AIT

WEAKNESSES of some sort or other are the portion of humanity; nor do I, for my part, like humanity any the less for it. I can never endure your perfect man or woman, who, in their turn, can never endure me; for, I must confess, I am by no means perfect. Nor do I expect to be, in this world; for, if I were so, what could I ever hope to be in the next?

Perhaps my greatest weakness is a love of the stage. The money that I have spent during the last ten years of my life in dramatic amusements would lay the corner-stone of a small fortune. I wish I had it now, safely in bank. The credit side of my account-now balanced with the debtor-would show a handsome amount in my favour. Still, I do not regret it, nor consider it lost. I have had its value thrice over in sound enjoyment. Many a time, after a hard day's work, I have gone to the theatre with a sick and sad heart, and have always left it happier and wiser. The remembrance of its fun and jollity, and, more than all, of its moral lessons, has sunk deeply into my heart.

Here, perhaps, I should go into a long disquisition on the necessity of public amusements; and here, indeed, I would go into it, but I fear it would be to little purpose. If you are a Puritan, sir, I could not convince you.

"A may convinced, against his will,
Is of the same opinion still."

And if you are a careless, fun-loving man, like myself, and go to the theatre, yourself, you have no need of further conviction. So, in either case, I have escaped the writing, and you the reading, of some two or three pages of philosophy; for which both of us, I think, should be very thankful. For my part, I hope the love of plays is the worst sin that can be laid to our charge.

The Drama, I take it, originated in the deepest and finest sympathies of the human heart; in that feeling which prompted the ancient philosopher to say, "I am a man, and all that relates to mankind is dear to me." We know not when or where it first arose; for who can suppose that it did not exist before we hear of it in Greece, jolting from town to town in the rude carts of Thespis? Not I, for one. I believe it may be dated from the very earliest period of the world's

civilization.

choral hymns in their praise. The same spirit that prompted them to do this led the authors of the old monkish "Mysteries" to embody the persons of the Trinity, the angels and archangels, and the vices and virtues, in their rude, uncouth scenes. We have grown wiser in this respect, and no longer violate the proprieties of Art and refined religious feeling; but the best of our modern plays still tend, however indirectly, to honour God, and to reverence all the virtues of the human heart. The time is happily past when it is taught and believed that we can do this only by the singing of hymns and the mortification of the flesh. There is as much piety in a jest, and in a hearty laugh, as in an infinity c upturned eyes, and long faces.

The "myriad-minded" Shakspeare, as he is happily called by Coleridge,-the oracle of Nature in all things relating to Humanity,-has taught us, both by precept and example, the purpose of playing, "whose end, both now and at the first, was, and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to Nature; to show Virtue her own feature, Scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure." The plays of a nation are a study to succeeding generations. Through them we become acquainted with manners and customs, and gods and heroes, obsolete and forgotten for ages. The Hindoo drama carries us back to the dark ages of the East. We sit, in thought, in its rude theatres, with the diffe rent castes gathered about us. Here, crouching and brow-beaten, we see the poor labourers, the Pariahs of the empire; there, the soldiers, then, as now, "full of strange oaths, and bearded like a pard;" and, apart from the rest, and honoured of all, the wise and dignified Brahmins, the priests and law-makers. Sacrifices are offered to Seeva and Vishnu, and the play proceeds. Kings and statesmen, heroes and divinities, move majestically before us; and beautiful nymphs and queens glide by, tinkling their anklets of silver. Lovers love, haters hate, plotters intrigue, trials are undergone and overcome, the wicked are punished, and the virtuous are rewarded, after time-honoured and most approved fashions; and all to give us an hour's pleasure.

But perhaps we turn, in thought, to the theatre of Athens in its palmiest days,

"Thence what the lofty, grave tragedians taught 1 In chorus or iambic, teachers best Of moral prudence, with delight received In grave, sententious precepts, while they treat Of fate, and chance, and change in human life, High actions, and high passions best describing.”

corps. Of course he was a subaltern, and of course the abduction was to be carried into effect that very night, at ten o'clock, at the end of the garden, where a post chaise and four horses were to be in waiting. Of course the cobbler hears the plot, what else was he on the stage for?-and of course he details it, shortly after, to the young lover, who is, as usual, a very nice young gentleman, and his particular friend.-(Probably he bought his boots of him.)

