"A thousand hearts are great within my bosom.Advance our standards, set upon our foes,Our antient word of courage, fairSt. George,Inspire us with the spleen of fiery dragons:Upon them, Victory sits on our helms[204:A]."Let it also be recorded, that the season of 1806 produced ajuvenile Theatre, which was well attended. But let us return to the Spouting-clubs, lest we pass them withoutduenotice: that indeed they received in 1759, when these excellent lines appeared in the London Chronicle, to which I can add nothing new."THE SPOUTING CLUB.A Poetical Dish newly cooked upByRigdum Funnidos, Esq.Professor of Bombast and Blank Verse in theUniversity of Queerumania.Conamur tenues grandia."NOW o'er the world, in sable cincture clad,Night rolls her awful clouds. Her misty veilHangs black'ning 'fore the eye, whose visual orbIn vain attempts to penetrate the gloomCondens'd; save where the cotton 'mers'd in oilWithin some glassy concave yields its flameTwinkling; and save where in the servile handBehind a rattling coach, the tædal stickHeld waving glimmers on the face of things.Free from the business of the bustling day,This interval indulging, to the ClubOf Spouters I repair; where mortal forms,Borne high upon the feathers of conceit,Rise into air; while puffing blasts of wind,Bursting from loosely-flying Fancy's cave,Blow them to regions where Theatra dwells.Here, o'er the summit of a chair I loll;My circumspective eyes explore the room.A groupe of staring objects strike my sight;Features distinct and various. While uponThe table's oval, the resplendent cupIts pure contents and frothy surface boastsInvigorant. Virginia's plant matur'dLies in the centre. With a clay-form'd tubeEach member graces his extended hand.Above the rest, with looks erect and sage,Deputed sits the regent of the night,In elbow-chair pre-eminent. His handThe silence-knocking hammer wields. BeforeHis optic balls are plac'd two shining plates,Betwixt whose pewter confines, interspers'dWith glittering pieces of argental coin,Lie wide-spread half-pence, jingling at the touch.There great he sits, with glee magnificent,The strong potation quaffing. On the slateThe num'rous pots he marks, with aspect keen.So, with superior power invested, sitsA constable elate, in dome rotund,Imbibing porter solid. With an airSelf-confident he scrawls the captive's name.Now moves around, with circulation quick,The tankard less'ning. Strait again receivesIts due completion. Like the changing tideIt ebbs and flows alternate. Curling spiresAscending paint the plaster'd canopyFuliginous: the wafture dims the sight,And thro' the smoaky mist the candles shineAzure. But lo! a Roscian stands erectStentorophontes. Him long time I mark'd,Saw meditation hover o'er his brow,And all his faculties absorb'd in thought.He bends his head addressive to the board,And thus harangues—"Why sit we here thus mute,"And frustrate all the purpose of our meeting?"Already has the hoarse-lung'd watchman bawl'd"Past nine o'clock." So saying, forth he stalks,With step theatric. Mark his buskin tread,And eye-balls rolling. Rang'd along the floorThe candles blaze. And now the signal giv'n,All bend their eyes on him—No longer nowPauses the youth, but storms in wild Macbeth.Lo! now apparent on his horrid frontSits grim distortion. Every feature's lost,Screw'd horrible, unhumaniz'd—On stageOf quack itinerant thus have I seenAn Andrew wring the muscles of his face,Deforming nature, and extort the grinAnd wonder of the many-headed crowd.He spoke; when strait a loud applauding noiseEnsues: the clap of hands and thump of feetCommingling. Knuckles on the table's vergeWith fury beating, and the sound of sticksJunctive confirm the rattle of applause.Tremble the pewter vases, and withinThe fluid fluctuates. The surging pipesRoll from their beds of tin. The wooden plainIs strew'd on all sides with the clatt'ring ruin.Lo! now another of theatric mould"Rises in clouded majesty," yclep'dRanter. Forth issue from his steaming mouthThese long imprisoned Alps of tow'ring smoke,"Riding upon the bosom of the air."Him had his inauspicious cruel starsDestin'd to oil, to dress the flowing curl,And with nice hand to weave the yielding hair.But each revolving, rising, setting sunBeheld this hero looking on his tradeWith eyes indignant. His exalted soulLaunch'd 'yond the limits of his narrow sphere.Fraught with extended notions of the stage,His ample-daring mind the drama's lawsSole entertain'd—The tonsor now assumesThe part of Richard, and with awkward strutAffects majestic air.—So at the wakeRoger begins the dance, but, wanting skill,Betrays himself unequal to the task.Thy graceful periods, so oft admir'd,Divine inspir'd Shakspeare! on his tongueImperfect die away. His labour'd speechSounds gutt'ral, like the hoarsely croaking raceUpon the banks of some pellucid stream.Scarce had he finish'd, when salutes his earsThe mingled noise upon the dusty floorReverberated. Down the shaver sitsWell-pleas'd. And next upstarts Hibernia's son,Like some enthusiast on a tripod rais'dWith apish gesture, and with strange grimace,To rant unto the multitude. The corkIntruded swift into the candle's blazeIs nigrified, and marks th'aspiring youthWith whiskers bold. Ferocity now dartsFrom either eye her broad unmeaning stare;In Bajazet he raves, and low'ring bidsDefiance. 'Yond just Nature's ample pow'rHe rants elaborate. His roaring voiceCalls echo forth respondent. On the martOf fishy Billingsgate thus have I heardA harsh lung-cracking noise, nor yet to thisDissimilar. He ended; but the tribeWithhold the grasp'd-at banners of applause.Then down he sits, with woeful aspect dull.But strait emerging from a sea of thought,He swallows hasty the salubrious stream,And re-inthrones his abdicated soul.Bronzoides next his meteor lays downIgniferous. Him had his parents sentTo London (seat of business)—there the lawsOf England's state to learn and exercise.For him a well-experienced Don was found,Whose quick-turn'd eyes foresaw each quibble quaint,And quirk evasive. As an osier light,That bending yields to ev'ry blast of wind,His heart to fraud was flexible,—his heart,Where dark Deceit, in honest guise array'd,Had sown its seeds, and poison'd ev'ry grainWhich, warm'd by potent Truth's congenial ray,With Virtue's plenteous harvest might have teem'd.But fruitless was the youth's parental aim,Tho' sedulous. For scarce two years had roll'dSince fair Augusta first had bless'd his eyes,When great Bronzoides first soliloquiz'd:'Was it for this, that o'er the classic deepI sail'd, and landed on poetic shores?Have I for this flew round the Aonian mountWith plumes immortal, and so often play'dWith spotless Muses, in Pierian meads?Am I, ye Gods, eternally to scribeInglorious? No—Some power uplifts my soul,Buoyant, above the common class of earth'sDull reptiles. Hence, ye wrong-adjudg'd Reports;Ye dry collections, hence. I leave ye allTo those grave, solid-looking fools, whose earsTautology best charms. Oh! Shakspeare, comeWith all thy pupils. Fire my glowing breast,Expand my genius, and enlarge my soul.'Kindled that instant at the raptur'd thought,His intellects, high tow'ring flew to realmsDramatic. There the storehouse of his brainHe fill'd redundant. Here he tries his skillTheatric, ere upon the graceful stageWith steps adventurous he dares to tread.So children dabble in the shallow streamPlayful, till fear forsakes their little souls;Then bold they rush into the middle Thames.'List, list, O list'—Oh! how his tuneful voiceRises and falls, as Oysterella's softAnd strong, when ev'ry street and curving laneAdjacent echo the testaceous cry.He spouted—and receiv'd his share of praise.Inflated with the swellings of conceit,And newly flush'd with large-aspiring hopesOf excellence, uprises LeatheronzoFam'd. In repairing worn-out calcumentsNone was his equal. No one better knewThe pointed awl to handle. Yet his breastWith rage dramatic glow'd. In mad-struck LearThe scene he opens: but for want of crownPaus'd his mock-majesty. Around the placeLong time his eyes terrific roll'd. At length'In a black corner of the room he spied'An empty urinal—Fir'd at the sight,He snatch'd the vacuum, and to his headAdapted it well pleas'd. Now, now he ravesWith brazen lungs, until a sudden jerkHis action terminates. Upon the floorDown drops the jordan. As it rolls alongIt rings applause unto his list'ning ear.Lo! now springs forward with elastic step,A son of Comedy, Soccado call'd.The tunic dazzling with its golden pride,The button-hole gay-wrought with wondrous art,The mode-cut collar, and well-fancied sleeve,Had oft proclaim'd his taste. Yet not to thisWas his great soul confin'd. Theatra now,Dramatic goddess, whispers in his ear,And bids him shine away in Foppington.Where's now that stately flatness of the gait?That easy stiffness where? so often seenIn thee, O Cibber! and so oft admir'd,Alas! how faintly, rudely copied here!With joints inflexible, and neck oblique,An object stiff'ning to the sight he standsIn attitude unmeaning, and deprivesEach injur'd word of its emphatic due.He finish'd, when the wonted noise begins,Loud as his all-attentive ears can wish;Nor less than that which shakes the bending stairsTo the Theatric semicircled seats,Hight upper gallery, ductive, when someGrand-habited scene-boasting pantomime,From 'hind their compters, and from cleaning knives,And from tenebrious porter-breathing cells,Where all day long in glee they tippling sat,Calls forth the terrene quick-ascending gods.Prologues and epilogues increase the sport,To periodize the humours of the nightNow far advanced; goes round the jovial song,The laugh-exciting catch, or wanton taleRe-iterated. Bacchus, King of Joys,Twines not his vine-branch here. "Trueman's entire"Reigns arbitrary. With its vapours blandTheir giddy-rolling heads anointed turnUpon an axis brittle. Total noiseIts anarchy extends. But oh! how soonTerrestrial mirth evaporates. AmidstTheir jocund glee, and lovely-floating hours,Enter the Constables. Ten watchmen braveTheir presence dignify. Amazement chillSits on each spouting face. So looks the wretchInvolv'd in debt, when first he spies the front—The front most hated of a Catch-pole grim.Not e'en Macbeth stands more appall'd with fear,When murder'd Banquo's horrid-glaring ghostDisturbs the regal banquet. Such, so greatTheir fear unmanly, that their passive soulsTo their hard fate submit. Restless all,All walk desponding to the round-house dire;And one sad exit terminates the scene.All hail to thee! thou young dramatic bard!Ingenious M-rp-y, hail! Before thy shrineI bend the knee. This epidemic rageWell hast thou ridicul'd. Oh! may thy scenesOn Fame's high-pending annals be enroll'd:And as thy Muse shall henceforth deign to graceTh'enlighten'd scene, and with a steady handTo hold up Nature's mirrour, may the tribeOf snarling Critics, with invidious eyes,View the bright image, and confess it true."The reader will of course forgive the chasms in dates which he frequently meets with, by recollecting that most of the amusements of the people of London occur in succession annually: the Theatres, the Opera, concerts, exhibitions, Ranelagh, and Vauxhall, have always had their regular stated periods of opening; and when nothing remarkable took place at either, it is by no means necessary they should be mentioned under every year. The Vauxhall season of 1759 produced some unpleasant animadversions; and the proprietors were publicly called upon to prevent the infamous conduct of loose women and their male companions, whose yells have been described as issuing from the dark walks in sounds full as terrific as "the imagined horror of Cavalcanti's bloodhounds:" indeed the latter were charged with driving ladies from their friends into those recesses where dangerous terrors were wantonly inflicted.Handel's DeceaseOccurred on the 6th of April, 1759. As this eminent composer may justly be said to have formed a new æra of musick in England, and to have established the Opera, and the fame of his Oratorios perhaps for centuries to come; a sketch of his life from his arrival in this Island cannotbe altogether unacceptable, particularly as it must contain a general history of those amusements with which he became connected. Handel was born at Hall in Upper Saxony February 24, 1684, but did not visit England till he had attained his 26th year, and when perfect master of his profession. The stranger, though only upon leave of absence from the Court of Hanover, where he received a pension of 1500 crownsper annum, and held the place of Master of the Elector's chapel, was presented to Queen Anne, and favourably received; thus honoured, Handel soon enjoyed the patronage of her courtiers, and immediately commenced his career by correcting the errors of theItalianOpera, if that could be so called which had been translated into theEnglishlanguage. As this celebrated composer found it, the most pathetic parts of the Italian musick frequently fell upon words expressive of anger, andvice versâ; he therefore composed Rossi's Rinaldo, written after an outline by Aaron Hill, who favoured the publick with an English version of it.When Handel had remained here one year, the full term of his leave of absence, he returned to Hanover, but promised to re-visit the Queen at the first convenient opportunity: that occurred in 1712, and he composed hisTe DeumandJubilateafter the signing of the peace of Utrecht. Queen Anne, highly gratified with his exertions,granted him a pension of 200l.for life, and added her commands to the solicitations of the Nobility, that he should assume the management of the Opera-house. This he complied with, and violated in consequence an engagement he was under to return to the Elector's Court. When that Prince ascended the British throne, Handel, conscious of his offence, dared not venture into his presence; and his friends even thought stratagem preferable to intercession in restoring him to favour. To accomplish this, Baron Kilmanseck and several of the English nobility engaged the King in a party of pleasure upon the Thames: at that hour of relaxation the King was surprized with those grand movements yet known as Handel's Water-piece, which were composed expressly for the occasion, and performed under his direction in a boat attendant on the Monarch. The scheme was successful beyond expectation; and from that hour the fortunate musician received both honours and rewards from George I. The Earl of Burlington and the Duke of Chandos were his warmest patrons and admirers: the latter indeed retained him at Canons as master of his splendid choral establishment for the offices of religion; and as Buononcini and Attilio were then composers for the Opera, he did not frequently interfere with their province.At length the period arrived destined to rouse the powers of Handel as a composer and a tyrant.Several persons of distinction had determined to found an Academy of Musick in the Haymarket, in order to insure a constant supply of Operas from the pen of the unrivalled Saxon, which they intended should be performed under his direction. The subscription for this purpose amounted to 50,000l.; and they procured the King's name for 1000l.to grace the head of the list. Thus authorised and enabled, Handel went to Dresden for performers of celebrity, and engaged Senesino and Duristanti, with whom he returned to England, when they acted his Opera of Radamisto to a most crowded audience, which honoured him with the loudest plaudits. From that day the powerful partizans of Buononcini, and those of Handel, became irreconcileable enemies; though their enmity was so far controuled as to permit an agreement between them, that the rival masters should alternately compose the acts of Mutius Scævola, and thus afford a criterion by which their superiority was to be determined. Handel conquered; and, his reputation firmly established, he reigned sole monarch of the Academy for nine years. At the close of that period Senesino accused Handel of oppression, and Handel treated Senesino as a rebel against his authority; the publick immediately divided on this important question; and, to complete their vexation, Faustina and Cuzzoni quarrelled. Harmony ceased in every point of view, and theAcademy was dissolved; but Handel maintained his post at the Haymarket, where he soon discovered that with Senesino he had dismissed the majority of his audiences. In this dilemma he entered into an agreement with the celebrated Heidegger to perform Operas on their own account; they accordingly engaged several new performers; but the Nobility, exasperated at the Saxon's tyrannical conduct, entered into a subscription, with which they opened the Theatre in Lincoln's-inn-fields, countermatching his Italians with the incomparable Farinelli. The contest was continued three years in conjunction with Heidegger; and Handel persisted one year after his partner retired: he then left the Haymarket to his rivals.Chagrined and disappointed, he endeavoured to establish himself at Lincoln's-inn-fields, and afterwards became a partner with Mr. Rich at Covent-garden Theatre, where he found, to his great mortification, that his musick, however sublime, was not a match for Farinelli's voice; yet he persisted till he had almost ruined his fortune, and actually deranged his faculties, besides causing a paralytic stroke, which deprived him of the use of his right arm: he was however recovered from the latter calamities by using the baths of Aix-la-chapelle about the year 1736.Fortunately for Handel the publick were pleased with the performance of his Alexander's Feast atCovent-garden Theatre soon after his return; and, to add to his good fortune, he was solicited to compose two Italian Operas for Lord Middlesex, who had been compelled to take the direction of this difficult concern upon himself, to preserve it from total ruin. His success on this occasion operated powerfully with the multitude; and a benefit produced him 1500l.in the year 1738. An opportunity thus offered to effect a complete reconciliation with his former employers; but that asperity of temper and impatience of controul which always marked his character induced him to reject every proposal connected with subscriptions. After several unsuccessful attempts to establish the Opera at Covent-garden Theatre, he turned his attention to the composition of Oratorios, which he intended should have beenactedand sung; but the popular opinion, that such representations from Scripture would be a profanation of religion, deterred him from the design; and he caused them to be sung only as they are at present.Similar to most human inventions, the Oratorio was of little service to theAuthor: posterity, according to custom, has had the honour of rewarding Handel'smemory; and if an Angel composed new ones, they would certainly not succeed, till he had fled from the earth half a century, and till Handel has hadhisday.The Irish nation received our great musician and his oratorios with complacency; and as he gave the produce of the first performance of his Messiah in Dublin to the City prison, he soon secured their patronage. After considerably improving his circumstances, he returned to England, where his oratorios recovered from their previous depression, and received that approbation which a dread of having lost them probably excited. Handel gave the profits of an annual performance of the Messiah to the Foundling Hospital; and attended their oratorios regularly long after he had lost his sight by agutta serena, and till within eight days of his death.His present Majesty is passionately fond of Handel's musick; and that the publick are not less so, may be inferred by the eternal repetition of his Oratorios during the season of Lent; by which means, I shall be excused in observing, modern musical genius is depressed, and the pockets of conductors more readily filled. Hence the tiresome selections upon festivals and at concerts, where, if the audience is surprised bya newmovement, they exclaim, "Ah! this isnot likeHandel's strains:"—True, but may they not be equally delightful?The firstdescriptionof an Opera which I have met with is in the eleventh number of the Theatre, for November 18, 1758. As the writer appears to have entered into the subject with more thanusual spirit, its insertion may possibly prove acceptable to the reader; but he will immediately discover that even our Theatres for pantomime now rival the antient Opera."King's Theatre. On Saturday the 18th instant was performed a new Opera calledAttalo, with new decorations and dances. I have already thrown out a few loose hints with regard to the abovementioned performance; and as in this place I propose speaking of it a little more at large, I shall begin with observing, that an Opera has in one particular a manifest advantage over almost every theatrical entertainment, by admitting of that kind of shew and decoration, which if not absolutely rejected by the other daughters of the Drama, is at least, generally speaking, forced upon them: that is to say, though we sometimes see triumphs and processions in a few of our tragedies and comedies, yet the best judges have always looked on them as childish and ridiculous: whereas, the only design of an Opera being to delight, that gay finery which looks so unbecoming and out of character upon her two elder sisters, is a necessary part of her dress; and as nobody understands the method of placing those ornaments better than Mr. Vaneschi, so in the present case I think he has taken all the care imaginable to set offAttaloto the best advantage."But a dry and circumstantial description of these matters would not only fall very short of what is meant to give an idea of, but also be tedious to the readers: for this reason therefore I shall hardly attempt to do any thing more in the present essay than to assure them that the finest scenes, the finest pantomime hitherto invented, even by that father of pantomimes himself, the manager of Covent-garden playhouse, are considerably inferior to those in the Opera ofAttalo; but particularly, in the first act, where Semiramis enters in a triumphal car, supported by Medean and Bactrian slaves, and surrounded by a number of Assyrian soldiers who carry the spoils and trophies of an enemy which she is supposed lately to have conquered, we are presented with the scene of a square; not a dead piece of painted canvass, but one in which the prospective is executed in so masterly a manner, that one would almost swear it was something more than a meredeceptio visûs; to which, by the way, a pedestrian statue, which is elevated in the centre of the buildings, does not a little contribute."Scenes of this kind are seldom if ever to be seen in a common Theatre, where the other charges are so large and numerous, as well as the price so confined, that the profits of such a pompous apparatus would by no means answer the expence: the place in our English plays also is too often varied to allow of it; besides, thebusiness of these stages is, properly speaking, to provide the understanding with substantial food, not to treat it with conserves and sweatmeats; and from this reason it proceeds that dances, which at the playhouses are only made use of as a garnish, are at the Opera (which may not unaptly be compared to a dessert or a collation) one of the principal parts of the entertainment."I should be extremely glad were it in my power to oblige the readers even with a faint idea of these: they all know, I believe, that Signior Galini is universally allowed to be one of the finest dancers in Europe; but at the King's Theatre, where he at present performs, he not only gives us the strongest proofs of his executive powers, but also of his skill in designing, by having composed three of the prettiest ballets I ever saw; and for plot, movement, humour, and, if I may make use of the expression, gesticulated wit, they are equal, I believe, to any, even of those which Lewis the Fourteenth himself was so fond of."In the first dance, the scene of which, by the way, may more properly be called an emulation than a copy of nature, being that of a forest half cut down, where the trees are represented in the liveliest manner, and the prospect of clouds and blue mountains extended to an amazing distance; Forti and Bononi, in the characters of a woodman and his wife, carry the grotesque to a most entertaining degree of extravagance. Bononi is allowedto excel in this way every one who has gone before her; for Galini, as his genius is very different, so it is greatly preferable to this. His dancing indeed may be considered as a kind of dumb musick, since there is hardly a note which he does not express by some significant gesture. Carlini, his partner, is pretty much in the same mode, and when they appear after the second act in a very extensive plain, interspersed with villages, there cannot perhaps be imagined two more agreeable figures. But the third and last ballet, in which the four principal dancers come out together, surpasses all the rest. The prospect is that of a rock, which being open in two or three different places, discovers a wide river, and, in appearance, at least half a mile long, the transparency of the water is so well imitated, that we see the shadows of several flags and bullrushes, which grow upon it; nor is a distant village, which appears at one side, a small addition to the beauty of the view: down this rock come the figure dancers, who are met at the door of a cottage by Signior Galini and his friends; it is a kind of rural feast, and the music is so antic and lively, that that alone would be sufficient, I should think, to put an audience into a good humour."I had forgot to mention a scene in this Opera which is remarkably beautiful; I am told it was painted by the celebrated Salvandoni, and is therepresentation of a magnificent hall, adorned with arms and trophies. There was a full house; and the spectators expressed their approbation by unanimous applause."The Oratorio of Judas Maccabæus was performed on the 18th of January 1760 at the Music-room in Dean-street, Soho, which was the first night of subscription. The pit seats were 10s.6d.and the gallery 5s.; the performers Signora Passerini, Miss Frederick, Mr. Hudson, and Mr. Champness; and the chorus contained the best singers of the Chapel Royal and St. Paul's. The music-room is now Christie's Auction-room for furniture, and seems in a state of ruin.WHITE CONDUIT HOUSE[224:A].And toWhite ConduitHouseWe will go, will go, will go.Grub-street Register."Wish'd Sunday's come—mirth brightens ev'ry face,And paints the rose upon the house-maid's cheek,Harriot, or Moll, more ruddy. Now the heartOf prentice resident in ample street,Or alley kennel-wash'd, Cheapside, Cornhill,Or Cranborne, thee for calcuments renown'd,With joy distends. His meal meridian o'er,With switch in hand, he to the White Conduit HouseHies merry-hearted. Human beings hereIn couples multitudinous assemble,Forming the drollest groupe that ever trodFair Islingtonian plains. Male after male,Dog after dog succeeding—husbands—wives—Fathers and mothers—brothers—sisters—friendsAnd pretty little boys and girls. Around,Across, along, the garden's shrubby maze,They walk, they sit, they stand. What crowds press onEager to mount the stairs, eager to catchFirst vacant bench or chair in long-room plac'd!Here prig with prig holds conference polite,And indiscriminate the gaudy beauAnd sloven mix. Here he, who all the weekTook bearded mortals by the nose, or satWeaving dead hairs, and whistling wretched strain—And eke the sturdy youth, whose trade it isStout oxen to contund,—with gold-bound hatAnd silken stocking strut. The red-arm'd belleHere shews her tasty gown, proud to be thoughtThe butterfly of fashion: and forsoothHer haughty mistress deigns for once to treadThe same unhallow'd floor—'Tis hurry allAnd rattling cups and saucers. Waiter here,And waiter there, and waiter here and there,At once is call'd—Joe—Joe—Joe—Joe—Joe—Joe on the right—and Joe upon the left,For ev'ry vocal pipe re-echoes Joe.Alas, poor Joe! Like Francis in the PlayHe stands confounded, anxious how to pleaseThe many-headed throng. But should I paintThe language, humours, custom of the place,Together with all curt'sies, lowly bow,And compliments extern, 'twould swell my pageBeyond its limits due. Suffice it thenFor my prophetic Muse to say, 'So longAs Fashion rides upon the wing of Time,While tea and cream and butter'd rolls can please,While rival beaux and jealous belles exist,So long, White-conduit house, shall be thy fame.'W. Woty."One of the entertainments of 1760 was the performance on goblets containing water at different heights, which, rubbed on the rims by a wet finger, produces very sweet sounds, and when rapidly combined will make complete musick. Mr. Puckeridge was celebrated for performances of this description, which were much admired for some time, but are now nearly out of fashion.One of the characteristicks of our various Theatres is the benefits, or, more properly speaking, the plays which are acted at the close of each season for the individual profit of the several performers. When an actor takes a benefit, he pays all the expences of the evening, and incurs the risk of great charges and small profits. Under the dread of losing, he exerts every nerve to fill the Theatre, and frequently lays heavycontributions on tradesmen, who, through some existing circumstances, think themselves bound to take tickets, and dispose of them as they can to their friends: and he solicits the wealthy without risking the imputation of mendicacy, because they know the actor has from 10l.to 20l.perweek salary. The benefit-night at length arrives, and the doors are besieged at an early hour by crowds determined not to lose the entertainment they have unwillingly paid for; in due time they rush forward, clamour prevails, and the quiet casual spectator is entirely deprived of hearing the play[227:A].Mrs. Clive, the justly celebrated comic actress, has enabled me to illustrate this subject by the following spirited letter, addressed to "the Author of the Daily Gazetteer," concerning her benefit, and printed in April 1761. If the reader should wish still further illustrations, I beg leave to refer him to the variousapologiesfor theatrical lives which have been published by Cibber, Bellamy, Wilkinson, &c. &c."Sir, As I never read your paper, I did not hear of the malicious letter you had published against my benefit, till the very day, when it was too late to endeavour to prevent the mischief it might do me, as it was most artfully put in your paper the day before, as well as the day of my play. It is dated from George's Coffee-house; but your correspondent must excuse me for not believing it came from thence, as I have always heard that Coffee-house was frequented by gentlemen, not one of whom, I am confident, would have done me an undeserved mischief. I could not possibly suppose Mr. Shuter was capable of asking any body to write such a letter for him, asI never did him, or any performer, the least injury; on the contrary, I have had the greatest pleasure when it has been in my power to serve them in their benefits, from the highest class of actors down to the very lowest. But though he was not concerned in the writing of it (as he has declared he was not), it is too palpable to admit of the least doubt, that it must be wrote by some of his acquaintance, in order to serve his benefit by destroying mine.—That indeed was not quite in their power, as I had the honour to have a most noble and splendid appearance of persons of the first distinction that night at my play; who have been constant in their goodness and favour to me, and who were not to be influenced by a wretched Letter-writer. The loss I most certainly sustained by it I should have submitted to in silence, as it is with the utmost diffidence and reluctance I appear before the public in this light: but there is a most malicious and wicked insinuation in his letter, which I think myself under an absolute necessity to reply to."The Letter-writer, with great ease, desires the Publick not to go to my benefit, notwithstanding I had taken infinite pains to endeavour to entertain them the whole season through; his reason for that extraordinary request is, that I was to have a French farce, wrote by a poor wretched author, translated into English, and calledThe Island of Slaves:—and then, withgreat art and malice, he jumbles together some popular words, as,French Farce,English Liberty,Island of Slaves! 'What can Englishmen have to do in theIsland of Slaves?' Poor wretched insinuation! Is it possible for any body to suppose, if there had been one syllable in the piece that had the least tendency to sneer at, or affront, the liberties of this country, that the managers would have suffered it to have been acted; or that the Lord Chamberlain would have given his sanction; or that I could have been such a fool as to dare to affront the publick with such a performance on my own benefit-night? I hope I may be indulged (though a woman) to say I have always despised the French Politicks; but I never yet heard that we were at war with their Wit."It is imputed tome, by the author of the letter, as a crime, that I should have a piece taken from the French for my benefit; when at the same time I believe one part in three of the Comedies and little pieces, that are now acting at both the Theatres, are acknowledged to be taken from the French; besides those that both antient and modern authors have sneaked into the Theatres without confessing from whence they came. I shall take the liberty to mention two that are known translations:The Confederacy, by Sir John Vanbrugh, one of our best Comedies, revived about two years ago, and acted to crowded houses with great applause;The Guardian,another French piece, brought on about the same time, and received with the highest approbation: both these performances acted at a time when we were at war with France, as we are now. 'Ay,' but says the good-natured Letter-writer, 'The Island of Slaves(tremendous title!)' I think I have made his malice appear pretty plain; I shall not have the least difficulty in making his ignorance full as conspicuous. It does not seem, by the style of his letter, that he is very intimately acquainted with his own language, but it is evident he knows nothing of the French; for if he had been capable of reading Mons. Marivaux'sIsle des Esclaves, he could not have been quite so clumsy a critick, as to say he is a poor paltry author, when he is acknowledged by all people of taste and judgment to be one of the very best writers the French have. Then, as to his malicious insinuation,The Island of Slavesis so very far from being a satire upon English liberty, that there is the highest compliment paid to it: the people of that island having quitted their native country (Athens) because 'they would not be Slaves,' and established themselves in an island, where, when their passions have subsided, and they begin to forget the injuries they received in their own country, they make the most noble, humane, sensible laws. I cannot pretend to give an account of the whole piece in this letter; but I may with great truth say, there was not anything in it that was exceptionable; great spirit and humour in two of the characters, and fine sentiments throughout the whole; some part, perhaps, too grave for what is generally expected in pieces after a play. I shall beg leave to insert a few lines (not a translation) which concluded the piece: after Philo (one of the Islanders) has convinced the Athenians, who are then in his power, of their follies, he promises to provide them ships to send them into their own country; Cleanthe (one of the characters) says:'We are all equally obliged to you, most amiable Philo, for your goodness to us; and if we should be so fortunate to arrive safe at Athens, I hope we shall have influence enough to prevail with them, when we recount our adventures, to imitate the incomparable laws of this ever happy Island.'"I have done with your Correspondent: now, Mr. Gazetteer, I must say two or three words to you. I desire you would let me know who was the author of that letter; or it is possible I may convince you, I am so truly an English woman, and so little inclined to be aslave, as not to suffer any one to do me an injury with impunity."I am informed, you have more than once drawn yourself into scrapes, by the delicacy of your paper. If you comply with this request, in giving up your author, I shall think you intendto reform your manners; and in that case you will stand a chance of being read by your humble servant,C. Clive."Henrietta-street, Covent-garden,April 3, 1761."P.S. If I can have leave from the person who did me the honour to translateThe Island of Slavesfor me, I shall print it; when every one that pleases may see how extremely ill I have been treated."Benefits more congenial to the benevolent mind are, much to the credit of the proprietors of our places of public amusement, frequently given to Charitable Institutions: a short bill dated in May 1761 will explain those as they were and are now announced:"Ranelagh-house, Tuesday the 9th of June, will be an Assembly for the benefit of the Middlesex Hospital. The doors will be open, and the concert begin, at the usual time. At ten o'clock a magnificent fire-work will be played off on the canal in the garden; and to conclude with a ball."N. B. There will be no collection made for the Charity. Tickets half a guinea each, &c."I have in another place recommended the reader to visit Smithfield at eleven o'clock at night, in order to obtain a perfect knowledge of theamusementssubstituted for a Fair. The facetious George Alexander Steevens wrote thefollowing ludicrous but strictly just description of it about 1762:
"A thousand hearts are great within my bosom.Advance our standards, set upon our foes,Our antient word of courage, fairSt. George,Inspire us with the spleen of fiery dragons:Upon them, Victory sits on our helms[204:A]."
"A thousand hearts are great within my bosom.Advance our standards, set upon our foes,Our antient word of courage, fairSt. George,Inspire us with the spleen of fiery dragons:Upon them, Victory sits on our helms[204:A]."
"A thousand hearts are great within my bosom.
Advance our standards, set upon our foes,
Our antient word of courage, fairSt. George,
Inspire us with the spleen of fiery dragons:
Upon them, Victory sits on our helms[204:A]."
Let it also be recorded, that the season of 1806 produced ajuvenile Theatre, which was well attended. But let us return to the Spouting-clubs, lest we pass them withoutduenotice: that indeed they received in 1759, when these excellent lines appeared in the London Chronicle, to which I can add nothing new.
"THE SPOUTING CLUB.
A Poetical Dish newly cooked up
ByRigdum Funnidos, Esq.
Professor of Bombast and Blank Verse in theUniversity of Queerumania.
Conamur tenues grandia.
"NOW o'er the world, in sable cincture clad,Night rolls her awful clouds. Her misty veilHangs black'ning 'fore the eye, whose visual orbIn vain attempts to penetrate the gloomCondens'd; save where the cotton 'mers'd in oilWithin some glassy concave yields its flameTwinkling; and save where in the servile handBehind a rattling coach, the tædal stickHeld waving glimmers on the face of things.Free from the business of the bustling day,This interval indulging, to the ClubOf Spouters I repair; where mortal forms,Borne high upon the feathers of conceit,Rise into air; while puffing blasts of wind,Bursting from loosely-flying Fancy's cave,Blow them to regions where Theatra dwells.Here, o'er the summit of a chair I loll;My circumspective eyes explore the room.A groupe of staring objects strike my sight;Features distinct and various. While uponThe table's oval, the resplendent cupIts pure contents and frothy surface boastsInvigorant. Virginia's plant matur'dLies in the centre. With a clay-form'd tubeEach member graces his extended hand.Above the rest, with looks erect and sage,Deputed sits the regent of the night,In elbow-chair pre-eminent. His handThe silence-knocking hammer wields. BeforeHis optic balls are plac'd two shining plates,Betwixt whose pewter confines, interspers'dWith glittering pieces of argental coin,Lie wide-spread half-pence, jingling at the touch.There great he sits, with glee magnificent,The strong potation quaffing. On the slateThe num'rous pots he marks, with aspect keen.So, with superior power invested, sitsA constable elate, in dome rotund,Imbibing porter solid. With an airSelf-confident he scrawls the captive's name.Now moves around, with circulation quick,The tankard less'ning. Strait again receivesIts due completion. Like the changing tideIt ebbs and flows alternate. Curling spiresAscending paint the plaster'd canopyFuliginous: the wafture dims the sight,And thro' the smoaky mist the candles shineAzure. But lo! a Roscian stands erectStentorophontes. Him long time I mark'd,Saw meditation hover o'er his brow,And all his faculties absorb'd in thought.He bends his head addressive to the board,And thus harangues—"Why sit we here thus mute,"And frustrate all the purpose of our meeting?"Already has the hoarse-lung'd watchman bawl'd"Past nine o'clock." So saying, forth he stalks,With step theatric. Mark his buskin tread,And eye-balls rolling. Rang'd along the floorThe candles blaze. And now the signal giv'n,All bend their eyes on him—No longer nowPauses the youth, but storms in wild Macbeth.Lo! now apparent on his horrid frontSits grim distortion. Every feature's lost,Screw'd horrible, unhumaniz'd—On stageOf quack itinerant thus have I seenAn Andrew wring the muscles of his face,Deforming nature, and extort the grinAnd wonder of the many-headed crowd.He spoke; when strait a loud applauding noiseEnsues: the clap of hands and thump of feetCommingling. Knuckles on the table's vergeWith fury beating, and the sound of sticksJunctive confirm the rattle of applause.Tremble the pewter vases, and withinThe fluid fluctuates. The surging pipesRoll from their beds of tin. The wooden plainIs strew'd on all sides with the clatt'ring ruin.Lo! now another of theatric mould"Rises in clouded majesty," yclep'dRanter. Forth issue from his steaming mouthThese long imprisoned Alps of tow'ring smoke,"Riding upon the bosom of the air."Him had his inauspicious cruel starsDestin'd to oil, to dress the flowing curl,And with nice hand to weave the yielding hair.But each revolving, rising, setting sunBeheld this hero looking on his tradeWith eyes indignant. His exalted soulLaunch'd 'yond the limits of his narrow sphere.Fraught with extended notions of the stage,His ample-daring mind the drama's lawsSole entertain'd—The tonsor now assumesThe part of Richard, and with awkward strutAffects majestic air.—So at the wakeRoger begins the dance, but, wanting skill,Betrays himself unequal to the task.Thy graceful periods, so oft admir'd,Divine inspir'd Shakspeare! on his tongueImperfect die away. His labour'd speechSounds gutt'ral, like the hoarsely croaking raceUpon the banks of some pellucid stream.Scarce had he finish'd, when salutes his earsThe mingled noise upon the dusty floorReverberated. Down the shaver sitsWell-pleas'd. And next upstarts Hibernia's son,Like some enthusiast on a tripod rais'dWith apish gesture, and with strange grimace,To rant unto the multitude. The corkIntruded swift into the candle's blazeIs nigrified, and marks th'aspiring youthWith whiskers bold. Ferocity now dartsFrom either eye her broad unmeaning stare;In Bajazet he raves, and low'ring bidsDefiance. 'Yond just Nature's ample pow'rHe rants elaborate. His roaring voiceCalls echo forth respondent. On the martOf fishy Billingsgate thus have I heardA harsh lung-cracking noise, nor yet to thisDissimilar. He ended; but the tribeWithhold the grasp'd-at banners of applause.Then down he sits, with woeful aspect dull.But strait emerging from a sea of thought,He swallows hasty the salubrious stream,And re-inthrones his abdicated soul.Bronzoides next his meteor lays downIgniferous. Him had his parents sentTo London (seat of business)—there the lawsOf England's state to learn and exercise.For him a well-experienced Don was found,Whose quick-turn'd eyes foresaw each quibble quaint,And quirk evasive. As an osier light,That bending yields to ev'ry blast of wind,His heart to fraud was flexible,—his heart,Where dark Deceit, in honest guise array'd,Had sown its seeds, and poison'd ev'ry grainWhich, warm'd by potent Truth's congenial ray,With Virtue's plenteous harvest might have teem'd.But fruitless was the youth's parental aim,Tho' sedulous. For scarce two years had roll'dSince fair Augusta first had bless'd his eyes,When great Bronzoides first soliloquiz'd:'Was it for this, that o'er the classic deepI sail'd, and landed on poetic shores?Have I for this flew round the Aonian mountWith plumes immortal, and so often play'dWith spotless Muses, in Pierian meads?Am I, ye Gods, eternally to scribeInglorious? No—Some power uplifts my soul,Buoyant, above the common class of earth'sDull reptiles. Hence, ye wrong-adjudg'd Reports;Ye dry collections, hence. I leave ye allTo those grave, solid-looking fools, whose earsTautology best charms. Oh! Shakspeare, comeWith all thy pupils. Fire my glowing breast,Expand my genius, and enlarge my soul.'Kindled that instant at the raptur'd thought,His intellects, high tow'ring flew to realmsDramatic. There the storehouse of his brainHe fill'd redundant. Here he tries his skillTheatric, ere upon the graceful stageWith steps adventurous he dares to tread.So children dabble in the shallow streamPlayful, till fear forsakes their little souls;Then bold they rush into the middle Thames.'List, list, O list'—Oh! how his tuneful voiceRises and falls, as Oysterella's softAnd strong, when ev'ry street and curving laneAdjacent echo the testaceous cry.He spouted—and receiv'd his share of praise.Inflated with the swellings of conceit,And newly flush'd with large-aspiring hopesOf excellence, uprises LeatheronzoFam'd. In repairing worn-out calcumentsNone was his equal. No one better knewThe pointed awl to handle. Yet his breastWith rage dramatic glow'd. In mad-struck LearThe scene he opens: but for want of crownPaus'd his mock-majesty. Around the placeLong time his eyes terrific roll'd. At length'In a black corner of the room he spied'An empty urinal—Fir'd at the sight,He snatch'd the vacuum, and to his headAdapted it well pleas'd. Now, now he ravesWith brazen lungs, until a sudden jerkHis action terminates. Upon the floorDown drops the jordan. As it rolls alongIt rings applause unto his list'ning ear.Lo! now springs forward with elastic step,A son of Comedy, Soccado call'd.The tunic dazzling with its golden pride,The button-hole gay-wrought with wondrous art,The mode-cut collar, and well-fancied sleeve,Had oft proclaim'd his taste. Yet not to thisWas his great soul confin'd. Theatra now,Dramatic goddess, whispers in his ear,And bids him shine away in Foppington.Where's now that stately flatness of the gait?That easy stiffness where? so often seenIn thee, O Cibber! and so oft admir'd,Alas! how faintly, rudely copied here!With joints inflexible, and neck oblique,An object stiff'ning to the sight he standsIn attitude unmeaning, and deprivesEach injur'd word of its emphatic due.He finish'd, when the wonted noise begins,Loud as his all-attentive ears can wish;Nor less than that which shakes the bending stairsTo the Theatric semicircled seats,Hight upper gallery, ductive, when someGrand-habited scene-boasting pantomime,From 'hind their compters, and from cleaning knives,And from tenebrious porter-breathing cells,Where all day long in glee they tippling sat,Calls forth the terrene quick-ascending gods.Prologues and epilogues increase the sport,To periodize the humours of the nightNow far advanced; goes round the jovial song,The laugh-exciting catch, or wanton taleRe-iterated. Bacchus, King of Joys,Twines not his vine-branch here. "Trueman's entire"Reigns arbitrary. With its vapours blandTheir giddy-rolling heads anointed turnUpon an axis brittle. Total noiseIts anarchy extends. But oh! how soonTerrestrial mirth evaporates. AmidstTheir jocund glee, and lovely-floating hours,Enter the Constables. Ten watchmen braveTheir presence dignify. Amazement chillSits on each spouting face. So looks the wretchInvolv'd in debt, when first he spies the front—The front most hated of a Catch-pole grim.Not e'en Macbeth stands more appall'd with fear,When murder'd Banquo's horrid-glaring ghostDisturbs the regal banquet. Such, so greatTheir fear unmanly, that their passive soulsTo their hard fate submit. Restless all,All walk desponding to the round-house dire;And one sad exit terminates the scene.All hail to thee! thou young dramatic bard!Ingenious M-rp-y, hail! Before thy shrineI bend the knee. This epidemic rageWell hast thou ridicul'd. Oh! may thy scenesOn Fame's high-pending annals be enroll'd:And as thy Muse shall henceforth deign to graceTh'enlighten'd scene, and with a steady handTo hold up Nature's mirrour, may the tribeOf snarling Critics, with invidious eyes,View the bright image, and confess it true."
"NOW o'er the world, in sable cincture clad,Night rolls her awful clouds. Her misty veilHangs black'ning 'fore the eye, whose visual orbIn vain attempts to penetrate the gloomCondens'd; save where the cotton 'mers'd in oilWithin some glassy concave yields its flameTwinkling; and save where in the servile handBehind a rattling coach, the tædal stickHeld waving glimmers on the face of things.Free from the business of the bustling day,This interval indulging, to the ClubOf Spouters I repair; where mortal forms,Borne high upon the feathers of conceit,Rise into air; while puffing blasts of wind,Bursting from loosely-flying Fancy's cave,Blow them to regions where Theatra dwells.Here, o'er the summit of a chair I loll;My circumspective eyes explore the room.A groupe of staring objects strike my sight;Features distinct and various. While uponThe table's oval, the resplendent cupIts pure contents and frothy surface boastsInvigorant. Virginia's plant matur'dLies in the centre. With a clay-form'd tubeEach member graces his extended hand.Above the rest, with looks erect and sage,Deputed sits the regent of the night,In elbow-chair pre-eminent. His handThe silence-knocking hammer wields. BeforeHis optic balls are plac'd two shining plates,Betwixt whose pewter confines, interspers'dWith glittering pieces of argental coin,Lie wide-spread half-pence, jingling at the touch.There great he sits, with glee magnificent,The strong potation quaffing. On the slateThe num'rous pots he marks, with aspect keen.So, with superior power invested, sitsA constable elate, in dome rotund,Imbibing porter solid. With an airSelf-confident he scrawls the captive's name.Now moves around, with circulation quick,The tankard less'ning. Strait again receivesIts due completion. Like the changing tideIt ebbs and flows alternate. Curling spiresAscending paint the plaster'd canopyFuliginous: the wafture dims the sight,And thro' the smoaky mist the candles shineAzure. But lo! a Roscian stands erectStentorophontes. Him long time I mark'd,Saw meditation hover o'er his brow,And all his faculties absorb'd in thought.He bends his head addressive to the board,And thus harangues—"Why sit we here thus mute,"And frustrate all the purpose of our meeting?"Already has the hoarse-lung'd watchman bawl'd"Past nine o'clock." So saying, forth he stalks,With step theatric. Mark his buskin tread,And eye-balls rolling. Rang'd along the floorThe candles blaze. And now the signal giv'n,All bend their eyes on him—No longer nowPauses the youth, but storms in wild Macbeth.Lo! now apparent on his horrid frontSits grim distortion. Every feature's lost,Screw'd horrible, unhumaniz'd—On stageOf quack itinerant thus have I seenAn Andrew wring the muscles of his face,Deforming nature, and extort the grinAnd wonder of the many-headed crowd.He spoke; when strait a loud applauding noiseEnsues: the clap of hands and thump of feetCommingling. Knuckles on the table's vergeWith fury beating, and the sound of sticksJunctive confirm the rattle of applause.Tremble the pewter vases, and withinThe fluid fluctuates. The surging pipesRoll from their beds of tin. The wooden plainIs strew'd on all sides with the clatt'ring ruin.Lo! now another of theatric mould"Rises in clouded majesty," yclep'dRanter. Forth issue from his steaming mouthThese long imprisoned Alps of tow'ring smoke,"Riding upon the bosom of the air."Him had his inauspicious cruel starsDestin'd to oil, to dress the flowing curl,And with nice hand to weave the yielding hair.But each revolving, rising, setting sunBeheld this hero looking on his tradeWith eyes indignant. His exalted soulLaunch'd 'yond the limits of his narrow sphere.Fraught with extended notions of the stage,His ample-daring mind the drama's lawsSole entertain'd—The tonsor now assumesThe part of Richard, and with awkward strutAffects majestic air.—So at the wakeRoger begins the dance, but, wanting skill,Betrays himself unequal to the task.Thy graceful periods, so oft admir'd,Divine inspir'd Shakspeare! on his tongueImperfect die away. His labour'd speechSounds gutt'ral, like the hoarsely croaking raceUpon the banks of some pellucid stream.Scarce had he finish'd, when salutes his earsThe mingled noise upon the dusty floorReverberated. Down the shaver sitsWell-pleas'd. And next upstarts Hibernia's son,Like some enthusiast on a tripod rais'dWith apish gesture, and with strange grimace,To rant unto the multitude. The corkIntruded swift into the candle's blazeIs nigrified, and marks th'aspiring youthWith whiskers bold. Ferocity now dartsFrom either eye her broad unmeaning stare;In Bajazet he raves, and low'ring bidsDefiance. 'Yond just Nature's ample pow'rHe rants elaborate. His roaring voiceCalls echo forth respondent. On the martOf fishy Billingsgate thus have I heardA harsh lung-cracking noise, nor yet to thisDissimilar. He ended; but the tribeWithhold the grasp'd-at banners of applause.Then down he sits, with woeful aspect dull.But strait emerging from a sea of thought,He swallows hasty the salubrious stream,And re-inthrones his abdicated soul.Bronzoides next his meteor lays downIgniferous. Him had his parents sentTo London (seat of business)—there the lawsOf England's state to learn and exercise.For him a well-experienced Don was found,Whose quick-turn'd eyes foresaw each quibble quaint,And quirk evasive. As an osier light,That bending yields to ev'ry blast of wind,His heart to fraud was flexible,—his heart,Where dark Deceit, in honest guise array'd,Had sown its seeds, and poison'd ev'ry grainWhich, warm'd by potent Truth's congenial ray,With Virtue's plenteous harvest might have teem'd.But fruitless was the youth's parental aim,Tho' sedulous. For scarce two years had roll'dSince fair Augusta first had bless'd his eyes,When great Bronzoides first soliloquiz'd:'Was it for this, that o'er the classic deepI sail'd, and landed on poetic shores?Have I for this flew round the Aonian mountWith plumes immortal, and so often play'dWith spotless Muses, in Pierian meads?Am I, ye Gods, eternally to scribeInglorious? No—Some power uplifts my soul,Buoyant, above the common class of earth'sDull reptiles. Hence, ye wrong-adjudg'd Reports;Ye dry collections, hence. I leave ye allTo those grave, solid-looking fools, whose earsTautology best charms. Oh! Shakspeare, comeWith all thy pupils. Fire my glowing breast,Expand my genius, and enlarge my soul.'Kindled that instant at the raptur'd thought,His intellects, high tow'ring flew to realmsDramatic. There the storehouse of his brainHe fill'd redundant. Here he tries his skillTheatric, ere upon the graceful stageWith steps adventurous he dares to tread.So children dabble in the shallow streamPlayful, till fear forsakes their little souls;Then bold they rush into the middle Thames.'List, list, O list'—Oh! how his tuneful voiceRises and falls, as Oysterella's softAnd strong, when ev'ry street and curving laneAdjacent echo the testaceous cry.He spouted—and receiv'd his share of praise.Inflated with the swellings of conceit,And newly flush'd with large-aspiring hopesOf excellence, uprises LeatheronzoFam'd. In repairing worn-out calcumentsNone was his equal. No one better knewThe pointed awl to handle. Yet his breastWith rage dramatic glow'd. In mad-struck LearThe scene he opens: but for want of crownPaus'd his mock-majesty. Around the placeLong time his eyes terrific roll'd. At length'In a black corner of the room he spied'An empty urinal—Fir'd at the sight,He snatch'd the vacuum, and to his headAdapted it well pleas'd. Now, now he ravesWith brazen lungs, until a sudden jerkHis action terminates. Upon the floorDown drops the jordan. As it rolls alongIt rings applause unto his list'ning ear.Lo! now springs forward with elastic step,A son of Comedy, Soccado call'd.The tunic dazzling with its golden pride,The button-hole gay-wrought with wondrous art,The mode-cut collar, and well-fancied sleeve,Had oft proclaim'd his taste. Yet not to thisWas his great soul confin'd. Theatra now,Dramatic goddess, whispers in his ear,And bids him shine away in Foppington.Where's now that stately flatness of the gait?That easy stiffness where? so often seenIn thee, O Cibber! and so oft admir'd,Alas! how faintly, rudely copied here!With joints inflexible, and neck oblique,An object stiff'ning to the sight he standsIn attitude unmeaning, and deprivesEach injur'd word of its emphatic due.He finish'd, when the wonted noise begins,Loud as his all-attentive ears can wish;Nor less than that which shakes the bending stairsTo the Theatric semicircled seats,Hight upper gallery, ductive, when someGrand-habited scene-boasting pantomime,From 'hind their compters, and from cleaning knives,And from tenebrious porter-breathing cells,Where all day long in glee they tippling sat,Calls forth the terrene quick-ascending gods.Prologues and epilogues increase the sport,To periodize the humours of the nightNow far advanced; goes round the jovial song,The laugh-exciting catch, or wanton taleRe-iterated. Bacchus, King of Joys,Twines not his vine-branch here. "Trueman's entire"Reigns arbitrary. With its vapours blandTheir giddy-rolling heads anointed turnUpon an axis brittle. Total noiseIts anarchy extends. But oh! how soonTerrestrial mirth evaporates. AmidstTheir jocund glee, and lovely-floating hours,Enter the Constables. Ten watchmen braveTheir presence dignify. Amazement chillSits on each spouting face. So looks the wretchInvolv'd in debt, when first he spies the front—The front most hated of a Catch-pole grim.Not e'en Macbeth stands more appall'd with fear,When murder'd Banquo's horrid-glaring ghostDisturbs the regal banquet. Such, so greatTheir fear unmanly, that their passive soulsTo their hard fate submit. Restless all,All walk desponding to the round-house dire;And one sad exit terminates the scene.All hail to thee! thou young dramatic bard!Ingenious M-rp-y, hail! Before thy shrineI bend the knee. This epidemic rageWell hast thou ridicul'd. Oh! may thy scenesOn Fame's high-pending annals be enroll'd:And as thy Muse shall henceforth deign to graceTh'enlighten'd scene, and with a steady handTo hold up Nature's mirrour, may the tribeOf snarling Critics, with invidious eyes,View the bright image, and confess it true."
"NOW o'er the world, in sable cincture clad,
Night rolls her awful clouds. Her misty veil
Hangs black'ning 'fore the eye, whose visual orb
In vain attempts to penetrate the gloom
Condens'd; save where the cotton 'mers'd in oil
Within some glassy concave yields its flame
Twinkling; and save where in the servile hand
Behind a rattling coach, the tædal stick
Held waving glimmers on the face of things.
Free from the business of the bustling day,
This interval indulging, to the Club
Of Spouters I repair; where mortal forms,
Borne high upon the feathers of conceit,
Rise into air; while puffing blasts of wind,
Bursting from loosely-flying Fancy's cave,
Blow them to regions where Theatra dwells.
Here, o'er the summit of a chair I loll;
My circumspective eyes explore the room.
A groupe of staring objects strike my sight;
Features distinct and various. While upon
The table's oval, the resplendent cup
Its pure contents and frothy surface boasts
Invigorant. Virginia's plant matur'd
Lies in the centre. With a clay-form'd tube
Each member graces his extended hand.
Above the rest, with looks erect and sage,
Deputed sits the regent of the night,
In elbow-chair pre-eminent. His hand
The silence-knocking hammer wields. Before
His optic balls are plac'd two shining plates,
Betwixt whose pewter confines, interspers'd
With glittering pieces of argental coin,
Lie wide-spread half-pence, jingling at the touch.
There great he sits, with glee magnificent,
The strong potation quaffing. On the slate
The num'rous pots he marks, with aspect keen.
So, with superior power invested, sits
A constable elate, in dome rotund,
Imbibing porter solid. With an air
Self-confident he scrawls the captive's name.
Now moves around, with circulation quick,
The tankard less'ning. Strait again receives
Its due completion. Like the changing tide
It ebbs and flows alternate. Curling spires
Ascending paint the plaster'd canopy
Fuliginous: the wafture dims the sight,
And thro' the smoaky mist the candles shine
Azure. But lo! a Roscian stands erect
Stentorophontes. Him long time I mark'd,
Saw meditation hover o'er his brow,
And all his faculties absorb'd in thought.
He bends his head addressive to the board,
And thus harangues—"Why sit we here thus mute,
"And frustrate all the purpose of our meeting?
"Already has the hoarse-lung'd watchman bawl'd
"Past nine o'clock." So saying, forth he stalks,
With step theatric. Mark his buskin tread,
And eye-balls rolling. Rang'd along the floor
The candles blaze. And now the signal giv'n,
All bend their eyes on him—No longer now
Pauses the youth, but storms in wild Macbeth.
Lo! now apparent on his horrid front
Sits grim distortion. Every feature's lost,
Screw'd horrible, unhumaniz'd—On stage
Of quack itinerant thus have I seen
An Andrew wring the muscles of his face,
Deforming nature, and extort the grin
And wonder of the many-headed crowd.
He spoke; when strait a loud applauding noise
Ensues: the clap of hands and thump of feet
Commingling. Knuckles on the table's verge
With fury beating, and the sound of sticks
Junctive confirm the rattle of applause.
Tremble the pewter vases, and within
The fluid fluctuates. The surging pipes
Roll from their beds of tin. The wooden plain
Is strew'd on all sides with the clatt'ring ruin.
Lo! now another of theatric mould
"Rises in clouded majesty," yclep'd
Ranter. Forth issue from his steaming mouth
These long imprisoned Alps of tow'ring smoke,
"Riding upon the bosom of the air."
Him had his inauspicious cruel stars
Destin'd to oil, to dress the flowing curl,
And with nice hand to weave the yielding hair.
But each revolving, rising, setting sun
Beheld this hero looking on his trade
With eyes indignant. His exalted soul
Launch'd 'yond the limits of his narrow sphere.
Fraught with extended notions of the stage,
His ample-daring mind the drama's laws
Sole entertain'd—The tonsor now assumes
The part of Richard, and with awkward strut
Affects majestic air.—So at the wake
Roger begins the dance, but, wanting skill,
Betrays himself unequal to the task.
Thy graceful periods, so oft admir'd,
Divine inspir'd Shakspeare! on his tongue
Imperfect die away. His labour'd speech
Sounds gutt'ral, like the hoarsely croaking race
Upon the banks of some pellucid stream.
Scarce had he finish'd, when salutes his ears
The mingled noise upon the dusty floor
Reverberated. Down the shaver sits
Well-pleas'd. And next upstarts Hibernia's son,
Like some enthusiast on a tripod rais'd
With apish gesture, and with strange grimace,
To rant unto the multitude. The cork
Intruded swift into the candle's blaze
Is nigrified, and marks th'aspiring youth
With whiskers bold. Ferocity now darts
From either eye her broad unmeaning stare;
In Bajazet he raves, and low'ring bids
Defiance. 'Yond just Nature's ample pow'r
He rants elaborate. His roaring voice
Calls echo forth respondent. On the mart
Of fishy Billingsgate thus have I heard
A harsh lung-cracking noise, nor yet to this
Dissimilar. He ended; but the tribe
Withhold the grasp'd-at banners of applause.
Then down he sits, with woeful aspect dull.
But strait emerging from a sea of thought,
He swallows hasty the salubrious stream,
And re-inthrones his abdicated soul.
Bronzoides next his meteor lays down
Igniferous. Him had his parents sent
To London (seat of business)—there the laws
Of England's state to learn and exercise.
For him a well-experienced Don was found,
Whose quick-turn'd eyes foresaw each quibble quaint,
And quirk evasive. As an osier light,
That bending yields to ev'ry blast of wind,
His heart to fraud was flexible,—his heart,
Where dark Deceit, in honest guise array'd,
Had sown its seeds, and poison'd ev'ry grain
Which, warm'd by potent Truth's congenial ray,
With Virtue's plenteous harvest might have teem'd.
But fruitless was the youth's parental aim,
Tho' sedulous. For scarce two years had roll'd
Since fair Augusta first had bless'd his eyes,
When great Bronzoides first soliloquiz'd:
'Was it for this, that o'er the classic deep
I sail'd, and landed on poetic shores?
Have I for this flew round the Aonian mount
With plumes immortal, and so often play'd
With spotless Muses, in Pierian meads?
