The Sun.
London, England, 1834-10-30 00:00:00

COVENT

'HE ATRE.

It is fortunate for Lord Byron that he is no longer " in
the flesh," or, we verily believe, the representation of his
dramatic performances at the theatre would drive him mad.
It may be remembered that his Lordship piqued himself not
a little on having so written Sardanapalus as to render it
impossible for even the adroitest manager to adapt it to the
taste of an English audience ; equally delighted was he to
think that he had composed Manfred on the same anti-dra-
matic principle ; yet the former play was produced last sea-
son at Drury-lane, and the latter last night at Covent-gar-
den ; and both met with a success most humiliating to a
poet's vanity, inasmuch as that success was less owing to
their literary merits than to the magnificent style in which
they were got up. The unequivocal triumph of Manfred
has been wholly owing to this. We lose sight of its talent
as a poem, in our admiration of its splendour as a spectacle.
Such comparative neglect on the part of an audience would
have gone nigh to kill an author of Lord Byron's sensitive
vanity, who, like Shenstone and Rousseau, fled from the
world only to be courted back again by the world ; but it is
not his fault ; had even the Tempest been brought out
with but half the pomp and splendour of Manfred, Shaks-
peare would have met with the same indifferent treatment
as Byron. It is impossible for an English audience—what-
ever it may be with a French one—to entertain two
ideas at once, and the one idea that was predominant in
their minas last night, was that of Mr. Farley. As for the
author, he was clean forgotten, or merely looked on as a
sort of peg, on which the. great pantomime-monger might
hang his gorgeous decorations. We are by no means
friendly to the production of works of mere imagination on
the. stage ; the charm is dissolved when the ideal creations
of a great poet are attempted to be realised ; we should
see them with our mental not with our corporeal eye, other-
wise they degenerate into mere vulgar absurdities. The stage
should be content with chronicling the follies and passions of
real life, and leave imagination to the solitude of the closet.
However, as spectacle is now the ruling taste of the day,
Mr. Bunn, as caterer for the public, could scarcely do other-
wise than he has done. Looking, therefore, on Manfred
simply as a spectacle, we hesitate not an instant in saying
that it is the most magnificent we ever witnessed. Gustavus
was effective in parts. This is effective as a whole. No-
thing can surpass in truth, and force, and picturesque beauty
the Alpine scenery, especially the view of the Jungfrau and its
adjacent glaciers, which have all the vivid effect of reality,
and far surpass the best descriptions of our best travellers.
Nor must we omit to mention the artful, dioramic manner in
which the lights and shades are handled. When we first
get sight of the Glaciers of the Upper Alps, the sun is just
setting, and the crags, the rocks, the dwarf pines, and
vast fields of jagged ice and snow glitter with a thousand
brilliant dyes ; presently, however, the red orb drops be-
hind the mountains, when the colours just before so dazzling,

fade, die away, and become mixed up with the cold, dim grey
of evening, which again is rendered indistinguishable by the
smoky mists that comesteaming up from the valley on all sides.
As twilight thickens, we hear the fall of distant avalanches,
the sudden rush of streams, the boding sound of the hurri-
cane, and the hoarse growl of the thunder ;—in short, all the
elements of earth, air, and water, seem ranging themselves
under the black banner of the tempest ; and when at length
the storm bursts upon the landscape, we see rock, crag,
and glacier convulsed, and reeling beneath the terrific shock
We have seen many clever scenic illusions, but none so
effective—so unique as this. The appearance of the Witch
of the Alps beneath the sun-bow of a cataract in a lower
valley of the Alps is equally well contrived, though the
stream has not that life-like look—that liquid and glittering
transparency, which could be desired. It does not leap or
bound headlong from the heights, but clings in one dull,
stagnant mass to the rocks over which it is supposed to
tumble. This is the only defect we can find in Mr. Grieves's
scenery, and this, we suspect, arises from too strong a glare
of light having been suddenly thrown on it. The Hall of
Arimanes is gorgeous in the extreme ; the conception has
been supplied by the last scene in Vathek, though the ball
of fire which tells so forcibly in the tale, is rather an incum.
brance in the spectacle. The representation of the Spirits
of Air, Mountains, Waters, Storms, and more particularly,
of the Shadow of Night, were as well managed as such
phantasmagoria can possibly be ; and when we say that in-
stead of being ridiculed by, they rivetted the attention of, the
audience, we know not that we can give them higher praise.
The acting in the subordinate parts was excellent throughout.
Nothing could exceed the grace, the repose, the pictu-
resque effect of Miss E. Tree's Witch of the Alps, or the
low, sweet, wild tone in which she delivered the poetic lan-
guage entrusted to her. Miss Taylor was the Goddess of
Vengeance, yet though she played with spirit and intelli-
gence, she was here and there a little too pert for Nemesis,
who was a grave, solemn deity, with nothing of the shrew
about her, and whose name was never mentioned by the
Romans without the profoundest awe. Mr. Denvil as
Manfred perplexed us not a little. He is an actor of some
intelligence, thus much is certain ; but be has not the art
of keeping up a continuous interest ; he is clever only by
fits and starts ; and invariably fails most in those places
where most might be expected from him. Thus when he
begged the boon of " forgetfulness" from Arimanes, instead
of giving that solemn, heartfelt expression to the word which
Byron intended it to convey, and which is indeed the touch-
stone of the character, he spoke it as if it were a mere
common-place—as if, in short, he were simply asking the
Principle of Evil for a pinch of snuff! On hearing this,
we felt strongly disposed to give up Mr. Denvil altogether ;
but he nobly redeemed himself in the very next scene by
the intense energy which he threw into the lines,
" I broke her heart;
She looked on me, and withered."
The way in which he. pronounced the word " withered,"
was as fine as anything we ever remember even in Kean.
A world of remorse, horror, and despair was laid open by
it ; it was as if the whole soul of Manfred had burst forth
with it : as if he could not survive the confession a single in-
stant. In the soliloquies Mr. Denvil, though judicious,
was generally cold and tame. He is an indifferent de-
claimer, nor do we think that he has any very acute appre-
hension of the poetic; but he expresses ordinary passions
and emotions in a manly, unaffected manner ; while those
arising out of the imagination, and which are near a-kin to
insanity—and such is the nature of the griefs which weigh
down Manfred, seem as if they bewildered and stupified him.
Mr. Cooper made an honest,blustering Swiss mountaineer; and
Mr. Warde a very orthodox Abbot, who keeps one eye
closely fixed on his own temporal interests, while lie squints
with the other at heaven. The music, by Bishop, was in
some respects worthy of the reputation of this veteran corn-
' -poser. We were particularly struck with the Incantation
chorus, sung by the Witches, and accompanied by a grace-
ful dance, which was full of animation and agreeable melody.
The house was thronged to suffocation, and the drama re-
ceived with tumultuous applause. It was, in fact, a decided
hit ; and we are much mistaken if it do not prove as popu-
lar, or even more so, than Gustavus. We understand that
Mrs. Leigh, Lord Byron's sister, was present during the
performance.