Title: The Mirror of Taste, and Dramatic Censor - Volume I, Number 3
Author: Carpenter, S. C. (Stephen Cullen), d. ca. 1820 [Editor]
Language: English
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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 added to the end of the journal text,
before the play. Pages 189-268 refer to the present Number.

Errors are listed separately for the _Mirror of Taste_ and for the
_Novice of St. Mark’s_.]



THE MIRROR OF TASTE,

AND

DRAMATIC CENSOR.


Vol. I.  MARCH 1810.  No. 3.



HISTORY OF THE STAGE.


CHAPTER III.

SOPHOCLES--EURIPIDES--DIONYSIUS.

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

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

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

Another and an excellent revolution in the drama was brought about by
this great man. He added one actor more to the dramatis personæ, and
raised the chorus to fifteen persons, introducing them into the main
action, and giving to all of them such parts to perform as tended to
the carrying on of one uniform, regular plot. Encouraged by the great
success of his pieces, the honours conferred upon him, and the deference
paid to his opinions, he continued to write with unabated enthusiasm for
the stage, and obtained the public prize no less than twenty different
times. The admiration and wonder with which his genius was spoken of
through all Greece, induced a general opinion that he was specially
favoured by heaven, and that he held an intimate communication with the
gods. Cicero himself has gone so far as to assert that Hercules had a
prodigious esteem for him; and Apollonius[1] of Thyana, a Pythagorean
philosopher, said in an oration he delivered before the tyrant Domitian,
that “Sophocles, the Athenian, could tie up the winds, and stop their
fury.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of seventy-five tragedies which this admirable poet wrote and had
represented, nineteen only are in existence. The best of those are his
PHŒNISSÆ, his ORESTES, MEDEA, ANDROMACHE, ELECTRA, IPHIGENIA IN AULIS,
IPHIGENIA IN TAURIS, HERCULES, and the TROADES.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    [Footnote 2: Aristophanes ridiculed them both on the stage with
    great humour and success.]



BIOGRAPHY--FOR THE MIRROR


SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF THE LATE MR. HODGKINSON.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Fathers have flinty hearts, no tears can move them,

with effusions of a similar tendency, every day resounded from their
theatrical cellar, followed by bursts of thoughtless merriment and
laughter.

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

  Dear heart, dear heart, what a terrible life am I led,

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

A few months antecedent to this event, a circumstance occurred to
Hodgkinson the relation of which properly comes in here. Two persons,
genteelly dressed, coming to his mother’s house, called for a room and
some beer, and asked if they could get dinner. It was Sunday, and John,
as usual, spent the day at home. He was busily employed in the entry
making a bridge for a fiddle, and, as he cut away, accompanied his
labour with a song, upon which a person belonging to the house[3] chid
him angrily or rather very severely for singing on the sabbath. He made
no other reply than that of changing from a soft song, which he barely
hummed, to the laughing song of Linco in Cymon, which he roared out
obstreperously, by way of asserting his independence. A verbal scuffle
ensued, which he still interlarded with bursts of song and laughter; the
door of the room opened; the two gentlemen interfered, and calling him
into the parlour, requested him to sing Linco’s song through for them.
He complied; they lavished encomiums on his performance; and one of them
said to the other “I’ll be hanged if he does not sing it much better
than Wilder,”[4] These words John never forgot; and he owned to this
writer, about six years ago, that they still tingled in his ear, though,
at the time they were uttered, he did not know who was meant by Wilder.
The person who said this patted him on the head, stroked down his hair,
affectionately, and added “You are a dear boy. May God Almighty bless
and prosper you!” The other gave him a crownpiece, and desired him to
keep it for his sake. Had he given him a hundred crowns they would have
been nothing to the honied words of the former. In truth, the leading
foible of Hodgkinson through life, was vanity--the great taproot of all
his irregularities and errors. He was quite agog to learn who those two
men might be: he asked, but no one knew them--they were strangers. In
the afternoon, however, they were joined by some players who were
performing in the town; and from one of those he learned that the two
strangers were from Ireland--He who gave him the crownpiece being a
gentleman of the name of Comerford, a merchant--he who gave him his
blessing, a Mr. Dawson, a player of Dublin, who was an acting assistant,
and a kind of purveyor for the manager of the theatre in that city, and
stepfather to the celebrated William Lewis. The Mr. Wilder alluded to
was many years an actor and singer in Dublin and the original Linco and
colonel Oldboy of that city.

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

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

You had a watch then?--

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

(_To be continued._)

    [Footnote 3: I believe it was the man his mother married; but he
    never told me so, being retentive on that subject. --_Biog._]

    [Footnote 4: There are many people in America who remember
    Hodgkinson’s excellence in singing the famous laughing song
    “_Now’s the time for mirth and glee_.”]

    [Footnote 5: The writer laments that he has forgot this person’s
    name.]


PORTRAIT OF THE CELEBRATED BETTERTON.

(_Continued from page 140._)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                    Ah! wo is me!
  T’ have seen what I _have_ seen, see what I see!

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

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

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

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

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

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

This anecdote is falsely related of Garrick.



DRAMATIC CENSOR.

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

  _Dr. Johnson’s Idler, No. 25._


_Master Payne’s performances concluded._

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

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

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

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

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


MR. COOPER.

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

  Friday 29th Dec.--Richard the Third.
  Saturday 30th.--Zanga in the Revenge.
  Monday 1st Jan.--Leon in Rule a Wife and have a Wife.
  Wednesday 3d.--Othello.
  Friday 5th.--Macbeth.
  Saturday 6th.--Pierre in Venice Preserved.
  Monday 8th.--Hamlet.
  Wednesday 10th.--Hotspur.
  Friday 12th.--Michael Ducas in Adelgitha.
  Saturday 13th.--Penruddock--and after it Petruchio.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors,
  My very worthy and approved good masters.”

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

  He that stirs next to carve for his own rage,
  Holds his soul light; he dies upon his motion.
  Silence that dreadful bell, it frights the isle
  From her propriety.

And afterwards:

  Now by heaven
  My blood begins my safer guides to rule;
  And passion, having my best judgment collied,
  Assays to lead the way: If I once stir
  Or do but lift this arm, the best of you
  Shall sink in my rebuke, &c. &c.

