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good. The latter instrument is too frequently in unison with the pianoforte. It is a mistaken idea that this diminishes the

difficulty of performance; a flute player having the least understanding of the capabilities of his instrument, is annoyed at its being so employed.

Mr. Klose's Russian Divertimento is

rendered insignificant and uninteresting

from the same cause.

friend, however, published a reply, with a couplet or two, which seem prophetic of his adventure at the Opera House, both as respects the design and the execution; for Mr. Cutler informs the world that he took upon him this enterprise for the purpose of attracting public notice; that he threw away his time and his money, and that he shall certainly relinquish the idea of having any thing to do with oratorios in Lent, unless employed by a committee to conduct them. He may, it is to be hoped, have received as useful a lesson as ever he gave, and have been taught to stick to quiet teaching and Quebec chapel. is a good deal of merit in the piece, conWe wish no man ill success, but Mr. Cutler should have respected misfor-sidering the limited execution to which it is tune, and left the last night of the Lent oratorios to its late industrious but ill-fated proprietor, who, by the competition thus established, was deprived of the assistance which his band would probably have rendered at the hour of his utmost need.


Favorite Air in the opera of Semiramis, with variations for the pianoforte, by Leidesdorf. The style of this piece is bold and spirited, but perhaps might bear the appellation of scrambling, from the predominance of arpeggio passages. It also wants light and shade; there is not repose enough in it.

L'Ouragan, by J. Ancot, is an imitation, and a very bad imitation, of Steibelt's celebrated Storm Rondo. M. Ancot designates his composition piece imitative, but he does not explain whether it imitates nature or Steibelt.

Les Souvenirs, a pathetic Fantasia for the harp, by H. C. Bochsa. This is entirely a composition of sentiment, and depends for its effect on the sensibility of the performer. It contains force and delicacy, agitation and tenderness, playfulness and pathos; yet perhaps too much is left to the heart, head, and hand of the player: much may be made of it, but it will not play itself. La Jeannette, by Rawlings, is just the reverse of the former; it is so delicate, so light and fanciful, that it can hardly be spoiled. Yet is there nothing in it particularly new or difficult, and perhaps we should be puzzled to say in what its excellence consists; but we are sure it will please.

Mr. Rawlings's Divertisement Ecossois, with a flute accompaniment, is hardly so

Mr. Burrowes has commenced a second series of Caledonian airs, and to these he has added a flute accompaniment. Mr. Burrowes appears to be well acquainted with the nature of the flute, although he has occasionally fallen into the common error of making the two instruments proceed in unison. With this exception there


Mr. Kiallmark has two airs, with variations, Ma dové colei che accendi, from La Donna del Lago, and The Bells of St. Petersburgh. They are in a light and agreeable style.

La Brillante, a rondo, by Moralt, ranks a little below the former as an easy lesson.

Mr. Crouch has published the second number of Select Movements, for the pianoforte and violoncello. It contains Batti Batti, and Fin ch'an del Vino. There is hardly as much original matter as in the first. His Adelina, a divertimento, is equal in merit to the pieces usually composed for beginners or players of limited acquirement.

Mr. Calkin's Introduction and Rondoletto, on a favourite air, combines both amusement and very good practice in passages of frequent occurrence. The same composer has commenced a series of pieces, entitled, Les Petits Amusemens. first number promises a succession of very useful lessons for the earliest stages of instruction.


Thema, with an Introduction, and variations, by H. A. Marsh. Mr. Marsh is a pupil of Bochsa, and the style of the piece before us has much of the brilliancy and taste of that master. The theme is very elegant, and it is well preserved, although there is no lack of variety or spirit in the variations.

The arrangements are a selection from Elisabetta, for the harp and pianoforte, by Bochsa. The airs in Semiramide by Bruguier, and Di Piacer as a duet for the pianoforte, by Haigh. The publication of Mozart's Symphonies, arranged by Hummel, proceeds very regularly.


Mr. Munden.


