GRIMM'S GHOST.

LETTER XII.

"COVENT GARDEN theatre," says the Town, "is sadly in want of male singers Miss Paton and Miss M. Tree require a better Arbaces and Macheath than the establishment at present affords them. Why does not Charles Kemble throw himself into a post-chaise and visit some provincial company in quest of such persons? surely they must be easily found!" So says the Town. "Now mark how a plain tale," uttered by a plain ghost, shall put the Town to confusion. Charles Kemble has thrown himself into no less a number then seven post-chaises: he has ransacked seven provincial companies: he has brought back with him seven singers of as great celebrity as the country could afford. They have appeared in seven different characters; and if the newspapers, in their eagerness to detail the Portsmouth case, have not printed a word of the matter, but have left these vocalists to chant uncolumned on the ensuing morning, the fault lies in the public, who prefer a detal of the shades of insanity to a comparative criticism upon sharps, flats, shakes, and cadenzas. In justice to the proprietors and the performers, I proceed to prove that, if Miss Paton and Miss M. Tree be still condemned to sing together, it is not from any neglect of the managers in endeavouring to procure them more masculine asso

ciates.

Mr. Mayfield first became known to the Town, nearly half a century ago, in Love in a Village. It is surprising, considering the paucity of singers at that period, that he was not better received; undoubtedly he was the most natural singer that ever mounted the stage. Perhaps he carried the love of nature a little too far. I am aware that the doctrine now in vogue differs from mine. It is contended that a singer cannot be too natural. This 1 deny. Coughing, spitting, and blowing of noses, are unquestionably natural; but Mr. Mayfield should defer these ceremonies until he gets into his dressing-room. Time has now set his mark upon him. Still, I think, Charles Kemble did well in drawing him from the Wiltshire company, in which his talents have been too long immured. He has given up Young Meadows to younger people, and now confines himself to Hawthorn and Hodge. In Hodge he carries the harshness and brutality of the part rather to extremes; but in Hawthorn his "My Dolly was the fairest thing" is uttered with a force and feeling which seldom fail of procuring an encore. His thoughts are said to dwell a little too much upon his benefit, which is respectably, if not numerously attended.

Mr. Settle, another provincial essayist, some years ago opened in "Liberty Hall," in the Bath and Bristol company, then headed by the elder Dimond. At that time the spirited manner in which, as Macheath, he gave "I wonder we han't better company upon Tyburn tree," gave offence to certain men in power, which was rather exasperated than mollified by his manner of singing "The modes of the Court." Since his engagement in London he has altered his style. In Bluebeard the reverential manner in which he chants "All hail to the great Bashaw," much edifies the quiet portion of the upper gallery. The rural requisites of "sober, clean, and perfect," are indisputably his.

The possession of these qualities has given him the ear of the manager, with whom he occasionally drinks malmsey madeira, and to whom he is suspected to impart all the ill that is uttered of him. His advice to that potentate is to stick up notice of "Sic volo," in the green-room, and to rule the chorus-singers by fines rather than by friendship. This has put him in bad odour with the race that sing: who accordingly, in his favourite anthem of "God save the King," do all in their power to put him out. Some people prefer his dialogue to his music. In the former department he is engaged at a respectable stipend, though he never makes his appearance in that line oftener than once a quarter; and, when he does appear, it is remarkable that he regularly makes his entré on the king's side.

Mr. Flight, from Nottingham, is a singer possessed of first-rate musical talents. When I aver that he has the voice of Incledon and the science of Braham, I firmly believe that I utter no more than the truth. He is moreover gifted with powers of burlesque, to which those celebrated vocalists are utter strangers. But, alas! a large fortune has often been the ruin of a minor: and the possession of one attractive quality is apt to play the very devil with an actor. Holman was ruined by his teeth, Incledon by his lungs, and Phillips by his leg. Mr. Flight's universality has been his bane. His three styles are excellent apart; but when he attempts to mingle them in one opera, "Chaos is come again." On his first appearance in London, while yet a minor, his "In infancy our hopes and fears," and "Adieu, thou dreary pile," were a little above his strength. The votaries of cat-gut then fell foul upon him, and compared him to Lord Lovat, who "walked and talked three hours after his head was off." This caused him to quit the London boards in disgust. Luckily, however, like Saint Denis, he carried his head in his hand; and some years afterwards, in Storace's beautiful air" My native land I bade adieu," proved that Castigation had been the parent of Improvement. On his recent re-engagement at Covent-garden, he opened in Arbaces. The theatre overflowed at an early hour, and he was received with a tumult of applause. He is remarkable for never bowing to the audience: so far from it, that he treats them with an indifference bordering on contempt. I have known him to be slightly hissed. But on his offering to fight any gentleman who disliked his singing, those tokens of disapprobation vanished. His Seraskier, in the Siege of Belgrade, is excellent. But when, in that grave character, he introduced Leporello's burlesque song of "Madamina" in the first act, "Cease rude Boreas," in the second, and "I'll hurry post-haste for a licence," from Tom Thumb, in the third; nothing but admiration of his transcendant talents, and perhaps dread of his duelling, prevented the town from sending forth, from their tongues and their teeth, audible tokens of their displeasure. His Manager Strutt was four feet high." being a satire upon the late Mr. Garrick, gave great offence to the friends of that opulent proprietor still living in the neighbourhood of Hampton. Mr. Flight was engaged, during the late Lent season, by Mr. Bochsa for the oratorio. But, even in that melodious sanctuary, his love of mischief broke out. While the audience, pursuant to advertisement, were expecting "Hail, Star of Brunswick," Mr. Flight started off, at score, with "Go, George, I can't endure you." This violation of the latitude of Lent had nearly

