1820. Letter from an Elderly Gentlewoman to Mr. Christopher North. And in the scowl of heaven his face Grew black as he was sipping. دو "It is spoiled elder wine-rendered astringent by oak-wood, saw-dust, and the husks of filberts-lead and arsenic, Madam, are- but my ears tingled and I heard no more.. I confessed to the amount of six glasses a-day of this hellish liquor-pardon my warmth and that such had been my allowance for many years. My thirst was now intolerable, and I beseeched a glass of beer. It came, and Death in the Pot detected at once the murderous designs of the brewer. Coculus indicus, Spanish juice, hartshorn shavings, orange powder, copperas, opium, tobacco, nux vomica-such were the shocking words he kept repeating to himself and then again, "MRS TROLLOPE IS POISONED." May I not have a single cup of tea, Mr Accum," I asked imploringly, and the chemist shook his head. He then opened the tea-caddy, and emptying its contents, rubbed my best green tea between his hard horny palms. "Sloe-leaves, and white-thorn leaves, Madam, coloured with Dutch pink, and with the fine green bloom of verdigrise! Much, in the course of your regular life, you must have swallowed!" "Might I try the coffee?" Oh! Mr North, Mr North, you know my age, and never once, during my whole existence, have I tasted coffee. I have been deluded by pease and beans, sand, gravel, and vegetable powder! Mr Accum called it shamcoffee, most infamous stuff, and unfit for human food! Alas! the day that I was born! In despair I asked for a glass of water, and just as the sparkling beverage was about to touch my pale quivering lips, my friend, for I must call him so in spite of every thing, interfered, and tasting it, squirt ed it out of his mouth, with a most alarming countenance. "It comes out of a lead cistern-it is a 623 deadly poison." Here I threw myself on my knees before this inexorable man, and cried, " Mr Death in the Pot, is there in heaven, on earth, or the waters under the earth, any one particle of matter that is not impreg nated with death? What means this desperate mockery? For mercy's sake give me the very smallest piece of bread and cheese, or I can support myself no longer. Are we, or are we not, to have a morsel of breakfast this day?" He cut off about an inch long piece of cheese from that identical double Gloucester that you yourself, Mr North, chose for me, on your last visit to London, and declared that it had been rendered most poisonous by the "There is anotta used to colour it. here, Mrs Trollope, a quantity of red lead. Have, you, madam, never experienced, after devouring half a pound of this cheese, an indescribable pain in the region of the abdomen and of. the stomach, accompanied with a feeling of tension, which occasioned much restlessness, anxiety, and repugnance to food? Have you never felt, after i a Welch rabbit of it, a very violent cholic?" "Yes! yes-often, often I exclaimed." And did you use pepper and mustard?" "I did even So. "Let me see the castors." I rose from my knees and brought them out. He puffed out a little pepper into the palm of his hand, and went on as usual, "This, madam, is spurious pepper altogether-it is made up of oil cakes, (the residue of linseed, from which the oil has been pressed) common clay, and, perhaps, a small portion of Cayenne pepper (itself probably artificial or adulterated) to make it pungent. But now for the mustard," at this juncture the servant maid came in, and I told her that I was poisoned-she set up a prodigious scream, and Mr Accum let fall the mustard pot on the carpet. But it is needless for me to prolong the shocking narrative. They assist ed me to get into bed, from which I never more expect to rise. My eyes have been opened, and I see the horI now rememrors of my situation. ber the most excruciating cholic, and divers other pangs which I thought nothing of at the time, but which must have been the effect of the deleterious solids and liquids which I was daily introducing into my stomach. It appears that I have never, so much as once, either eat or drank a real thing that is, a thing being what it pretended to be. Oh the weight of lead and of copper that has passed through my body! Oh! too, the gravel and the sand! But it is impossible to deceive me now. This very evening some bread was brought to me. Bread! I cried out indignantly-Take the vile deception out of my sight. Yes, my dear Kit, it was a villanous loaf of clay and alum! But my resolution is fixed, and I hope to die in peace. Hence forth, I shall not allow one particle of matter to descend into my stomach ! Already I feel myself "of the earth, earthy.' Mr Accum seldom leaves my bed-side-and yesterday brought with him several eatables and drink ables, which he assured me he had analyzed, subjected to the test-act, and found them to be conformists. But I have no trust in chemistry. His quar ter-loaf looked like a chip cut off the corner of a stone block. It was a manifest sham boaf. After being delude ed in my Hollands, bit in my brandy, and having found my muffins a mockery, never more shall I be thrown off my guard. I am waxing weaker and weaker-so farewell! Bewildering indeed has been the destiny of SUSANNA TROLLOPE. P.S.-I have opened my mistress's letter to add, that she died this evening about a quarter past eight, in excruciating torments. SALLY ROGERS. NOTICES OF THE ACTED DRAMA IN LONDON. DRURY LANE THEATRE. her not because she was his country, or because she deserved to be forgiven MR KEAN has played Coriolanus; and he has played it very badly. We are not at all sorry for this. If the event but because his mother pleaded had been much otherwise it would her cause, and because she lay have gone nigh to overturn all our fa- bound and humbled at his feet. Wo vourite theories respecting the nature to the state that can produce such men of his genius.