1859.]

from him his money's worth. Let no such man be trusted.

Offensive only in the second degree is the once a year playgoer. Unaccustomed to the theatre, he is suspicious of all proceedings within its sphere, and exhibits a constant condition of agitation, which draws attention away from the boards, making himself the spectacle. Each opening of the door suggests to him a possibility of fraud on the part of the boxkeeper; the slightest stir in the pit causes him to anticipate a tumult; a whistle in the gaspipes is construed into a fire in the house; and on the cry of 'throw him over' from the gallery, he rises from his seat, threatening to leave so riotous an assembly.

As a contrast to him, though not less offending, may be cited the chilly playgoer, who will, when Macbeth is about to murder his king, complain of a current of air; and when Lear falls over the body of his child, will rise with a loud shiver to put on his greatcoat. The pedantic playgoer is equally disagreeable, with a book of the play following and checking the actors in their parts, and pointing out with important emphasis every trifling mistake. Nor can the lady (in spite of courtesy) be passed by without censure, whose attention during the time of performance is centered in her own dress; who adjusts her crinoline, drops her eloak from her shoulders and lifts it on again, has frequent recourse to a scent-bottle, and flutters with a fan. All these actions are unbecoming and are to be avoided, as liable to interfere with the working of the spell, for the due operation of which a modest stillness and humility are needed-a rendering up of the soul, a submission of the mind to author and actor, and a disregard of all besides. In order to promote this end, it should be the manager's part to protect his audience from physical inconvenience, such as seats too narrow or too high, and the entrance of piercing winds; against these tortures human nature not being proof.

Of all undesirable companions, the most respectable is the prejudiced veteran playgoer. He has known the true delight; and in the

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days of his youth, when the powers of enjoyment were in their full vigour, he has sat with attention riveted upon the boards, 'quiet like a nun, breathless with adoration,' at the conclusion, with the full force of his lungs, sending forth a cheer for the favourite actor. He has known the silent aspiration, the secret meditation, the worship of the tragedian. He retains a decent reverence for the drama; he will enter the box noiselessly, he will make his bill his study, he will abstain from speaking during the time of representation; but he seeks in vain to renew the pleasure of which he retains the recollection. His attention is repaid by disappointment, and every speech is a fallingoff. His countenance settles into gloom, and with shakings of the head and heavy sighs he will unequivocally express his disapprobation during the performance; as soon as the act drop falls proceeding to unpack his heart with words, and fall a-cursing.'

Then bursts upon his ill-fated companion the full tide of bygone excellence; then rise in menacing procession the ghosts of former favourites-of Kembles, Hendersons, Keans, Palmers, Siddonses, Jordans, and O'Neills, bidding him think on them. Inferior mortal, think how I spoke, how I looked, how I moved; how I threatened, how I persuaded, how I smiled, how I wept, and suspend your enjoyment. Think on that fair mountain where this man had his feeding, and cease to batten on this moor. Live on his memories and quit your own delusion. Cease to believe in your tragedian; believe only in the dead, and in the death of excellence."

These are hard words for the living soul to hear, hard things for the living faith to grapple with. Surely Richard was not worse off when his row of spectres rose in Bosworth-field, and when he woke and found it a dream, then it was well with him. But for the haunted spirit here, how is the waking to come? Shall the mercy of the veteran be appealed to against his prejudice; shall he be humbly entreated to exorcise the phantoms he has invoked? No, it is useless; he is straining his eyes after these

visions, he is clinging to them with a tenacious ecstasy, and he will not be content to do it alone. You too must bend your eye on vacancy,' and with the incorporeal air must hold discourse;' you must take your place at his banquet, at his Barmecide feast. What must I bite?' Shall the curtain rise again on such a state of things, or shall some great act of resistance be resolved upon? Is there no possibility of turning the tables? There is! If tradition of the past be so much better than the present, then appeal to it from him. Out-tradition him! Turn to the pages of dramatic history; remember that there was a Bracegirdle as well as an O'Neill, a Barry as well as a Siddons, a Betterton as well as a Kemble, a Booth as well as a Kean, and a Burbage to surpass them all.

Come like shadows, so depart, 'Show his eyes and grieve his heart.

Record the passages in which they were most famous, dwell on their ingenious readings, on the singular graces of their person and their elocution, till he is harassed, confused, confounded; he may struggle in your toils, he may sug gest in weary accents, you never saw these people,' but you have your answer ready. No, neither have I seen your old actors, but I believe in them as you would have me do, and to behold their yet greater predecessors, Cibber has Tent me the piercing light of his eyes only hear what he says of Betterton; Betterton was an actor as Shakspeare was an author-both without competitors. Shall I show you Betterton? Should I therefore tell you that all the Othellos, Hamlets, Hotspurs, Macbeths, and Brutuses whom you may have seen since his time have fallen far short of him; this still should give you no idea of his particular excellence.'

This is your final stroke; this is the volley which silences your

enemy's battery; you see him sink into inanition,hoist with his own petard,' and the curtain rises. Yet, not as you would have it. The play is no longer addressed to a mind at ease; the composure of your spirits is gone; your blood circulates too feverishly through your veins; and the true sympathy between you and your drama cannot be recalled. Therefore, though you may boast a momentary triumph, you have not wholly conquered; and as in leaving the box you make your parting salutation to the prejudiced veterán, you record a vow never to enter it in his company again.

But if pleasure be destroyed by an ill sharing, it is multiplied by a suitable companionship; the silent sympathy, the glance of intelligence, the just criticism, the well-timed applause, the pleasant observation, the well-directed satire; the presence of these things is welcome, and may make the short periods between the acts (they should never be long) hardly less enjoyable than the acts themselves.

Seek, then, a good company (you will find it at Sadler's Wells), an interested audience-you will find it also there a good play and good companions; and go and improve your mind.

To the large class of persons who look upon the stage as a great iniquity, this paper may appear very iniquitous too, but it would be well for them, casting prejudice aside, to go to see what it is they are afraid of; to sit through one of Mr. Phelps' representations of the Shakspearian drama; carefully to observe his audience, and then seriously to consider whether, in emptying the casinos and the gin palaces to fill his pit and his gallery, he is showing himself a friend to licentiousness; or whether, as a promoter of innocent and intellectual entertainment, he may not more justly be esteemed as a friend to morality and mental culture.