for my own poor particular, that when I
bartered my liberty for a comely bedfellow, I was paying full value for
my goods, besides a swinging overcharge for the fashion of the make.

_Flor._ Tush! man, 'tis not by form or feature I compute my prize.
Geraldine's _mind_, not her beauty, is the magnet of my love. The
_graces_ are the fugitive handmaids of youth, and dress their charge
with flowers as fleeting as they are fair; but the _virtues_ faithfully
o'erwatch the couch of age, and when the flaunting rose has wither'd,
twine the cheerful evergreen, crowning true lovers freshly to the last!
  [_Exit._

_L'Ec._ "True lovers!" well, now I love Love, myself, particularly when
'tis mix'd with brandy! like the loves of the landlady of Lisle, and the
bandy-legg'd captain.[*]

SONG.

  A landlady of France, she loved an officer, 'tis said,
    And this officer he dearly loved her brandy, oh!
  Sigh'd she, "I love this officer, although his nose is red,
    And his legs are what his regiment call bandy, oh!"

  2

  But when the bandy officer was order'd to the coast;
    How she tore her lovely locks that look'd so sandy, oh!
  "Adieu my soul!" said she, "if you write, pray pay the post,
    But before we part, let's take a drop of brandy, oh!"

  3

  She fill'd him out a bumper, just before he left the town,
    And another for herself, so neat and handy, oh!
  So they kept their spirits up, by their pouring spirits down,
    For love is, like the cholic, cured with brandy, oh!

  4

  "Take a bottle on't," said she, "for you're going into camp;
    In your tent, you know, my love, 'twill be the dandy, oh!"
  "You're right," says he, "my life! for a tent is very damp;
    And 'tis better, with my tent, to take some brandy, oh!"

    [Footnote: For this speech, and the song that follows, the author
    is indebted to the pen of George Colman, Esq.]


  SCENE II.--_The Cottage._

    Enter _Monica_ and _Bertrand_.

_Mon._ In truth, sir, I have told you every circumstance I know
concerning my poor lodger. But wherefore so particular in your
inquiries?

_Bert._ Trust me, I have important motives for my curiosity. Seventeen
years ago, I think you said: and in the woods near _Albi_?

_Mon._ Ay, ay, I was accurate both in time and place.

_Bert._ Every incident concurs. Gracious heaven! should it prove--my
good woman, I suspect this unfortunate person is known to me; bring me
directly to the sight of her!

_Mon._ Hold! sir, I must know you better first. I fear me, this poor
creature has been hardly dealt with; who knows, but you may be her
enemy?

_Bert._ No, no, her friend; her firm and faithful friend: suspence
distracts me: lead me to her presence instantly!

_Mon._ Well, well, truly, sir! you look and speak like an honest
gentleman; but tho' I consent, I doubt whether my lodger will receive
you; her mind is ill at ease for visitors. All last night I overheard
her pacing up and down her chamber, moaning piteously and talking to
herself; towards day-break, all became quiet, then I peeped thro' the
crevice of her door and saw that she was writing. I never knew her write
before, I knocked for admittance, but she prayed me not to interrupt her
for another hour.

_Bert._ Does she still keep her chamber?

_Mon._ She has not quitted it this morning--hark! I think I hear her
stir, (_goes to the stair-foot and looks up_) ay! her door now stands
open, place yourself just here, and you may view her plainly without
being seen yourself; her face is turned towards us, but her eyes are
fixed upon a writing in her hands.

    [_Bertrand_ looks for a moment to satisfy his doubts, then rushes
    forward and casts himself upon his knee transportedly.]

_Bert._ She lives! Eternal mercy! thanks! thanks!

_Mon._ Holy St. Dennis! the sight of her has strangely moved you:
collect yourself, I pray, she comes towards us.

_Bert._ Oh! let me cast myself before her feet!

_Mon._ (_restraining him_) Hold, sir! whatever be your business,
I beseech you to refrain a little, I must prepare her for your
appearance, her spirits cannot brook surprise, back! back!

    [_Bertrand_ withdraws, and _Eugenia_ descends the stair with a
    folded paper in her hand--she appears to struggle with emotion,
    and running towards _Monica_, casts her arms passionately around
    her.]

_Eug._ My kind mother! this is perhaps our last embrace; we must part.

_Mon._ Part! my child! what mean you?

_Eug._ Ah! it is my fate, my cruel unrelenting fate that drives me from
you, from the last shelter and the only friend I yet retain on earth.

_Mon._ Explain yourself; I cannot comprehend.

_Eug._ Mother! I have an enemy, a dreadful one. Seventeen years have
veil'd me from his hate in vain: those years have wasted the victim's
form, but the persecutor's heart remains unchanged: my retreat is
discovered: the wretches who were here last night too surely recognized
me; soon they may return, and force me; oh! thought of horror. No, no,
here I dare not stay.

_Mon._ My poor innocent! whither would you go?

_Eug._ To the woods and caves from which you rescued me. Mother, the
wilderness must be my home again. I fly to wolves and vultures to escape
from man! Receive this paper, 'tis the written memoir of my wretched
life; read it when I am gone: my head burned and my hand trembled while
I traced those characters: yet 'tis a faithful history. Mother! I dare
not thank your charity, but heaven will remember it hereafter: bestow
upon me one embrace, and then let me depart in silence.

    (_Monica_ gives a sign to _Bertrand_ to advance.)

_Mon._ Yet hold some moments; a stranger has been inquiring here this
morning who describes himself your friend.

_Eug._ Ah! no, no: the tomb long since has covered all my friends; 'tis
some wily agent of my foe! Ah! forbid him mother; let him not
approach me.

_Mon._ 'Tis too late; he is already in the house.

_Eug._ Where?

    (_Monica_ points, and _Eugenia's_ eyes following her direction,
    rest upon the prostrate figure of _Bertrand_, who has placed
    himself in a posture of supplication, and concealed his face with
    his hands.)

_Eug._ (_gazing intensely with apprehension._) Speak! you kneel and
still are silent. Ah! what would you require of me?

_Bert._ (_uncovering his face without raising his eyes_) Pardon! pardon!

_Eug._ (_shrieking and flying_) Ah! Bertrand.

_Bert._ (_catching her mantle_) Stay! angel of mercy, stay and hear me.
He that was your scourge now yields himself your slave: a wretched
penitent despairing man lies humbled in the dust before you, and
implores for pardon.

_Eug._ (_pauses--presses her crucifix to her lips, and then replies with
fervor._) Yes! charity and peace to all! Nay, heaven forgive thee,
sinful man, I never will accuse thee at its bar.

_Bert._ Angel! my actions better than my prayers may plead with heaven
for mercy: the cruel wrongs that I have offered, yet in part may be
atoned--lady, I come to serve and save you.

_Eug._ Ah! to what fresh terrors am I yet devoted?

