THE THE:\TRES.
HAYMARKET.
THE ancient system of old English hospitality required that the master of the feast should cram his guests with meat till they could not rise from his table, and with wine till they fell under it. Fish, soup, flesh, poultry, pudding, pies, custards, with their ap- purtenances, were to be gorged in endless variety, and unmeasured portions ; drenches of ale, beer, eider, cup, and blackstra7, were to be swilled in proportionate quantity, till the stomach of the victim vied with the hog-trough in the variety and delicacy of its contents. We have come to a better taste in matters convivial— not so in theatricals. The manager of the Haymarket must be of the old school ; he crams his guests to repletion, and sends them away under the disgust of a surfeit, not with the excitement of a refection.
On Tuesday last, we sat for tha space of five hours and twenty- eight minutes, by St. Martin's clock, witnessing the miscellaneous performances presented for our amusement. First, there was the five hundredth refaciamiento of Clari ; of which we have been heartily tired since Miss TREE left us,—not excepting a single night, on which Miss FOOTE beautified the character ; but when all the rest of the performers offended us, almost as grievously as their brethren of the Haymarket—we will make no exceptions, and that more especially as the character best payed stands so low in the dramatis person ce that we cannot recollect either his real or scenic denomination: he is the father of the bride—not of Clan—that part was assigned to Mr. WILLIAMS ; and we are spre that amusing little gentleman will thank us for withholding all further notice of his performance. Then followed Separation and Reparation; good in itself, and so well filled by Mrs. GLOVER, FARREN, COOPER, and Miss MORDAUNT, that if it had been re- served for a bonne-boucke, we might have gone away satisfied, and have spared ourselves the pains of writing this comment. Some fifteen years ago, we did laugh at the French version of the First of April; and if it were played here during the Easter or Christmas holidays, we have no doubt that the young masters and misses would be infinitely amused at its prac- tical jokes. FARREN makes very little of it—sat. Honest Frauds, which closed Tuesday night, and closed in Wednesday morning, is a practical illustration of its plot and title ; appearing to answer no purpose, except as a puff of Mr. HORN and his Composition. Another little farce is played in it (for with it there is no con- nexion), in which JOHN REEVE'S cobler did not even excite an unfavourable comparison with our most ancient reminiscence of JACK BANNISTER'S Jobson—can we say more ? Barney O'Cag was not by the best Irishman on the stage, yet he amused us. Not so his daughter. lithe manager had cast his eyes, at about twelve o'clock, round the dress circle, he might have counted seven boxes actually empty, and eight or ten more with one, two, or three persons yawning in each. 'A choicer selection and fewer pieces would answer everybody's purpose better.
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