Part 3

The most splendid painting in the gallery is No. 7, _The Departure of the Israelites out of Egypt_, by Mr. Roberts. In the performance of this work, the painter has evidently endeavoured to imitate Martin's compositions. The picture, viewed at a little distance, is certainly grand and imposing; on a near inspection, however, we look in vain for the exquisite finish, and the characteristic expression so universally admired in Mr. Martin's works. We advise Mr. Roberts, if he pursues this class of painting, to unite finish with his bold effects--for attention in this respect will prove the _denouement_ of his pictures. No. 188, _Erle Stoke Park, the seat of G. Watson Taylor, Esq. M.P._ by Mr. Stanfield, is a very delightful picture, being remarkably chaste and clear in the colouring. No. 404, _Mattock High Tor_, by Mr. Hotland, and No. 440, _A Party crossing the Alps_, by Mr. Egerton, are works of high merit; as are the performances of Messrs. Wilson, Blake, Glover,[5] Knight, Nasmyth, Farrier, Gill, Novice, Stevens, Turner, Holmes, and Pidding.

[5] _Apropos_, three are twenty-three pictures by this gentleman in the gallery.

The engravings and sculpture are likewise very creditable to the institution this season. Mr. Quilly has executed an excellent print from Stanfield's fine picture, _The Wreckers_, which was exhibited last year at the British Institution.

Among the busts in the sculpture-room we notice those of Lord Eldon, Sir F. Burdett, Sir H. Davy, the late Lord Bishop of Salisbury, &c.

G.W.N.

* * * * *

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

* * * * *

(_Concluded from, page 254_.)

"_N'importe!_" exclaimed Stubbs, gaily; "there are more admirers, in this world, of the ridiculous than of the true, that let me tell you. But I must to my studies, for the night approaches. Next Monday--and this is Thursday--and I am by no means _au fait_ yet in my part. So good morning--let me see you soon again--and meanwhile adieu! adieu! remember me!"

Mr. M'Crab departed; and Mr. Henry Augustus Constantine Stubbs prepared to go through the soliloquy of "To be--or not to be," before a mirror which reflected the whole of his person.

Monday came, and oh! with what a flutter of delight Mr. Stubbs cast his eyes upon that part of the paper, where the play for the evening was announced, and where he read, "_This evening will be acted the tragedy of Hamlet: the part of Hamlet by a gentleman, his first appearance on any stage._"

* * * * *

His carriage was at the door--and he told the coachman to drive down ---- street, that he might see in passing along, whether the crowd at the pit and gallery doors, would obstruct his progress. It was not quite so large as to stretch across the carriage road; but he was sure there were some hundreds, though so early, and he thought they must have heard who the "gentleman" was, that was then rolling by. He would not be positive, too; but he could almost swear he heard an huzza, as he passed along. There were above a dozen persons collected round the stage door; and he plainly perceived that _they_ drew back with respectful admiration, as the new Hamlet stepped out of his carriage.

He hastened to his dressing-room, where he found his friend, the manager, Mr. Peaess, who shook him by the hand, as he informed him that they had an excellent box-book. Stubbs smiled graciously; and the manager left him with his dresser, to attire himself in his "customary suit of solemn black." Mr. Stubbs had kept his intention of stuffing the character a profound secret, fearful lest any technical objections should be made by Mr. Peaess, and desirous also of making the first impression in the green-room. When he entered it, therefore, in the likeness of a chubby undertaker, ready for a funeral, rather than in that of the "unmatched form and feature of blown youth"--in short, the very type and image of poor Tokely in _Peter Pastoral_,--his eyes and ears were on the alert to catch the look of surprise, and buzz of admiration, which he very naturally anticipated. He was a little daunted by a suppressed titter which ran round the room; but he was utterly confounded when his best and dearest friend, Mr. Peaess himself, coming up to him exclaimed,--"Why, zounds! Mr. Stubbs, what have you been doing? By ----, the audience will never stand this."

"Stand what?" replied Henry Augustus Constantine Stubbs.

"What!" echoed the manager; "why this pot-belly, and those cherub cheeks."

"Pooh! pooh!" replied Stubbs, "it's Shakspeare's, and I can prove it."