_Bert._ Might we converse without a witness? in your ear only dare I
breathe my purpose.

_Mon._ Nay, I will not be an eaves-dropper: my child you do not fear
this person now? I'll leave you with him--nay, 'tis best--perchance he
comes indeed with service. My blessings go with you, stranger, if you
mean her fairly, but if you wrong or play her false, a widow's curse
fall heavy on your death-bed.  [_Exit up the staircase._

    (A pause of mutual agitation.)

_Eug._ Speak! man of terrors--say what has the persecuted and undone
Eugenia yet to dread?

_Bert._ The baron Longueville--

_Eug._ That fiend!

_Bert._ He now is in the neighbourhood; as yet he dreams not that you
live: but accident this very hour might betray you to his knowledge.
Lady! I possess the means. O blessed chance! to shield you from his
malice.

_Eug._ And wilt thou; O! wilt thou, Bertrand, at last extend a pitying
arm to raise the wretch, thy former hate had stricken to the ground?
I have been despoiled of fortune, fame, and health: my brain has been
distracted by thy cruelty: yet now preserve me from this worst extreme
of fate: let me not die the slave of Longueville, all my injuries, all
my sufferings are forgotten, and this one gracious act shall win thy
pardon for a thousand sins.

_Bert._ Lady! my o'er weighed conscience heaves impatiently to cast its
load. (_sinks on his knee_) Lo! at your injured feet I kneel, and
solemnly pronounce a vow, the tyrant Longueville shall mar your peace no
more.

    [The cottage-door silently opens, and _Sanguine_ looks in--he
    makes a sign to _Longueville_ who follows, and they glide to the
    further end of the cottage unperceived; where they remain in
    anxious observation of the characters in front.]

_Eug._ Rise! your penitence wears nature's stamp, and I believe it
honest.

_Bert._ Oh! lady, your words redeem me from despair: but say, to ease a
heart that aches with wonder: say, by what prodigy you 'scaped the
flames of that tremendous night, when all believed you perished?

_Eug._ (_shuddering._) Ah! what hast thou said? my dream of confidence
dissolves, and now I turn from thee again with horror! Again I view thy
murderous poniard reared to strike! Again my wounded infant shrieks upon
my bosom, and the fiery gulf yawns redly at my feet! begone? begone! for
now I hate thee!

_Bert._ Ah, not to me--to Longueville ascribe the horrors of that night.
(_Aside_) What shall I say? I dare not own to her that De Valmont lives.
Hear me, lady; scarce was your lord's untimely fall reported, when the
cruel Longueville in secret plotted to remove his infant heir, the only
bar that held him from a rich succession; by hellish means he won me to
his cause: _his_ hand it was that oped the castle gates at midnight to
the foe, and when the fierce Huguenots rushed shouting through the
halls, still _his_ hand it was that fired the chamber where you slept in
peace: to save your child you rushed distracted to the rampart's edge;
just as I followed to complete my prey, a falling turret crossed my
path, and presently the general fabric sank in ruin.

_Eug._ A wayward destiny that night was mine; at once both saved and
lost! a hidden passage dug beneath the rampart, twining through many a
cavern'd maze, at distance opened to the woods. I reached the secret
entrance of that pass, just as the turret fell and screened me from
pursuit. Concealing darkness wrapt my flying steps: the roar of death
sank far behind, and ere the dawn, in safety with my child, I gained the
forest.

_Bert._ Your child! eternal powers! the infant then escaped my blow.

_Eug._ Thy dagger's point twice scarred his innocent hand, but failed
to reach the life. (_Bertrand gesticulates his transport_) A sanguine
cross indelibly remained; but nature and his mother's tears assuaged the
pain. Charitable foresters, ignorant of our rank, relieved our wants and
changed our robes for rustic weeds; thus disguised, my infant in my
arms, on foot I travelled far and long, seeking ever by the loneliest
paths, to reach my sovereign's court, and at the throne of power implore
for justice.

_Bert._ O! does the infant yet survive? Speak, lady! bless me with those
words--he lives.

_Eug._ No, Bertrand, no; fortune but mocked me with a moment's hope to
curse me deeper still through ages of despair. In vain I snatched my
darling boy from poniard and from flame: when way-lost in the
wilderness, but for a moment did I quit my treasure, the mazes of the
wood ensnared my step: the fever of my body rushed upon my brain:
I wandered, never to return; while my forsaken infant--he perished,
Bertrand. Ah! my brain begins to burn afresh! mark me, he perished
terribly: inquire not further.

_Bert._ (_deeply affected._) Thou suffering excellence! be witness
heaven! the monster that I was, no longer has a life; thy tears have
drowned it quite, and now it strangely melts in pity and remorse. Come,
lady, let me bestow thee in a safe retreat: the hoarded wages of my
sinful youth, I'll use as offerings to redeem thy peace: far hence in
foreign lands a certain refuge waits our flight, and there secure from
Longueville--

    [The _Baron_ suddenly stands before them in the centre: _Eugenia_
    shrieks and _Bertrand_ stands aghast and trembles.]

_Bert._ Undone forever?

_Long._ (_furiously to Sanguine_) Guard well the door--let not a
creature enter or depart.

    [_Sanguine_ advances by his direction. _Eugenia_ flies by the
    stairs to the upper chamber. _Longueville_, after a short pause of
    indecisive passion, draws a poniard and seizes upon _Bertrand_.]

_Long._ Wretch!

_Bert._ Strike! yes, deep in this guilty bosom, strike at once, and rid
me of despair.

_Long._ Thou double traitor! thy perjuries now meet their just reward.
Tremble at impending death.

_Bert._ No; I have not feared to live in vice, and will not shrink at
least to die for virtue.

_Long._ (_throwing him off._) No; I will not take the wretched forfeit:
thou'rt spared from hate, not pity; I gave thee back thy life, but I
will study punishments, to make the boon a curse unutterable.

_Bert._ Tyrant, I defy thy vengeance to increase my torments; the
innocent, I pledged myself to save, already stands devoted to
destruction, and the measure of my anguish and despair is full.

_Long._ (_to Sanguine_) Sanguine, ascend the stair, and force that
wretched woman to my presence.

_Bert._ Hold, hold, my lord! recal those threatning words. O God! what
damning crime is in your thoughts? pause--yet for a moment, pause, ere
you barter to the fiend your soul for ages. Omnipotence hath interposed
with miracles and still preserved you from the guilt you sought, your
conscience yet is undefiled with blood.

_Long._ Away! my purpose is resolved.

_Bert._ Will you then reject the mercy Heaven extends? (_kneels and
catching his cloak._) Hear me, my lord; nay, for your own eternal being,
hear me; as you now deal with this afflicted innocent, even so,
hereafter, shall the God of judgment deal with you.

