28 JANUARY 1843, Page 8

THE THEATRES.

THE private box in which an author is ensconsed on the first night of his play has been christened "little ease," from a tradition handed down from that remote period in the history of the drama when bad pieces were hooted off the stage, of the tortures of suspense endured in its dark recesses : but the appellation is no longer appropriate. This is an ac- quiescent age : audiences, habitually indulgent, are reinforced on first nights by troops of friends ; the muster•roll of the drama's supporters is called over, and the levies of the free-list—bound to preserve the piece, but at liberty to make a great noise—take up their position in the boxes ready to repress any symptoms of discontent. Fervent welcomes greet the entrances of favourite performers, and actors of no note are as- tonished at the marks of approbation they receive : watchfully is every opportunity seized for a demonstration of delight ; load is the laughter at the humblest joke, vociferous the applause at each smart phrase and high-flown speech ; and any thing like an effective scene or striking situation is sure to get three rounds of applause. When the curtain falls there is no end of the actors who have to walk across the stage ; and to crown the whole, the cry of "author," raised by a few friendly voices and echced by the crowd, curious to see what kind of creature this new specimen of the genus dramatic= may be, brings forward a pale-faced man, who stands fascinated by the glare of lamps and eyes, and never knows when to have done bowing. As for hissing, the sound is unknown ; or if some unsophisticated dis- sentient, actuated by the obsolete idea that he has a right to express disapprobation, should venture to emit a sibilant sound, a fire of deadly glances is levelled at his head, and the cry of "Turn him out ! " reminds the delinquent that the day when an audience dared to damn with something else than faint praise is gone by : to laugh in a wrong place is an overt act of contumacy scarcely less reprehensible; but to applaud in a wrong place, shows zeal, that, however it may outrun dis- cretion, is commendable, and never lacks imitation—though it must not be too loud lest it be taken for irony. This is any thing but a tor- turing process: the most sensitive author has nothing to fear from the courteous and deferential public of the present day. Lulled by low murmurs of approbation, flattered by bursts of laughter, and over- whelmed by thunders of applause, the embryo dramatist awaits with fluttering complacency the moment when his dawning fame shall burst upon the world in the full blaze of his new-risen glory. Talk of a tor- ture-cell !—why the author's box is a Sybarite's couch—a triumphal car ; or rather, the car of a balloon, which, spurning the earth, soars above the clouds, making the voyager giddy with his sudden elevation ; but rapidly falls to the ground with a shock, when the manager of the ma- chine lets out the gas.

We could not help contrasting the polite and patient reception given to Mothers and Daughters, at Covent Garden, on Tuesday last, -with that which Love for Love met with on its first representation at the theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields, in the last century. No two instances would be more opposite : CONOREVE'S comedy was damned meagre its brilliancy ; Mr. ROBERT BELL'S succeeded despite its dulness. For nearly four hours did the audience sit listening to dialogue curiously commonplace, decked out with a few flaring flowers of rhetoric, and a slight sprinkling of stock pleasantries, uttered by characters as fami- liar to the stage as they are foreign to nature : not a ray of originality, not a glimpse of actual life, not a spark of genuine wit, relieved the dreariness of the entertainment ; yet so bent were the audience on being pleased, that the most mechanical jokes and the tritest sayings were hailed with delight.

The plot of Mothers and Daughters—it might as well be called Uncles and Nephews—is simple enough. Lady Manifold, a manceuvering widow, wants to make up a match between her silly daughter and Lord Merlin, a wealthy old bachelor; but she plays her cards so badly that Lord Merlin, though no conjuror, sees through her design ; her daughter elopes with a half-pay captain, while her humble companion marries the nephew and sole heir of his Lordship ; and Lady Manifold herself is fain to put up with a fat old baronet, Sir Gregory Plump : all which is apparent from the first. There is some ingenuity shown in spinning out such materials into five tedious acts, without the aid of a single new incident or situation, and with only one telling scene ; but the success of the piece is the most singular phsenomenon, especially as it owes less to the acting than any we have seen for a long while. Mrs. ORGER, who played Lady Mani- fold, is the only real person in the representation : the part itself is a mere convention, like the rest ; but she gave it distinct and individual

character, by her hearty and unforced style of personation. Whatever she did was done in a direct and unaffected manner : she prompted her daughter to coquet with Lord Merlin, and the Captain to flirt with her daughter, as though matchmaking had been the business of her life. She scolded the runaway with the earnest volubility of an angry

woman ; and the hysterical burst of relenting fondness with which she forgave her child was a genuine touch of nature. Mrs. WALTER LAM as the daughter, only gave a vague ides of the romantic simpleton. Mr. VANDENHOFF, as Lord Merlin, had such an awful quantity of twaddle to utter, with nothing to do but to keep on maundering and doddling about, that he could not help being a bore : some medium between his confidential whisperings, and his deep, solemn, pulpit tones, is desirable. COOPER'S appearance in a short blue jacket and white trousers, with open collar, to give him the juvenility requisite for the part of a harebrained boy and an ardent lover, produced a shout of laughter ; and to hear him called "Bob," and spoken of as a young scapegrace was irresistible : this was quite the best joke in the piece. It was edifying to witness the me- thodical manner in which he performed the pantomime of an absent man, with the aid of teapot and sugar-basin : and his pathos was scarcely less amusing. HARLEY, as Captain Hastings Montagu, looked a most extraordinary figure for a fortune-hunting man of fashion, both in dress and manner ; but as he could not help being absurd, be contrived to be comical : the recrimination between him and Mrs. Walter Lacy, when he takes her home to his unfurnished lodgings, is the only effec- tive scene in the piece, and would do capitally for a farce. Miss VAN- DENHOFF as the humble companion, the grave heroine, Isabel Trevor, looks, moves, and speaks, like an automaton. Mrs. Husuir as an abigail, BARTLEY as Sir Gregory Plump, MEADOWS as a bearish old servant, and Wrosx as a foppish valet, show capabilities for producing more effect than their respective parts admit of.

The " comedy " was handsomely put on the stage, but it is not likely to remain there long.