-The Roman character as this; still more to that which was a splendid work of art,-like the can glory in them. It was folly to Apollo Belvidere. As grand and in- give the people the power of banishspiring to look at; formed on nearly ing such a man; but it was wisdom as fixed and precise rules, and of in the people to use that power as nearly as cold and hard materials. Co- they did. Mr Kean is exactly the riolanus was a fair example of that cha- last person in the world to play such a racter-though rather an extreme one: character as Coriolanus; and, accordAnd Mr Kean can, therefore, no more ingly, his performance was a total represent Coriolanus than he can Apol- failure. We speak this in reference to lo. Nature has forbidden him. The our pre-conceived notions of the charfault was not in failing, but in trying acter. He was hot where he should to succeed. We have been told that have been cold-vehement where he the experiment was made against Mr should have been calm angry where Kean's judgment; and we can easily he should have been contemptuous believe this, because we wish to be passionate where he should have been lieve it. Coriolanus was but a repul- proud. Thinking so highly as we do sive sort of person, after all. If he of Mr Kean's judgment, we should be was above his fellow beings in some things it was precisely because he was below them in others. He fought for his country like a god, so long as she treated him as one; but the inotant she remembered that he was a mortal he forgot that she was his country; and then he fought against her for the very same reasons, and with the very same spirit that he had before fought on her side. And when he had conquered her, and she was lying bound before him, he forgave at a loss to account for all this, if he not lose for any one thing that even Mr Kean could substitute for its place. The opinion may seem bold; but we really do think that Mr Kean has shewn more genius in mis-representing Shakspear as he has done in these two characters, and in parts of others, than any one else but Mrs Siddons has in representing Shakspear. -It is a perfect Transmutation of metals. He takes the dialogue of a character as it is written in Shakspear, and finding it not suited to his powers and purposes, he, by some happy alchemy of mind," transforms it into something which is yet without diminishing its weight or value. This is the true Philosopher's Stone, after all. We hope that the discovery is accompanied by that of the Elixir Vitæ: but we beg, nevertheless, that he will keep both the secrets to himself. The Hebrew. 66 Ivanhoe has been dramatised at both theatres; and has been successful at both without deserving to be so at either. In fact these adaptations of the great Novelist's works are under taken merely as money-getting speculations, and they succeed only because they administer to an idle and senseless curiosity. People go to see them because they "wonder what can be made of them on the stage ;" and to try if they can find out in what they agree with and differ from the originals. But those who truly admire and appreciate these splendid works feel that it is a species of profanation to touch and tamper with them at all much more so to cut and carve them about, and transpose the language and sentiments, so as to adapt them to the taste of modern audiences, and the talents of favourite actors! But how is it possible, and if it were, how is it desirable, to think of Meg Merrilies under the disguise of Mrs Egerton ? Mrs Fawcett, with all her good sense and spirit, interferes in a very troublesome manner with our recollections of Helen M'Gregor. We never see Miss Stephens without delight, except when she disturbs our conceptions of Effie Deans or Diana Vernon. And even the irresistible jokes of Liston's face are rather impertinent when it is palmed upon us as that of Dominie Sampson or the Baillie Jarvie.-And when the dramatisers of these works choose to depart from the originals in costume or spirit or character it becomes still worse. We will not say it is like falsifying the truth of history and of nature-for it is doing so. This latter is the chief fault of the drama of The Hebrew at this theatre. In order to adapt the character of Isaac of York to the talents of Mr Kean it has been totally changed and made what it could not by any possibility have been in the times during which he lived. He is bold, generous, sensitive, and grateful at first; and towards the end he goes mad for horror at his daughter's dangers, and at last dies for joy at her escape from them! In like manner Ivanhoe is made to declare open and honourable love for Rebecca-the son of a Saxon noble for the daughter of a proscribed and polluted Israelite! This could not have been. Love is almost omnipotent: but Nature-that "second Nature" which is created by Custom, and frequently becomes more powerful than the first-absolutely forbad it. For the rest, the delicate and touching beauty of Rebecca's character is, of course, totally destroyed by making the love between her and Ivanhoe mutual and avowed. And, to sum up the whole, Robin Hood is enacted by Mr T. Cooke !