The Mirror of Taste, and Dramatic Censor

We are assured no pains have been spared by the manager to procure the most eminent performers; nor is any opportunity omitted to take advantage of the accidental presence of any performer, whose engagement promises to gratify the town.

This theatre has taken the lead in getting up every thing novel, in either branch of the drama, and that in a style very much superior to any other establishment of the kind upon the continent. It must be evident that it is the wish, as it is the interest of the manager, to conduct the trust committed to him upon the most liberal principles: that which pleases the public most, is most favourable to him.

It must be observed, that the limits of a sketch like this, could only admit of a very concise and general view of the subject. The writer has no farther connexion or interest in the theatre, than that he holds in common with those who are partial to dramatic entertainments, and who think with him that a well regulated theatre, which is the only public amusement Baltimore can boast of, instructs while it amuses, and conduces much to that grace and elegance of conversation and manners so fascinating in private life.

IRISH MUSIC

In the last number, the reader was presented with a short sketch upon the subject of Irish music, in a letter from the celebrated poet Moore. That gentleman very philosophically ascribes the mixture of levity and melancholy which is discernible in the character, as well as the music of the original native Irish, to political circumstances. All who have paid attention to the airs of that country must have perceived that they are extremely lively and exhilarating, or delightfully plaintive and melancholy. The former may be considered as displaying the ground-work, or the natural temperament, the other the superinduced adventitious character, derived from poverty and oppression. A writer of considerable talents and intimate knowledge of the subject (Mr. Walker) adverting to the poetry as well as the music of Ireland, speaks as follows:

“We see that music maintained its ground in this country even after the invasion of the English, but its style suffered a change; for the sprightly Phrygian gave place to the grave Doric, or the soft Lydian measure. Such was the nice sensibility of the bards, such was their tender affection for their country, that the subjections to which the kingdom was reduced affected them with the heaviest sadness. Sinking beneath this weight of sympathetic sorrow, they became a prey to melancholy: hence the plaintiveness of their music: for the ideas that arise in the mind are always congenial to, and receive a mixture from the influencing passion. Another cause might have occurred in the one just mentioned, in promoting a change in the style of our music; the bards often driven together with their patrons, by the sword of oppression, from the busy haunts of men, were obliged to lie concealed in marshes, and in glyns and vallies resounding with the noise of falling waters, or filled with portentous echoes. Such scenes as these, by throwing a settled gloom over the fancy, must have considerably increased their melancholy; so that when they attempted to sing, it is not to be wondered at that their voices, thus weakened by struggling against heavy mental depression, should rise rather by minor-thirds, which consist but of four semitones, than by major-thirds which consist of five. Now almost all the airs of this period are found to be set in the minor-third, and to be of the sage and solemn nature which Milton requires in his Il Penseroso.”3

To illustrate his position, Mr. Walker introduces the following anecdote: “About the year 1730, one Maguire, a vintner, resided near Charing Cross, London. His house was much frequented, and his skill in playing on the harp was an additional incentive: even the duke of Newcastle and several of the ministry sometimes condescended to visit it. He was one night called upon to play some Irish tunes; he did so; they were plaintive and solemn. His guests demanded the reason, and he told them that the native composers were too deeply distressed at the situation of their country, and her gallant sons, to be able to compose otherwise. But, added he, take off the restraints under which they labour, and you will not have reason to complain of the plaintiveness of their notes.

“Offence was taken at these warm effusions: his house became gradually neglected, and he died soon after of a broken heart. An Irish harper who was a cotemporary of Maguire, and like him, felt for the sufferings of his country, had this distich engraven on his harp:

Cur lyra funestas edit percussa sonores?Sicut amissum sors diadema gemit.

But perhaps the melancholy spirit which breathes through the Irish music and poetry, may be attributed to another cause; a cause which operated anterior and subsequent to the invasion of the English: we mean the remarkable susceptibility of the Irish to the passion of love; a passion which the munificent establishment of the bards left them at liberty freely to indulge. While the mind is enduring the torments of fear, despair or hope, its effusions cannot be gay. The greater number of the productions of those amorous poets, Tibullus, Catullus, Petrarch and Hammond, are elegiac. The subject of their songs is always love, and they seem to understand poetry to be designed for no other purpose than to stir up that passion in the mind.

