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that the jury would consider a repetition of the words before an assemblage of people as an act of publication.

Not many months ago, an actor wished to obtain possession of a highly popular manuscript farce: he applied for it, and was refused. He employed persons to sit in the gallery, and take down the words during its performance; but, unluckily for these short-hand thieves, the farce was changed upon the night in question, in consequence of the illness of one of the performers. He then endeavoured to borrow from the actors engaged in the representation, the written parts given them to study from, but they scorned his dishonesty, and refused. He then visited the front of the house himself, made memorandums and notes of the plot, and principal portion of the dialogue, put it into shape at his leisure, went to another city, and produced the piece under its original name, and announced himself not only in the bills, but from the stage, as the author of the farce!

If I have not given sufficient reasons why men of talent do not bend their attention to the drama, perhaps an exemplification of some of Reynolds' classified Difficulties of Pleasing' may be agreeable, and then, as the old song says,

'We'd have you understand how hard it is to write.'

After various platitudes and truisms, such as 'Were there no dramatic writers, there would be no dramatic critics,' Mr. Reynolds 'points out some of the difficulties attendant on dramatic composition.'

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Add to all this, the actors must please not to be taken ill the weather must please not to be unfavorable- the opposing theatre must please not to put up strong bills, and then — what then? Why then, please to pay the bearer.''

Let us get over our difficulties one at a time. The first difficulty,' pleasing one's self, is no difficulty at all to an author, and if a man finds it difficult to please himself, how can he hope to please an audience? The tone of all Reynolds' productions evince how delighted he is with himself: it was his modesty that tempted him to place this easy task as the first and greatest difficulty on his list. He says in the same preface, that it was a constant cry, Why don't you give us a sterling comedy?' Now that would have been a difficulty; but see how he gets over it: 'The ancients have culled the flowers from the dramatic garden, and have left only the weeds.' Why, Mr. Reynolds, why did you continue, for so many years, to cull the weeds ?'

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As to the second difficulty, pleasing the manager, such authors as Mr. Reynolds would in these times find it rather a tough job; but it could not have been very troublesome in his day, for he had many pieces produced, and the manager would not have accepted them if he had not been pleased so to do. This observation is ungrateful, Mr. Author. No one need envy the manager whom many authors try to please. I was once engaged in the former capacity, and the quires of rubbish that I was compelled to wade through, absolutely sickened me of even

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the sight of a manuscript. I was forced to remember some of the points of each piece, for the scribblers knew every line by heart, and asked my opinion of such and such passages: How did this character come out!' Was not that situation in the fourth act new and good?' etc. I do believe, from the number of pieces presented to that theatre alone, that every man, and every other woman in the world, have, during some portion of their lives, been concerned in the fabrication of a dramatic piece. I remember quieting one fellow, who would not be convinced that his tragedy, in six acts, called 'THERMOPYLE, or THE PHENOMENA OF BRAVERY,' written in Alexandrines, was not calculated to advance the interests of the theatre by its production. Have you ever read any thing like it?' said he. Never.' Would it not create an immense sensation, if performed?' 'Undoubtedly.' Then why not produce it? We should perhaps find it difficult to allay the sensation.' 'I see; you are afraid it would fail; you surely do not understand my tragedy,' said he, with an arrogant air. My dear Sir,' said I, bowing, 'I confess that I have not presumption enough to take such a liberty.'

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There is or was a manager of the name of Farrel, in London Jack Farrel, originally a tailor's apprentice in Dublin: feeling the cacoethes actendi, as Liston calls it, he passed through the gradations of stage-sweeper, back-combatant, side dancer, and pantomimist, and arrived in due time at the important dignity of stage-managership in a London minor theatre. Armed with such authority, he would seize upon the first-rate parts in the new pieces, and murder them most manglingly. Ugolino never gnawed the tête of his arch enemy with more earnestness than Farrel used in breaking the head of poor Priscian; and many a poor devil of a dramatic author has envied Dante's hero his privilege of retaliation upon an enemy's skull without brains. Farrel wished the constables to remove a noisy sailor from the gallery, and pompously desired the officer to 'take out that incendiary!* I never shall forget the agony of a young author, who related the following anecdote. Farrel was pleased with a domestic drama of my friend's writing, and seized upon the principal character for himself; it was that of a fiery-spirited, intemperate young man, smarting under real and imaginary wrongs. He describes to a friend the many insults he has received from an oppressive landlord- among others, the destruction of a little flower garden, and the death of his childrens' pet lamb, worried by his tyrant's dogs, under the eyes of his dying wife. In conclusion, he should have said: And the jasmine, whose odorous tendrils wound round the lattice, and shaded our humble portal from the summer's heat whose star-like blossoms have so often graced my wife's dark hair-this jasmine, planted by my father's hand, was torn up by the roots, and flung disdainfully across the path; the bright green leaves and silvery flowers alike were dabbled with the victim's blood.' Thus wrote the author. How did Mr. Farrel speak it? And there was the flowers of the garden the jasmines and the daisies - all smothered in the blood and g ts of the poor dear little sheep!