_Long._ I brave the peril, (_call aloud_) hasten, Sanguine, produce my
victim.

_Bert._ (_Desperately._) Cover me mountains! hide me from the sun! (_He
casts himself upon the ground._)

    (_Sanguine_ returns precipitately from above.)

_Sang._ My lord, one fatal moment has undone your scheme, the female has
escaped.

_Long._ Villain! escaped.

_Bert._ (_raising himself in frantic joy._) Ha!

_Sang._ I found the casement of the upper chamber open, some twisted
linen fastened to the bar, nearly reached to the ground without, and
proved the method of her flight; a beldame who must have aided her
escape, remains alone above, (_turning towards the window_,) ha! I catch
a female figure darting through the trees at a distance; she runs with
lightning speed,--now--she turns towards the castle.

_Long._ Distraction! if she gains the castle, I am lost forever; pursue!
pursue!

    [_Longueville_ and _Sanguine_ rush out.

_Bert._ (_Vehemently._) Guardians of innocence, direct her steps!
  [_He follows them._


  SCENE III.--_A Gallery in the Chateau._

    Enter _Rosabelle_ followed by _Gaspard_.

_Gasp._ Ha! young mistress Rosabelle, whither so fast I pray? 'faith,
damsel, you are fleet of foot.

_Ros._ Yet my steps are heavier than my heart, for that's all feather,
ready for any flight in fancy's hemisphere; give thought but breath, and
'twere blown in a second to the moon or the antipodes, wilt along with
me, Gaspard?

_Gasp._ What, to the moon or the antipodes? Alack! damsel, I should
prove but a sorry travelling companion upon either road; no, no, youth
is for night; but age for falls.

_Ros._ Wilt turn a waltz anon, and be my partner in the dance?

_Gasp._ Hey! madcap, have we dances toward?

_Ros._ Ay! upon the terrace presently, all the world will assemble
there; the lady Geraldine and myself for beauty; and then for rank, we
shall have the count himself, and the baron, and the chevalier, and--

_Gasp._ Out upon you, magpie; would you delude the old man with fables?
his lordship, the count, among revellers! truly a pleasant jest; I have
been his watchful servant these twenty years, and never knew him to
abide the sight or sound of pleasures.

_Ros._ Then I can acquaint you, he proposes on this day to regale both
his eyes and his ears with a novelty; I heard him promise lady Geraldine
to join the pastimes on the terrace.

_Gasp._ Oh! the blest tidings: damsel, thy tongue has made a boy of me
again.

_Ros._ Now charity forefend, for so should I bring thee to thy second
childhood.

_Gasp._ Ah! would you fleer me! his lordship among revellers! oh! the
blest prodigy! well, well, I give no promise, mark; but should a certain
damsel lack a partner, adod. I know not--sixty-live shows with an
ill-grace in a rigadoon, but for a minuet: well, well, St. Vitus
strengthen me, and I accept thy challenge.  [_Exit._

_Ros._ Go thy ways, thou antique gallantry; thy pledge shall never be
endangered by my claim; I'm for a brisker partner in every dance through
life, I promise thee.

AIR.--_Rosabelle._

  On the banks of the Rhine, at the sun-setting hour,
    Oh! meet me, and greet me, my true love, I pray!
  Or feasting, or sleeping, in hall, or in bower,
    To the Rhine-bank, oh! true love, rise up and away!

  On that bank, an old willow dejectedly grieves
    And drops from each leaf, for love's falsehoods, a tear;
  Go! rivals, and gather the willow's pale leaves,
  For falsehood ne'er cross'd between me and my dear.

    [_Exit._


  SCENE IV.--_The Castle Gardens decorated for a Fête, and crowded
  with Dancers and Musicians: a lofty Terrace crosses the extremity of
  the Stage, from which Village-Girls advance, scattering flowers
  before Geraldine, who is led by Florian to an open Temple between
  the Side-scenes, containing three Seats._

_Ger._ (_Pointing to the centre seat_) There is our hero's seat of
triumph: nay, my commands are absolute, and you have no appeal,
I reserve this for my uncle, he will join us presently.

    (They seat themselves--a ballet immediately commences--boys,
    habited as warriors, pay homage before _Florian_, and hang military
    trophies round his seat. Girls enter, as wood-nymphs, &c. who
    surprise and disarm the warriors, then remove the trophies, and
    replace them with garlands. The warriors and nymphs join in a
    general dance--Suddenly a piercing shriek is heard: the action of
    the scene abruptly stops, and _Eugenia_, entering from the top of
    the stage, rushes distractedly between the groups of dancers, and
    casts herself at the feet of _Geraldine_.)

_Eug._ Save me! save me!

_Ger._ Ah! what wretched supplicant is this?

_Flor._ By heavens! the very woman who yesternight preserved my life.

    _Longueville_ enters in pursuit.

_Long._ (_Advancing rapidly, with instant self-command_) Dear friends!
Heaven has this hour appointed me the agent of its grace. I have
discovered in this wretched woman, the long-lost wife of an ancient
friend, at Baden; lend your assistance to secure her person 'till I can
apprise the husband of this unexpected meeting.

_Eug._ No, no, I have no husband--they have murdered him; he would
betray--destroy me. (_catching Geraldine's robe_) Oh! you, whose looks
are heavenly-soft, to _you_ I plead: protect me from this fiend.

_Ger._ How earnestly she grasps my hand, indeed--indeed her agony seems
genuine.

_Long._ You are deceived, she utters nought but madness, her mind has
been for years incurably diseased; come, away! away!

    (He seizes violently upon _Eugenia_ to force her with him, she
    clings to _Geraldine_ in anguish.)

_Eug._ Forsake me not! I have no protector to invoke but you.

_Ger._ Forbear, my lord, I cannot find that wildness you proclaim;
forbear, and recollect the rights of hospitality never yet were violated
at my uncle's gate. Lady, dismiss your fears, here sorrow ever meets a
ready shelter, for here resides the Count De Valmont.

_Eug._ Who?

_Ger._ The excellent, the suffering Count De Valmont.

_Eug._ (_starting up with recurring insanity._) Ha! ha! ha! come to the
altar,--my love waits for me, weave me a bridal crown!

_Long._ (_triumphantly._) Behold! can you doubt me now?

_Ger._ Too painfully I am convinced; miserable being! Ah! remove her
hence, before my uncle joins us; so terrible an object would
inexpressibly afflict him.

_Flor._ Yes, yes; remove her hence! but O! I charge you treat her with
the tenderest care.

_Long._ (_eagerly to his people._) Advance! bear her to my pavilion!
mark! to _my_ pavilion on the river-bank!

    (The men seize upon _Eugenia_--the _Count_ appears at the same
    moment advancing from the extremity of the Terrace.)

_De Val._ My friends! I come to join your pleasures.