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

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

ZANGA.

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

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

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

  Hear then. ’Tis twice three years since that great man,
  (_Great let me call him for he conquered me_)
  Made me the captive of his arm in fight.

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

  One day (_may that returning day be night,
  The stain, the curse, of each succeeding year!_)
  For something, or for nothing, in his pride
  He struck me. (_While I tell it do I live?_)
  He smote me on the cheek.

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

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

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

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

RICHARD III.

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

VENICE PRESERVED.

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

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

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

                “Sure I’ve staid too long:
  The clock has struck, _and I may lose my proselyte_.”

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

HAMLET.

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

MACBETH,

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

          “Hark! I laid their daggers ready,
  He could not miss them,”

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

          “Had he not resembled
  My father as he slept, I had done’t.”

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

  “I have done the deed.”

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

  “Didst thou not hear a noise?”

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

 “L. M. Did not you speak?
  M. When?
  L. M. Now.
  M. As I descended?
  L. M. Ay.
  M. Hark!
     Who lies in the second chamber.
  L. M. Donaldbain.”

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

  “This is a sorry sight.”

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

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

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

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

HENRY IV.

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

ADELGITHA,

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

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



THEATRICAL INTELLIGENCE.


_Mr. Dwyer._

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

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

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

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


_State of the British stage._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


_Master Payne._

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



MISCELLANY.


  THEOBALDUS SECUNDUS,
  OR
  SHAKSPEARE AS HE SHOULD BE.

  NO. II.

  _Hamlet, Prince of Denmark._

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

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

  _Bernardo._ Who’s there?
  _Francisco._ Nay, answer me--stand and _unfold_ yourself.

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

  _Bernardo._ Long live the king.
  _Francisco._ Bernardo?
  _Bernardo._ He.

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

  _Bernardo._ ’Tis now struck twelve, get thee to bed _Francisco_.

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

  _Go bid thy mistress when my drink is ready
   She strike upon the bell--get thee to bed._

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

  _Francisco._ For this relief much thanks: ’tis _bitter_ cold
  And I am sick at heart.

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

  _Francisco._ For this _good beef_ much thanks: ’tis _better_ cold, &c.

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

In the course of conversation, _Horatio_ asks, “What! has this _thing_
appeared again to night?” which is both irreverent and nonsensical.
A _ghost_ is not a _thing_. _Macbeth_ says to that of _Banquo_,
“_Unreal_ mockery, hence!” The passage should be “Has this king
appeared?”

  _Bernardo._ Sit down a while
  And let us once again assail your ears,
  That are so fortified against our story,
  What we _two nights_ have seen.

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

  The knight now, his helmet on,
  The spear and falchion handles;
  But knights _then_, as thick as hops,
  In bushy bobs shall keep their shops,
  And deal, good lack! in figs and tripe,
  And soap, and tallow candles.

The ghost now enters, and retreats like _lord Burleigh_, in the
_critic_.

  _Bernardo._ See, it _stalks_ away.

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

  Then ma’am will you _walk_ in, sing folderol liddle,
  And sir, will you _stalk_ in, sing folderol liddle, &c.


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

    _To the editor of the Dramatic Censor._

SIR,

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

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

  Shall Belvidera’s voice no more
    Lend to the Muse its peerless aid,
  That erst on Albion’s ingrate shore
    Sooth’d Otway’s discontented shade?

  She--to no single soil confin’d,
    Sought in our climes extended fame;
  The wreaths of either world entwin’d,
    And taught both continents her name.

  Nor, of those strains that crowds have hail’d,
    Small is the praise, or light the gain;
  Clio can boast such sounds prevail’d,
    When faith and freedom pray’d in vain.

  Such notes the Mantuan minstrel owns
    Long lur’d her Trojan from the main:
  And bleeding Arria, in such tones,
    Assur’d her lord she “felt not pain.”

  Such notes, in Rome’s delirious days,
    Could liberty and laws restore;
  Could bid “be still” sedition’s waves,
    And faction’s whirlwind cease to roar

  ’Twas by such suasive sounds inspir’d,
    The matrons press’d the hostile field;
  The Volscian hosts, amaz’d, retir’d;
    The proud Patrician learn’d to yield.

  Such powers, oh had Calphurnia known,
    Great Julius all unarm’d had stood!
  No senate walls beheld his doom,
    Nor Pompey’s marble drank his blood!

  For thee--though born to happier times,
    And gentler tasks than these endur’d,
  Thy voice might oft prevent those crimes,
    Which e’en thy voice could scarce have cur’d.

  Although no civic aim was there,
    Yet not in vain that voice was given,
  Which, often as it bless’d the air,
    Inform’d us what was heard in heaven.

  Sure, when renew’d thy powers shall rise,
    To hymn before th’ empyreal throne,
  Angels shall start in wild surprise,
    To hear a note so like their own!

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

    Your humble servant,
      A FRIEND TO YOUR WORK.

  _Boston, March 1810._


ANECDOTES OF MACKLIN.

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


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


A COMPARISON BETWEEN MILTON AND SHAKSPEARE.

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

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


KEMBLE AND COOKE COMPARED.

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

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

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


GERMAN THEATRE.

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

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

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

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

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

“The Castle of Andalusia” was performed in 1782, and contains a song[6]
which, I think, fully proves my position. An audience who could not only
tolerate but applaud such rank nonsense and folly as that song, richly
deserves to be regaled even to surfeiting with Tom Gobble, and Jem
Gabble, and ribaldry of the like kind. It would indeed be “throwing
pearls before swine” to offer them such delicate effusions as are to be
found in Love in a Village, Lionel and Clarissa, the Maid of the Mill,
and the Duenna. It is hardly possible for sublimity and elegance to be
relished by persons of so depraved a taste as is necessary to hear such
trash without disgust. Were I to be called upon to make a choice, and
pronounce between O’Keefe’s Galloping Dreary Dun, and Alderman Gobble,
I should give a preference to the latter without hesitation: for,
notwithstanding the detestable St. Giles’s slang it contains, it has the
merit of containing something of a delineation of a character too
common, I mean that of an epicure. Whereas, “Draggle Tail Dreary Dun”
has no such recommendation to rescue it from universal execration.

