How often have these impressive lines of the great moralist and philosopher, forced themselves on my recollection, as I have sat in the uneasy solitude of my managerial chair, pondering on past expedients, and devising new

ones.

On one particular occasion, now a good many years since, I had with great difficulty, and at vast expense, collected an operatic company, combining several of the principal English artists of the day; and produced in succession two or three new operas, composed by native authors of established talent and universal popularity, which had been received in London with extraordinary applause. It had always been said, and I was completely a convert to the opinion, that the public I had to cater for, were enthusiasts on the subject of music, that opera was their grande passion, and that to carry a season through successfully, music, in its endless variations, must form the prevailing commodity. In the faith of this doctrine I had toiled on for years, bringing forward, one by one, every sparkling novelty that appeared in the market, until I thought I had reached the ne plus ultra of managerial skill in the experiment I am now alluding to. The opportunity could not have occurred but for a very unexpected position of the leading London Theatres, which left many of the most eminent performers available at an early season of the year. For once I was sanguine as to the event, and received many anticipatory congratulations from all who were aware of my plans. It was pronounced impossible that such combined attraction could fail; but somehow or other it did contrive to fail in spite of everything. The engagement began; the new operas were played off in order; the audiences were excited to positive en

thusiasm; the press was liberal of panegyric; and even the "Free List" had been seen to applaud.

Those who are old enough will remember, and those who are not have doubtless read, that in the campaign of Saxony, in 1813, Napoleon gained two brilliant battles at Lutzen and Bautzen, but it so happened that he took neither guns, standards, nor prisoners. "Here," he exclaimed, "are two glorious victories, but where are the results?" Comparing great things with small, I found myself exactly in the same predicament. I heard the nightly shouts of approbation, I read the columns of praise in the journals, I received the most flattering compliments;-but I gazed on a consumptive money chest on the one side, and on an ominous looking ledger (“ a huge memorial of misfortune," as Baillie Jarvie calls it) on the other; and as I counted the meagre receipts of each successive evening, I turned to my desponding treasurer with elongated visage, and exclaimed, "Where are the results?" while he, in obedient sympathy and hollow accents, re-echoWhere?"!

ed 66

In this perplexing dilemma I sought for advice, as men generally do, and I found it most readily, as men always do. It is the only panacea which never fails to come when called for. If receipts could be commanded as easily, the manager's thorny couch would soon be transformed into a bed of roses. I assembled a cabinet-council of friends, whose opinions I thought worth listening to, and hinted with becoming hesitation that it was just possible we might be in error, and that perhaps the public did not always care quite as much for good music as was supposed. I ventured to suggest a reference to the books as a reasonable and business-like

mode of testing the fact; but this was scouted down at once by acclamation, my refractory ministry rejected all my suggestions, and an amendment was proposed and carried, nem. con., that the whole mischief arose from want of publicity; that it was impossible the matter could be known; and that we were in fact "wasting our sweetness on the desert air," because the public were ignorant of the treat they ap peared to be neglecting. This decision rather astonished me. The engagement had already run through ten nights. I was half ruined with extra printing, double advertisements, walking posters, monster placards, and all the complicated machinery of putling, by which the nobility, gentry, and public in general are usually made aware of the disinterested and unparalleled efforts which the spirited and indefatigable lessee of their national theatre, totally regardless of personal considerations, and heedless of impending ruin, was making for their special entertainment. I also retained some old-fashioned but mistaken notions, that the nightly applause and favourable report of wellpleased audiences were tolerably good announcements. But I was silenced, if not convinced, or like the worthy Dr. Primrose, "tired of being always wiser than other people." So I surrendered my own judgment, resolved to look closely into the fact, and adopt measures accordingly.

I sallied forth one brilliant morning, and wended my way, at high tide, through the leading thoroughfares where fashionable idlers "most do congregate." All the world was abroad, and I expected to meet everybody. I soon encountered one of the most theatrical men in the city-a regular playgoer. "Ah!" said he, "how are you? I am delighted to see you looking so well!" " Thank you," replied I, shaking hands cordially. "How goes on the theatre?" "Humph! tolerably." "Ah! managers are like farmers, always grumbling, never satisfied. Why you had a capital house last night; there must at least have been £300—I was there." I had just been looking over my unhappy ledger, which told me the actual receipt was £71 10s. 6d. !—but no matter, thought I, there's no use in making a poor mouth, so I'll put a good face on it, and encourage hini. Yes," said I, "it was a capital house, but we had six bad ones on the six preceding

