The View of Covent-garden Theatre

To COVENT-GARDEN, reader, turn thy eyes, With painful feelings and increas'd surprize; For, who would think the stage could yet produce, On public favour, still more rank abuse, Than what we've shewn? yet, oh! sad truth to tell, DRURY, 'midst wretchedness, yet bears the belle; Shines o'er her sister, tho' with feeble light, And, tho' deplorable, is still more bright. See curious COLMAN, negligent of merit, Of Tragic energy, and comic spirit; Palm on his servile partners, and the town, Abject and vile dependants of his own; Let him of friends and mistresses have store, We kindly wish he had as many more; But, why should he, like some amongst the great, Make whores and fav'rites pensioners of state; Or, why should we, obedient to his whim, Glibly take down whatever pleases him? Taste is, indeed, reduc'd to dismal pass, Beneath controul of this assuming ass. For ass he is, who so mistakes his station, As to affront th' indulgence of a nation; The time may come, nor can be distant far, When judgment must commence successful war: When Genius will revive from second birth, And crush this pigmy tyrant into earth. The lowest muse must suffer pain, to stoop To such a motley, indigested group; Where lights are all so faint, and shades so strong, Where right so seldom takes the place of wrong; Where ignorance prevails, with boundless pride, And talents, which might please, are misapply'd; Where each man thinks he amply does his duty, And ev'ry woman thinks herself a beauty; 'Tis a hard task to paint them as we ought, Almost beyond the stretch of words, or thought; And if we should per-chance make dullness feel, "'Tis breaking butterflies upon a wheel." Ross, whom we cannot, take him all in all, With poignant CHURCHILL, a misfortune call, Wants but the spur of diligence to please, Bless'd with uncommon harmony and ease; Sometimes we own, his words confess a dose; And kindly call an audience to repose: Sometimes on GREEN BOXES, he turns his eyes, When some affecting passion ought to rise; Faults we admit, of aggravated kind, To sensibility of eyes and mind: Yet, when from dronish indolence he breaks, And to the meaning of his author wakes, We must applaud; tho' still we may regret, A gem of nature, negligently set: Bad as he is, we shall not stop to own, At COVENT he should mount the ROSCIAN throne; For still more excellence, we boldly deem, Found in his sleep than other's waking dream. Oh SAVIGNY! poor SAVIGNY! alas! and oh! Who could a creature of thy fabric shew? Made of such dross, that not a ray of soul, No spark PROMETHEAN animates the whole: Why, at the full meridian of thy days, Didst thou so vainly seek for public praise? Why, as an ACTOR, at such point of age, Attempt to strut thy hour upon the stage? Why madly make so terrible a choice, Of judgement void— of figure!— features!— voice? Why to contempt spur on, with matchless speed? A fool at forty, is a fool indeed. Could not the temp'ring honest steel suffice? Let surgeons' instruments sustain thy rise: For spouting— insignificant as thine— Will never make thy fame or pocket shine; If by impartial audiences disdain'd, Tho' by a selfish manager retain'd; Shake off the monkey's mean, designing claw; Nor, cat-like, furnish a convenient paw: 'Tis pitiful, whatever GEORGE may say, To march a colonel with an ensign's pay What shade of merit comes— so void of pith? 'Tis simp'ring, spirited, and squalling SMITH: Perch'd on the utmost summit of his voice, Utt'rance proclaims Monotony his choice; RICHARD, CASTALIO are but change of name, We find him everlastingly the same: Smooth-sounding sing-song issues from his throat— Regard not emphasis, observe the note: Seek ye, oh, cruel auditors! for sense? A shrill-ton'd voice makes ample recompense: No actor, sure, was e'er more vilely class'd, None e'er so faulty, with such fortune pass'd; If thou hast modesty, SMITH, ne'er presume, To step beyond the path of CAPTAIN PLUME: For scenes genteel, give up all Tragic rage, A gentleman both on and off the stage. BENSLEY— good heav'ns! what language shall we find To paint this strangest creature of his kind: This old, this new, this rumble jumble play'r, This prince of strides, and monarch of wild stare: This awkward thing, which neither chaunts, nor says, But by a kind of blund'ring instinct plays. Mark how his peevish features, strain and strive, In vain, to keep his characters alive; See long, ungraceful, wide expanded arms, With a large catalogue of equal charms; Join'd to a voice— oh wonderful alliance! That music sets, and meaning at defiance. Most, in a wide diversity will shew, Some gleams of merit, if they cannot glow: But this strange ACTOR, for we strange must call, One who shews like deficiency in all; Was form'd by nature on peculiar plan, Or rather by some bungling journeyman; Yet, he's a fav'rite, and as such must pass; Thus COLMAN makes each auditor an ass. Whom should the muse in due succession mark? 