  DRAMATICUS.

    [Footnote 6: That nonsensical song called _Galloping Dreary Dun_.]


DESCENT INTO ELYSIUM, FOR A STAGE POET.

_Suggested by a scene in Aristophanes._

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

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

    _Comic Muse, and Porter of Elysium._

  _Porter._ Who knocks so loud and frequent at this gate?

  _Comic Muse._ ’Tis I--the laughing muse of comedy.

  _P._ What? with that mournful melancholy face?
  Why sure--thou’st wandered through Trophonius’ cave.

  _C. M._ I’ve cause for grief: I’m scorn’d despis’d, neglected,
  A vulgar muse, got by some Grub-street bard,
  On obscure Ignorance, in gaol or stews,
  Usurps my place, and arrogates my honours.

  _P._ ’Tis sad:--but wherefore bend this way thy steps?

  _C. M._ I come to seek some high and gifted bard,
  Whose fiery genius with just judgment temper’d,
  May vindicate my rights; and with strong satire
  Whip the vile ignorant triflers from the stage.

  _P._ What! is there none alive of power sufficient?
  Lives not the attic wit of Sheridan?

  _C. M._ He lives: but, oh, disgrace to letters! long
  Has left me for the sweets of dissipation,
  Left me whose hand had crowned his head with honours,
  And still would crown,--to join the noisy band
  Of brawling, jangling, patriot politicians.
  At length his wonderful deserts have raised him[7]
  To the top of office; and the quondam play-wright.
  Ungrateful scorning fair Thalia’s favours,
  Courts the green Naiades of Somerset.

  _P._ But have you not the classic Cumberland?[8]

  _C. M._ He still exists: but ah! how chang’d from him
  Whose gen’rous Belcour touch’d all hearts with rapture,
  Whose honest Major charm’d with native humour,
  Whose Charlotte, pleasant, frank and open hearted,
  Call’d forth our tears of pleasure--April showers!
  His pages now, stuff’d with false maudlin sentiment,
  Scarce please our whimpering-girls and driveling ensigns:

  _P._ But laughing Colman[9] lives, a son of humour.

  _C. M._ ’Tis true--his dashes of coarse fun and drollery,
  Might smooth the wrinkles of a pedant’s brow,
  And loose a stoic’s muscles: and sometimes
  Beneath his various merry-andrew coat
  I’ve thought I spied the stamp of manly genius,
  Some vestige of his father’s purest wit.
  But ah! I fear ’twas a false light betray’d me.
  Let him write farce; but let him not presume
  To jumble fun and opera, grave and comic,
  In one vile mess--then call the mixture Shakspeare.
  No more of him: my hopes are all evanish’d,
  For “Hexham’s battle,” slew him: “The Iron Chest”
  Sunk him to Shadwell’s bathos; and “John Bull”
  Drove off in wild affright the polish’d muse.

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

  _C. M._ Why should I rescue from oblivion’s flood,
  Such names as Morton, Reynolds, Dibdin, Cherry.
  Morton a melancholy wight, whose muse,
  Now sighs and sobs, like newly bottled ale,
  Now splits her ugly mouth with grinning.[10]
  Reynolds,[11] whose muse most monstrous and misshapen,
  Outvies the hideous form that Horace drew.
  Dibdin[12] a ballad monger--and for Cherry--
  But Cherry has no character at all.

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

  _C. M._ For sterling wit and manly sense combin’d,
  Where, Congreve, shall I find thy parallel?
  For charming ease, who equals polish’d Vanbrugh?
  Where shall we see such graceful pleasantry
  As Farquhar’s muse with lavish bounty scatters?
  But yet, ye great triumvirate--I fear
  To call you back to earth, for ye debas’d
  With vile impurities the comic muse,
  And made her delicate mouth pronounce such things
  As would disgust a Wilmot in full blood,
  Or shock an Atheist roaring o’er his cups[13]
  O shameful profligate abuse of powers,
  Indulg’d to you for higher, nobler purposes,
  Than to pollute the sacred fount of virtue,
  Which, plac’d by heaven, springs in each human breast.

  _P._ Too true your words. But what of Massinger?[14]

  _C. M._ O how I love his independent genius,
  As vigorous as the youthful eagle’s pinion.
  With admiration and with joy I view
  The master-touches of his powerful hand.
  But, oh! I fear his muse too grand and weighty,
  For this less manly, though more elegant age.[15]

  _P._ Then choose the milder song of gentle Fletcher.

  _C. M._ ’Tis true, ’tis mild as notes of dying swans,[16]
  But I’d have something of a loftier strain,
  Which sweeps with manlier cadence o’er the strings.

  _P._ The page austere of learned Jonson[17] suits you.

  _C. M._ Yes--’tis a noble and a virtuous muse,
  But still her range is rugged and confined.
  No. I’ll have one who conquers all--’tis Shakspeare,[18]
  Whose genius now with rapid wing sublime,
  Soars with strong course, like generous Massinger;
  Now warbles forth her “native wood notes wild,”
  In tones more sweet than Fletcher’s tender lays.
  Now with strong arrows steeped in caustic wit,
  Like Jonson, stabs the follies of the times,
  Deep in the “heart’s core:” He’s the bard I seek,
  He always joy’d in me, and I in him.
  He will revive the glory of the stage.
  Then all the puny bards of modern days,
  Scar’d at his looks, shall fly; as birds of night,
  Shun the full blaze of heaven’s refulgent orb.

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

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

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

    [Footnote 10: I allude to such characters as the blubbering droll
    Tyke.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



MUSIC.


_Reviews of late publications._

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

                  For of old
  Mozart’s virtue, we are told
  Often with a bumper glow’d
  And with social rapture flow’d. --_Francis’s Horace._

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

  What cannot wine perform? it brings to light
  The secret soul; it bids the coward fight--
  Gives being to our hopes; and from our hearts
  Drives the dull sorrow, and inspires new arts.
  Whom hath not an inspiring bumper taught
  A flow of words, and loftiness of thought.