_Eug._ (_struggling violently._) Hark! he calls me to his arms--unhand
me! nay, then oh! cruel, cruel, cruel.

    (Overcome by her exertions, she sinks into a swoon and falls in
    the arms of the two men. _Longueville_ rapidly draw her veil
    across to conceal her features from the _Count_ as he advances.)

_Long._ Away with her this instant!

    [He turns quickly toward the Terrace and catches De Valmont's arm
    as he descends to prevent his approach--then turns imperatively to
    the men.]

_Long._ Quick! Quick! away!

    _De Valmont_ pauses in surprize: _Longueville_ maintains his
    restraining attitude. _Florian_ and _Geraldine_ join to arrest his
    steps: the bravos withdraw the insensible and unresisting _Eugenia_
    upon the opposite side: The various characters dispose themselves
    into a picture, and the curtain falls upon the Scene.


    End of act II.



ACT III.


  SCENE I.--_The Steward's Room, _Gaspard_ and _L'Eclair_ discovered
  drinking, the latter half-intoxicated._

_Gas._ Adod! a very masterpiece of the military art? Why this Turenne
must be a famous captain. I'll drink his health, (_drinks_) Odso! where
did we leave the enemy? Oh! the Bavarians were just driven across the
Neckar, and had destroyed the bridge. Well, and then what did our
troops?

_L'Ecl._ They clashed after them thro' the river like a pack of otters.

_Gasp._ Hold; you said just now the river wasn't fordable.

_L'Ecl._ Did I? Pshaw, I only meant, it wasn't fordable to the enemy:
no, poor devils! they couldn't ford it certainly; but as to our hussars:
whew! such fellows as they would _get_ thro' any thing, were it ever so
deep to the bottom. (_takes the flask from Gaspard and drinks_).

_Gasp._ O! the rare hussars! Now this is a conversation just to my
heart's content. I dearly love to hear of battles and sieges. The
household are all retired to rest, and my room is private; so here we
may sit peaceably, and talk about war for the remainder of the night.

_L'Ec._ Bravo! agreed: we'll make a night of it; but harkye, is not this
room of yours built in a queer sort of a circular shape?

_Gasp._ No; a most perfect square.

_L'Ec._ Well, I never studied mathematics; but, for a perfect square,
methinks it has the oddest trick of turning round with its company I
ever witnessed.

    Enter _Rosabelle_.

_Ros._ Here's a display of profligacy! So, gentlemen, are these your
morals? Methinks you place a special example before the household;
drinking and carousing thus after midnight, when all decent persons
ought to be at rest within their beds.

_Gasp._ Marry now, my malapert lady! How comes it you are found abroad
at these wild hours?

_Ros._ I have always important motives for my conduct. A strange female
waits at the castle-gate, who clamors for admittance; she seems in deep
distress, refuses to accept denial or excuse, and demands to speak with
the person of first consequence in the family. Now, Mr. Gaspard, as you
happen to be steward--

_Gasp._ (_rises pompously_) I am of course the personage required. You
say a female?

_Ros._ Yes; she waits for you in heavy trouble at the gate.

_Gasp._ I fly. Gallantry invites, and I obey the call. Good Mr.
L'Eclair, I cast myself upon your courtesy for this abrupt departure:

  'Tis woman tempts from friendship, war, and wine--
  My fault is human--my excuse divine! [_Exit._

_Ros._ In sooth, the old gentleman has not forgotten his manners in his
cups; but as to you, sir, (_to L'Eclair_) how stupidly you sit--have you
nothing to say for yourself?

_L'Ec._ (_rising and reeling towards her_). Much, very much--
love--midnight--all snug and private.

_Ros._ Mercy O me! the wretch is certainly intoxicated; how wickedly his
eyes begin to twinkle. Why, Scapegrace, I'm sure you're not sober.

_L'Ec._ Don't say so, pray don't, you wound my delicacy. O! Rosabelle!
beautiful but misjudging Rosabelle! I am unfortunate, but not criminal.
This morning I beheld only one Rosabelle, and yet I was undone; now I
seem to behold two Rosabelles; ergo, I either see double, or am doubly
undone. There's logic for you. Now, could a man who wasn't sober, talk
logic? only answer me that.

_Ros._ What shall I do with him? If I leave him here, he'll drink
himself into a fever. I must e'en coax him. L'Eclair, come, come, my
dear L'Eclair, let me prevail upon you to go to bed; I'm going to bed
myself.

_L'Ec._ O! fy, that's too broad; I blush for you; would you delude my
innocence?

_Ros._ The profligate monster! I delude!

_L'Ec._ Well, I yield to fate: stars! veil your chaste heads, and thou.
O! little candle, hide thy wick! behold the lamb submitting to the
sacrifice. (_Reels to embrace her._)

_Ros._ Why, you heathen monster! how dare you talk to me about lambs and
sacrifices? ah! if you stir another step, I'll alarm the family! I can
scream, sir!

_L'Ec._ I know you can; but pray, don't, somebody might hear you, and
that would be very disappointing, recollect I have a character to lose.

_Ros._ And have not I a character too, Sir?

_L'Ec._ Hush! hush! Let's drops the subject.

_Ros._ How now, sirrah! have you any thing to say against my character?

_L'Ec._ Oh! no, I never speak ill of the dead.

_Ros._ Why, you vile insinuating, but I shall preserve my temper though
you have lost your manners: well, assuredly of all objects in creation,
the most pitiable is a man in liquor.

_L'Ec._ There's an exception--a man in love.

DUETT.--_Rosabelle and L'Eclair._

  _Ros._ The precept of Bacchus to man proves a curse,
  The head it confounds, and the heart it bewitches.

  _L'Ec._ I'm sure, the example of Cupid is worse,
  For he walks abroad without shirt, drawers, or breeches.

  _Ros._ Pshaw! Cupid, you dolt, has rich garments enough.

  _L'Ec._ Nay, his wardrobe's confin'd to a plain suit of buff.

  _Ros._ 'Twas Bacchus taught men to drown reason in cans.

  _L'Ec._ 'Twas Cupid taught ladies the first use of fans.

  _Ros._ How diff'rent the garland, their votaries twine,--
  How genteel is the myrtle--how vulgar the vine!

  _L'Ec._ Of myrtle or vine I pretend not to know,
  But a fig-leaf I think would be most apropos:  [_Exeunt._


  SCENE II.--_The Count's Chamber--De Valmont is discovered gazing in
  profound meditation upon a miniature picture._

  _De Val._ Eugenia!
  Now of the angel race, and hous'd in Heaven!
  Forgive, dear saint! these blameful eyes that flow
  With human love, and mourn thy blessedness.
  O! ye strange powers! with what excelling truth
  Has Art's small hand here mimic'd mightiest Nature!
  What cheeks are these! could Death e'er crop such roses?
  Eyes! star-bright twins! fair glasses to fair thoughts,
  Where, as by truest oracles confest,
  The godlike soul reveals itself in glory.
  Your glances thrill me! amber-twinkling threads!
  Half bound by grace, half loos'd by winds, how strays
  This shining ringlet o'er this clear white breast!
  Like the pale sunshine streaking wintry snows!
  These lips have life--yea! very breath; a sweet
  Warm spirit stirs thru' the cleft ruby now!
  They move--they smile--they speak. Soft! soft! sweet heavens!
  I'll gaze no more; there's witchcraft in this skill,
  And my abus'd weak brain may madden soon!

