through her part with wonderful composure. Mr. Kemble appeared greatly agitated, yet in no instance did his trouble interrupt him in carrying on the "cunning of the scene:" Perhaps a finer dumb shew was never witnessed. In the scene where C. Kemble, as Macduff, triumphs over the fallen usurper, the audience took considerable delight. Many cried out, "Well done, kill him, Charley!" and exulted in the ideal pangs of the dying Macbeth.

The performances of the evening closed with the entertainment of the "Quaker," who was as dumb as though "the spirit did not move him." The whole was over before ten o'clock.

After the curtain dropped, the audience kept their seats, in expectation of the managers coming forward. They were loudly called for, yet did not condescend to appear. The only excess in which the spectators indulged was a noisy disapproval of, what they conceived to be, unjustifiable innovations on their prescriptive rights; they continued clamorous even after midnight. There was a complete rivalry between the public and the managers, in exhaustion of patience.

When Mr. Kemble made his first appearance to speak the address, a paper was handed to him

from the pit; he glanced at it, and, as it is supposed, found it not to be friendly, for he blushed, and huddled it into his pocket. The audience singled him out as the object of their peculiar disapprobation, and in the entire second act, stood up with their backs turned to him. Indeed, through the whole play, they kept a standing position on the benches, with their hats on. A candle was thrown at Mr. Liston, during the performance of the "Quaker."

When the magistrates appeared, the indignant cries of" No police in a Theatre" induced those ill-advised men to make their congés, and retire. Constables attempted to clear the pit and galleries; in the former they met with opposition, and evasion in the latter; the tenants of the upper gallery dropping themselves quietly into the under.

By degrees, the uproar subsided into the loyal effusion of "God Save the King," when those who remained, retired, and the house was cleared at half-past twelve.

The above concise detail of the tumult that occurred on the first night of the re-opening of Covent Garden Theatre, may be taken as a fair sample of the diversions practised therein for

sixty-six nights in succession, when peace was proclaimed by both public and managers; both. parties agreeing to the reduction of the pit-price from 4s. to 3s. 6d. the advancement of the boxes from 6s. to 7s. and the reduction in point of number of the private boxes, together with the non-engagement of Madame Catalani.

During this" Theatric War," it may be guessed the wits were not backward in showering down their lampoons on the hapless managers. Kemble, of course, came in for his full share of pasquinades, some of which are certainly worthy of being treasured here; from which we select the two following.

SOLILOQUY OF THE MOOR OF COVENT GARDEN.

I had been happy if th' united House,

Pit, galleries, and boxes,—all had paid
Their money cheerily, and riot we had none.
Oh! now for ever farewell, ambition's hope!
Farewell applause! and side-long glances
From the boxes, thro' the sticks of fan,
Or from behind the kerchief-veiled face.
Farewell our golden hopes of swelling bags,
And long account at banker's.

Farewell, ye wanton toys of feather'd Cupid
In th' anti-chambers of the private annuals!
Hark! the loud twanging of the bugle-horn,

Th' ear-piercing whistle, and terrific bell,

The plaguy placard, drum, and deaf'ning rattle;
The voice Stentorian, and the serpent's hiss!
Sibilant!-all, all awake me

From dreams delusive of eternal triumph!
And ye, ye catcalls, of infernal sound,
Whose barbarous sounds might even split the ears
Of Belzebub himself,--
--cease your horrific din.
No more the valiant Dan, with host of Israel,
Flank'd and supported by the Bow-street tribe
Of myrmidons, and bruisers squaring in the pit ;-
No more the phalanx dares to face the town.
O'erwhelm'd by numbers and determin'd hate ;—
No more the orders in the boxes now

Support the managers, but placards wave,

And O. P's. shine from every box!-initials hateful:
All, all, our efforts are in vain, and fate decides
By the loud voice of the people,-irresistible,

That prices be reduced, and privacies

Thrown open.―

Farewell,-Othello's occupation's gone!

ANACREON IN BOW STREET,

By the author of " My Pocket Book."

As rapt I sweep the golden lyre,

To love I cry, ""

'my notes inspire,

And let me sing of Rosa :"

But Thespian wars fill all my strain,

Tom Harris, junior, hopeless swain !

John Kemble and Mendoza.

288

THEATRES AND THEATRICALS.

Then, if I to the stage belong,

O! let me sing the charms of song,
Of Billington and Braham!
In vain, again my wishes fail,
I sing of nought but heavy bail,
Of Townsend and of Graham.

The soul of harmony is dead,
And vilest discord reigns instead,
With rioting and battles.

To shrieking owls are turn'd my doves,
To O. P. men the little loves :
My lyre to horns and rattles.

THE UNSUCCESSFUL GHOST.

An unfortunate débutant who made his appearance as the Ghost, in "Hamlet," was so rudely treated by the audience, that, in the midst of the scene, he took off his visor, and put the audience in perfect good humour by saying, "Ladies and Gentlemen, it was my hope to please you; if I have failed, I must give up the Ghost."

END OF VOL. II.

LONDON:

Printed by D. S. Maurice, Fenchurch-street.