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


A duet composed by _V. Rauzzini_, and sung at the Bath concerts by Mrs.
Billington and Signora Cimador, has deservedly received the greatest
approbation. It is called “_Care luci inamorati_”--the style is truly
Italian; being simple, natural, and of course pleasing.


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


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


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

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

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

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

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


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


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

Of this publication the reviewers speak thus:

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

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


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

_SONG_

FOR GRACEY NUGENT--BY CAROLAN.

  Of Gracey’s charms enraptur’d will I sing!
  Fragrant and fair, as blossoms of the spring;
  To her sweet manners and accomplished mind;
  Each rival fair the palm of love resign’d.

  How blest her sweet society to share!
  To mark the ringlets of her flowing hair;[19]
  Her gentle accents--her complacent mien!--
  Supreme in charms, she looks--she reigns a queen!

  That alabaster form--that graceful neck
  How do the cygnets down and whiteness deck?--
  How does that aspect shame the cheer of day;
  When summer suns their brightest beams display.

  Blest is the youth whom fav’ring fates ordain
  The treasures of her love, and charms to gain!
  The fragrant branch with curling tendrils bound,
  With breathing odours--blooming beauty crown’d.

  Sweet is the cheer her sprightly wit supplies!
  Bright is the sparkling azure of her eyes!
  Soft o’er her neck her lovely tresses flow!
  Warm in her praise the tongues of rapture glow!

  Here is the voice--tun’d by harmonious love,
  Soft as the songs that warble through the grove!
  Oh! sweeter joys her converse can impart!
  Sweet to the sense, and grateful to the heart!

  Gay pleasures dance where’er her footsteps bend,
  And smiles and rapture round the fair attend:
  Wit forms her speech, and wisdom fills her mind,
  And sight and soul in her their object find.

  Her pearly teeth, in beauteous order plac’d;
  Her neck with bright, and curling tresses grac’d.
  But ah, so fair!--in wit and charms supreme,
  Unequal song must quit its darling theme.

  Here break I off;--let sparkling goblets flow,
  And my full heart its cordial wishes show:
  To her dear health this friendly draught I pour.
  Long be her life, and blest its every hour.

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



SPORTING INTELLIGENCE.


_Remarks on modern pedestrianism._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On a general view of the national utility resulting from this modern
amusement, it appears admirably well calculated for the exercise of the
legs of our nobility, gentry, and merchants, and may operate as an
efficacious remedy for indolence, _alias_ laziness. It will also be
conducive to the benefit of those ingenious individuals who devote their
talents to the fabrication of ornaments; and we may soon expect to see,
in the advertisements of mantuamakers, milliners, hosiers, and tailors,
a list of _patent bounding corsets_, _Atalanta robes_, and _winged
bonnets_, for the equipment of female adventurers in the lists of
gymnastic glory; while _flying trowsers_, _elastic jackets_, and
_feathered buskins_, fit for Mercury himself, will contribute at once to
the adornment, the swiftness, and the reputation, of our noble and
ignoble racers.


BACKSWORD PLAYING--MIDDLESEX PASTIME.

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


CURIOUS PEDESTRIANISM.

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


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


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

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

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

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

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

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



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. Lower-case
titles such as “lady Macbeth” and “captain Barclay” are used regularly.

No attempt was made to regularize the use of quotation marks, except
to supply those that were clearly missing. Nested double quotes are
standard and were not changed. A few missing or incorrect punctuation
marks in the Index were silently regularized.

_Unchanged:_

  Apollonius[1] of Thyana,
  “Oh cussa heart  [mismatched quotes]
  his play of Amphytrion
  His younger cotemporary  [standard spelling for this publication]
  he avows his villany  [common spelling]

_Corrected:_

  which occasioned him to be called μισογυνης  [μισογυνησ]
  in the case already mentioned  [men/ed at line break]
  as the only valuable levellers  [valuabe]
  so flat, and unaffecting a manner  [unaffecing]
  many of the German plays are highly exceptionable  [exeptionable]

_Punctuation and Typography:_

  HA! I LIKE NOT THAT
    [_Printed in small capitals, with ordinary lower-case “no”
    in “NOT”_]
  ... spoke the words “this is a sorry sight,” better. [missing ”]
  an ornament to his profession.” [missing ”]

    Miss Smith ... is spoken of as follows:
    “Macbeth by Mr. Kemble ...
    “Some faults ... performances.”
    [_the original has opening quotes at the beginning of the second
    paragraph only; opening and closing quotes were added conjecturally
    in the final paragraph_]

  _none but a poet should edit a poet_,”  [missing open quote]
  “What! has this _thing_ appeared again to night?”
    [missing close quote]
  “You spirits oft _walk_.”  [missing close quote]
  And faction’s whirlwind cease to roar  [missing punctuation]
  preserves its course, its name,  [missing ,]
  “a _complete list_ ... in the English language,”
    [missing close quote]
  springs in each human breast  [missing .]
  “si quid loquar audiendum.”  [missing open quote]
  similar to a triple shake.  [extraneous close quote]
  “The maid with the mildly flowing hair,”  [missing close quote]
  Many a crown was cracked and many a heavy blow  [invisible “and”]


_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]


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *


  VENONI,

  OR THE
  NOVICE OF ST. MARK’S.

  A DRAMA, IN THREE ACTS.


  By M. G. LEWIS.


  Printed for Bradford and Inskeep, No. 4, South Third-Street,
  Philadelphia; Inskeep and Bradford, New-York;
  and William M‘Ilhenny, Boston,

  by Smith And Maxwell.



VENONI; OR, THE NOVICE OF ST. MARK’S.


DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

  The Viceroy of Sicily.
  The Marquis Caprara.
  Father Cœlestino, prior of St. Mark’s.
  Venoni.
  Lodovico.
  Jeronymo,   }
  Michael,    }
  Anastasio,  } _gray friars_.
  Nicolo,     }
  Benedetto.
  Carlo,      }
  Pietro,     } _servants_.
  Giovanni,   }
  Fishermen.

  Hortensia, marchioness Caprara.
  Veronica.
  Josepha.
  Teresa.
  Sister Lucia.

_The scene lies in Sicily._



ACT I.


