1823.

DRURY-LANE THEATRE.

OUR critical duties, as far as they relate to this establishment, are almost suspended. We have quite a holiday before Christmas. Here is scarcely any thing which is not old, and nothing which is not good. We have no desperate tragedy to watch over; no shortlived comedy to extract a jest from and "catch ere she falls the Cynthia of the minute;" no felonious melodrame to dissect and to inter; no maiden farce, guiltless of double entendre and wit, to moralize and mourn over. We go to the play night after night, freely to enjoy, taking no thought for the morrow, assured that there is nothing to write about, and that we have only to laugh and cry, as we did before we were possessed of those two banes of theatrical enjoyment, a taste and a free admission. Why should we trouble ourselves to tell the world, that Mr. Elliston is the gayest of the gay, and laughing and winning, on the top of comedy and of success? Why must we be grave on Mr. Munden's face, and assure our gentle readers, that, in spite of his frequent illnesses, he is the same stout-hearted humourist, the same mighty coiner of living farces, as ever? Shall we shew how passionate Kean is, how melodious and how graceful Young, or prove to demonstration that Braham is the noblest singer of his time? Our readers know all these things as well as we do, and will not trouble us; and as for comparisons, we think them altogether odious, and we have no desire to draw parallels "after the manner of Plutarch."

Nor does the appearance of Mr. Kean and Mr. Young in the same plays, though it has given us great pleasure, afford much scope for criticism. We have seen them separately in the same characters before, and can add little to our former opinion, except that the juxta-position and the crowded houses give additional animation to each. In the cast of Othello, Mr. Kean has immensely the advantage, for while the Moor is one of the most noble and diversified characters on the stage, no one can make Iago prominent, except by rendering him absurd-by making his villainy so plain, gross, and

palpable to the eyes of the audience, as to deprive Othello of all shadow of excuse for listening to his slanders. This, Mr. Young has too much good sense to attempt; yet, by the beauty of his declamation, in those passages where scope for declamation is given, by his soldier-like bearing, and his unchanging attention to the business of the scene, he sustained his reputation even in the presence of one of the most heart-touching and terrible performances ever seen. InVenice Preserved, on the other hand, he has the advantage; Pierre commanding the admiration of those who at best can but pity Jaffier, and being exactly adapted to Mr. Young's power of voice and style of acting. Jaffier is unsuited to Mr. Kean; he has no power, by honied accents, and finished grace of manner, to render vacillation interesting, or to lend a sweetness to shame. His spirit is perpetually o'er-informing the part; fretting it to decay; and dashing with vain efforts to get free from the voluptuous thraldom. Still there are exquisite beauties in his performance, and it is very felicitously contrasted with the bold picture of heroic daring and mastery, exhibited by Young. The plays, in which these two actors have appeared together, have attracted more crowded and brilliant audiences than perhaps ever were collected, at so early a period in the season; and though the spirit of partisanship may, in some measure, have contributed to this, yet the result must be the infusion of new warmth into the theatrical public. Those who have come to support their favourite, are beguiled into an admiration of his rival; they discover, that all excellence is not confined to one style; the supporters of Kean, before exclusive in their regards, find that there is a beauty in continuous harmony and finished speech; and "foes to pathos wonder why they weep." Even the mere liberality of the attempt on the part of the proprietor, is enough to throw an air of comfort and of fashion over the whole establishment, and to attract those who are repelled by the very idea of "economy," when connected with their pleasures.

A pleasant little farce, called "Old

of Miss Tree, beginning, "The love that follows fain," a duet between her and Master Longhurst, "Come hither, come hither, thou little foot page," and a concerted piece, "O, bold Robin Hood is a forester good," were among the most favourite specimens. It is scarcely necessary to say, that the scenery, a most important matter to such a piece, was worthy of the music; for the theatre was Covent Garden, where the loveliest and grandest pictures which can be exhibited on the stage are constantly presented to the eye. We grudged, how ever, to the scene-painter the close of the second act, where a magnificent view was given of Arlingford castle in flames, instead of the magnificent chorus which ought to have been there; and, much as we like Mr. Grieve's masterpiece, we enjoy Mr. Bishop's still more. The opera, which was chiefly taken from one of Mr. Pocock's ingenious novels, would have been perfect, had due prominence been given to the part of Robin Hood, and more curiosity and interest awakened by the progress of the story. Miss Tree's voice is excellently fitted to give the happiest effect to the songs of Maid Marian, except a bravura, which is entirely out of place here, and worth very little any where. Her acting also, quiet, unobtrusive, and pensive, is well calculated to convey an idea of the high-born and romantic maiden, who follows her lover to As sylvan palaces, and keeps her state among the woods. But the chief novelty in the piece was the Friar Tuck of Mr. C. Kemble, which disclosed to us great and varied excellencies, in a new line of acting. Who would believe that the same person who has given so many living images of high grace and courtesy, of youthful love in its first bloom, and in its last desperate struggles; of all that belongs to the glory of heroism and the pride of human life; should have revived the stout-hearted, jolly, uproarious, and pugilistic friar, and swaggered before us the very Tuck of the olden time? Yet so it is; Emery could not have been broader; Munden himself scarcely more generally or particularly drunken; and no one could have shewn half so towering a valour beneath the priestly garb as he. His performance was the life and soul of the piece, and has added greatly to that extended range in which the mind's

