faced moon? We cannot eat our pleasure, and have it too. It is wisely ordered that, when the parliament of pantomime is prorogued, it should not be re-assembled for at least ten or twelve months; to allow during the recess of some repose from the duties of fun. The mouth cannot be always on the stretch! This however is the licensed time of three-halfpenny 100. This is the time for Commerce-for mother-o'-pearl sprats, -for hanging caricatures,-drawing King and Queen, and quartering cakes,-going to plays with bunches of little children, in clean frills and washed faces-swarming to the museum-the diorama, the panorama, and all the other amas !-seeing very tall men and women in caravans, and reading very little story-books everywhere. The public schools, and all the rooms of the Reverend Mr. Gand the Reverend Mr. S 'and the Reverend Mr. C, and the Reverend Mr. M- -, and the comfortable houses of the graduates from Cambridge, which hold only six-are empty now of restless velveteens, and hats with thoroughfares! The crowned heads, we know, are now at peace: And so, thank Heaven! are the uncrowned ones! Langford's pen in the Minories is not standing on its nib, and wagging its upper feather; Tomkins's ghost is not striking ideal swans with ethereal quills, or, as the recording angel of Foster Lane, printing down English glory in German text! He holds not the imaginary birch over honour's small ideal seat! For oh! it is holiday time! The Bowleses, the Barneses, the Le Bretons, the Reddalls, and all those worthy men who hang affectionately over the pothooks and hangers of the rising generation-are now enjoying a temporary rest: They are not at this pleasant period stalking behind innumerable little bare napes of necks,-or rapping those diminutive shadowy knuckles and nails, which have cut the soap for the taw, and which are but one shade lighter than the ink before them! The children which have been composed together, and kept in one press (our Mr. Parker will be pleased to watch over this metaphor with the eye at once of a printer and a PyJades!) are now distributed; and every separate compartment, in the great box of the metropolis, has its own lead again! Yes! It is indeed holiday time! And having now made our annual low bow to the rising generation,― we take them all in our large dramatic hand, and go, like a fifth of November-group, to the two playhouses (readers! we hate to call them theatres before children!)-Lo! seating our mighty self, erect among the minors, like the monument among the lamp-posts of Fish Street Hill, we wait for the pantomimes. Was there any thing ever half so tedious as that old square-toes, Cato? How he gawkes about in insipid Utica preaching to his sons! Does he know what we are waiting for, and how tired we are of his sermon? Not he! Why does not he kill himself (as Mr. Young kills him) thoroughly at first, and let the play go on without him-it would be over in half the time, and Harlequin and Columbine would not shiver so long at the sidescene. Spangles should not be kept waiting. We long, we confess it, to see good master Merry-Diamond whisk on, and hit his old broad solemn Roman back a flap with his pearl wand, hard enough to turn him into a Barefoot or a Sherwood; that the ground might be got over the quicker. Well! There he is-Well! bane and antidote!" Get on! a stab! a groan! a sermon! and cold feet! Now for the curtain,—the whistle aloft, the oranges, and the fiddles! Bell the first (silence, master Frederick!) Bell the second-(Tiny! keep your ninth orange but half an hour longer!)-up rolls the curtainand now, as Squire Puff sayeth in his learned critical dissertation in the Critic, "let us see what the scenepainter hath done for us!"-Gently, however! The programme of the Covent Garden pantomime, as advertised by Mr. Farley, in his invaluable edition of the production, (for authors now publish their pantomimes, to keep up with Bell and Lancaster in their new system of education) runs to this effect. Jack's Wager. By virtue of one of our forest charters, if a man do build a dwelling upon common land, from sunset to sunrise, and enclose a piece of ground, wherein there shall be a tree growing, a beast feeding, a fire kindled, a chimney smoking, and provision in the pot, such dwelling shall be freely held by the builder, any thing herein to the contrary, nevertheless, notwithstanding.