A scene or two after, the lover,-Hubert St. Clair, or Henry De Aubin, I forget which his name is, meets the two officers above mentioned, and very properly challenges the one who is his rival, to a deadly meeting, with a couple of seconds to see fair play, and bear off the dead and dying. The combat is to take place in the-that-country, Hyde Park, at ten o'clock, the very hour fixed upon for the abduction. The next scene, or the scene after that, the stage was darkened by turning off the gas, and the theatrical clock gave warning that the time had arrived, by striking ten slow and solemn strokes, which, like those of Mr. | Puff, in the tragedy of "The Critic," were "calculated to beget an awful attention in the audience." The two officers appeared, principal and second, and the lover also appeared, with his second, the cobbler! Swords were drawn, and crossed and recrossed very rapidly, on the principle of " three up and two down," with a thrust whenever a convenient opportunity occurred. After some minutes' hard fighting, valiantly encouraged by rounds of applause from various parts of the pit, the lover gave his adversary a deadly thrust under his arm, and he fell heavily on his side, and the cobbler immediately got astride of the body, and finished the job with his shoe-knife, while the curtain fell, amid a perfect whirlwind of applause.

a drama of that interesting character, could have been acted without ladies, any more than life can be made endurable without them. They were there, without doubt, but my memory has proved treacherous. But I remember a young lady in the after-piece, with whom I fell deeply in love. She played the part of Young Pickle in the Spoiled Child, dressed in a pair of plump unmentionables. Her shape, expression, eyes, and, above all, her manner of hauling imaginary ropes, when she was disguised as a sailor boy, Launted me for a long time. I feel her white hanis busy at my heart-strings now. But by this time she must be old, and ugly, and it may be, though I hope not,-dead.

Some years passed before I visited the theatre again. Boyhood, in the mean time, had passed into youth, and the wonders of romance had been opened to my craving mind. The Three Spaniards, with its blue lights and supernatural harrors, haunted me by day, and terrified me by night. I had been taught the folly and sin of play reading, and play going, and other carnal desires, had removed to a distant city, a Babel to the Zoar of my nativity, but all could not efface the memory of that never-to-be-forgotten night.

As many a boy has done before me, I often went through what I remembered of the different parts, to my own delight and satisfaction. I have a distinct recollection of trying to stain my cheeks with cherry juice, and of making a pair of ince pient mustaches by the help of a little ink,— burnt cork being, as yet, unknown in the list of my cosmetics. A juvenile jacket, and some odd spangles, procured from a play-mate, whose mother or aunt washed for "the ladies and gen tlemen" of one of the minor theatres-happy woman!-completed my wardrobe. A spare bed-room in an old garret, was the theatre of my early achievements, my triumphs and defeats. A chair or a bedpost served me for an interlocutor. and a flock of geese in the next yard, were the patriotic mob which I was accustomed to address on great occasions. The number of ladies that I rescued from imminent peril, at the risk of my life. is unknown. The tyrants that I slaughtered would. have made me fifty times a Brutus, to say nothing of those whom I generously spared, and left to their own reflections, on bread and water, in imaginary dungeons. The love that I made to, and received from ideal princesses would have turned the brain of Amadis De Gaul, amorous and gallant as old romances show him to have been. I was a dreamer then, but a happy one. If I could be contented now, with such little things, I should be a happier and better man.

It would be vain for me to attempt to gather from the recesses of my mind, any distinct recol lection of the multitude of tragedies, comedies. dramas, melo-dramas, petite dramas, farces, interludes, and burlettas which I have since witnessed. Lopez de Vega is said to have written some thousands of plays,-I wont pretend to say how many, for fear of exaggeration,—but I fancy that I have seen enough to have kept a dozen Lopez De Vega's busy during the period of their natural lives. "Their name is legion.”

When I began to go to the theatre again, I had a great relish for what may be called provincial tragedy, to see which, I always frequented the minor, third-rate theatres. Sailors were my delight. (My father was one, Poor fellow he never re

turned from his last voyage.) The pieces in which they were generally introduced, opened with a rustic wedding. After the ladies and gentlemen of the establishment, dressed as they should be, in straw bats and laced bodices, had arranged themselves by the footlights, and sung that unintelligible song with a long and loud chorus, the happy couple appeared, on their way to the church-in some unhappy instances, the ceremony had been already performed (in the green-room, without doubt),—when the lover had the misfortune to be kidnapped by a press-gang, instigated, as we all knew, though they did not, by the unsuccessful rival, a young Squire in the neighbourhood. The press-gang were a set of surly-looking fellows, as all press-gangs should be, half sailors and half thieves. Their dialect was

a mixture of sea phrases and “damme's." As the young couple, with their friends, are about to leave the stage by a side entrance (R. H. U. E.), the darklooking gentlemen very unhandsomely stop, and seize the lover, and press him into the marine service of his Most Gracious Majesty (God bless him!), who is then in the midst of a war with the Mounseers, a fabulous nation, who are supposed to live upon frogs and fancy dances. But the youth is a very bold fellow, so he valiantly bids "the hounds" stand back. "The hounds," meaning the press-gang, at that, rush savagely upon him, and he is dragged off, struggling at every step. He escapes a moment,-just as he winks to the gentlemen who have him in charge,-and rushes to the side of his beloved Mary, who, of course, faints after being kissed (ladies on the stage never faint before!), and sinks back into the arms of her papa, breathing a blessing on her dear Edward, who is once more borne off, while she follows in his wake, by being carried backward, with dragging feet.