THE regular play-goers ought to put on mourning, for the king of broad comedy is dead to the drama! -Alas!- Munden is no more!"give sorrow vent!"—He may yet walk the town, pace the pavement in a seeming existence-eat, drink, and nod to his friends in all the affectation of life-but Munden,-the Munden!—Munden, with the bunch of countenances the banquet of faces, is gone for ever from the lamps, and, as far as comedy is concerned, is as Idead as Garrick !-When an actor retires, (we will put the suicide as mildly as possible,) how many worthy persons perish with him!-with Munden,-Sir Peter Teazle must experience a shock-Sir Robert Bramble gives up the ghost-Crack ceases to breathe. Without Munden what becomes of Dozey?-Where shall we seek Jemmy Jumps?-Nipperkin, and a thousand of such admirable fooleries fall to nothing--and the departure therefore of such an actor as Munden is a dramatic calamity.

On the night that this inestimable humourist took farewell of the public, he also took his benefit:-a benefit in which the public assuredly did not participate!-The play was Colman's "Poor Gentleman," with Tom Dibdin's Farce of "Past Ten o'Clock."-Reader, we all know Munden in Sir Robert Bramble, and Old Tobacco-complexioned Dozey ;-we all have seen the old hearty Baronet in his light sky-blue coat and genteel cocked hat; and we have all seen the weather beaten old pensioner, Dear Old Dozey,-tacking about the stage in that intenser blue sea-livery-drunk as heart could wish, and right valorous in memory. On this night Munden seemed, like the Gladiator, "to rally life's whole energies to die;" and as we were present at this great display of his powers, and as this will be the last opportunity that will ever be afforded us to speak of this admirable performer, we shall "consecrate," as Old John Buncle says, "a paragraph to him."

The house was full; -full!

pshaw!-that's an empty word!— The house was stuffed-crammed with people,-crammed from the swing door of the pit to the back seat in the banished one shilling. A quart of audience may be said (vintnerlike may it be said) to have been squeezed into a pint of theatre. Every hearty play-going Londoner, who remembered Munden years agone, mustered up his courage and his money for this benefit-and middle-aged people were therefore by no means scarce. The comedy chosen for the occasion, is one that travels a long way without a guard;—it is not until the third or fourth act, we rather think, that Sir Robert Bramble appears on the stage. When he entered, his reception was earnest,noisy, outrageous,-waving of hats and handkerchiefs,--deafening shouts,

clamorous beatings of sticks,-all the various ways in which the heart is accustomed to manifest its joy were had recourse to on this occasion. Mrs. Bamfield worked away with a sixpenny fan till she scudded only under bare poles. Mr. Whittington wore out the ferule of a new nineand-sixpenny umbrella. Gratitude did great damage on the joyful occasion.

The old performer, the veteran, as he appropriately called himself in the farewell speech, was plainly overcome; he pressed his hands together -he planted one solidly on his breast -he bowed-he sidled-he cried!When the ncise subsided (which it invariably does at last) the comedy proceeded--and Munden gave an admirable picture of the rich, eccentric, charitable old batchelor Baronet, who goes about with Humphry Dobbins at his heels and philanthropy in his heart. How crustily and yet how kindly he takes Humphry's contradictions!-How readily he puts himself into an attitude for arguing!-How tenderly he gives a loose to his heart on the apprehension of Frederick's duel.-In truth, he played Sir Robert in his very ripest manner, and it was impossible not to feel, in the very midst of pleasure, regret that Munden should then be before us for the last time.

In the farce he became richer and richer. Old Dozey is a plant from Greenwich. The bronzed face-and neck to match,-the long curtain of a coat-the straggling white hair, the propensity, the determined attachment, to grog-are all from Greenwich. Munden, as Dozey, seems never to have been out of action, sun, and drink!-He looks (alas! he looked) fire proof. His face and throat were dried like a raisinand his legs walked under the rum and water with all the indecision which that inestimable beverage usually inspires. It is truly tacking, not walking. He steers at a table, and the tide of grog now and then bears him off the point. On this night he seemed to us to be doomed to fall in action, and we therefore looked at him, as some of the Victory's crew are said to have gazed upon Nelson, with a consciousness that his ardour and his uniform were worn for the last time.-In the scene where Dozey describes a sea fight, the actor never was greater, and he seemed the personification of an old seventy-four!-His coat hung like a flag at his poop!-His phiz was not a whit less highly coloured than one of those lustrous visages that generally superintend the head of a ship!-There was something cumbrous, indecisive, and awful in his veerings!-Once afloat, it appeared impossible for him to come to his moorings;-once at anchor, it did not seem an easy thing to get him under weigh!