    (conceals the picture in his bosom)

  The spell is hidden, still th' illusion works:
  O! in my heart Eugenia art thou trac'd--
  There--there--thou livest--speakest--yet art mortal.
  Strong memory triumphs over death and time,
  In all my circling blood--each vein--each pulse
  Wherever life is, ever there art thou.

    (Gaspard speaks without.)

_Gasp._ Go, go; his lordship may not be disturb'd.

_Mon._ (_without_) Away! I have a cause that must be heard.

_De Val._ How now! voices in the anti-room! Ho!

    Enter _Gaspard_.

_Gasp._ Alack! that folk will be so troublesome: my good lord! here's a
strange woman; truly a most obstinate spirit, who craves vehemently to
be heard, on matters (so she reports) of much importance to your
lordship.

_De Val._ Nay, in the morning be it; not at this hour.

_Gasp._ I told her so; my very words; but truly, her grief seems to have
craz'd her reason.

_De Val._ How! is she unhappy then? her sorrows be her passport here;
admit her instantly: where should the afflicted heart prefer a prayer,
if kindred wretchedness deny its sympathy?

    (_Gaspard_ introduces _Monica_.)

_Mon._ So! you are seen at last, my lord! men say your heart is good;
grant Heaven! I find it so; but ah! perhaps it is too late. Yes, yes;
I fear it: the dove is in the vulture's grip already.

_De Val._ Woman! what strange distraction's this? Give me a knowledge of
your griefs with method.

_Mon._ I will, I will, but anguish stifles me; O! my lord, my lord, this
is your castle, and here she fled for shelter, yet cruel hearts refused
her prayer. I have been told by your people that the baron's pavilion on
the river-bank is made her prison; she will be murdered there: oh! my
lord, gracious lord, save her, save her!

    (She throws herself passionately at his feet.)

_De Val._ Rise; attempt composure, your words are riddles to me.

_Gasp._ My lord! 'tis of the poor lunatic she speaks; she whom the baron
has confined: this woman claims her as her charge.

_De Val._I saw the person not, but heard in brief her story from the
baron; rest, good woman, rest; my kinsman is her friend.

_Mon._ No, no, he is a monster thirsting for her blood: here, here,
I have read his character.

    (Producing Eugenia's MSS.)

_De Val._ Beware! you offend me; grief yields no privilege to slander.

_Mon._ I am not a slanderer, indeed, _indeed_, I am not; here are
proofs: your lordship, I find, is called the Count De Valmont; had you
not once a relation of the same title, who fell in battle with the
Huguenots eighteen years ago!

_De Val._ Never.

_Mon._ Yet 'twas the same title: ay, here 'tis written: "in forcing the
passage of the Durance."

_De Val._ How! 'tis of myself assuredly you read; I was reported falsely
in that very action to have fallen; and for a time my death was credited
through France.

_Mon._ Ah! my lord! my lord! O! it rushes on my heart--nay, give but a
moment; speak; were you once wedded to a lady named Eugenia?

_De Val._ Woman! ah, name beloved!--wherefore that torturing question?

_Mon._ Yes, yes; it is--it must be so--I cannot, here--read--this!--
(_giving the scroll_).

_De Val._ Eternal Powers! Eugenia's well-known character! when and
whence did you procure this writing?

_Mon._ This very morning, from her own hand, my lord, Eugenia lives to
bless and to be blessed again.

    (_De Valmont_ starts as if stricken to the center, for a moment
    his features express amazement, then incredulity, and lastly
    indignation.)

_De Val._ Begone! thou wretched woman, lest I forget thy sex, and kill
thee for thy cruelty.

_Mon._ Nay, let me die, but not be doubted: read, read, and let your
eyes assure your soul of joy!

    (The _Count_ faintly staggers back into a seat, and then fastens
    his eyes upon the scroll with a frenzied earnestness.)

_Gasp._ Woman! if you have spoken falsely, my noble master's heart will
break at once.

_Mon._ By the great issue, let my words be judged!

_De Val._ (_reading_) "The chamber burst in flames, I snatched my infant
from its slumber, I heard the voice of Longueville direct our murder,
ruffians rushed towards us to perform his bidding." (_starting forward
with uncontrolable fury_) Oh! God of wrath and vengeance! hear thou a
husband's and a father's prayer! strike the pale villain! oh! with thy
hottest lightning blast him dead! a curse, a tenfold curse o'erwhelm his
death-bed! Traitor! thou shalt not 'scape, this hand shall rend thy
heart-strings, I'll smite thee home.

    (In the delirium of his passion he draws his sword, and strikes
    with it as at an ideal combatant, his bodily powers forsake him in
    the effort, he reels, and falls convulsed into Gaspard's arms.)

_Gasp._ Help! help! death is on him, help there swiftly!

    (_Geraldine_ rushes in, followed by domestics.)

_Ger._ Whence these cries? ah Heavens! what killing sight is this?
uncle, uncle, speak to me, 'tis Geraldine that calls.

    Enter _Florian_ from the opposite side.

_Flor._ My patron! ha! convulsed! dying. Eternal Mercy spare his sacred
life!

_Ger._ Nay, bend him forward, his eyes unclose again--he sees--he
knows us.

    (The _Count_ in silence draws a hand from _Geraldine_ and _Florian_
    within his own, and presses them together to his heart.)

_Flor._ How fares it, sir? bless us with your voice.

_De Val._ Ah! Ah! (_he grasps the scroll and points to it emphatically,
but cannot articulate._)

_Flor._ O! for a knowledge of your gracious pleasure, speak sir,
pronounce one word.

_De Val._ (_very faintly and with effort._) Longueville: ah fly,
preserve-- (_again his accents fail him, he seems to collect all his
remaining strength for one short effort, and a second time just
articulates_) --Longueville! (_he relapses into insensibility._)

_Flor._ Enough! I comprehend your will; nay, bear him gently in, I'll to
the river-bank and seek the Baron!

    (_Geraldine, &c. bear the count off on one side, Florian rushes
    away by the opposite._)


  SCENE III.--_A rugged Cliff that overhangs the River._

    Enter _Longueville_ and _Sanguine_.

_Long._ Tardy, neglectful slave! still does he loiter?