nights, and one swallow, you know—” "Oh! yes, yes, I know all that, but you haven't given us any novelty." "Pardon me," I faintly put in, "we have had three new pieces within the last ten days; one of them a first-rate full opera, with every department unusually effective." "That's the mark!— why don't you stick to opera? it is the only thing that will go down here." "Possibly; but I can't play operas always, and I have stuck to opera pretty well. I have a very first-rate operatic combination here at present." "Indeed! I was not aware of that; who have you got?" This startled me a little, and I said, "Why I thought you were at the theatre last night!" Oh! yes, I was; but now I recollect I didn't go till the opera was over, and I only saw a stupid farce. D-d bore, those comic farces without jokes. Why don't you give them up?-they always send me to sleep. But what singers have you got ?""Miss Romer, Miss Poole, Templeton, II. Phillips, &c. &c. &c.— what do you think of that ?"—and I chuckled audibly, and looked and felt as conceited as Moses in the Vicar of Wakefield, when permitted to argue with Squire Thornhill. "Capital," exclaimed he; "if you could only give us Mr. and Mrs. Wood, and Balfe, along with them, it would do famously." A faint perception passed across my fa culties of the utter impossibility of paying such a formidable septetto, even if operas could be specially invented to include their united talents. I was going to stammer out something to this effect, when a friend of my friend, who looked like a heavy dragoon in plain clothes, entrenched behind an unmitigated pair of black mustachios, and who had hitherto leaned silently on his arm, exclaimed, as if suddenly inspired, like Orson, "Get Grisi and Tamburini, too, altogether; that would be capital! We'd all come then." He is quizzing me, thought I, and I looked him steadily in the face, but there was not even a faint adumbration of an approach to a joke in his entire physiognomy. He returned my gaze with an air as solemn and collected as a bench of judges who had just delivered a stunning opinion. I remarked with diffidence, that Grisi and Tamburini were at that moment in Italy, which was at some distance; that they did not sing in English; and that it was probable, even if I could meet their terms, that they might ob

. I

ject to sing in the choruses, which was all that would be left open to them. "That's true," said he, "by · never thought of that; but stick to opera and you'll do! Stick to opera and you'll do," reiterated my friend, again shaking hands tremendously, and the duumvirate strolled away. A few paces further on, I met another theatrical friend, whom I hadn't seen for weeks. "How are you, old fellow?" cried he, "when does the theatre open?-we want something to keep us alive." This was a staggerer, which had nearly sent me down the adjoining area; but I saved myself, and said, "We have been open nine weeks," and so passed on to a third. He had not been in the theatre for three months, although he declared he could scarcely live out of it. A fourth didn't go because it was cold; a fifth because it was hot; a sixth because there was a ball; a seventh because there was a dinner; an eighth because he had been out of town; a ninth, because his wife had sprained her ankle; a tenth, because his children had the measles; an eleventh, because his mother was ill in the country; and a twelfth was waiting for the command night, when he expected the most fun for his money. One did not like the Sonnambula, because it was old; another objected to the Mountain Sylph because it was new. An ultra-patriot declared he would only go on the nights when Balfe's operas were acted; an oppositionist on the other side, did not value native talent at a straw; there was nothing worth listening to but Rossini, Bellini, and Donizetti. One said, "You begin too early;" another remarked, "You keep us too late;" while a third suggested the advantage of always playing two operas on the same evening.

At last I was assured-"Your singers will be more attractive when they are better known." "Why, the engagement is more than half over," ejaculated I, with a despairing groan, "and I have lost already three hundred pounds." "No matter," said my comforter, "you'll do better another time; you know you could'nt expect to succeed all at once, but stick to opera, and it will be sure to carry you through." "While the grass grows," thought I, but though the proverb is somewhat musty, it appears I must digest it with what appetite I may. Thus I went on my path, I cannot say re

joicingly, but collecting opinions as variable as the hues of the rainbow, and becoming gradually convinced of two important, although rather irreconcileable facts—namely, that all the world were enthusiastically fond of music, but that a very small section of the community either knew or cared to inquire that a very excellent operatic treat was nightly within their reach. It was a self-evident paradox, but hopeless to reconcile or expound, and subscribing to the sage advice of the Gravedigger in Hamlet, I cudgelled my brains no longer on the subject.

