Modern Theatres

Long absent, Britain, from my natal isle, Once more I sought and hail'd thee with a smile; And tho' I found thee 'midst the storms of fate, So sweet thy pity to th'unfortunate, The sympathising Muse thy zeal admir'd, And paid the tribute filial love inspir'd; For, tho' a wanderer, can the Muse e'er roam Where thou, O land rever'd, art not her parent home? Yet, as I knew thy griefs, I thought to see, Ev'n in thy sports some marks of gravity: Since all the shores I left were bath'd in blood, And thy own children's veins supplied the flood, 'Twas strange, methought, in contrast to the time, To view thy Stage one mighty Pantomime! And thy chaste Drama, long a nation's pride— The Muses spurn'd—take Momus for a guide. 'Twas strange, in every scene, HIS power to trace, And note his monkey grin on ev'ry face. Say, is it thus my country hides her care? Tries she, by arts like these, to cheat despair? Thus, when she dreaded her impending doom, Prophetic pageants mark'd the fall of Rome. Well sung the sage sublime, whose prescient eye Foresaw the hour when Scenic Truth should fly Before the changes of a sinking age, And gaudy folly should usurp the Stage; On flying cars when "Sorcerers should ride, "Where Royal Lear had rav'd, and Hamlet died." That hour is come, confirm'd is Faustus' sway, And many a shining bubble marks his way; Instead of heroes drawn from Rome and Greece, A score of Harlequins crowd every piece; Instead of awful Phoebus and the Nine, A Grecian Droll, or Roman Columbine; The Tragic Muse, although by SIDDONS grac'd, In the New Booth, is so obscurely plac'd, That' mongst the motley crew she holds a rank Betwixt the Macedonian Mountebank, Satraps all hair, and Amazons all wig, And dumb Darius, dying to a jig: Hist'ry herself, whose adamantine page, Awful gave back the image of the age, Now with her childish sports profanes her dead, And plays the Romp, a fool's cap on her head, Dances the hay, while Ossian-Pantaloon Leads on Fingal to act some vile bufsoon.

For thee, poor Comedy! the art's forgot, Which once the sportive scene from Nature caught, Thy strokes of wit are now the haul, the flap, And thy Ghost rises from a mummer's trap: Then murder'd Humour haunts the Stage each night; Then glare the wounds of sense to aching sight.

To make an author or an actor great, How brief, how new, how simple the receipt! Give to your hero all the bully air; Croudtrick on trick, and let him boldly swear; A dozen damns in ev'ry act, at least; Oaths, quaintly vollied, are a glorious feast; But, above all, remember to surprize, For chiefly there the art of writing lies; With more than hocus pocus, ev'ry scene, Like jugglers' ball, should hold a cheat within, Something so odd, absurd, yet done so neat, Nature disowns, yet laughs at the conceit: Nor fail, for that gives spirit to your fable, To let your hero overset the table, Toss down the tea-board, smash, or force a door, Rare jokes, that set the playhouse in a roar! A stuffing scene too might enhance the treat; Fine jest, to see a modern actor eat! And if he drinks as fast, with jokes between, 'Tis the perfection of the modern scene! In life, to gorge and swill some censure draws, But on the stage are certain of applause. Note, too, your Hero should work hand and foot, And tear up ancient order by the root: Inverting good old plans, once deem'd so wise, Laugh all to scorn, if you would win the prize; For he's now thought the most diverting creature, Who writes, and acts, blest times! most out of Nature.

And is this fitting, while a bard yet lives, To whom her richest stores wrong'd Nature gives; Whose magic powers these tricksters could defeat, And instant drive them from the realms of wit; Who with the slightest waving of his wand, Could re-enthrone the Drama's rightful band! O, would he prove again that Drama's friend, Soon would the reign of Merry Andrews end. But still the Patriot veils the Poet's eharms, And Love assists to steal him from our arms.

Then bless'd the Muse, whose magic has impress'd Once more the moral on the public breast; And blest the actor, whose transcendent art, In baby times, like these, has reach'd the heart; Reach'd it by manly, not ignoble ways, And bid revive the power of ancient days! KEMBLE, all hail! thy wonder-working skill, Without one ribald jest, has made us feel; Wak'd in the soul a generous sense of woes, Ev'n in an age of Sights and Puppet-Shews!

Hence, may redawning Nature open wide One Revolution, worthy Britain's pride, The STAGE REFORM—methinks I see commence, Once more, the reign of Reason and of Sense; Feeling and Fashion, union rare, shall join, By FARREN's power, to soften and refine; And Elegance, with every sister grace, Their beams shall play from her enchanting face: While JORDAN, skill'd alike, by wond'rous art, To move with natural joy, or grief, the heart, Once more shall bid simplicity appear, Chastise our mirth, and dare to raise our tear: We hail, 'tis true, the sun's enlivening powers, But court no less the aid of tender showers.