In which Mr. Walker Shows Great Prudence and Forbearance.

The describing of all these persons does not advance Morgiana’s story much. But, perhaps, some country readers are not acquainted with the class of persons by whose printed opinions they are guided, and are simple enough to imagine that mere merit will make a reputation on the stage or elsewhere. The making of a theatrical success is a much more complicated and curious thing than such persons fancy it to be. Immense are the pains taken to get a good word from Mr. This of the Star, or Mr. That of the Courier, to propitiate the favour of the critic of the day, and get the editors of the metropolis into a good humour — above all, to have the name of the person to be puffed perpetually before the public. Artists cannot be advertised like Macassar oil or blacking, and they want it to the full as much; hence endless ingenuity must be practised in order to keep the popular attention awake. Suppose a great actor moves from London to Windsor, the Brentford Champion must state that “Yesterday Mr. Blazes and suite passed rapidly through our city; the celebrated comedian is engaged, we hear, at Windsor, to give some of his inimitable readings of our great national bard to the MOST ILLUSTRIOUS AUDIENCE in the realm.” This piece of intelligence the Hammersmith Observer will question the next week, as thus:—“A contemporary, the Brentford Champion, says that Blazes is engaged to give Shakspearian readings at Windsor to “the most illustrious audience in the realm.” We question this fact very much. We would, indeed, that it were true; but the MOST ILLUSTRIOUS AUDIENCE in the realm prefer FOREIGN melodies to THE NATIVE WOOD-NOTES WILD of the sweet song-bird of Avon. Mr. Blazes is simply gone to Eton, where his son, Master Massinger Blazes, is suffering, we regret to hear, under a severe attack of the chicken-pox. This complaint (incident to youth) has raged, we understand, with frightful virulence in Eton School.”

And if, after the above paragraphs, some London paper chooses to attack the folly of the provincial press, which talks of Mr. Blazes, and chronicles his movements, as if he were a crowned head, what harm is done? Blazes can write in his own name to the London journal, and say that it is not HIS fault if provincial journals choose to chronicle his movements, and that he was far from wishing that the afflictions of those who are dear to him should form the subject of public comment, and be held up to public ridicule. “We had no intention of hurting the feelings of an estimable public servant,” writes the editor; “and our remarks on the chicken-pox were general, not personal. We sincerely trust that Master Massinger Blazes has recovered from that complaint, and that he may pass through the measles, the whooping-cough, the fourth form, and all other diseases to which youth is subject, with comfort to himself, and credit to his parents and teachers.” At his next appearance on the stage after this controversy, a British public calls for Blazes three times after the play; and somehow there is sure to be someone with a laurel-wreath in a stage-box, who flings that chaplet at the inspired artist’s feet.

I don’t know how it was, but before the debut of Morgiana, the English press began to heave and throb in a convulsive manner, as if indicative of the near birth of some great thing. For instance, you read in one paper —

“Anecdote of Karl Maria Von Weber. — When the author of ‘Oberon’ was in England, he was invited by a noble duke to dinner, and some of the most celebrated of our artists were assembled to meet him. The signal being given to descend to the salle-a-manger, the German composer was invited by his noble host (a bachelor) to lead the way. ‘Is it not the fashion in your country,’ said he, simply, ‘for the man of the first eminence to take the first place? Here is one whose genius entitles him to be first ANYWHERE.’ And, so saying, he pointed to our admirable English composer, Sir George Thrum. The two musicians were friends to the last, and Sir George has still the identical piece of rosin which the author of the ‘Freischutz’ gave him.”— The Moon (morning paper), June 2.

“George III. a composer. — Sir George Thrum has in his possession the score of an air, the words from ‘Samson Agonistes,’ an autograph of the late revered monarch. We hear that that excellent composer has in store for us not only an opera, but a pupil, with whose transcendent merits the elite of our aristocracy are already familiar.”— Ibid., June 5.

“Music with a Vengeance. — The march to the sound of which the 49th and 75th regiments rushed up the breach of Badajoz was the celebrated air from ‘Britons Alarmed; or, The Siege of Bergen-op-Zoom,’ by our famous English composer, Sir George Thrum. Marshal Davoust said that the French line never stood when that air was performed to the charge of the bayonet. We hear the veteran musician has an opera now about to appear, and have no doubt that Old England will now, as then, show its superiority over ALL foreign opponents.”— Albion.