* Somewhat akin to this, is the recent blunder of a Western journalist, who, after announcing the scuttling of a steam-boat, by some revengeful miscreant, adds: 'Unquestionably, and without doubt, the horrid deed was the work of an incendiary! EDS. KNICKERBOCKER.

Now this manager was pleased with the piece, and pleased with his own performance, but the author was not; and in general, it is an even chance between the two; for however difficult an author may find it to please a manager, no manager, who knows his business, will ever think of attempting to please an author.

Third difficulty to please the actors.' This, being an impossibility, is a difficulty worth all the other five. The stage is a school for emulation, and when a new piece is to be produced, every actor anxiously hopes for a fresh opportunity of displaying his talent. All the performers cannot be gratified there must be some bad parts; and why should an actor hypocritically pretend to be pleased with a piece which cramps his exertions, and gives his rival a superior scope? These feelings must be very general, till the theatres are managed à la Francaise. Many a good play has been damned, because Smith had a better part than Brown, or because Wiggins played an inferior character, while Tompkins was out of the cast. The discontented gentleman plays booty; is perfect perhaps, and attentive; pretends to do his best, but goes over the course like the jockey who is booked to lose - with much evident exertion, much violent pretence, but distressing his nag, instead of gracing him with the palm of victory. The obligation between actor and author is mutual; and as the author, for his own sake, does his best for the actor, the actor should, in common fairness, let the author be heard, with all the assistance his talents are able to afford.

I could enumerate many instances where actors, by inattention, have been the instrument of condemnation to unfortunate authors. John Kemble's versus George Colman, in the Iron Chest' case, is well known. The farce of Master's Rival,' written by the inimitable Peake, was damned at Drury, with Liston and all the first-rate talent of the day, and succeeded immensely the very next week at Covent Garden, supported by a most inferior cast. There was an eccentric fellow of the name of Powell, at the Coburg Theatre, some twelve or fifteen years ago, not he of the Ellistoniana, but John Powell, or Colonel Jack, a blustering, good-humored, good-looking man, reckoned very much like the late died-in-deep-debt Duke of York, and Jack prided himself on this resemblance, which was personally and prodigally true. He had a round, sonorous voice, a portly look, and a white aristocratic head, with but little hair outside, and less brains within. He was an eccentric, devil-may-care sort of fellow, and fond of his pipe and a pot of Barclay's porter. He once addressed a dashing Cyprian, as she was stepping into her carriage, with: Harlot, give me sixpence; I have spent thousands on your sex.' Mr. Milner, an author of considerable repute, produced a superior sort of drama or three-act tragedy at the Coburg Theatre, now the Victoria, and on the night of performance, sat in one of the private boxes, with many of the dramatic litteraires of the day. One of the principal incidents in the play, was the abduction and supposed murder of an infant, heir to vast estates: the ruffian was secured, but obdurately refused to give any information; a respectable old gentleman, a friend of the family, and supposed to possess considerable persuasive power, entered the cell of the prisoner, to remonstrate with him, and work upon his feelings by Christian-like counsel and admonition, and finally to extract the momentous secret from his breast, as a boy

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picks the periwinkle from his shell. Colonel Jack was the actor selected for this part. He had been engaged at that theatre scarcely a fortnight, and the first night of Milner's new piece was John Powell's last appearance. Now, said the author, as the actor appeared, 'now listen to what I consider the best bit of writing in my play.' Poor Milner! -the Colonel had never known too much of his part, but since dinner he had taken in so much Barclay, that he had quite put out Milner. Instead, therefore, of the finely-written speech of some thirty lines, he blustered up to the prisoner, and shouted out: I say, how came you to assarcinate that hinfant? The other actor, Bradley, could not reply, and Powell, finding he could not awaken remorse in the villain's breast, went on with the second part of his subject: What did you do with the body of the babby? Shouts of laughter foretold the fate of the play. Milner groaned, the prompter roared, Powell swore, the audience hooted. The play was damned, and the author lost the fruits of many weeks of application- but then the actor was discharged! How gratifying!

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They manage these matters better in France.' Talma once said that a French actor would no more dare appear before his audience imperfect in the words of his part, than to appear before them in a state of intoxication. Yet I have seen actors puffed and praised for constantly practising both of these amiable propensities.

