as a deliberate letting from the body of the proprietary to a new tenant? The shares which, under George's hammer, stood little chance of realizing a shilling a piece, would not now, I should say, be taken as a gift! and all this has been the result of "weeding" the old committee (almost every one of whom was a practical man of business, generally conversant with theatrical affairs, especially with those of Drury Lane) and substituting in their place two gentlemen as deliciously ignorant of theatrical affairs as a young sucking pig. If I mistake not, there will be some capital FUN at the NEXT General Meeting; but, in the mean time, it is quite fun enough for me to see the commission of the deeds for which I was so impudently assailed, now carried out by the indirect means of the parties who assailed me. The howl about legitimacy, so fully commented upon in the ensuing pages will, I suppose, soon cease to be heard. It is dying in the distance daily; for while the miserable pretence of plays "from the text of Shakspeare" has failed of drawing an extra shilling, the Merry Wives of Windsor, in its altered OPERATIC FORM, has drawn to Covent Garden Theatre some of the best houses of the past season. So it did in the season of 1823-24, when I was stage manager under Mr. Elliston. I placed it for the first time in that shape, upon the stage of Drury Lane Theatre, supported then in a manner which I very much doubt to see supported so soon again-Dowton, Wallack, Harley, Braham, Gattie, Browne, Miss Stephens, and Madame Vestris, sustaining the principal parts. The concocters of humbug must not suppose that people do not see through all this. Stuff! they may be gulled at first, but they very soon see through the deception which has been practised upon them*. Other circumstances, more painful than all the rest, have rendered a proem to the following pages absolutely necessary; for since the completion of the major part of them, several melancholy deaths have occurred— of those same personages in whose lives is mixed up the subject-matter of them all. When these volumes were more than two-thirds on their journey towards completion, intelligence was received of the death of Mr. Stephen Price, my predecessor in the lesseeship of Drury Lane Theatre. Then James Smith, the humorous, the intelligent, the agreeable-one whom society in general, and more especially the society of letters, could * Then, look at one of the very last attempts at a little bit of legitimacy, that has met with as signal and melancholy a discomfiture as can be well imagined or believed. The Theatre erected by Miss Kelly in Dean Street, Soho, opened its portals on Monday, May 25th, and closed them four days afterwards, on Friday, May 29th. Does not this speak volumes to those silly people who will not understand the national character, nor learn that there is no such thing as cramming down the public throat doctrines that are not palatable to the public taste? I rank myself amongst the foremost of Miss Kelly's admirers, and was gratified in affording her the use of Drury Lane Theatre to take her farewell (as I conceived it to be). But how, on calm consideration, this gifted actress could reconcile to herself, if it be her speculation, the outlay of the gainings of a long theatrical life, on the erection of an additional theatre to the eighteen, or twenty, already in existence in an untheatrical city? where almost all the others are on the verge of bankruptcy, and above all in such an outlandish part of the world as Dean Street, Soho? I regret it deeply for the sake of the fair artiste, but I rejoice at it for the sake of the art. ill afford to lose! Then Sir Thomas Mash, so much of whose official correspondence is herein interspersed. Then, again, one of the principal devotees at the shrine of the dramatic art, popular in all circles, and beloved in his own, General Lincoln Stanhope, has been suddenly torn from the enjoyments of this fragile life ! And the unpretending, anxious, industrious, willing little actor, and confidential friend and servant, John Hughes (whilome the factotum of the gifted Kean, and Secretary to the Drury Lane Theatrical Fund) has gone, as I heard one of the world's wags say, to give an account of that fund to Garrick, the founder. To these may be added the name of a gentleman more devoted to the stage, during the greater part of his long life, than most of those whom he has left behind him-Mr. Const. He was known to, and respected by, almost every one of the great spirits who lived in his own enlightened times, and was a permanent friend and patron to artists and to art. When Mr. Const, acting for Mr. Harris, concluded the engagement with Munden (detailed further on) by offering him L.4, L.5, and £.6 per week, Munden positively replied, "I can't think of it, sir-it is too much-it is indeed—I shall never be able to gain you as much." The community at large owe an expression of deep regret for the death of this venerable gentleman, had he done nothing more for the public good than the introduction of such a performer to their notice as Munden. Mr. Const died in possession of a private box at Covent Garden Theatre, which, at his death, fell into the hands of the Proprietors, and his large fortune the result of an honourable and distinguished professional career-he bequeathed to a host of friends who, with a few exceptions, had little claim upon him, and, consequently, are not particularly grateful for the bequest. But the mournful list is not, alas, filled up. The death of Mr. Waldegrave, not a year after his marriage with the amiable daughter of my respected friend, Braham; and the demise of Mr. Francis Bacon, not a year after his marriage with the daughter of Mr. Horace Twiss, are sad bereavements indeed, and especially in the instance of the latter, where the literary world has lost one of its contributors, in addition to the injury society has sustained by the departure from it of so noble a fellow. And then, who is there who will not lament the fall, in a foreign country, of that popular officer, Colonel Lyster, to whom my Canadian letter (page 215, vol. iii.) was addressed? one of the best-tempered, best-hearted, and agreeable men that ever adorned the society of any country! These are all mournful records to make, but there is one more to render it complete, the account of which death only reached me as I was winding up this tale of sorrow: "The harp that once through Tara's halls "The soul of music shed, "Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls "As if that soul were fled!" Paganini died at Nice, on the 27th of last month, and in making such a memorandum, I may be pardoned the substitution of a harp for a fiddle; for a man who caused a sort of musical revolution in every part of the globe which he visited, may certainly be supposed to have "the soul of music" at his very fingers ends-which was where Paganini had it! Little did I think, while proceeding with my toil, and chronicling the doings of those I had concerted with, I should so soon have to date their demise! It is, indeed, a mournful duty, but being one, I have performed it. Thank Heaven I have been spared the record of more than the sanguinary and incredible attempt made upon the sacred life of England's Queen. Her Gracious Majesty had signified her intention of honouring the German Opera with her presence on the evening of the day (Wednesday, June 10, 1840!) when this appalling act was committed. It is sufficiently recent for every one to have drawn their own conclusion-I only herald mine:— What can that heart be made of, that would seek To canker in its bud, And turn the current of, fair England's cheek None but the demon art, which first prevailed And, stalking over earth, has now assailed But though it scatter its envenomed darts Around our Regal Shrine, Their shafts must pierce through millions' subjects' hearts, |