THEATRE ROYAL.

Globe, Volume VIII, Issue 953, 14 July 1877, Page 2

THEATRE ROYAL.

“ THE TEMPEST.”

“ The Tempest ” was repeated last evening at the Theatre to a large house, and went excellently throughout. The various parts were well sustained, and every one worked to make it a success. The orchestra, under Mr H. P. Towle, rendered efficient service by the admirable manner in which they played the incidental music. The same piece will be repeated this evening. On Thursday evening, at the close of the performance, there was a very hearty call for Mr Hoskins and the principal characters. The curtain was raised, but the applause still continued. Mr Hoskins then came forward and said —

Ladies and Gentlemen, if anything could add to the gratification I feel at this moment, in having mounted this fanciful and fascinating creation of the Great Bard in a manner somewhat worthy of the jewel itself, I should find it in the delight and enthusiasm you have manifested during its illustration. You have found the language as forcible and vigorous, the wit as brilliant, the repartee as pointed, the satire as keen, as did our forefathers nearly two hundred and seventy years ago, when this comet of literature blazed first upon the world, and as each succeeding lustrum has added to the poet’s fame so future generations will (till human nature changes or time shall be no more) worship at his shrine and own his mighty power. And not the Anglo-Saxon race alone, for wherever civilization has reared her throne, Shakspere has planted the standard of his glory and flashed the torch of his wisdom, and, in the words of one of his commentators, is now making his way through distant climes and foreign regions, vanquishing race after race, as did the conquerors of old, in spite of imperfect teachers and imperfect translations that might check the progress of any spirit less potent and catholic than his own, “ The Tempest” is supposed by many to be the last play he ever wrote; indeed we find no record of it until late in the year 1609, scarcely seven years before the poet’s death, and certainly the play bears marks of the matured genius of even such a writer. Campbell asserts boldly dimt it was the last, and I am willing to accept his dictum; for surely there is something mournfully in unison with the magician Prospero abandoning his mystic power, and the greater magician, Shakspere, laying aside his mighty pen for ever. Might he not have spoken in his, own person as in that of Prospero — “ I’ll break my staff Bury it certain fathoms in the earth, And deeper than did ever plummet sound I’ll drown my book.” To the Shaksperian student I need not say “Read on.” To the tyro, I would say “Open his magic volume,” and in no words of mine can I exalt him so forcibly as in those of the eloquent and lamented Barry Cornwall. He says —“ In summer time, when the world is cheerful and full of life, let us regale ourselves with the laughing scenes and merry songs of Shakspere. In the winter evenings, when sadder thoughts come forth, let us rest on his grave, philosophic page, and try to gather comfort as well as wisdom from the deep

speculations which may bo found there. At all times let his book of miracles be near at hand, for be sure the more we read therein the greater must our reverence be.” And if any intruder should tell us that all we ponder on and admire is mere matter of imagination and fancy, is shadowy, unreal, and without profit, and whose end is naught, bid him show you the thing that is eternal, or any effort of the human mind that has outlasted the dreams of poetry. Have I said that they are dreams P Alas! what is there here so far beyond a dream? We ourselves (so our great poet says)—

“ Are of such stuff As dreams are made of, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.”