the nobleman who had spoken so freely of her reputation. This is made as an additional motive for the Doge to join the conspirators; in the second act, the Duchess confesses her guilt; the husband is, of course, much enraged; but after he has been condemned to death, freely pardons her, as he nobly says, "that he has now cast off all his worldly passions." The piece concludes with that fine impassioned burst of eloquence, "I speak to time and to eternity, of which I now form a part. The drama was listened to throughout with the greatest attention, by an audience more numerous than respectable. Of the acting, Mr. Cobham deserves favourable notice, for his personation of the aged Doge, though it was by no means so good as we expected. Some scenes betrayed marks of genius; among them may be noticed his manner of refusing to head the conspirators, after having been a general and a prince: the concluding speech was well delivered. Mr. H. Williams, as the captain of the guard, was powerful and just, especially when he entered, after having undergone the tortures of the rack. One of the scenes was beautiful, Venice with the canals by night.

VAUXHALL.

OUR visits to these gardens have been few and far between, for there is little, either in the company or the entertainments, calculated to afford us much gratification. We remember the time when Vauxhall could boast of as fine an assemblage of rank, fashion, and beauty, as any public place of amusement in town; but that time is gone, we fear, never to return; for the company appear generally of that description we should imagine promenading the gardens at White Conduit House; and if any sprinkling of fashion or gentility appeared among the motley group, it only served, like two or three stars twinkling in a gloomy hemisphere, to make darkness visible. Of the amusements, we cannot deny that the managers have spared no expense in the procuring of novelties, but unfortunately they are of an ill chosen description. In the first place, we think that the introduction of theatrical entertainments is very absurd; the English are not so playmad a going people that their whole amusement is centered in a theatre. The burletta of Music Mad has some claims to notice, on the score of novelty, as Mr. T. Cook plays the part of an enthusiastic admirer of music with great spirit, if not propriety, an actor who at Drury Lane speaks so carefully as if he was afraid of hearing the sound of his own voice. Mr. Weekes has an Irish character in the same piece, but we fear that all his humour is in his "unwieldy size:" like the prize fed ox, he excites our wonder, though he cannot raise our admiration. As so great a variety of entertainments is provided, it would be advisable to have two or three sorts of amusement going forward at the same time, as it would prevent that disagreeable rush at the close of each performance. But there is a very important reason for not doing this, which speaks far more to the policy than to the fair dealing of the proprietors, and which we will point out to the reader. The four principal amusements are, the Theatre, the Ballet, the Fantoccini, and the Fire-Works. Now, the spot appropriated to the public for the witnessing these exhibitions is so ingeniously

constructed, that on a full night it will not hold one half of the spectators, so that they are totally unable to witness any of the entertainments unless they choose to pay a shilling for entering a gallery invitingly placed for their accommodation, and which, no doubt, the buffeted, elbowed spectator, avails himself of, though enraged at the imposition, he secretly resolves never to enter the gardens again. In fact, the only amusement the spectator receives for his admission-money is the concert in the open orchestra, and a view of the Cosmoramas. We trust that next season the managers will remove these impositions, for such they undoubtedly are. On the celebration of the Duke of Clarence's birth-day, some water which was intended to have passed over the heads of the spectators, through some disarrangement in the machinery, fell short of the mark, and went on them; this was received with loud hisses. The gardens on this occasion, notwithstanding the great efforts of the manager to obtain an audience, were miserably empty.

THE MINOR THEATRES.

Ar the present period, when even tolerably well conducted theatres prove in very few instances to be successful speculations, it is more than ever necessary that the respectability of their establishments should be with managers an object of primary consideration. If so important a point be neglected, the drama must inevitably lose the patronage of the more enlightened portion of the public-that portion to which alone the stage must be indebted for its principal and permanent support.

That nothing so tends to diminish the respectability of a theatre, as the system lately adopted, of issuing shilling orders, is obvious from the quality of the audiences that it brings together. An equalization of the prices of admission to all parts of the house, must have the effect of excluding the genteel classes of society. No place indeed is left for their occupation, now that the Gods have descended from their regions; the dustman or coal-heaver, formerly content to throw down his shilling and take his seat in the gallery, for the same money swaggers into the boxes, with perhaps a pipe in his mouth, and a gin-bottle in his pocket. But not on this account only would the superior part of the community absent themselves from the theatre; they will reasonably infer that the taste and comprehension of the audience must be considered in the entertainments that are presented to them, and that the want of refinement of the one must necessarily occasion a corresponding want of refinement in the other.

The shilling order system, however, is injurious, not only on the ground of its keeping away from the theatre those persons from whom it ought to derive its principal patronage: there are other points in which it is equally detrimental to the interests of the managers. One of the most material objections against the new plan is, the certainty of its failing to yield permanent profit. The novelty of affording amusement at one fourth of the accustomed price may for a time prove attractive; but, as the desire for any thing is abated in proportion to the facility with which it may be obtained, the entertainments at the minor theatres will soon be regarded with contempt.

The justice of this position has already been illustrated by the empty benches of some of those houses where the shilling system is pursued, while others that continue to be conducted on the established principles, are sources of considerable gain to their proprietors. The best recommendation that can be submitted to those managers who have deviated from the hitherto customary course, is, that they should return to the usual prices, engage good companies, and produce good pieces; they will then find the public as ready to come to their houses as they now flock to those, where the liberality and judgment of the managers insure amusement to their patrons, and success to themselves. REGULUS.

MISCELLANIES.

MARLOWE.