Am I, ye Gods, eternally to scribe
Inglorious? No—Some power uplifts my soul,
Buoyant, above the common class of earth's
Dull reptiles. Hence, ye wrong-adjudg'd Reports;
Ye dry collections, hence. I leave ye all
To those grave, solid-looking fools, whose ears
Tautology best charms. Oh! Shakspeare, come
With all thy pupils. Fire my glowing breast,
Expand my genius, and enlarge my soul.'
Kindled that instant at the raptur'd thought,
His intellects, high tow'ring flew to realms
Dramatic. There the storehouse of his brain
He fill'd redundant. Here he tries his skill
Theatric, ere upon the graceful stage
With steps adventurous he dares to tread.
So children dabble in the shallow stream
Playful, till fear forsakes their little souls;
Then bold they rush into the middle Thames.
'List, list, O list'—Oh! how his tuneful voice
Rises and falls, as Oysterella's soft
And strong, when ev'ry street and curving lane
Adjacent echo the testaceous cry.
He spouted—and receiv'd his share of praise.
Inflated with the swellings of conceit,
And newly flush'd with large-aspiring hopes
Of excellence, uprises Leatheronzo
Fam'd. In repairing worn-out calcuments
None was his equal. No one better knew
The pointed awl to handle. Yet his breast
With rage dramatic glow'd. In mad-struck Lear
The scene he opens: but for want of crown
Paus'd his mock-majesty. Around the place
Long time his eyes terrific roll'd. At length
'In a black corner of the room he spied'
An empty urinal—Fir'd at the sight,
He snatch'd the vacuum, and to his head
Adapted it well pleas'd. Now, now he raves
With brazen lungs, until a sudden jerk
His action terminates. Upon the floor
Down drops the jordan. As it rolls along
It rings applause unto his list'ning ear.
Lo! now springs forward with elastic step,
A son of Comedy, Soccado call'd.
The tunic dazzling with its golden pride,
The button-hole gay-wrought with wondrous art,
The mode-cut collar, and well-fancied sleeve,
Had oft proclaim'd his taste. Yet not to this
Was his great soul confin'd. Theatra now,
Dramatic goddess, whispers in his ear,
And bids him shine away in Foppington.
Where's now that stately flatness of the gait?
That easy stiffness where? so often seen
In thee, O Cibber! and so oft admir'd,
Alas! how faintly, rudely copied here!
With joints inflexible, and neck oblique,
An object stiff'ning to the sight he stands
In attitude unmeaning, and deprives
Each injur'd word of its emphatic due.
He finish'd, when the wonted noise begins,
Loud as his all-attentive ears can wish;
Nor less than that which shakes the bending stairs
To the Theatric semicircled seats,
Hight upper gallery, ductive, when some
Grand-habited scene-boasting pantomime,
From 'hind their compters, and from cleaning knives,
And from tenebrious porter-breathing cells,
Where all day long in glee they tippling sat,
Calls forth the terrene quick-ascending gods.
Prologues and epilogues increase the sport,
To periodize the humours of the night
Now far advanced; goes round the jovial song,
The laugh-exciting catch, or wanton tale
Re-iterated. Bacchus, King of Joys,
Twines not his vine-branch here. "Trueman's entire"
Reigns arbitrary. With its vapours bland
Their giddy-rolling heads anointed turn
Upon an axis brittle. Total noise
Its anarchy extends. But oh! how soon
Terrestrial mirth evaporates. Amidst
Their jocund glee, and lovely-floating hours,
Enter the Constables. Ten watchmen brave
Their presence dignify. Amazement chill
Sits on each spouting face. So looks the wretch
Involv'd in debt, when first he spies the front—
The front most hated of a Catch-pole grim.
Not e'en Macbeth stands more appall'd with fear,
When murder'd Banquo's horrid-glaring ghost
Disturbs the regal banquet. Such, so great
Their fear unmanly, that their passive souls
To their hard fate submit. Restless all,
All walk desponding to the round-house dire;
And one sad exit terminates the scene.
All hail to thee! thou young dramatic bard!
Ingenious M-rp-y, hail! Before thy shrine
I bend the knee. This epidemic rage
Well hast thou ridicul'd. Oh! may thy scenes
On Fame's high-pending annals be enroll'd:
And as thy Muse shall henceforth deign to grace
Th'enlighten'd scene, and with a steady hand
To hold up Nature's mirrour, may the tribe
Of snarling Critics, with invidious eyes,
View the bright image, and confess it true."
The reader will of course forgive the chasms in dates which he frequently meets with, by recollecting that most of the amusements of the people of London occur in succession annually: the Theatres, the Opera, concerts, exhibitions, Ranelagh, and Vauxhall, have always had their regular stated periods of opening; and when nothing remarkable took place at either, it is by no means necessary they should be mentioned under every year. The Vauxhall season of 1759 produced some unpleasant animadversions; and the proprietors were publicly called upon to prevent the infamous conduct of loose women and their male companions, whose yells have been described as issuing from the dark walks in sounds full as terrific as "the imagined horror of Cavalcanti's bloodhounds:" indeed the latter were charged with driving ladies from their friends into those recesses where dangerous terrors were wantonly inflicted.
Handel's Decease
Occurred on the 6th of April, 1759. As this eminent composer may justly be said to have formed a new æra of musick in England, and to have established the Opera, and the fame of his Oratorios perhaps for centuries to come; a sketch of his life from his arrival in this Island cannotbe altogether unacceptable, particularly as it must contain a general history of those amusements with which he became connected. Handel was born at Hall in Upper Saxony February 24, 1684, but did not visit England till he had attained his 26th year, and when perfect master of his profession. The stranger, though only upon leave of absence from the Court of Hanover, where he received a pension of 1500 crownsper annum, and held the place of Master of the Elector's chapel, was presented to Queen Anne, and favourably received; thus honoured, Handel soon enjoyed the patronage of her courtiers, and immediately commenced his career by correcting the errors of theItalianOpera, if that could be so called which had been translated into theEnglishlanguage. As this celebrated composer found it, the most pathetic parts of the Italian musick frequently fell upon words expressive of anger, andvice versâ; he therefore composed Rossi's Rinaldo, written after an outline by Aaron Hill, who favoured the publick with an English version of it.
When Handel had remained here one year, the full term of his leave of absence, he returned to Hanover, but promised to re-visit the Queen at the first convenient opportunity: that occurred in 1712, and he composed hisTe DeumandJubilateafter the signing of the peace of Utrecht. Queen Anne, highly gratified with his exertions,granted him a pension of 200l.for life, and added her commands to the solicitations of the Nobility, that he should assume the management of the Opera-house. This he complied with, and violated in consequence an engagement he was under to return to the Elector's Court. When that Prince ascended the British throne, Handel, conscious of his offence, dared not venture into his presence; and his friends even thought stratagem preferable to intercession in restoring him to favour. To accomplish this, Baron Kilmanseck and several of the English nobility engaged the King in a party of pleasure upon the Thames: at that hour of relaxation the King was surprized with those grand movements yet known as Handel's Water-piece, which were composed expressly for the occasion, and performed under his direction in a boat attendant on the Monarch. The scheme was successful beyond expectation; and from that hour the fortunate musician received both honours and rewards from George I. The Earl of Burlington and the Duke of Chandos were his warmest patrons and admirers: the latter indeed retained him at Canons as master of his splendid choral establishment for the offices of religion; and as Buononcini and Attilio were then composers for the Opera, he did not frequently interfere with their province.
At length the period arrived destined to rouse the powers of Handel as a composer and a tyrant.Several persons of distinction had determined to found an Academy of Musick in the Haymarket, in order to insure a constant supply of Operas from the pen of the unrivalled Saxon, which they intended should be performed under his direction. The subscription for this purpose amounted to 50,000l.; and they procured the King's name for 1000l.to grace the head of the list. Thus authorised and enabled, Handel went to Dresden for performers of celebrity, and engaged Senesino and Duristanti, with whom he returned to England, when they acted his Opera of Radamisto to a most crowded audience, which honoured him with the loudest plaudits. From that day the powerful partizans of Buononcini, and those of Handel, became irreconcileable enemies; though their enmity was so far controuled as to permit an agreement between them, that the rival masters should alternately compose the acts of Mutius Scævola, and thus afford a criterion by which their superiority was to be determined. Handel conquered; and, his reputation firmly established, he reigned sole monarch of the Academy for nine years. At the close of that period Senesino accused Handel of oppression, and Handel treated Senesino as a rebel against his authority; the publick immediately divided on this important question; and, to complete their vexation, Faustina and Cuzzoni quarrelled. Harmony ceased in every point of view, and theAcademy was dissolved; but Handel maintained his post at the Haymarket, where he soon discovered that with Senesino he had dismissed the majority of his audiences. In this dilemma he entered into an agreement with the celebrated Heidegger to perform Operas on their own account; they accordingly engaged several new performers; but the Nobility, exasperated at the Saxon's tyrannical conduct, entered into a subscription, with which they opened the Theatre in Lincoln's-inn-fields, countermatching his Italians with the incomparable Farinelli. The contest was continued three years in conjunction with Heidegger; and Handel persisted one year after his partner retired: he then left the Haymarket to his rivals.
Chagrined and disappointed, he endeavoured to establish himself at Lincoln's-inn-fields, and afterwards became a partner with Mr. Rich at Covent-garden Theatre, where he found, to his great mortification, that his musick, however sublime, was not a match for Farinelli's voice; yet he persisted till he had almost ruined his fortune, and actually deranged his faculties, besides causing a paralytic stroke, which deprived him of the use of his right arm: he was however recovered from the latter calamities by using the baths of Aix-la-chapelle about the year 1736.
Fortunately for Handel the publick were pleased with the performance of his Alexander's Feast atCovent-garden Theatre soon after his return; and, to add to his good fortune, he was solicited to compose two Italian Operas for Lord Middlesex, who had been compelled to take the direction of this difficult concern upon himself, to preserve it from total ruin. His success on this occasion operated powerfully with the multitude; and a benefit produced him 1500l.in the year 1738. An opportunity thus offered to effect a complete reconciliation with his former employers; but that asperity of temper and impatience of controul which always marked his character induced him to reject every proposal connected with subscriptions. After several unsuccessful attempts to establish the Opera at Covent-garden Theatre, he turned his attention to the composition of Oratorios, which he intended should have beenactedand sung; but the popular opinion, that such representations from Scripture would be a profanation of religion, deterred him from the design; and he caused them to be sung only as they are at present.
Similar to most human inventions, the Oratorio was of little service to theAuthor: posterity, according to custom, has had the honour of rewarding Handel'smemory; and if an Angel composed new ones, they would certainly not succeed, till he had fled from the earth half a century, and till Handel has hadhisday.
The Irish nation received our great musician and his oratorios with complacency; and as he gave the produce of the first performance of his Messiah in Dublin to the City prison, he soon secured their patronage. After considerably improving his circumstances, he returned to England, where his oratorios recovered from their previous depression, and received that approbation which a dread of having lost them probably excited. Handel gave the profits of an annual performance of the Messiah to the Foundling Hospital; and attended their oratorios regularly long after he had lost his sight by agutta serena, and till within eight days of his death.
His present Majesty is passionately fond of Handel's musick; and that the publick are not less so, may be inferred by the eternal repetition of his Oratorios during the season of Lent; by which means, I shall be excused in observing, modern musical genius is depressed, and the pockets of conductors more readily filled. Hence the tiresome selections upon festivals and at concerts, where, if the audience is surprised bya newmovement, they exclaim, "Ah! this isnot likeHandel's strains:"—True, but may they not be equally delightful?
The firstdescriptionof an Opera which I have met with is in the eleventh number of the Theatre, for November 18, 1758. As the writer appears to have entered into the subject with more thanusual spirit, its insertion may possibly prove acceptable to the reader; but he will immediately discover that even our Theatres for pantomime now rival the antient Opera.