  SCENE I.-- _The port of Messina-- on one side the viceroy’s palace._

    _Benedetto_, _Teresa_, _Carlo_, _Pietro_, _Giovanni_, and
    servants are discovered.

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

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

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

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

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

    [Exit _Carlo_.

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

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

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

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

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

_Teresa._ Ay, ay; the same-- oh, I can’t bear the sight of him!

_Pietro._ Nor I.

_Giovanni._ Nor I.

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

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

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

_Pietro._ And his senses-- are they right again?

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

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

_Ben._ Very likely, very likely! and therefore, Pietro, should that
friar call again----

_Carlo._ (_appearing at the balcony of the palace_) Benedetto,
Benedetto! the gallies, the gallies!

_Ben._ Indeed! are you sure? yes, yes, yes, I hear the music! (_shouting
without_) and hark, Teresa! hark! the mob are huzzaing like---- bless my
heart, I shall certainly expire at his feet for joy! they come! oh!
look, look, look!

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

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

    [Exeunt _Teresa_ and _servants_.

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

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

_Ben._ My dear, dear lord!

_Vice._ But inform me, Benedetto; my sister?--

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

_Vice._ Beloved unfortunate Josepha!-- and Venoni----?

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

_Vice._ Most unaccountable!

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

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

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

_Vice._ (_concealing his tears_) Josepha! thou wert dear to me as my own
child, Josepha! (_after a moment’s silence, recovering himself_) And
where is Venoni now?

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

_Vice._ What! the father Cœlestino?

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

_Vice._ What! so early in life will he quit the world? his immense
wealth too----

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

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

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

    Father _Michael_ enters hastily.

_Michael._ Friend! hist! friend!

_Ben._ (_returning_) Well, friend! hey a monk? I beg your pardon then;
well, father!

_Mich._ The viceroy is at length arrived?

_Ben._ He is.

_Mich._ Conduct me to him: I must speak with him instantly.

_Ben._ Stop, stop! no hurry-- the viceroy is already gone out.

_Mich._ Unfortunate! my business is of such importance----

_Ben._ Well, well! I dare say, some few hours hence----

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

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

_Mich._ The same! and-- (_looking round anxiously, and lowering his
voice_) and I am no favourite with him.

_Ben._ No? that’s very much to your credit.

_Mich._ (_acquiring confidence_) Nor am I partial to him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Ben._ Extremely.

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

_Ben._ Bless my heart! so soon!

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

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

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

_Ben._ Well, father; and so Venoni-- ?

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

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

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

_Ben._ You will return then?

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

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

_Mich._ I thank you-- as to the manner in which I have spoken of my
superior, the most profound secrecy----

_Ben._ Oh! mum’s the word.

_Mich._ Should it reach his knowledge-- blessed saints, protect me!
Jeronymo, the prior’s confidant, comes this way! (_drawing his cowl over
his face in great agitation_) should he observe me-- my liberty--
perhaps my life-- friend, farewell! (_going._)

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

_Mich._ Heaven’s blessing be with you! a thousand, thousand thanks!

    [Exit hastily.

_Ben._ (_calling after him_) That’s right! a little further! take care,
there are two or three steps. To the left, to the left!-- that’s it--
your most obedient servant-- (_with a low bow; after which he turns from
the palace_) and now-- mum, mum!

    Enter father _Jeronymo_.

_Jer._ Bless you, son!

_Ben._ Save you, father!

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

_Ben._ Not that I saw-- (_aside_) there’s a good round lie now!

_Jer._ I suppose, then, I was mistaken.

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

_Jer._ (_aside_) I could have sworn, that father Michael-- this shall be
inquired into further-- _salve_, son!

    [Exit.

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

    Enter _Fishermen_.

_Ben._ Now lads, now! why, you look busily.

_1st fish._ Well we may, signor: the viceroy entertains all the grandees
of Messina this evening, and our fish will bear a treble price. Come,
come, look to the nets, lads, (_they go to their boats_)

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

    [Exit.

_1st fish._ (_in the boat_) Now, lads, are you ready?

_2d fish._ Ay, ay! pull away!

_1st fish._ Off we go then.

_All._ Huzza!

GLEE.

  Ply the oar, brother, and speed the boat;
  Swift o’er the glittering waves we’ll float;
  Then home as swiftly we’ll haste again,
  Loaded with wealth of the plundered main.
  Pull away, pull away! row, boys, row
  A long pull, a strong pull, and off we go.

  Hark how the neighbouring convent bell!
  Throws o’er the waves its vesper swell;
  Sullen it bomes from shore to shore,
  Blending its chime with the dash of the oar.
  Pull away, pull away! row, boys, row!
  A long pull, a strong pull, and off we go.


  SCENE II-- _An apartment in the Caprara palace._

    The _viceroy_ enters, followed by _Hortensia_ and the _Marquis_;
    a servant attending.

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

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

_Hor._ You know no ill of him.----

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

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

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

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

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

_Hor._ I thank you; (_to the servant_) the prior’s visit will be
welcome.

    [Servant bows, and Exit.

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

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

_Mar._ Right, right, Benvolio; twas his advice, twas his alone.

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

_Mar._ (_surprised_) How, Hortensia! I hope that in placing your
daughter in that convent, no views concealed from me-- (Hortensia _looks
confused_)

    The servant ushers in the _prior_, and retires.

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

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

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

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

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

_All._ (_eagerly_) Venoni?

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

_Mar._ Unhappy youth!

_Vic._ Tomorrow?

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

_Hor._ (_greatly agitated_) No, no! I cannot-- I dare not----

_Vic._ (_seriously_) Sister-- Venoni must not be refused.

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

_Vic._ (_eagerly_) Already here?-- where, where is he?

_Mar._ Who waits? (_servant enters_) signor Venoni-- conduct him hither
instantly, away!

    [Exit servant.