-Forest Laws. We say nothing of the very loose style in which this clause is worded, and of the many doors to litigation which its uncertainties leave open; for it is not our place to be doubting Mr. Farley's law: But we do think that something more interesting, romantic, and dramatic, than the old childish story of the House that Jack built, might have been found, for it is almost the duty of a pantomime builder to begin with the fanciful and the beautiful, before he dashes into the burlesque and the extravagant. Fairy tales make the best prologues to pantomime whim, on account of the contrast between finery and fun: for this reason, we so much liked the Sleeping Beauty of the Wood, as selected last year. Hurlequin and Poor Robin, or the House that Jack built, has in its commencement no fine magic and poetic richness. It opens with scenes which might almost be mixed up with the humorous parts of the pantomime; so slight is the difference between the opening and the continuation. The jollity should be kept, like the sweetmeat, to the last. The choice of the subject, however, is the only objection we have to make to any part of the production, and we are glad we have got rid of it at once, as there is nothing we so much disrelish, as being critical upon pantomimes. Grieve is a great man. Jack's house, with a distant landscape by sun-set, is painted by him, with a brush dipped, we should almost say, in mortar for the tenement, and in sun-light for the sky. May he paint for centuries, and we live to eulogize him! The country people sing a very long jolly glee in this sceneand Jack and his favourite girl's mother have a conference to music, which appears to have been written by a man more used to building than to rhyming. It is a sort of Masonic ode, irregular as the coming out of the Quarterly Review. But let it speak for itself He'll post away, To wed my bonny maid. We cannot afford room for more than these two inches of ode, but there is nearly half a yard more. Jack then, mother-vexed, bends his way to Robin on the Hill, an astrologer, who tells his fortune. The hut of poor Robin on the summit of a hill, with a bird's-eye view of the surrounding country, is another specimen of Grieve's admirable works. The moon is up, and Robin is consulting the planets. He assures Jack that the maid shall be his own, though difficulties may trouble him. We now return to Jack's cottage, and are introduced seriatim to the rat that eat the malt, that lay in the house that Jack built,-to the cat that killed the rat,-and to the dog that worried the cat. The scene then changes and shows us the priest's house, the cock that crowed in the morn, the priest himself all shaven and shorn, the cow with the crumpled horn,(we used to call it crumpledy horn)-the damsel all forlorn, - and so on to the end of the chapter and verse. The mother desires to give her daughter to the Squire, and the priest is crowed up by a cock (big enough to draw a Tilbury") to marry the fox-hunter and the forlorn one. But at this moment, lo!what think you? Guess, reader, till you are black in the face, and you will be wide of the truth!--we will propound. "CUPID IS SENT BY IRIS FROM VENUS TO EARTH TO ASSIST JACK!" The changes forthwith take place, and away go the dancing, glittering, tumbling, tottering four (our readers will be pleased to distribute these epithets to their right owners) through the usual and unusual vicissitudes. We cannot follow the merry set through all their magic troubles, but the skaiting on St. James's Park canal, and the ascent and descent of a balloon, are about the happiest contrivances that ever blessed a pantomime. The scenery throughout is brilliant and excellent, and the changes go as easily as well-oiled machinery can make them. We miss Joe! (How is his gout?) but we have his son, a lad of exceed ing strength, and with joints in every part of his body, like an eel. He could make a letter S. with his leg, or tie his right arm into a knot. He can work all the fanciful tortuosities of a show-tobacco-pipe in a snuffman's window, and with his own supple body; and yet he is strong and stubborn enough to walk straight under a weight which would press us down, like the toy-parson in the snuffbox. He promises to be an excellent clown, and we know that he performs -but if he has not a run, what is to be said of the dependance on breed! His sire and grandsire have been great before him! Oh that Joseph could make one at our pantomime supper still! The harlequin is nimble, the columbine strong, and the pantaloon powerfully feeble. We never heard such rounds of laughter, as at the cock, who called the priest. He is a hearty old cock truly! five feet high, with a wing like a main-sail, and a bending tail like the middle arch of Westminsterbridge. His very comb is huger than a piece of roasting beef; and his beak bigger than Sir Richard Birnie, who is allowed to be the greatest Beak in London. The priest too is capital: a mighty fat man, dressed in black with a nice wide frill to eat soup over, and with a ripe red forehead, at which you might warm your hands and heart too. The pantomime is worth