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As, poising on extended toe,

Their circling arm around they throw,
And, on the stony page below,

Their frolic fancies write.

And now (so great Hippona pleas'd)
Two coaches rattled past;

Their bugle horns the guardmen seized,
And from their pigmy throttles squeezed
An angry giant's blast.-

Now let the reader take a view
Of Norton Falgate, and pursue
Each peak-topp'd tenement to where
A squat snug man, with sable hair,
And dirty night-cap, he may see,
Brought to the window by the roar,
Which might have split the scull he bore,
Unless indeed 'twas crack'd before,
As sculls like his are apt to be.-

O, reader, fix your eyes where I have said;
For from that window peeps my hero's head!-
Yes, yes, 'tis Nehemiah Muggs,

A name that would inspirit slugs!
With poet-frensy make a mite

Leap from his cheese of Stilton,
And every native oyster write
As if he were a Milton !
But see, he quits the attic story,

So I'll prepare to do the same,
And in plain English lay before ye
The business, origin, and glory,

Of him who own'd this classic name.

Now listen, reader, listen as our text

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LETTERS OF GARRICK, FOOTE, &c. *
(concluded.)

THERE is no class of persons to whom so little justice is done as to actors. They are either made Casars of, or nothing. The scales in which they are weighed by society seem eternally varying, or else the weights are false that are opposed to them. In one year a favourite actor is lauded to the skies, and in another a rival of equal talents has the scantiest approbation coldly awarded him. This is mere fashion, we suppose; for it certainly does not depend on the manners or merit of the performer himself. When Garrick was ill for five or six weeks, the nation was in alarm. The same interest, we are told, was publicly evinced, as when a prince of the blood lies dangerously ill, and his door was crowded

"every day, and all day long," with liveried servants, whom the anxiety of the fashionable world had dispatched thither for tidings concerning him.

No man was, perhaps, ever caressed like Garrick. The actors, his predecessors, (always excepting those who were authors also, and those who, like Kynaston, were admired for personal appearance,) met with but little notice; and the performers of the present day, however respected and valued in their own particular circles, have seldom met with that general demonstration of regard, which was at all times lavished on Garrick. Perhaps we might almost except Kean, who at one period was much sought after, but of this even

* See page 647, Vol. II.

we are not certain. Garrick was certainly a man of good manners, and of some accomplishments; but so, we believe, is the later tragedian. Macready also-(even when he has laid aside the garb and sorrows of the Roman Virginius, whom he depicts so well, and is no more the father of that sad and dove-eyed girl,) is admired, we hear, as well as liked by his friends, who know the irresistible claims, which a man of gentlemanlike manners and classical knowledge has to be placed on a level with any person-commoner or lord. Yet, compare his situation with Garrick's! Again, Charles Kemble (whom nature has made noble, and reading learned,-who is a gentleman by natural charter, and wears his letters of high nobility on his brow,) has power only over a private circle.

We do not wish to say less of Garrick than he merits. He was, undoubtedly, raised too high in his life-time, and the epitaph which writes him down on the same pedestal with Shakspeare, (with Shakspeare!) who was

as universal as the light, Free as the earth-surrounding air, is an insult to our most mighty poet, and an injury to the person who is thus lifted to such an infinite distance above the humbler level which he deserved to tread. Perhaps this it was which first moved our spleen. Let us, however, in our zeal for the greater spirit, not neglect to do justice to the less.

Garrick was a vain and a weak man; but there is, undoubtedly, great excuse for the follies of actors, when they have any. They "annihilate space and time," as it were, and have their immortality bestowed on them while living. An author, generally speaking, must wait his time, and receive his laurel from posterity; but an actor obtains his chaplet at once. He need not, like a writer, (in fact, he cannot) send out a specimen of his talents in quarto, octavo, or humble and congenial foolscap; but the daily papers blow forth the trumpet of his fame, and he goes abroad in the pleasant summer season, like a swallow gliding through various climates, to meet a ready prepared crowd of admirers and friends. The ipse dixit of a reviewer is not always

5

203

believed, without copious extracts from the author; but the daily critic is as indisputable as the voice which sounded at Delphos.