_Pri._ (_observing the viceroy’s emotion_) Ah! my good lord, what a
heart have you for friendship! happy, thrice happy he whose worth or
whose misfortunes can inspire you with such interest and such zeal!
(_The viceroy answers by a gesture of contemptuous impatience_)

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

  _Vice._ } _together._ { My friend!
  _Mar._  }             { My son!
                            (_hastening to receive him_)

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

_Hor._ (_embarrassed_) Venoni can never be unwelcome. I have not
forgotten-- I never shall forget-- that there was a time when-- that had
I not hoped to make my child adopt--

_Pri._ (_interrupting her hastily_) Dear lady, compose yourself: your
extreme sensibility overpowers you.

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

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

_Pri._ My noble lords, when the voice of religion calls an unfortunate
to her bosom--

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

_Pri._ What say you my son?

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

_Vice._ Dear unfortunate youth!

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

_Mar._ Two victims! Hortensia, two victims! one has already perished,
and the other--

_Hor._ (_greatly affected_) Oh! spare me, my husband! could I have
forseen-- never, never shall I cease to reproach myself--

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

_Hor._ You are right, father; you shall be obeyed. Venoni-- farewell,
Venoni! (_going_)

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

_Pri._ My son, my son! you will make me repent that I allowed this
interview-- let us retire!

_Venoni._ (_violently_) No, no, no! I will stay here-- here (_with
affection, and embracing the marquis_) with my father. (_returning to
Hortensia_) Answer me!

_Hor._ (_terrified_) Venoni! for heaven’s sake! have mercy!

_Venoni._ (_furious_) Mercy? had you mercy upon me?

_Pri._ Venoni! follow me this instant! I command you!

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

_Hor._ Every word he utters-- seems a dagger to my heart!

_Pri._ (_aside_) Ah! how I repent!

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

_Hor._ My child! my child!

_Mar._ My Josepha!

_Pri._ (_aside_) Oh rage!

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

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

_Hor._ (_embracing him passionately as he kneels_) Forgive you? yes, yes
my son! my beloved son! I pardon you---- heaven knows, I pardon you--
and oh! in return may heaven and you pardon me!

_Pri._ (_aside_) Ah! how I suffer!

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

_Prior._ (_embracing him with dissembled affection_) And I, my son, had
already forgotten it-- but tis time for us to retire-- come!

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


  _End of Act I._



ACT II.


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

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

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

_Jeronymo._ Wishes? nay, he insists upon seeing him.

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

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

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

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

_Prior._ Good!

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

_Prior._ The viceroy then is still here?

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

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

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

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

_Jer._ And yet she defeated your views!

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

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

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

    [Exeunt.

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

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

    The _viceroy_ enters.

_Viceroy._ That plaintive voice-- I cannot be mistaken. Tis he! tis
Venoni! my friend!

_Venoni._ (_starting_) Benvolio! you within these walls! ah, did I not
entreat-- I told you, I repeat it now, I’m dead to the world. I exist
for no one-- for nothing-- but grief and the memory of Josepha. Leave
me! leave me! (_he resumes his despondent attitude_)

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

_Venoni._ (_quitting the grate_) Of Josepha? say on you shall be heard.

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

_Venoni._ Friend! Benvolio! in pity!

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

_Venoni._ (_weakly and despondingly_) Benvolio-- I am wretched! I have
lost every thing; my strength of mind is broken; my heart is the prey of
despair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Venoni._ We are alone-- proceed.

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

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

_Vice._ This Michael has written to me-- but I know not if I ought--
Venoni, should you betray----

_Venoni._ How, Benvolio? you doubt----

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

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

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

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

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

_Venoni._ How, father? a single half hour surely----

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

_Vice._ Father, this eagerness----

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

_Venoni._ Oh, good father-- I know not how----

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

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

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

_Vice._ (_embracing him_) Courage, my friend! proceed! dare to become a
man once more, and restore to your native land that most precious
treasure, a virtuous citizen!

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

_Venoni._ (_starting in horror at the idea_) I! I forget her! forget
Josepha!

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

_Venoni._ Josepha!

_Pri._ No more will you kneel at yonder grate; no more will that
tomb----

_Venoni._ Josepha!

_Vice._ (_indignant at the prior’s success_) This artifice-- this
insidious language----

_Pri._ (_pressing his point_) Yes, yes! I see how it will be! she, whom
heaven scarcely balanced in your heart, soon abandoned, soon forgotten,
soon replaced----

_Venoni._ (_almost frantic_) Never, never!

_Vice._ Rash youth! pronounce not----

_Pri._ You have sworn a thousand times to live near her, to die near
her----

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

_Pri._ (_triumphant_) Ah, listen to that bell! twas at this very hour,
that Josepha’s eye-lids closed for ever! twas at this very hour, that--
(_the bell ceases to strike; Venoni recovers animation_)

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

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

_Vice._ Cruel youth! yet hear----

_Venoni._ No more, no more! I am dead to the world! yet forget not, that
while I lived, I lived to love you. Farewell, Benvolio-- farewell for
ever!

    [Breaks from him, and exit.

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

_Pri._ (_in a hypocritical tone_) May I without offence represent to
your excellence, that night approaches? it must be near the time, when
our rules require, that the monastery gates should be closed.

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

    [Exit.

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

    (Father _Jeronymo_ enters with a dark lantern.)

    (_During the following scene, night comes on, and the moon rises_)

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

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

_Jer._ What! the viceroy’s arguments----

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

_Jer._ But surely his love-- his despair-- the shock which his
understanding has received--

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

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

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

_Jer._ I would fain believe it so-- yet forget not, that father
Michael--

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

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

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

    [Exeunt.

    _Venoni_ enters hastily.

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

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

_Mi._ (_in a low, hurried voice_) That voice could be none but his.
Venoni! answer! is it thou, Venoni?

_Venoni._ Who speaks? ha! father Michael?

_Mi._ (_closing the lantern_) I sought you-- I must speak with you-- I
must save you!

_Venoni._ Save me?

_Mi._ The viceroy has been here: was he admitted?

_Venoni._ He was-- I saw him.

_Mi._ Mentioned he a letter?

_Venoni._ He did.

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

_Venoni._ For ever!

_Mi._ And know you the man who tore her from your arms? know you the man
who-- _murdered_ her?

_Venoni._ Murdered her? almighty powers! what mean you? whom mean you?

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

_Venoni._ Whom, whom?

_Mi._ The father Cœlestino.

