Mr. Bengough, as the Duke of Gloster, was in one or two scenes impressive, in others ridiculous. He has a singular kind of awkward energy and heavy animation about him. He works himself up occasionally to considerable force and spirit; and then, as if frightened at his own efforts, his purpose fails him, and he sinks into an unaccountable vein of faltering insipidity. The great merit of Mr. Kean is his thorough decision and self-possession: he always knows what he means to do, and never flinches from doing it.
THE HUMOROUS LIEUTENANT
The Examiner.
January 26, 1817.
The Humorous Lieutenant, brought out on Saturday week at Covent-Garden, is a bad alteration from one of the most indifferent of Beaumont and Fletcher’s plays. It went off very ill, and was as fairly damned as any thing at Covent-Garden could be. They have some jus theatricum here, which saves things and carries off appearances. So the play has been brought forward again, and its first failure attributed to the failure of the actress who played the part of Celia. That was certainly a failure, and an unexpected one; for the lady’s accomplishments and attractions had been much spoken of, and perhaps justly. Of her talents for the stage, we shall say nothing; for we cannot say a word or syllable in their favour. Nor shall we say any thing against ‘The Humorous Lieutenant:’ for it passes under the name of Beaumont and Fletcher, ‘whose utmost skirts of glory we behold gladly, and far off their steps adore:’ and indeed it is at an immeasurable distance, and by a prodigious stretch of faith, that we see them at all in the Covent-Garden refaccimento. Mr. Liston plays the heroic Lieutenant in it; but we shall live to see him in the mock-heroic again!
TWO NEW BALLETS
The Examiner.
February 9, 1817.
There have been two new ballets this week, one at each Theatre. That at Drury-Lane, Patrick’s Return, is one of the prettiest things we have seen a long time. The dancing and pantomime are very delightfully adapted to a number of old Irish melodies, which we are never tired of hearing.—Zephyr and Flora, at Covent-Garden, is too fine by half for our rude tastes. There are lusty lovers flying in the air, nests of winged Cupids, that start out of bulrushes, trees that lift up their branches like arms:—we suppose they will speak next like Virgil’s wood. But in the midst of all these wonders, we have a more amiable wonder, the three Miss Dennetts, as nymphs,
‘Whom lovely Venus at a birth