""

a theme for abuse. Every deviation The vanity of actors has often been from what the critic considers to be right, is set down at once to the unless, indeed, he be "too tame," score of the performer's vanity ;and then he is passed over without any notice whatever. This is scarcely fair. No actor will be ostentatious, at least, of his vanity; because he must know that any very violent display of this foible would subject him to an instantaneous admonition from his auditory, as well as to various tirades on the following morning from his "curates It is really edifying to see the terms the critics. on which advice is disposed of in this especially if unpleasant. The only excellent age. It may be had gratis, this is, that the remedy or conduct drawback from the advantage of all presented must be adopted: and where there is a variety of presumptions, the most intelligent patient may be at times perplexed. He cannot attend to all; and the result generally at last.-There is, however, great is, that he follows his own opinion excuse for the vanity of actors: the clamours which follow the delivery of any striking speech by an actor, who is in favour with the town, is enough to drown the "still small voice" of modesty in There must of necessity be an inany one's breast. faction which will, in time, spread toxication of the spirit ;-a self satisout and encroach upon the better and out a spice of vanity we are inclined more humble feelings. Indeed, withto suspect, that no man would adopt the stage as his profession; and we are decidedly of opinion, that no actor would rise to eminence without it.

It is his stay and support in and the gratification of it is but too distress: his incentive to emulation: frequently his principal reward.We can endure, therefore, to hear that Foote had some vanity, and Garrick a great deal; the one, of the bold and sanguine sort, tolerably soon satisfied, the other, of the anxious, craving, and apprehensive kind, which it required large draughts of applause to allay. Betterton, the Roscius of his day, alone, had no

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It is said of Barron, the French actor, that he admitted the possibility of a Cæsar appearing once in a century; but that he insisted, that "it required 2000 years to produce a Barron." There is an air of confidence in this assertion, which almost challenges our belief. The same personage, when acting in the play of the Cid, struck his foot against the point of a sword: the wound grew bad, and apprehensions were felt that mortification would take place: Barron, nevertheless, declined submitting to amputation. He said, that the representative of heroes and princes should never be seen on a wooden leg, and persisting in this resolution for some time-he died. This seems to us the sublime of mock-heroic, and we wonder that the French did not erect a statue to his memory. The finest instance on record, however, of we can scarcely call it vanity, it seems to assume a higher claim-was in the celebrated Mrs. Oldfield; who, when she was in danger of being drowned in a Gravesend boat, bade her fellow passengers (who were lamenting their fates,) be calm, for that their deaths could be

of no importance; but, said she, "I AM A PUBLIC CONCERN."!!!

We will now return to David Garrick, Esq. We have spoken of him already so much, (in comparison with Foote,) that we have left ourselves but little more to say. He was, according to every account, a very surprising actor, and a man of great versatility of talent in his profession. It is not an easy thing for one man to play Lear, and Abel Drugger, and Ranger; and yet Garrick overcame all those characters excellently well. He was unable to play Othello, however; and this, with us, speaks somewhat against his reputation as a tragedian. We should be inclined to make that character the test of an actor's powers. There is a mixture of love and honest confidence-of dignity, of cordiality, of fluctuating passion, and of despair in it, that requires certainly great talent to develop. Kean's Othello is assuredly his best character. Macready's performance of it also is, we are told, (for we have not seen it) one of his best efforts. These circumstances speak at once to us in behalf of those high tragedians. With respect to the letters which a kind friend has put into our hands, we shall select only one written by our English Roscius: it is as follows, and is addressed to "James Clutterbuck, Esq. Bath."It is short, but very characteristic. The lines given in italics would satisfy us without the signature.