In the second act, the young Squire that young Squire is always a sad dog-has lost, or is about losing, the old family mansion and grounds, which came into his hands deeply encumbered with the debts of his ancestors. To save himself from a jail, he joins a band of smugglers in the neighbourhood, the crew of the Jolly Nancy, or the Spanking Sally, as the case may be, a regular fast sailer, commanded by Dick Fearnought, a brother or cousin of Dirk Hatteraick, if not the old Dutchman himself galvanized into life again,

"To strut his little hour upon the stage." Dick, in common with other stage smugglers, wears a round, half leather, half fur, cap, a heavy pea-jacket, with a short frock underneath, always a dingy white, and concludes his toilet in a pair of monstrous high-topped boots, which flap at every step. He is, in his way, a jolly dog, and he slaps the young Squire on his back, and bids him take heart; to help which wished-for consummation, he generously offers him the use of his "pocket-pistol," filled with brandy or Hollands, choice, and smuggled by himself. He is a keen fellow, too, that Dick, for he continually points to, and handles, the pistols in his belt, as much as to say, "My weather eye is open! Gammon won't pay here!" And, what is always remarkable, he always labours under the weight of an immense quid in his left cheek,-a very Lambert of a quid,-which he never moves without contorting his features, already ugly enough with the huge scar supposed to be the

mark of some exciseman's cutlass, and continually in play whenever circumstances require his trousers to be hitched up. And those long, loose, dirty linen trousers are a queer affair. One-half of his stage life is spent in tugging at their waistbands, and rescuing them from the obscurity of his boots.

Of course, the young Squire joins the lugger of this gentleman. He can hardly do otherwise, Any port in a storm. The bailiffs will be down from London that very day. But, before he starts upon his perilous and lawless enterprise, he tries once more to win the affections of the pretty Mary. Of course, he is unsuccessful; for ladies on the stage are always true to their absent lovers (happy men!), and out of sorts. But, as he cannot give up his suit, as he is advised to do by his philosophic friend, he rushes off the stage in a state bordering on frenzy-and the delirium tremens; while the young lady falls down on her knees, and implores the aid of Providence to pay her quarter's back rent. Before the spectator sees whether Providence is kind enough to perform this trifling request, the curtain falls, and the second act is over.

The third act may be soon summed up. The young Squire, now the captain of the lugger and chief of the band (for Dick has gone the way of all smugglers), returns home with a full cargo of enormous value, suspiciously obtained in the Spanish Main, and persuades the now pallid and heart-broken Mary that her dear Edward is dead, and that he is very sorry for it;-which nobody doubts. And she, at his earnest pleading and continued solicitation, at last consents to be his wife; but only to save her poor old father (a hale, hearty youngster of twenty-five) from beg gary and starvation. (These stage fathers are always on the verge of a terrible calamity.) The nuptials-"the hated nuptials"-are about to proceed, when the old lover rushes into the room; not as when he left home, a good-looking country lout, but a lieutenant in His Majesty's service. Sometimes he wears a three-cornered cocked hat, and sometimes, in his rage, he is bare-headed. His wig and shoulderknots tremble with excitement. He is not dead, but returned to denounce and seize yonder villain, the smuggler. But the smuggler, with all his faults, is a bold fellow, and he dares Lieutenant Edward to a mortal combat, which is anxiously awaited for by the juvenile part of the house, who have kept awake on purpose to see it. The duel comes off in the manor-house, before the assembled villagers. Poetical justice does its office on the smuggler, who is thrust through and through. He dies, begging the pardon of all present, Heaven included. The lovers embrace, and are happy, as all lovers should be; the villagers shout, and the black curtain falls on the bowing company, who rush in haste to their own rooms to dress for the after-piece.

This running description, with a few unimportant variations, will answer for all nautical dramas, and for most plays of second and thirdrate theatres. But, about this time, spectacles became great favourites with me, as they always have been with the mass of play-goers, to the ruin of the legitimate drama. For my part, I never call such things "plays." They have nothing dramatic about them. Their success depends altogether on spangles, paint, and ma

chinery. Previous to their production, the ward robe of the establishment-for all theatres, in dramatic parlance, are called establishmentsand the old lumber-rooms are ransacked, and stripped of everything available in the way of costume and properties. Helmets and plumes, thrown aside for half a century, swords that have grown rusty in ignoble repose, and banners that might have waved over Cressy and Poictiers, or the invincible cohorts of the Cæsars, are dragged from their oblivion, and, under the imputation of being new, costly, and expensive, are mercilessly exposed to the scrutiny of crowded houses. Twenty or thirty extra ladies and gentlemen (the bills always say one hundred) are hired for the occasion, at the enormous expense of twenty-five cents per night.