IT is a strange, but well-known circumstance, that Marlowe has been described by all his contemporaries, and also by his biographers, as an Atheist and an impious blasphemer, a scoffer of all that was holy; and that he wrote several discourses against the Christian religion. Mr. Wood, a writer of the time, considered his untimely end as an immediate judgment upon him for his profaneness. Yet, on reading the termination of his Faustus, one would suppose that no man could have been more forcibly impressed with the truth of our holy religion. As we hate mutilating our extracts, we will give the whole of the last scene, without apologising for its length, as those who have seen it, can have no objection at meeting with it again: and to those who have not, it will afford great satisfaction, as the following speech is not to be surpassed in grandeur, sublimeness, and horror, by any one in our language.

Faustus's covenant expires with the Prince of Darkness at twelve o'clock.

Oh! Faustus,

(The clock strikes eleven.) FAUSTUS, solus.

Now hast thou but one bare hour to live,
And then thou must be damned perpetually.
Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of heaven,
That time may cease and midnight never come.
Fair Nature's eye! rise, rise again, and make
Perpetual day! or let this hour be but
A year, a month, a week, a natural day,
That Faustus may repent and save his soul!
O lentè, lentè, currite noctis equi!
The stars move still-time runs- -the clock will strike,
The devil will come, and Faustus must be damned.
Oh! I'll leap up to heaven!-Who pulls me down?

(Distractedly.)

E E

See where Christ's blood streams in the firmament.
One drop will save me. Oh! my Christ!
(Attempts to pray.)
Rend not my heart for naming of my Christ!
Yet I will call on him-Oh! spare me, Lucifer!
Where is it now? 'tis gone! and see

A threat'ning arm, an angry brow!

Mountains and hills! come, come and fall on me,
And hide me from the heavy wrath of heaven! No.
Then will I headlong run into the earth:
Gape, earth! Oh no, it will not harbour me.
You stars that reign'd at my nativity,

Whose influence hath allotted death and hell,
Now draw up Faustus, like a foggy mist,
Into the entrails of yon lab'ring cloud.

(The clock chimes the half hour.)
Oh! half the hour is past, 'twill all be past anon.—
Oh! if my soul must suffer for my sins,
Impose some end to my incessant pain!
Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years-
A hundred thousand, and at last be sav'd.
No end is limited to damned souls.

Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul?
Or why is this immortal that thou hast ?
Curs'd be the parents that engendered me—
No, Faustus! curse thyself, curse Lucifer,
That hath depriv'd thee of the joys of heaven.

(The clock strikes twelve.)
It strikes! it strikes! Now body! turn to air,
Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell.
O soul! be chang'd into small water-drops,
And fall into the ocean-ne'er to be found.

Oh! mercy, heav'n, look not so fierce on me!
Adders and serpents, let me breathe awhile!
Ugly hell, gape not! come not, Lucifer!

I'll burn my books! oh, Mephistophiles! [Exeunt.

A NEW WAY OF RAISING THE WIND.

WHEN the late Mr. Reddish was in Dublin, being of an extravagant disposition, moreover, a member of Mossop's Company, wherein the salaries were not very regularly paid, he got greatly involved in debt. His creditors were clamorous. Promises were become too cold securities to trust to; besides, they had been repeated so often, and under such different modes, that the subject was quite exhausted.

In this dilemma, what was be done? His benefit was coming round, on which the flower of his hopes depended; and if he was to be deprived of his liberty at so critical a juncture, his ruin was

"war

and "love," we are told every stratagem

6

inevitable. In is fair. Our hero thought it would be much so in distress. His propitious stars, therefore, just at this moment propounded to him a scheme, which, while it gave every air of security to his creditors, left it still with himself to satisfy their demands. As soon as this scheme was properly concerted, he sent for all his creditors, and in a set speech, probably written by one of his favourite poets, under similar circumstances, explained to them the pain he suffered at not being able to discharge their several demands-" that from his inability he was afraid his honour' (a principle he held above all things most sacred) was liable to be called in question. That, therefore, he would risk that pledge no more, when it had been (not from intention) so often forfeited. That he had called them together, not to promise, but to perform, which he hoped they would understand as such, from the following plan he had arranged for the discharge of their demands-which was to beg their acceptance of part of their several debts in tickets, and the remainder should be paid in cash, from the receipts of the book, the morning after his benefit, by the treasurer, to whom he would give an order for that

66

A scheme so exceedingly plausible, tricked out with all the advantages of acting, instantly succeeded. The bills were printedtickets delivered-newspaper puffs distributed (at which art," none had a readier hand). And the historical tragedy of Richard III., with the abominable murder of his two young nephews in the Tower, stared in every corner of that metropolis, in bills, not an inch less than 66 EIGHT FEET LONG.' At length the expected night arrived, and his house, from the interest of his creditors, who now became a party concerned in his profits, filled apace. But, Oh! mortifying discovery! When the tickets he had given, as part securities, were offered, they were refused as spurious by the door-keepers. Some insisted strongly they were refused by Mr. Reddish's order, who had privately intrusted them with the secret. However, the people going along with their families would not be disappointed, but paid down their money, still imagining it could be nothing but a mistake, which must be rectified as soon as known. Next morning, however, found Reddish's lodging surrounded by his creditors, whom their late disappointment had made "watchful as fowlers for their destined prey." But, alas! the bird was flown: our hero had been too practised in the knowledge of human nature not to have expected this visit; he therefore wisely decamped for England the night before.

COLMAN'S JOHN BULL.

JOHN BULL, says Cooke, was obtained from the author, act by act, as he wanted money: but the last act did not come, and Mr. Harris refused to advance any more. At last, necessity drove him to make a finish, and he wrote the fifth act in one night, on separate pieces paper, and as he filled one piece after the other, he threw them on the floor: then, after finishing his grog, he went to bed. On the morning of the next day he had promised Mr. Harris should have the denouement of the play. Mr. Harris (it being late in the day, and

of