Adelphi, January 18, 1776. My dear Clut,-You shall be the first person to whom I shall make known that I have at last slipt my theatrical shell, and shall be as fine and free a gentleman as you would wish to see upon the south or north parade at Bath. I have sold my moiety of patent, &c. &c. for 35,000l. to Messrs. Dr. Ford, Ewart, Shendon, and Linley. We have signed to forfeit 10,000l. if the conditions of our present articles are not fulfilled, the 24th of June next.— In short, I grow somewhat older, though I never played better in all my life, and am resolved not to remain upon the stage to be pitied instead of applauded. The deed is done, and the bell is ringing, so I can say no more, but that I hope I shall receive a letter of felicitation from you. Love to your better half, and to the Sharpes and all friends. Ever, and most affectionately yours,

Amongst other curiosities, we have some letters of the elder Colman; but as our readers may not possibly think them amusing enough for our Magazine, we shall forbear giving them a specimen of that clever dramatist's epistolary style. All the letters are addressed to the aforesaid "James Clutterbuck, Esq." and

D. GARRICK.

commence, as usual, in brief familiarity, with "My dear Clut." There are some, also, by a worthy of the name of Berenger: one, which seems to overflow with love and affright, we are tempted to extract. It will show the present generation how warm was the friendship of the past.

My ever dear Sir, and most worthy friend,—I have been shingled so cruelly, that I am still confined, and obliged to submit to the mortification of making Mr. Hatsell my proxy, as I am yours. The young Ruspini was numbered among the Christians of this island, this day. They say he was born with teeth!

It is now past ten o'clock. I stay'd so late on purpose to be able to send you news, I send you very bad-time and tide, and the post, will stay for no man.-Brief then let me be. The mob, then, with respect be it spoken, have proceeded so far, as to beset the King's Bench prison, and endea voured, it is said, to rescue Mr. Wilkes, (who will not be rescued). The guards, horse and foot, attended, and blows ensued. They have fired several times-some half dozen are killed, fresh mob and fresh troops pour into St. George's Fields continually. The King is this moment come from Richmond. Every thing is in great confusion and tumult. God knows how the storm will end, and who may sink in it. I know no more, and must write no more, for the postman is impatient. I love you, I honour you, and that good woman who is yours: I will write again, and again, and again, and give you every mark of that affection, with which my heart is full, and live and die your obliged and affectionate

Half an hour after Ten, a star light night,
May 10, 1768.

We had intended to have transcribed entire, the pay-list of DruryLane theatre, in 1765, but perhaps it will be better to extract a few items only. The present expenses of Covent Garden theatre, are estimated, we believe, at 2007. a night. On the 9th of February, 1765, the expenses of Old Drury were 69l. 11s. 6d. per night. The company consisted of about one hundred and sixty performers, among whom were names of high celebrity. Garrick was at the head of the company, with a salary per night of 21. 15s. 6d.

Per Night. Mr. Yates (the famous Othello) £. s. d. and his wife, received 3 6 8 2 0 0

Palmer and wife.

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6 8

6

1 15

8

0

R. BERENGER.

Sinking Fund) drew 17. 15s. per night; and the pensioners of the esta blishment-how much, gentle reader, dost thou think? Why, verily, of the 694. 11s. 6d. expended nightly, the sum of 3s. 8d. was devoted to charity! This reminds us of Falstaff's bill, owing to the widow Quickly. It is the halfpenny worth of bread to the quarts of sack. It bears the same relation that the meat does to the soup of a Frenchman, which gives scarcely a weak relish to the water.