SPORTING INTELLIGENCE

COLONEL THORNTON’S DEPARTURE FROM YORKSHIRE

Every true sportsman of this county must regret to hear that what has been for sometime rumoured has at last taken place. Colonel Thornton has been induced to part with Falconer’s-hall, and if the report is true, we have to congratulate him in having selected the most enviable and princely domain in England, a residence unparalleled in its situation, either for a man of fashion, a bon vivant, or a sportsman. After having given the very best sport in hawking, coursing and hunting, at Scarborough, Falconer’s-hall, and to the Saltergate Club, the colonel, a few days since, proceeded through York, in his way to Spy Park, in Wiltshire, followed by a cavalcade, (such as attracted the attention of the whole of this place) in the following order:

First, the boat-wagon, so well known by the opponents of my lord Milton, and held by the owner invaluable, from having conveyed not less than three thousand independent free-holders of this virtuous county to vote, and ultimately, in spite of ministerial influence, to elect lord Milton, a descendent of that man, the pattern of patriotism and unexampled rectitude, Charles Watson Wentworth, marquis of Rockingham; – this wagon, admirably contrived for the carrying of luggage or loose dogs, covered with the skins of stags, fallow-deer and roebucks killed by the colonel, nets, otter spears, fishing rods, and guns, drawn by four thorough-bred cream-coloured Arabian mares bred by the king. Next a dog-cart, which carried milk-white terriers, and beautiful gray-hounds; these were all sheeted and embroidered with the different matches they had won: the novelty of this appeared to excite particular gratification. The huntsman, mounted upon a powerful, fine gray hunter, followed by an immense pack (judged not less than one hundred couple) of stag-hounds, fox-hounds, and otter-hounds, and lively lap-dog beagles. A stud-groom and four grooms, each leading a thorough-bred horse, the descendants, as it was said, of Jupiter; – deer-skins covered them by way of housing. A keeper appropriately dressed, with three brace of pointers. The falconer in green and silver, surrounded by hawks, and on his fist a venerable grand-duke, closed this procession. Following, we understand, there were nine wagon loads of old wine and ale, brought from Thornvile Royal, inestimable from its age, and held by the duke of York as the finest wine in the kingdom. These wines, moved at such an immense expense, were from twenty-five to an hundred years old.

Many sportsmen, though delighted with the coup d’œil, could not forbear saying they should never see such sport as they had enjoyed with the colonel, and envied those who were now to partake of his amusements and hospitality in Wiltshire.

The distance we understand this cavalcade is to travel, is about two hundred miles. A farther account of this very valuable removal, and their safe arrival at their destination (and such was the sincere wish of all the spectators) we hope to give hereafter.

Spy Park is situated in that part of the county of Wilts called North Wiltshire, which is very dissimilar, in geographical features and natural characteristics, to the southern portion of the county. Whilst the former is distinguished by its numerous inclosures, dairy farms, and manufacturing towns, the latter is chiefly occupied by the wide-spreading downs called Salisbury Plain.

Spy Park has, for many generations, been the property of the Baynton family, some of whom appear to have been knights of St. John of Jerusalem, in the time of Henry II. The late sir Edward Baynton Holt, bart. died at the advanced age of ninety, in January, 1800, when his estates devolved to his son and heir, sir Andrew Baynton Holt, who has recently sold or let Spy Park to colonel Thornton.

The mansion is a plain but spacious building, seated in a park which abounds with fine old oak and other timber trees. The grounds are diversified by bold swells and winding vallies, and command at various stations, some extensive and interesting prospects. To the south-east the bold promontory called Roundaway-hill, presents its steep acclivity, with its commanding encampment on the summit. A range of lofty chalk-hills extend thence for several miles to the east, on the southern face of which is the White-Horse of Cherril, and above it is another encampment, called Oldbury-castle.

At the extremity of the park, towards the west, the grounds slope gradually to the river Avon, and its fertile meadows; and at an old gate, called the Spy, a very extensive tract of country is unfolded. Whilst the plantations of Bowden Park, and the venerable abbey of Laycock, attract the eye near the fore-ground, the lofty free-stone hills around Bath are seen in the middle distance, and a large tract of Gloucestershire is observed extending to the north-east; whilst the more picturesque and romantic features of Somersetshire are beheld, stretching to the horizon, in the west and south-western directions. The park includes an area of nearly eight miles in circumference, and during the residence of the late sir Edward, its venerable forest-like trees were sacredly preserved from the axe; they were, however, I am informed, considerably thinned by the last proprietor.

Since the publication of colonel Thornton’s departure from Yorkshire, the following letter has appeared in the public prints:

I am happy to inform the public, through the medium of your interesting paper, that the cavalcade of colonel Thornton at this place, was distinguished by a junction of an immense number of sporting and other valuable paintings; together with a collection of rare exotic plants, and three wagon loads of bald-faced and other red deer, roebucks, Asiatic deer, and party-coloured fallow deer; a garde chasse had the charge of two brace of Russian and French wild boars, the latter understood to be a present from Napoleon, in return for seventy couple of high-bred fox-hounds, descended from the famous old Conqueror, and sent to the emperor Napoleon during the last peace, whose high mettle afforded him the most exquisite gratification. A brace of cormorants with silver rings around their necks, and broke in for fish-hunting; together with ichneumons and pole-cat ferrit, for rat-hunting, and some beautiful milk-white Muscovy ducks, and a number of high-bred blood mares, foals, colts, fillies, and the two famous horses, the Esterhazy and Theodolite, closed this splendid procession; and it is understood that on their arrival at Spy Park they were met by the colonel and some sporting friends, who expressed their astonishment, that after having travelled through such almost impassable roads, amid torrents of rain, and particularly the lap-dog beagles, not more than thirteen inches and a half in height, and consequently often swimming, they should have arrived without the least injury.

I am, &c.a spectator.Chippenham.

At Rockdale races, the Brighton shepherd, so well known as a pedestrian, was matched against a horse of the honourable captain Harley Rodney’s (rode by lord Rodney), for one hundred yards. This race, from its novelty, excited very considerable attention, and was won by the shepherd.

A short time since, Rickets, the celebrated Hampshire pedestrian, undertook, for a wager of five guineas, to run seventeen miles in two hours, which he performed in one hour and forty-nine minutes. He has undertaken, for one hundred guineas, to run twenty miles in two hours, and will attempt it soon.

An extraordinary feat of pedestrianism was performed, by a man of the name of Williams, steward to Mr. Crouch. He was backed for twenty guineas, to go twenty miles in two hours. He started at Hammersmith, and did the distance in unfavourable weather, in seven minutes within the given time. His track was from Colnbrook, and to return to near the Magpies.

THE BUXTON BIT AND CHARLTON BRADOON

The former useful as well as elegant appendage to the harness of the dashing chariot of the day is just introduced by Charles Buxton, esq. The advantages arising from this improvement are obvious: in respect to their infallible quality of preventing the numberless accidents which daily occur by horses running away, they are peculiarly desirable. These bits are made upon a very simple construction; they give the person who has the reins in hand, the power of checking the horse by the most easy movement imaginable, however light in hand, or hard in mouth (boring on the bit) he may be. There are four loops in this regulating bit; in all others there is only one. Mr. Buxton very much opposes the principle on which lord Hawke, Mr. Annesley, and Mr. Thornhill act, with respect to the chain, instead of the pole pieces. The Charlton bradoon, a favourite for more than twenty years, has lost its consequence by the new invention; the bearing rein now passes through the throat lash, but formerly it only entered the bit, and went straight to the territ.

The two divines who rendered themselves so very conspicuous at the late punching match, at Moulsey, excuse themselves by observing, that the apostolic injunction, “a bishop should be no striker,” was never intended to restrain the conduct of the inferior clergy.

A match was made a short time ago, for one hundred guineas, play or pay, for a hack mare, the property of Mr. Sitwell, to perform fifty-six miles in four hours, with half an hour stoppage allowed for feeding. The match was undertaken soon after, from a spot near Shillingford, Berks, to Haunston, and the mare did her task in seven minutes less than the given time. She performed chiefly by the trot, and baited after going half the distance in three minutes less than half the time. The odds were considerably against the performance.

A HARE CHASED BY A FLOCK OF GEESE!

