The Druriad

Let loftier poets tune their martial lays,

And sing the patriot’s or the hero’s praise;

For casual fare, like hackney-coachmen, ply,

Blame where they can, and, where they cannot,⁠—lie:

Each Pasquin now may lash his empty brother,

Or, like thin spiders, prey upon each other:

Snug in my shell, I shun their watchful fury,

Laugh at them all, and sing the praise of Drury;

My careless Muse now hovers round her walls,

And lifts her dome yet higher than St. Paul’s.

A wretched simile! of Eastern hue,

’Tis neither gaudy, elegant, or new;

Would you be all that ere poor bard desir’d,

Be read by parsons, by the fair admir’d,

To love and Laura tune th’enervate lyre,

Let hot-press’d paper[1] glow with am’rous fire;

Ambrosial flow’rs[2] twine round your mood and tense,

And labour’d nothings take the place of sense.

I’m all alive! Muse, plume your tow’ring wings,

Hush’d be the winds when charming Florio sings.

The fragrant morn⁠—

The fragrant morn⁠—Nay, now your pow’r I doubt,

Each worthless sonnet⁠—

Each worthless sonnet⁠—Prithee hear me out.

The fragrant morn her rosy blushes spreads,

And o’er the land a dewy influence sheds,

Scarce has the sun emerg’d from ocean’s tide,

His beams yet sleeping on yon mountain’s side,

All nature wakes, life breathes in ev’ry gale,

The insect-tribe spread forth the mimic sail,

Aërial songsters chaunt the vocal lay,

Sport on the wing, and hail returning day.

Siste, viator! let me set you right,

’Tis not the day! I hail returning night:

Through lamp and link-boys take my devious way,

Streets, carts, and “Bill, your honour!” to the play.

There point my quill, “shoot folly as it flies,

And catch the living manners as they rise.”[3]

Sooner shall Gallia cease her hostile fury,

Sooner shall mighty George frequent old Drury,

In modern bosoms virtuous ardour burn,

Or loan-contractors zealous patriots turn,

Than I forego the critic’s choicest food,

To lash the worthless and to praise the good.

But who art thou who thus presum’st to wield

The weighty arms of Churchill in the field?

In life’s low vale, I mean not to aspire

To Churchill’s honours and poetic fire,

But merely to divert an idle hour,

Of Drury’s host to ascertain the pow’r;

And, with a candid, not ill-judging, spirit,

Award their different degrees of merit.

But why alone on Drury “wag your tongue?”[4]

Why Covent-Garden’s actors leave unsung?

Know, with buffoons I cannot condescend

My page to tarnish and my time to spend:

Crawford, in age, though not in wisdom, grey,

Attempts in vain th’allotted part to play;

Though Abington spreads out her wrinkled arms,

The Widow Belmour now has lost her charms.

O tasteless age, in folly how mature,

Such mad perversion tamely to endure;

Haste, venerable pair, and leave the stage,

For “beads and prayer-books are the toys of age.”

A royal edict issues from the throne,

O! say what brilliant spectacle is shewn?

What constellation sheds its brilliant ray?

Quick is the Georgium Sidus of the play!

By Reynolds taught,[5] see Lewis frisk and climb,

And Follett’s carrots[6] grace the pantomime.

If Covent-Garden’s virtues are unknown,

Adopt the reigning mode, and praise your own;

Warton, in Pope, presents us nothing new,

Pert Boswell brings all Johnson to our view,

In quarto see the man of star and ribbon

Sedately usher in the works of Gibbon;

Erskine, self-fancy’d scourger of the throne,

Now pleads his client’s cause, and now his own.

Holman plays Hotspur: Shakespear, with a groan,

Sees Percy, and scarce knows him for his own!

Think you for foreign benefit they strive?

Shakespear is dead, but Holman is alive;[7]

Self prompts the player, self fills the tedious page,

Alike or in the closet or the stage.

Enough of this! proceed we to our song,

Attend my lays, and tell me where I’m wrong;

Hither, my muse, thy wand’ring flight restrain,

Perch on my quill, and sing of Drury-Lane.

Siddons,[8] great mistress of each magic art,

To raise contending passions in the heart,

When wretched Shore, depress’d with grief and pain,

Calls upon death, her last resource, in vain;

Or when, unaw’d by conscience or by fear,

Macbeth drives on her impious mad career,

When horrid dreams at length her guilt reveal,

And on her hand she shews the bloody seal;

When poor Cordelia, after wars alarms,

Expires with anguish in her father’s arms;

In Beverley’s distress and piercing moans;

In Isabella’s shrieks and dying groans;

O Siddons! thou alone the soul can’st thrill,

And melt us down, like Circe, to thy will.

