[812:7] would condescend to point out _MS. R_.
[813:1] not only returned _MS. R_.
[813:2] and not only _MS. R_.
[813:3] that he not only _MS. R_.
[813:4] I for the first time saw _MS. R_.
[813:5] likewise . . . a.s.sured not only a.s.serted _MS. R_.
[813:6] but finally (and it is this last fact alone, which was malice for which no excuse of indolence self-made is adduced which determined me to refer to what I had already forgiven and almost forgotten) in the year 1806 _MS. R_.
[813:7] the this _MS. R_.
[813:8] (Private.) Had the Piece been really silly (and I have proof positive that Sheridan did not think it so) yet 10 years afterwards to have committed a breach of confidence in order to injure the otherwise . . . that on the ground of an indiscretion into which he had himself seduced the writer, and the writer, too, a man whose reputation was his Bread--a man who had devoted the firstlings of his talents to the celebration of Sheridan"s genius--and who after he met treatment not only never spoke unkindly or resentfully of it, but actually was zealous and frequent in defending and praising his public principles of conduct in the _Morning Post_--and all this in the presence of men of Rank previously disposed to think highly . . . I am sure you will not be surprised that _this_ did provoke me, and that it justifies to my heart the detail here printed.
S. T. COLERIDGE.
P.S.--I never spoke severely of R. B. S. but once and then I confess, I _did_ say that Sheridan was Sheridan. _MS. R_.
[813:9] The fourth act of the play in its original shape, and, presumably, as sent to Sheridan, opened with the following lines:--
"Drip! drip! drip! drip!--in such a place as this It has nothing else to do but drip! drip! drip!
I wish it had not dripp"d upon my torch."
In _MS. III_ the opening lines are erased and the fourth Act opens thus:--
This ceaseless dreary sound of { [*water-drops*]
{ dropping water I would they had not fallen upon my Torch!
After the lapse of sixteen years Coleridge may have confused the corrected version with the original. There is no MS. authority for the line as quoted in the Preface.
[814:1] "This circ.u.mstance." Second edition.
[814:2] The caste was as follows:--_Marquis Valdez_, Mr. Pope; _Don Alvar_, Mr. Elliston; _Don Ordonio_, Mr. Rae; _Monviedro_, Mr. Powell; _Zulimez_, Mr. Crooke; _Isidore_, Mr. De Camp; _Naomi_, Mr. Wallack; _Donna Teresa_, Miss Smith; _Alhadra_, Mrs. Glover.
[814:3] Mrs. G."s eldest child was buried on the Thursday--two others were ill, and one, with croup given over (tho" it has since recovered) and spite of her"s, the physician"s and my most pa.s.sionate remonstrances, she was forced to act Alhadra on the Sat.u.r.day!!!
Mrs. Glover (I do not much like her, in some respects) was duped into a marriage with a worthless Sharper, who pa.s.sed himself off on her as a man of rank and fortune and who now lives and feeds himself and his vices on her salary--and hence all her affections flow in the channel of her maternal feelings. She is a pa.s.sionately fond mother, and to act Alhadra on the Sat.u.r.day after the Thursday"s Burial! _MS. H_. (For _MS.
H_ _see_ p. 819.)
[815:1] Poor Rae! a good man as Friend, Husband, Father. He did his best! but his person is so insignificant, tho" a handsome man off the stage--and, worse than that, the thinness and an insufficiency of his voice--yet Ordonio has done him service. _MS. H_.
PROLOGUE
BY C. LAMB[816:1]
_Spoken by_ Mr. _CARR_
There are, I am told, who sharply criticise Our modern theatres" unwieldy size.
We players shall scarce plead guilty to that charge, Who think a house can never be too large: Griev"d when a rant, that"s worth a nation"s ear, 5 Shakes some prescrib"d Lyceum"s petty sphere; And pleased to mark the grin from s.p.a.ce to s.p.a.ce Spread epidemic o"er a town"s broad face.-- O might old Betterton or Booth return To view our structures from their silent urn, 10 Could Quin come stalking from Elysian glades, Or Garrick get a day-rule from the shades-- Where now, perhaps, in mirth which Spirits approve, He imitates the ways of men above, And apes the actions of our upper coast, 15 As in his days of flesh he play"d the ghost:-- How might they bless our ampler scope to please, And hate their own old shrunk up audiences.-- Their houses yet were palaces to those, Which Ben and Fletcher for their triumphs chose, 20 Shakspeare, who wish"d a kingdom for a stage, Like giant pent in disproportion"d cage, Mourn"d his contracted strengths and crippled rage.