seeing if only for these two gentlemen. At Drury-Lane theatre the pantomime has not been so prosperous as its rival at Covent-Garden, but who ever looked for a triumph in this department of the drama at this house? It is, to be sure, a great advance towards success to have produced a piece capable of weathering out six nights; for during the last few years the genius of mimicry has had a very hard time of it at this great national establishment. The great lessee sank in his repute, when he trusted it to the keeping of Harlequin and Columbine and even Tom Dibdin, author of the two best follies of his time, Mother Goose and the Cabinet, became muddy in his wits, when he had to contrive nonsense for these luckless boards. Thanks to Mr. Stanfield the scene-painter, Mr. Elliston has at last launched a pantomime which can swim,-not exactly like a pleasure boat, nor yet precisely like a lighterman, but like a sober, slow, handsome hulk, which floats on steadily. The title is Harlequin and the Flying Chest, and it is of course founded on the story which we all pretty well know. The scenery is everything; and there is nothing besides. The harlequin is pursy, the columbine is a jumper, the clown vulgar, and not humorous; to be sure, we rather approve of the pantaloon, for he is an inveterate and good tumbler. Why does not Mr. Elliston take in the Mechanic's Magazine, it is only 3d. a week, and we can assure him that his carpenters would be all the better for a little of such wholesome reading. The tricks they prepare, go stiffer and stiffer on each succeeding night; and in a short time, if some alteration be not made in their materials or manufacture, the tricks will turn a deaf ear to the magic wand. Harlequin always hits his object more than once before it thinks of moving: he is invariably obliged to give two flaps to his table, when he wishes to make use of it. Is there no sweet oil in the house?→→→ Are not hinges made to turn? By the mass! we are truly tired of admonishing the pantomime breeder of A pun requiring an explanation is no new thing-Beak (to those who are not readers of Grose's Slang Dictionary) is the name by which a Magistrate is known among thieves and other gentlemen. this establishment as to his errors of this nature. The Diorama, as it is called, is beautifully painted indeed. We happen to have been enjoying the rains at Plymouth, and can speak to the correctness and spirit of the views. The lustre of the water is here better represented than we ever before saw it on the stage and the vessels are painted with singular decision and effect. The shadows of the masts in one man-of-war are certainly too numerous, for the seas are never sufficiently half over themselves, to see double! The effect of this fine scenic display is somewhat impaired by the poverty of the machinery (ye rude mechanicals!) The fore-ground first stutters past, a few paces; and then the back-ground, which is water, stammers on after it: this is what we never saw in nature. But perhaps it is a clever attempt to bring on sea-sickness in the spectator. The interior of Fonthill Abbey is well managed, and the only effective piece of humour is here introduced. The clown puts on a black coat and hat, and represents Mr. Harry Philips (who however is no clown) selling the great topaz vase. The auction is faithfully copied, and is therefore an admirable piece of foolery-of course it turns out a hoax! Stanfield. He is in first at the great Christmas hunt, and we trust the brush will not be taken out of his hands. There has been a new opera from the pen of Mr. Beazley, a favourite writer of ours in short summer pieces, called " Philandering, or the Rose Queen," which has the merit of being unentertaining, though Beazley wrote it, and Miss Stephens and Braham sing in it. It is taken from the French piece Joconde, and is not marked with the translator's usual spirit and skill. By this time it is perhaps dead, for we left it dying! Young's Sir Pertinax M'Sycophant in the Man of the World is the best thing he ever did and we should be very glad if he would confine himself to humorously sarcastic characters, in which he excels. His Cato is enough to bring on melancholy madness, or drive one to suicide. We would not have been "pent up in Utica" with such an old proser for all that is beneath the moon. Simpson and Co. has been revived at this house (revived did we say ?— when did it ever die?)