A flock of geese belonging to Mr. Lloyd, of the town-house, at Marford, seven miles from Chester, lately set a hare on the top of that hill, when poor puss, bursting from the cackling tribe, ran down the hill and was pursued by the whole flock, some flying, some running with extended wings till they overtook her, when puss slyly gave them the double; and, returning, was so closely pursued by the irritated flock as to be taken alive by a servant-girl of Mrs. Pate’s, as she was attempting the latch in her mistresses garden, in the presence of upwards of twenty spectators. Her carcass was afterwards made a present of to a wedding-party in that neighbourhood.

THE WALKING-POST

The name of this extraordinary person, whose labours surpass any of the boasted pedestrian achievements, is William Brackbank. He is a native of Millom, in Cumberland. He daily performed the distance between Whitehaven and Ulverstone, on foot, under the disagreeable circumstance of frequently wading the river at Muncaster, by which place he constantly went, which is at least three miles round; and, including the different calls he had to make, at a short distance from the road, his daily task was not short of forty-seven miles. He is at present walking-post from Manchester to Glossop, in Derbyshire, a distance of sixteen miles, which he performs every day, Sundays excepted; returns the same evening, and personally delivers the letters, newspapers, &c. in that populous and commercial county, to all near the road, which makes his daily task not less than thirty-five miles, or upwards; and what is more extraordinary, he has performed this business, for upwards of two years, without the intervention of a day, except Sunday, and has never varied a quarter of an hour, from his usual time of arriving at Glossop. He performs all this in less than twelve hours a day.

A foot-race was run in the park between a lieutenant Hawkey and a Mr. Snowden of Nottingham-street. The distance was two hundred yards, the stakes fifty guineas, and the performers not being professional runners, some betting took place. The race was won by about a yard by Mr. Snowden, and the distance was performed in twelve seconds.

PUGILISM

A battle took place at Wilsden Green, between Tom O’Donnell, and a countryman, by trade a boot-closer. They fought forty-five hard rounds, in which the countryman got a severe beating. Having boasted before the battle that he could beat any man, he left the field of action, as may be supposed, a little ashamed of himself.

A severe battle was fought at Marlborough-common, Wilts, by Mr. Howell, hatter, and Mr. Titcomb, both of Marlborough. Soon after eight they set to, the former seconded by Mr. Mead, collar-maker, and the latter by an ostler at the Castle-inn. The first three rounds were in favour of Howell, who laughed at his antagonist, and told him if he could not strike harder he had better have staid at home; but the fourth round put an end to his laughing, having received a left-handed blow on his head, which cut his ear, and brought him to the ground; although he never recovered this blow, yet he stood twenty-five rounds and showed good bottom, but was so exhausted by the loss of blood, and so severely beaten in the body as well as his face, that he gave in to Titcomb, who said he had no objection to such exercise every morning in the week.

A pitched battle for one hundred guineas, was fought at Bognor, Bucks, between a farmer of the name of Mitchell, who resides at Bognor, and a publican of the name of George. The match was made in consequence of a dispute respecting their merits as boxers. The battle lasted fifty-five minutes, in the presence of about one thousand spectators. It was what a professional boxer would have termed gluttony from beginning to ending. There was no advantage in skill, strength or bottom, the former of which neither of the champions possessed, but it was fighting in earnest at a scratch, until one was knocked down. Mitchell at length gave in, but he was able to walk away, which was not the case with the victor, who was put to bed at the house next the scene of action. The victor was seconded by Jones, a professional bruiser from London.

A remarkable instance of the effects of fear on irrational animals lately occurred in Blickling Park, Norfolk, during the races there: At the very height of sport, a covey of partridges sprang up, and were flying across the ground, when overcome with alarm at the noise and bustle of the scene, they fell lifeless among the crowded throng, and were picked up by some of the spectators.

A singular occurrence lately took place at Cobham church: The earl of Darnley was followed there by one of his pointers, which shortly became mad, and threw the whole congregation into confusion and alarm. A countryman, with great courage, procured a rope, and slipped it round the animal’s neck, and hung him across one of the pews. Fortunately no person sustained any injury.