But, let us say no more.-We love the theatre. Many and many a night have we gone thither, with heavy hearts, and come away with light ones. A wink from Munden, or a smile from Liston, is always worth 6 8 the money we pay to see it, and the giggle of Grimaldi is a thing not to be estimated. Passing by Kean and Macready, and John and Charles Kemble, all of whom we have seen again and again, who would not lay down his 3s. 6d. readily to be permitted to gaze away hours, unmolested, in the beautiful presence of Miss Foote,-or to hear the stream of sweet sound which perpetually flows over Miss Stephens's lips! Either the one or the other is surely, at all times sufficient, to introduce us to pleasant images, or delightful thoughts, and even to out-charm the malice of our stars, unless their aspect be more than ordinarily perverse.

0 13

4

4

1 0 0

Signior Guestinelli (chief singer) 1 3
Signior Grimaldi and wife (chief
dancers, the Signior, we be-
lieve, was uncle of our present
matchless clown).
Mr. Slingsby (immortal for his
allemande)
0 10 0
Let us not omit to add, that Mr.
Pope (the barber) had 4s. a night
that the S. Fund (we presume the

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X.

Town Conversation.

No. II.

ANOTHER NEW TRAGEDY.

Ir is as we predicted: the stage has at length fairly roused the attention of powerful writers,—and we trust that booksellers' and managers' attention to their own interests,and a public, enlightened enough to appreciate genius, and liberal enough to reward it, will still continue to afford sufficient encouragement for the success of literature, in all its departments of independent and honourable exertion, without calling in suspicious allies. It is not long since we saw "a fine old Roman story," admirably dramatized, and welcomed with a quick and true feeling, that did great credit to the judgment of our audiences. Our Dramatic Report for this month records another instance of victory, equally creditable to him by whom it has been won, and those by whom it has been awarded. The advantage of these honourable events, will soon be more fully experienced, in their effect on our dramatic literature. A poet, who possesses an unusual command over nervous and energetic diction, combining this power with a rapid and glowing imagination, that rushes amongst the various rich elements of moral and external beauty,-seizing and combining them into fair and noble creations,-has, we hear, just finished a tragedy, on a subject, which, in such hands, excites our expectations in no common degree. Catiline is the name of this piece; and it suggests the idea of gigantic grandeur. Mr. Croly, for he it is who has adventured on this arduous task,-has, we trust, well felt of how much such a theme is capable, and how much it demands. Ben Jonson has treated it-but not successfully; though there are splendid passages in his piece. Its opening with the appearance of Sylla's ghost, uttering words of dreadful portent, and pointing to Catiline in his study, is very striking. In this play we find a passage, which must have suggested, to Addison, the well-known com

mencing lines of his Cato,-" The
dawn is overcast, &c." Ben Jonson
makes Lentulus say,

It is, methinks, a morning full of fate!
It riseth slowly, as her sullen care
Had all the weights of sleep and death hung
at it!

Her face is like a water turn'd to blood,
And her sick head is bound about with
clouds,

As if she threatened night e'er noon of day!

We think the original morsel the best of the two. The following, also, is a noble passage in this play :-Catiline is recommending secrecy and silence to the conspirators, till the moment comes for action.

-Meanwhile, all rest
Seal'd up and silent, as when rigid frosts
Have bound up brooks and rivers, forced
wild beasts

Unto their caves, and birds into the wood,
Clowns to their houses, and the country
sleeps:

That when the sudden thaw comes, we may

break

Upon 'em like a deluge, bearing down
Half Rome before us, and invade the rest
With cries and noise, able to wake the urns
Of those are dead,—and make their ashes

fear.

Jonson's play, however, is in general heavy in its harangues, and often ranting, and absurd in style.Mr. Croly, we hear from the persons who have necessarily seen his piece, may be at least said to treat Catiline well. He takes him as a Colossus, under whose mighty stride the majesty of Rome is made to pass. His character is that of a lofty and stern mind,-with sudden ebullitions of softness gushing out, like springs in the great desert. He is exhibited in that situation of dreadful interestfluctuating for a time, with conspiracy before him :-then he plunges into the gulph, and perishes.-It must be admitted, that this is the way to set about the subject; and we long to see what the poet has been able to execute.

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