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 Phoebus. 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 scaenical 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 personae 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 judaeus.]

[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. Caes. 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 Aeschylus, 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:

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 Coelestino, 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 Coelestino!

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 Coelestino 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 Coelestino?

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 Coelestino 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.