_Sang._ Nay, return to the pavilion; the signal soon must greet us: you
bade Lenoire to sound his bugle when he reached the bank.

_Long._ Ay, thrice the blast should be repeated; still must I listen for
those notes of destiny in vain? hark! here you nothing now?

_Sang._ Only the rising tide that murmurs hoarsly as it frets and chafes
against the bank below us.

_Long._ Is midnight passed?

_Sang._ Long since: just as we crossed the glen the monastery chime
swang heavy with the knell of yesterday.

_Long._ A guiltless end that flighted yesterday hath reached. O! that
the morrow found as clear a tomb! When the next midnight tolls, Eugenia,
thou wilt rest in blessedness, whilst thy murderer-- Ah! what charmed
couch shall bring the sweet forgetful slumber at that hour to me?
Midnight, the welcome sabbath of unstained souls, O, to the murderer
thou art terrible--silence and darkness that with the innocent make
blessed time, to him bring curses, for then through sealed ears and
close-veiled eyes, strange sounds and sights will steal their way, that
in the hum and glare of day-light dare not stir: then o'er the wretch's
forehead ooze cold beads of dew--in feverish, brain-sick dreams, with
starts and groans: on beds of seeming down he feels the griding rack,
and finds himself a hell more fierce, than fiends can show hereafter.

_Sang._ How now, my lord? unmanned by conscience? Nay, then, let Eugenia
live.

_Long._ Not for an angel's birthright! think'st thou I would deign to
breathe on wretched sufferance? No, no; her death is necessary to my
honor and my peace. Come on! my hand may falter, but my heart's
resolved; 'tis sworn, inexorably sworn: Eugenia dies.  [_Exeunt._


  SCENE IV.--_The river-bank--the Rhine flows across the stage at
  distance--on one side a pavilion extends obliquely, through the
  lower windows of which lights appear--nearly opposite is a small
  bower of lattice-work.--The moon at full, has just risen above the
  German bank, and pours its radiance upon the water. _Bertrand_ is
  discovered watching the pavilion._

_Bert._ I watch in vain; all means of access to the prisoner are
debarred: her chamber now is dark and silent: still tapers glare and
voices murmur from the hall beneath: the baron and Sanguine are there:
'tis against life these midnight plotters stir. Oh! that this heart
might bleed to its last guilty drop in ransom for Eugenia! Soft! does
not the dashing of a distant oar disturb the silence of the tide? Yes;
just where the moonlight gleams a boat now crosses rapidly; it rows
towards this bank; it pauses now in stillness--what may this mean? the
hour so late, the spot so unfrequented and remote. (_A bugle is sounded
three times_) Ha! a bugle sounded thrice! too sure the omen of some
fatal deed. I will not quit this spot--no, Eugenia, I will preserve or
perish with thee! Soft, the pavilion opens. Bower, receive me to thy
friendly shades! watch with me blessed spirits.

    (He retires into the bower fronting the pavilion. _Longueville_
    advances cautiously from the pavilion.)

_Long._ 'Twas the signal! the boat has reached the bank, Ho! Lenoire!
advance: no eye observes thy step.

    Enter _Lenoire_ along the bank by an entrance between the bower
    and the river.

_Len._ All is prepared: your orders are fulfiled.

_Long._ Laggard! too many precious moments have been wasted in their
execution: the moon has risen high, and casts a brightness round scarce
feebler than the day: your course may be observed.

_Len._ Dismiss that fear: nothing that lives hath voice or motion: now,
not e'en the solitary fisher spreads his nets upon the stream.

_Long._ Where have you left the boat?

_Len._ Under the bank in shade, fastened to the roots of yon tall
willow.

_Long._ Sanguine shall accompany you; then when you reach the middle of
the current--

_Len._ Ay, where it flows deep and strong; Eugenia's funeral rites are
few and brief.

_Long._ To-morrow, I shall report she has been conveyed in safety to her
friends upon the German bank--thus all inquiry stands forever barred.

    [_Bertrand_, who watches from the bower, clasps his hands in
    despair and groans aloud.]

_Long._ Ha! what sound was that?

_Len._ (_looking cautiously round._) Some tree moaning to the blast--no
more.

_Long._ Now then! yet hold! wherefore come you not masked? some of the
peasantry may chance to stir ere you return, and I should wish your
persons were unmarked by any.

_Len._ I left a mask within the boat; this flowing mantle will conceal
my dress--trust me both form and feature shall effectually be hid.

    (_Bertrand_ makes a gesticulation of hope towards the pavilion,
    then glides silently round the angle of the bower, and starts
    along the bank.)

_Long._ 'Tis well! (_to the pavilion._) Ho! Sanguine! lead forth your
charge: despatch, Lenoire! return to the boat, and row it swiftly
hither! Away!

  [Exit _Lenoire_.

She comes! Ill-starred Eugenia! fate chides the lingering echo of thy
step, yet but a moment and 'tis hushed forever.

    _Sanguine_ leads _Eugenia_ from the pavilion._

_Eug._ Ah! whither do you lead me? Speak, in pity--nay, nay, I prithee
force me not; this is a savage hour, and I must fear your purpose,
speak, whither would you hurry me? Ah! Longueville! now then I read my
answer--'tis to death--to murder!

_Long._ Lady, you misjudge my purpose--true, that once I proved myself
your foe, perhaps a kindless one; time and pity have extinguished hate.
Across the Rhine, upon the German bank, a safe asylum is provided, where
peace shall gild the evening of your life, and cure the memory of its
early woes; 'tis necessary you should cross the river before dawn;
a boat is now in readiness to bear you over.

_Eug._ No, no, I find a language in your eye more certain than your
lip--murder--midnight murder is its direful theme. Thou wretched man!
rather for thee than for myself I kneel. Pause, Longueville! raise but
thine eye to yon clear world, thick-sown with shining wonders--think,
that throughout the boundless beauteous space, an omnipresent, and
all-conscious spirit is; think, that within his awful eye-beam, now thy
actions pass, and presently before his throne must wait for judgment;
think, that whene'er he touched the veriest worm, that crawls on this
base sphere, with life, mighty his will encompassed it with safety!
then, tremble, creature as thou art, to spurn his law by whom thou wert
created, nor quench with impious hand, that gifted spark Omnipotence
hath once ordained to glow.

_Long._ Lady, already I have said, your auguries wrong me (_the noise of
a combat sounds from the bank._) Ha! the crash of swords! Sanguine! fly
to the spot. Lenoire, I fear me, is in danger.

  [Exit _Sanguine_.

Confusion to my hopes! what ill-beamed planet rules the hour? Eugenia,
return to the pavilion.

_Eug._ Not, while succour seems so nigh, help! help!

_Long._ Dare but repeat that cry, by heavens! this very moment is your
last. (_draws a dagger._) Nay, nay, you strive in vain,--away!