He who could tame his vast ambition down To please some scatter"d gleanings of a town, 25 And, if some hundred auditors supplied Their meagre meed of claps, was satisfied, How had he felt, when that dread curse of Lear"s Had burst tremendous on a thousand ears, While deep-struck wonder from applauding bands 30 Return"d the tribute of as many hands!
Rude were his guests; he never made his bow To such an audience as salutes us now.
He lack"d the balm of labour, female praise.
Few Ladies in his time frequented plays, 35 Or came to see a youth with awkward art And shrill sharp pipe burlesque the woman"s part.
The very use, since so essential grown, Of painted scenes, was to his stage unknown.
The air-blest castle, round whose wholesome crest, 40 The martlet, guest of summer, chose her nest-- The forest walks of Arden"s fair domain, Where Jaques fed his solitary vein-- No pencil"s aid as yet had dared supply, Seen only by the intellectual eye. 45 Those scenic helps, denied to Shakspeare"s page, Our Author owes to a more liberal age.
Nor pomp nor circ.u.mstance are wanting here; "Tis for himself alone that he must fear.
Yet shall remembrance cherish the just pride, 50 That (be the laurel granted or denied) He first essay"d in this distinguished fane, Severer muses and a tragic strain.
FOOTNOTES:
[816:1] A rejected address--which poor Charles was restless to have used. I fitted him with an Epilogue of the same calibre with his Prologue, but I thought it would be going a little too far to publish mine. _MS. H_.
EPILOGUE
_Written by the Author, and spoken by_ Miss _SMITH in the character of TERESA._
[As printed in _The Morning Chronicle_, Jan. 28, 1813.]
Oh! the procrastinating idle rogue, The Poet has just sent his Epilogue; Ay, "tis just like him!--and the _hand_!
[_Poring over the ma.n.u.script._
The stick!
I could as soon decipher Arabic!
But, hark! my wizard"s own poetic elf 5 Bids me take courage, and make one myself!
An heiress, and with sighing swains in plenty From blooming nineteen to full-blown five-and-twenty, Life beating high, and youth upon the wing, "A six years" absence was a heavy thing!" 10 Heavy!--nay, let"s describe things as they are, With sense and nature "twas at open war-- Mere affectation to be singular.
Yet ere you overflow in condemnation, Think first of poor Teresa"s education; 15 "Mid mountains wild, near billow-beaten rocks, Where sea-gales play"d with her dishevel"d locks, Bred in the spot where first to light she sprung, With no Academies for ladies young-- Academies--(sweet phrase!) that well may claim 20 From Plato"s sacred grove th" appropriate name!
No morning visits, no sweet waltzing dances-- And then for reading--what but huge romances, With as stiff morals, leaving earth behind "em, As the bra.s.s-clasp"d, bra.s.s-corner"d boards that bind "em. 25 Knights, chaste as brave, who strange adventures seek, And faithful loves of ladies, fair as meek; Or saintly hermits" wonder-raising acts, Instead of--novels founded upon facts!
Which, decently immoral, have the art 30 To spare the blush, and undersap the heart!
Oh, think of these, and hundreds worse than these, Dire disimproving disadvantages, And grounds for pity, not for blame, you"ll see, E"en in Teresa"s six years" constancy. 35
[_Looking at the ma.n.u.script._
But stop! what"s this?--Our Poet bids me say, That he has woo"d your feelings in this Play By no too real woes, that make you groan, Recalling kindred griefs, perhaps your own, Yet with no image compensate the mind, 40 Nor leave one joy for memory behind.
He"d wish no loud laugh, from the sly, shrewd sneer, To unsettle from your eyes the quiet tear That Pity had brought, and Wisdom would leave there.
Now calm he waits your judgment! (win or miss), 45 By no loud plaudits saved, d.a.m.n"d by no factious hiss.