"King's Theatre. On Saturday the 18th instant was performed a new Opera calledAttalo, with new decorations and dances. I have already thrown out a few loose hints with regard to the abovementioned performance; and as in this place I propose speaking of it a little more at large, I shall begin with observing, that an Opera has in one particular a manifest advantage over almost every theatrical entertainment, by admitting of that kind of shew and decoration, which if not absolutely rejected by the other daughters of the Drama, is at least, generally speaking, forced upon them: that is to say, though we sometimes see triumphs and processions in a few of our tragedies and comedies, yet the best judges have always looked on them as childish and ridiculous: whereas, the only design of an Opera being to delight, that gay finery which looks so unbecoming and out of character upon her two elder sisters, is a necessary part of her dress; and as nobody understands the method of placing those ornaments better than Mr. Vaneschi, so in the present case I think he has taken all the care imaginable to set offAttaloto the best advantage.
"But a dry and circumstantial description of these matters would not only fall very short of what is meant to give an idea of, but also be tedious to the readers: for this reason therefore I shall hardly attempt to do any thing more in the present essay than to assure them that the finest scenes, the finest pantomime hitherto invented, even by that father of pantomimes himself, the manager of Covent-garden playhouse, are considerably inferior to those in the Opera ofAttalo; but particularly, in the first act, where Semiramis enters in a triumphal car, supported by Medean and Bactrian slaves, and surrounded by a number of Assyrian soldiers who carry the spoils and trophies of an enemy which she is supposed lately to have conquered, we are presented with the scene of a square; not a dead piece of painted canvass, but one in which the prospective is executed in so masterly a manner, that one would almost swear it was something more than a meredeceptio visûs; to which, by the way, a pedestrian statue, which is elevated in the centre of the buildings, does not a little contribute.
"Scenes of this kind are seldom if ever to be seen in a common Theatre, where the other charges are so large and numerous, as well as the price so confined, that the profits of such a pompous apparatus would by no means answer the expence: the place in our English plays also is too often varied to allow of it; besides, thebusiness of these stages is, properly speaking, to provide the understanding with substantial food, not to treat it with conserves and sweatmeats; and from this reason it proceeds that dances, which at the playhouses are only made use of as a garnish, are at the Opera (which may not unaptly be compared to a dessert or a collation) one of the principal parts of the entertainment.
"I should be extremely glad were it in my power to oblige the readers even with a faint idea of these: they all know, I believe, that Signior Galini is universally allowed to be one of the finest dancers in Europe; but at the King's Theatre, where he at present performs, he not only gives us the strongest proofs of his executive powers, but also of his skill in designing, by having composed three of the prettiest ballets I ever saw; and for plot, movement, humour, and, if I may make use of the expression, gesticulated wit, they are equal, I believe, to any, even of those which Lewis the Fourteenth himself was so fond of.
"In the first dance, the scene of which, by the way, may more properly be called an emulation than a copy of nature, being that of a forest half cut down, where the trees are represented in the liveliest manner, and the prospect of clouds and blue mountains extended to an amazing distance; Forti and Bononi, in the characters of a woodman and his wife, carry the grotesque to a most entertaining degree of extravagance. Bononi is allowedto excel in this way every one who has gone before her; for Galini, as his genius is very different, so it is greatly preferable to this. His dancing indeed may be considered as a kind of dumb musick, since there is hardly a note which he does not express by some significant gesture. Carlini, his partner, is pretty much in the same mode, and when they appear after the second act in a very extensive plain, interspersed with villages, there cannot perhaps be imagined two more agreeable figures. But the third and last ballet, in which the four principal dancers come out together, surpasses all the rest. The prospect is that of a rock, which being open in two or three different places, discovers a wide river, and, in appearance, at least half a mile long, the transparency of the water is so well imitated, that we see the shadows of several flags and bullrushes, which grow upon it; nor is a distant village, which appears at one side, a small addition to the beauty of the view: down this rock come the figure dancers, who are met at the door of a cottage by Signior Galini and his friends; it is a kind of rural feast, and the music is so antic and lively, that that alone would be sufficient, I should think, to put an audience into a good humour.
"I had forgot to mention a scene in this Opera which is remarkably beautiful; I am told it was painted by the celebrated Salvandoni, and is therepresentation of a magnificent hall, adorned with arms and trophies. There was a full house; and the spectators expressed their approbation by unanimous applause."
The Oratorio of Judas Maccabæus was performed on the 18th of January 1760 at the Music-room in Dean-street, Soho, which was the first night of subscription. The pit seats were 10s.6d.and the gallery 5s.; the performers Signora Passerini, Miss Frederick, Mr. Hudson, and Mr. Champness; and the chorus contained the best singers of the Chapel Royal and St. Paul's. The music-room is now Christie's Auction-room for furniture, and seems in a state of ruin.
WHITE CONDUIT HOUSE[224:A].
And toWhite ConduitHouseWe will go, will go, will go.Grub-street Register.
And toWhite ConduitHouseWe will go, will go, will go.Grub-street Register.
And toWhite ConduitHouseWe will go, will go, will go.Grub-street Register.
And toWhite ConduitHouse
We will go, will go, will go.
Grub-street Register.
"Wish'd Sunday's come—mirth brightens ev'ry face,And paints the rose upon the house-maid's cheek,Harriot, or Moll, more ruddy. Now the heartOf prentice resident in ample street,Or alley kennel-wash'd, Cheapside, Cornhill,Or Cranborne, thee for calcuments renown'd,With joy distends. His meal meridian o'er,With switch in hand, he to the White Conduit HouseHies merry-hearted. Human beings hereIn couples multitudinous assemble,Forming the drollest groupe that ever trodFair Islingtonian plains. Male after male,Dog after dog succeeding—husbands—wives—Fathers and mothers—brothers—sisters—friendsAnd pretty little boys and girls. Around,Across, along, the garden's shrubby maze,They walk, they sit, they stand. What crowds press onEager to mount the stairs, eager to catchFirst vacant bench or chair in long-room plac'd!Here prig with prig holds conference polite,And indiscriminate the gaudy beauAnd sloven mix. Here he, who all the weekTook bearded mortals by the nose, or satWeaving dead hairs, and whistling wretched strain—And eke the sturdy youth, whose trade it isStout oxen to contund,—with gold-bound hatAnd silken stocking strut. The red-arm'd belleHere shews her tasty gown, proud to be thoughtThe butterfly of fashion: and forsoothHer haughty mistress deigns for once to treadThe same unhallow'd floor—'Tis hurry allAnd rattling cups and saucers. Waiter here,And waiter there, and waiter here and there,At once is call'd—Joe—Joe—Joe—Joe—Joe—Joe on the right—and Joe upon the left,For ev'ry vocal pipe re-echoes Joe.Alas, poor Joe! Like Francis in the PlayHe stands confounded, anxious how to pleaseThe many-headed throng. But should I paintThe language, humours, custom of the place,Together with all curt'sies, lowly bow,And compliments extern, 'twould swell my pageBeyond its limits due. Suffice it thenFor my prophetic Muse to say, 'So longAs Fashion rides upon the wing of Time,While tea and cream and butter'd rolls can please,While rival beaux and jealous belles exist,So long, White-conduit house, shall be thy fame.'
"Wish'd Sunday's come—mirth brightens ev'ry face,And paints the rose upon the house-maid's cheek,Harriot, or Moll, more ruddy. Now the heartOf prentice resident in ample street,Or alley kennel-wash'd, Cheapside, Cornhill,Or Cranborne, thee for calcuments renown'd,With joy distends. His meal meridian o'er,With switch in hand, he to the White Conduit HouseHies merry-hearted. Human beings hereIn couples multitudinous assemble,Forming the drollest groupe that ever trodFair Islingtonian plains. Male after male,Dog after dog succeeding—husbands—wives—Fathers and mothers—brothers—sisters—friendsAnd pretty little boys and girls. Around,Across, along, the garden's shrubby maze,They walk, they sit, they stand. What crowds press onEager to mount the stairs, eager to catchFirst vacant bench or chair in long-room plac'd!Here prig with prig holds conference polite,And indiscriminate the gaudy beauAnd sloven mix. Here he, who all the weekTook bearded mortals by the nose, or satWeaving dead hairs, and whistling wretched strain—And eke the sturdy youth, whose trade it isStout oxen to contund,—with gold-bound hatAnd silken stocking strut. The red-arm'd belleHere shews her tasty gown, proud to be thoughtThe butterfly of fashion: and forsoothHer haughty mistress deigns for once to treadThe same unhallow'd floor—'Tis hurry allAnd rattling cups and saucers. Waiter here,And waiter there, and waiter here and there,At once is call'd—Joe—Joe—Joe—Joe—Joe—Joe on the right—and Joe upon the left,For ev'ry vocal pipe re-echoes Joe.Alas, poor Joe! Like Francis in the PlayHe stands confounded, anxious how to pleaseThe many-headed throng. But should I paintThe language, humours, custom of the place,Together with all curt'sies, lowly bow,And compliments extern, 'twould swell my pageBeyond its limits due. Suffice it thenFor my prophetic Muse to say, 'So longAs Fashion rides upon the wing of Time,While tea and cream and butter'd rolls can please,While rival beaux and jealous belles exist,So long, White-conduit house, shall be thy fame.'
"Wish'd Sunday's come—mirth brightens ev'ry face,
And paints the rose upon the house-maid's cheek,
Harriot, or Moll, more ruddy. Now the heart
Of prentice resident in ample street,
Or alley kennel-wash'd, Cheapside, Cornhill,
Or Cranborne, thee for calcuments renown'd,
With joy distends. His meal meridian o'er,
With switch in hand, he to the White Conduit House
Hies merry-hearted. Human beings here
In couples multitudinous assemble,
Forming the drollest groupe that ever trod
Fair Islingtonian plains. Male after male,
Dog after dog succeeding—husbands—wives—
Fathers and mothers—brothers—sisters—friends
And pretty little boys and girls. Around,
Across, along, the garden's shrubby maze,
They walk, they sit, they stand. What crowds press on
Eager to mount the stairs, eager to catch
First vacant bench or chair in long-room plac'd!
Here prig with prig holds conference polite,
And indiscriminate the gaudy beau
And sloven mix. Here he, who all the week
Took bearded mortals by the nose, or sat
Weaving dead hairs, and whistling wretched strain—
And eke the sturdy youth, whose trade it is
Stout oxen to contund,—with gold-bound hat
And silken stocking strut. The red-arm'd belle
Here shews her tasty gown, proud to be thought
The butterfly of fashion: and forsooth
Her haughty mistress deigns for once to tread
The same unhallow'd floor—'Tis hurry all
And rattling cups and saucers. Waiter here,
And waiter there, and waiter here and there,
At once is call'd—Joe—Joe—Joe—Joe—Joe—
Joe on the right—and Joe upon the left,
For ev'ry vocal pipe re-echoes Joe.
Alas, poor Joe! Like Francis in the Play
He stands confounded, anxious how to please
The many-headed throng. But should I paint
The language, humours, custom of the place,
Together with all curt'sies, lowly bow,
And compliments extern, 'twould swell my page
Beyond its limits due. Suffice it then
For my prophetic Muse to say, 'So long
As Fashion rides upon the wing of Time,
While tea and cream and butter'd rolls can please,
While rival beaux and jealous belles exist,
So long, White-conduit house, shall be thy fame.'
W. Woty."
One of the entertainments of 1760 was the performance on goblets containing water at different heights, which, rubbed on the rims by a wet finger, produces very sweet sounds, and when rapidly combined will make complete musick. Mr. Puckeridge was celebrated for performances of this description, which were much admired for some time, but are now nearly out of fashion.
