THE

MAN IN THE MOON.

NUMBER IV.

"RERUM MISTURA."

Wednesday, 23d Nov. 1803.

ON last Saturday evening I observed, from my visible in the Moon, an extremely full house at Drurylane Theatre; it was the representation of a new play, when being by right of my office, and without any favour from managers, on the free list, I witnessed, through the aperture occasioned by raising a ventilator, the whole of the performance. The Piece was called, or rather miscalled, " Hearts of Oak," for, like Bayes's Epilogue, it would have suited any other play just as well. It is my duty, as a critic, to point out the faults which have blurred and deformed a good dramatic sketch, and by shewing what a Comedy ought to be, appreciate the value of the present attempt of Mr. Allingham, and show how far it falls short.

Comedy is a happy combination of design, character, manners, unities, and incidents, assisted by passion, expression, the sentiment of the heart, wit, whim, repartee, vivacity, peculiarity, and humour; and these should never be at variance with nature or

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probability; a perfect plot is that which contains moral, instruction, variety, humour, and novelty, neither too simple or too complex; it should ridicule folly, degrade vicé, aid the cause of virtue, and publish no defects or infirmities but such as subtract from morality. The unities, that is, the agreement of time and place, should be so well preserved, that an audience may become wrapt up in the scene, and lose sight of its being mere representation. Let me then examine and detect the defects of a play, by no means a bad one, and decompose the materials of which it is formed. We find, in the first place, a meagre and indeed improbable story for a plot; a fond husband, on the bare suspicion excited in his mind by seeing his wife embrace a stranger, without ever making enquiries into her conduct, flies from her; for seventeen years leaving her child, which he contrives to get from her, in the care of a friend. To effect a meeting between these unhappy parties a progression of interest is certainly attended to, but that progression is frequently broken in upon by the lame incidents of a weak under-plot, which take considerably from the developement of character, and the climax of the drama.

The other materials, with which this Author has chosen to build his play, that is, his characters, are worthy notice; he has enlisted a countryman, a country girl, a good-natured choleric old man, an honest Irishman (for to make an Irishman a rogue would be perfectly undramatic), a little busy impertinent Moorfields broker, a lover disguised as a music master, a

young lady with much goodness and too much levity, and a wife sinking under the misfortune of having lost a husband, without the smallest clue to unravel the mystery of his absence. It seems to be the notion of modern authors, that if they can but give a character a different condition, that is, turn Dr. Pangloss into a parish clerk and undertaker, or into a little Moorfields broker, that they have hit on a new character; and thus, perhaps, to oblige a performer in what he calls his line, an author takes measure, and fits him after a fashion that makes him known at first sight to the town. It will not displease an author of talent to be told these faults; he will feel, from the happy facility true genius possesses of arriving at truth, the force of my observations; instead of chusing the subjects of a great master, he will then paint from nature; he will delineate new characters, and not servilely imitate the situations of another because they have happened to please the public; he will not introduce a fandango in his play only because Mr. Colman had one in his, nor enlist an Irishman merely to utter groans, and make bulls without any novelty of character, or interest in the piece. The public, authors, and performers, seem agreed to compound good sense, and furnish, by reciprocity of contract, stale commodities at a cheap rate of praise; but the Man in the Moon remembers when players had not only to study parts, but to arrive in that study at the truth of the character given them, instead of authors having to fit the capabilities of the actor; how much better it was for the public, long experience has shown.

These observations are not irrelative, they, perhaps, determine the rights and properties of a regular drama, and the independence of authorship: indeed it is a reflection upon the genius of our actors, that they do not rather desire authors not to write for them, as it is called, but take the allotment of the author or manager in the Green-room, subject to what they may feel of the part offered them; at any rate the author should be unshackled, it is with the performer to reject a part he cannot give life to. I feel that I ought not to pass over the inimitable acting of Dowton, in the character of Ardent; the admixture of impetuosity, feeling, testiness, and kindness was admirably conceived, and the workings of his mind were so naturally expressed in the scene where he brings the husband and wife together, that they were pro bably understood and felt by the whole audience. It must doubtless be ungrateful to an author to hear detailed the demerits of his piece: few would even have the patience to answer the interrogatories once offered to Macklin-that author was behind the scenes one night, when a gentleman, in the course of conversation, suggested to him a subject which he thought would do extremely well dramatised; to which he received an answer, "It has been done, sir."-" Done, sir!"-" Yes, sir,"-" How long ago, pray, sir ?”— "Five years."" And how did it succeed?"—" It was damned, sir.”—And pray, sir, whose was it ?"— "It was mine, sir, and be d-n'd to ye.'

I have just been favoured with the following very

curious letter, which, as it may afford some hints to the managers of affairs, I have given to my readers.

Dated Ironmonger Lane, Nov. 9th, 1803.

66 MR. MAN IN THE MOON,

"Being satisfied that you are a man of observation, and disposed to listen to the just complaints of the injured, I offer my memorial of the service in which I have been engaged many years for my country. You will recollect, in your last Number, that you mentioned the unpardonable neglect of those who have the conducting of public affairs, in not employing the efficient strength of the regulars, who may certainly with considerable justice be called the Army of Reserve; for numbers of them have nothing to do at present. I own that I do not see why we regular forces should be reduced to give place to the Volunteer Gentlemen, for whom, nevertheless, I have great respect; yet they certainly have not seen, or been exposed to the hardships that I have been, or sustained the fatigue that I have. I think that I ought not to be, as you call it, laid on the shelf. My atchievements are well known to the public, and about a twelvemonth ago I was called out into actual service, but am now reduced again, and without even half pay. I have the vanity to think that I might be a great defence to the City of London in the hour of danger, and I should have no objection to meet Buonoparte on his great war horse, if he gets as far as Temple-bar. I beg you will state my grievances, and desire of employ, in any way you please. I am sure