The time however came for the fall of the curtain,-and for the fall of Munden!-The farce of the night was finished.—The farce of the long forty years' play was over!-He stept forward, not as Dozey, but as Munden, and we heard him address us from the stage for the last time. He trusted, unwisely we think, to a written paper. He read of " heartfelt recollections," and "indelible impressions." He stammered,-and he prest his heart, and put on his spectacles-and blundered his written gratitude,-and wiped his eyes, and bowed, and stood-and, at last staggered away for ever! -The plan of his farewell was bad, -but the long life of excellence which really made his farewell pathetic, overcame all defects,-and

the people and Joe Munden parted like lovers!

Well!-Farewell to thee, rich Old Heart! May thy retirement be as full of repose, as thy public life was full of excellence! We must all have our farewell benefits in our turn!


Charles the Second, or the Merry Monarch.

An extremely neat little opera, if opera it may be called, with only two songs, has taken the town during the last week or two. The dialogue is light, easy, and pleasant; and the characters are sketched in with a free and lively hand. Charles Kemble, as Charles, is the King himself: He makes Charles the Second Charles the First! Jones, as Lord Rochester, might be lustier, he is too well-bred a man for my Lord Rochester. Fawcett, as Captain Copp, is one great staff to the piece. So much heartiness shines throughout him. He is landlord,-and we wish all Admirals' Heads had such landlords! Sweet Miss Tree (Copp's niece) is delightful, as she ever is.

My Own Man.

A new farce from Mr. Peake's pen, under this good title, has made the town laugh and wonder why it laughed, for divers nights past. Jones plays a poor, but ready-witted barrister, spiritedly; Keely as a hairdresser's son, who has a passion for dancing and for a lady's maid, is very amusing. There is great breadth of character, pun, and situation; but those who expect to have a farce as narrow as twopenny ribbon, are fools for their pleasures. People laugh thoroughly, and what more can a farce-writer desire.

Mr. Kent.

A new Richard the Third, a Mr. Kent, has also tried the stage twice, but with sad success. He has overrated his powers, and has had a proportionate rebuke; but, we think, when he comes to himself, he will fill many a lower part with ability. His acting was bad imitation in some parts, and worse originality in others. It was Kean and water. As Gloster he can never hope to keep the crown,

but he may do better things, and, we therefore reserve ourselves until we can speak more favourably of him. Miss Nesbitt.

A young lady of great personal at

traction and considerable talent, appeared for one night in Juliet; and, it was certainly her own fault that she did not repeat the character, for she interested the judicious few greatly in her favour. She has seen Miss O'Neill, and yet she is no servile copyist. Her voice is clear and melodious, an excellent thing in Juliet; and her action is easy and ladylike. We shall see her again, and speak of her again!


This little summer house has opened for its few persecuted months, as Mr. Morris would have us consider them, and it is tolerably well attended. A new one-act piece, called, "Come if you Can," has been acted for a brace of nights, and has been withdrawn, to prevent its title being answered in the negative. A farce from the ingenious pen of Simpson and Co.'s sire, has also been played, but with indifferent success. It is called "A Year in an Hour; or, the Cock of the Walk." Billy Buckhorse is Liston, and, of course, the hero! He is gay, with forty pounds a-year.

He lives near Plymouth, is an ugly man, and yet longs to be a father and a husband. He is refused seriatim by the ladies. At length all the unmarried men are ordered to join their ships, and Bobby remains the solitary single man; he becomes cock of the walk. He gives himself airs, till a recruiting party put him to his nonplush! A rich relative however dies, and his property makes him estimable. He sets off for London, having made a compact with one Priscilla Fadefast, whose name betokens her quality. Here ends the first act. The second act jumps a year, and we find Bobby married, and a progenitor. Through a mistake, arising out of his wife's determination to keep her marriage a secret; a Mr. Stanley, Jun. is supposed by Mr. Buckhorse to be the parent of his much beloved son. Various errors succeed, but the piece ends well. Liston is a cowardly actor in a new farce; and, as all depended on him, the author paid for his reliance. It has not proved a hit.




A CURIOUS little work, and as rare as curious, has lately fallen into my hands, which I presume to think will afford sonie amusement to the reader of such an article as I may, in a compendious shape, be permitted to make of it in the LONDON MAGAZINE. Had I been inclined to follow the example of my betters (in literary plunder-servum pecus in the

worst sense) I might have passed the whole off as new, so convinced am I that the rarity of the original would have saved me from detection; but declining the honors of a borrowed plume, I content myself with the humbler, but honester character of an entertaining abridger. This is the title:

"THE HONOUR OF THE GOUT: or a rational Discourse, demonstrating that the Gout is one of the greatest blessings, which can befal mortal man; that all Gentlemen who are weary of it are their own Enemies; that those practitioners who offer at the cure are the vainest and most mischievous cheats in nature.

"By way of a letter to an eminent Citizen, wrote in the heat of a violent paroxysm, and now published for the common good. By Philander Misia1699."


It was lent to me by an eminent physician, whose intention it is to present it to his Majesty, who has expressed a wish to see it.

This piece appears, from many passages that occur, to have been written about the commencement of the reign of King WILLIAM; and the gouty" eminent citizen," to whom

the epistle is addressed, was pro-
bably an alderman, or perhaps the
Lord Mayor himself.
It begins thus:

"Why! sir, I am informed that your Worship, not having a right sense of things, nor the fear of God before your eyes, should, to the disgrace of your own virtue, give your tongue the liberty, in an open coffee-house, to speak ill of the gout. Of the gout, sir, which, if you look on as a disease, you ought to welcome as the most useful and necessary thing that could have happened to you. Yet, you could say that when the Almighty had, out of rude chaos, built this goodly frame of nature, which we see, and formed his noble creature man, he indulged the devil to create some one thing, and his damned envy gave being to the gout. Now, I am confident, sir, and have great authorities for it, that if the devil ever created any thing, it was the doctor; of whom, since you have made so much use, I know not but it may be rationally inferred, that you have dealt with the devil. The gout, sir, whether you know it or no, was postnate to the creation, and younger something than the fall of man, who having incurred the sentence of death, the friendly gout was sent in mercy down from Heaven to lengthen wasting life. By my consent, you should never have the gout, who have no more consideration in you than to blaspheme it."

To prove its divine origin, he proposes to proceed from its lowest commendations, and to ascend by six just

steps, till he has raised it above all the stars, and entered it among the celestial spirits.

"First, The gout gives a man pain without danger.

"Since we must have pain while we live, give me the pain of the gout, which has no danger attending. Here some malevolent adversary may im portunely object; Did never any man die of the gout? To this I answer, 1st, I have not yet affirmed, that the gout can make a man immortal, tho' I will boldly say thus much, it very often keeps a man alive till all his friends are weary of him. But, 2dly, Should I venture to say that the gout has in itself the power to make a man immortal, it ought not to seem so very strange, all things being considered. If that be true, which some authors write of the noble Paracelsus, he had the secret to make a man immortal, and I would not say he lyed, tho' himself died about forty: for perhaps he did not like his company; but it must have been by way of his discovery to give any man the gout when he pleased-in that I am positive. Here the objector will scornfully put me in mind, that gouty persons 'scape death no more than other men; which is very true, but that's because men are fools, and don't know when they are safe-they must be curing the gout forsooth, and to that end they deal with the doctor, i. e. with the factor of death, the emissary of hell, the purveyor of the grave, damned alchymist, good at calcining nothing but living bodies into dust and ashes. All that can be rationally said against the gout is, that it does not actually preserve man in spight of his own folly, and the doctor's ignorance.

"Your Worship is indeed a fit object for the envy of all thinking men; for I have heard you confess, that your's is an hereditary gout, and that's for the better; an hereditary gout is a far greater happiness than an acquired one-what a deal of intemperance, and amorous excess might it have cost your Worship to have got the gout before forty? Whereas now you have the mighty blessing for nothing. Sorte nascendi, it is your birth-right, sir, never think of parting with it. Perhaps you may be now tempted to ask me, how I acquired my gout? I shall not be shy to satisfy your curiosity, for I came by it honestly. We scholars have a way by ourselves to come at the blessing, without ever being beholden to the God that cheers the genteel candidate of the gout by day, or the Goddess that entertains him on nights: we lead sedentary lives, feed heartily, drink quantum sufficit, but sleep immoderately; so that the superfluities of our sober and

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