-got up, we should say, for the sake of making a merchant of Mr. Farren. He is no more Peter Simpson, than is the Monument made of India rubber! He marches about the stage, and never walks; his voice too snaps and detonates unnaturally, and is nothing is the man. Terry is Peter Simpson in manner, dress, voice, every thing! Farren would do well to strike himself out of the firm, as he is really not fit for business: One would as soon think of putting Sir Peter Teazle to mix teas and thump lump sugar, or of setting up Lord Ogleby in a chandler's shop, as of beholding Farren successful in Peter Simpson. Bless your heart! he would bring the house into discredit and ruin the firm. There is much banging of bodies and springing of rattles-and tumbling watchmen-and firing guns-a-kin to Mincing Lane tones. Terry but there is nothing to make you laugh. The people are continually quitting the pit by ones and twos throughout the piece, which we take to be strong evidence of dulness somewhere. The endeavour to write jokes for the audience is misjudged in a pantomime-for the gallery folk are a great way off, and very few of them can read. The clown, for instance, is about to rob the mail, and a guard fires at him; upon which he falls through a trap, and a placard rises, on which is written "Search at the dead letter office." Then at a review in the park, a round of beef is introduced, over which is written "an eighteen pounder." Who could have invented these surpassing plea santries? The whole merit of this pantomime is to be laid at the door of Mr. By the way, we do not think it quite correct in the managers of Covent Garden to get up this little comedy at their own house. It is printed to be sure, but still is it not the property of Drury Lane? They may have the legal, but have they the moral right to possess themselves thus of their neighbour's goods?— we think not. Prose by a Poet. The minor theatres have been outraging decency beyond all former example within the last month: and seldom as we are in the habit of noticing their performances, we cannot be silent on the present occasion; as we are quite sure that the tacit suffering of such indecencies on the part of the public is a surer proof, than any other, of the sad perversion of public taste. The Surrey Theatre, not lectured into wisdom or good feeling by the criticism of the King's Bench judges, has returned to its vile representation of the murder of Mr. Weare, the very moment the verdict of the jury rendered such a step safe. Before the trial of Thurtell, a drama founded on the harrowing circumstances of the murder, was iniquitous, as tending to poison the sources of justice: but since that objection has been removed, the stronger though more hidden causes for the suppression of such a piece have not been perceived, and the murder has come out, enriched with all that can satiate the savage curiosity of an audience. The real horse and gig are introduced; the table at which Probert and his hideous gang supped, the very chairs fresh from Gill's Hill cottage. Now, do these thrifty managers forget that the murdered man is scarcely cold in his grave; that the [Feb. horrors of his death are still hanging in all their agony on the public mind; and that relatives, the closest relatives of the deceased, are still living, to whose feelings some respect should unfortunate man's family can walk at least be shown? Not one of that the street without reading some memorial of his death against every wall, in play-bills large as counterpanes. Never until the present time have theatres yet omitted to allow time first to dull the colours of events too painfully bright for abominable mockery. "THE HERTFORDSHIRE TRAGEDY And overcome us like a summer cloud, PROSE BY A POET. THIS is a very pretty little book, we had almost said a beautiful one; but the diversity of its style will not permit the latter term to be applied as a general descriptive title. "Prose by a Poet" is a collection of short essays on various subjects, many of them interesting, all amusing. Some of them might have been written by a prose-writer,-none of them could have been penned by a proser. Had the work been merely entitled "Prose," the reader would inevitably have added "by a Poet," from the sweetness and melody of language which pervades many of the descripThere is more beauty of imagery and splendour of poetic vi tions. sion diffused throughout these volumes of prose, than is to be found in many poems, such by profession: if modern fancy has sometimes soared attained a purer region in the heaven to sublimer heights, it has not often of "empyrean poesy," than it floats in here. We quote from a Fable, entitled "The Moon and Stars." On the fourth day of creation, when the sun, after a glorious but solitary course, went down in the evening, and darkness began to gather over the face of the unin ance of vegetation, and prepared by the habited globe, already arrayed in exuberdiversity of land and water for the abode of uncreated animals and man,-a star, single and beautiful, stept forth into the Longman and Co. London, 1824. |