that Mr. Arnold tells us depend upon his minor theatre for support are not "Russian sufferers," nor sufferers in a triumphant cause. Talk of 170 distressed families dependent on a distressed manager (not an autocrat of one vast theatre), and the sound hangs like a mill-stone on the imagination, "a load to sink a navy." The audience slink away, one by one, willing to slip their necks out of it. Charity is cold. EXPLANATIONS - CONVERSATION ON THE DRAMA WITH COLERIDGE. "At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue; now we are WHY was not this No. XII. instead of No. XI. of the Acted Drama in London? Had we but seen No. XII. at the head of our article for December, we had been happy, "as broad and casing as the general air, whole as the marble, founded as the rock," but cooped and cabined in by saucy doubts and fears." Had No. XI. been ready in time, we should have been irreproachable "in act and complement extern," which is with us every thing. Punctuality is "the immediate jewel of our souls." We leave it to others to be shrewd, ingenious, witty and wise; to think deeply, and write finely; it is enough for us to be exactly dull. The categories of number and quantity are what we chiefly delight in ; for on these depend (by arithmetical computation) the pounds, shillings, and pence. We suspect that those writers only trouble their heads about fame, who cannot get any thing more substantial for what they write; and are in fact equally at a loss for "solid pudding or for empty praise." That is not the case with us. We have money in our purse, and reputation-to spare. Nothing troubles us but that our article on the drama was wanting for November―on this point we are inconsolable. No more delight in regularity-no more undisturbed complacency in the sense of arduous duty conscientiously discharged-no more confidence in meeting our Editors-no more implicit expectation of our monthly decisions on the part of the public! As the Italian poet for one error of the press, in a poem presented to the Pope, died of chagrin, so we for one deficiency in this series of Dramatic Criticisms (complete but for that) must resign! We have no other way left to appease our scrupulous sense of critical punctilio. That there was but one link wanting, is no matter Tenth or ten thousandth break the chain alike. There was one Number (the eleventh) of the LONDON MAGAZINE, of which the curious reader turned over the pages with eager haste, and found no Drama—a thing never to be remedied! It was no fault of ours that it was so. A friend hath done this. The author of the Calendar of Nature (a pleasing and punctual performance) has spoiled our Calendar of Art, and robbed us of that golden rigol of periodical praise, that we had in fancy "bound our brows withal." With the month our contribution to the stock of literary amusement and scientific intelligence returned without fail. In January, we gave an ac'count of all the actors we had ever seen or heard of. In February, we confined ourselves to Miss O'Neill. In March, we expatiated at large on the Minor Theatres, and took great delight in the three Miss Dennetts. In April (being at Ilminster, a pretty town in the vale of Taunton, and thence passing on to the Lamb at Hindon, a dreary spot,) we proved at these two places, sitting in an arm-chair by a seacoal fire, very satisfactorily, and without fear of contradiction, neither Mr. Maturin, Mr. Shiel, nor Mr. Milman being present,-that no modern author could write a tragedy. In May, we wrote an article which filled the proper number of columns, though we forget what it was about. In June, we discoursed of Kean as Harlequin, and in July we had to show that a modern author had written a tragedy (Virginius)-an opinion, which, though it overset our theory, we are by no means desirous to retract. We still say, that that play is better than Bertram, though Mr. Maturin says it is not. As in June we were not dry, neither in July were we droughty. We found something to say in this and in August, without being much indebted to the actors or actresses, though, if Miss Tree came out in either of those months, we ought to recollect it, and mark the event with a white stone. We had rather hear her sing in ordinary cases than Miss Stevens, though not in extraordinary ones. By the bye, when will that little pouting slut, with crystalline eyes and voice, return to us from the sister island? In July, too, we had a skirmish with the facetious and biting Janus, of versatile memory, on his assumed superiority in dramatic taste and skill, when we corrected him for his contempt of court-and of the Miss Dennetts, our wards in criticism. In September we called Mr. Elliston to task for taking, in his vocation of manager, improper liberties with the public. In October we got an able article written for us; for we flatter ourselves, that we not only say good things ourselves, but are the cause of them in others. But in November (may that dark month stand aye accursed in the Calendar!) we failed, and failed, as how? Our friend, the ingenious writer aforesaid (one of the most ingenious and sharp-witted men of his age, but not so remarkable for the virtue of reliability as Mr. Coleridge's friend, the poet-laureate,) was to take a mutton-chop with us, and afterwards we were to go to the play, and club our forces in a Ꮮ |