VOL. IX. NO XXV.

eye will ever contemplate him, as moving with inimitable facility and grace. It is greatly to be regretted, that the masterly scene in Ivanhoe, where Richard takes shelter in the friar's hovel, was not dramatized for him, as it would have given the best scope for that power of representing humour, joyousness, and bravery with which he has shewn himself so eminently gifted.

A new tragedy, called "the Huguenot," from the pen of Mr.Shiel, has been produced, and, though at first received with great applause, has not had the continued success which has usually attended his plays. And yet, in point of true feeling, of poetical beauty, of purity of expression, and sustained majesty of language, it is superior to any thing which he has previously written. The error fatal to the piece as an acted drama, was the substitution of a lengthened misery for energetic action; and this no excellencies can effectually redeem. Its beginning, middle, and all but its closing scene, are one long agony, upon which hope scarcely breaks until the moment when it is changed into joy. Much is suffered, but little is done in its course; the hero is cast down and degraded by the symbols of infamy, even at the first, and is afterwards doomed to endure only the more feverish agitations of despair. We are surprised at the art with which this grief is diversified; the feeling by which it is occasionally relieved, and the rich and tender fancy by which it is shaded, chequered, and softened; these give us a higher idea than we ever before entertained of the author's genius, though they were insufficient to render his play attractive on the stage. Its first scene introduces the hero, a prisoner convicted of murder, and doomed to pass a life of labour among common felons at Orleans. While he is endeavouring to repel the humane but unwelcome kindness of a philanthropic priest, the sound of a harp is heard, which seems to suspend his sorrows, but is followed by a voice which rouses him into a state of agonizing sus

ce, and he demands if the singer be n Margaret Romont. This conjecture is right; it is the object of his early love, now reduced, with her father, to penury, who is about to marry the rich and powerful Duke de Montville. The whole scene in which he receives these dreadful tidings is admirably wrought;

C

the first joy at hearing the old air; the rapture on knowing that Margaret is so near, which makes him for the moment forget his misery; his passionate entreaty that he may be sent from Orleans, and that his dishonour may never be made known to the object of his unconquerable love; and his more poignant agony when he hears that she is on the point of becoming the wife of another; are discriminated with all the skill of a master of human passion. In the second act, we see Margaret, in her bridal attire, bending sad and silent over the harp, lost in contemplation at the sacrifice she is about to offer of all her dearly cherished remembrance; the white wreath of winter roses drops from her hand; and her attendant places it on her head while her thoughts are mournfully wandering. The priest comes to talk with her, and to him she gives the following beautiful and pathetic reason for her yielding to the wretchedness of her father :

"Last night we sat together by the fire And were alone-'Twas a sad carnival, The room was cold, and still, and solitary: The lights were out, and the decaying wood

Was whitening into ashes.... It appear'd As if he were observing the light fires Disporting like these hopes, whose mock

ery

Just sparkles in the cold extinguish'd heart To shew its desolation-While I thus Indulged in those imaginings, there fell Sudden a broader flash upon his head, And in that dreary brightness I beheld His large eyes swimming in their copious tears,

And fully fix'd upon me.' *"

La Roche persuades her to give up the picture of Adolphus, from whom he assures her, that fate has separated her with an eternal barrier, and endeavours to tranquillize her mind. Her lively bridemaid tries to render her more cheerful; when her father comes, she sinks into irresolution, begs for a day's respite, but at last, after a struggle, she is led out by Montville. There is, to our feelings, a singular grace about this scene; it seems written to em

body female delicacy and weakness;

As the tragedy has not been printed, we have availed ourselves of the opportunity afforded us, by a friend of the author, in London, to introduce a few short quotations into our criticism.

Like hope's last dirge....but 'twill be sweet."

As the ceremony is proceeding, he rushes in disguise to the altar, and implores a few words in private with the bride. At the entreaties of La Roche this is granted, and he, in broken accents, announces himself to be a messenger from Adolphus to restore her the picture which she gave him, but betrays himself by his strong emotion. While she is almost stupified with wonder, he falls on his knees, and breathes out a blessing on her, which seems to us eminently beautiful and touching: