1829.] My Intended. 519 
For him, this was quite an exertion— 
He seldom attempts a fine speech ; 
’T would be but a sorry diversion— 
Heroics are out of his reach. 
Will you, dearest girl, when I’m married, 
Continue to write to your friend ? 
I shall not much like being carried 
To Bridgetown—'tis quite the world’s end ;— 
At least ’tis to me, for my travels 
Have yet been but short country tours ; 
Til go, though—to save future cavils— 
But still shall be faithfully your’s,— 
THEATRICAL MATTERS. 
Easter is a sort of renewal of theatrical youth. The Christmas 
impulse has by this time perished. The pantomimes have, like the 
Lord High Admiral, done their duty, and retired from public life. The 
débuts of all those extraordinary young persons who, at the commence- 
ment of every season, promise to supply the past glories of the Kembles 
and Siddonses, have all had their display, and faded into the tenth rank 
of ranters and farceurs, and the ten new comedies, reduced to a pair of 
French farces, have been found wanting. ‘ 
At this moment of theatrical exhaustion, when the manager is gasp- 
ing for something new, like a mouse in an air pump,—when Mr. Kenny 
demands another month, and Mr. Morton, adroit as he is, would perish 
on the spot rather than send his last scene to the green-room—then 
comes Easter, kindly to interpose and save. Stanfield’s brush produces 
some charming creation—Roberts works his corresponding wonder— 
the shrinking audiences rush back to be delighted with genii, wizards, 
tyrants, and imprisoned damsels—the whole glory of melo-drame is sum- 
moned from the “ vasty deep’”—and all the world are happy. 
At Drury-lane Miss Phillips achieved a new triumph in Belvidera. 
For the first time, since Shakspeare, the gods were hushed on Easter 
Monday! Silence was the applause of this clever actress, and we again 
challenge the theatrical annals to say when was this phenomenon known 
before ? | 
Young’s Pierre was able, like every thing that he does. Cooper was 
the lover, and he actually gave some interest to one of the feeblest cha- 
racters on the stage. ) 
Covent-garden has not surrendered its ancient melo-dramatic honour. 
It has, on the contrary, actually made a stride to popularity by one of 
the richest, wildest, and most amusing diablerics that has appeared for 
some years. The chief subject is to be found in a mad romance, by a 
mad German lawyer, who died about twenty years ago in Berlin, leaving 
it uncertain whether he died of prussic-acid, opium, or the workings of 