_Venoni._ (_in the greatest horror_) He? the prior? powers of mercy!--
(_then with decision_) away! it cannot be.

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

_Venoni._ Go on, go on!

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

_Venoni._ (_frantic with impatience_) Josepha, Josepha-- oh! speak to me
of Josepha!

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

_Venoni._ (_leaning against a tree_) My brain turns around.

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

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

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

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

_Mi._ Read! read, and be convinced.

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

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

_Venoni._ (_recovering from his stupor, and suddenly starting up_) Where
is he? where does the monster hide himself? I will revenge her! I will
punish her murderers!

_Mi._ (_violently alarmed_) What would you do? whither would you go?

_Venoni._ Whither? whither? to revenge Josepha!

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

_Venoni._ (_raving_) What? fly? and leave her unavenged? never! I will
die, I will die! but I will punish her assassins!

_Mi._ Silence, silence! these shrieks-- we shall be betrayed: you
destroy yourself, Venoni! yourself and me!

_Venoni._ (_with frantic screams_) Josepha! Josepha!

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

_Venoni._ (_without heeding him_) The miscreant! the monster! oh,
Josepha!

_Mi._ (_in despair releasing him_) Remain, then, madman, since thou wilt
have it so! remain, and perish!

    [Exit hastily.

_Venoni._ (_alone, and wandering about the garden with a distracted
air_) Where shall I direct-- where seek-- a cloud obscures my
eyes-- despair, rage, powers of vengeance! powers of fury! guide me,
desert me not; give me strength to-- my limbs refuse to bear me:
I faint, I die! (_he falls upon the ground_)

    The _prior_, the fathers _Jeronymo_, _Anastasio_, and _Nicolo_,
    and other monks enter with torches.

_Pri._ (_speaking without_) What clamours make the garden resound? who
thus disturbs the hallowed silence which---- how? Venoni! alone!
stretched on the earth! he is insensible; yet sure there was some one
with him! speak, Jeronymo; heard you not?--

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

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

_Pri._ Lose not a moment: be Nicolo your companion.

    [Exeunt Anastasio and Nicolo.

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

_Venoni._ (_reviving_) Who names me? who speaks to me?

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

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

_Pri._ In the arms of that tender friend whose sympathy--

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

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

_Venoni._ (_shuddering_) Disgust?

_Pri._ In what have I offended? what is my crime?

_Venoni._ (_exasperated beyond bounds_) And still dare you ask? inhuman!
still dare you ask-- what is your crime? oh, monstrous hypocrisy! oh,
guilt beyond belief! she is dead! and still dare you ask-- in what have
you offended?

    Enter father _Anastasio_ and father _Nicolo_.

_Ana._ Tis in vain that--

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

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

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

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

_Pri._ (_after examining the letter turns to the monks, and says in a
calm decided tone_) Every thing is discovered-- we are betrayed.

_Jer._ How? how?

_Ana._ What must be done? we are lost!

_Jer._ But one moment is still ours.

_Ni._ There is but one chance of escape--

_Pri._ Silence! (_during these speeches he seems to have been collecting
his thoughts; he advances to Venoni, and says in a firm decided tone_)
those words, in which you threatened my destruction, assured your own--
(_in a voice of thunder_) die! die, and be our dangerous secret buried
for ever in your grave! (_to Jeronymo_) unclose the chapel door and
raise the secret stone.

    _Jeronymo_ enters the chapel.

_Pri._ Seize him!

_Venoni._ (_who during the above speeches has remained in silent
consternation, on being seized by father Anastasio, &c. bursts out into
the most passionate exclamations_) What, barbarians! do you dare?--

_Pri._ Bear him to the chapel!

_Venoni._ (_struggling_) Inhuman monsters! the vengeance of heaven-- my
friends-- my cries-- help-- save me!

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


  _End of Act. II._



ACT III.


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

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

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

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

    [Exit, and closes the door after him.

    Enter the _prior_ and _Jeronymo_, with torches.

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

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

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

_Jer._ Yet still I cannot but fear--

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

    Enter _Anastasio_ and _Nicolo_, with _Venoni_, whom they throw
    upon the floor.

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

    [Exeunt prior, &c.

    _Lodovico_ appears at the private door.

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

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

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

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

_Lod._ Hold, hold! ungrateful!

_Venoni._ Ha! a stranger?

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

_Venoni._ What are you? what mean you? speak, oh, speak!

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

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

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

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

_Lod._ Alas, my son! the ponderous fastenings-- the bolts-- the bars
will resist!

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

_Lod._ Oh! that I could! but age-- but infirmity-- go, go, my son,
I will remain, and pray for you.

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

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

_Venoni._ Thou good old man--

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

_Venoni._ Enough! and now-- (_going_)

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

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

    [Exit with the lamp.

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

    _Venoni_, appearing above with the lamp.

_Venoni._ Freedom, freedom, freedom, friend, farewell! I speed to rescue
you.

    [Exit.

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

    [The scene closes.


  SCENE II-- _an anti-chamber in the viceroy’s palace._

    Enter _Benedetto_, _Carlo_, _Pietro_, &c.

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

    [Exeunt servants.

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

    Enter _Teresa_.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Ser._ (_without_) Benedetto, Benedetto!

_Ben._ Coming, coming!    [Exit.

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

    Father _Michael_ rushes in out of breath.

_Mi._ Heaven be praised! then I am arrived at last.

_Te._ A friar! your business, father?

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

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

_Mi._ I must, I tell you! I must! my business is of such importance,
that--

    Enter _Benedetto_.

_Ben._ Why, Teresa! dawdling here, while the maids--

    [Exit Teresa.

_Mi._ Tis the same! how fortunate!-- worthy old man--

_Ben._ Is it you, father? why, you were out, when his excellence went
this evening to--

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

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

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

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

    Enter the _Viceroy_ and _Hortensia_.

_Vice._ Nay, dear Hortensia-- how now? what would you, father?

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

_Vice._ Father Michael? speak! come you from Venoni?

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

_Vice._ His assassin!

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

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

_Hor._ Murdered? my child?

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

    [Exeunt.

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

    [Exit.