"You may pooh! pooh! as much as you like, Mr. Stubbs," rejoined the manager; "but, by ----, you've made a mere apple-dumpling of yourself."

"Do you think so," exclaimed Stubbs, glancing in one of the mirrors--"Well; I do assure you it is Shakspeare, and I'll prove it. But what shall I do?" and he looked imploringly round upon the broad, grinning countenances of the other performers.

"Do?" ejaculated Mr. Peaess; "you can do nothing now--the curtain has been up these ten minutes; Horatio and Marcellus are coming off, and you must go on."

At this moment the ghost of Hamlet's father entered the room, but before he had time to look upon his son, the call-boy's summons was heard for the King, Queen, Hamlet, Polonius, Laertes, &c., to be ready, and forth sallied poor Mr. Henry Augustus Constantine Stubbs, to prove, if he could, to the audience, that his rotundity was perfectly Shakspearian.

The awful flourish of drum and trumpet was sounded;--their majesties of Denmark, attended by their train of courtiers, walked on. There is a pause! All eyes are bent in eager gaze to catch the first glimpse of the new Hamlet--all hands are ready to applaud. He appears--boxes, pit, and gallery, join in the generous welcome of the unknown candidate. He revives--hastens to the foot-lights--bows--another round of applause--bows again--and again--and then falls back, to let the business of the scene proceed. He looks round, meanwhile, with the swelling consciousness that he is that moment "the observed of all observers," and tries to rally his agitated spirits; but just as he is beginning to do so, his wandering eye rests upon the ill-omened face of M'Crab, seated in the front-row of the stage-box, who is gazing at him with a grotesque smile, which awakens an overwhelming recollection of his own prediction, that he "would be horribly laughed at, if he did make Hamlet a fat little fellow," as well as a bewildering reminiscence of the manager's, that, "by ----, the audience would not stand it."

It was soon evident they would not, or rather that they could not stand it. But it was not alone his new reading in what regarded the person of Hamlet, that excited astonishment. Mr. Stubbs had so many other new readings, that before he got to the end of his first speech, beginning with, "Seems, madam! nay, it is," they were satisfied of what was to follow. When, however, Mr. Stubbs stood alone upon the stage, in the full perfection of his figure, and concentrated upon himself the undivided attention of the house--when he gathered up his face into an indescribable aspect of woe--but, above all, when, placing his two hands upon his little round belly, he exclaimed, while looking sorrowfully at it,

"Oh, that this too, too solid flesh would melt, (Pat, went the right hand,) Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew," (Pat, went the left hand,)

the effect was irresistible. One roar of laughter shook the theatre, from the back row of the shilling gallery to the first row of the pit, mingled with cries of _bravo! bravo! go on, my little fellow--you shall have fair play--silence--bravo! silence!_--Stubbs, meanwhile, looked as if he were really wondering what they were all laughing at; and when at length silence was partially restored, he continued his soliloquy. His delivery of the lines,

"Fye on't oh fye! 'tis an unweeded garden That grown to seed: things rank and gross in nature," &c.

was one of his new readings--for holding up his finger, and looking towards the audience with a severe expression of countenance, it appeared as though he were chiding their ill manners in laughing at him, when he said, "Fye on't--oh, fye!"

He was allowed to proceed, however, with such interruptions only as his own original conceptions of the part provoked from time to time; or when any thing he had to say was obviously susceptible of an application to himself. Thus, for example, in the scene with Horatio and Marcellus, after his interview with the ghost:--

_"Ham_. And now, good friends, As you are friends, scholars, and soldiers, Give me one poor request.

_Hor_. What is it, my lord? We will.

_Ham. Never make known what you have seen to-night."_

"Let him, if he likes," exclaimed a voice from the pit--"he'll never see such a sight again."--Then, in his instructions to the players, his delivery of them was accompanied by something like the following running commentary:

"Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, (_that is impossible!_) trippingly on the tongue: but if you mouth it, as many of our players do, (_laughter_,) I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. * * * Oh, it offends me to the soul, to hear a robustious, periwig-pated fellow (_like yourself_) tear a passion to tatters, &c.--I would have such a fellow whipped (_give it him, he deserves it_) for o'erdoing Termagant. * * * Oh, there be players that I have seen play, (_no, we see him,_) and heard others praise, and that highly, (_oh! oh! oh!_) not to speak it profanely, that, having neither the accent of Christians, (_ha! ha! ha!_) nor the gait of Christian, Pagan, nor man, have so strutted (_bravo! little 'un!_) and bellowed, (_hit him again!_) that I have thought some of nature's journeymen had made men, (_who made you?_) and not made them well, (_no, you are a bad fit_,) they imitated humanity so abominably." (_Roars of laughter_.)