closed the doors upon Bartleman and Beethoven. It may not be impertinent to add, that a serious quarrel has arisen between Mr. Settle and Mr. Flight. The former, in some opera whose name I forget, sang young Horner's ditty "Oh what a good boy am I." This was ridiculed by Flight, in "I've kissed and I've prattled with fifty fair maids," which was supposed to reflect upon Settle's lyrical tergiversation. Provoked at the innuendo, the latter sang "The turban'd Turk who scorns the world." This was answered by "I care for nobody, no, not I;" and Settle finished the vocal controversy by "Go, naughty man, I can't abide you." Their respective friends in the boxes were amused at the conflict, but the pit and galleries took little interest in the matter, for,

a song

As for the public, they care not a toss up

If Mossop kick Barry, or Barry kick Mossop.

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The fourth singer, whom our enterprising manager has brought out during the present season, is Mr. Cloudesley, who, like Mr. Settle, originally performed at Bristol. I cannot look upon this metaphysical gentleman as any great acquisition to the London stage. He has, it is true, some powerful notes in his voice; but he mounts into a falsetto with a most unpleasant break, and descends into a bass when you least expect it. He studied music under the celebrated Mozart, and learned from that great master to overload his airs with accompaniments. It is a peculiarity of this gentleman that he was never known to finish in the whole course of his life. He will start, for instance, with "In infancy our hopes and fears:" sing pretty steady down to store him with"-then deviate into " Fly not yet," and ere the second "Oh stay," soar up to the clouds in "The soldier tired." This is endurable, and indeed laudable, from Matthews or Harley, in "Four and twenty fiddlers," but a serious medley is a composition to which Londoners are not yet accustomed. Mr. Cloudesley, last Monday, was advertized for Don Juan. He had previously stuffed the band with accompaniments from his favourite Mozart till it was ready to burst. Horn, piano, flute, and fiddle, had each its separate tune, and Mr. Cloudesley had a fifth tune of his own, distinct and apart from the other four. Our metaphysical vocalist had screamed nearly through the first act, at this up-hill work, when the patience of a policy-broker in the pit was exhausted. The offended party took advantage of a short cessation of hostilities; and rising, from the third row, thus addressed the orchestra-"Why can't you let the gentleman alone? God knows, at best, he is not over intelligible: but while you are playing four things, and he is singing a fifth, one might as well expect harmony from a contest of Glasgow bagpipers." Cloudesley shrugged his shoulders, in pity of the broker's ignorance; but the man spoke the sense of the house.

Mr. Moss, from Cumberland, is the most self-satisfied singer now chirping, and that is saying a bold word. Yet he has his enthusiastic admirers. These are chiefly elderly ladies with blue stockings and no progeny, who occupy private boxes on every night of Moss's appearance, and applaud vociferously before he opens his lips. This premature commendation vexes the gallery, who answer it by a general hiss. The pit disapprove of this hissing as illiberal, so that, among them all, poor Moss has but a turbulent time of it. On

the late getting up of Oscar and Malvina, he was cast for the pedlar, and the Town naturally expected that he would sing the song, " Oh I am a jolly gay pedlar," to the old Scotch tune, as Munden, Townsend, and Simmons, sang it before him. Mr. Moss, however, knew better than the Town how it ought to be sung, and had set it to the Dead March in Saul. This innovation was justified by his partizans, but being pretty generally condemned by the common sense of the rest of the house, the part was finished by another performer. Mr. Moss has since executed indentures of apprenticeship to Bishop, who hopes, when he has passed his second puberty, to make him sing like a man. I doubt his success. Moss's style is evidently the infantine. His "See-saw Margery daw" brought money to Sadler's Wells; and his "Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker's man," has not been equalled since the days of Mrs. Bunch.

