Any reader who may happen to proceed to my fifth act, either through the four first, or by a shorter cut, will there find the description of a scene, some of the exuberant magnificence of which may certainly, without much injury to the action, be retrenched. But he will observe that it is a night scene-that night is its essential feature-that it indicates moonlight-that it is the dispersing of a masquerade-that the dialogue at almost every line alludes to its being night, to the rising moon, to a serenade, happy dreams, falling dews, &c., what then will be his surprise, and if he be a dramatist, his horror, to hear that only at four o'clock on the day previous to our first representation, I discovered by accident, that the scene which was to stand for this was a common-place villa, producing an effect of noon-day sunshine. Everybody else having left the theatre I remonstrated with the carpenter, who told me that it was to no purpose, that the scenes which had been originally prepared for me had been painted over and used up for other purposes according to orders-that they had also been ordered to do nothing new for me-that they had made the best shift that they could, and that their old stock could positively supply nothing nearer to my intentions. By means, however, of the exertions of Mr. Wallack and Mr. Wilmot, the prompter, this extraordinary negligence was repaired, and a satisfactory scene substituted. In the fifth act will also be found allusions, numerous, emphatic, and important, to a black domino-of that act, this black domino is the theme and argument. Black it must be, "black as Erebus." At three o'clock on the day of representation Mr. Macready requested my presence in the wardrobe for my opinion as to some parts of his dress. I attended him, and, the points in question being settled, my eye fell upon an isolated domino. It was blue: it does not, therefore, thought I, concern me. An afterthought, however, occurred, on recollection of the sunshine scene. It was as well to inquire. I did so. It was for Mr. Macready in the fifth act. "For Mr. Macready?" said I, "there is some mistake in your orders, that "It is no mistake," said Mr. Palmer, the keeper of the wardrobe," but there is no such thing in the stock." "What then?" I rejoined," as it is absolutely indispensable, and were it not so, as it is too late to alter my dialogue, could you not hire one?" "We have strict orders," added Mr. Palmer, " to go to no expense for this play, "Then," said I, "I will spare your half-crown, and send in one from the first Mr. Palmer concluded by saying, that rather than I should be so troubled, he would take that responsibility upon himself; he did so, and at the hazard, it appears, of the manager's displeasure, the black domino was at length provided. is to be a black domino." masquerade warehouse." The reader will judge of the derision which these two extraordinary anomalies, had I not accidentally discovered and prevented them, must have brought upon my fifth act, and make his own conclusion. For a moment, I could not but suspect a conspiracy, hatched in some of those obscure retreats where the manager so often takes refuge from such visitors as wear the aspect of business, or from any demand upon him for an act of decision, I had almost said of volition. The risk Mr. Palmer took upon himself in the case of the domino is not the only favour I owe to that gentleman, he having supplied from his own private property the armour worn by my staunch friend Cooper, as the the king, who in vain tried to obtain for his majesty in the earlier scenes, even a decent deshabille. me, I The term of my perplexities, however, had now arrived, and a critical trial of my and impatient zeal for a worthier poet trampling hard upon me in the rear, with the laurel prepared for him and the condemned night-cap for 1 was at length jostled into the presence of my judges, whose verdict soon added another to the many proofs I had received of their unfailing justice and generosity. This verdict was confirmed universally by the press, and even such journals as had been betrayed, I know not how, into sneers at my importunity and presumption in forcing the play upon the theatre, made me in their reports more than amends for their error, of which this statement will, I trust, altogether convince them. I am also bound to thank all the actors for their loyal and brilliant exertions on the day of trial, which banished from my mind every feeling but that of charity for the past and better hopes for the future. If the present statement seems a deviation from this state of feeling, it is that my wrongs have not terminated here. I have so far given a most imperfect idea of their extent, unwilling to encumber the public with further details, especially such as might seem to have an invidious tendency towards a brother dramatist, for whom I have the highest esteem. Still I have not made the statement in anger; my feelings at this moment are wholly free from intemperance. These appeals are far from being to my taste, as my reader, I think, will admit, when I tell him that my opera of "Masaniello," has been recently printed with an introduction in which I have suppressed the extraordinary fact (although I now think proper also to publish it), of my never having received, after more than one hundred representations, one shilling of remuneration for it from the theatre: that on the failure of Mr. Price, the committee refused to admit my claim, or to make me the most moderate compensation on behalf of the theatre, though they had been many weeks