Mr. Glossop, the proprietor, and the magistrates awarded the penalty of fifty pounds for every offence.

To do Elliston justice, he struggled manfully in the cause of common sense, and to his example we owe the total alteration which has since taken place. When lessee of the Olympic, he published an able pamphlet against the tyranny of the patentees, and vindicated the right of the minors to an extended nature of their performances. Two years afterward, he was lessee of Drury Lane, and prosecuted the other theatres for doing what he had himself declared the law allowed them to do, and which he had been the first to advocate and practice.

The royal monopoly of the regular, or as the patentees term it, the legitimate drama, was originally centred in Drury Lane and Covent Garden theatres alone, except a license from the Lord Chamberlain to the owners of the little theatre in the Haymarket, for a few weeks in the summer. The case now is very different, though the law remains the same but the evident villany of the act of parliament has cut its own throat, and the law is actually a dead letter. The new theatre royal, Haymarket, has a license for eight months in the year; and although the inanity of the present proprietor has caused it for some time past to be most miserably conducted, it is the best house in London for the performance of good and sterling plays.

To supply the constant demand occasioned by the new theatres, and gratify the rage for novelty, a new breed of authors has appeared. Burlettas, divested of the rhymes, operettas, where sense is sacrificed to sound, and other petites, beside the endless varieties of melo-drame, employ a formidable tribe of translators, adapters, arrangers, and compilers. The manner in which these pieces are produced, frequently hides the disgusting nakedness of the subject: in this, the managers follow the example of the magistrates of Douia, who, when the Emperor Charles entered their gates in great state, under triumphal arches and festoons of flowers, put a clean shirt upon the body of a malefactor that was hanging in chains at the city gate.

The American dramatist suffers under still greater disadvantages than the English scribe. There never can be any encouragement given here to this department of literature, until the whole theatrical system is changed. Even the amateur playwright would scorn to throw away his time in concocting dramas, which there is no possibility of ever seeing played. The star' system directs the attention of the audience to the actor, not the drama. These corruscant creatures have their arrangement of pieces calculated for the display of their own peculiar powers, and carefully avoiding the remotest chance of eclipse by not allowing a stray light an opportunity even to twinkle. Then again, why should a manager pay for original pieces, when half a dollar will purchase the last new successful play from London, in four or five weeks from its first production? The Dramatic Author's Protection Act,' lately passed in London, forbids the performance of any play without some remuneration to the author consequently every piece is printed there as soon as performed; but here in America, a dramatist has no such protection; for if an author were to print an original and popular drama, it would be played in every theatre in the States, in defiance of his prohibition although, if an action at law was to be brought for infringement of the copy-right act, it is not quite certain but

:

that the jury would consider a repetition of the words before an assemblage of people as an act of publication.

Not many months ago, an actor wished to obtain possession of a highly popular manuscript farce: he applied for it, and was refused. He employed persons to sit in the gallery, and take down the words during its performance; but, unluckily for these short-hand thieves, the farce was changed upon the night in question, in consequence of the illness of one of the performers. He then endeavoured to borrow from the actors engaged in the representation, the written parts given them to study from, but they scorned his dishonesty, and refused. He then visited the front of the house himself, made memorandums and notes of the plot, and principal portion of the dialogue, put it into shape at his leisure, went to another city, and produced the piece under its original name, and announced himself not only in the bills, but from the stage, as the author of the farce!

If I have not given sufficient reasons why men of talent do not bend their attention to the drama, perhaps an exemplification of some of Reynolds' classified Difficulties of Pleasing' may be agreeable, and then, as the old song says,

'We'd have you understand how hard it is to write.'

6

After various platitudes and truisms, such as 'Were there no dramatic writers, there would be no dramatic critics,' Mr. Reynolds points out some of the difficulties attendant on dramatic composition.'

'Sixth DIFFICULTY -to please the NEWSPAPERS.

'Add to all this, the actors must please not to be taken ill- the weather must please not to be unfavorable- the opposing theatre must please not to put up strong bills, and then what then? Why then,please to pay the bearer.''

Let us get over our difficulties one at a time. The first difficulty,' pleasing one's self, is no difficulty at all to an author, and if a man finds it difficult to please himself, how can he hope to please an audience? The tone of all Reynolds' productions evince how delighted he is with himself: it was his modesty that tempted him to place this easy task as the first and greatest difficulty on his list. He says in the same preface, that it was a constant cry, Why don't you give us a sterling comedy?' Now that would have been a difficulty; but see how he gets over it: The ancients have culled the flowers from the dramatic garden, and have left only the weeds.' Why, Mr. Reynolds, why did you continue, for so many years, to cull the weeds ?'

