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formed by these animals. We once heard him give a criticism on the performance of the Dog of Montargis, that would have done credit to a first-rate review. He will take particular cognizance of this important branch of the drama, and not spare even the elephant himself, if he transgresses the bounds of nature.

But his most valuable qualification, is that of a most critical and exquisite judgment in the present style of pantomimic tragedy, as first brought to perfection by Mr. Kean, and afterwards copied by his disciples. Perhaps we ought to have said, revived by Mr. Kean, since it is but a modification of the early histrionic style of the Romans. Among them, it was customary, in the early stages of the drama, for one actor to repeat the part, while the other furnished the appropriate gesture and action. If each performed his portion well, this mixed mode constituted the perfection of the art, since the actor, instead of being obliged to attend to both emphasis and action, could devote himself exclusively to one. It unfortunately happened, however, that the person who sustained the pantomimic part of the character, not unfrequently mistook or neglected the corresponding action, which occasioned the most ludicrous associations of tragic words and comic gestures-pompous declamation and broad buffoonery. In process of time, these incongruities produced an union of the two branches of the art in one person, which was not very long afterwards succeeded by the invention of a mode, in which action alone, was used to express the passions, and describe the vicissitudes of life. Of these different modes, the school of pantomimic tragedy is composed, and, whether it be Harlequin skipping about in pantomime, or one of Mr. Kean's pupils in tragedy, we pledge our word that our critic will show himself fully qualified to criticise and decide upon all their movements. He is fully of opinion that the precept of Demosthenes, "action, action, action," is strictly applicable to the stage, and that, provided an actor only gesticulates properly, it is of very little consequence how he talks. People, he affirms, go to plays to please the eye, and not the ear; and, whether it be Harlequin leaping through a barrel of fire, or Mr. Wallack fighting like a game-cock, is of special little consequence, provided both are done with equal grace and agility.

But he will soon speak for himself, and our readers have

an opportunity of judging of his critical accomplishments. In the mean while, to satiate the appetite of the public, we will transcribe for their amusement, the learned and judicious criticism of Geoffrey Cockloft, Esq. on the tragedy of Othello, as written shortly after its first appearance. The manuscript is headed as follows:

OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE.

By William Shakspeare.

If the end of tragedy be to make us laugh, then this is a tragedy of the first order. It is written by a stable boy, or rather a link boy, whom every body recollects, about the theatre, where he is accustomed to hold horses during the performances. Having, by this connexion with the stage, acquired a considerable insight into the tricks and traps by which it is customary to win the good-natured audience into an endurance of the vilest trash, he probably conceived himself qualified for a distinguished votary of the tragic muse. He is reckoned quite a prodigy. But, for our part, we hate prodigies; we are quite sick of genius growing up in pigsties, coblers' stalls, and sheep-pens. If a work is not a good one, we care not whether it was written in a palace or a hovel; and are inclined to believe that people who admire it on account of the deficiencies of the author, are little better than blockheads.

"Portents and prodigies are grown so frequent, that they have lost their name." People, however, still continue to wonder at them, while the the real wonder is, not that these stall-fed and stall-bred prodigies arise, but that people still continue to wonder at them. For our part, we repeat, we are quite tired of these prodigies. Of what consequence is it to us, if a man writes nonsense, that he has never had an opportunity of learning to write better? If we want a shoe made, we don't go to a poet; or if we do, we don't make him out to be a wonder, because he has cobbled us a pair of somethings in the shape of shoes. Why then should we go to a cobler, a stable-boy, or a swine-herd, for our poetry? Every one to their trade, is an excellent maxim, and we would advise Mr. William Shakspeare, to limit his ambition to holding the reins of mere earthly steeds, rather than aspire to manage the fiery-footed Pegasus. But it is time for us to introduce this curious performance to the reader. It has one merit at least, and that is originality. We will ven

ture to affirm there is nothing like it either in nature, or any of its abominable imitations called stage plays, from the days of the first theatrical cart, down to the present time. Nothing can equal the plot, but the dialogue; and had not the dialogue a parallel in the plot, it would be impossible to find a resemblance to either, in all the story books extant.

It seems, a Moor, that is, a blackamoor, who had distinguished himself in the service of the Venetian state, being admitted into familiarity by a senator, gained the affections of his daughter, in no other way than by telling her long stories about the wars in which he had been engaged. They elope together at night, and the play opens with the bawlings of one of Desdemona's, (for that is the lady's name,) cast off suitors, a silly fellow of the name of Roderigo, who appears in the street in company with a precious villain, called Iago. Roderigo wakes Signior Brabantio, the father of the runaway lady, by crying out "thieves, thieves," most lustily; and Iago, in reply to the senator's inquiry as to what is the matter, thus elegantly lets him into the secret :

"Your heart is burst, you have lost half your soul,

Even now, very now, an old black ram

Is tupping your white ewe."