“We have been accused of preferring the produit of the etranger to the talent of our own native shores; but those who speak so, little know us. We are fanatici per la musica wherever it be, and welcome merit dans chaque pays du monde. What do we say? Le merite n’a point de pays, as Napoleon said; and Sir George Thrum (Chevalier de l’Ordre de l’Elephant et Chateau de Kalbsbraten-Pumpernickel,) is a maestro whose fame appartient a l’Europe.

“We have just heard the lovely eleve, whose rare qualities the Cavaliere has brought to perfection — we have heard THE RAVENSWING (pourquoi cacher un nom que demain un monde va saluer?), and a creature more beautiful and gifted never bloomed before dans nos climats. She sang the delicious duet of the ‘Nabucodonosore,’ with Count Pizzicato, with a bellezza, a grandezza, a raggio, that excited in the bosom of the audience a corresponding furore: her scherzando was exquisite, though we confess we thought the concluding fioritura in the passage in Y flat a leetle, a very leetle sforzata. Surely the words,

‘Giorno d’orrore,

Delire, dolore,

Nabucodonosore,’

should be given andante, and not con strepito: but this is a faute bien legere in the midst of such unrivalled excellence, and only mentioned here that we may have SOMETHING to criticise.

“We hear that the enterprising impresario of one of the royal theatres has made an engagement with the Diva; and, if we have a regret, it is that she should be compelled to sing in the unfortunate language of our rude northern clime, which does not preter itself near so well to the bocca of the cantatrice as do the mellifluous accents of the Lingua Toscana, the langue par excellence of song.

“The Ravenswing’s voice is a magnificent contra-basso of nine octaves,” etc. — Flowers of Fashion, June 10.

“Old Thrum, the composer, is bringing out an opera and a pupil. The opera is good, the pupil first-rate. The opera will do much more than compete with the infernal twaddle and disgusting slip-slop of Donizetti, and the milk-and-water fools who imitate him: it will (and we ask the readers of the Tomahawk, were we EVER mistaken?) surpass all these; it is GOOD, of downright English stuff. The airs are fresh and pleasing, the choruses large and noble, the instrumentation solid and rich, the music is carefully written. We wish old Thrum and his opera well.

“His pupil is a SURE CARD, a splendid woman, and a splendid singer. She is so handsome that she might sing as much out of tune as Miss Ligonier, and the public would forgive her; and sings so well, that were she as ugly as the aforesaid Ligonier, the audience would listen to her. The Ravenswing, that is her fantastical theatrical name (her real name is the same with that of a notorious scoundrel in the Fleet, who invented the Panama swindle, the Pontine Marshes’ swindle, the Soap swindle — HOW ARE YOU OFF FOR SOAP NOW, Mr. W-lk-r?)— the Ravenswing, we say, will do. Slang has engaged her at thirty guineas per week, and she appears next month in Thrum’s opera, of which the words are written by a great ass with some talent — we mean Mr. Mulligan.

“There is a foreign fool in the Flowers of Fashion who is doing his best to disgust the public by his filthy flattery. It is enough to make one sick. Why is the foreign beast not kicked out of the paper?”— The Tomahawk, June 17.

The first three “anecdotes” were supplied by Mulligan to his paper, with many others which need not here be repeated: he kept them up with amazing energy and variety. Anecdotes of Sir George Thrum met you unexpectedly in queer corners of country papers: puffs of the English school of music appeared perpetually in “Notices to Correspondents” in the Sunday prints, some of which Mr. Slang commanded, and in others over which the indefatigable Mulligan had a control. This youth was the soul of the little conspiracy for raising Morgiana into fame: and humble as he is, and great and respectable as is Sir George Thrum, it is my belief that the Ravenswing would never have been the Ravenswing she is but for the ingenuity and energy of the honest Hibernian reporter.

It is only the business of the great man who writes the leading articles which appear in the large type of the daily papers to compose those astonishing pieces of eloquence; the other parts of the paper are left to the ingenuity of the sub-editor, whose duty it is to select paragraphs, reject or receive horrid accidents, police reports, etc.; with which, occupied as he is in the exercise of his tremendous functions, the editor himself cannot be expected to meddle. The fate of Europe is his province; the rise and fall of empires, and the great questions of State demand the editor’s attention: the humble puff, the paragraph about the last murder, or the state of the crops, or the sewers in Chancery Lane, is confided to the care of the sub; and it is curious to see what a prodigious number of Irishmen exist among the sub-editors of London. When the Liberator enumerates the services of his countrymen, how the battle of Fontenoy was won by the Irish Brigade, how the battle of Waterloo would have been lost but for the Irish regiments, and enumerates other acts for which we are indebted to Milesian heroism and genius — he ought at least to mention the Irish brigade of the press, and the amazing services they do to this country.