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

    The _prior_ enters preceded by a friar with a torch, and followed
    by _Veronica_.

_Ve._ Yet hear me, Cœlestino!

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

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

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

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

_Pri._ How? and dare you, the creature of my will, whose life depends
but upon my breath--

_Ve._ While you speak, forget not also that my fate involves your own;
I too can divulge--

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

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

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

    [Exeunt.

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

    [Exeunt.

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

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

    _Chorus_ within, very full and sweet.

  --“O! love! sweet love!”--

_Jo._ Hark! voices! I heard them! I am sure I heard them! it was music!
melody! enchantment-- hark! hark! again.

CHORUS.

  “Love rules the court, the camp, the grove.
  For love is heaven, and heaven is love.”

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

_Jos._ See! see! all bright! all brilliant; a dream-- a fairy vision--
the blaze overpowers me, my eyes are dazzled; my brain grows dizzy:
I cannot support the rapture-- (_sinks against a pillar_)

_Ve._ Josepha!

_Jos._ (_starting_) Surely that voice-- the abbess, what can mean--

_Ve._ How? not speak to me, my child? not look upon your mother?

_Jos._ Mother? child? oh! it is long since I heard those dear, dear
names-- my heart-- my feelings-- (_throwing herself into her arms_) oh!
if I am your child, then mother, mother! be to me a mother indeed!

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

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

_Ve._ What art? what villany? when kindly I woo you to--

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

_Ve._ (_aside_) Oh! if I dared-- no, no! it cannot be.

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

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

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

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

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

_Ve._ She tortures my heart; her reproaches fire my brain-- I can endure
them no longer-- remove her! away!

_Jose._ (_kneeling_) Oh! drive me not from you! pity me! protect me!
save me!--

_Ve._ I cannot! I dare not! take her from my sight, and-- and for ever!

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

_Ve._ Insupportable! away with her! she kills me!

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

    _Venoni_ rushes in by a side door.

_Venoni._ Who shrieks for help-- for mercy! I-- I will give them!

(_Veronica and nuns utter a cry of surprise_)

_Ve._ Ah! a stranger?

_Jose._ (_bursting from the nuns with a violent effort_) Tis he! tis he
himself! save me, Venoni! oh! save me, save me! (_she rushes to throw
herself into his arms, and sinks fainting at his feet._)

_Ve._ Venoni, betrayed, undone! Lucia! (_she whispers Lucia._)

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

_Ve._ But one moment is still ours-- (_to Lucia_) fly! hasten! (_Lucia
goes off by the door through which Venoni enters._)

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

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

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

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

    _Lucia_ returns.

_Ve._ Have you found them?

_Lu._ I have.

_Venoni._ And where are they?

    The _prior_ rushes in followed by monks.

_Pri._ Here! art thou found again, my fugitive? --seize him.

_Jose._ Venoni! oh, Venoni!

_Pri._ Tear them asunder.

_Jose._ No, no! I will never leave him! while I have life, thus thus
will I cling to him; if I must die, it shall be at his feet. (_they are
forced asunder_) oh! cruel, cruel men! (_she sinks into the arms of the
nuns-- Veronica is in the greatest agitation_)

_Pri._ Away with him! (_he precedes; the monks, bearing Venoni, follow
him_) Venoni, your death-hour has struck!

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

_Mi._ Tyrant, no; twas for thyself it sounded.

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

_Hor._ (_speaking without_) Where is she? where is the abbess?

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

_Hor._ Powers of mercy! she lives, she lives! my Josepha! my joy my
treasure! oh, can you forget--

_Jose._ Every thing, every thing-- except that I am still dear to you.

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

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

_Ve._ Josepha!-- angel, your prayers-- oh! pray for me: pray for me!

    [Exit with guards.

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

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

_Venoni._ My friend, my preserver! how can I reward----

_Vice._ If my power-- if my whole fortune can recompense----

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

_Vice._ What, father? after such experience of a convent’s interior will
you again----

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

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

  “BE TOLERANT!”


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

Errors and Inconsistencies: The Novice

  Spellings were changed only when there was an unambiguous error,
  or the word occurred elsewhere with the expected spelling. The
  spelling “anti-room” is used consistently. Names in stage directions
  were inconsistently italicized; they have been silently regularized.
  Missing or invisible periods at line-end and in abbreviations have
  been silently supplied. In the play, words such as “tis” and “twas”
  were always written without apostrophe.

_Unchanged:_

  when suddenly the radience of a thousand torches
  the nuns opposes her progress

_Corrections:_

  A marine procession arrives  [processsion]
  to the arbitrary commands  [arbritary]
  for heaven’s love, the viceroy would deign  [victory]
  his countenance and manner  [countenace]
  at my appointment  [appoiniment]
  the donor shall be soon disposed of  [diposed]
  object of never to be sated vengeance,  [vengance]
  heaven had commissioned me  [commisioned]
  _Venoni._ Oh, talk not to me of resistance!  [_Vevoni._]
  Why, Teresa! dawdling here  [dwadling]
  all your past perverseness,  [preverseness]

_Punctuation and typography:_

  Hortensia, marchioness Caprara.  [, for .]
  [Exeunt _Teresa_ and servants.
    [_italicized as “Exeunt _Teresa and_ servants.”_]
  _Mich._ My superior knows not  [my]
  Alas! that will be impossible!  [? for second !]
  Come, come, look to the nets, lads, (_they go to their boats_)
    [punctuation unchanged]
  Hark how the neighbouring convent bell!  [punctuation unchanged]
  _Venoni._ You weep? you repent?  [, for .]
  of repentance and despair?   [? misprinted upside down]
  _Venoni._ I have seen the man  [, for .]
  It may not be.  [, for .]
  (_... like one petrified._)  [missing close parenthesis]
  (_... towards the tomb._)  [missing close parenthesis]
  In what have I offended? what is my crime?  [, for second ?]
  oh? surely if there is aught  [question mark for exclamation mark?]
  Fly, fly! you bear with you my blessing! (_kneeling_)
    [missing open parenthesis]
  _Ben._ Coming, coming!  [_Exit._  [missing bracket]
  not look upon your mother?  [parenthesis for question mark]





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