As to the second difficulty, pleasing the manager, such authors as Mr. Reynolds would in these times find it rather a tough job; but it could not have been very troublesome in his day, for he had many pieces produced, and the manager would not have accepted them if he had not been pleased so to do. This observation is ungrateful, Mr. Author. No one need envy the manager whom many authors try to please. I was once engaged in the former capacity, and the quires of rubbish that I was compelled to wade through, absolutely sickened me of even

out!'

the sight of a manuscript. I was forced to remember some of the points of each piece, for the scribblers knew every line by heart, and asked my opinion of such and such passages: How did this character come Was not that situation in the fourth act new and good?' etc. I do believe, from the number of pieces presented to that theatre alone, that every man, and every other woman in the world, have, during some portion of their lives, been concerned in the fabrication of a dramatic piece. I remember quieting one fellow, who would not be convinced that his tragedy, in six acts, called 'THERMOPYLE, or THE PHENOMENA OF BRAVERY,' written in Alexandrines, was not calculated to advance the interests of the theatre by its production. Have you ever read any thing like it?' said he. Never.' Would it not create an immense sensation, if performed?' Undoubtedly.' Then why not produce it? We should perhaps find it difficult to allay the sensation.' I see; you are afraid it would fail; you surely do not understand my tragedy,' said he, with an arrogant air. My dear Sir,' said I, bowing, I confess that I have not presumption enough to take such a liberty.'

There is or was a manager of the name of Farrel, in London Jack Farrel, originally a tailor's apprentice in Dublin: feeling the cacoethes actendi, as Liston calls it, he passed through the gradations of stage-sweeper, back-combatant, side dancer, and pantomimist, and arrived in due time at the important dignity of stage-managership in a London minor theatre. Armed with such authority, he would seize upon the first-rate parts in the new pieces, and murder them most manglingly. Ugolino never gnawed the head of his arch enemy with more earnestness than Farrel used in breaking the sconce of poor Priscian; and many a poor devil of a dramatic author has envied Dante's hero his privilege of retaliation upon an enemy's skull without brains. Farrel wished the constables to remove a noisy sailor from the gallery, and pompously desired the officer to take out that incendiary!* I never shall forget the agony of a young author, who related the following anecdote. Farrel was pleased with a domestic drama of my friend's writing, and seized upon the principal character for himself; it was that of a fiery-spirited, intemperate young man, smarting under real and imaginary wrongs. He describes to a friend the many insults he has received from an oppressive landlord among others, the destruction of a little flower garden, and the death of his childrens' pet lamb, worried by his tyrant's dogs, under the eyes of his dying wife. In conclusion, he should have said: And the jasmine, whose odorous tendrils wound round the lattice, and shaded our humble portal from the summer's heat-whose star-like blossoms have so often graced my wife's dark hair-this jasmine, planted by my father's hand, was torn up by the roots, and flung disdainfully across the path; the bright green leaves and silvery flowers alike were dabbled with the victim's blood.' Thus wrote the author. How did Mr. Farrel speak it? And there was the flowers of the garden - the jasmines — and the daisies — all smothered in the blood and g ts of the poor dear little sheep!

* Somewhat akin to this, is the recent blunder of a Western journalist, who, after announcing the scuttling of a steam-boat, by some revengeful miscreant, adds: 'Unquestionably, and without doubt, the horrid deed was the work of an incendiary! EDS. KNICKERBOCKER.

Now this manager was pleased with the piece, and pleased with his own performance, but the author was not; and in general, it is an even chance between the two; for however difficult an author may find it to please a manager, no manager, who knows his business, will ever think of attempting to please an author.

Third difficulty-to please the actors.' This, being an impossibility, is a difficulty worth all the other five. The stage is a school for emulation, and when a new piece is to be produced, every actor anxiously hopes for a fresh opportunity of displaying his talent. All the performers cannot be gratified there must be some bad parts; and why should an actor hypocritically pretend to be pleased with a piece which cramps his exertions, and gives his rival a superior scope? These feelings must be very general, till the theatres are managed à la Francaise. Many a good play has been damned, because Smith had a better part than Brown, or because Wiggins played an inferior character, while Tompkins was out of the cast. The discontented gentleman plays booty; is perfect perhaps, and attentive; pretends to do his best, but goes over the course like the jockey who is booked to lose with much evident exertion, much violent pretence, but distressing his nag, instead of gracing him with the palm of victory. The obligation between actor and author is mutual; and as the author, for his own sake, does his best for the actor, the actor should, in common fairness, let the author be heard, with all the assistance his talents are able to give.

I could enumerate many instances where actors, by inattention, have been the instrument of condemnation to unfortunate authors. John Kemble's versus George Colman, in the Iron Chest' case, is well known. The farce of Master's Rival,' written by the inimitable Peake, was damned at Drury, with Liston and all the first-rate talent of the day, and succeeded immensely the very next week at Covent Garden, supported by a most inferior cast. There was an eccentric fellow of the name of Powell, at the Coburg Theatre, some twelve or fifteen years ago, not he of the Ellistoniana, but John Powell, or Colonel Jack, a blustering, good-humored, good-looking man, reckoned very much like the late died-in-deep-debt Duke of York, and Jack prided himself on this resemblance, which was personally and prodigally true. He had a round, sonorous voice, a portly look, and a white aristocratic head, with but little hair outside, and less brains within. He was an eccentric, devil-may-care sort of fellow, and fond of his pipe and a pot of Barclay's porter. He once addressed a dashing Cyprian, as she was stepping into her carriage, with: Harlot, give me sixpence; I have spent thousands on your sex.' Mr. Milner, an author of considerable repute, produced a superior sort of drama or three-act tragedy at the Coburg Theatre, now the Victoria, and on the night of performance, sat in one of the private boxes, with many of the dramatic litteraires of the day. One of the principal incidents in the play, was the abduction and supposed murder of an infant, heir to vast estates: the ruffian was secured, but obdurately refused to give any information; a respectable old gentleman, a friend of the family, and supposed to possess considerable persuasive power, entered the cell of the prisoner, to remonstrate with him, and work upon his feelings by Christian-like counsel and admonition, and finally to extract the momentous secret from his breast, as a boy

picks the periwinkle from his shell. Colonel Jack was the actor selected for this part. He had been engaged at that theatre scarcely a fortnight, and the first night of Milner's new piece was John Powell's last appearance. Now,' said the author, as the actor appeared, now listen to what I consider the best bit of writing in my play.' Poor Milner!-the Colonel had never known too much of his part, but since dinner he had taken in so much Barclay, that he had quite put out Milner. Instead, therefore, of the finely-written speech of some thirty lines, he blustered up to the prisoner, and shouted out: 'I say, how came you to assarcinate that hinfant? The other actor, Bradley, could not reply, and Powell, finding he could not awaken remorse in the villain's breast, went on with the second part of his subject: What did you do with the body of the babby? Shouts of laughter foretold the fate of the play. Milner groaned, the prompter roared, Powell swore, the audience hooted. The play was damned, and the author lost the fruits of many weeks of application — but then the actor was discharged! How gratifying!

They manage these matters better in France.' Talma once said that a French actor would no more dare appear before his audience imperfect in the words of his part, than to appear before them in a state of intoxication. Yet I have seen actors puffed and praised for constantly practising both of these amiable propensities.

Singers are the greatest nuisances that authors have to deal with. Dibdin tells some queer anecdotes of them in his Reminiscences. A mere singer never knows the words of his or her parts, and even in the poetry of the songs, will make very strange mistakes. An eminent Henry Bertram, in the finale of the opera, which ought to run thus: 'If you deny us your applause, We've neither right nor might,'

always says, instead of the last line:

'I'm neither right nor tight.'

I have heard a man sing the ballad of Will Watch, the bold Smuggler, with thrilling effect, yet instead of singing:

-

'He was borne to the earth by the crew he had died with,'

he altered it to

'The crew he had dined with!"

Sinclair continually makes a strange mistake in Rob Roy. Francis Osbaldistone has to say: Rashleigh is my cousin; but, for what reason I know not, he is my bitterest enemy.' Sinclair uses a different punctuation, and says: Rashleigh is my cousin, but for what reason I know not; he is my bitterest enemy. Not singing the original song in Guy Mannering, one night, he gave the following speech as a cue to the leader to strike up the symphony of the substituted song: Here I am, all alone on this cursed heath, without sixpence in my pocket, likeLove among the Roses!' Miss Forde, a vocalist of some pretensions, played Barbara in the Iron Chest: when her lover is torn from her to be tried for his life, she ought to sing the very pretty and pathetic ballad of The Willow; but this young lady said: Poor Wilford! he goes. to certain death, I fear; but never shall I forget Merrily oh,' etc., and off she went, at a hand gallop, into the lively and patriotic song of Merrily every bosom boundeth.'