The truth is, the Irish reporters and soldiers appear to do their duty right well; and my friend Mr. Mulligan is one of the former. Having the interests of his opera and the Ravenswing strongly at heart, and being amongst his brethren an exceedingly popular fellow, he managed matters so that never a day passed but some paragraph appeared somewhere regarding the new singer, in whom, for their countryman’s sake, all his brothers and sub-editors felt an interest.

These puffs, destined to make known to all the world the merits of the Ravenswing, of course had an effect upon a gentleman very closely connected with that lady, the respectable prisoner in the Fleet, Captain Walker. As long as he received his weekly two guineas from Mr. Woolsey, and the occasional half-crowns which his wife could spare in her almost daily visits to him, he had never troubled himself to inquire what her pursuits were, and had allowed her (though the worthy woman longed with all her might to betray herself) to keep her secret. He was far from thinking, indeed, that his wife would prove such a treasure to him.

But when the voice of fame and the columns of the public journals brought him each day some new story regarding the merits, genius, and beauty of the Ravenswing; when rumours reached him that she was the favourite pupil of Sir George Thrum; when she brought him five guineas after singing at the “Philharmonic” (other five the good soul had spent in purchasing some smart new cockades, hats, cloaks, and laces, for her little son); when, finally, it was said that Slang, the great manager, offered her an engagement at thirty guineas per week, Mr. Walker became exceedingly interested in his wife’s proceedings, of which he demanded from her the fullest explanation.

Using his marital authority, he absolutely forbade Mrs. Walker’s appearance on the public stage; he wrote to Sir George Thrum a letter expressive of his highest indignation that negotiations so important should ever have been commenced without his authorisation; and he wrote to his dear Slang (for these gentlemen were very intimate, and in the course of his transactions as an agent Mr. W. had had many dealings with Mr. S.) asking his dear Slang whether the latter thought his friend Walker would be so green as to allow his wife to appear on the stage, and he remain in prison with all his debts on his head?

And it was a curious thing now to behold how eager those very creditors who but yesterday (and with perfect correctness) had denounced Mr. Walker as a swindler; who had refused to come to any composition with him, and had sworn never to release him; how they on a sudden became quite eager to come to an arrangement with him, and offered, nay, begged and prayed him to go free — only giving them his own and Mrs. Walker’s acknowledgment of their debt, with a promise that a part of the lady’s salary should be devoted to the payment of the claim.

“The lady’s salary!” said Mr. Walker, indignantly, to these gentlemen and their attorneys. “Do you suppose I will allow Mrs. Walker to go on the stage? — do you suppose I am such a fool as to sign bills to the full amount of these claims against me, when in a few months more I can walk out of prison without paying a shilling? Gentlemen, you take Howard Walker for an idiot. I like the Fleet, and rather than pay I’ll stay here for these ten years.”

In other words, it was the Captain’s determination to make some advantageous bargain for himself with his creditors and the gentlemen who were interested in bringing forward Mrs. Walker on the stage. And who can say that in so determining he did not act with laudable prudence and justice?

“You do not, surely, consider, my very dear sir, that half the amount of Mrs. Walker’s salaries is too much for my immense trouble and pains in teaching her?” cried Sir George Thrum (who, in reply to Walker’s note, thought it most prudent to wait personally on that gentleman). “Remember that I am the first master in England; that I have the best interest in England; that I can bring her out at the Palace, and at every concert and musical festival in England; that I am obliged to teach her every single note that she utters; and that without me she could no more sing a song than her little baby could walk without its nurse.”

“I believe about half what you say,” said Mr. Walker.

“My dear Captain Walker! would you question my integrity? Who was it that made Mrs. Millington’s fortune — the celebrated Mrs. Millington, who has now got a hundred thousand pounds? Who was it that brought out the finest tenor in Europe, Poppleton? Ask the musical world, ask those great artists themselves, and they will tell you they owe their reputation, their fortune, to Sir George Thrum.”

“It is very likely,” replied the Captain, coolly. “You ARE a good master, I dare say, Sir George; but I am not going to article Mrs. Walker to you for three years, and sign her articles in the Fleet. Mrs.............