The first act generally opens with four or five soldiers or courtiers sitting around a table, at the door of a village inn, and eagerly draining their empty tin tumblers, which are constantly being filled from an empty bottle of imaginary wine. Sometimes the gentlemen happen to be boarhunters; in which case, they always range themselves in a row by the footlights, and sing a strange song in praise of the chase, flourishing their spears at the time right valiantly. That song is a profound mystery. Nobody ever catches a word of it, save the "tra-ra-la, tra-ra-la!" of the chorus; consequently, nobody is any the wiser for it. But, when it is finished, everybody knows somebody must be coming; for the boar-hunters point up the hills painted on the "flat," spying the new-comer long before he can have left the green-room. In a couple of minutes, he makes his appearance on a frail, tottering bridge, and, waving his hand to somebody else, supposed to be in the distance, he descends, and joins his comrades in front. He always wears a cap and feather, with a green hunting-jacket and yellow boots. Around his waist he carries a tin bugle, tied in a large circular knot, and in his hand a heavy hunting-spear, the point of which has been newly silvered.

is nothing new under the sun," said the Jewish sage. For "under the sun," read upon the stage," and I will take my affidavit of the fact The same plots, developments, and dénouEMENÍS, run through tragedies, comedies, and farces, of which there are not over twenty different kinds. I will show you fifty old sources for any scene or character that may be selected in the last new play. Dramatic writers live upon each other's brains; and a very poor living they must have. Tragedy is on the decline, and farce on the rise; and no wonder, when the stage has fifty sman farce-writers and actors, to one tolerable poet and tragedian. Nor can we charge it to this alone. but to the taste of the day, which is too civilized, refined, fashionable, and false, to produce, or sym pathize with, simple, honest, hearty, and manly tragedy. For greatness of any kind, especially of the fine arts, there is nothing like a hearty, bluff age; an age succeeding centuries of igne rance and inaction. Men are not afraid then se be themselves at any cost. Shakspeare wrote his plays from the fulness of a great heart. They are manufactured now by men who have nothing to recommend them but a knowledge of stagebusiness, and a connexion with some influential newspaper, which can be bought cheap.

But all this time I have not spoken of the oper a neglect which I fear will hardly be pardoned. For my "single self," as Shakspeare says, I care but little about the matter; but, for the sake of others, I will give it as serious a consideration as possible. To be plain and honest then, let me at once confess that I have "no music in my soni consequently I am "fit for treason, stratagem, and spoils." I understand, indeed, and love a song a ballad, a single air, and even an overture, pro vided, always, it is not too long, nor too loud, but never an opera. That, I can never endure. Like the gentleman who would not learn French, because all their books were written by ene "Tome," I would not learn Latin in my school days, because the Roman poets wrote nothing tast operas! Horace's Opera, and Virgil's Opera! It was too much for my dramatic sensibilities.

I have been accused of having no ear for harmony, no taste, no fine emotions in my nature. and perhaps justly enough. I am willing to grazi it if the reader desires, but I cannot affect to love the opera. In common with many of my ber

The less we say about the literary merits of these affairs, the better. Criticism would be as cruel as if exercised upon last year's almanac or yesterday's newspaper. Spectacles are not written to be criticised. In fact, they are not written at all. How they are made nobody knows. I have a theory by which I account for them. They grow spontaneously in property-rooms!

I cannot remember a single new point in all the plays that I have witnessed for the last ten years; which leads me to believe that invention in this matter has quite exhausted itself. "There

pure unadulterated English drama. A good sidesplitting farce, a sharp biting comedy, or a gen ine tragedy, is worth, in my way of thinking, all the trills, and quavers, and musical gems that ever fell from the lips of the most famous opest singers. "But," says somebody, "the love of music is an acquired taste. You should study to obtain it." So, my dear sir, is the love of tobacco; must I study to obtain that? And so it faith in the cold water cure; must I study to obtain that too? The enjoyment that one has të study, to enjoy, is almost too Utopian for my notices Mind, sir, only for my notions. I do not pretemb to decide for others. We do not study to enjoy the drama. We know by instinct, when to langk and when to cry. The stage holds the mirror ep to Nature. The opera holds a quizzing-glass up to Art. We know that men and women in privam life, in all parts of the world, act farces, come dies and tragedies, talking in soliloquy and dialogue, and that they even rant at times, and: tear