When Shakespear bids contending passions wage,

Love, hatred, jealousy, remorse, and rage,

Or paints the madness of the noble Dane;

Or fell ambition of the Highland thane;

Or Richard urges on his blood-stain’d course,

And madly cries “My kingdom for a horse!”

Kemble,[9] in scenes like these, can nobly soar,

And make e’en Garrick’s loss be felt no more.

Next Jordan[10] comes, Thalia’s fav’rite child,

And charms with naïveté and humour wild;

Miss Peggy, Prissy Tomboy, or Miss Prue,

Oh! who can play so charmingly, so true?

But, in the name of ev’ry thing that’s strange,

Why suffer her in Farren’s walk to range?

Why call her Lady Teazle, Lady Belle?

Still it is Jordan finely dress’d⁠—as Nell.

Farren had reach’d the summit of renown,

And who like her shall charm the partial town?

Ah! who shall now portray the modish wife,

When will another Farren spring to life!

But Lady Teazle, Lady Townly too,

Bisarre, and Estifania,⁠—all adieu!

Decamp[11] approaches! born to tread the stage,

At once the pride and pleasure of the age;

Whether in tragic stole or comic vest,

In each her pow’rs superior are confess’d;

And when she warbles Ariel’s plaintive airs,

’Tis like the music of the tuneful spheres;

In ev’ry scene new beauties stand confess’d,

And the last character is still the best.

But, oh! what pen with equal skill can trace

Th’expressive passions varying in her face?

A face uniting elegance and ease,

Prompt to delight, and emulous to please,

Still changing as the vary’d passions move,

And sure in all to fix esteem and love.

Ye erring critics! will ye still deplore

That wit is fled and genius is no more?

That modern acting no more boasts the art

“To raise the genius and to mend the heart?”

Attend submissive to the voice of truth,

For, see, array’d in all the pride of youth,

Unconscious of her own pre-eminence,

In graceful action, and in native sense,

Decamp approaches! Envy hides her head,

And foul Detraction sinks among the dead!

Each charm’d spectator instant homage pays,

And all is lost in universal praise.

The tragic Muse, by various evils cross’d,

Some future day, shall mourn her Siddons lost!

Yet one remains, and critics must confess,

Powell shall serve to make that loss the less;

Expressive beauties mantle in her face;

Yet is her gaudy action void of grace.

But, when she paints Almeria’s tender woes,

Each sympathetic heart with pity glows;

Nay more, would she discard the tricks of art,

The outspread arms, shrill voice, and measur’d start;

Would she converse in nature’s artless strain,

Nor deign to walk in imitation’s train;

Her native pow’rs would fairest fame engage,

And a new Siddons might adorn the stage.

Old Churchill spoke in terms of warmest praise

Of Pope, the lively, in her youthful days:

Though sixty summers o’er her head have flown,

Thalia claims this fav’rite for her own:

In Alscrip, Malaprop, and Mistress Page,

She stands without a rival on the stage;

And of her lasting charms, so wide the scope,

All the domestic virtues shine in Pope!

Palmer’s rough tones no sympathy impart,

Yet the man walks majestic through his part;

His voice, his action, and his person, good,

His author always clearly understood;

Firm as the Trojan chief, of form divine,

Whose mother-goddess made his temples shine;

’Twas his, (but not in our degen’rate days,)

’Twas his to mix the myrtle with the bays;

Through five long acts alert and gay to dance,

And realize the fictions of romance.

But now, alas! those fairy scenes are fled,

The myrtle, and the bays, both droop the head!

In modern scenes solicitous to please,

He acts the gentleman with studious ease;

And in some parts I see both sense and spirit,

In Stukely and Iago sterling merit,

With genuine Nature strive:⁠—one part remains

To crown his merit and reward his pains.

See Packer, whom his dress in vain disguises,

Seems half-seas over ere the curtain rises;

Tott’ring beneath the weight of plumes and age,

He speaks memento mori to the stage.[12]

Haste, Palmer! haste! disrobe the royal knave,

Assert your claims, and Drury’s credit save;

Study the part, make Claudius all your own,

And drive the driv’ller from the Danish throne.

Old King,[13] with ev’ry requisite to please,

Strong sense, dry humour, wit, and comic ease,

Unrivall’d reigns, on Drury’s classic boards,

In crusty crabbed sires and testy lords.

See Charles,[14] a brother of the Kemble race,

With youthful figure and expressive face,

In ardent Malcolm admiration draws,

And claims in luckless Barnwell loud applause;

He, urging onward in the path of fame,

The native honours of his house to claim,

Shall gain the steep ascent, by Siddons led,

While wreaths of living laurel grace his head.

Wroughton’s[15] a useful player and a just,

And faithful to his manageric trust,

In some few characters, to give his due,

He acts with feeling and with judgement too.

What pity then to see the man presume

To torture and burlesque poor Captain Plume!

“And never was a story of more woe,”

Than Wroughton croaking love-sick Romeo.

With shaggy wig, stiff knees, and lengthen’d stride,

Pedantic tone, and arms expanded wide,

Unmeaning emphasis, theatric roar,

’Tis an automaton, or Barrymore![16]

Dramatic Proteus! who, strange to tell!

Plays ev’ry thing by turns, and nothing well!

Long has he stood, nor chang’d his first degree,

Fix’d at the freezing point of apathy;

And much I fear, that time, which, join’d with sense,

Exalts true genius into excellence,

Will ne’er promote the man, whose sole renown

Heads a banditti or assaults a town.

Suett comes next:⁠—alas! and “Woe is me!

“T’have seen what I have seen, see what I see!”

In some low scenes of Colman’s motley stuff,[17]

Suett is sometimes laughable enough;

But genuine humour, comic wit, and grace,

Are chang’d by him to mum’ry and grimace.

Poor Foresight, skill’d in astrologic lore,

When Parsons died, you fell to rise no more!

For ever clos’d, Burgoyne, is thy chaste page,

And Gripe and Moneytrap must quit the stage.

With figure neat, and pretty lifeless face,

Goodall, alas! appears of stoic race!

Nor joy, nor grief, affect her lifeless frame,

Inanimate and gentle, mild and tame:

Yet, would she call expression to her aid,

Speak up, and cry, with Kecksey, “Who’s afraid?”[18]

Her Rosalind would charm, and, in her cause,

All Drury’s dome might ring with loud applause.

When Bannister in Walter’s part appears,

Who can deny the tributary tears?

And, of his real merits, not to baulk ye,

He’s excellent in Gubbins, Scrub, and Gawkey:

But when, forgetting nature, form, and make,

He tries t’assume the gentleman and rake;

Or when in Tom with lively Lewis vies;

Heav’ns! how disgusting to our ears and eyes!

Yet few comedians, of the present age,

Appear so well, acquainted with the stage;

And, spite of ev’ry fault, the truth to own,

He has the art of pleasing all the town.

When Shakespear’s magic Tempest awes the soul,

When light’nings dart, waves dash, and thunders roll;

Let beauteous Miller, diffident and fair,

Assume Miranda’s wild angelic air:

Pale with affright, she bends beneath the storm,

While the rude winds unveil her lovely form;

“Poor souls! they perish!” cries the maid distress’d,

“Poor souls! they perish!” echoes ev’ry breast.

Dowton, in Cumberland’s romantic Jew,

Portrays with feeling what the author drew;

In Scrub, or grave-digger, might gain renown:

Why are the corners of his mouth drawn down?

When merit fails, and nature’s sober grace,

Buffoonery but ill supplies their place.

Packer aspires to Denmark’s regal chair,

“O Hamlet! what a falling off was there!”

Palmer’s the king for Gertrude’s bridal feast,

And Packer,⁠—he should play the churlish priest.

When vulgar Heidelberg assumes her airs,

Deaf to her brother’s threats, her niece’s tears,

Wallcott comes forth, with squabby shape and mien,

Equal to Mesdames Hopkins, Webb, and Green.

O popular applause! how short thy date!

Crouch sinks beneath the hand of time and fate!

Hard is the task the slight remains to trace

Of what was Phillips’ elegance and grace.

Old Bannister, in tones of deepest bass,

In Caliban displays his ugly face;

And critics must allow, upon the whole,

Some share of merit to his Mother Cole;

Then let him pass, the social bowl allow,

Applauded once, we well may suffer now.

With lisping voice, and action full of bustle,

In Fribble shines the Margate hero Russell;

In Sparkish decent, and in Surface mean,[19]

The worst Sir Lucius that the stage has seen!

O mortals! vain and wayward, ever prone

To vilify all merit but your own;

Deaf to reproof, to public sarcasms blind,

Ye quit the proper sphere by fate assign’d:

Each stripling risks some daring enterprize,

And, giant-like, would rush into the skies.

The youth, whose pow’rs are neither good nor bad,

In humble merit’s sober mantle clad;

Whose mighty task extends to “Good, my liege!”

Secure or in a chorus or a siege;

Whose modest tongue, unknown to wisdom’s lore,

Speaks what his author wrote, and speaks no more;

Who marks the present hour, recalls the past,

And makes each night a critic on the last;

Him shall applauses greet where numbers pour,

Wentworth or Davis, Webb or Phillimore.

But, when I see some forward youngster stalk,

Smit with the rage of tragedy and talk,

O’erleap each fence of modesty and fear,

And boldly mount to Shakespear’s radiant sphere,

Indignant, then, I spurn compassion’s call;

Contempt and laughter wait upon his fall:

The hapless elf lies humbled in the dust,

While scoffing crowds confess the sentence just.

But, hark! a plaintive voice amid the gale,

In numbers sweet, breathes out a tender tale;

Sure ’tis some minstrel of the fairy band,

’Tis more than mortal!⁠—No, ’tis little Bland.

With voice mellifluous, though somewhat weak,

And often husky, view the warbler Leak.

On Margaretta’s simple artless lays

She builds a monument of lasting praise;

And, oh! ’twould melt the sternest heart to pity

To hear her sing her “lowly plaintive ditty.”

See Biggs, a candidate for London fame,

In Drury’s annals now records her name:

Dauntless she enters on the classic ground,

With universal praise and plaudits crown’d.

Aikin, with feeling and good sense endu’d,

Can act the parent prudent, firm, and good;

The British merchant, gen’rous, open, just;

And the old steward, faithful to his trust.

Patient and simple, Drury’s weakest tool,

With too much folly e’en to play the fool;

With awkward form, and vague quiescent face,

Wretched buffoonery, and low grimace;

Lo! Wathen tumbles in, by folly led,

And quick compulsive gravity of head.

Alas, alas! poor shifting weather-cock!

Why didst thou change the halberd for the sock?

Thy lagging purse and wit could ill afford

The festive joys of Wargrave and her lord!

Small bounds divide the idler and the player;

The soldier turns an actor in despair.

See lovely Rose, whom circling crowds adore,

Ne’er felt for Bullock half the shame before.[20]

Heav’ns, what a contrast! View the motley feast;

’Tis Pan and Venus, beauty and the beast.

Not Farquhar’s wit could force thy friends to stay,

Though Dibdin’s song ek’d out the murder’d play.

While shows like these can Britain’s care engage,

I spurn such folly, and renounce the stage;

Calm and remote, neglect the passing scene,

Nor quit my roof for Wathen and the spleen.

Who has not oft beguil’d his ev’ning hours,

Charm’d with the melody of Kelly’s pow’rs?

Aided by him, still Arne enchants the town,

And Kelly adds new gems to Handel’s crown.

Oft have we heard, well pleas’d, yet mourn’d the while,

His tones melodious, but his action vile:

Our eyes must weep at what our ears rejoice;

So spare the man, in pity to his voice!

Bob Palmer can a drunken story tell,

His Jeremy and Trip are passing well;

But, for the airy fops of Farquhar’s age,

When will another Dodd adorn the stage?

For Hollingsworth we have not far to look,[21]

What is the part he plays?⁠—Oh! Jacob Cook!

Badd’ley, thy loss must Drury still deplore,

Thy Moses set the audience in a roar:

Now Wewitzer the usurer assumes,

And struts a magpie in the peacock’s plumes.

In Mellon’s face what gay good humour lies,

How archly roll her sparkling gipsy eyes!

And when their fire she darts in Lydia Languish,

O lovely nymph! I cry, assuage my anguish!

Sedgwick, in Woodley, stands to public view,

Or the brave captain of a smuggling crew:

And Dignum’s voice harmonious, soft, and clear,

Though far from pow’rful, charms the list’ning ear.

For walking gentlemen, and trailing lords,

Grac’d with becoming paucity of words;

Or, for the bleeding captain in Macbeth,

Who talks of honour, murder, scars, and death;

Or of conspirators to make a cluster;

Holland and Caulfield here may well pass muster.

Maddocks and Phillimore, ye brilliant pair!

Let Banquo’s bloody murder be your care:

While Trueman cries, aghast, in fearful mood,

“Methought, my lord, I saw a moving wood!”

Let black-ey’d Heard, and Stuart tattling fast,

Of vixen chambermaids divide the cast:

And Tidswell tall, with Booth, the ancient crone,

Lead in the queen, or stand behind the throne.

Enough! enough! now let the curtain fall,

Here cease your song, and bid good night to all.

The Muse now rests, her purpos’d labours o’er,

Safe from her toil, and landed on the shore:

Each actor view’d in Fancy’s magic glass,

Walks o’er her page like royal Banquo’s race.

Oh! would kind Fate, like his, her offspring bless,

Exalt with favour, and with smiles caress,

Her moral page should circling crowds delight,

And added vigour aid her tow’ring flight.

Genius of Shakespear, from thy heav’nly sphere,

Look down with pity on thy vot’ries here:

See pantomimic jargon, ev’ry season,

Usurp the place of common sense and reason.

Some rising poet, O great Bard! inspire,

With one bright spark of thy immortal fire,

Reclaim the taste of this degen’rate age,

And reign once more triumphant o’er the stage.