in possession of the treasury; though during the whole of that season they continued to act the opera for the advantage, and indeed as a principal support of the theatre, and afterwards handed it over to the present lessees, as the lawful property of the theatre, and all this they did, like Prince Prettyman," because they dare." It was law," Crowner's quest law," theatrical law, or, as they thought, law of some sort. The equity of the case was another matter: that I was to seek in a court, whither the loss of three hundred pounds was not likely to drive a poor man in his senses. It was their duty to take every advantage for the good of the theatre, forgetting that they had obtained for Mr. Price, in spite of this paramount duty, the restitution of eighteen hundred pounds of his rent. For what? Surely not because Mr. Price's claim, under the circumstances, was a fairer one than mine. I repeat it, I state these facts at present as well as those which precede, not in anger, but deliberately. I state them in an honest spirit of self-defence, and in the common cause of my brother dramatists. I state them, because I have found in this theatre an obtuse, an intractable and an unblushing insensibility to the claims of authors in every way, which is only aggravated by forbearance. I state them, because we have become so signally and so peculiarly the victims of the changed condition of the London theatres, that, at a time when the spirit of reform and justice is abroad, it may seem good to the enlightened and influential portion of the patrons of the drama, that some effort should be made in our behalf, either in the way of legislative protection, or relieving the regular drama from a monopoly so open to abuse. It is for these reasons that I begin to feel that grievances of this nature, increasing as they are, should no longer be indolently lost sight of, or dissipated as mine have hitherto been, by a good night's sleep, or a walk in the Regent's Park. HERNANI. ACT I. SCENE.-A bed chamber. Night. A lamp on a tabledoor of a closet, L. 2 E.—a small door, R. c.—a door R. 2 E., door of entrance, L. c., a table, R. C., and chairs. JOSEPHA discovered at embroidery. A knocking heard at a small door on the R. c.-she listens-knocking a second time. JOSEP. He knocks. Yes, 'tis his signal. No loiterer he. Yet sure 'tis scarcely yet his time! (knocking heard a third time. And from thence it comes. (goes to the door, R. C., and opens it. DON CARLOS enters, wrapped in a cloak, and a broad hat covering his eyes. JOSEP. Good day, young cavalier. (looks closer. Ah! 'tis a stranger. Ho! within there! help! CARL. (seizing her arm) Another word, old woman, is thy last, Save at my pleasure. Thou art dumb; 'tis well Then is there reason in thee! Answer me: This chamber is the privacy, is't not, Of Donna Zanthe, she that is affianced To wed her kinsman, old Don Leo Gomez ? The veteran, that despite grey hairs, yet vaunts As we of nimbler pulse and rounder limb! JOSEP. It is. This is her chamber, signor. CARL. Good. And the fair betrothed yields, as I think, To strange disloyal fancies: dreams o'nights While Grey-beard sleeps securely, of a chin Furnished in daintier fashion, of moustachios Sleek and ungrizzled, that encumber not The lips of love, and above all, an eye, Stood rival legions armed against his hopes, Would look a fierce defiance to them allHow's this, old dame? JOSEP. You bade me hold my peace. CARL. Save at my pleasure, that will have thee speak, CARL. Your amorous dotard is abroad, no doubt? CARL. The youth expected? JOSEP. Yes. CARL. And here the turtles are to meet and coo. CARL. That may happen. Conceal me. JOSEP. Lo, the door by which you entered Is open, signor, and the city's wide. Go and conceal yourself. CARL. Here, in this chamber, Find me a hiding place. JOSEP. Find you? For what? What seek ye with my mistress? CARL. I--oh! nothing. JOSEP. What then with me? CARL. Nay, truly, nothing either. JOSEP. Begone then. CARL. In good time. Wilt' hide me? JOSEP. Never. CARL. I have some precious metals here may help me. (draws from his girdle a dagger and a purse. Wilt' please you choose between them- Steel or gold? JOSEP. You are the devil, then. CARL. To-night I am. JOSEP. I think so, and despite my sanctity, I needs must hold a candle to thee. CARL. Wisely resolved. JOSEP. Give me thy gold. 'Tis lusty, faith. (takes it, then opens a closet, L.) Now enter here. CARL. (X's to the closet) Here! Art thou mad, old lady? What fiddle-case is this? I could not thrust My cloak in it. JOSEP. You'll find no other here, Depend on't: so, since hiding is your pleasure, You'll not be first, that I can tell you, signor, CARL. (entering)_If I out come alive, it must be quickly. My mistress coming. Shut the door. CARL. Now mark me, Unless you'd have the steel, as well as gold, Be trusty. Not a word. JOSEP. I shall remember. (shuts him in.) Who can the savage be? What brings him here ? And Donna Zanthe. Then I'll keep my counsel. Enter DONNA ZANTHE R, 2 E. ZANTH. Josepha ! JOSEP. Madam. ZANTH. I begin to fear Some accident. Hernani should be here Ere this. Have you not heard his signal? JOSEP. No, madam. Once I fancied I had heard it, But found I was mistaken. ZANTH. (listening) Didst not hear A footstep? JOSEP. No. At night one hears so plainly- That fidget strangely. Some such thing you heard. HERNANI enters in a large cloak and hat, and beneath, the dress of a Mountaineer of Arragon, grey, with a cuirass of leather, wearing a sword, a poniard suspended from his left shoulder, and a horn in his girdle. HERN. Donna Zanthe! |