Returning towards the theatre, I encountered my leader and musical director, foaming with indignation at a paragraph in a very influential paper. What is the matter, my worthy friend?" said I.

"Have you

seen this, sir?" exclaimed he, almost inarticulate with ire, and handing me the article. "The chorusses in the Mountain Sylph were weak and ineffective, and marred entirely the fine conceptions of the composer, owing to the slovenly manner in which they were executed." The last word in spiteful italics. "Is not this too bad," added he, "after the unusual applause bestowed on the choruses by the audience, and the written testimony of Mr. Phillips, and the other artists (here it is) declaring they are the best they ever heard out of London?" "Why," said I, "it is rather annoying, certainly, and may do us some harm, but it is only one among the thousand petty vexations that flesh, and particularly theatrical flesh, is heir to; and so common, that as Dr. O'Toole says, it is part of the system.' This writer can neither be incompetent nor prejudiced-both these casualties are impossible; but he is something hard to please, and as the majority are so decidedly with us, we must vote him in the wrong, and endeavour to live under his censure as well as we can." My anxious lieutenant was surprised at my apparent apathy. "But I would not put up with this, sir, at any price, if I were you," continued the indignant controller of harmony; surely you will take some notice, or let me answer it; what will

66

you do ?" "Do?" replied I, calmly, "what Talleyrand always recommended in a row-nothing!" "I should laugh at such stuff as that," exclaimed

another friend who had just joined us and overheard the dialogue. "No, no," said I, "I cannot exactly do that either, though I may pretend to treat it lightly, and shall certainly take no notice; every one has a right to his opinion. I don't agree with him, but still I see nothing to laugh at." Now, I was once a mighty laugher, until the res angustæ theatri pressed rather too heavily to leave me either time or inclination for mirth or jollity. No stauncher disciple of Democritus ever took degree in his college, and though now, alas! considerably in what Macbeth calls "the sear and yellow leaf" of life, I still think it good philosophy to "daff the world aside and let it pass," when I can. But few people I have ever met with are such inveterate humourists as to enjoy jokes at their own expense, and it is not easy to laugh in good earnest at what may abstract sundry pounds, shillings, and pence out of our individual pockets. I

;

confess, for one, I never could do this. A criticism may be hastily written such things have happened ere now; the judgment may be erroneous, and the writer not thoroughly master of his subject. Even professed critics are fallible, but still they include in their vocation the elements of much mischief, whether right or wrong, and lead the notions of many readers who dislike the fatigue of thinking for themselves, and believe all they see in diurnal print to be as true as gospel. Here are fair grounds for vexation certainly, and for some expenditure of temper, but none for merriment that I could ever dis discover, and I have always considered assumed mirth on such occasions as illustrating what the worthy and deceased Pierce Egan would have designated "grinning over the left," or, according to more elevated and ancient classical authorities, Horace included, laughing on the wrong side of the mouth."

66

IN 1829 I happened to fill the important functions of stage-manager and director, under Mr. Bunn, at that time lessee of the Dublin theatre. Lord Byron says "All times when old are good;" and, certainly, the old times of 1829, as they may now be called, when compared with the present, were, in a theatrical sense, better days than these which are feverishly galloping past us in the infancy of 1851. Still, they were bad enough; and, 'when contrasted again with the venerated antiquity which had preceded them, mere pigmies by the side of Patagonians. All was going wrong, although great efforts had been made, and the oracular information, conveyed through the play-bills, teemed, as usual, with overflowing and enraptured audiences, gorgeous spectacles, unheard-of exertions, incredible expense, additional pit doors to afford rapid egress to suffocating thousands, and all kinds of unimaginable effects, mechanical, physical, and intellectual. I once heard a caustic wit remark, with reference to our celebrated national orators, clerical, political, and forensic, that "the language had great power over them." Certainly, this applies, in its fullest force, to the concoctors of play-bills and theatrical

announcements, in all their multifarious phases. These authentic documents partake of hyperbole to a degree difficult to be understood by those whose temperaments are "of the earth, earthy;" not sufficiently poetical to appreciate the high pitch of imagination such ingenious fictions sometimes ascend to, and in comparison with which, the four imponderable bodies (as settled by learned chemists), light, heat, electricity, and magnetism, are positively heavy and substantial. The season was drawing to a close with a formidable balance on the wrong side. It was necessary to strike a blow, and without delay. Accordingly, I was despatched to London with carte blanche credentials, to make what engagements I could, using my own discretion, and at any reasonable expense. Something foreign with a name was the great desideratum. At that time, Mademoiselle Sontag had just appeared. She was in the early bloom of her youth, beauty, and reputation, and the fashionable world "followed her, even at the heels, in golden multitudes." The leading star of the theatrical firmament for the day, there was an "Eldorado " in her very name, and to this bewitching syren I made my first application. I was referred to a certain Signor, or Monsieur, or Herr