One of the characteristicks of our various Theatres is the benefits, or, more properly speaking, the plays which are acted at the close of each season for the individual profit of the several performers. When an actor takes a benefit, he pays all the expences of the evening, and incurs the risk of great charges and small profits. Under the dread of losing, he exerts every nerve to fill the Theatre, and frequently lays heavycontributions on tradesmen, who, through some existing circumstances, think themselves bound to take tickets, and dispose of them as they can to their friends: and he solicits the wealthy without risking the imputation of mendicacy, because they know the actor has from 10l.to 20l.perweek salary. The benefit-night at length arrives, and the doors are besieged at an early hour by crowds determined not to lose the entertainment they have unwillingly paid for; in due time they rush forward, clamour prevails, and the quiet casual spectator is entirely deprived of hearing the play[227:A].Mrs. Clive, the justly celebrated comic actress, has enabled me to illustrate this subject by the following spirited letter, addressed to "the Author of the Daily Gazetteer," concerning her benefit, and printed in April 1761. If the reader should wish still further illustrations, I beg leave to refer him to the variousapologiesfor theatrical lives which have been published by Cibber, Bellamy, Wilkinson, &c. &c.
"Sir, As I never read your paper, I did not hear of the malicious letter you had published against my benefit, till the very day, when it was too late to endeavour to prevent the mischief it might do me, as it was most artfully put in your paper the day before, as well as the day of my play. It is dated from George's Coffee-house; but your correspondent must excuse me for not believing it came from thence, as I have always heard that Coffee-house was frequented by gentlemen, not one of whom, I am confident, would have done me an undeserved mischief. I could not possibly suppose Mr. Shuter was capable of asking any body to write such a letter for him, asI never did him, or any performer, the least injury; on the contrary, I have had the greatest pleasure when it has been in my power to serve them in their benefits, from the highest class of actors down to the very lowest. But though he was not concerned in the writing of it (as he has declared he was not), it is too palpable to admit of the least doubt, that it must be wrote by some of his acquaintance, in order to serve his benefit by destroying mine.—That indeed was not quite in their power, as I had the honour to have a most noble and splendid appearance of persons of the first distinction that night at my play; who have been constant in their goodness and favour to me, and who were not to be influenced by a wretched Letter-writer. The loss I most certainly sustained by it I should have submitted to in silence, as it is with the utmost diffidence and reluctance I appear before the public in this light: but there is a most malicious and wicked insinuation in his letter, which I think myself under an absolute necessity to reply to."The Letter-writer, with great ease, desires the Publick not to go to my benefit, notwithstanding I had taken infinite pains to endeavour to entertain them the whole season through; his reason for that extraordinary request is, that I was to have a French farce, wrote by a poor wretched author, translated into English, and calledThe Island of Slaves:—and then, withgreat art and malice, he jumbles together some popular words, as,French Farce,English Liberty,Island of Slaves! 'What can Englishmen have to do in theIsland of Slaves?' Poor wretched insinuation! Is it possible for any body to suppose, if there had been one syllable in the piece that had the least tendency to sneer at, or affront, the liberties of this country, that the managers would have suffered it to have been acted; or that the Lord Chamberlain would have given his sanction; or that I could have been such a fool as to dare to affront the publick with such a performance on my own benefit-night? I hope I may be indulged (though a woman) to say I have always despised the French Politicks; but I never yet heard that we were at war with their Wit."It is imputed tome, by the author of the letter, as a crime, that I should have a piece taken from the French for my benefit; when at the same time I believe one part in three of the Comedies and little pieces, that are now acting at both the Theatres, are acknowledged to be taken from the French; besides those that both antient and modern authors have sneaked into the Theatres without confessing from whence they came. I shall take the liberty to mention two that are known translations:The Confederacy, by Sir John Vanbrugh, one of our best Comedies, revived about two years ago, and acted to crowded houses with great applause;The Guardian,another French piece, brought on about the same time, and received with the highest approbation: both these performances acted at a time when we were at war with France, as we are now. 'Ay,' but says the good-natured Letter-writer, 'The Island of Slaves(tremendous title!)' I think I have made his malice appear pretty plain; I shall not have the least difficulty in making his ignorance full as conspicuous. It does not seem, by the style of his letter, that he is very intimately acquainted with his own language, but it is evident he knows nothing of the French; for if he had been capable of reading Mons. Marivaux'sIsle des Esclaves, he could not have been quite so clumsy a critick, as to say he is a poor paltry author, when he is acknowledged by all people of taste and judgment to be one of the very best writers the French have. Then, as to his malicious insinuation,The Island of Slavesis so very far from being a satire upon English liberty, that there is the highest compliment paid to it: the people of that island having quitted their native country (Athens) because 'they would not be Slaves,' and established themselves in an island, where, when their passions have subsided, and they begin to forget the injuries they received in their own country, they make the most noble, humane, sensible laws. I cannot pretend to give an account of the whole piece in this letter; but I may with great truth say, there was not anything in it that was exceptionable; great spirit and humour in two of the characters, and fine sentiments throughout the whole; some part, perhaps, too grave for what is generally expected in pieces after a play. I shall beg leave to insert a few lines (not a translation) which concluded the piece: after Philo (one of the Islanders) has convinced the Athenians, who are then in his power, of their follies, he promises to provide them ships to send them into their own country; Cleanthe (one of the characters) says:'We are all equally obliged to you, most amiable Philo, for your goodness to us; and if we should be so fortunate to arrive safe at Athens, I hope we shall have influence enough to prevail with them, when we recount our adventures, to imitate the incomparable laws of this ever happy Island.'"I have done with your Correspondent: now, Mr. Gazetteer, I must say two or three words to you. I desire you would let me know who was the author of that letter; or it is possible I may convince you, I am so truly an English woman, and so little inclined to be aslave, as not to suffer any one to do me an injury with impunity."I am informed, you have more than once drawn yourself into scrapes, by the delicacy of your paper. If you comply with this request, in giving up your author, I shall think you intendto reform your manners; and in that case you will stand a chance of being read by your humble servant,C. Clive."Henrietta-street, Covent-garden,April 3, 1761."P.S. If I can have leave from the person who did me the honour to translateThe Island of Slavesfor me, I shall print it; when every one that pleases may see how extremely ill I have been treated."
"Sir, As I never read your paper, I did not hear of the malicious letter you had published against my benefit, till the very day, when it was too late to endeavour to prevent the mischief it might do me, as it was most artfully put in your paper the day before, as well as the day of my play. It is dated from George's Coffee-house; but your correspondent must excuse me for not believing it came from thence, as I have always heard that Coffee-house was frequented by gentlemen, not one of whom, I am confident, would have done me an undeserved mischief. I could not possibly suppose Mr. Shuter was capable of asking any body to write such a letter for him, asI never did him, or any performer, the least injury; on the contrary, I have had the greatest pleasure when it has been in my power to serve them in their benefits, from the highest class of actors down to the very lowest. But though he was not concerned in the writing of it (as he has declared he was not), it is too palpable to admit of the least doubt, that it must be wrote by some of his acquaintance, in order to serve his benefit by destroying mine.—That indeed was not quite in their power, as I had the honour to have a most noble and splendid appearance of persons of the first distinction that night at my play; who have been constant in their goodness and favour to me, and who were not to be influenced by a wretched Letter-writer. The loss I most certainly sustained by it I should have submitted to in silence, as it is with the utmost diffidence and reluctance I appear before the public in this light: but there is a most malicious and wicked insinuation in his letter, which I think myself under an absolute necessity to reply to.
"The Letter-writer, with great ease, desires the Publick not to go to my benefit, notwithstanding I had taken infinite pains to endeavour to entertain them the whole season through; his reason for that extraordinary request is, that I was to have a French farce, wrote by a poor wretched author, translated into English, and calledThe Island of Slaves:—and then, withgreat art and malice, he jumbles together some popular words, as,French Farce,English Liberty,Island of Slaves! 'What can Englishmen have to do in theIsland of Slaves?' Poor wretched insinuation! Is it possible for any body to suppose, if there had been one syllable in the piece that had the least tendency to sneer at, or affront, the liberties of this country, that the managers would have suffered it to have been acted; or that the Lord Chamberlain would have given his sanction; or that I could have been such a fool as to dare to affront the publick with such a performance on my own benefit-night? I hope I may be indulged (though a woman) to say I have always despised the French Politicks; but I never yet heard that we were at war with their Wit.
"It is imputed tome, by the author of the letter, as a crime, that I should have a piece taken from the French for my benefit; when at the same time I believe one part in three of the Comedies and little pieces, that are now acting at both the Theatres, are acknowledged to be taken from the French; besides those that both antient and modern authors have sneaked into the Theatres without confessing from whence they came. I shall take the liberty to mention two that are known translations:The Confederacy, by Sir John Vanbrugh, one of our best Comedies, revived about two years ago, and acted to crowded houses with great applause;The Guardian,another French piece, brought on about the same time, and received with the highest approbation: both these performances acted at a time when we were at war with France, as we are now. 'Ay,' but says the good-natured Letter-writer, 'The Island of Slaves(tremendous title!)' I think I have made his malice appear pretty plain; I shall not have the least difficulty in making his ignorance full as conspicuous. It does not seem, by the style of his letter, that he is very intimately acquainted with his own language, but it is evident he knows nothing of the French; for if he had been capable of reading Mons. Marivaux'sIsle des Esclaves, he could not have been quite so clumsy a critick, as to say he is a poor paltry author, when he is acknowledged by all people of taste and judgment to be one of the very best writers the French have. Then, as to his malicious insinuation,The Island of Slavesis so very far from being a satire upon English liberty, that there is the highest compliment paid to it: the people of that island having quitted their native country (Athens) because 'they would not be Slaves,' and established themselves in an island, where, when their passions have subsided, and they begin to forget the injuries they received in their own country, they make the most noble, humane, sensible laws. I cannot pretend to give an account of the whole piece in this letter; but I may with great truth say, there was not anything in it that was exceptionable; great spirit and humour in two of the characters, and fine sentiments throughout the whole; some part, perhaps, too grave for what is generally expected in pieces after a play. I shall beg leave to insert a few lines (not a translation) which concluded the piece: after Philo (one of the Islanders) has convinced the Athenians, who are then in his power, of their follies, he promises to provide them ships to send them into their own country; Cleanthe (one of the characters) says:
'We are all equally obliged to you, most amiable Philo, for your goodness to us; and if we should be so fortunate to arrive safe at Athens, I hope we shall have influence enough to prevail with them, when we recount our adventures, to imitate the incomparable laws of this ever happy Island.'
'We are all equally obliged to you, most amiable Philo, for your goodness to us; and if we should be so fortunate to arrive safe at Athens, I hope we shall have influence enough to prevail with them, when we recount our adventures, to imitate the incomparable laws of this ever happy Island.'
"I have done with your Correspondent: now, Mr. Gazetteer, I must say two or three words to you. I desire you would let me know who was the author of that letter; or it is possible I may convince you, I am so truly an English woman, and so little inclined to be aslave, as not to suffer any one to do me an injury with impunity.
"I am informed, you have more than once drawn yourself into scrapes, by the delicacy of your paper. If you comply with this request, in giving up your author, I shall think you intendto reform your manners; and in that case you will stand a chance of being read by your humble servant,
C. Clive.
"Henrietta-street, Covent-garden,April 3, 1761.
"P.S. If I can have leave from the person who did me the honour to translateThe Island of Slavesfor me, I shall print it; when every one that pleases may see how extremely ill I have been treated."
Benefits more congenial to the benevolent mind are, much to the credit of the proprietors of our places of public amusement, frequently given to Charitable Institutions: a short bill dated in May 1761 will explain those as they were and are now announced:
"Ranelagh-house, Tuesday the 9th of June, will be an Assembly for the benefit of the Middlesex Hospital. The doors will be open, and the concert begin, at the usual time. At ten o'clock a magnificent fire-work will be played off on the canal in the garden; and to conclude with a ball.
"N. B. There will be no collection made for the Charity. Tickets half a guinea each, &c."
I have in another place recommended the reader to visit Smithfield at eleven o'clock at night, in order to obtain a perfect knowledge of theamusementssubstituted for a Fair. The facetious George Alexander Steevens wrote thefollowing ludicrous but strictly just description of it about 1762: