We concluded our last year's dramatic article with the adjustment of the extraordinary contest, between the public and the proprietors of Covent-Garden theatre, concerning the prices of admission, when the concessions enforced by the committee at the Crown and Anchor tavern were reported to the audience by Mr Kemble; and after some little further explanations and promises, they declared themselves satisfied, and suffered the business of the theatre to proceed as usual. The delay, expence, and difficulties, however, in which this disgraceful agitation had involved the concern, has proved a considerable hinderance to the production of novelties, and we shall have but little to notice, which, either from its originality or merit, deserves more than the passing record of the diurnal prints, and shall proceed to touch upon such things only as, from their peculiar features, may serve best to designate the dramatic genius and public taste of the times.

The most remarkable circumstance in the beginning of the present year, was a dinner given at the Crown and Anchor tavern to about 300 persons, convened by advertisement from the committee for managing the late O. P. fund, Mr Clifford in the chair.

These self-established conductors and protectors of the public concerns and interest, were avowedly the same persons who managed the subscription for defraying the expences of Sir Francis Burdett's election for Westminster. This dinner they termed, by way of distinction, a "Reconciliation Dinner," and to this feast of amity were invited, Mr Kemble, and Mr Henry Harris, son to the veteran proprietor of Covent-Garden theatre. This was the young man who, in the heat of those times of fury and danger, we mentioned in our last year's Register as having been weak enough to introduce boxers and blackguards into the theatre, to quell the tumult by their pugilistic prowess, and who, in the same spirit of folly, vainly endeavoured to terrify an angry multitude by the introduction of fire-engines upon the stage, and by setting open all the trap-doors in the formidable array of pitfalls, in case of an assault from the audience; thus contributing, with foolish inso. lence, to fan the flame which had been at first unhappily lighted. From such a specimen of the policy and taste of the young manager, we cannot augur very favourably of the future character of this theatre, when it shall become entirely abandoned to his regulation.

ples have shown to reduce genius to a degree of contempt, and to be tolerated only through compassionate regret for the genius which it debases, it should be remembered, in Mr Cooke's behalf, that his encroachments upon sobriety have never been known to be accompanied by those habits of vulgar and vicious degradation, which, through the loss of self-respect, loses respect for the public; and the public therefore have considered them as erratic habits of a social disposition, which have still left without serious injury the character of the man, and the faculties of the actor. His deference to the feelings and opinions of the audience in his worst offences has never been forgotten; his apologies, though sometimes a little embarrassed and ludicrous, are never self-degrading, but simple, respectful, and sufficiently candid; and his appearance and manner, when himself, is always imposing, gentlemanly, and dignified. It is not therefore unlikely, that extraordinary and excessive abili ty like his, joined to some very excellent and amiable traits of character, should mingle an affection with the public admiration, which is ever ready to forgive his faults; and that a curiosity to witness the operation of such habits upon such talents, to see his extrication from his difficulties and his reinstatement in favour, may have been a great additional source of attraction; and amidst crowds thus attracted, numbers will be found, who, confounding eccentricity with genius, will believe and assert, not only that the one cannot exist without the other, but that they are one and the same thing. All we shall say more is, that, as Mr Cooke has not had sufficient precaution and management to hinder him from showing his social habits along with his theatrical

VOL. III. PART IF

exertions, we wish that the former may still continue to be as harmless to the latter as they have hitherto proved; and that he may subdue them, to the final preservation of his professional, intellectual, and moral character.

The first new piece produced this year was another of those flimsy melo-dramas, which eke out the want of good sense, good writing, and legitimate dramatic interest, with interpolations of music, splendour of dress, decoration, scenery and processions;-good accessories, but miserable substitutes. The success of the Exile prompted Mr Reynolds to another attempt of the same kind; but his fickle and flimsy Pegasus had tired in the first heat, and hobbles but lamely through the second. The character of the Free Knights, or the Edict of Charlemagne, for so is this compound of glittering inanity entitled, bears a considerable degree of similitude, in conduct, and composition, to the Exile; but seems, compared even with that, like the dregs of a half-finished glass filled up with luke-warm water, and diluted to nauseous insipidity. The serious interest and the comic relief, are but a faint and false echo of those of his former production.

The story, which is extremely simple; may be thus briefly stated:

An usurper gets possession of the throne of Westphalia, by the attempted murder of the rightful heiress, Teresa, while an infant; she however is preserved, (by one of those miracles which are always at hand upon such occasions,) and brought up in obscurity. The usurper discovers her, and procures her condemnation by the secret tribunal of Free Knights. The Abbot of Corbey, however, protects her, the power of pardon and sanc

2 B

tuary having been conferred on the abbots of that monastery by an Edict of Charlemagne ; and this abbot turns out to have been the constant instrument of her safety. He unmasks the usurper, and every thing is settled agreeably.

Its success was by no means unequivocal; it abounded with the attractive magnificence of spectacle, and was aided by some very pleasing music, from the pen of Mazzinghi, which bore it with tolerable safety through the depressing tendency of a great deal of vapid, and tedious, and flippant writing. The long part allotted to Mr Young (the Abbot of Corbey) was frequently as distressing to the audience, as it must have been to him, condemned to degrade his best powers, and waste his excellent acting upon inflated weakness, straining at tragic importance. He, however, gave it considerable effect by his ability, to which, and to the natural tendency of an audience to take part with the slightest indication of concealed virtue traversing the schemes of injustice and iniquity, it was indebted, much more than to Mr Reynolds's skill in composition. Much as it has been the fashion to decry the comedies of this gentleman, as light and ephemeral, and however he may have exhausted himself in the repetition of his peculiar delineation of the fashionable follies and habits of the characters of the present day; much as he must have suffered in the loss of that excellent actor, whose etherial vivacity gave brilliancy, poignancy, and attraction to nonsense itself; we would, for our part, rather see him revert to his old walk of dramatic composition, than pursue this fresh, 'hough not new path, into which

has chosen to enter. The compi

of the Tales of Mystery, Tales

of Terror, Tekelis, and Sieges of St Quintin, are all his equals, and often his superiors; but in the composition of modern comedy (with the exception of his friend Morton,) he has no competitor. It is true that his comedies are not productions of profound literature, extensive observation, or creative genius, nor of very classical execution; but, such as they are, they are of their own kind, the result of a mind selecting its own objects from life, representing them in its own way, and borrowing little or no aid from the characters of longestablished imitation in former plays, nor assuming the prescriptive style and cant of any former dramatic language. They really are reflections of the peculiarities of the fashions and tastes of the time, caught with quick observance, and delineated with considerable dexterity; and that they are not more intrinsically solid and valuable as dramatic writings, may perhaps in part be attributed to the nature of those times, in imitation of which they have originated, and which have bestowed the sanction of applause upon their claims to truth of representation, and their conformity to public taste. As such reflections, we prize them more than the chaster re-productions, (as they may be called,) executed in the common-place routine of scholastic composition, by minds which breathe the atmosphere of learning instead of life, just as we would prize a portrait of some character of the past age, painted by the meanest powers in the baldest manner, from the life, before the highest finished production of the most skilful artist, painted without the authority of nature, and whose only merit was the taught facility of pencilling. We do not think that Mr Reynolds's portraits are of that so