    [_Longueville_ forces _Eugenia_ into the pavilion, then drags a bar
    across the door.

What cursed step has wandered on these banks to thwart my ripe design?
Perdition to the meddling slave! his life shall pay the forfeit of his
rashness.

    Re-enter _Sanguine_.

_Sang._ My lord, the combatants, whoe'er they were, had vanished ere I
reached the spot; close to the water's edge the turf was stained with
blood, and already to a distance from the bank, Lenoire had rowed away
the boat; I called aloud, but he increased his speed, and gave no
answer.

_Lon._ 'Sdeath! some prying hind has stolen on our plans; doubtless
Lenoire has been assailed and for a while avoids the bank, fearful of
further ambush; follow me to search yon winding path; if the villian
have received a wound, traces of blood will guide us to his
haunt,--vengeance direct our steps!  [_Exit, with Sanguine._

    [_Eugenia_ appears at the lower windows through a grating.]

_Eug._ Fond, trusting heart! art thou again deceived? does the great
thunder sleep, and are the heavens still patient of a murderer's crimes;
yes, yes, the sounds have ceased, and now a dreadful stillness sits upon
the night; the tomb seems imaged in the hour. Hope in the breathless
pause forsakes my breast forever.

    Enter _Florian_.

_Flor._ Ha! lights still burning--fortunately then he has not retired to
rest,--baron! baron!  [_Runs to the door._

_Eug._ (_Shrieks._) Ah! the voice of succour--turn, turn in pity--snatch
me from despair--preserve me from the grave.

_Flor._ Heavens!

    [Involuntarily he withdraws the bar, and _Eugenia_ darting forth,
    clings wildly round him.]

_Flor._ Unhappy woman! whence these transports?

_Eug._ Swear to preserve me, swear not to yield me to the murderer's
dagger; no, no, you have a human heart; am I not safe with you?

_Flor._ My honor and my manhood both are pledges for your safety: but
who is the enemy you dread!

_Eug._ Longueville; he seeks my life: nay, nay, I am not mad, indeed I
am not; turn not from me: look with compassion on a desolate, devoted
creature, whom man conspires to wrong, and Heaven forgets to aid.

_Flor._ Appease these agonies; by my eternal hope, I swear, whatever the
danger, or the foe that threatens, I will defend you with my life from
injury.

_Eug._ A wretch's blessing crown thee for the generous vow! oh! let my
soul dissolve and gush in tears upon this gracious hand!

    [_Eugenia_ enthusiastically clasps Florian's hand, and covers it
    with tears and caresses; suddenly a new impulse appears to direct
    her actions: she rubs the back of the hand she has seized with
    strange earnestness, and a tremor pervades her entire frame.]

_Flor._ Why do you fasten thus your looks upon my hand: what moves your
wonder?

_Eug._ (_tremblingly._) This scar, this deep, _deep_ scar, that with a
crimson cross o'erseams your hand; speak, how gained you first this
dreadful mark?

_Flor._ From infancy I recollect the stamp, its cause remains unknown.

_Eug._ Who were your parents?

_Flor._ Alas! that knowledge never blessed my heart. I am a foundling:
eighteen years since, in a forest at the foot of the Cevennes--

_Eug._ Ah! did watchful angels then--yes, yes, twice the dagger struck!
'tis nature's holy proof!

_Flor._ Merciful heavens! you then possess the secret of my birth:
woman! woman! pronounce my parents' name, and I will worship you.

_Eug._ Your parents! ah! they were, ah! ah!

    [She attempts to enfold him with her arms, but faints as he
    receives the embrace.]

_Flor._ Speak! I conjure you, speak! breathe but their sacred name! she
hears me not, and nature struggles at my heart in vain!

    Enter _Longueville_ and _Sanguine_ at distance.

_Long._ The lurking knave, whate'er his aim, has fled beyond our search,
and all is now secure. Has Lenoire return'd your signal to approach the
bank?

_Sang._ He rows towards us now--nay, look--the boat draws close.

_Long._ Then to our last decisive deed!

    [Passing to the pavilion he beholds the characters in front, and
    starts.]

Ha! confusion and despair! Eugenia rescued, and in Florian's arms!

_Flor._ Help, baron!--swiftly help!--aid me to preserve a dying woman!

_Long._ Florian! by what wild chance at such unwonted hour I find you on
this spot, admits not of inquiry now--but for this fair impostor, resign
her to my care--with me her safety is at once assured.

_Flor._ Pardon me, Longueville; whate'er the laws of courtesy demand,
I yield--but to this female's fate my soul is newly bound by ties so
strange and strong, that even your displeasure must not part us.

    [The alarum-bell tolls from the castle.]

_Long._ Ha! the castle is alarmed--look out, Sanguine:--what means this
tumult?

_Sang._ My lord! the glare of numerous torches wavers through the
grove--this way the crowd directs its course.

_Long._ Distraction! --Florian, beware my just resentment, and instantly
resign this woman! (_Attempting to force her from him._)

_Flor._ Never!--my word stands pledged for her protection, and only with
my life will I desert my honor.

_Long._ Hell!--ho! Lenoire! --Lenoire!

    [He rushes furiously to the bank, and motions to the boat.]

_Eug._ (_just recovering._) Stay, blessed vision!-- (_recognizing
Florian_) ah! 'twas real--I fold him to my heart, and am blessed at
last.

    [The boat, rowed by a man enveloped in a mantle and a masque, at
    that instant gains the bank.]

_Long._ (_triumphantly_) Ha! the boat arrives!--now then presumptuous
boy! receive the chastisement you dare provoke.

    [He draws and rushes upon _Florian_, who disengages himself from
    _Eugenia_ and stands upon the defence.]

_Flor._ In the just cause I would not shrink before a giant's arm!
(_they engage._)

_Eug._ (_frantic_) Inhuman Longueville!--forbear! forbear!

    [While _Florian_ encounters _Longueville_, _Sanguine_ suddenly
    darts upon _Eugenia_, who is too enfeebled to resist; by the
    action of a moment he transports her from her protector's side to
    the Baron's. Florian's position is next to the audience, so that
    Longueville's sword now equally intercepts him from _Eugenia_ and
    from the river.]

_Long._ (_Perceiving his advantage_) Away!--drag--her to the boat--be
mine the task to curb her champion's valor.

_Flor._ Hold! dastard--unless thou art dead to every sense of
manhood--hold!

_Long._ Boy! I triumph, and deride thy baffled spleen.

    [_Sanguine_ lifts _Eugenia_ into the boat, and the masque receives
    her.]

_Eug._ (_from the boat_) Great nature! speed my dying words! --Thou
dear-lov'd youth! thy mother blesses thee--long-lost--late-found--
behold! she struggles _now_ to bless her child--and _now_ she dies
content!

_Flor._ Eternal Providence! what words were those? --Longueville!
--Barbarian! --Fiend!

