1829.] Theatrical Mattcrs. 631 
At Drury Lane, the latter part of the season is atoning for the earlier. 
Auber’s opera of Massaniello has been put into shape by Kenny with 
his usual skill, and its effect has been highly popular. The plot deviates 
in all possible ways from the history ; but it is not the less amusing as 
an opera. The female interest turns on the fates of Massaniello’s sister, 
a dumb girl, with whom the son of the Spanish viceroy of Naples had 
fallen in love: but a noble bride is found for him: and the fisherman’s 
sister, who had been imprisoned to prevent her interference, makes her 
escape at the critical moment of the marriage, forces herself into the 
presence of the bridal party, and attempts to tell her tale. She accom- 
plishes this object in all points but that of telling the name of her false 
lover. She is conveyed away, fainting, and recovers only to be pre- 
vented by her brother, from suicide. Her injuries, added to those of 
the Neapolitans, rouse him into insurrection. He harangues the multi- 
tude in the market-place ; they sing a hymn, and a beautiful one it is, 
and rush from prayer into massacre with the national facility. The 
viceroy is defeated ; the fisherman is supreme. ' He receives the homage 
of the nobles, and goes in triumph through the city. Butt conspiracy is 
awakened against him, too; @ confederate poisons him, and he rushes 
out, mad with pain and thwarted ambition, uttering wild werds, and 
"singing fragments of wild songs. He is now on the edge of Vesuvius, 
the mountain bursts out in eruption, and Massaniello flings himself into 
the burning stream. 
_ The whole performance is highly various, animated, and picturesque ; 
the scenery beautiful ; and the national airs, the Barcarole, Tarentalla, 
and fisherman’s songs, are extremely characteristic and striking. The 
general music is of inferior merit, for France is not the land of able 
opera composition ; but it fills up the interval of the Neapolitan airs 
inoffensively, and the whole is entitled to the applause which it receives. 
Great promises are made for the coming season. The success of Rienzi 
has stimulated the latent energies of our blank-verse writers ; and two 
tragedies, at least, from “ first-rate pens,”—so say the green-room 
rumours—are already soliciting the manager’s acceptance. How far 
the tragedies may be good for any thing, if they come from any of the 
young lords who have been lately flirting with the awful muse of 
tragedy, we have our personal opinions, which, we fear, are not unlikely 
to be confirmed in due season by the public: However, it is only by 
the general effort of those who have time or inclination to labour at that 
most laborious work—a tragedy, that we can ever expect to see a tolerable 
one. The customary candidates for the honour, are certainly entitled 
to none beyond the praise of making the experiment ; but some man of 
untried powers may start up at last and revive the stage. We are now 
in the very central age of theatrical mediocrity ; not an attempt at 
original writing is ever made. A little disguise of some little French 
farce—a feeble melo-drame turned into English—a French comedy cut 
down, or a French tragedy broken into scenes of staring heroines, 
strutting heroes, bombastic declamation, and the trampling of iron boot- 
heels, the clang of trailing sabres, and the eternal thunder of drums, 
make up the whole “ delici’” of the modern drama. In the spirit of 
the proverb, that, when things come to the worst they will mend, we 
ought to be on the very verge of prosperity ; for our stage has certainly 
sunk as low in point of original production as it is possible to sink. We 
defy it to find a lower depth. Thus, from our very despair, we may 