'Tis that same tolerable third-rate CLARKE: Oh, may he never rise to higher place, Who wants fit feelings, and essential grace; In medium stile, where nought affecting's meant, We think him capable to give content; And warmly wish, an honest truth to tell, The flimzy leaders fill'd their posts as well. Patience is shock'd, and reason render'd dull: Yield them some succour, modest, feeling HULL. 'Tis true, thy pow'rs, by nature are but slight; Yet, well-dispos'd, they often give delight: Thou dost not mouth, nor rant, nor strut, nor stare, Nature's thy guide— each author's sense thy care: Yet, sad necessity, sometimes we find, Imposes tasks of prejudicial kind; From walking gentlemen keep ever free, Nor sigh soft plaints of love in tragedy: Gain parts, which to the verge of nature last, Paternal feelings are thy proper cast: Possess'd of such, it will compleat thy plan, And match the ACTOR with the WORTHY MAN. WROUGHTON! what soil gave this same strippling birth? We know not, nor will call it fertile earth; For such a weed theatrical ne'er grew, Unless where dullness sheds her heavy dew: They must have keener optics, who can trace One gleam of meaning in his vacant face, Than we can boast of; and his voice, we own, To us marks insipidity of tone; Wretched, indeed, we think that author's doom; Whose sense in his conception finds a tomb; Yet he, like BENSLEY meets from GEORGE support; Thus blockheads make their way at ev'ry court. We ne'er have seen, and happ'ly never may, A more correct, or chaste performer play Than YATES; who, in his proper stile, A cynic of some laughter must beguile; Without one gleam of paltry, trickful art, By nature led, he glides upon the heart; Traces the path, where judgement strikes a line, And justly scorns by low finesse to shine; Dispassionate applause rewards his toils, And reason titles him the KING of SMILES. For approbation, why does SHUTER soar? Is all his aim to hear the gall'ries roar? 'Tis pitiful ambition— worthless fame— Tho' all St. GILES's ecchoes with his same: 'Tis true, each man enjoys peculiar taste, Nor males, nor females, can be always chaste; Yet, ev'ry sphere of life should take for guide, A decent quantum of becoming pride. Good-natur'd NED, with public favour drunk, Ne'er frowns upon a gambler, or a punk; In public, and in private, speaks his jokes; Laughs at the sun, and thinks them witty strokes: Let friendship lay this truth before his eyes, He that's so merry, is but seldom wise; And tell him of a swift-approaching age, When lost to action, he must quit the stage: What pain to think, that mirth and pleasure past, Life should convert to tragedy at last; Avert the storm, in time; lay by some pence; They'll yield thee comfort, and proclaim thy sense; Stick by thee, when the host of midnight friends, Who laugh and follow, but for private ends; Stand far aloof and follies past condemn, Lest thy necessities should call on them: Excuse this freedom, on these truths depend, They are the language of a zealous friend. Old dog-trot DUNSTALL keeps the beaten way, And very seldom mends, or mars a play; QUICK rises, with advantage to our view, Better than most, ev'n now surpass'd by few: Some cultivation, through some seasons more, His talents will command the jocund roar; Unless his worth the manager should trace, And for his merit doom him to disgrace. KNIVETON, presumptively, should never bring His talents in comparison with KING; Yet, he has merit in the comic strain, Tho' all attempts in tragedy are vain. In dialogue a dismal, wretched thing, DU-BELLAMY should never speak, but sing; The notes of music bear him thro' with ease, In these alone he may expect to please. DYER was never any thing to boast, A sufferable coxcomb, at the most; Now sinking fast into the vale of years, The remnant of a remnant he appears. GARDNER may safely walk the middle way, A greater compliment we cannot pay; Stiff in his figure, bounded in his voice, Seconds or firsts should never be his choice. YOUNGER! who's that? a Prompter, just broke loose, To lisp forth characters— what strange abuse! That one by nature happily design'd, To guide the business of the stage behind, Should stalk a spectacle in solemn scenes, While half the audience knows not what he means; For shame, keep pride within the bounds of sense, Nor let such acting madness give offence. MATTOCKS has little, or to praise, or blame, If any, he can boast but lukewarm fame; Unmov'd, we hear him either sing or say; His pow'rs can never make us grave, or gay. Come, chearful HAL, whom time, with gentle hand, Hath kindly strok'd, conclude the comic band; Lively, descriptive, graceful WOODWARD, come, With merit that may strike e'en malice dumb; CHURCHILL— the best absurdities advance,— When he beheld thee, view'd with eyes askaunce; Else, had he judg'd