Singers are the greatest nuisances that authors have to deal with. Dibdin tells some queer anecdotes of them in his Reminiscences. A mere singer never knows the words of his or her parts, and even in the poetry of the songs, will make very strange mistakes. An eminent Henry Bertram, in the finale of the opera, which ought to run thus: 'If you deny us your applause, We've neither right nor might,'

always says, instead of the last line:

'I'm neither right nor tight.'

I have heard a man sing the ballad of Will Watch, the bold Smuggler, with thrilling effect, yet instead of singing:

'He was borne to the earth by the crew he had died with,'

he altered it to

'The crew he had dined with!'

Sinclair continually makes a strange mistake in Rob Roy. Francis Osbaldistone has to say: Rashleigh is my cousin ; but, for what reason I know not, he is my bitterest enemy.' Sinclair uses a different punctuation, and says: Rashleigh is my cousin, but for what reason I know not; he is my bitterest enemy.' Not singing the original song in Guy Mannering, one night, he gave the following speech as a cue to the leader to strike up the symphony of the substituted song: 'Here I am, all alone on this cursed heath, without sixpence in my pocket, like— Love among the Roses!' Miss Forde, a vocalist of some pretensions, played Barbara in the Iron Chest: when her lover is torn from her to be tried for his life, she ought to sing the very pretty and pathetic ballad of The Willow; but this young lady said: Poor Wilford! he goes to certain death, I fear; but never shall I forget - Merrily oh,' etc., and off she went, at a hand gallop, into the lively and patriotic song of Merrily every bosom boundeth.'

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A young lady, who was pretty and intelligent, lately played Ophelia, and sang the snatches of songs in the mad scenes with much sweetness and effect. The newspaper critics advised her to try Desdemona, and sing the original ballad. Her John Jones' at the opposition theatre caught the idea, and instantly played the part, but not knowing the original, she introduced Give me but my Arab Steed,' and The Bonny Wee Wife. This is absolutely a fact, and the lady was a popular 'star' singer in the Atlantic cities, not many years ago. Shakspeare made Desdemona musical, and why should not her representatives sing modern music as well as wear modern dresses?- and that they all of them do. I should like to see Macready standing on the stage as Othello, and some pretty little actress, like Miss Watson, hopping round him, and singing, If I had a beau for a soldier would go.' It would not be more preposterous than the Italian version of the tragedy, where Othello kills his wife to an affetuoso movement. Our friend Reynolds assisted in operatising Shakspeare, but not one of his versions keep possession of the stage, despite the assistance of the music and the

scenery.

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N. B.

TWIN to all of mortal birth,
Omnipresent fiend of Earth!
Phantom lone and gloomy! thou
Of the stern and haggard brow,
And the eye that sleepeth never,
And the heart that acheth ever-
Is there one sublunar spot
Which thy presence cloudeth not?

CARE.

Lo! on yonder swarded dome
Wealth has reared his regal home,
From whose towering casements beam
Morn's first blush and eve's last gleam;
While within, voluptuous Ease
Dwells with Beauty's witcheries,
Breathing from the pictured walls
And the statue-peopled halls,
While around assiduous
press
Crowds in mute obsequiousness:
Yet, pervading as the air,
Thou, grim spectre, too art there,
Frowning, an unbidden guest,
Banquo like, at every feast;
Drugging the bright wine with gall,
Writing horror on the wall,
Hanging o'er the wassail board
Conscience' hair-suspended sword,
And in Fancy's boding ear
Whispering many a thrilling fear.

Lo! in yonder fairy spot
Smiles the shepherd's humble cot,
Sheltered by the fragrant leaves
Which the shadowy summer weaves;
While the hum of social bees
From its flowery trellises,
And the laugh of jocund rills
Echoing from the circling hills,
And the minstrelsy of birds

Bleat of flocks and low of herds
Charm the listening air around
With the poetry of sound:
Yet the cotter's anxious mien
Tells that nature's sweetest scene,
If a human heart be there,
Feels thy presence, haunting Care!

Lo! in Pleasure's gay retreat
Where the young and thoughtless meet,
With the graceful myrtle crowned,
And the zone of mirth unbound,
As the waltz spins giddily
To the viol's stirring glee -
Spirit, thou art of the throng
In that haunt of sense and song,
Seen in many a darkling glance
In the mazes of the dance,
When the eye forgets to smile,
And the mask is dropped the while;
Ah! should Pleasure pluck apart
All her guises of the heart,
We should find thee, carking Care,
Couched in aching misery there!

Gaily o'er yon sunny sca
Bounds the peopled argosy,
Gliding on from clime to clime
O'er that fathomless sublime,
Bird-like, with a faëry motion,
When the breeze just rocks the ocean-
Steed-like when the groaning mast
Writhes before the rushing blast;
Yet upon that breathing deck
Thoughts of tempest and of wreck,
Darkling in the pilot's eye,
Spirit, tell that thou art by.

Hark! upon the Sabbath air

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