The sixth of these vocal luminaries is Mr. O'Carrol, from Dublin. He made his débût on the 17th of March last, as Lionel, in the opera of Lionel and Clarissa. His previous fame as the first ballad-singer of the time, added to the circumstance of his having pitched upon Saint Patrick's day for his first appearance, drew a brilliant audience, chiefly from the sister kingdom. From my locomotive qualities, I could of course plant myself close to the stage: none of the accomplishments of this highly gifted singer were, therefore, lost upon me. He runs the half notes with astonishing delicacy and precision, but in those bolder flights which are meant to produce a simultaneous effect in all parts of the house, he rather fails. At least, such was the report of three gentlemen, who sat in the front boxes, and who said it was with extreme difficulty they heard him at all. The galleries were not full. I do not wonder at this delicacy is to their senses a plant of noxious flavour: Incledon's "Old Towler" is the song for their money. Mr. O'Carrol's "Oh talk not to me of the wealth she possesses," was impressive and impassioned. He introduced several airs, which were loudly encored. I thought the subject of them was too uniformly the wrongs of Ireland. But the singer was Irish, and the day was Saint Patrick's. All the young ladies were in raptures. I thought two crane-necked damsels in one of the stage-boxes would have ate him up. Considering the appetite of the ladies, and the size of the gentleman, the meal would not have been a very extraordinary one. This gentleman has since played Artaxerxes, but not with equal success. His forte is in single ballads: trios, quartetts, and chorus, rather overwhelm him. Mr. O'Carrol has sung also at the oratorio, but not with decisive effect. His very eminence as a singer of love-songs has here operated to his detriment.

The seventh and last singer, of whom I have to speak, is Mr. M'Naughton, from Edinburgh. I hardly know whether to congratulate, or to condole with the Covent Garden proprietors, upon the engagement of this extraordinary performer. His salary must, I should think, absorb all the profits of the speculation. I have heard it rated at three thousand pounds per annum. Mrs. Billington is the only singer whose annual stipend ever before reached that sum. Mr. M'Naughton's original salary, as a singer, could not, I imagine, have amounted to more than half of it. As a singer, indeed, the amateurs rated him rather below Mr. Flight, and rather above Mr. O'Carrol.

He drew great houses for several seasons, by his vocal talents in the Gentle Shepherd, the Highland Reel, Cymon, the Lord of the Manor, and other Operas of the Sylvan or romantic cast. His "Ye banks and braes of bonnie Doon," "Saw ye my father," and " Auld Robin Gray," were only second to Miss Stephens's. By degrees, however, the audiences fell off, and several gaping apertures were discernible on the pit benches. He now talked of taking his farewell benefit, when the fortunate idea struck him (as it did Irish Johnston of yore) that something better than singing might be done upon the stage. To guard, however, against the chances of failure, he resolved to make his dé bût in dialogue anonymously. He chose the part of Norval for that purpose, and the decided talents exhibited by him at once stamped him as an actor of first-rate merit. His Macbeth, Sir Archy M'Sarcasm, Richard Cœur de Lion, Scrub, Marplot, and Sir Lucius O'Trigger, are almost equally excellent. In short, nothing equal to him has appeared since "the immortal. Mr. Garrick deceased." From his great success in Comedy and Tragedy, he has almost given up Opera. It is remarked of him, however, (such is the force of habit,) that he generally commences every scene by humming half a stave of some old Scotch tune. He is not inattentive to profits on his benefit-night. Upon that occasion, he and Brandon may be seen in one of the pigeon-holes counting the house. It is curious that his name never appears in the bills. Every part he acts is averred to be "by a gentleman," sometimes "by the gentleman who opened in the Gentle Shepherd ;" and sometimes "by the gentleman who first appeared in the Lord of the Manor." This is sufficiently absurd. If he requires a fictitious name, why does he not assume one? as Blewit calls himself Barrymore and Cleaver Claremont. As it is, every body knows him to be what nobody chooses to call him. In justice to Mr. M'Naughton I must admit, that he walks steadily upon an eminence that would turn most heads giddy. He now and then still sings a song between the acts. His "Scots wha hae" is by many preferred to Braham's, but his own favourite air is, "I hae saxpence under my thumb." Let me, in conclusion, relate a ridiculous incident that occurred lately on the getting up of Henry the Eighth. Mrs. Oglevie played Queen Catherine. It is customary in her sick arm-chair scene to lull her to sleep with a solemn ditty. By some mistake the prompter had called both Flight and O'Carrol, to officiate in this capacity. The scene drew on-the cue was given-when on walked both these singers from opposite stage-doors. Each struck up Angels ever bright and fair," to his own separate tune; and as neither seemed disposed to give way, both sang their songs fairly through to a conclusion. This phenomenon effectually roused Queen Catherine, and excited an audible titter throughout the house. Flight's song was, I think, the best; and certain oratorio-frequenting people have censured O'Carrol for intending to burlesque the subject. For my part, I am convinced that he entertained no such idea.

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