It was thus Mr. Henry Augustus Constantine Stubbs enacted Hamlet; and it was not till the end of the fourth act that he suffered a single observation to escape him, which indicated he thought any thing was amiss. Then, indeed, while sitting in the green-room, and as if the idea had just struck him, he said to Mr. Peaess, "Do you know, I begin to think I have some enemies in the house, for when, in the scene with Ophelia, I said, 'What should such fellows as I do crawling between earth and heaven?' somebody called out, loud enough for me to hear him, 'Ay! what, indeed?' It's very odd. Did you notice it, ma'am?" he continued addressing the lady who performed Ophelia. "I can't say I did," replied the lady, biting her lips most unmercifully, to preserve her gravity of countenance.

This was the only remark made by the inimitable Mr. Stubbs during the whole evening, and he went through the fifth act with unabated self-confidence. His dying scene was honoured with thunders of applause, and loud cries of _encore_. Stubbs raised his head, and looking at Horatio, who was bending over him, inquired, "Do you think they mean it?"

"Lie still, for God's sake!" exclaimed Horatio, and the curtain slowly descended amid deafening roars of laughter, and shouts of hurrah! hurrah!

The next morning, at breakfast, Stubbs found all the daily papers on his table, pursuant to his directions. He took up one, and read, in large letters--"THEATRE. FIRST AND LAST APPEARANCE OF MR. HENRY AUGUSTUS CONSTANTINE STUBBS IN HAMLET."

He read no more. The paper dropped from his hands; and Mr. Stubbs remained nothing but a GENTLEMAN all the rest of his life--_Blackwood's Mag_.

* * * * *

LINES WRITTEN AT WARWICK CASTLE.[6]

BY CHARLES BADHAM, M.D. F.R.S.

_Professor of Medicine in the University of Glasgow_.

I.

I leave thee, Warwick, and thy precincts grey, Amidst a thousand winters still the same, Ere tempests rend thy last sad leaves away, And from thy bowers the native rock reclaim; Crisp dews now glitter on the joyless field, The gun's red disk now sheds no parting rays, And through thy trophied hall the burnished shield Disperses wide the swiftly mounting blaze.

II.

Thy pious paladins from Jordan's shore, And all thy steel-clad barons are at rest; Thy turrets sound to warder's tread no more; Beneath their brow the dove hath hung her nest; High on thy beams the harmless falchion shines; No stormy trumpet wakes thy deep repose; Past are the days that, on the serried lines Around thy walls, saw the portcullis close.

III.

The bitter feud was quell'd, the culverin No longer flash'd, us blighting mischief round, But many an age was on those ivies green, Ere Taste's calm eye had scann'd the gifted ground; Bade the fair path o'er glade or woodland stray, Bade Avon's swans through new Rialtos glide, Forced through the rock its deeply channell'd way, And threw, to Arts of peace, the portals wide.

IV.

But most to Her, whose light and daring hand Can swiftly follow Fancy's wildest dream! All times and nations in whose presence stand, All that creation owns, her boundless theme! And with her came the maid of Attic stole, Untaught of dazzling schools the gauds to prize, Who breathes in purest forms her calm control, Heroic strength, and grace that never dies!

V.

Ye that have linger'd o'er each form divine, Beneath the vault of Rome's unsullied sky, Or where Bologna's cloister'd walls enshrine Her martyr Saint--her mystic Rosary-- Of Arragon the hapless daughter view! Scan, for ye may, that fine enamel near! Such Catherine was, thus Leonardo drew-- Discern ye not the "Jove of painters" here?

VI.

Discern ye not the mighty master's power In yon devoted Saint's uplifted eye? That clouds the brow and bids already lour O'er the First Charles the shades of sorrows nigh? That now on furrow'd front of Rembrandt gleams, Now breathes the rose of life and beauty there, In the soft eye of Henrietta dreams, And fills with fire the glance of Gondomar?

VII.

Here to Salvator's solemn pencil true, Huge oaks swing rudely in the mountain blast; Here grave Poussin on gloomy canvass threw The lights that steal from clouds of tempest past; And see! from Canaletti's glassy wave, Like Eastern mosques, patrician Venice rise; Or marble moles that rippling waters lave, Where Claude's warm sunsets tinge Italian skies!

VIII.

Nor let the critic frown such themes arraign, Here sleep the mellow lyre's enchanting keys; Here the wrought table's darkly polish'd plain, Proffers light lore to much-enduring ease; Enamelled clocks here strike the silver bell; Here Persia spreads the web of many dies; Around, on silken couch, soft cushions swell, That Stambol's viziers proud might not despise.

IX.

The golden lamp here sheds its pearly light, Within the cedar'd panels, dusky pale; No mirror'd walls the wandering glance invite, No gauzy curtains drop the misty veil. And there the vista leads of lessening doors, And there the summer sunset's golden gleam Along the line of darkling portrait pours, And warms the polish'd oak or ponderous beam.

X.

Hark! from the depths beneath that proud saloon The water's moan comes fitful and subdued, Where in mild glory yon triumphant moon Smiles on the arch that nobly spans the flood-- And here have kings and hoary statesmen gazed, When spring with garlands deck'd the vale below, Or when the waning year had lightly razed The banks where Avon's lingering fountains flow.

XI.

And did no minstrel greet the courtly throng? Did no fair flower of English loveliness On timid lute sustain some artless song, Her meek brow bound with smooth unbraided tress? For Music knew not yet the stately guise, Content with simplest notes to touch the soul, Not from her choirs as when loud anthems rise, Or when she bids orchestral thunders roll!

XII.

Here too the deep and fervent orison Hath matron whisper'd for her absent lord, Peril'd in civil wars, that shook the throne, When every hand in England, clench'd the sword:-- And here, as tales and chronicles agree, If tales and chronicles be deem'd sincere, Fair Warwick's heiress smiled at many a plea Of puissant Thane, or Norman cavalier.

XIII.

Or dost thou sigh for theme of classic lore Midst arms and moats, and battlements and towers? Behold the Vase! that, erst on Anio's shore, Hath found a splendid home in Warwick's bowers: To British meads ere yet the Saxon came, The pomp of senates swept its pedestal, And kings of many an Oriental name Have seen its shadow, and are perish'd all!

XIV.

Haply it stood on that illustrious ground Where circling columns once, in sculptur'd pride, With fine volute or wreath'd acanthus crown'd, Rear'd some light roof by Anio's plunging tide; There, in the brightness of the votive fane To rural or to vintage gods addrest, Those vine clad symbols of Pan's peaceful reign Amidst dark pines their sacred seats possess'd.

XV.

Or, did it break with soft and silvery shower The silence of some marble solitude, Where Adrian, at the fire fly's glittering hour, Of rumour'd worlds to come the doubts review'd? Go mark his tomb!--in that sepulchral mole Scowls the fell bandit:--from its towering height Old Tiber's flood reflects the girandole, Midst bells, and shouts, and rockets' arrowy flight!

XVI.

Warwick, farewell! Long may thy fortunes stand, And sires of sires hold rule within thy walls, Thy streaming banners to the breeze expand, And the heart's griefs pass lightly o'er thy halls! May happier bards, on Avon's sedgy shore, Sustain on nobler lyre thy poet's vow, And all thy future lords (what can they more?) Wear the green laurels of thy fame, as now!

[6] These lines will form a beautiful pendant to the picturesque Engraving of WARWICK CASTLE, in No. 357 of the MIRROR--as well as to the very interesting antiquarian description by our esteemed correspondent _L.L._

NOTES.

One of the towers of Warwick Castle is complimented with the name of Guy's Tower; certain ponderous armour and utensils preserved in the lodge are also attributed to Guy; nobody, in short, thinks of Guy without Warwick, or of Warwick without Guy; "Arms and the Man" ought to have been emblazoned on the castle banner; and why should I hesitate to say, that one of the most amiable of children perpetuates the heroic name within its walls? Had this renowned adventurer been ambitious of patriarchal honours, his descendants might have extended the ancestral renown, and have furnished many a ballad of those good old times; but when the Saxon Ulysses had returned from his pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and made an end of Colbrand and the Dun Cow, his fancy was to take alms in disguise from his own fair lady, at his own castle gate, and then retire (_tous les goúts sont respectables_) to a certain hole or cave called Guy's Cliff, where he amused himself (in the intervals of rheumatism) for the rest of his natural life in counting his beads and ruminating on his sins, which, as he was a great traveller and a hero, might have been considerable.

STANZA III.

The following interesting passage is copied from a book of ordinary occurrence, in which it is cited without stating the authority. It is more than doubtful if any other nobleman in the kingdom, at that time or since, has projected or executed so much on his own property as the late Earl of Warwick:--

"I purchased a magnificent collection of pictures by Vandyke, Rubens, &c. The marbles are not equalled, perhaps, in the kingdom. I made a noble approach to the castle through a solid rock, built a porter's lodge, and founded a library full of books, some valuable and scarce, all well chosen. I made an armoury, and built walls round the court and pleasure gardens. I built a noble green-house, and filled it with beautiful plants. I placed in it a vase, considered the finest remain of Grecian art, for its size and beauty. I made a noble lake, from 3 to 600 feet broad, and a mile long. I planted trees, now worth 100,000l., besides 100 acres of ash. I built a stone bridge of 105 feet in span, every stone from 2,000 to 3,800 lbs in weight. The weight of the first tier on the centre was estimated at 1,000 tons. I gave the bridge to the town with no toll on it. I will not enumerate a great many other things done by me. Let Warwick Castle speak for itself."

STANZA X.

There is a _feeling of respect_ inspired by ancient buildings of importance. Such a castle as Warwick, which has lodged a succession of generations of the most opposite characters--at one time the "dulcis et quieti animi vir, et qui, cougruo suis moribus studio, vitam egit et clausit;" at another by the assassin of Piers de Gaveston, the king's favourite, "whose head he cut off upon Blacklow Hill, and gave the friars preachers the charge of his body, inasmuch as he had called the said earl the Black Dog of Arderne"--is not to be approached as one visits a handsome stone house of Palladian architecture!--such a house we know can never have been the scene either of council or conspiracy; within such walls there can never have been "latens odium inter regem et proceres, et præsecipuè inter comitem de Warwick et adhærentes ejusdem."

As to the river and its swans. I have learned from the bard to whom it has been long since consecrated, (although he may not have had the right of fishing in it when alive,) that "discretion is the better part of valour."

If I were to describe the walks, I should only say that they were contrived, as all walks ought to be, to let in the sun or to shut him out by turns. Here you rejoice in the fulness of his meridian strength, and here in the shadows of various depth and intensity, which a well disposed and happily contrasted sylvan population knows how to effect. The senatorial oak, the spreading sycamore, the beautiful plane, (which I never see without recollecting the channel of the Asopus and the woody sides of Oeta,) the aristocratic pine running up in solitary stateliness till it equal the castle turrets--all these, and many more, are admirably intermingled and contrasted, in plantations which establish, as every thing in and about the castle does, the consummate taste of the late earl, although it must be admitted he had the finest subjects to work upon, from the happy disposition of the ground. I shall never forget the first time I walked over them; a pheasant occasionally shifting his quarters at my intrusion, and making his noisy way through an ether so clear, so pure, so motionless, that the broad leaves subsided, rather than fell to the ground, without the least disturbance; the tall grey chimneys just breathing their smoke upon the blue element, which they scarcely stained; every green thing was beginning to wear the colour of decay, and many a tint of yellow, deepening into orange, made me sensible that "there be tongues in trees," if not "good in every thing." But Montaigne says nothing is useless, _not even inutility itself_.

STANZA XIII.

This superb work of antiquity must indeed be seen, to be sufficiently estimated: the great failure of that branch of the fine arts which is employed to represent all the rest, is in the inadequate idea of size which it must necessarily give where the objects to be represented are large.