    [He rushes madly upon the _Baron_, who parries the assault; then
    in an agony casts himself before his feet.]

Oh! if thou art human, hold! --I kneel--I fall thy slave--spurn
me--trample on my neck--take my life--but O! respect and spare my
parent!

_Sang._ (_from the boat_) Decide, my lord; the crowd approach, already
they o'erlook the bank.

_Long._ 'Twere vain to pause--I founder upon either course--nay then,
revenge shall brighten ruin; swift! plunge your poniards in Eugenia's
bosom! let me behold my victim perish, and then commit me to my fate!

_Flor._ (_starting up in desperation_) Monster!

_Long._ They come--obey me, slaves!

    [_Sanguine_ draws _Eugenia_ back, and the _Masque_ lifts a dagger
    over her.]

_Sang._ We are prepared.

_Long._ Now.

_Sang._ Comrade! strike!

_Masque._ Ay! to the heart!

    [The _Masque_ rapidly darts his arm across Eugenia's figure and
    plunges the dagger into _Sanguine_, who reels beneath the blow and
    falls into the stream.

(_triumphantly_) Eugenia is preserved!

    [With one arm he supports the lady, and with the other snatches
    away the masque and discovers the features of _Bertrand_.

_Long._ Bertrand--perfidious slave! eternal palsies strike thy arm!

    [_Gaspard_, _Monica_, _Domestics_, &c. with torches, enter at the
    moment and surround the baron, whose surprise bereaves him of
    power to resist.]

_Flor._ Secure the villain, yet forbear his life--Mother! Mysterious
blessing--ah! yield her to my arms--my heart!

    [_Bertrand_ resigns _Eugenia_ to Florian's embrace.]

_Eug._ My boy, my only one--Bertrand! life is thy gift, and now indeed I
bless thee for the boon.

_Bert._ I swore to save you, I have kept my oath, unseen I watched,
unknown I ventured in your cause--your forgiveness half relieves my
soul, and now I dare to pray for heaven's!

    Enter _De Valmont_, supported by _Geraldine_ and _Domestics_.

_De Val._ Ah! 'tis she, dear worshipp'd form; she lives--she lives.

_Eug._ Ah! shield me--Florian, yon phantom shape--death surely hovers
near--

_De Val._ Nay, fly me not, Eugenia! tis thy lord, thy living lord, thy
once beloved De Valmont calls: thou dear divorced-one bless these
outstretch'd arms--I kneel and woo thee for my bride again!

    [_Florian_ leads _Eugenia_ trembling and uncertain to the _Count_,
    he catches her irresolute hand.]

_Eug._ Indeed, my wedded lord! --I wept for a dear warrior once; and did
the sword forbear so just a heart?--ah! chide not love, joy kills as
well as grief--

    [She sinks gradually into his embrace, and he supports her on his
    breast in speechless tenderness.]

_Long._ Detested sight! well, well, curses are weak revenge, and I'll
disdain their use.

_Flor._ Remove the monster to some sure confinement. The Count hereafter
shall pronounce his punishment.

_Long._ Already I endure my heaviest curse. I view the objects of my
hatred crown'd with joy. Come! to a dungeon!--darkness is welcome, since
it hides me from exulting foes!  [_Exit._

_Ger._ (_advancing with tenderness._) Florian!--friend--ah! yet a dearer
name--you rob me of a birth-right, still I must greet my new-found
kinsman.

_Flor._ Geraldine! what means my love?

_De Val._ Florian! Heaven mysteriously o'er-watch'd thy hour of peril,
and led a father through the desert, unconsciously to succour and redeem
his child.

_Flor._ Ha! De Valmont's glorious blood then circles in these veins!
--My parent, my preserver! Ha! twice has existence been my father's
gift.

_De Val._ My pride thus long in humbleness!--my forest-prize! my
foundling boy!--thou had'st my blessing ere I knew thy claim. Eugenia,
greet our mutual image. Ah! wilt thou weep, sweet love. Thou bendest
o'er his forehead e'en as a lily, brimming with clear dews, that stoops
in beauteous sorrow to embathe its neighbouring bud. Thro' many a storm
of perilous and marring cares o'erborne, our long-benighted loves at
last encounter on a sun-bright course, and reach the haven of domestic
peace.

  Thus Judah's pilgrim--one whose steps in vain
  Climb sky-crown'd rocks--o'erpace the burning plain,
  Just when his soul despairs--his spirits faint,
  Achieves the threshold of his long-sought Saint:
  The desert's danger--storms and ruffian-bands--
  All sink forgotten as the shrine expands--
  Feet cure their toil that touch the hallow'd floors--
  He rests his staff--kneels, trembles, and adores!

    [Exeunt Omnes.

       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

Errors and Inconsistencies: The Foundling

  Spellings were changed only when there was an unambiguous error,
  or the word occurred elsewhere with the expected spelling.
  Variation between "Flo." and "Flor." is as in the original.
  Names in stage directions were inconsistently italicized; they have
  been silently regularized. Missing or invisible periods have been
  silently supplied.

_Unchanged:_
  anti-room  [both occurrences use this spelling]
  did'nt  [both occurrences are in this form]
  I could as soon compose an almanac as and a clue
    [error for "find a clue"?]
  For falsehood ne'er cross'd between me and my dear.
    [inconsistent indendation in original]
  I led the unfortune to my dwelling
    [error for "unfortunate"?]

_Corrections:_
  to be disconcerted by a hail-stone  [to de disconcerted]
  _Bert._ (_pursuing her with his eye deliriously_)  [Bart.]
  _Mon._ She has not quitted it this morning  [Lon.]
  and solemnly pronounce a vow  [solemny]
  SCENE III.--_A Gallery in the Chateau._  [Scene III.]
  presses her crucifix to her lips  [pressess]
  she clings to Geraldine in anguish.  [he clings]
  catches De Valmont's arm as he descends  [decends]
  a most obstinate spirit  [obsinate]
  the dove is in the vulture's grip already  [gripe]
  _Len._ All is prepared: your orders are fulfilled.  [fulfiled]
  [Exit _Lenoire_.  [Lenoir]

_Punctuation:_
  I don't want a husband  [dont]
  wouldst thou find happiness  [woulds't]
  _1st Br._ Sanguine!  [printed "1st. _Br._"]
  vibrate on the memory forever.  [, for .]
  SCENE II.--_The Cottage._  [invisible dash]
  How she tore her lovely locks that look'd so sandy, oh!  [? for !]
  you said just now the river wasn't fordable  [was'nt]
  amazement, then incredulity, and lastly indignation._)
    [period after close parenthesis]
  instantly resign this woman!  [? for !]





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Mirror of Taste, and Dramatic Censor - Volume I, Number 1" ***

Copyright 2023 LibraryBlog. All rights reserved.