A most enormous shark was lately caught by the fishermen at Hastings; it was entangled in seventeen of their nets, and completely broke them all; but being wounded and nearly spent, they contrived to tow on shore this monster of the deep. It measures thirty feet in length, and upwards of twenty in circumference, and is supposed to weigh at least ten ton; has four rows of teeth, and the throat is so large that it could swallow a man with the greatest ease. It is considered to be the largest of the species ever met with in any of the seas of Europe. Colonel Bothwell has purchased it for his friend Mr. Home, the surgeon, of Sackville-street, who intends to dissect it, and place the skeleton in his museum.

DUCK SHOOTINGFROM “FOWLING,” – A POEMThe shadowy Night has nearly run her courseOver the silent world – the cock repeatsHis warning note – behooves us to prepareFor our expected sport. Now when the starsSlowly decrease, and the faint glimmering light,First trembles in the east, we hasten forth,To seek the rushing river’s wandering wave.The doubtful gloom shall favour our approach,And should we through th’ o’erhanging bushes viewThe dim-discovered flock, the well-aim’d shotShall have insur’d success, nor leave the dayTo be consum’d in vain. For shy the game,Nor easy of access: the fowler’s toilsPrecarious; but inur’d to ev’ry chance,We urge those toils with glee. E’en the broad sun,In his meridian brightness, shall not checkOur steady labour; for some rushy pool,Some hollow willowy bank, the skulking birdsMay then conceal, which our stanch dogs shall pierce,And drive them clam’ring forth. Those tow’ring rocks,With nodding wood o’erhung, that faintly breakUpon the straining eye, descending deep,A hollow basin form, the which receivesThe foaming torrent from above. AroundThick alders grow. We steal upon the spotWith cautious step, and peering out, surveyThe restless flood. No object meets our eye.But hark what sound is that approaching near,“Down close,” The wild-ducks come, and darting down,Throw up on ev’ry side the troubled wave;Then gayly swim around with idle play,With breath restrain’d, and palpitating heart,I view their movements, whilst my well-taught dogsLike lifeless statues crouch. Now is the time,Closer they join; nor will the growing lightAdmit of more delay – with fiery burst,The unexpected death invades the flock;Tumbling they lie, and beat the dashing pool,Whilst those remoter from the fatal rangeOf the swift shot, mount up on vig’rous wing,And wake the sleeping echoes as they fly.Quick on the floating spoil my spaniels rush,And drag them to the shore.MISCELLANY

A more lively and yet poignant satire upon the wilful corruption of the stage, the degeneracy of the public taste, and the reigning follies of the British nation can scarcely be imagined than the following, which, with several more under the same signature, has appeared in a celebrated periodical work in London.

To the right worshipful John Bull, of the united kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland

Respected sir,

Denied access to your sacred person, I avail myself of the press to solicit your notice. You have, doubtless, by this time totally forgotten poor Theobaldus Secundus, for short memories are not the exclusive property of great wits. Truth is said to lie at the bottom of a well, and as your worship seldom looks beyond the surface, I am not surprised that she should hitherto have eluded your researches. If fate has ordained my inkstand to be the bucket that shall draw her from her watery grave for your edification, I expect a premium from your humane society for my pains. If not, “you may kill the next Percy yourself.” I am now to solicit your patience, while I recount my adventures, in doing which I shall ape the dignity rather than the prolixity, of the runaway prince of Troy, when seated on the high bed of the enamoured queen of Carthage.

I am, may it please your worship, grand nephew to the renowned Lewis Theobald, one of those numerous broth-spoiling commentators, who have smothered poor Shakspeare in the onion sauce of conjectural criticism. My great uncle was, with reverence be it spoken, a great blockhead; but that was no fault of his, he being a younger brother, and the family genius being vested in my grandfather, with remainder to his sons in tail male. From my earliest childhood I have looked upon Shakspeare as the real king of England, and the two winter theatres as his proper palaces. “The period spent on stubborn Troy,” has now elapsed, since I began a commentary on the plays of our immortal bard. O, the rivers of ink that I have exhausted in cleansing his Augean page from the black-letter filth heaped upon it by his different commentators! The task was laborious, but such labour is my delight. The waters of Avon suit my palate better than Boniface’s ale. “I eat my Shakspeare, I drink my Shakspeare, and (when certain players enact him) I always sleep upon my Shakspeare.”