Pixis, who transacted all her engage. ments, and to this functionary I presented myself without delay. I found him a thin, cadaverous-looking, emaciated individual, well begrimed with snuff, in "marvellous foul linen," like the poet in Gil Blas, and enveloped in a dingy dressing-gown of indefinable colour. I announced myself, and my business, and was received with all due courtesy. He spoke in what he thought was English, but we soon became mutually unintelligible, and the whole affair so distressing, that I suggested French as a resource which he readily acceded to.

I saw at once he was a German, and, as a matter of course, avoided taking him on his own ground. We now got on without difficulty. When I had explained such preliminaries as were necessary, he said, "Yours is a fine city?" "I should rather think so," replied I. "And a large and beautiful theatre ?" "Equal to Covent Garden or Drurylano," shouted I, with triumph. "A most intelligent public," continued my interlocutor, "and good judges of music?" "The best in the world," rejoined I. He took a handful of snuff, smiled grimly, and then continued :"How much will your theatre hold?" We are coming to the point, thought I, as I answered, "at the prices we have named, when full in every part, about £430." 66 Good," said he, as he took a pen and wrote down, in welldefined figures, £430. "And what are your expenses?" "Why, with the large additions we must make to orchestra and choruses for such an occasion, at least £80 per night." "Good," again said he, and I saw a distinct 80 appear under the 430, then a line of subtraction, and finally 350 in large characters. A pause of some "Eh bien," said I, at length; "Mademoiselle," said he, "shall come for £350!!!" I started, and nearly fell off my chair, but I recovered my equilibrium, and inquired patiently, "Do you mean £350 for the whole six nights we have proposed, or for each ?" 66 Undoubtedly for each," replied he, with coolness enough to make a Quaker savage. I could have strangled the monster off hand, and for more than a minute felt strongly tempted to do so, but I thought I should be discovered in the act, and the thought restrained me. I am al. most ashamed to confess, but truth

moments.

VOL. XXXVII.-NO. CXVIII.

requires it, that I verily believe it was the fear of detection, rather than any religious or moral scruple, which withheld me from doing violence on him. As Mrs. Oakly has it, "I kept my rage down, although it nearly choked me.' "Why, then," said I, at last, "you take it for granted that the house will be crammed to suffocation every night." "There cannot be a doubt of it," said he, solemn and oracular as a Priestess of Delphi, and as self-convinced as my uncle Toby on the certainty of soldiers getting into Heaven. I had many

doubts, but it was useless to mention them. "Your proposal," exclaimed I, "is all on one side, even worse than 'an ill roasted egg,' and leaves us no possible chance of profit after this enormous risk and outlay." "But you are sure of your nightly expenses," said he," which, I dare say, you don't often get, et pour le reste, c'est votre affaire." I felt it quite impossible to endure more, so I got up, buttoned my coat, took up my hat, and, determining to upset him, if possible, said, "Did Mademoiselle Sontag ever receive £350 per night, for singing, anywhere ?" "Oh, yes, "Where?" "In Germany."

often."

66 I don't believe there are £350 in Germany." "Plait-il, monsieur ?" He pretended not to understand me; so I repeated deliberately, "I don't believe there are £350 in Germany, and as I know there is not that sum in Ireland, I have the honour to wish you a good morning." This time I think he was really astonished, for he neither moved nor spoke; and, as I passed through the door, he followed me with lack-lustre eye, but sat still, looking as listless and stupified as old John Willett at the vacant space once occupied by his boiler. Thus ended my first essay in foreign theatrical diplomacy.

I next thought of a Signor Velluti, who was also very popular and attractive at the time, although the striking peculiarity of his voice might have produced untimely merriment among the denizens of our gallery. I found him in handsome lodgings in Regent->treet, almost invisible within the folds of a brocaded roquelaure, redolent of perfume, and yellow as a new coined guinea. He was rather more moderate in his demands than the fair songstress, and would have been satisfied with one thousand pounds sterling for four performances, "ben assicurato

Q