Brabantio, as may be supposed, not being like our author, bred in the stable, is still in the dark as to the cause of this uproar, and renews his inquiries. Iago answers again in the genuine language of the author's profession

"Zounds, sir, you are one of those that will not serve God if the devil bid you. Because we come to do you service, you think we are ruffians. You'll have your daughter covered by a barbary horse; you'll have your nephews neigh to you; you'll have coursers for cousins, and gennets for germans.'

Was there ever such impiety, indecency, nonsense, and alliteration, combined in so small a compass before? Our author's breeding seems equal to his piety, and to say the truth, both seem to be excelled by his knowledge of horses. We think, in sober sadness, that he is much better qualified in horse farriery than in tragedy writing, and again recommend him to the stable for a livelihood. Little as we think of the present taste of the town, we are apt to believe that it will not easily be brought down to the dead level of such indecent and impious ribaldry.

Brabantio still remains at a loss to comprehend this ele

gant allegory; and at last, Iago tells him in plain English, his daughter has run away with the Moor, and makes use of a phrase, expressive of further illustration, we will not insult our readers by quoting. The potent signior, as might be expected, will not believe this, and we also confess ourselves incompetent to the reception of so monstrous an outrage upon nature and probability. It is utterly impossible to believe, that this delicate female, the daughter of one of the most distinguished senators of the potent republic of Venice, brought up with all the cares due to her rank, and imbued with all the purest principles of virtue, should so far forget herself as to fall in love, and elope with a blackamoor. And what for? Why, forsooth, because he stole all the absurdities out of old story books, made himself the hero, and appropriated all the adventures-he says,

"Of antres vast, and deserts idle,

Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch heaven,
It was my hint to speak, such was the process;

And of the cannibals that each other eat,

The anthropophagi, and men whose heads

Do grow beneath their shoulders," &c. &c.

"All this to hear would Desdemona seriously incline;

She swore in faith 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange,
'Twas pitiful, 'twas wond'rous pitiful," &c. &c.

Finally, to cut off a long story which the blackamoor tells to the senators,

"She lov'd him for the dangers he had past."

And thereupon ran away with this intolerable liar, who told of things which no true philosopher believes ever had an existence, except in the story books with which our author seems so marvellously well acquainted. Setting aside, however, these pleasant rogues, who carried their heads under their arms, we presume after the manner of a chapeau bras, what shall we say to "vast antres" and " idle deserts?" We have looked into all the dictionaries for antres, without being able to find it, and will thank our learned author to tell us where he got this treasure of a word. "Idle deserts," is neither characteristic nor descriptive, and conveys no idea of a desert. It is pretty plain that it was put in at random, to fill up the measure of the verse, if any such thing may be supposed within the comprehension of a stable boy. Truly the pretty Venetian must have had a fine taste, to be caught with such delightful adventures, related with such appro

priate language and imagery. In truth, the whole piece is vitiated by this manifest improbability. It is utterly impossible for any body, but the readers of those same story books, from which our author has borrowed his plot and characters, to conceive that a white woman of high rank, could fall in love with a blackamoor.

The blackamoor, being acquitted before the senate, where he is brought to answer the charge of using magic, in gaining the love of Desdemona, embarks for Cyprus, against the Turks. A "segregation," as our author calls it, "of the Turkish fleet" takes place, however, and a great storm happens, which is thus described in the genuine language of bombast:

"Do but stand upon the foaming shore,-
The chiding billow seems to pelt the clouds;

The wind-shock'd surge, with high and monstrous main
Seems to cast water on the burning bear,

And quench the guards of the ever-fixed pole," &c.

This idea of casting water on the red hot bear, and putting out the stars, is truly original and deserving of reprobation. It is of the highest species of the genuine bombast, and therefore we have little doubt but the author, if he should chance to reach posterity, will be quoted as the great master of this species of writing.

The blackamoor and his wife escape this inimitable tempest, and meet in Cyprus, where a delectable love scene takes place; any audience that can listen to it with patience, must be more than mortal. The blackamoor kisses her most uxoriously, in the presence of all his suite, as well as of our old friend Iago, who has a great grudge against Othello, because he made him a monster, and would not make him his lieutenant. Iago follows him to Cyprus, to make mischief, by exciting his jealousy against one Michael Cassio, a marvellous proper man," and marvellously hated by Iago, because he got the aforesaid lieutenancy.

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An opportunity occurs, or is rather brought about by Iago, to gratify both objects. He and Michael Cassio are appointed to the watch, where the latter, like a trusty lieutenant, gets drunk, kicks up a brawl, and, with the assistance of lago, kills Roderigo, who had come to Cyprus to do the blackamoor a good turn, and supply Iago with money. In the midst of the brawl, the blackamoor, who had

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