-So that we have, for the present, got quite out of conceit of our once favourite freebooter; and are no longer disposed to question the assertion of Mr Wordsworth, that "Scotland hath a thief as good." COVENT GARDEN THEATRE. The Antiquary. Mr Terry has dramatised the Antiquary; and it has been performed with considerable success. As a drama it pleased us better than Guy Mannering or the Heart of Mid-Lothian, but not near so well as Rob Roy. It would be superfluous to detail the particulars in which the play differs from or agrees VOL. VI. with the Novel. And indeed it is almost a pity that we are compelled to speak and think of the two together; for however meagre and inefficient they may be as dramatic representations of the Novels themselves,-these dramas are certainly very obvious improvements on the wretched farrago of cant and common-place that we have 4 K been obliged to endure whenever we were disposed to hear any of our delightful English singers. Most of the characters in this opera are mere unfinished etchings of the originals: like those impressions which are thrown off from fine plates at an early stage of the engraving. This is not the case, however, with Mrs Fawcett's Elspeth-which is really a most finished and impressive copy of the original picture. Her costume and face are absolutely perfect. They are the only things in this or any of the preceding dramas which do not detract from our recollections of the same things in the novels. Mr Liston played Mr Jonathan Oldbuck with a good deal of chasteness and discrimination; and accordingly, the performance was neither very characteristic nor very entertaining: for the power of this actor's genius consists, not in embodying and illustrating the droll thoughts of others, but in exhibiting his own. It would be a fine thing to see a farce in which no part of Liston's character should be set down for him," except the exits and entrances the blanks being left to be filled up by the inspiration of the moment. It would be played every night for a month, and we should go to see it every time! We did not at all admire Mr Emery's Edie Ochiltree. It was much too bluff and blustering. This piece is also extremely deficient in the musical department of it—a circumstance difficult to be accounted for, considering the fund of Scottish and other national melodies which still remain absolutely unknown to a gene ral audience; but which a general audience would be quite as able to appreciate and enjoy as a select one-if not better for the beauty of old national music and particularly of Scottish-is of a kind that demands nothing but an unsophisticated ear and heart to understand and feel it: And if musical science succeeds in improving the one of these requisites, it perhaps quite as often throws a wiry network over the other, which, while it excludes imitative beauty, obstructs the entrance of the true. The only striking song in the Drama before us, is one sung by Miss Stephens, in very slow time, to the air of Ally Croaker. The New Farce. THE Farce at this theatre is said to be by Mr T. Hooke; and it possesses his characteristic liveliness, impudence, Tod and common-place. It is called late for Dinner. The first part of it is droll enough. A younger brothermad-headed, merry, and mischievous but proud, pennyless, and named Poppleton-meets with a lovely girl at a ball-which is very likely; and falls in love with her which is very natural; and gets half tipsy with champaigne-punch on the strength of his passion-which is very pleasant; and gets taken to the watchhouse in consequence which is very proper; and contrives to escape from it which is very proper too—or we know nothing of casuistry: which, by the bye, is very probable. However, he does escape, and takes refuge in a house the door of which is accidentally standing open-probably in consequence of some one having gone in or out and neglected to shut it. (There's nothing like a habit of accounting for things.) This house happens to be the residence of his unknown fair one, who is living with her aunt-as many unknown fair ones do-the more's the pity! Frank (that is the scape-grace's name), finding no one stirring, lays himself down on a sofa-covers himself with a woman's pelisse which is at hand-and takes a little "horizontal refreshment," as he calls it. In the mean time the aunt has heard a noise-for your aunt is an animal gifted with uncommonly sharp ears when there are pretty nieces, and such small deer,' in the case-so she comes down stairs, and mistaking Frank for the maid who had been sitting up for her young lady-rouses him from his nap. He, in turn, mistakes her for one of the watchmen about whom he was dreaming; and she, not to be behind hand, mistakes him for a thief; and the surprise, confusion, and terror are very mutual and very amusing. So far so gocd. But the rest of the Farce does not keep pace with the beginning. The fun-such as it is consists in the younger brother Frank, being mistaken for his elder brother Fred, a sober, steady, quietly-disposed person, of moral habits and moderate income but it has one very good hit-and on- Ivanhoe, or the Templar. The drama of Ivanhoe, or the Templar, is much better managed at this Theatre than that on the same subject at Drury Lane. The characters are better marked and sustained throughout-not excepting that of Isaac; and the costume, scenery, &c. are much more carefully and skilfully attended to. But we are again compelled to think of the whole in connection with the novel; and then all becomes comparatively feeble, flat, and spiritless. We might probably have been highly amused and interested by this drama, if we could have forgotten the novel-but, fortunately, that cannot be. Ivanhoe is given to Mr C. Kemble; and though there is little for him to do, it is at all times a treat to see this gentleman in characters connected with the days of chivalry. His noble head and person, his fine voice, and his gallant bearing," leave nothing to be desired. Mr Macready played Sir Reginald Front de Boeuf, who is made a Templar; and part of Sir Brian's character is not unskilfully amalgamated with that of the Norman Baron. All the scenes with Rebecca are given to him instead of to Sir Brian; and these---together with the remorse he feels at the remembrance of the events of his early life in connection with his murdered parent, and Ulrica-make his character the most prominent in the piece. Mr Macready played it with great judgment and ef 3 fect; and the last scene-where he is But Since writing the above we find that the Farce is by Mr Jones, who plays Frank Poppleton. |