impartially thy cause, He must have honour'd thee with warm applause: For sure, in Fops, and parts of outrè kind, All thy competitors fall far behind: All must acknowledge thy superior glee, In the gay cast of laughing Comedy; Yet, let us own, and take it as a friend, We cannot sea-bred IRONSIDES commend; Too strain'd in attitude, too stiff in speech, The plain, rough Tar you cannot justly reach; And we acknowledge, with reluctant will, Thro' all his scenes we trace thy BOBADIL: Thy study'd grace is a laborious plan, And shews too oft the PICTURE of a MAN: Yet, we behold with pleasure, and admire, Thy sportful countenance, thy youthful fire; While some reflections on GEORGE COLMAN cease, For making thee an article of peace. MACKLIN, now got beyond her youthful bloom, Why was the stage, she never liked, her doom? Exerts her stinted pow'rs, with some applause, Tho' fetter'd with a father's rigid laws: We cannot mechaniz'd instructions love, Nature, so trammell'd, cannot freely move; Hence dull correctness active Genius binds, And rests insipidly on critic minds. BULKLEY and BAKER, pretty women both, To speak against them gallantry is loth; But, howsoe'er good-nature may condole, To praise their beauty, is to praise the whole. Next come a pair, with constant pleasure seen, Tho' plain of persons, PITT we shew, and GREEN; They move, they speak, they mark, the author's thought, And prove their merit is from nature caught: By much the best, as far as they engage, Of any females now on either stage. What shall we say of LESSINGHAM, the fair, She has of managers been long the care; Oh, that regard would make her all their own, And snatch a tasteless milksop from the town; One who for parts eternally would fight, Without the sense, or talents, to be right. KNIVETON, a bauble, fit for childish view, Who scarce to Gipsey could afford her due; KNIVETON, as bad as possible to think, Irksome to hear, as dead small beer to drink. VINCENT, whose age cries loudly for the fund By ev'ry eye of nice distinction shunn'd; Abhorr'd by ev'ry tender-feeling ear, Is yet brought forward in a youthful sphere; Would, she display'd such worth in public life, As she has shewn in mother, friend, and wife; Applauding multitudes might then contend, Who should stand foremost her assisting friend. MILLER, by favour more than nature bless'd, Of foremost characters we see possess'd; What madness guides, what partial planet reigns. When insignificance such influence gains? Judgement, with calmest patience join'd, must frown, When one hand mounts, to let the other down; When grief or declamation drooping flags, And screech-owl screams tear passion into rags: Give us a sample, gods! of better store, Or let us never see an actress more. Once, in FOOTE's pieces, GARDNER gave us joy, But bawls repeated, all her pow'rs destroy; No doubt she thinks herself monst'rous fine, And yet is BILLINGSGATE in ev'ry line. MATTOCKS, to grant what she may claim as due, Stands in a favourable point of view; Spirit, expression, and some pleasing tones, For comic archness, or for tragic moans; A figure happily dispos'd, tho' small, Striking in nought— agreeable in all: Sometimes too earnest in desire to please, She steps beyond the boundaries of ease; Forces her features into painful state, And rather sinks— attempting to be great: Yet few, for gen'ral use, can rivals stand; Or such applause, in various lights, command: Perhaps, not one— then let our cordial lays Give, what they joy to give, impartial praise. When public favour warmly stamps regard, To criticize is perilous and hard; The loud-mouth'd multitude rush sweeping by, And, hound-like, follow as the leaders cry; Yet, their mad favour, e'en from WILKES to BUTE, We often find a paltry prostitute; So, in the mimic state, 'tis fashion's laws, Not merit, calls forth for popular applause: Thus justice from her equilibrium swerves, Hence YATES enjoys more than she deserves. Puff'd with importance, and a sweeping train, Behold she comes— insufferably vain; Observe her countenance uplifted high, Pride on her brow, and fury in her eye; Mildness or love she cannot represent, On haughtier subjects are her feelings bent: In rage, we freely grant, she can excell, Who plays a tragic termagant so well? When grief she struggles for, 'tis harsh and coarse, Indelicately swell'd with needless force; Her clock-work action painful study shews, In speech, or movement, nature never glows: 'Tis true, that plac'd among the bad, she shines, As feeble lamps may light the womb of mines; But, should a gleam of sun-shine strike the sight, Such pallid fires would sink in endless night. Thus ends our painful task— a task, indeed— Enough to make good-natur'd bosoms bleed; Why should we, Caesar like, anatomize, And seem to triumph in dissecting flies? The answer's plain; in such a patient age, 'Tis just to rouze and vindicate the stage.